Perfect Hatred (15 page)

The Friendship Bridge spans the Parana River between the Brazilian city of Foz do Iguaçu and the Paraguayan city of Ciudad del Este. It’s a single-arch construction, in reinforced concrete, which measures some 550 meters in length and towers, when the river isn’t in flood, as much as 60 meters above the surface.

But this was November and Arnaldo and Silva, as they crossed the frontier from one country to the other, found themselves looking down at an eddying, brown, swift-running stream no more than 30 meters below.

Almost half-a-century old, the bridge was no longer adequate for the volume of traffic. From eight in the morning until past nine in the evening, it was always congested.

Their cab crept forward at a snail’s pace, surrounded by hordes of Brazilians heading toward, or returning from, the frenzied bazaar on the Paraguayan side.

Two of the four lanes, one in each direction, were given over to buses. And the buses were packed with people who’d traveled, in some cases, as far as a thousand kilometers to make their purchases.

Flanking the vehicular traffic were pedestrians. Those to their right were crossing into Paraguay. They were empty handed. On the other side, people loaded down with boxes and shopping bags were on their way back.

Weaving among the buses and automobiles were hundreds of motorcycles and motorbikes. The noise they made was giving Silva a headache.
“Is it always like this?” Arnaldo asked.
“Always, Senhor,” the driver replied. “So what will you be

shopping for today? You want electronics? Perfume for your ladies? Whiskey? Or maybe something a little . . . difficult to find, eh?”

