The Omicron Kill - An Omega Thriller (Omega Series Book 11) Page 12

  I was silent for a bit, walking up and down the veranda like I was listening. Njal said, “So you want me to move in.”

  I sighed, puffed out my cheeks and said, “I think that’s a good idea, but there is still the question of when.” I stared up at the sky. “I’ll tell him, in a bit, that you are only in Brasilia for a couple of days and that you are willing to cancel another meeting this afternoon in order to see him and discuss preliminary matters. You were hoping that he and I could make some initial progress today, but you fully understand his concerns blah blah, and you can make room for a meeting this afternoon.”

  “OK, sounds good. I am outside her house. Send me a text if he agrees.”

  “Yeah, OK. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  He hung up but I stayed on the veranda, pacing up and down, holding the cell to my ear and nodding. Eventually I said, “Yeah, OK, I’ll get back to you,” made like I’d hung up and walked back into the restaurant with a strained face.

  I sat and sighed. “He was hoping that you and I could make some preliminary progress together. He’s only here for a couple of days and has other meetings, as you can imagine. However, I told him how you felt and he said that was perfectly understandable. He is going to cancel a meeting this afternoon with an investor and he hopes that you and I can meet him for a drink at the Royal Tulip, on the lakeside by the Alvorada Palace.”

  “I know it. That’s fine. We can have coffee and a liquor, and I must insist you try the brazil nut fragilité with mascarpone parfait and guava. It is sublime and comes with a sauternes Château Gravas, 2008.”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the lithium on the Enterprise.”

  He laughed too. “Ah! That is dilithium, if I am not mistaken. When we can mine that, we will be truly rich, my friend!”

  The mood lightened after that. We finished our duck and the Valpolichella and as they cleared it away, I pulled my cell from my pocket and said, “With your permission, I’ll just tell him we’re on, and that we’ll be there in…” I made a face that was a question and said, “…an hour? Hour and a half?”

  “Let us say between an hour and an hour and a half, and that way we will not be late.”

  I chuckled and nodded, and sent Njal the text. Rocha was having fun, playing hard to get, and who was I to deny him his fun? The text said: Go in. Take the girl.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, we stepped out onto the veranda. I placed my hand on his shoulder and smiled as I pulled the keys to my car from my pocket.

  “My principal asks that, for the sake of discretion, we go in my car. I hope that’s OK…”

  He produced his condescending smile again and chuckled. “I have a chauffeur driven Bentley, so I think your principal is probably wise.”

  We both laughed like he’d said something really funny and we made our way across the gardens to the parking lot. As we climbed into my Jeep, I quipped about how I hoped it wasn’t too far below what he was used to, and he made generous noises about how the Jeep was a grand car, and I would soon be rich enough to own a Bentley, like his. He’d had a few drinks and believed he was about to become fabulously rich, not just by Brazilian standards, but on the Gates-Rockefeller standard graph. So, while I drove through the rainforest toward the road, he expounded on the indubitable merits of various American cars, and contrasted them with the palatial luxury of the Bentley. All were found wanting.

  While he was doing that, I leaned over and smashed my right fist into his jaw. His eyes rolled and he sagged against his seat belt. It wasn’t just that I was tired of listening to him flatulate through his mouth. We were about to join the freeway, and I was going to turn north toward his mistress’ house, instead of turning south to go toward the Royal Tulip, where my fictional principal was supposed to be waiting for us. I figured it would be easier all around if he slept through the journey and didn’t ask awkward questions.

  It was a six mile drive, but it was freeway for most of those miles, and it took a little less than ten minutes to get there. The street, not very evocatively named Shis QI 28 Conjunto 6, was pretty and leafy, and populated by some spectacular, modernist homes. You couldn’t help feeling it deserved a better name: something like Palm Drive. I grinned sourly, looking at the unconscious man beside me, and said aloud, “Or Rocha’s End.”

