“Our meeting this morning?” Ari sat up slowly, many things clarifying. “Then that was why, at the airport, this morning...?” “That was why indeed.” Da Silva smiled delightedly, his eyes twinkling, his thumb unconsciously stroking his mustache. “I hope you fully appreciate the artistry you witnessed this morning. Yes, the stage lost a great actor when I turned to police work!” His smile faded as he recalled their previous encounter. “Did you pay any particular attention to the customs official who brought you in and searched you? You should have. He doesn’t know it, but he is an old friend of mine, that miserável! His name is Gunther, born in Santa Catarina in the South. His father was a schoolteacher there, very pro-Hitler, and I have quite a file on the entire family! Personally, I doubt if the son knows what a Nazi is, but there is no doubt that he is one of their little boys!”
He shrugged and smiled. “Yes, that impromptu scene was played all for his benefit. My God! The way he searched you! You could have been carrying a twenty-eight-inch television set under your coat and he would have managed to overlook it! By now you may be sure that the story of Mr. Busch and his two million dollars is going through channels!”
“But we spoke in English,” Ari objected. “Does he speak—?”
Da Silva snorted. “Don’t worry about that one! He knew what we were speaking about! Ten seconds after he had you in a taxi, I would bet anything he was on the telephone. Mr. Busch and his millions will bring sweet dreams to many foolish people tonight!”
Silence fell while Ari considered this information. His glance traveled from the musing expression on Da Silva’s face to the quiet watchfulness of the nondescript man. He cleared his throat diffidently. “And Mr. Wilson?”
Da Silva shrugged elaborately. “Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson is assigned by Interpol to the American Embassy here, where, among his other activities — or nonactivities — he serves as security officer as well. Mr. Wilson is a very good friend of mine for many years. We have gotten into our share of trouble together in the past, and probably will again in the future, but I’m afraid not on this case. On this case, his interest simply seems to be seeing that you do not embarrass the American government. He will be of absolutely no help, but on the other hand, knowing him, I should say that he also will not hinder too much.”
The nondescript man smiled at this. “Now, one moment, Zé...”
“I know.” Da Silva raised one hand languidly. “I know. I understand your position perfectly, as well as the position of your government. You put Nazis in the same category as griffins and unicorns. Once a terrible threat, but fortunately no longer existent.”
Wilson’s smile faded. He studied them both for several seconds, framing his reply. “Mr. Schoenberg holds an American passport issued in a name other than his own.” He lifted his hand, forestalling Da Silva’s protest. “I know that by itself this is neither too serious nor too unusual. But we have to remember, Zé, that Mr. Schoenberg is not in Brazil for pleasure. Our government certainly does not intend to have a duplication of the Eichmann mess if it can help it. Or if we can prevent it.” He thought a moment, looking at Da Silva calmly. “By not hindering you, as you put it, I am actually helping you considerably, and doing it more as a favor to you, Zé, than for any other reason. After all, we are also a part of Interpol, and there is a proper organization for handling war criminals.”
And for peace criminals? An thought wearily. For the war criminals of the future? Nobody wants to see a duplication of the Eichmann mess, but which Eichmann mess? Argentina? Or Poland: Auschwitz, Maidanek, Treblinka? They say: Remember that the war is long over, let the dead bury the dead, let bygones be bygones. They say: Forget Buchenwald and Dachau and Gneisenau; remember that the Dusseldorf bourse is all new veined marble trimmed in bright chrome, and the Konigsallee all crystal and silver between the gay awnings and the colorful canal; and where will you find funnier comedy acts in all Europe? They say: Forget Belsen and Natzweiler; remember the autobahns rushing with sturdy Volkswagens and majestic Mercedeses, happy tours earned by earnest hard-working people, guided by pleasant police in bright new uniforms. They say: Forget Ravensbruch...
If we all sweep our memories under the rug of history, will they really disappear? We hid for two thousand years, he thought, but they always found us. Now they want us to hide again. It’s a stupid game.
“I appreciate what Mr. Wilson is doing,” he said wearily, forcing his thoughts back to the comfortable room. “I assure you both that I am not here to kidnap anyone. I have no desire or intention of embarrassing either the American or the Brazilian government. I am here quite alone, as Captain Da Silva must know. I am here only to try and get some proof that the Nazis are building a new organization, and that the center of that organization is here in Brazil.”
He looked at them both coldly, the strength of his purpose flowing into his body and his voice. “This new wave of anti-Semitism is no accident. It is organized and directed. From here, we believe. I am here to try to get names, figures, facts. I am here to try and get enough ammunition to interest some government, or some agency. Some group other than our own.”
He clasped his hands tightly. “In the three years that Mr. Hans Busch has existed, there have been letters; many of them, but mostly from cranks. I heard vaguely of Brazil, always Brazil, but nobody from Brazil ever contacted me directly. So we dreamed up this scheme. We reasoned that a sum of two million dollars in the hands of a Nazi sympathizer in Brazil illegally would be tempting enough to eventually lead to the top people here.” He stared at the two silent men who were watching him. “You may think: that I am imagining all this; that any wave of anti-Semitism that exists is nothing compared to what existed a short time ago. But this is not true; it is here, waiting for an impetus to break loose.” He shrugged. “The impetus may be money. If it is, that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Da Silva questioningly. “I believe that Captain Da Silva must have known this.”
The tall man rose and wandered to the windows overlooking the Avenida Wilson. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and stared in silence at the buglike cars passing below, and the blue bay beyond. “Yes,” he said finally, turning back to the darkening room. “I knew it. It is not a bad idea. It may work.” He leaned on the back of a chair, frowning. “I have always been puzzled that they never contacted you seriously in the States. After all, you had a reputation from your pamphlets. But I imagine they had no idea that your trading companies were so lucrative.” He shook his head. “I even thought at one time that possibly they knew who you really were.”
Ari raised his eyebrows. “When you called me by that number,” he said, “I thought you were one of them, and that you were playing with me.”
“My confounded sense of the dramatic,” Da Silva said, flashing a swift smile that immediately faded. “You’ll have to forgive me for that. No; I’m convinced they don’t know who you are. They are an odd organization, that’s all. In fact, at times it seems they aren’t organized at all, but just splash signs on walls, or set their bombs, out of blind hatred. I shouldn’t imagine they are overwealthy, so if anything has a chance of bringing them out in the open, you and your illegal millions ought to do it.” He sighed. “Plus, of course, the fact that they will have to get me out of the picture. Between one thing and another, we may be able to piece something together that makes sense.”