Every Bitter Thing cims-4 Page 8

  “I’m just below the penthouse,” he was saying. “You can’t believe the view from up there. It’s almost as good as the one I get from the cockpit.”

  Bruna toyed with her spoon and glanced out of the window at an A320 on its final approach. Lina looked at the tablecloth.

  “So, how about it?” Leao looked from one woman to the other.

  “One of you ladies want to have a look? I’ll get the check.”

  He turned to signal the waiter; Bruna and Lina exchanged a what-an-idiot glance.

  “We have some girl things to talk about,” Bruna said as Leao scribbled his name on the check. “What’s your room number?”

  Leao furrowed his brow. She could practically see him decide to be hopeful.

  “1607,” he said.

  “See you later, then.”

  Later, she thought, would be when they were in the van, on their way to board the return flight.

  Leao got to his feet and favored her with a leer before he swaggered off.

  “Creep,” she said, as soon he was out of earshot.

  “Screw him,” Lina said.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Figuratively, I meant. Come on, Bruna, come with me. It’ll be fun.”

  Bruna shook her head. “I need sleep.”

  They were on a seventy-two-hour layover. Lina was going to her uncle’s country place in Juquiti, a municipality three hours’ drive to the south. The uncle’s partner, Franco, was a gourmet cook. And neither man ever talked about airplanes.

  But Bruna was exhausted. Her holiday on St. Bart’s had been anything but restful. Henri, the diving instructor she’d met on St. Jean Beach, had seen to that.

  “I’m going to get into bed,” she said, “and I’m going to sleep for twelve hours. Then I’ll take it from there.”

  “Take what where? This hotel’s in a dead zone.” Lina gestured toward the window where the control tower of Guarulhos Airport towered over some shrubbery and a chain-link fence.

  “But in here there’s double glazing and room service,” Bruna said. She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go up to the room. Your uncle’s almost due.”

  “He’s always late,” Lina said.

  Upstairs, Lina stripped off her skirt and blouse. Bruna kicked off her shoes and inquired about messages.

  There weren’t any.

  Lina opened her suitcase, took out a shoulder bag, and started stuffing it with things she might need. “Nothing from your Frenchman?” she asked.

  Bruna shook her head. “I’ll give him another ten minutes. Then I’m going to block incoming calls.”

  “You? Block incoming calls? You must be exhausted.”

  “I told you,” Bruna said, standing up and removing her blouse.

  “Why don’t you call him?” Lina said and disappeared into the bathroom.

  “You have any idea,” Bruna said, raising her voice so Lina could hear her over the sound of running water, “how much it would cost to call St. Bart’s from this hotel?”

  “Probably a lot, but you could make it short, tell him to call you back.”

  “I told him where I’d be. He’s the man, so he’s supposed to call. I don’t want him to think I’m chasing him.”

  “Which you are.”

  “Which I am, but I don’t want him to think so.”

  Lina stepped out of the shower and Bruna stepped in. She’d just turned off the tap when the telephone rang. Lina answered it, but it wasn’t Henri. It was her Uncle Eduardo, and he was downstairs.

  “Gotta run,” she said, coming into the bathroom to give Bruna a peck on the cheek.

  Bruna heard the door slam and picked up the hair dryer.

  It seemed as if she’d barely laid her head on the pillow when something woke her from a steamy dream in which Henri was playing a major role.

  She squirmed, stretched, and looked at the clock. Half past eleven. She’d slept three hours, no more. She frowned, rubbed the sleep from her eyes. And then it came again: the sound of someone rapping at her door. She was sure she had hung out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Once more, the same knock, furtive, as if the knocker didn’t want anyone in the neighboring rooms to hear; insistent, as if the intruder knew she was there.

  Which, of course, he did. It had to be that damned copilot. He must have seen Lina leaving for her uncle’s sitio, must know Bruna was alone.

  “Who’s there?” she said, not bothering to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  There was no answer.

  “I’m trying to get some sleep,” she said. “Whoever the hell you are, come back later. Come back in ten hours.”

  The reply came in the form of three gentle taps, neither harder nor softer than before.

  Furious now, she went to her open suitcase and felt around until she’d found her kimono.

  “All right,” she said, searching for the sleeves and finding them. “I’m coming. Wait.”

  And she did let him wait. She went into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face, grabbed a brush and smoothed her blond hair. Finally, she went to the door and removed the chain. If she’d been more awake, or if it hadn’t been the Caesar Park Hotel, with all the security in the world, or if she hadn’t been quite sure that it was their copilot, she might have kept the chain on.

  But she didn’t.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Guarulhos, the largest of Sao Paulo’s international airports, is viewed with favor by the aviation community. Congonhas, the smallest, is not. The shortest runway at Guarulhos is in excess of three thousand meters; the shortest at Congonhas measures less than fifteen hundred, barely enough for a modern passenger jet. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the runways at Congonhas aren’t grooved.

