“Don’t lose them,” said a harsh voice, distorted by the apparatus. “Which way are they going?” The red light disappeared.
“They went around the block. We’re back on Atlantica again, now, heading south. They’re about three cars ahead.” The red light glowed.
“Don’t let them spot you.” There was a few moments’ silence, then the distorted voice came back on. “I’ll make it to Jardim de Allah; I should be there in about five minutes. Pick me up at the corner of the ocean road and the canal.” The light disappeared.
“But what if they turn off before then? Or stop someplace?” He flicked the switch.
“Stay with them. Call me again in five minutes, in that case. I’ll wait in the car at the Jardim either for you to pick me up, or call.”
“Right.”
The driver flicked the switch for the last time and concentrated on the car ahead. In the heavy traffic of people taking the evening air there was little chance of being spotted, but he took no chances, always keeping several cars between them. They passed a hotel and a doorman ran frantically into the street, blowing his whistle, waving wildly with his free hand; the driver shrugged, rolled up his eyes and held his hand palm upwards, all time-honored indications that his cab was engaged for other service.
At the corner of Rainha Elizabeth, the first car suddenly turned into the avenue, swinging sharply to the curb; the driver of the second found himself almost on top of it. With a muttered curse he swung around the first and headed into the street looking for a place to park. But then he saw in his rear-view mirror that the first car had only paused to pick up an additional passenger and was once again under way. It was pointed down Rainha Elizabeth toward the ocean road, accelerating rapidly in the thinning traffic. It passed him, gathering speed, and he dropped back and followed.
They came into the ocean road at Arpoador, heading south toward Leblon and Gávea. The wide four-laned thoroughfare was relatively deserted, and he allowed a greater distance to separate them in order to avoid suspicion. The breakers came close to the roadway here; moonlight flickered through the royal palms that flashed past. The car ahead was traveling at slightly more than normal speed, but not to any extent that would excite the notice of traffic police; it was easy to keep in sight.
At the bridge that spanned the canal at the Jardim de Allah he slowed down, and a figure dashed from a parked car and jumped in beside him while he was still in motion. The driver shifted gears and roared back into high, making up the lost distance.
“Up ahead,” Wilson said briefly, his hands firm on the steering wheel.
“I know,” Da Silva said grimly. “I think I saw them pass.” He leaned forward, peering through the windshield intently. “Don’t lose them.”
Wilson nodded. “Who are they, do you know?”
Da Silva frowned. “I have no idea; that’s what worries me.” “The organization?”
“I doubt it. Why? Why in God’s name would they grab him like that?” He shook his head. “Don’t lose them!”
They rolled along through Leblon, the bulking shadow of the mountains at the end of the road looming larger every minute. At the foot of the huge rock that terminated the ocean road, the tail lights ahead swung off to the left into the Avenida Niemeyer, that skirted the mountain on a winding ledge cut brutally into the sheer rock. It disappeared as a curve took it beyond a shoulder of the rock and out of sight. Wilson cut around the bend and into the Avenida Niemeyer behind it without a pause.
The road wound crazily along the man-made ledge, with the sheer cliffs of the mountain towering above it, and the boiling ocean on the left below. From one curve to the next they could see the tail lights of the other car swaying ahead of them; Wilson handled the wheel expertly. “Just don’t lose them,” Da Silva muttered, almost to himself.
“I won’t lose them,” Wilson said; but he spoke too soon. They came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by a large bus discharging passengers; traffic in the other direction prevented their squeezing past. Their brakes squealed as they plowed to a stop; they sat in fuming silence as passengers slowly descended, burdened by age, children and bundles. The driver was in conversation with a passenger who had gotten off, but who maintained his grip on the hand rail as he talked. Wilson blasted his horn; the bus driver glanced back impersonally and continued talking. Another more vicious blast caused the driver to say something to his friend; they both looked back and laughed. Da Silva was opening the door when the driver of the bus waved goodbye to his friend casually and slowly put his machine into motion. With a curse, Wilson shot around him, stamping on the accelerator.
The road ahead was clear of traffic. They swung around the curves, weaving dangerously, but the tail lights they had been following were no longer in sight. Da Silva sat in grim silence, gripping the door handle with a hand of iron, staring rigidly ahead into the empty darkness.
There was a fork at the bottom of the hill where the Avenida Niemeyer came spiraling down from the rock. The leg to the right swung off in a wide curve that followed the foot of the mountain away from the ocean; the left fork followed the beach, then swung away, coming back once again to parallel the ocean. “Left,” Da Silva said briefly, scanning the road ahead. And as Wilson swung the wheel, he added, “The other just goes back over the pass into town. They wouldn’t take that.”
They came around a curve past the Gávea Golf Club, the tires whining, shooting between the high hedges that lined the road. The club was dark except for a watchman’s light; high on the mountains above, lights glimmered from a ledge where the Canoas Night Club perched. Wilson slowed down as they rolled into the Praça São Conrado, and Da Silva, seeing a moving light on the road above, came to a sudden decision. “Up towards Canoas,” he said quickly; Wilson turned up the hill without stopping, accelerating hard.
Ahead of them the tail lights grew brighter; they were gaining rapidly. Suddenly Wilson slammed on the brakes, squealing to a halt. “That’s a new car, double tail lights,” he said briefly. He swung the car about, braked, reversed, and headed down the hill again. “Those aren’t our boys.”
“Damn!” Da Silva said with feeling. They paused at the Praça again, the engine panting as if anxious to be off on the chase again. Da Silva stared thoughtfully at the road that wound off and disappeared toward Joa and the Barra de Tijuca; and then back again to the darkened highway leading back to Rio. Wilson waited patiently, his hands poised alertly on the steering wheel.
“One chance!” Da Silva said suddenly. “Start back toward town. But go slowly.” Wilson put the car into gear, turned left around the traffic island of the Praça, and began retracing their path. “The next right,” Da Silva said suddenly, and Wilson swung the wheel easily. They left the highway, following a dirt road that led to the beach. They bumped along slowly; at the end the road curved right, bordering the sand of the beach. The shadows of parked cars well spaced could be seen in the dusky moonlight. “Lovers’ lane,” Da Silva said shortly. He stared ahead. “Just one chance that they may have pulled in here.” He looked ahead through the tunnel of their headlights. “Drop down to your parking lights. Drive along slowly, as if you were looking for a place to neck.” Wilson leaned forward and pushed a button. Da Silva eased his revolver from a shoulder holster and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a flashlight which he quickly flipped on and off to test. They slowly passed several cars whose occupants paid no attention to the invasion of their privacy. The road was ending. Then, beyond the other cars, and at a considerable distance, one more car stood, its nose pointed toward the sand. It was a black Chevrolet, and even in the weak glow of their parking lights they could see the silhouettes of more heads inside than was customary for lovers’ lane parkers.