Blood of the Wicked (8 page)

“Like Ferraz?”

“You said it. I didn’t. The landowners call the league people communists and anarchists. The league calls the landowners despots and terrorists. The truth of the matter is probably somewhere in the middle. Who wrote that line ‘in a true tragedy both sides are right’?”

“I don’t remember,” Silva said, “but from what you’re saying, it sounds appropriate.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said, picking up her pencil and making a note to herself before continuing. “There’ve been excesses on both sides, but most people are only capable of seeing one side of the question. Even the priests.”

“Okay, let’s get back to them. Where do I find liberation theologians?”

Diana’s smile was back. “You don’t find them. They no longer exist. Not officially, anyway. They wouldn’t be permitted to stay in the church if they did. But if you want to know something about how they
used
to think and what they
used
to do, go talk to Brouwer.”

“Brouwer?”

“Don’t give me that innocent look, Delegado. I wasn’t born yesterday. If Gaspar talked to you about liberation theology, he must have talked to you about Anton Brouwer.”

“I don’t recall telling you that Father Gaspar talked to me at all.”

She sighed. “Okay, have it your way.
Father
Anton Brouwer. He’s a Belgian from some little town in Flanders near Antwerp. He’s been living here for years, helping the Indians, the orphans, AIDS victims, the street kids, you name it.”

“Is he involved with the league?”

She hesitated. “He was once,” she said, cautiously. “But since the bishop started cracking down. . . . Well, I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“He’s a good guy, Brouwer is. He does what he thinks is right.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“No, I’m not. And I don’t intend to. But I’ll say this: Brouwer is a priest, not a landless worker. That means he wouldn’t qualify for membership, much less leadership, in the league.”

“Who runs it?”

“Luiz Pillar.”

“Not him,” Silva said. “He’s in Brasilia. I’m talking about here, locally.”

“Most people don’t know,” she said.

“But you do?”

She thought about the question for a moment and decided to answer. “I do, but I don’t print it.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Because when certain landowners manage to identify league leaders, those leaders have a way of turning up dead.”

“Like that guy they nailed to a tree?”

“You heard about that, did you? His name was Aurelio Azevedo. Ferraz was in charge of the investigation. He never arrested anyone. Why am I not surprised?”

“You think Ferraz is in bed with the landowners?”

“I think he’s a whore who gets into bed with anyone who pays him, and the association pays him. Don’t quote me. I can’t prove it.”

“Who runs the association?”

“The Munizes, father and son. Orlando Senior is the national president. Junior runs the local chapter. He also runs a big ranch—and I mean a
really
big ranch—that his father owns about fifteen kilometers east of here, the Fazenda de Boa Vista
.
”

“And his opposite number? The guy who runs the league locally?”

“Roberto Pereira. Don’t spread it around, okay? I don’t want his murder on my conscience. By the way, did you know that Pillar is in town?”

“Luiz Pillar? Here?”

Silva was surprised. Pillar spent most of his time lobbying politicians in Brasilia. He’d been particularly successful with the President of the Republic, a man who’d been a labor leader long before he had political ambitions.

“Yeah. Here,” Diana said, “and staying at the Hotel Excelsior.”

“We’re at the Excelsior as well,” Hector said, giving his uncle a sideways glance.

“Of course you are,” Diana said. “It’s the only game in town except for the Hotel Grande, which is anything but grand, except, maybe, for the size of the cockroaches.”

“What brings Pillar to Cascatas? Any idea?”

“No, but whenever he shows up things have a way of happening.”

“They do indeed. This guy Pereira, you know where to find him?”

“No.”

Hector lifted an eyebrow.

“No,” she repeated. “I really don’t, but if there’s a demonstration or if they occupy somebody’s property—and with Pillar here it’s got to be one or the other—you’re going to find him right up front.”

“Capable of violence?”

“Roberto?” She thought about it for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said, massaging the lobe of one ear between a thumb and a forefinger. “If you’d asked me a year ago, I would have said ‘definitely not.’ But he and his wife were great friends of the Azevedos. Their kids used to play together. After the murders he—”

She was interrupted by a knock. The roar of the press increased in intensity as a young woman stuck her head through the open door. She was in her early twenties, had short blonde hair and multiple studs on her ears.

“Can it wait?” Diana had to shout to make herself heard. “I’m almost done.”

The blonde shook her head. “You’d better come out here,” she shouted back.

Diana went out, closing the door behind her.

