Perfect Hatred (13 page)

Marca Zero
, the brass-topped monument from which distances to all corners of the State of São Paulo are measured, stands on the Praça da Sé, in the heart of the capital.

From there to the ferry dock on the island of Ilhabela is a mere 197 kilometers, but getting from one to other can be an ordeal.

The city is famous for its gridlocks. Kilometer-long congestion arises for no apparent reason. The roads leading to the coast are potholed, narrow, hairpinned and steep. The descent from the highland plateau to sea level often involves passing through lowlying clouds that can reduce visibility to a few meters. And there’s often a long wait for the boat. The journey, three hours on a good day, can stretch to eight on a bad one. Yet even on holiday weekends, when the traffic is heaviest, many
Paulistas
think the time it takes is time well spent.

Six times the size of Manhattan, and seven kilometers from the mainland, the island is ringed by 41 beaches. Inland the terrain rises, through rainforest lush with vegetation, to a granite peak topping-out at 1,400 meters. Ilhabela abounds with freshwater streams and waterfalls, and the encircling ocean teems with fish.

There was only one thing about the island that attracted him: the opportunity it offered to kill Zanon Parma.
The operation against the public prosecutor began with a call from the Colonel’s intelligence expert.
“He’s here,” Aldo reported. “Conditions are perfect. I suggest we do it tonight.”
Muniz felt his pulse quicken. “Excellent,” he said. “What’s the next step?”
“Drive to São Sebastião, Senhor, and wait for a call. Expect it shortly after sunset. Everything you need will be provided.”
“A gun as well?”
They were speaking over an unsecured line. Aldo expressed his disapproval of the question with a long pause, and said, “It’s my understanding, Senhor, that the Colonel already informed you about that part of the arrangements.”
Muniz didn’t like being chastised by the help, but he swallowed his irritation. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you’re right. He did.”
“Cell phone reception in the region can be spotty. Please be sure to choose a location where you have a signal.”
“Understood,” Muniz said. “I’ll leave now.”
He dressed himself in island gear—a T-shirt, shorts and sandals—grabbed his wallet and sunglasses, and took the elevator down to the garage.
Most of the holiday traffic had left the day before. His progress was rapid. He stopped at a
churrascaria
between the Via Dutra and Caraguatatuba, ate a leisurely lunch, drank two
caipirinhas
, and still managed to arrive well before dark. He checked his cell phone, confirmed he had a signal, and waited.
The call came ten minutes after sunset.
“Where are you, Senhor?” The high, squeaky voice was unmistakable. It was Careca.
“Parked on the road,” Muniz said, “between the ferry dock and the tanker port.”
“Turn around and go back. Less than a kilometer beyond the entry to the port you’ll see a path to the beach. Walk down to the water. It’s unlikely you’ll meet anyone. The area is generally deserted after sundown.”
“Then what?”
“Wait for a ride.”

The ride came in the form of a Zodiac tender about five meters long. The bow met the sand with a soft
shush,
hardly louder than a whisper. There was no moon, and not a breath of wind. The sea was a black mirror.

“Hop in, Senhor,” Careca said.
Muniz wasn’t pleased. “We’re going to cross over in
that
?” “Sim, Senhor.”
“Why can’t we just take the ferry?”
“You’re too well-known, Senhor. You might be recognized.” “I’ve got a hat in the car. Dark glasses.”
“It would still be a risk, Senhor. Do you have a problem

with boats?”
“No. No, of course not.”
It was a lie. Muniz hated boats of any size, but he had an

absolute loathing for the little ones, a loathing rooted in fear. His palms began to sweat if he came anywhere near a small boat, and his heartbeat went wild whenever he got into one. He even had nightmares about them. One time, he dreamed that an inflatable, not unlike this one, sank under him after being holed by a swordfish. That time he’d been attacked by sharks. In another dream, he was aboard a small boat that sank in heavy weather amid waves as high as houses. Then there was the time he’d been run down by a supertanker and was being drawn toward the ship’s huge propeller when he awoke in a sweat.

He’d never experienced real danger in a small boat, but he’d feared them since earliest childhood. And when his grandmother, who’d practiced spiritualism, told him he’d meet his death in one, the nightmares got worse.

But, if he wanted the satisfaction of killing Zanon Parma, he’d have to climb aboard, and he deeply, deeply wanted that satisfaction, so he steeled his resolve and stepped over the gunwale.

Careca picked up an oar, pushed the boat free of the land and dropped the prop to the vertical position. “Hold on, Senhor.”

