Blue Labyrinth

Azevedo looked surprised; Smith did not.

“This man flew from Rio to New York, using a false passport issued by Brazil, on June fourth,” Pendergast continued. “He was using the name of Tapanes Landberg. Is that name familiar to you, Colonel?”

The man indicated it was not.

“I need to trace his movements here over the last year and a half.” Pendergast passed the back of a hand across his forehead. “Many man-hours, and a great detail of classified technology, went into the search for this person. And yet Operation Wildfire scored no hits — not one. How is such a thing possible? How could this man have evaded detection here in Brazil over the course of eighteen months — or at least for the time he was here?”

Colonel Azevedo finally spoke. “Such a thing is possible.” Considering his brawn, the man’s voice was mild, almost soft, and he spoke perfect, almost accent-less English. “If we assume this man has been in Brazil — a likely possibility, given what you say — there are only two places he could have hidden: the jungle… or a favela.”

“Favela,” Pendergast repeated.

“Yes, Senhor Pendergast. You have heard of them? They are one of our great social problems. Or rather, social plagues. Fortified slums, run by drug dealers and sealed off from the rest of the city. They pirate water and electricity from the grid, make their own laws, enforce their own iron discipline, protect their borders, kill rival gang members, oppress their occupants. They are like corrupt, petty fiefdoms, states within a state. In a favela, there are no police, no security cameras. A man who needed to could disappear in there — and many men have. Until a few years ago, there were countless favelas scattered around Rio. But now, with the Olympics coming, the government has begun to act. BOPE and the Unidade de Polícia Pacificadora have begun invading the favelas, and — one by one — are pacifying them. This work will continue until all the favelas have been dealt with.” Azevedo paused. “All but one, that is — one that neither the military nor the UPP will touch. It is named Cidade dos Anjos — City of Angels.”

“And why will it receive special treatment?”

The colonel smiled grimly “It is the largest, most violent, and most powerful of all the favelas. The drug lords who lead it are ruthless and fearless. More to the point: the year before last, they invaded a military base and made off with thousands of weapons and ammunition. Fifty-caliber machine guns, grenades, RPGs, mortars, rocket launchers — even surface-to-air missiles.”

Pendergast frowned. “That would seem all the more reason to clear it out.”

“You are looking on the situation as an outsider. The favelas only make war on each other — not on the general populace. To invade the Cidade dos Anjos now would be a bloody, bloody business, with great loss of life to our military and police. No other favela will challenge them. And in time, all the other favelas will be gone. So why disturb the natural order of things? Better the enemy that you know than the enemy you don’t.”

“This person of interest vanished into the jungle eighteen months ago,” Pendergast said. “But I doubt he would have stayed there long.”

“Well then, Mr. Pendergast,” the CIA agent said. “It appears we have one possible answer to how your Mr. Tapanes Landberg maintained his invisibility.” This was followed by a faint smile.

Pendergast rose from his chair. “Thank you both.”

Colonel Azevedo looked at him appraisingly. “Senhor Pendergast, I fear to speculate what your next move will be.”

“My diplomatic brief disallows me from accompanying you,” the CIA agent said.

To this, Pendergast simply nodded, then turned toward the door.

“If it were any other place, we would assign you a military escort,” the colonel said. “But not if you go in there. All I can offer you is advice: settle your affairs before you enter.”

35

Pendergast lay, fully dressed, on the king-size bed in his suite of rooms in the Copacabana Palace Hotel. The lights were off and, although it was just noon, the room was very dark. The faintest roar of surf from Copacabana Beach filtered through the closed windows and shuttered blinds.

As he lay there, quite still, a trembling washed over him, almost a palsy, that shook his frame with increasing violence. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and balled his hands into fists, trying through sheer force of will to make this sudden, unexpected attack pass. After a few minutes the worst of the trembling began to lessen. It did not, however, go entirely away.

“I will master this,” Pendergast murmured under his breath.

At first — when he’d initially noted the symptoms — Pendergast had held out hope that a way could be found to reverse them. When he found no answer in the past, he began searching the present, in the hope of uncovering the methods of his tormentor. But the more he comprehended the diabolical complexity of the plot to poison him, and the more he reflected on the story of his ancestor Hezekiah and his doomed wife, the more he had realized such hope was a cruel delusion. What drove him forward now was a burning need to see this investigation — which seemed ever more likely to be his final investigation — through… while he still had time.

He forced his thoughts back to that morning’s meeting — and the words of the Brazilian colonel. There are only two places he could have hidden, he’d said of Alban. The jungle… or a favela.

Other words came into Pendergast’s head, unbidden. They were the parting words Alban had given him — on that day, eighteen months ago, when he had walked, with an almost insolent lack of hurry, into the Brazilian forest. I have a long and productive life ahead of me. The world is now my oyster — and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

Pendergast held the image of that parting in his head, recalling every detail to the utmost extent of his intellectual rigor.

He knew, of course, that his son had begun those eighteen months in the jungles of Brazil — he’d seen him melt into the unbroken line of trees with his own eyes. But as he’d told the colonel, he was also certain that Alban would not have stayed there. There would not have been enough to occupy him, to keep him entertained — and, most important, to allow him to plan his various schemes. He had not returned to the town of his birth, Nova Godói — that was now in the hands of the Brazilian government, under a kind of military receivership. Besides, nothing was left for Alban there anymore: the complex had been destroyed, its scientists and soldiers and young leaders now dead, in prison, rehabilitated, or scattered to the winds. No — the more Pendergast considered the matter, the more certain he was that, sooner rather than later, Alban would have emerged from the jungle — and slipped into a favela.

It would be the perfect place for him. No police to worry about, no security cameras, no surveillance or intelligence operatives shadowing him. With his keen intelligence, criminal genius, and sociopathic outlook, he might well have something to offer the drug lords who ran the favela. All this would give Alban the time and space he needed to develop his plans for the future.

The world is now my oyster — and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

Pendergast was equally certain which favela Alban would have chosen. Always the biggest and best for him.

But these answers simply led to other questions. What had happened to Alban within the City of Angels? What strange journey brought Alban from the favela to his doorstep? And what was the co