Years later, Haraldo had tried to explain the sequence of events and consequences to a Chilean girlfriend. When he’d finished talking, she told him his family was crazy. And when he demurred, she told him he was crazy.
None of them were, but all of them were Brazilian. And Brazilians are superstitious. On New Year’s Eve, they dress in white, light candles, and toss flowers, perfume, and even jewelry into the sea to propitiate Iemanja, the orixa of the waters. Any other comportment on that night is, according to common belief, sure to bring ill luck in the year to come.
In Brazil, Maes-de-Santo read the future with cowries. Chickens are sacrificed on a regular basis. Offerings of cachaca and cigars can be found along rural roads and near waterfalls, mostly surrounded by the stubs of burned-out candles. There is no Brazilian who has not, at one time or another, wrapped a fita do Senhor do Bonfim around his wrist or ankle and tied three knots in it while making his three wishes.
Haraldo’s family members were no more spiritually inclined than any of their neighbors, but certainly no less. By the time that year’s Cup had rolled around, their Candomble priests and priestesses had been busy for weeks. Blessings, hexes, sacrifices, prayers, all had been performed. And then Haraldo had undone the lot by slipping into that cursed jersey.
His mother didn’t speak to him for two days, his father for a week, his sister for almost two months.
Now, almost a quarter century on, the superstitious child had become a superstitious man, the most superstitious man any of his colleagues had ever met. Goncalves didn’t walk under ladders. He would go around the block to avoid crossing the path of a black cat. His heart skipped a beat at the spilling of salt. He avoided unlucky numbers like the plague. It was, therefore, with great trepidation, and a drawn Glock, that Haraldo Goncalves approached the door of room 666 in the Hotel Gloria. Something awful was behind that door, Goncalves knew it. He’d taken his gun out of its holster even before he’d left the elevator.
“It’s that superstition crap all over again, isn’t it?” Arnaldo said. “You want to scare some innocent citizen half to death? Put that thing away.”
“Innocent, hell. Clancy’s in there with a woman.”
“So what? No law against that.”
“He’s a priest, for God’s sake! He’s a priest and he’s in there with a woman.”
“Maybe he’s just taking her confession.”
“Oh, sure, right.”
The elevator came to a stop, they got out, and the door closed behind them. There were signs on the wall. Room 666 was to the left. Arnaldo muttered something and started walking.
“What?” Goncalves said, hurrying to catch up. “What did you say?”
Arnaldo stopped in front of 666, put a finger to his lips and knocked.
“Yes? Who’s there?”
If Something Awful was behind the door, it had a sweet voice and an American accent.
“Federal Police,” Arnaldo said.
“What do you want?” The woman sounded confused, not frightened.
“Open up,” Arnaldo said, “and we’ll tell you.”
“Please show me some identification first,” she said. “Hold it up where I can see it.”
Polite. But firm.
Arnaldo fished for his wallet, held his ID in front of the tiny aperture in the door.
There was a short pause, then the rattle of a chain. The door opened, first a crack, then wider. The woman who came into view flinched at the sight of Goncalves’s Glock.
And what a woman she was. She had long blond hair, high cheekbones, and a perfect complexion. The areas around her blue eyes and full lips bore no makeup at all. She didn’t need it.
“Senhora Clancy?”
“Yes.”
“Your… husband. Dennis Clancy. Where is he?”
A voice behind her said, in English, “Someone looking for Dennis Clancy?”
“Yes, dear, they are,” the blond responded in the same language. “They say they’re federal policemen.”
“I’m Dennis Clancy,” the man said, stepping into the doorway. “You speak English?”
“Badly,” Arnaldo said. It wasn’t true. He spoke English quite well.
“Splendid,” Clancy said, willing to accept badly as quite good enough. “So Petra won’t have to translate. Come in, won’t you?”
The room was small, the wallpaper faded, the carpet thin and stained. Chipped Formica tables flanked the double bed. A coffee machine stood on the chest of drawers, a television hung from a rack bolted to the ceiling, an armchair graced a corner. The only other piece of furniture, a writing desk, was butted up against a grimy window that overlooked an air shaft. Six sixty-six wasn’t one of the Gloria’s best rooms.
Dennis Clancy closed the door and directed the federal cops to the chairs. Goncalves took the one at the writing desk. Clancy and the woman sat side by side on the bed. He took her hand in his.
“The coffee is quite dreadful,” he said, “otherwise I’d offer you some. You already know our names. What are yours?”
“I’m Agent Nunes. This is Agent Goncalves.”
“Good. What can I do for you?”
“You can answer some questions. Did you arrive in this country on the morning of the twenty-third of November?”
“I did.”
“On TAB 8101 from Miami?”
“Yes. But my visa is perfectly in order, and I haven’t-”
“Just answer the questions, please. Why did you come to Brazil, Father Clancy?”
“Just Mister Clancy, or Dennis, if you prefer. We’ve elected to leave the church.”
“ We? Wait a minute. Are you telling me she’s a nun?”
“He’s telling you,” she said, “that I was a nun. Sister Clare. Before and after that, I was Petra Walder. Now I’m Petra Clancy.”
“You’re married?”
“We’re married,” she said.
“M ERDA,” A BILIO Sacca said.
“Indeed,” Silva said, “and you’re in it up to your neck. Come on. Start talking.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“Yes, you do. Want me to tell you why?”
“Okay. I’ll play along. Why?”
“Because we’re investigating multiple murders, all performed by the same person.”
“Not me. I never killed anybody in my whole life.”
“With only two exceptions, the people who were travelling with you in that business-class cabin are either dead or they’ve been cleared.”
“And one of those two exceptions did the killing? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
“It was the other guy.”
“With you people,” Hector said, “it’s always the other guy.”
“And, in this case,” Silva said, “the other guy is a Catholic priest.”
“So what? Priests can kill people.”
“They can. And maybe he did. But if I can’t pin the murders on him, I’ll pin them on you.”
Tic. Tic. Tic.
“Wait. Wait. Wait. You’re saying you’re gonna pin ’em on me even if I didn’t do ’em?”
“Correct.”
The Brazilian civil police framed people like Sacca all the time. Sacca knew this, and Silva knew he knew it.
“You got no call to do something like that,” Sacca said. “I never done nothing to you!”
Silva shook his head, as if in regret.
“Sorry, Sacca,” he said. “One of the murder victims was the son of the foreign minister of Venezuela. The president wants results. The minister of justice is on my boss’s back. You see the bind I’m in. I’ve got to deliver.”
“And you deliver by framing me?”
“Or the priest. Makes no difference to me, except I figure you’ll be easier.”
Tic. Tic. Tic.
Within Sacca’s world, what Silva was saying made perfect sense. The little burglar rubbed a hand over his face.
“Maybe we can work something out,” he said. “What is it you wanna know?”
“There was a boy in the compartment, traveling alone. Remember him?”
“Yeah, I remember him. I remember everybody. I got a good memory for faces.”