“Bitch,” Hector said, as soon as she was gone.

“I rather like her,” his uncle said. “Refreshingly candid.” And then, to soothe his nephew’s ruffled feathers: “Good idea. Coming here, I mean. At least you and the lady seem to agree about one thing.”

“Yeah. Ferraz.”

Before he could say anything more the roar of the press was back. Diana bustled in, holding what appeared to be a box full of paper. She kicked the door closed with her left foot and put the object on the desk. The word IN was written with blue marker on a piece of masking tape stuck to one end.

“I didn’t touch it,” she said, breathlessly, “but my secretary did. You’ll probably need her fingerprints for comparison. Read it.”

She pointed. Silva stood up, took out his reading glasses, and leaned over the paper that topped the pile. The note wasn’t anything fancy. It had been block-printed with a ballpoint pen:

There was no signature.

“Delivered by a street kid,” Diana said, “in a plain white envelope with nothing but my name on the front. The envelope is outside in the wastebasket. The kid’s already gone.”

“Orlando Muniz. Would that be Junior?” Hector asked.

“No doubt,” she said. “The old man lives in Rio de Janeiro most of the time. If it had been him, you would have felt the ground shake. They say he’s got half of the politicians in Brasilia in his pocket, but that’s probably an exaggeration. Personally, I don’t believe that it’s more than a third of them.”

When Diana said the word “politicians,” Hector glanced at his uncle.

“Merda,” Silva said.

Chapter Twelve

“Is that a comment on what I just said, or do we have problems with the telephone line?” the director asked testily. He hated to repeat himself.

“The line,” Silva lied.

It was two minutes past 6:00, and true to his promise, the director was calling for an update.

“I said Orlando Muniz is on his way to Cascatas,” he repeated, switching into his
I’m-speaking-to-someone-who-doesn’t-
know-the-language
mode
.
“He’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Be nice to him. He was a major contributor to the president’s campaign.”

“Muniz contributed to the president’s campaign.”

Silva started the sentence as a question, but managed to kill the rising inflection and turn it into a statement. “Why would he do that?”

“Why not?” the director said.

“Because the president leans to the left and Muniz’s politics are said to be somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun’s.”

“Yeah, but he’s not stupid. Every poll predicted that the president was going to win, remember? Anyway, that’s no concern of yours. Just make sure you don’t piss Muniz off.”

“Don’t worry. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I won’t even
be
here when he arrives.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m going to Presidente Vargas.”

“What for? What’s in Presidente Vargas?”

“The seat of the diocese. The bishop’s secretary. We have an appointment.”

“Cancel it. Send somebody else.”

“Didn’t you tell me my top priority was to—”

“Yeah, well now you have
two
top priorities: The murders of the bishop
and
Muniz Junior. I don’t want to see you back here until you’ve solved both.”

“With all due respect, Director, we’re not even sure the Muniz kid is dead.”

“Kid? The man’s thirty-seven, or he
was
thirty-seven. Whichever. And if he isn’t dead, so much the better, but I want you to stay there until you get to the bottom of it. Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. Information about the rifle, the one Ferraz’s men found in the tower. The bullets that killed the bishop were definitely shot from it. They traced the serial number.”

“And?”

“And a Belgian arms dealer by the name of . . .” Silva heard the director rustling through some papers, “Hugo van Aalst bought it directly from the manufacturer.”

“A Belgian? Did you say a Belgian?”

The director took in an exasperated breath and grunted. “Yeah. So what?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

After a pause, the director did. “That’s Aalst with two ‘a’s.’
He
sold it to the Paraguayan army, and he has an end user certificate to prove it. The Paraguayans say they can’t find it. Sound familiar?”

“Too familiar.”

Not a few Paraguayans made a very lucrative living by supplying contraband to their neighbor to the north. Most of it came across the so-called “Friendship Bridge” near Iguaçu Falls. Scotch whiskey, cigarettes, and weapons were all popular items.

The registration of the weapon was a dead end. They’d never be able to trace it to the killer, but Silva didn’t think it would be a good idea to stress that fact at the moment.

“Hang on,” the director said.

He left the line without waiting for a response, but he was back less than five seconds later: “Minister on the other line. Keep me posted.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

Silva looked at his watch. It was already too late to call Irene. With a shake of his head he got up, crossed the living room of their suite, and knocked on Hector’s door. His nephew, wearing a bathrobe, his hair still wet from the shower, opened it immediately.

