Trident Force (7 page)

5

Rio de Janeiro

The big jet floated slowly down toward the white-capped waters of the Baia de Guanabara, its four huge engines purring at the newly born sun.

Ted, who had won the window seat in a game of scissors, paper, rocks, watched as the heavily industrialized Ilha do Governador came into view. And then the runways of Jobim International Airport at the western end of the island.

“You get enough sleep?” asked Ray.

“I've slept in worse places . . .”

“Good. I like working with a guy who's alert. On his toes. Can sleep anywhere.”

“Having a clean conscience helps.”

“You finish that overview Alex made up for us?”

“Fascinating stuff. Alex has a way of making the weirdest crap seem reasonable.”

Both were careful not to mention that the overview was an explanation of basic insurance practices and terms—subrogation, common average and the like. It was highly unlikely that anybody was eavesdropping, but the possibility always existed. And any informed listener would find it odd for two insurance investigators to be boning up on the basic vocabulary of the industry.

Half an hour later the plane had landed with only a modest bump and the two were walking down the Jetway, briefcases in their hands.

“Ray,” said Ted in a low voice, “you really think we're going to come up with anything on this trip? I mean, I know the Old Man seems to think we might, but I have my doubts.”

“It's a long shot, but let's see what happens.”

“I'm with you.”

The two continued in silence to the baggage carousel, where, under the watchful eyes of two combat-equipped paratroopers, they snatched up their duffels and flowed with the crowd to the Immigration desks.

“This place reminds me of L.A.,” remarked Ted. “From what I read, I thought everybody would look like you or me, but half the people here look Japanese, Chinese or Arab.”

“You missed the Indians—from India. Everybody seems to want something the Brazilians have—gold, airplanes, computer chips, sugarcane for ethanol, ears and mouths for cell phones—the place is a free-for-all.”

“Our kind of place?”

Ray just shook his head. When he reached the head of the line, he launched into a fluid Brazilian Portuguese. The Immigration officer lifted his left eyebrow briefly then returned to a bland, bureaucratic scowl.

“Reason for your visit,
Senhor
?”

“Business,
Senhor.
”

“What business are you in?”

“Insurance,
Senhor
. We will be consulting with one of our accounts, a shipyard a few kilometers from here.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“A week or less.”

When it was Ted's turn, he considered trying his halting Spanish but decided discretion was the better part of valor and stuck to English, which the official spoke perfectly.

The officer typed each of their names into the computer in front of him and pushed enter. While the official glanced back and forth between them and the monitor, Ted glanced around at the video cameras and wondered if he'd ever get used to being under surveillance for essentially the rest of his life.

“Very well,” said the officer finally, his face breaking into a totally unexpected smile. “Welcome to Brazil.”

While the Customs inspector palpated their bags, Ray noticed a young man waving a sign reading “Mr. Fuentes—Mr. Anderson.” “That's one good sign,” said Ray to Ted. “Our driver's here.”

When Ray waved at the driver, the inspector frowned but said nothing.

“Welcome to Rio,” said the sign-bearer in perfect English as Ray and Ted stepped out into the main concourse. “I'm Salvador. I've been sent by Tecmar to pick you up. Your firm alerted us you were on your way.”

“That's most gracious of them,” replied Ray.

“I've been instructed to take you anywhere you wish. Mr. Palmeira, our chief operating officer, is hoping to meet with you at two in the afternoon, but in the meantime you may wish to go to your hotel and freshen up, or we can go directly to the shipyard if you wish to begin your inspection immediately.”

“What about Mr. Almeida, your CEO?”

“He's in Houston at the moment with Mr. al Hussein. They are completing the details of a very major contract—to overhaul and modernize six liquefied gas tankers for a company there. He won't be back until next week. If you wish, we can set up a videoconference.”

Ray glanced at the time bug on a departure display. It wasn't even eight local time. “Salvador, I think the best plan is for you to take us to the hotel so we can clean up and catch some sleep. Then pick us up in time to meet with Mr. Palmeira.”

“Of course, sir.”

Much to Ted's disappointment, the hotel Alex had booked them into was not in the south of the city—along the Copacabana or Ipanema beaches. Rather, it was a commercial establishment located in the northeast, not far from the Rio-Niterói Bridge and the Tecmar shipyard. It was a district badly abused by history, economics and demo-graphics, one filled with once-elegant houses, now serving as tenements, and a wide selection of dreary, dirty factories and warehouses. The hotel itself was old and faded, its plaster moldings and worn, but once-elegant rugs spoke of a more prosperous past. On one side was a small park that might once have been a wonderland. Now it was a land neither Ted nor Ray would care to be in after dark. What the hell! thought the SEAL. This is a working trip and the boss must want us in the middle of the action. At least it seems clean and the air-conditioning seems solid.

Or they were there because Alex had decided to save the taxpayers a little money.

“This was delivered for you about an hour ago,
Senhor
,” said the desk clerk to Ray as they were checking in. “The messenger said it is important that you review these documents right away.”

“
Obrigado
,” said Ray, accepting the package, which he then handed to Ted.

“We hope you will enjoy your stay in Rio.”

“We hope so too,” replied the marine as they turned and walked to the self-service elevator.

“Bugs?” asked Ted. Once the door had closed, the car smelled faintly of hot lubricating oil and some sort of fried food.

“Always possible but let's assume not. Nobody at Tecmar knew where we're staying until we told Salvador.”

Ted shrugged his shoulders.

Without a bellboy to guide them, it took several minutes to find the room. Once they were in the room and the door was closed, Ted dove into the parcel from Alex's friends and pulled out two small-caliber Berettas, two shoulder holsters and twenty rounds of ammunition. “Kinda small,” he remarked, holding one of the automatics up for Ray to see.