  I pulled into the driveway of a large, white building which had been designed to resemble a cruiser, with portholes and balconies like decks, killed the engine and called Njal.

  “Stop calling me, man. We are not supposed to use these damned phones.”

  “Open the garage for me.”

  He hung up and two minutes later, the door to the garage started to roll up. I drove through and the blind started to rattle closed behind me. The light came on and a door in the right hand wall opened. Through it I could see a carpeted hallway and, leaning against the jamb, Njal, watching me.

  I climbed out and slammed the door. “Give me a hand, will you? Where’s the woman?”

  He pushed off the doorjamb and walked toward me. “She’s on the sofa. Her arms, legs and mouth are duct taped, but I don’t want to leave her too long, you know?”

  “OK, just give me a hand to get him inside.”

  We pulled open the door, I grabbed Rocha under his shoulders, Njal grabbed his knees, and between the two of us, we carried him into the hallway. It was broad and spacious and white. There were a couple of doors and a tiled staircase that rose to the next floor. Njal jerked his head at the stairs. “Living room is on the next floor.”

  I grunted. Rocha was beginning to moan. I said, “OK, let’s get him upstairs.”

  Upstairs there was a landing with a passage that led off to the left. On the right there were double doors that led to a huge living area with a copper fireplace in the middle of the floor, sliding glass doors and a vast terrace with panoramic views of the lake, and lots of banana trees. There were eclectic, expensive pieces of furniture scattered around the room, and on one of these—a large, white calico sofa—there was a very attractive woman whose ankles were bound with duct tape. She had her arms behind her back and a piece of duct tape across her mouth. Her skin was chocolate brown with a dash of milk, her eyes were large and very dark, and her hair was blue-black, tied in a bun behind her neck. She was staring at Rocha and looked really scared.

  We dumped Rocha on a chair and Njal set about duct taping him too. I sat on the sofa with Joelma and looked into her eyes. They were something special.

  “Joelma, you speak English?”

  She nodded.

  “I am going to speak slowly, OK?”

  She nodded again.

  “I am going to take off your gag…” I made the motion with my hand of removing the tape. Then I shook my head and my finger. “Don’t scream. No, aaaaah! OK?” She nodded more cautiously. I turned to Njal. “You want to get the money? It’s in the back of the Jeep.”

  He was kneeling by Rocha’s ankles, winding tape around them. He nodded and stood.

  I hesitated a moment and as he reached the door, I said, “Did you get the weapon?”

  He stopped and his eyes went involuntarily to Joelma. She stared back at him. He nodded once. “Yuh.”

  He left and she looked back at me. I smiled at her and pointed at myself. “I want to give you…” I pointed at her. “Money.” I rubbed my fingers together in the universal sign for cash. She frowned and looked at me like I was crazy. I nodded. “Yes, eu vo dar a vose muito dinero. I want to give you lots of money.”

  Her eyes narrowed and became suspicious. She shrugged. Why? I smiled and nodded again.

  “So you go away. Go to U.S.A.”

  To say her face was skeptical would be an understatement. I heard Njal’s feet on the stairs and after a moment he came in with an attaché case and handed it to me. “We wait till she has gone, yuh?”

  I didn’t say anything. I opened the case and showed it to her. Her eyes went wide. It contained one hundred thousand dollars, and lying on top of them was a U.S
. passport and a ticket in her new name to Los Angeles. I held it up and showed it to her. Then I leaned forward and pulled the tape off her mouth.

  She spluttered a few things in Portuguese which I didn’t understand, but I didn’t figure they were anything I especially wanted to hear, either. When she’d finished, she glared at me and I could see why Rocha was willing to keep her in a house like this as his mistress. I said:

  “All I want you to do, Joelma, is take this money, this passport and this ticket, and go to Los Angeles. Somebody will meet you there and help you.”

  She was shaking her head like I was crazy. “Why? Why you do this?”

  I watched her a moment, and felt a freezing ruthlessness congeal my insides. I said, brutally, “Because we are going to frame you for Raul Rocha’s murder.”