“You don’t look happy,” Hector said.

“I’m not,” Silva said, but he didn’t elaborate. “That Poli woman said that Pillar is staying here, right?”

“Right.”

“Get some clothes on and see if you can find him. Try to keep it friendly. Invite him for a drink.”

“In the bar?”

“No. Here. In twenty minutes.”

“Room four-oh-seven,” he said to Hector, “in the back of the building. Certainly not one of our best, but he asked for the cheapest—”

“Where’s the house phone?”

“Over there, senhor.”

Hector had already turned his back when the clerk added, “But if you’re going to call Senhor Pillar, I’m afraid you’re not going to find him.”

Hector turned back to the clerk. “No?”

“No, senhor. There are quite a few messages for him, some of them urgent, so I tried to call him when I came on duty.”

“When was that?”

“At five. When he didn’t pick up, I asked the chambermaid to check the room. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“How about his room key?”

“He left it with me at about this same time last night. I don’t think he’s been back since.”

Hector was breathing hard when he got back to the suite. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, he’d run up four flights of stairs.

His uncle’s aplomb immediately deflated him.

“So you don’t think he was kidnapped?”

Silva shook his head. “By the landowners? Unlikely.” He set aside the thick folder he’d been leafing through and picked up the scotch and water he’d prepared for himself. “Muniz is their local leader, and he’s gone missing.”

“Well, then, maybe somebody else organized it.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it. You leave a message?”

Hector nodded. “And a tip to the desk clerk to make sure it stayed on the top of the pile. Some pile, by the way. He has more people trying to get in touch with him than you do. What’s that?” He pointed to the folder Silva had been perusing.

“Pillar’s dossier. I brought it from Brasilia. Pour yourself a drink and have a look.”

Hector did just that.

The dossier had been opened back in the days of the military dictatorship, before Pillar had been forced to flee to asylum in Uruguay. Kept current to the present day, it chronicled, in great detail, the life of one of Brazil’s premier activists.

Hector didn’t see eye-to-eye with Pillar’s politics, but as he skimmed the pages, he started building up a grudging respect for the man. Pillar was a firebrand, but he certainly wasn’t a megalomaniac. When he spoke, and there were summaries of many of his speeches, he always stressed that he wasn’t the President of the Landless Workers’ League. The organization had, he insisted, no chief executive, no board of directors, no hierarchy. They were all comrades, all equals in the struggle for land reform.

And Pillar certainly wasn’t in it for the money. He lived simply, drove a sixteen-year-old Fiat and resided alone in a studio apartment in one of the less-fashionable neighborhoods of Brasilia. An exhaustive examination of his financial dealings seemed to indicate that he was scrupulous in accounting for the contributions made to his organization and that he regularly paid his taxes.

In dictatorships, people like Pillar are imprisoned and tortured, often killed. In the great democracies they sometimes become candidates for president or prime minister. But they seldom win.

More than 1,500 of Pillar’s colleagues had been murdered in the land wars of the last decade. He was more visible than any of them, but the threat to his life didn’t seem to make him afraid, only angry. If Pereira, the local man, was anything like him. . . .

The telephone rang. Hector started to close the dossier, but his uncle stood. “Keep reading. I’ll get it.”

Silva identified himself, said “yes” twice, gave his room number, and replaced the receiver. “Better conceal that dossier after all,” he said. “That was Pillar. He’s on his way up.”

LUIZ PILLAR was older, and thinner, than he looked in his photographs. His brown eyes were sunk deeply into their sockets. His cheekbones showed sharply under his brown skin. He was certainly a man under pressure. Perhaps he was ill. He reminded Hector of a painting by Edvard Munch, the one called
The Scream
. He was dressed in faded jeans and a red T-shirt emblazoned with the logotype of the league, a crossed hoe and pitchfork on a circular white field.

Silva offered him a hand and after a moment of hesitation Pillar took it.

Hector offered him a drink and Pillar refused.

“Are you here to arrest me?” he asked.

“Why would you think that?” Silva said.

Pillar shrugged and smiled. The smile was surprisingly gentle. “Because policemen, when I meet them, almost always do. Arrest me, I mean.”

Pillar wasn’t exaggerating. He’d been arrested tens of times. He’d been convicted, too, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Policemen and judges often worked hand-in-hand with vengeful landowners. Juries often
were
vengeful landowners.