“How long is this going to take?” Muniz shouted over the sound of the engine.
“Not long, Senhor,” Careca shouted back. “About twenty minutes.”
“
Twenty minutes
? The ferryboat takes fifteen. And this thing is a lot faster.”
“The ferryboat docks at the closest point to the mainland, Senhor, and it’s a long way from our destination. This way, we land less than a hundred meters from Senhor Parma’s house.”
Crossing in front, red and green running lights glowed from small vessels navigating the channel. Beyond them, the white lights of the island sparkled.
“That’s the Ilhabela Yacht Club,” Careca said, pointing to a cluster somewhat yellower than the rest. “The Parma house is several kilometers that way.”
He gestured off into the darkness. That part of the island was no more than a towering, black lump.
Muniz looked up. There was no moon. A veil of mist dimmed the stars. He looked down. The water, too, was black—and God only knew how deep. The thought of immersing himself in it terrified him. He took it out in impatience and anger.
“Where’s my goddamned gun? You were supposed to provide me with a gun?”
“And we have, Senhor. You’ll be using a Taurus PT 92.”
Muniz’s anger escalated.
“I’ve never fired a Taurus PT 92.”
“We’ll be happy to show you the weapon’s features, Senhor. And, since you specified you wanted to be close—”
Muniz cut him off. “Is that the only weapon you’ve got?”
“No, Senhor. Reiner has a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum, I have a Glock .40, and Aldo has a Sig Sauer P290. But I suggest you use the PT 92.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about your suggestion. I’m going to use that .44 magnum of Reiner’s. I have one of those myself.”
“It doesn’t have a noise suppressor, Senhor. None of them do. Only the PT 92. That’s why we provided it.”
Muniz wiped his sweating palms on his shorts. The trip was taking too damned long. But he recognized that a note of hysteria had come into his voice, and he didn’t want to give his terror away to Careca, so he fell into a petulant silence.
After ten minutes of it, more or less, Careca pointed to a plastic crate in the bow of the boat. “Can you see a flashlight in there, Senhor?”
Muniz leaned forward to look. “Yes,” he said. They were much closer to the shoreline now, and he felt he might be able to trust his voice once again, so he swallowed and said, “How are we going to do this thing?”
“Aldo visited the house, Senhor, while the family was at the beach. He made a sketch of the interior and discovered where everyone sleeps.”
He sounded relieved that Muniz had backed off on his anger. But Muniz hadn’t. He was simply suppressing it.
“Who’s
everyone
?” he snapped.
“Parma’s wife and two daughters are with him. The wife shares his bed; the two children are in a separate bedroom. What I propose, Senhor, is that Aldo, Reiner and I enter the house wearing hoods. We’ll herd the children into their parents’ bedroom. Reiner will hold them, and the wife, at gunpoint. Aldo and I will bring Parma out to you.”
“The hell you will. Let me tell you how it’s really going to work. I’ll go into the house with you. You hold Parma at bay while I kill his wife and kids in front of him.”
Careca looked at him aghast. “His wife, Senhor? And his children?”
“Yes. That will be much worse for him. The bastard will suffer even more. That’s it! That’s what I want to do. And we won’t have to worry about witnesses, because there won’t be anyone left to—”
“No,” Careca said, dropping the
Senhor
.
Muniz was outraged. “What the hell do you mean,
no
? How dare you say no to me? I’m paying the bills. I call the shots.”
Careca shook his head, calm, but firm. “The Colonel,” he said, “would not approve of the extermination of Parma’s entire family.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Do you think I’m stupid? I know what you’re doing, and you know what? I won’t even quibble. How much more do you want?”
“It’s not a question of the money, Senhor.”
“What?”
Muniz was appalled. For him,
everything
was a question of money. His surprise in learning that a thug like Careca was capable of thinking differently almost banished his fear of the boat from his head. Almost.
“It’s not a question of the money,” Careca repeated.
“That’s the stupidest damned thing I’ve ever heard. Let’s call the Colonel.”
“The Colonel instructed me, Senhor, not to call him from the region of Ilhabela. He doesn’t want any record of telephone calls that might tie him to this incident. I’m the operational commander, the decision is mine, and the decision is no. We will
not
help you kill Parma’s wife and children.”
Muniz still didn’t quite believe him.
“A hundred thousand,” he said. “An additional hundred thousand American dollars for the wife and kids.”
“No, Senhor.”
“Two-hundred, then. Two-hundred thousand to split any way you like. None of it has to go the Colonel.”
Again, Careca shook his head. “For all the money in the world, Senhor, the answer would still be no.”
“
You
may be some kind of a goddamned moralist, but I doubt your friends Reiner and Aldo will think the same way.”
Muniz couldn’t see Careca’s features in the darkness, but he felt his eyes upon him.
“I know them better than you, Senhor, and I assure you they will. We are not in the business of killing children or innocent women.”
“Don’t give me that holier-than-thou shit. You’re hired killers, for Christ’s sake. It’s what you do.”
“We may be hired killers, Senhor, but we are not psychopaths.”
“Are you calling me a psychopath?”
“No, Senhor, I’m not calling you a psychopath.”
He wasn’t. But he was thinking it. Muniz was sure of that.
Again, a silence fell between them. And it went on long enough for Muniz’s anger to surge up again. He was a maelstrom of emotions now, fear, anger and, the closer they got to the shore, anticipation.
About fifty meters out, Careca turned the bow 90 degrees to port and said, “Please pick up the flashlight, Senhor, and point it straight ahead.”
Muniz didn’t reply; he just did it.
“Yes, Senhor,” Careca said, speaking as if he had, “like that. Now turn it on, count to three, and extinguish it.”
Muniz did—and was answered by a flash of light off the starboard bow. Careca changed course and steered toward it.
Emerging out of the darkness, Muniz saw a sandy beach and the dim outlines of two men. Careca cut the engine and raised the prop. Just as the boat lost headway, one of the figures stepped into the water, seized the mooring line coiled in the bow and dragged the vessel onto the sand.
It was Reiner.
Careca climbed out of the boat and signaled his passenger to do likewise. Muniz, with great relief, and still trembling slightly, set his feet onto dry land. The four conspirators gathered together just short of the road.
“Almost no traffic,” Aldo reported. “The last car was ten minutes ago, the previous one about thirteen minutes before that. We go with the plan?”
“We go with the plan,” Careca confirmed.
“If last night is any indication, they’ll retire early, about ten.”
Careca looked at his watch. Muniz could see his lips moving as he made the calculation. “About two and a half hours to go,” he said. “I’m going to have a little nap behind that big rock over there. Aldo, you take the first hour, Reiner, the second. Then wake me. And Reiner. . .”
“Sim, Senhor?”
“Give Senhor Muniz his PT 92—and show him how to use it.”