“It’s a business trip,” Silva said.
“It almost always is, Senhor. That’s what Ciudad del Este is all about. Business. Most people are buying there so they can sell somewhere else. Since those bastards from the Brazilian Federal Police have been making such nuisances of themselves, and you might not be able to bring everything you want back with you in my taxi, I know people with whom I can make . . . other arrangements. So what do you want? Don’t be shy. Come right out with it. Drugs? Young girls? Weapons? How can I help?”
Silva resisted telling him to whom he was talking and showed him the address he’d jotted onto a piece of paper. “Just take us here.”
The driver glanced at it. “Ha!” he said.
“What? Is there some problem?”
“That address, Senhor, is in the heart of the busiest part of town. The street will be congested. If I bring you in there, we’ll be stuck in the traffic for an hour or more. That’s a waste of your time and mine. I’ll bring you close-by and give you directions. You walk the rest of the way.”
“Fair enough,” Silva said.
“Are you going back today? I’d be honored to take you.”
“Not necessary.”
That meant he wouldn’t be earning a return fare, or a commission from any of the shops he touted, or a tip for putting them into contact with a purveyor of illegal merchandise.
“Oh,” the driver said, managing to pack all his disappointment into a single syllable. He didn’t smile again during the remainder of the trip.
When he dropped them off, the two federal cops elbowed their way through seething crowds until they reached their destination.
Inside, Ismail Khouri’s establishment was almost as crowded as it had been on the street. Boxes containing MP3 players, cellular phones and cameras lined the shelves. TV sets, complete audio systems and computers were stacked in their original boxes on the floor. Around and about the stacks, salesmen and customers dickered in a number of languages.
“We’re looking for Ismail Khouri,” Arnaldo said to a man with a nametag.
“In the back.”
The man waved them toward the rear of the shop.
Silva had to repeat the process several times, moving deeper and deeper into the establishment with each inquiry.
At last, someone indicated a little man engaged in negotiation with two other men. One was speaking in Spanish, the other in what Silva assumed to be Arabic, and Khouri, if it was Khouri, was doing the translating.
When the business was concluded, and the other two had left, the little man turned to Silva and flashed him a smile.
“Español?” he inquired. “Português?”
“Português,” Silva said. “Are you Ismail Khouri?”
“I am,” Khouri said in an accent that identified him as a native of São Paulo. “How can I be of service?”
“My name is Silva.”
The smile vanished. Khouri gripped Silva by the arm and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His meaning was clear:
Not here. Too many ears.
“Jaco’s friend!” he said effusively. “What a pleasure, what a pleasure. I’m delighted to meet you. And this is?” “My associate, Senhor Nunes.”
Khouri shook hands with both of them. “This is no place to do business. Much too noisy. Please, come to my office. We’ll drink tea, or coffee, if you like.”
He turned to open a door in the wall behind him. Beyond the door was a corridor, and at the end of the corridor, a stairway. They climbed to the second floor, passed through another door, through a storage room heaped with boxes and, at last, through a third door into a windowless room with three chairs and a Formica-topped table with an ashtray full of butts. Silva, an ex-smoker, wrinkled his nose at the smell.
Khouri switched on the light, took one of the chairs and waved them into the other seats.
“Now,” he said, when they were all seated, “we can talk. I hope you haven’t identified yourselves as policemen to anyone in my shop.”
“We have not,” Silva said.
The merchant took a pack of American cigarettes out of his breast pocket and stuck one in his mouth before offering the pack to the other two men. Both refused, but he left the pack on the table anyway.
“In case you change your minds,” he said. He lit up and shook out the match before going on: “I can’t be seen to be speaking with policemen, not Brazilian policemen anyway.”
“So Jaco gave me to understand,” Silva said.
“He told me,” Khouri said, expelling smoke, “that he’s known you even longer than he’s known me. May I call you Mario?”
“Please do.”
“And you must call me Ismail. How can I help?”
“We’d like to know more about that fellow you mentioned to Jaco.”
“Jamil Al-Fulan?”
“Yes.”
“Where shall I begin?”
“Wherever you like. The more you can tell us about him, the better.”
“Well, let me see.” Ismail took a pensive puff. “He’s a local boy. I don’t know if he was born here, but he was certainly raised here. I heard, once, that his parents owned a small landholding some twenty kilometers outside the city, so he was already visiting Ciudad del Este from his earliest youth. And he quickly saw the opportunities. You’d have to be blind not to.”
“So he holds a Paraguayan passport?”
“A Paraguayan one for sure. He may hold others as well, but certainly not a Brazilian one. There was a time, however, when he lived across the river. But problems arose, and he moved back here.”
“What kind of problems?”
Ismail tipped ash from his glowing cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and said, “Did you know a man by the name of Nestor Cambria?”
“I did.”
“Jamil despised him.”
“Why?”
“Because Nestor couldn’t be bought. Because Nestor was destroying Al-Fulan’s business. Because Nestor made it so hot for Jamil on the Brazilian side he was forced to move back here. Which he didn’t like one bit.”
“Why didn’t he return after Nestor left?”
“Nestor’s successor has no more use for Al-Fulan than Nestor did. A fact, by the way, which suits me perfectly well. I’d prefer not to have men like Jamil anywhere in this world, but if Allah wills they must exist, I prefer they exist here, in Paraguay, rather than in Brazil, where I live.”
“There was a rumor about Al-Fulan being involved in the smuggling of luxury automobiles.”
“That’s no rumor. Jamil has been doing it for years.”
“For years?”
“Yes, Mario, for years. It’s like this: r’ich Paraguayans, and there are many, like to change their cars every year. They also like luxury, the German cars, mostly, but also the fashionable Italian ones like Ferraris and Maseratis. Jamil founded his business by getting a number of them to place orders and pay a deposit. Then he commissioned people in Brazil to locate and steal the cars and bring them here. His vehicles were much cheaper than those imported legally. Word got around. Even rich people aren’t averse to economizing. His business grew.”
