“That’s me.” Kloppers clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Like to have a cup of coffee before we get started?”
“We’re not the people you think we are,” Samantha said.
The smile faded.
“You’re not the brokers from Sao Paulo?”
“Federal Police,” Arnaldo said, taking charge. “I’m Agent Nunes. I spoke to you on the phone. This is Delegada Assad, who is going to leave all the questions to me.”
Samantha glared at him. Kloppers simply looked glum.
“What do you want?” he said.
“For starters,” Arnaldo said, “I want that cup of coffee you just offered.”
“Follow me,” Kloppers said, no longer making an effort to be cordial.
Inside, he called out something in Dutch. A woman answered and fluttered into the living room. She looked at Arnaldo and Samantha with big eyes.
“My wife,” Hans said. “Greetje.” And to her he said, “They’ll have coffee.”
Arnaldo was struck by the multitude of family photos. They were on the piano, on the television set, on both of the bookshelves, on the end tables flanking the couch, on the walls; they were everywhere.
“Why are you here?” Kloppers said.
Apparently, they’d come to the end of the social chitchat.
“Let’s wait for the coffee-and your wife.”
Silence fell, punctuated only by the regular ticking of a mantelpiece clock. Liars, Arnaldo had often observed, became uncomfortable with silence. Over the course of the next few minutes, Kloppers didn’t stop fidgeting, cleared his throat at least five times, and assiduously avoided Arnaldo’s eyes.
Greetje Kloppers came back with a tray and served them very decent coffee, the rich odor of which filled the room. Arnaldo took an appreciative sip and zeroed in on one photo in particular.
“Nice-looking boy,” he said. “Is that him? Is that Jan?”
“Yes,” Kloppers said, and swallowed. “Yes, that’s our grandson.”
“Uh-huh,” Arnaldo said. “And that’s another picture of him. And so’s that one over there. The man with his hand on Jan’s shoulder, that’s your son, Marnix?”
“Marnix, yes.”
“And there, and there, and there too.”
Kloppers let Arnaldo’s words hang in the air. The silence continued until Greetje broke it.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’ve errands to run.” She stood up. “You don’t need me. Hans can answer for us both.”
Samantha started shaking her head from side to side.
“Nice to have met you, Senhora Kloppers,” Arnaldo said. “Have a good day.”
Greetje picked up a purse from a side table and left the room.
Arnaldo waited for an exasperated snort from Samantha, reveled in it, and turned back to Hans. This time, he put an edge in his voice. “How stupid do you think I am, Senhor Kloppers? Do you expect me to believe that a man who has as many pictures of his son, and grandson, as you do has no idea of their whereabouts?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Like hell it is! Where are they?”
“I told you. I told you on the telephone. They went to the United States.”
“You know what you’re doing, Senhor Kloppers? You’re obstructing justice. There are penalties for obstructing justice.”
“I’m not-”
“How about you take me on a tour of the house?”
“What?” Kloppers gaped like a fish.
“A tour. Of your house. I want to have a look in the bedrooms.”
“No.”
“Why not? You have something to hide?”
“No. I simply don’t want you poking around my home.
Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”
He stood up and pointed at the front door.
Arnaldo, without a search warrant, had no other choice but to stand up and walk through it.
“What now, wiseass?” Samantha said when they were off the rutted dirt track and back onto the tarmac.
“I’m thinking,” Arnaldo said.
“Thinking? Is that what you call it? Don’t make me laugh. Hey, goddamn it, what are you doing?”
Arnaldo had stepped heavily on the brakes. Now he was pulling onto the shoulder of the road.
“Look at that,” he said as they came to a stop.
“Kids kicking a ball around,” Samantha said. “So what?”
“Towns of this size, how many teams have they got? My guess is one. Those kids are all about Jan’s age. Go and talk to them.”
Samantha stood on the sidelines for a while, long enough for them to get used to her, and then sidled over to the bench. A minute later, she was talking to one of the kids, a boy of nine, maybe ten, with red hair and freckles. At a given point, he turned around and pointed.
A minute after that, Samantha was back at the car.
“Drive,” she said. She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Jackpot?”
“Those are the Holambra Juniors, and Jan Kloppers is their best striker. Five minutes ago, the kid was there, kicking ass, and his father was watching him do it. Then his grandmother, the old biddy you allowed to leave the house, drove up. They called the kid in from the field and took off, all three of them. You screwed up, Nunes. You should never have let her out the door.”
“If I-”
“Shut up. I’m talking. Fortunately for us, Greetje made a mistake. She told Jan she was taking him to his aunt’s place, and then let him say a quick good-bye to his friends.”
“And he told them where he was going?”
“Exactly.”
“And one of them told you how to find the place.”
“Uh-huh. And now that we’re no longer talking to the old folks, my orders from Hector no longer apply. I’m gonna take the lead. So kindly keep your mouth shut when we get there.”
“You’re a vengeful person, Samantha, a vengeful person. Maybe that’s why the other girls in the office don’t like you.”
“They’re not girls, they’re women, and I couldn’t care less about whether they like me or not. I can’t wait to get back to Sao Paulo and tell everybody how you screwed up.”
“See what I mean?” Arnaldo said. “Vengeful.”
Arnaldo caught sight of it first: the same dusty pickup they’d seen at the Kloppers’ house.
“There,” he said.
The truck was nosed up to the garage of a modern villa. He pulled into the driveway behind it.
They tried the doorbell. There was no response.
“Knock,” she said.
“They heard us. They’re just not coming to the door.”
“Knock anyway.”
He did. There was still no response.
Samantha opened her shoulder bag, produced a Glock, and took a stance to the right of the door.
“Break it down,” she said.
“What?”
“You got a hearing problem, Nunes? I said break down the goddamned door. Then get out of my way.”
Arnaldo shook his head and sighed. Then, leaning into the door and raising his voice, he said, “Listen to me, Kloppers. We need to talk, and we know you’re in there. You want to get your mom and dad in trouble? If you do, just keep on doing what you’re doing.”
Samantha put her mouth next to his ear and hissed: “Are you out of your mind? You think a guy who’s going to all this trouble to avoid us cares about-”
He didn’t let her finish. “Come on, Kloppers,” he said, “play it smart. I’m not kidding. If you don’t open this door right now, I’m gonna have your parents up on a charge of obstruction of justice. Is that what you want? Huh?”
Samantha pursed her lips and shook her head.
And Marnix Kloppers opened the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Magda Mansur lived in Alphaville Nineteen. Like the other twenty Alphavilles, Nineteen was surrounded by a high wall surmounted by fragments of broken glass. The glass was anchored in concrete and crowned by electrified razor wire. Situated to either side of a low brick guardhouse were two gates. The one on the right was for visitors.
When Prado rolled his van to a stop, a guard with a revolver on his hip approached the vehicle. “Here to see Magda Mansur,” Prado said.
The guard nodded.