Someone turned on the overhead light. Zanon Parma blinked in the sudden glare.
“Wake up,” a high, squeaky voice said.
The prosecutor raised his head, caught sight of two hooded figures in his bedroom and shot bolt upright.
“Cooperate, Parma,” the man said, “and your wife and daughters won’t get hurt.”
Beside him, Iara trembled in fear and clutched at his hand. As best he could, he leaned over to shelter her with his body.
The man who’d spoken was the larger of the two, taller and wider at the shoulders. The short sleeves on his black T-shirt exposed tattoos on his arms. On the right, above the hand holding the pistol, the design was of a bird of prey. On the left was a lynx, or maybe a cougar, baring its fangs.
The other hooded figure also held a pistol, but he had no tattoos, had not spoken, offered nothing to remember him by.
There was a commotion in the hallway. A third hooded figure entered the room, herding Doxy and Lili. Lili had tears streaming down her cheeks. Iara whimpered in his arms.
“If you don’t want your family hurt,” the spokesman said to Zanon, “you’ll do exactly as I say.”
Zanon remembered the advice his cop friends had given him:
If you’re ever the victim of armed assailants, never provoke them. Never react. Never resist. Always obey.
“We won’t give you any trouble,” he said. “Will we, darling? Will we, girls?”
“No,” Iara said. “Take anything you want.”
Doxy took her thumb out of her mouth and shook her head. Lili sniffled and looked at her lap.
“She’s only six,” Zanon said, “but she’s a very good girl. Aren’t you, Lili?”
Lili, still sniffling, nodded.
“You see?” Zanon said. “She’ll do exactly what you tell her to do. And so will I.”
“Get up,” the man said.
“Where—”
“Shut up. Do it!”
Zanon threw the covers aside. “You want me to get dressed?”
“I told you to shut up. Stand up, take three steps toward me and face the bed.”
As soon as he’d turned his back, one of them, he couldn’t see which, grabbed his wrists and shackled them.
“Now turn around and start walking.”
Not a robbery then
, Zanon thought.
A kidnapping
.
At the door of the bedroom, he looked back and gave his wife and children a reassuring nod.
“It will be all right,” he said, “you’ll see.”
He badly wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t—not quite.
Iara made a valiant attempt to smile at him—and failed.
They marched him out the front door, across the road and onto the beach.
Out of the darkness, a figure emerged, a man without a hood.
It was Orlando Muniz.
And it was only then that Zanon Parma realized what fate awaited him.