“You have nothing to fear from us, Senhor Pillar. We work for the federal government,” Silva said.

“I know who you are, Chief Inspector. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Yours, too. Now, will you sit down?”

Pillar sank into the offered chair.

“What brings you to Cascatas?” Silva asked.

“League business. You?”

“Murder. Initially, the murder of Dom Felipe Antunes, the Bishop of Presidente Vargas, and of your colleague, Aurelio Azevedo. More recently, the probable murder of a landowner by the name of Orlando Muniz.”

Pillar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Senior?”

“Junior.”

“Too bad.”

“You mean too bad it wasn’t his old man?”

“Isn’t murder a local matter?” Pillar asked, as if he hadn’t heard Silva’s question.

“Normally, yes. But the minister asked us to help the local police with their inquiries.”

Pillar smiled again. “Assisting Colonel Emerson Ferraz with his inquiries? And is the colonel grateful?”

“Not particularly.”

“No. I wouldn’t think so. Still, your presence means that he’s probably working harder to find the murderer of the bishop.”

“But not to find the murderer of your colleague?”

The smile vanished. “No,” Pillar said. “The colonel doesn’t give a damn about what happened to Aurelio. What do you want from me, Chief Inspector?”

“There’s been a suggestion that members of the league might have been involved in the murder of the bishop.”

“Ridiculous.”

“How about in the murder of Orlando Muniz Junior?”

“Now, that one I could understand. But I deny it, of course.”

“Of course. You knew him?”

“Not personally, no, but I knew the bishop. He was misguided, but he was a well-meaning man, true to his convictions. I can’t say I liked him, but I certainly didn’t hate him, and neither did anyone else in my organization. That’s not the case with Muniz. We all hate his guts. He’s an exploiter of the worst kind.”

“You just told me you didn’t know him.”

“
Personally,
I said. I’m basing my opinion on things I’ve heard.”

“Heard from whom?”

“People who worked for him. Other people who knew him.”

“You think he’s dead?”

Pillar shrugged. “Dead or alive, I had nothing to do with it. His father won’t believe that, of course. The old bastard will probably come after me next.”

Silva took in a breath and let it out slowly. Before he uttered his next words, he already knew they’d be wasted but he said them anyway. “There’s no end to this. Whenever you kill one of them, they’re going to come right back and kill one of you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know more than that, Chief Inspector
.
I know that when one of them is murdered they go out and kill fifty or even a hundred of us. They’ve killed more than fifteen hundred of us in the last ten years.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But we’re still going to win.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because we have the numbers on our side. There are less than fifty thousand of them. There are almost five million of us out there.” He pointed at the window as if all of them were just outside the hotel. “Five million landless workers. We’ve got them outnumbered by a margin of more than one hundred to one. We can’t lose.”

“There are laws in this country, Pillar—”

“Laws?” Pillar snorted. “We occupy unused farmland to force the government to do their duty and expropriate it. Is that a crime?”

“In fact, it is. It’s called trespassing.”

“Trespassing. And that
serious
offense, that
major
crime, merits the attention of the Federal Police?”

“Spare me your sarcasm. How long have you been in Cascatas?”

“What you’re really asking is: Was I here before the disappearance of young Muniz?”

“Yes.”

“When did he disappear?”

“Sometime during the night before last.”

“Then the answer to your question is yes. Yes, I was here in Cascatas.”

“Sleeping here at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“And last night? Did you sleep here last night?” Silva asked, already knowing the answer.

Pillar didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said.

“Then where
did
you sleep?”

“I didn’t sleep at all. I’ve been up all night.”

“Doing what?”

“Helping my brothers from the league to cut through Muniz’s fence and occupy a part of his fazenda.”

“A part of his—”

“Less than ten percent of his holding. Land he’s never used, but the greedy bastard doesn’t want to part with any of it. We’re going to stay where we are until our demands are negotiated.”

“That’s senseless. “

“You’re referring to the new law, I presume, the one that blocks appropriation in the case of occupation?”

“I am.”

“The government hasn’t been enforcing that one. Not since the new president was elected. He can’t come right out and say it, but he’s on our side.”

“In his heart he may support you, but in practice, he won’t. He has to enforce the law. You’re pushing him too far.”

“I don’t think so. I think time will prove me right.”

“My God, Pillar, do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Old man Muniz is one of the most powerful men in this country. You think he’s going to think it’s a coincidence that his son disappears one day and that you occupy his fazenda the next?”