I leaned against the desk, my eyes roaming over the chandeliers and plush seating. A half-finished chess game sat on a coffee table, and I wondered if it had been abandoned the night before when the blasts went off. A balding man in glasses who looked like a Brazilian businessman sat in one of the plush chairs. He saw me and stood, and for a moment our eyes met. It suddenly occurred to me how stupid I was being.
“Time to go,” I said.
“What about your passport?” Celso asked.
“I don’t think I’m getting that back. In fact, I think if we don’t get out of here in the next thirty seconds, we’re going to be guests of the Agência Brasileira de Inteligência.”
Avoiding the front door, I turned in the opposite direction from the businessman and ran down a random hallway, expecting that any hall in a hotel would eventually lead to an exit. I wasn’t disappointed. We came out by the swimming pool and made our way around to the back of the hotel. I realized I was keeping an eye out for black sedans, as if I were in a movie. In truth, I had no idea what a Brazilian intelligence agent would drive. It seemed unlikely that the guy in the lobby had actually been an intelligence agent. I didn’t know if Director Kilpatrick was alive or dead. One thing I was pretty sure of, though: they had raided our rooms and confiscated our luggage, leaving the desk staff with a number to call if I should turn up. I was an idiot not to have realized it before.
“Where to?” Celso asked. “Back to my place?”
I shook my head. “The American embassy.”
The embassy was on Naçoes Avenue, not far in a straight line, but situated on the other side of the capital’s most important buildings. A direct route would have taken us right past the cathedral where Nazif had announced his presidency. Instead, we took over an hour circling around, trying to avoid major streets and government buildings—a difficult endeavor in the heart of the capital. When we finally arrived, we found a crowd of demonstrators surrounding the building, shouting slogans about American imperialism. The front gates, usually kept open during the day, were tightly shut. I’d seen the movie Argo, and I remembered other accounts I’d read of the storming of the American embassy in Iran by hundreds of Iranian militants. This was looking as bad as that.
There was no way to get past the crowd. I considered making a run for the gates and pounding on the door, hoping that the Marines that had to be stationed on the other side would let me in before the crowd could grab me. Then a youth in the crowd flung a bottle that hit the top of the wall and burst into flame. I walked in the other direction, trying not to draw any attention, Celso trailing right behind me.
Brazil was ethnically diverse, and many Brazilians were as light-skinned as me. I was wearing Celso’s clothes, I could speak Portuguese fluently, and I knew the city. I thought I should be able to pass for a native, as long as I stayed clear of anyone who knew where I came from.
“This is insane,” I said. “Why does everyone hate Americans all of a sudden?”
Celso took off his Yankees cap and stuffed it under his shirt. “It’s not so sudden,” he said. “You haven’t been here for a while.”
We headed south and west, away from the city center, trying to look nonchalant. “There were always stereotypes,” I said. “Americans are fat; Americans only care about money; Americans don’t care about their families. And everyone thinks America wants to rule the world.”
“Don’t you?” Celso asked.
I glanced at him to see if he was joking. “We don’t want to rule,” I said. “We just vigorously advance our own interests.”
“Seriously,” he said. “The United States is powerful. You control all the oceans and all the shipping lanes. You tell other countries where they can sail their navies, when they’re allowed to trade, and when they’re allowed to fight with their neighbors. Of course people hate you.”
“I get that,” I said. “And the whole Amazon thing’s not exactly new, either. Remember Miss Palmeira in fourth grade? She taught us that children’s textbooks in the US say that the Amazon is part of the United States. She was pretty insistent about it, as I recall, even though I told her it wasn’t true. But it was never a big deal before, not to most people. Nobody was rioting in the streets about it.”
Celso nodded. “That part’s pretty new.”
We were several blocks away from the embassy by that time. I stopped. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” He rubbed at his face, thinking. “My mom’s family would probably take you in.”
“Too obvious,” I said. A low stone wall separated a grassy area from the surrounding streets, and I sat down on it. “What about the Lacerdas? Do they still live in this quadra?” Carlos Lacerda had been a school friend, and his mother had often stuffed us with baked treats at her house after school.
Celso joined me on the wall, shaking his head. “Carlos is just like the others now.”
“You mean he hates Americans?”
“I mean environment-crazy. Talks about protecting the Amazon, keeping out the tourists. All that.”
“Carlos cares about the Amazon? Last time I saw Carlos, the only things he cared about were watching soccer and kissing Gabriela Garcia. Both at the same time, if he could manage it.”
Celso didn’t laugh. “It’s all anybody talks about anymore,” he said. “It’s like a virus.”
“A virus,” I repeated. My mind was racing. I turned to Celso. “Was it really a virus?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Was Carlos sick? Did he have a fever, a bad cough, any kind of lung infection?”
“I don’t know. There’s been a lot of that going around this year. Some kind of flu epidemic or something.” He considered. “You know, he did get sick a few months ago. Knocked him out for a few days.”
“Was it about the same time that he got passionate about environmentalism?”
Celso considered. “Could be. What difference does it make?”
“What about your dad? Did he get sick?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” He thought about it. “A few months ago, he had some kind of bad cold. Couldn’t stop coughing. I told him to go the hospital, but he wouldn’t, and after a while it just cleared up on its own.”
Goosebumps prickled my arms. A fungal infection, acquired in the Amazon, that increased intelligence. An increasing number of Amazon villagers showing signs of enhanced brain function. And now several highly coordinated attacks on South American leaders with the cooperation of their own security. Were they connected? Could the increase in pro-Amazon sentiment really be traced to the influence of a fungal host? Just how many people had been infected?
“Give me your phone,” said a voice in Portuguese.
I whirled to see a man standing by the wall behind us. He had dark hair that receded far back on his head, glasses, skin that was neither pale nor dark, and wore dull-colored clothing. He was so forgettable, I almost didn’t recognize him as the “businessman” from the hotel lobby.
“Your phone,” he said again. “Quickly.”