Silent Assassin(81)

Rio de Janeiro, February 15





Morgan and Conley were escorted up the hill by the armed guards, who spoke sporadically as they walked. The people on the sidewalk retreated in fear as the soldiers passed, gawking at Morgan and Conley like they were watching a funeral procession. Morgan even saw a couple of them make the sign of the cross.

“How far is it?” asked Morgan, looking back and seeing how unexpectedly high up they were.

“The boss lives all the way up the hill,” said Conley.

“Cala a boca!” one of them spat.

“I’m guessing that means shut up,” Morgan whispered, then felt a sharp knock on the back of his head. He walked in silence after that.

First they went up a series of main roads, and finally a few dozen yards along one of those narrow alleyways. Then they came upon the house.

It was a strange oasis of luxury in such precarious surroundings. There were fancy tiles and a pool that didn’t look cheap, with a wooden deck built around it. There were scantily clad beauties all around, women of all shapes and skin colors who hung around to share in the wealth and power that radiated from the place. More alarming were the men, mostly young, and enough in number to form a small battalion. Each had at least one gun, and many had two—a handgun and a heavier weapon. Armed enough to form a battalion, too, but sloppy and untrained. Their guns were left unattended as they reclined or slouched, played with the girls, and snorted cocaine. A group of four was playing a loud game of cards in a corner. A small, organized special ops group could make short work of these guys.

“Valter!” yelled one of the men who were escorting them.

A dreadlocked white man looking a few showers short of filthy walked over to them. He had light brown skin and light greyish-blue eyes. He had a permanent snide look on his face, his chin turned up in defiance. He said something in Portuguese, and Conley answered.

“He doesn’t speak English,” said Conley. “Apparently he’s second in command to Paulinho AK.”

“Well, explain to him why we’re here. Maybe they’ll be willing to help us out. After all, it’s their own name they’d be tarnishing by selling tainted product.”

“I will,” said Conley. He spoke in Portuguese to Valter, received a response, then turned back to Morgan. “He says we’re going to be killed.”

“What the hell did you tell him?”

“I gave him the gist of our claim. He doesn’t seem to care.”

Six men with guns came over. Two of them had automatics, the rest had semis. They pulled Morgan and Conley away from the rest of the people, to be killed. They were getting looks from the people lounging around them. They knew what was about to happen. Morgan’s and Conley’s eyes met. If they were going down, they would go down fighting. If he could grab the automatic from the man behind him, he might at least take out—

“Valter!”

The voice came from a door on the far side of the pool. Morgan turned around to look. The man was black, with close-cropped black hair, muscular, with intelligent eyes. Strapped on his back was a Kalashnikov.

“Let me guess,” said Morgan.

“That’s right,” said Conley. “Paulinho AK.”

Paulinho yelled out some orders. The men who had their guns trained on Morgan and Conley stepped back, and Paulinho stepped forward.

“I speak English,” he said. His voice was heavily accented, his intonation off, but he was understandable. He had a quietly confident air about him, not as aggressive as Valter. It was clear why he was the boss. “You killed my mula.”

“We are sorry,” said Conley. “We had no choice.”

“No choice?” said Paulinho. “Maybe I have no choice. Maybe Valter is right. Maybe I kill you. What are you? FBI? Narcos?”

“No,” said Conley. “We are not here for you. We don’t care about trafficking. It’s not our business.”

“There’s something in your cocaine,” said Morgan. “It killed people. I don’t think this is how you like to do business.”

“Don’t tell me my business,” said Paulinho. But he added: “What do you mean?”

“The cocaine contains a deadly genetically engineered fungus. Cocaine that came from your man. Robson. It made people kill each other. And it affected Robson too. That’s why we had to kill him.”

This seemed to resonate with Paulinho. He started speaking Portuguese. Conley translated.

“He says some of his people have gone crazy and started attacking people. One guy apparently killed his wife by—actually, I don’t think you need to hear this one.”