daughter, lay only minutes away by private road or by golf cart across perfectly manicured lawns. He really ought to go, now, to say good night to them. Early tomorrow, both women would leave for the States to visit his wife’s family in Washington, D.C., for Christmas and New Year’s. They went every year. They much preferred the sophistication of Washington, plus holiday shopping in the expensive boutiques in New York, to the rough people and countryside celebrations of this isolated island of jungle in Brazil.
Convention required that he say good night and pretend that he would miss them. He wouldn’t. He’d learned young that he was different from other people. Stronger. He didn’t need anyone. He wouldn’t miss anyone. He cared for no one—but himself.
Such lack of feeling had to be cleverly disguised, though, in order to be successful, because if it weren’t, you couldn’t get people to trust you. You could achieve greater success if you used fear, or as he liked to think of it, respect and trust, in dealing with others. Whichever worked best in the circumstance. He knew how to work people, had been fucking brilliant at creating a benevolent, honest facade as local benefactor and charitable giver.
He stood, saying to Rodrigo, “I need to go say goodbye to the women.”
To reach Casa Grande he would drive past tennis courts, three guest rancheritas, a pool and spa, the helicopter pad, and various other buildings for workers or supplies. He seated himself in the golf cart and his cell phone vibrated, the one with the direct and secure line to Red Dog, his main business contact in the States. Quite a number of U.S. covert operations were funded by drug money. Ordinarily, Felipe made all contacts and arrangements with Red Dog, the code name of this extremely highly placed man in the U.S. military whose actual identity remained a secret, even from Escurra.
For over five years, Red Dog had provided cover for Escurra’s drug smuggling into the U.S., always taking a big cut. Escurra had never discovered how Red Dog had found out about the drug smuggling, but Red Dog had made an offer that Escurra could not refuse: cooperate and share profits or Red Dog would expose his operation to Brazilian authorities. Then a month ago, he had approached Felipe about this crazy operation involving kidnapping and blackmail.
Escurra would have opted out if he could have. Smuggling drugs he knew from every angle, but kidnapping and smuggling people was new; doing something new entailed major risks and invited disaster. Triply so because so many well-connected Americans would be involved.
Red Dog, however, refused to accept his no. Furthermore, the American implied that he might find some other middleman who was more cooperative. Fuck all. So much of Escurra’s business now depended upon this contact. How could he refuse the operation? Even Red Dog’s sweetening the pot with the promise of two million dollars didn’t make the deal sit any better in Escurra’s gut.
He fished the cell phone from his pocket. “The Eagle,” he said in English.
In his capoeira fighting days, his insignia had been a harpy eagle in flight clutching a dead colobus monkey in its talons. The harpy eagle—biggest eagle in the world. All who knew and feared Escurra still used the nickname behind his back. He had found it amusing to use it himself with the American.
“I was told I’d get a call by nine o’clock your time.” The low, tense voice was that of Red Dog. Escurra had personally talked only three times with the main man. Never before had Red Dog sounded agitated, angry or even tense. He’d always impressed Escurra as one very fucking cold Americano.
Escurra said, “I haven’t heard from my operative yet.”
“Has something gone wrong?”
“How can I know? I told you, I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I can’t help that. I sent my best people, led by the man you usually talk to. When I hear from him, I’ll call.”
A long silence stretched to the point where Escurra said, “You still there?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The connection went dead.
Escurra sat thinking about that strained sound in Red Dog’s voice. Maybe Red Dog was the top man in Washington. Maybe not. Maybe he reported to someone with even more power. Escurra would have to do a lot more thinking about that. But one thing for certain, Red Dog wanted those hostages much more than he had ever wanted profit from drugs. Somehow, for some reason, Red Dog was vulnerable. If all went well, Escurra would demand more money.
Just as he reached the main house his other phone vibrated. He answered.
Felipe said, “Your packages have been picked up and are on their way. Anything new for me?”
“No. Just get your ass back here.”
Chapter 6
T he priest was explaining to Joe’s brother, Manuelito, and his bride-to-be, Susa, exactly where to stand and what to say tomorrow during the actual wedding. Joe, along with the rest of the wedding party, stood in places lined up near the altar.
Joe’s youngest brother, Diego, and two other friends of Manuelito’s who would serve as ushers, stood on one side of Joe. On the other side of the bride-to-be, the bridesmaids were whispering among themselves, but the priest, Susa and Manuelito seemed not to notice. Joe stood facing the entry.
For a moment, as he looked down the rows of pews toward the door, he imagined the seats filled with people, the bride’s processional music playing and Nova dressed in a white gown and veil walking down the aisle toward him. He chuckled to himself. Actually, in his mother’s worldview, white would be entirely the wrong color for Nova. No virgin there. Light-years from being a virgin. Maybe Nova, the seductress, should be wearing red. Or maybe even black. Nova had eliminated bad guys, and more than once.
Then a different image replaced the wedding scene, a memory of sitting across the table from her in a funky little restaurant smelling of cinnamon. Their last weekend together. She’d picked a bed-and-breakfast in a tiny mountain hamlet called Julian, northeast of San Diego, a place famous for apple pie and the orchards that produced them. A place where the two of them could be assured of anonymity. He was holding her hand across the table.
He had presented her with an engagement ring, fully expecting her gorgeous green eyes to light up with joy. Instead they had dimmed as though a gray cloud had suddenly covered his sun. Nothing he’d said could change her mind. She’d quickly grown angry, saying he’d agreed they would be lovers. But no big commitment like marriage. He’d grown angry in response. They had locked in a test of wills. He’d finally said, “Either marry me, or I’m outta here.”
Her reply, as she’d pulled her hand out of his, her tone both sad and final had been, “Then, I guess it’s over.”
Now, clenching his fist, Joe swallowed down a golf-ball-sized lump and forced his attention to the priest. A dumb phrase popped into his head—“Real men don’t cry.”
He had actually found and loved a woman like no other. He would never love another woman because in his eyes, none would ever compare to Nova in beauty, intelligence or courage. So why the hell had he insisted on marriage? Why the hell had he let her push him away? And just when the hell was he going to swallow his pride and call her?
Chapter 7
N ova’s photo