  Grooving is a technique whereby tiny trenches are cut into the surface of the concrete to drain rainwater. At Congonhas, an airport famous for inclement weather, rainwater on the runways often accumulates to a depth exceeding twenty-five millimeters, which is barely the thickness of a fifty-centavo piece, but it’s enough to cause aquaplaning, a fancy word for a skid.

  Passenger jets depend on two devices to bring them to a stop: brakes and reverse thrusters. If either fails, and if the runway is as short as it is at Congonhas, skids can be fatal.

  Hector approached the airport from the city center, passing on his right the blackened ruins of a warehouse. The area had been closed off by a brand-new fence now lined with flowers and teddy bears. Beyond the fence, bulldozers were demolishing walls and clearing rubble. Thirteen days earlier, a TAB flight from Porto Alegre, landing in light rain and with only one thruster functioning, had skidded off the runway to Hector’s left. The runway and the area around it were higher than the road. The Airbus had retained just enough momentum to clear the heavy rush-hour traffic before plunging into the warehouse.

  Killed were 187 passengers on the plane, several employees working in the warehouse, and a few passersby, a grand total of 199 deaths. The authorities were still sorting out carbonized bodies, still trying to fix the blame for the disaster.

  Hector parked in the underground garage, took the elevator up to the terminal, and asked to be directed to the airline’s personnel department.

  “Aline Arriaga, Aline Arriaga,” the obliging young man repeated to himself, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Ah, here she is. Works check-in on the noon to eight.”

  The young man was wearing a red blazer and a name tag identifying him as G. Salcedo, Assistant Manager. He reached out for a telephone without taking his eyes off the screen.

  And put it down as quickly as he’d picked it up.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry, what?” Hector said.

  “She’s off today. She works Saturdays and Sundays, takes Thursdays and Fridays off. She’ll be here on Saturday.”

  “She live close by?”

  Salcedo consulted his screen, “Not really. Mooca.”

  The Mooca neighborhood was a long way from Congonhas.


  “I’ll drop by her place tomorrow,” Hector said. He made a writing gesture. “Could you give me her address?”

  “Sure.” Salcedo grabbed a ballpoint pen and made a note. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “Sorry,” Hector said. “Police business. Confidential. But I can tell you that she isn’t a suspect. It’s just a routine inquiry.”

  Salcedo passed the paper to Hector. Hector slipped it into his breast pocket.

  “Something else,” he said. “Can you access the flight-crew assignments? Tell me which of your attendants was on which flight and when?”

  “Which flights are you interested in?”

  “Just one. The 8101 from Miami International to Sao Paulo on the twenty-second of November, specifically the business-class cabin.”

  “You’re in luck.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the twenty-second of November was less than three months ago, and we only keep that kind of information for three months. Unless there’s an incident report, that is. Then we keep it longer.”

  “Incident report?”

  “Yeah, you know, reports on unusual occurrences, like a passenger getting physically abusive.”

  “Happen often?”

  “Not often. But when it does, we keep the records. It’s a crime, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And then there are the subpoenas.”

  “Subpoenas?”

  “First thing a defense attorney does is subpoena our reports, looking for some loophole to get his client off.”

  “Who makes the reports?”

  “The chief steward. Then the captain signs off on it. What was that flight again?”

  “The 8101 on the twenty-second of November.”

  “The 8101 is a daily flight. Are we talking about departure or arrival?”

  “Departure. The one that left on the twenty-second, and arrived on the twenty-third.”

  Salcedo’s fingers returned to the keyboard. While he was at it, an older man approached his work station.

  “Is there a problem, Gabriel?”

  Hector glanced at the newcomer’s name tag. He was E. Dornelles, Manager.

  “No, Senhor Dornelles. No problem. This man is from the police.”

  “The police?” Dornelles raised a pair of bushy eyebrows. “How can we be of service?”

  Hector told him what he wanted.

  Dornelles asked him why he wanted it.

  Hector told him the same thing he’d told Salcedo, that it was a police matter, confidential.

  Dornelles turned to Salcedo. “The conversation between the two of you is over,” he said.

  “But-”

  “But nothing, Gabriel. It’s over. I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”

  Salcedo nodded but didn’t move.

  Dornelles stared at him. “Well?” he said.

  “This is my work station, Senhor.”

  “Take a break. Go have coffee.”

  When Salcedo was out of earshot, Dornelles turned back to Hector. “You have some kind of identification?”

  “I showed it to Senhor Salcedo.”

  “I’d like you to show it to me.”

  Hector did.

  Dornelles gave Hector’s warrant card close scrutiny and then handed it back. “All right, Delegado, I’m convinced you are who you say you are. But if you don’t tell me exactly why you want this information, I won’t give it to you.”

  Hector bristled. “I can get a court order.”

  Dornelles was unperturbed.

  “You can,” he said. “And we’ll comply. Of course, it might take us a while to find the information you need. We have so many records. It might take us a week, maybe even two weeks. Do you have two weeks to spare, Delegado?”

  Hector opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Dornelles continued. “On the other hand,” he said, “you can back off on the confidential bullshit and, if I’m convinced that what you want isn’t something that’s liable to cause any damage to this airline, I might be inclined to give it to you.”