“And the authorities did nothing?”
Ismail shook his head. “Mario, Mario, this is
Paraguay
,” he said, extinguishing his cigarette. “Of course the authorities did nothing. The authorities are his partners. Have you met Matias Chaparro? The head of the National Police here in Ciudad del Este?”
“Not yet. But I have an appointment with him.”
Ismail pursed his lips and nodded his head. Then he stood up to empty the contents of the ashtray into a wastebasket in the corner of the room.
“Be careful what you say to him. Chaparro is the man who gets the cars registered. He also turns a blind eye to their being brought into Paraguay.”
Silva followed him with his eyes. “Wait. Do you mean to tell me, Ismail, that the registrations aren’t falsified? They’re real?”
Ismail resumed his place at the table. “Correct. Matias has contacts inside the registry office. He has contacts everywhere.”
“So there’s never any risk to the purchaser?”
“That’s right.”
Ismail picked up the pack and took out another cigarette.
“What about the Brazilian side?” Silva went on. “Al-Fulan would need people to locate and steal the vehicles, and he’d have to get them across the border.”
“
Jamil spent years building up a network,” Ismail said, contributing more smoke to the room. “He gets cars from halfa-dozen Brazilian cities, and there was never any problem getting them across the border—until Nestor came along.”
“Nestor’s predecessor was corrupt?”
“Either that, or he didn’t properly control his people. Either way, payoffs were happening for sure. But Nestor changed all that, and his predecessor has kept up the pressure. So can you can see why having a relationship with the Governor of the State of Paraná would have been so very useful to Jamil?”
“I can. A governor would be in a position to do the same thing Chaparro does here: arrange documentation for stolen vehicles. Jamil’s supply problem would be solved.”
“Exactly.”
“So you think it unlikely Jamil was involved in Plínio’s murder?”
Ismail tipped more ash. “I do. I cannot imagine how killing Plínio would have been advantageous to Jamil. Quite the contrary.”
There was little ventilation in the room and the smoke was beginning to sting Silva’s eyes. He blinked. “A falling out among thieves perhaps?”
Ismail shrugged. “Always possible, of course, but . . .”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. I don’t.”
Arnaldo coughed, reminding Ismail of his presence. Reminding him, too, of what he was doing to the atmosphere.
“Sorry,” Ismail said. “It gets like this because there aren’t any windows. You want me to open the door?”
“Not necessary,” Silva said, not wanting to interrupt the flow. “What about Jamil’s politics?”
“What about them?”
“Does he support the Palestinian cause?”
Ismail took a moment to consider. “Speaking for the Muslim community here in the Tri-Border-Area, almost all of us do. I object to what the State of Israel is doing to my fellow Muslims. That said, I reject violence as an instrument of change, and I abhor the killing of innocent civilians.”
“And Jamil?”
“Jamil’s politics, and he makes no secret of them, are far more radical. I cannot say whether he has any hand in the recent outrages in São Paulo and Buenos Aires, but I can tell you he supports a madrasa over on the Brazilian side of the river. The mullah who runs it, a man chosen by Jamil personally, is a fanatic. All he teaches is rote memorization of the suras, a twisted interpretation of the Holy Qur’an, and the hatred of non-Muslims.”
“Twisted how?”
“Islam is a religion of peace and love, Mario. He presents it to his students as a religion of violence and hatred.”
“Why do their parents put up with it? Why don’t they take their children out of there?”
“Jamil regards such withdrawals as an affront. Parents were beaten, intimidated. Word got around. Now, they’re too frightened to do anything other than to allow the mullah to brainwash their offspring.”
“Were you personally affected by this?”
Ismail put up a forefinger and waved it back and forth.
“Fortunately not. My sons were too old to be enrolled. The madrasa doesn’t take girls. Only boys, and the younger, the better.”
“Are all of the parents disillusioned?”
“Not all. That’s another one of the problems. In some households, the parents actually endorse what the mullah is teaching.”
“They endorse hatred?”
Ismail looked pained, but he nodded. “The older and wiser members of our community continue to stand for what we’ve always stood for: to live in peace with our neighbors. But Al-Fulan, with the help of that mullah, is working to change all that.”
“Preaching jihad?”
Ismail held up a hand, the palm facing Silva.
“Be careful with that word, Mario. It is much misused. For Muslims, there has
always
been jihad. Essentially, jihad is an effort to practice Islam in the face of oppression and persecution, or of fighting the evil in your own heart, or even standing up to a dictator. It does
not
mean, and it has never meant, until quite recently, to spread Islam by slaughtering innocents for the cause.”
“Have your people thought about going to the police?”
Ismail shook his head. “People who’ve been abused are afraid to come forward.”
“If Jamil could be taken out of the picture,” Silva said, “that would solve it, would it not? The money to run the madrasa would dry up.”
“It would,” Ismail said. “But our law, Brazilian law, cannot touch him. He never goes to Brazil anymore. And here, in Paraguay, he lives under the protection of the National Police.”
“Surely,” Silva said, “there must be some judge, some prosecutor here in Paraguay—”
“There isn’t. Every last one is on his payroll.”
“A man like that,” Arnaldo said, no longer able to contain himself, “should be put down like a mad dog.”
“I am, as I told you, a man of peace,” Ismail said. “But, in Al-Fulan’s case, I don’t disagree.”

Before leaving the shop, Silva called the number Ismail was able to provide him with, and asked to speak to the owner of the dealership.

Al-Fulan’s secretary, a male, inquired as to the nature of his business.
“I’m a Chief Inspector of the Brazilian Federal Police,” Silva said. “I’d like to make an appointment to see him about a confidential matter.”
“One moment,” the secretary said.
The moment stretched to a full five minutes.
After which, the secretary came back on the line and told Silva that his employer had no interest in meeting with anyone from the Brazilian Federal Police.
And that, consequently, his request for an appointment had been denied.