“We're undercover, remember?” As he said it, Ray took a deep breath and thought how stale the air tasted, despite the air-conditioning.

While Ray started to unpack, Ted disassembled the weapons, just to make sure they were in good working order. He then carefully examined the ammunition. It wasn't that he didn't trust Alex's friends, but he was very much aware that different people have different objectives in this life. Even when the same government was cutting checks for all of them.

“I guess we have to wear these,” he remarked, holding up the wrinkled jacket he had just pulled from his duffel. “Damn hot, though.”

“You think we'd be any better off sticking them under our shirts? Or in our pockets?”

“In this heat these jackets are kind of a giveaway that we're armed.”

“I know. We'll deal with it,” said Ray as he punched a number into the telephone. He immediately launched into a torrent of fluid Portuguese. After stopping to listen a few moments, he said “
bom
” and then hung up only to immediately place another call.

“You ready?” asked Ray after completing the second call.

“Everything all set?”

“Yup. The rental car's on its way. The concierge will call us when it arrives.”

“And the sidearms?”

“We'll keep them in our briefcases for now. Remember, whether or not people really believe we're insurance investigators, we will continue to act as if we are. We have to assume that somebody is keeping an eye on us, even if they
do
believe we're really from Anglo-Swiss Re. Insurance inspectors make people just as nervous as the DEA does.”

“Roger.”

The phone rang. The car had arrived. “That's it, Pal. We're off for a little sightseeing.”

For the next three hours, with Ray driving the worn-out Honda Alex had rented them and Ted reading the detailed map she had somehow come up with, the two scouted the area around Estaleiro Tecmar. The area—jammed with old factories interspersed among tumbledown, makeshift dwellings, many of which didn't qualify for the term “house”—proved to be even more severely run down than their hotel's surroundings. The streets, with three or four exceptions, were narrow, twisted and dirty. Spotted here and there were small commercial nodes containing a few stores and several bars and restaurants, none of which looked very appetizing. And the air was filled on one block with the smells of solvents and smoke, while on the next it reeked of sizzling cooking oil and whatever was being cooked in it.

“Think you can find your way around here at night?” asked Ray as he stopped beside a vacant lot, figuring the rubbish-strewn open land would give them a better chance of spotting any lurking muggers.

“Hell no! This is a tangled mess.”

“Reminds me of some parts of San Juan I'd rather forget. Maybe they've been cleaned up by now. Okay, back to the hotel. Let's hope we've learned enough.”

“Something is always better than nothing.”

 

Roberto Palmeira, chief operating officer of the Tecmar shipyard, sat at the head of the table in the yard's primary conference room. Behind him, a large window looked out over Graving Dock One and beyond, across the Baia de Guanabara to the city of Niterói. Running under the window was a long, oak table, the center of which was dominated by a gorgeous, but flashy, potted plant with huge orange-and-black flowers. Around the table were Ted and Ray, along with the yard's security and fire chiefs.

“I'm still at a little bit of a loss about your visit, gentlemen,” said Palmeira after Salvador had made the introductions and then discreetly left. “The fire that interests you was far from large and we made no claim for it. And, quite honestly, shipyards tend to have fires from time to time and our record is, I believe, quite good. Still, I can understand that our underwriters might wish to send safety engineers to consult with us. But you are not safety engineers, are you?”

“No, sir, we are not,” replied Ray. “Anglo-Swiss Re is more than satisfied with the technical details of your safety systems. We're more interested in the human element. Would you mind reviewing what is known about the incident?”

“As we stated in the report, the fire was caused by a careless welder working too close to combustible materials. Both the welder and his supervisor were discharged.”

“According to your report, drugs were involved . . .”

“Yes, they were. Shipyards are very dangerous places—I'm sure I don't have to tell you that—so we've had a random drug testing program for many years. Unfortunately, we also have six thousand workers and, shamefully, drugs are very common in Rio—as they are in a number of North American cities. We work closely with the federal police. We do what we can but . . .”

“We understand the problem is very difficult to control . . . Now, our preliminary investigations indicate that two of your shipfitters—a Carlos Coccoli and an Umberto Rojas—appear to have disappeared without formally quitting a week or so after the fire. And the girlfriend of Coccoli was also reported as missing.”

An expression of serious confusion spread across Palmeira's face. “Gentlemen, we have thousands of workers and Brazil is a very big nation. People come and go all the time. Some leave—for the Amazonian gold fields, for New York, for God knows where—without even collecting the wages we owe them. When opportunity presents itself, people seem quick to chase it. Especially with Christmas approaching. Why are these two men of such interest to you?”

“We've received indications that they may be—or have been—important members of the drug regime in your yard.”

“Have the federal police been informed?”

“Not yet. As soon as we have something solid, we will ask you to inform them.”

Palmeira turned to the security chief. “Is anything known about this Rojas and Coccoli?”

“I'll check, sir,” replied the security chief, an expression of intense irritation on his face. He then pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“He should have that information for you in no time,” remarked the yard's COO as they waited. “We have a very complete computerized personnel system—and an equally up-to-date security and access program.”

“The last record we have is their leaving through the south gate at 10:02 on the night of November 27,” reported the security chief. His relief that he had something solid to report was all too obvious. “Coccoli was born in Rio, although he listed no relatives, just his girlfriend,” he continued, listening to his phone and pausing from time to time. He came to us when he was eighteen. He was started on menial work and did so well that we put him in our shipfitters training program. Again he did well, and has been well respected by his supervisors. As for Rojas, he is originally from Para State to the north. He did welding for a gold mining company there, so we put him to the same task. No family listed, but that is not uncommon.”