  “Might?”

  Dornelles sighed. “Do you have any idea, Delegado, how many lawsuits are launched against this company each year?”

  “No, and frankly, I don’t care.”

  “Of course you don’t. Why should you? But I do.” He gestured in the general direction of the devastated warehouse. “What happened just across the street is a prime example. The relatives of those victims are still in a state of grief, and I can’t blame them, but they’re lawyering up just the same. Pretty soon the civil actions will begin. Are they going to sue the people who make the Airbus 320? You bet they are. Are they going to sue the airport, which means the government? You bet they are. And are they going to sue us? You bet your ass they are. But who do you think, in the end, is going to wind up carrying the can?”

  “I don’t-”

  “Yes, I know. You don’t care. But bear with me. Airbus is far away, in France. They’ve got deep pockets, but they’ll also have the data from the flight recorders, the famous black boxes-which, by the way, aren’t black, but orange.”

  “What do the black boxes have to do with-”

  “I’m explaining. Hear me out.”

  Dornelles waited for Hector to nod before he went on:

  “The Airbus people will say there wasn’t a damned thing wrong with the design of their aircraft. They’ll say that an indicator light pointing to a malfunction of one of the reverse thrusters was working perfectly. They’ll say the malfunction was detected before the flight took off from Porto Alegre. The black boxes and our own maintenance reports will prove them right. Unfortunately for us, the black boxes have been located, and the reports have already been impounded.”

  “Where are you going with all of this?” Hector said.

  Dornelles continued as if he hadn’t heard him: “That will leave this airline, and the government, as the only two defendants. The government should have fixed the goddamned runway years ago, but they didn’t. They didn’t because of corruption in the contracts, and because of incompetence, and because the politicians wanted to show their constituents a shiny new parking lot and a renovated terminal, instead of investing money in something invisible like grooving the fucking runway.

  “In a just world, the government would lose the case. But this is our government. They’re going to appeal, and re-appeal, and in the end the families of the victims might get some money sometime in the next century. That leaves this airline holding the bag. The money bag, I mean.

  “The victims’ lawyers are going to claim negligence and pilot error, and we’re going to fight it, and the odds are we’ll lose. Now, granted, there has to be responsibility for a tragedy of this magnitude, but it isn’t fair that this airline should have to bear all of that responsibility just because a damned mechanic decided to postpone the repair of the thruster, and a damned captain decided to sign off on it.”

  It had been a long speech, delivered with mounting passion, and Dornelles was winded at the end of it. It could have been his money he was talking about, and if he’d stopped there, Hector would have classified him as a company man to his fingertips.

  But Dornelles wasn’t finished.

  “I’m covering my ass here,” he said. “If I want to keep my job, I’ve got to help to keep this airline afloat. Fifteen years ago, the biggest air carrier, the flag carrier of this country, was Varig. I put seventeen years of my life into Varig, expected to draw my pension from Varig. Do you know what happened to them?”

  “They filed for bankruptcy.”

  “Exactly,” Dornelles said, as if he’d finally gotten his point across. “So you tell me what I want to know, or you can go out and get your court order.”

  Go out and get your court order came out very much like go out and fuck yourself.

  Hector weighed his options. It took him less than two seconds.

  “You’ll keep everything I tell you in the strictest confidence?”r />
  “I will,” Dornelles said.

  As soon as he was out of Congonhas’s underground garage and was able to use his cell phone, Hector called Silva in Brasilia.

  “Aline Arriaga wasn’t there. She takes Thursdays and Fridays off. I’ll try to catch her at home tomorrow.”

  “Wasted trip then?”

  “Not entirely.” He told his uncle about his discussion with Dornelles and finished by saying, “But when I finally got to the records there was nothing to find.”

  “No incidents?”

  “No. But I did discover something a bit out of the ordinary.”

  “Which was?”

  “Two flight attendants called in sick just before the flight was scheduled to depart from Miami. The plane took off shorthanded. Business class, as we already know, had only eleven passengers. Tourist class, on the other hand, was packed. And it was a night flight.”

  “Day flight, night flight, what’s the difference?”

  “There’s less space in tourist class, so it’s harder to sleep. According to Dornelles, tourist-class passengers are up and about throughout the night, going to the toilets, stretching their legs, asking for water and juice. For that reason, and also because there are a lot more of them, they require more attention from the flight crew than passengers in business or first class. So the chief steward took the second flight attendant out of business class and assigned her to tourist.”

  “I’m sure she was pleased.”

  “According to Dornelles, she probably was. The tourist class attendants rotate during their shift. The woman who got switched would be able to catch a few hours of sleep, but the one who stayed in business class all by herself would be awake all night.”

  “And might well have seen something that would throw light on this situation. Did you get her name?”

  “Bruna Nascimento. She’s in Sao Paulo on a seventy-two-hour layover. She’s staying at the Caesar Park, not the one on Rua Augusta, the one near Guarulhos. I called her room before I left Congonhas. No answer. Dornelles wasn’t surprised.