The Dead Man's Brother (21 page)

There were dark-skinned Indians about at several of the later way stations. They seem to be constantly finding new tribes of them about. I believe they are even beginning to run out of names for them. A while back, during some road building in the north, the workers came across a previously unknown tribe whose language was unintelligible even to other tribes in the area. They were duly dubbed "West of the Road Indians" and ignored or exploited as circumstances warranted.

It was quite late in the day when we stopped at one of the way stations and were informed by the driver that we had an hour in which to eat. He indicated a long, low building to our right, and we headed in that direction.

The place had a dirt floor, picnic-style tables, benches and a crude counter. Cooking odors drifted from the doorway behind the counter. There were flies all about, and I tried hard not to visualize the kitchen. I was not really very hungry, I kept telling myself.

I was, though. They served up a meaty stew which smelled awfully good. I refrained from studying it or its container too closely and put it all away. Beautifully enough, they had bottled beer, with which I followed it. The help had a disconcerting habit of hurling the empties into a packing case in the corner.

When, about an hour and a half later, the driver announced that the hour had run, I began to rise. Vera placed her hand on my arm then and told me to wait. She left us and approached the driver. I could not overhear their words.

"What is happening?" Maria asked me.

I shrugged. The other passengers were filing out and reboarding the bus.

"I don’t know," I said, "though I’d imagine your guess would be the same as mine."

"Is he here somewhere?"

"Or near here, I’d say."

The driver departed then with the rest of the passengers and Vera returned to our bench.

"You will wait here now," she said.

"For what?"

"I must carry a message."

"To Emil?"

"Perhaps."

"How long will it take?"

"I cannot say."

"Can’t you give us any idea?"

"Several hours at least," she said. "You will probably spend the night here. These people will take care of you." Her gesture was all-inclusive. "They will provide a place for you to sleep if you require it."

I nodded.

"Is it far from here?" Maria asked.

Vera smiled.

"I cannot say. I will hurry."

She turned then and left us.

I asked for and was given some coffee, a large tin cup of it. It was delicious.

"Do you believe this will help to find the ones we are looking for?" Maria asked.

"Yes."

I heard the bus’ engine turn over, listened to the vehicle pull back onto the road, move off into the distance.

"I believe so, too," she said, and touched my hand. "I am sorry—again—that I grew so impatient with you."

"That’s all right. Forget it."

"Are you still angry with me?"

"Some. But that’s all right, too."

"I will not be that way again."

"Good."

"How did you find the woman who brought us here?"

"I didn’t. She found me."

"Oh."

"Yes, old Walt’s article did the trick. She identified me from the picture. Said she’d been looking in galleries and museums for several days. Following up on that bit about my being an art dealer."

"So the article did some good, after all."

"I suppose—depending on how you look at it."

"You came."

"I’ve paid for my ticket. I want to see the whole show."

We stared at one another for a moment and must have felt uncomfortable at the same moment, because we shifted our eyes simultaneously.

"I’d like some coffee now," she said.

I got her a cup, and we sipped them in silence a while.

I finished mine, and, "Excuse me, I’ve got to take a walk," I said.

She nodded, smiled faintly as I rose.

A chilly night had come upon the world, damp-smelling and punctuated by the light of kerosene lamps within the shacks. People still moved about, a few of them drunk, the rest working at small chores or talking, all of them still dressed as they were earlier and apparently oblivious to the coldness of the night. I shrugged into the cardigan I had carried all day and inquired as to the location of the nearest outhouse.

The man I had asked gave me an incredulous look, then broke into a grin. He gestured at the dense forest that surrounded the small encampment.

"Take your pick," he said.

With persistence, I did learn, however, that there was an outbuilding a few hundred yards back up the road, if anybody really wanted to use it. It was just there for the turistas and the government man who had insisted that a bus station required one. Strange. All government men and turistas were strange. I agreed with him, thanked him and left him standing there shaking his head.

Bright stars. Shiny spiderwebs. Absolutely black shadows. Incessant insect sounds.

As I was leaving the facility, I heard my name spoken somewhere off to my left. I halted and turned my head in that direction.

"Yes?" I said.

A figure advanced and paused about ten paces from me.

"There is someone who wishes to speak with you," the man said.

The voice sounded somewhat familiar, but I could not see him clearly.

"I see," I said. "Where is he?"

"Back up the road. I will take you to him."

"All right."

We began walking.

"How far is it?" I asked.

"Perhaps half a mile."

Although I slowed and drifted, hoping to fall into a position where I would be abreast of him and hopefully get a look at his features, he managed to remain somewhat to the left and the rear. I imagined he was armed.

After a time, we came upon a string of vehicles parked off to the side of the road. I could make out two automobiles and six or seven trucks. All of them were dark and muffled voices emerged from the trucks. As we drew nearer, I noted several sentries, motionless, smoking their cigarettes from cupped hands. My guide gave a password to the nearest man and escorted me around the lead car. The door on that side was open, though there was no light within the vehicle. A man, partly hidden by the door, sat sideways, observing our approach. I smelled cigarette smoke as we came up to him.

He rose to his feet.

"Good evening, Ovid," he said, partly closing the door and extending his hand.

I did not take it. Nor did I say anything.

It was Morales.

I saw then, as he moved into view, that my escort had been Dominic.

I succeeded in masking my feelings. I had actually believed that I was on my way to see Emil, that he had chosen to bring me to him, quietly and without fuss, by simply having his man wait till the overcivilized gringo went in search of the town’s only crapper.

Well, the method had proven effective…

"What do you want this time?" I asked him.