  She frowned, shook her head that she didn’t understand.

  “We will make it look like you killed Raul Rocha.” I mimed as I spoke. “If the cops, the police, catch you, you could incriminate us. The alternative is to kill you too, and we don’t want to do that. So the simplest thing is for you to run and get a new identity. So we will make it seem that you killed your lover, and escaped from Brazil.”

  Her dark skin seemed to turn gray. She glanced over at Rocha. Was there grief in her expression? If there was, it didn’t last. It soon turned to fear. She looked back at me, at the money, the ticket and the passport.

  “I need house, credit card, bank account, social security number! What about all this?”

  I gave a small laugh and shook my head. “Don’t worry, we want you to be happy in your new life. The man who is going to meet you will fix you up. Believe me, in Los Angeles you will feel right at home. Have we got a deal?”

  She nodded. Njal was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He took a Glock 17 from his waistband and looked a question at me. I heard Joelma make a small gasp. I ignored her and said, “You got a pair of gloves for me?” He pulled them from his pocket and handed them over. I pulled them on with a snap and said, “Take her downstairs.”

  He took the tape off her wrists and ankles and helped her to stand. Her bottom lip was curling in and her eyes were flooded with tears. She kept looking from me to Njal with sharp little jerks of her head. He led her from the room. I heard their feet on the stairs. Then I heard a door close.

  Raul Rocha had his eyes open. He looked groggy and he was frowning at me. “Why…?”

  “Because Omicron must be stopped before Omega reemerges.”

  His frown deepened. “Who are you?”

  “Lacklan Walker. My father was Gamma.”

  He looked genuinely astonished. “You? But we were told you would not come for us.”

  I stopped dead. “Who told you that?”

  His expression was bewildered and for a moment there was a glimmer of hope. “Alpha. Your brother, Ben.”

  “He’s alive? Have you seen him?”

  He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. “No. It was a message. A secure message. But there are procedures, checks. Only he has access. He said you had made peace, reached a compromise…”

  I put the first round through his heart so it would be quick, then I emptied six more rounds into his chest and belly, to make it look like passion. After that, I carried the gun downstairs.

  They were sitting in the kitchen. Joelma was sobbing. I removed the magazine and handed the gun to her. She held it, staring down at it.

  “Pull the trigger a couple of times. Then pull the slide, like this…”

  I showed her and she did what I said. Her sobbing became compulsive. After that, I gave her a glass of wine. When she’d drunk most of it, I carried it and the gun back upstairs and set the scene: the bottle of wine and two glasses, each with prints, and the gun tossed on the floor. I removed the tape from his ankles and his wrists, had a look around and went back down to the kitchen. There I made a package of Njal’s ID and my Jason Devries documents, wrapped them in a tea towel and weighted the whole thing down with knives, forks and spoons from the cutlery drawer.

  While I was doing that, Njal asked me, “What about the bleach?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like that anymore. It’s not credible. If I were a cop, I wouldn’t buy it. It’s too professional.”

  He watched me. His face was expressionless. “Anything else you are planning on changing at the last minute?”

  “No.”

  We bundled Joelma into the front passenger seat of the Jeep, pulled out of the garage and headed for the airport. On the way, as we crossed the bridge, we threw the package into the Paranoá lake. I was now Bill Rogers, an insurance salesman, and I had no idea who Njal was.

  Once over the bridge he said: “Drop me at the next bus stop. I make my own way, yuh? I see you there.”

  I did as he asked and we watched him disappear down a side street on his long, striding legs. Joelma was still crying. I said, “When we get to the airport, we’re going to hug a lot, OK? I’m your boyfriend and you’re going back to L.A. We’re not going to see each other for a while. You understand?”

  She nodded and made a wet noise that sounded like a yes.

