[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
his hat dropping to the floor. She reached for it for him and he reached for
it and she bumped her head against his forehead and she started to laugh.
"What a great beginning, huh?"
"Sim," Sebastiao said, smiling. "Great, yes, menina."
She could live with being called mademoiselle; in fact it sounded rather nice.
Señorita was okay. Fräulein she didn't like. But menina definitely had to go.
"First step toward greatness: it's Mary Frances that or M.F. whichever feels
better."
She watched Sebastiao's eyes as he thought for a moment. "M.F. Menina M.F.!"
Mulrooney shook her head, inhaling on her cigarette again. "Just M.F.,
Sebastiao just M.F."
"Sim okay."
She sure hoped it would be.
Chapter Seven
Josh Culhane opened his eyes and squinted against the glare of the sun
reflected off the sand beneath his head.
His head had been resting beside his left arm, and automatically he looked at
his wrist. But the Rolex wasn't there.
Page 62
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
He remembered now all of it.
He touched his left front pocket, pushing himself up a little, and felt the
familiar shape of the watch. He half expected it to have smashed against the
rocks, but the watch seemed to be in one piece and was ticking as he held it
up to his left ear. The time read almost noon and the date had changed, so he
assumed everything was still working.
Culhane sat up and looked around him as he secured the watch to his wrist. In
the sand near him was his Bali-Song knife. He picked it up, wiping the sand
from it against his trouser leg. The pants were torn at the knees, and the
left leg was ripped at the seam from cuff to crotch along the inside.
He closed the Bali-Song and flipped closed the lock, tossing the knife in his
right hand for a moment.
"Watch Sean Dodge top this one," he said out loud, and laughed.
And then he heard the voice behind him. "Mãos ao alto!"
Another voice, the Portuguese laced with authority, "Deita as armas!"
Culhane turned his head slowly and saw two men in dark suits and sunglasses,
each man holding an Uzi submachine gun. One man was less than ten yards from
him on the sand, the second in the rocks above. The muzzles of the Uzis were
angled for his gut.
Culhane spoke Spanish well and could get by in French, but he didn't speak
much Portuguese. He did, however, understand the men's commands. He dropped
the Bali-Song to the sand. He raised his hands.
"Há aqui alguém que fale inglês?" He gave the men a big smile.
"We each speak English together," the man shouted down from the rocks.
Culhane nodded. He decided to try Portuguese again. "O meu nome é Josh
Culhane " And then Culhane collapsed into English. "Ever read any of my books
The Takers? You know Sean Dodge?"
Neither of them answered. "Aw, shit," Culhane murmured under his breath.
It was the one from the rocks who spoke first: "See-ann Dod-gee?"
It took Culhane a second. "Yeah See-ann Dod-gee I write See-ann Dod-gee I'm
Josh Culhane The Takers, huh?"
The man standing ten feet away from him dropped the Uzi on its sling and ran
forward, laughing. "See-ann Dod-gee ha!"
Culhane looked skyward and murmured, "Thank you, Sir."
Chapter Eight
Scott Palmer stared out the window. He watched Damascus Santini getting into
the taxicab. He had offered Damascus a boatload of supplies for his jungle
mission. Damascus had labeled it a bribe for Palmer's conscience. But Damascus
had taken it anyway.
His people needed the supplies.
Page 63
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
As the taxi pulled away, the telephone rang. Palmer's body became rigid. He
turned, looked at the telephone and walked toward it, stopping in the middle
of the suite's living room, staring at the telephone for a moment. Then he sat
down on the couch and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Scott Palmer, Jr.?"
He didn't answer for a moment.
"Senhor Palmer?"
"Yes. Who is "
"I am Gunther Hoevermann, chief inspector with the Brazilian State
Counterterrorist Department. I'd like to come up and chat for a few moments.
I'm only five minutes away by automobile from you."
The voice was slightly German accented, the English perfect.
"Look, Inspector, I told everything I know to the São Luis police, to a
representative of your unit."
"Ah, yes, but since I am in charge of the investigation, I beg a bit of your
time merely to sort out a few details that will aid my grasp of the situation.
It is to the best interests of you and your kidnapped wife that we meet,
senhor."
Palmer didn't know what to say.
"I have a gentleman with me who is the brother of a dear friend of yours, I
understand," Hoevermann said. "I'll bring him along. A friend at this
particular time might be most welcome."
"Yes, yes come on up," Palmer said, and hung up the telephone without waiting
for a reply.
* * *
Scott Palmer smoked a cigarette. He had given up smoking after getting out of
Vietnam alive, but he had started again after getting a cigarette from one of
the crewmen in the wheelhouse.
When the door vibrated with a knock he called out, "Just a minute," and he got
up, walking quickly across the living room to the small hallway and putting
his right hand on the knob. He took a deep breath. "Shit..."
The brown hair, a little reddish in the sunlight from the window in the
hallway. The lean face. The brown eyes. Everything about the clean-shaven
face. Palmer took a step back from the door, still holding the knob to steady
himself. A ghost. The height, over six feet. The build, lean and muscular.
It was Jeff Culhane. But Jeff Culhane was dead.
"I'm Josh Jeff's brother. I heard about your troubles." And the man who
looked like a Xerox copy of Palmer's dead friend extended his right hand.
"Josh Culhane I "
"And I am Inspector Hoevermann. I regret meeting you under such unpleasant
Page 64
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
circumstances, but it is a pleasure nonetheless."
Palmer released Josh Culhane's hand and took Hoevermann's. "A pleasure to meet
you, Inspector. Come in both of you." Palmer found himself still staring at
Culhane. Damascus wasn't the only one who prayed. And his Palmer's prayer
was answered.
"God you look just like your brother," Palmer said, walking behind them into
the living room. "Sit down. I'll pour you both a drink."
He watched as Josh Culhane dropped easily into a corner of the couch. Culhane
was wearing blue jeans that were too big for him in the waist and too short
for him in the legs, and the shirt was a faded blue workshirt. No socks, just
a pair of running shoes. Hoevermann took the opposite side of the couch, and
the couch visibly sagged. Palmer rubbed his hands together once and walked
toward the small bar opposite the couch. "Bet you'd like a salty dog minus the
salt just like Sean Dodge in the Takers books, right?" he said, forcing a
laugh and looking back at Culhane.
"Most people don't keep grapefruit juice at their bar. Anything'll do."
"How about Myers's rum dark?"
"Fine, but not too much, please. It's kind of early," Culhane said.
"Inspector, how about you?" Palmer asked.
"In novels and movies the detective always says, 'Nothing for me, thanks I'm
on duty.' But that rarely bothers me. However, it is too early. Nothing for
me, thank you."
Palmer consciously willed his right hand to stop shaking as he poured the rum
and another CC for himself.
He turned around, a glass in each hand, and walked back toward the couch. He
set Culhane's glass on the coffee table, then settled back into the
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]