He sighed.

"You are still angry with me, of course," he said. "But I hope that will not prevent you from listening to what I have to say. It is most important."

"Then say it."

"You do not trust me," he began, and I chuckled.

"…not that I ask for your trust," he continued quickly. "All that I require of you is cooperation, and I will obtain this by any means necessary. I have been waiting for this night, for you to go to Emil Bretagne. I am certain we both agree on one matter—that the man has done considerable damage to his country. Whatever your personal feelings concerning me, you must realize that I am a police officer dedicated to maintaining the security of our state. Emil Bretagne—as your superiors may have conjectured during your briefing—is also known as Saci, and he possesses the means to cause further disruption. I have been waiting for you to go to him."

He paused then, as if expecting me to say something. I lit a cigarette.

He made an impatient gesture.

"It was only a matter of time," he went on, "before this meeting, this little talk of ours. Not very much time, either. I needed only to wait, to be prepared. You know, of course, what I want. You must get it for me."

Here he raised a hand, as if to stop me from interrupting him, not realizing that I would not give him anything—not even words—unless it would contribute to his death.

"Your first reaction, of course, is to say ‘no’," he stated. "I understand this perfectly. You are not anxious to do anything which would go against your agency’s policies in general and your own orders in particular. Hear me out, however, and I believe you will see that what I propose should satisfy your superiors as well as my own.

"As we both know, Bretagne is an officer of a large organization, some of its interests at cross-purposes to those of the government. He manipulated some of the organization’s funds in a manner which benefited the revolutionary group of which he is a part. When this activity was about to be uncovered, he fled, taking with him the records of these financial dispositions. Then, before be could be stopped, he managed to transfer sizable quantities of these assets beyond our present reach. Of course, he could not have set the operation up initially without the cooperation of some of the other individuals in various parts of the country. As a whole, however, we feel that the organization was a victim rather than a culpable party. It also represents a sufficiently significant element in the local business structure so that action against it would not be without severe repercussion. Therefore, we wish to proceed against the individuals involved, rather than their employer—and against those persons elsewhere in the country who cooperated with them. As to Bretagne himself, we do not know whether his last efforts were directed toward salvaging as much as he could for his movement or for his own personal uses. Nor is this truly material. Either way, the interests of the state and of Bassenrut are conjoined. We both want a recovery, a reorganization of the foundation’s management structure and the identities of Bretagne’s fellow conspirators. You may so inform your superiors and we will back you up on it. As you must be aware, their desires would coincide with our own in this matter. They wish to ensure the stability of the present political setup almost as ardently as we wish to maintain our position. Bretagne had the records we need to achieve our aims in this matter. Not trusting the officers of this state, he has elected to turn them over to your agency, achieving our embarrassment and Bassenrut’s dismemberment at the cost of betraying his fellow conspirators. It is not logical that he would attempt to advance his movement’s cause by destroying major figures in the movement itself. Since his actions thus far have been too shrewd to be those of a madman, the only alternative seems to be that he has thrown up his hands with the whole affair and is now attempting to create sufficient confusion and disruption to permit his flight with the funds. This, of course, will soon result in his having a third group at his heels—namely, the revolutionaries. No wonder the man is hiding out among ignorant savages! Where else in the country has he to go? Who else would harbor him but these illiterate apes?

"Now we both want his records," he said, after a minor throat-clearing operation which brought his voice back to normal. "If your agency were to obtain them, what would be the result?

"After studying them," he answered his own question, "they would turn them over to my government, along with unofficial recommendations concerning their use. There would of course be a tacit element of compulsion involved. On the other hand, were we to obtain the records directly, rather than through a third party, we would undertake to remedy the situation in a satisfactory fashion. We would also be saved the embarrassment of appearing incompetent to your government, and spared their looking over our shoulders, getting underfoot and in general attempting to direct the settlement of what is really an internal problem. Surely you can understand the situation. Your country’s interests and holdings down here are vast and its concern with our political stability a legitimate thing. But we resent interference in our domestic matters—and that is what would occur if Emil Bretagne is allowed to turn his records over to your government."

It made a certain sense, though it raised new questions concerning Emil’s motives and the involvement of his brother. I decided to seem more receptive.

"In other words," I said, "if it is indeed Emil Bretagne that I have come here to see and he were to give me certain items he may have in his possession, you want me to turn them over to you, despite any orders I may have to the contrary?"

"It is good that we think alike," he said. "You are a reasonable man, and I have explained what we would do with them so that you would see that the effect will be basically the same as if you turned them over to your superiors and we acted under their direction. You will allow us to save face by proceeding along our own line."

I finished my cigarette and lit another, trying to appear as agitated as I was.

"You place me in an extremely awkward position…" I began.

"I realize that and I apologize for it personally. But you can see that I have no alternative."

"Yes, I can."

I waited to see whether he had more to offer. He did.

"At no additional cost," he said, "we will provide the means for preserving your integrity in this matter."

"How so?"

"You can hardly be held liable if the records are taken from you by force—that is, the threat of violence resulting in your death."

"That seems true."

"So we are providing this threat. We know he is somewhere in this area, though we could beat the bushes for months and still possibly not turn him up. Getting out of this area undetected, however, is another matter. You are aware of our great distance from civilization, and you stand beside the only road. Once you have seen Bretagne and obtained the records, you must traverse this route, in one direction or the other. We control this road, and you may not pass unless you pay the toll."

"That does not seem to leave much in the way of alternatives."

"None, I should say."

"Supposing I were to be a real bastard and repeat everything you’ve just told me to Mister Bretagne?"