  “I’m going to see you as far as security. You have a first class ticket and you’re a U.S. citizen, they shouldn’t give you any trouble. Within the next few hours, the cops will be looking for Joelma Santos. So you keep a low profile and your mouth shut, you don’t talk to anybody until you get to Los Angeles, understood? If the cops get any idea of who you are, you could end up going to prison for the rest of your life. Once you’re in L.A. you’ll be safe, but it is imperative you speak to nobody on the flight. Pretend you have a sore throat. Whatever. Just talk to nobody, OK?”

  She scowled at me. “You tell me this already. I say OK.”

  “Good.”

  “You can come with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just get yourself to L.A.”

  Next thing, out of the blue, she was screaming hysterically, “Why you do this to me? Why? You destroy my life! You crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Why you do this to me?” And then there was a long stream in hysterical Portuguese which I tried to talk over.

  “You need to calm down.” I struggled to think of calm down in Portuguese or even Spanish, but the screaming noise in the cab was too loud. I said again, “Joelma! Calm down!”

  But she just kept going, screaming and pounding the windows with her fists. I had no idea what she was saying, but I was sure she was going to get us both imprisoned or killed if she didn’t stop. And then it happened. A police car drew up alongside us, sounded the siren once and indicated we should pull over. I swore profusely, put on my indicator, pulled in to the side of the road and killed the engine.

  Joelma had gone very quiet and pale. I said to her, “That was real stupid. I’m going home to the States, Joelma. You are going to prison for the rest of your life, not for murder, but for sheer, damned stupidity.”

  She stared at me, sniffed and wiped her eyes. One of the cops climbed out of his car and strolled back toward us. He came to my window and indicated I should wind it down. He said something to me in Portuguese.

  I smiled apologetically. “Americano. No fallo Portuguese.”

  He looked at Joelma. “Esta bem?”

  She nodded, still sniffing.

  He looked at me. “Name, driving license.”

  I reached in my pocket and handed him my new passport and license. I said, “We’re Americans.”

  He jerked his head at Joelma. “Você?”

  Wiping her eyes and sniffing, she launched into a long exposition while pulling her new, U.S. passport from her bag and showing it to him. I caught snatches. I was her boyfriend. She had to go back to Los Angeles. She wanted me to go with her. I had to stay. She was sure the son of a bitch (me) was seeing another woman. The cop examined her passport. I could see by his face he was growing bored. He handed it back and napped at her in Portuguese that hysterical behavior in moving motor vehicle
s was the cause of many deaths. She should be more responsible and behave like an adult. To me he said, “You stay in Brazil?”

  “For another day or so.”

  “What is your business?”

  I improvised: “I’m an insurance salesman. But my hobby is travel writing and I’m conducting research for an article for a travel magazine.” I grinned and laughed. “I love Brazil.”

  He looked at me as though loving Brazil made me eligible for a good kicking and said, “What is in the case?” He pointed at Joelma’s feet. “The attaché case. Open it.”

  A hundred grand in U.S. dollars was in the case. If we opened it, we would get taken in to the station and questioned, and then everything would unravel. I looked at Joelma. “Honey, have you got the key?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t have the key. You say you have the key.”

  The cop snapped. “Open the case.”

  I started to pat my pockets and I saw his hand go to his piece. I knew I was going to have to kill him, and I didn’t want to do that. Outside, I heard the crackle of a radio. I said, “I know I have it somewhere…”

  I saw the other cop get out of the car. This was it. This was the moment I either died or killed an innocent cop. My left hand was on the latch of the door, ready to ram him and snatch his piece. The cop by the car called over something in Portuguese. I heard the word ‘robo’—a theft. The cop by the door looked unhappy. He gave me a once over and said, “Be careful when you are driving. Do not argue and drive!”

  I nodded. “That’s good advice.” I turned to Joelma. “See, honey, how your temper always causes problems?”

  He turned and walked away, back to his car. I sighed, indicated right and pulled out into the traffic. “Do that again,” I said, “and I swear you will spend the rest of your life in a damn jail. Because I will not help you out!”