Captive Dove

The contact was a forty-plus stunner, a woman who Nova immediately imagined could still flaunt her body on Ipanema Beach in a topless swimsuit and win the admiration of every man or woman she passed. They’d all say “Ahh!”

“Ms. Smith,” the Brazilian beauty said through a radiant, white smile. “I’m Leila Munoz.”

Chapter 11

L eila Munoz matched Nova’s height of five feet, eight inches, but where Nova had well-toned muscles honed for bringing down men fifty pounds heavier with a single aikido move, Leila was all soft curves in the right places. Her honey-colored skin and wavy black hair were typical of the racial mix of black, Hispanic and Indian heritage of Brazil.

Leila took charge of Nova’s rolling suitcase. “I can manage it,” Nova offered.

“No problem. Part of the service. Love your earrings.”

Nova laughed at the unexpected appraisal concerning her jewelry. The earrings were the silver doves with emerald eyes that Joe had given her. Among friends and within the Company, Nova was the Imelda Marcos of earrings; she never felt quite complete without them. Out of fear of embarrassment, she’d never counted how many pairs and half pairs she owned.

“And I love your dress,” she countered. Leila had wrapped her luscious curves in a lemon-yellow dress cut above the knees and decorated with butterflies in all colors of the rainbow. No one would ever suspect her of being CIA, and station head at that. For cover, Leila held a position as a translator at the U.S. Embassy.

Outside the terminal building, a balmy Rio December evening greeted them. A Ford SUV with the Cosmos Adventure Travel logo on its doors idled curbside. Leila tossed Nova’s bag into the SUV’s backseat and said, “Do you want to go to a hotel? I’ve reserved a room for you. Or would you like to stay at my place? Not so cold and impersonal. I have the files you wanted with me, so either place works.”

Leila’s slight accent was quite lyrical. Nova said, “Your place would be much appreciated. I get sick of hotel rooms.”

As they moved toward town, Nova caught a glimpse of the massive, lit statue of Christ on top of Corcovado Hill. Leila obviously intended to put their travel time to good use. “Our one regular agent in Manaus is Oscar Chavez,” she began. “He knows everything that goes on. All the major players. He’ll contact you in the bar of the hotel where I’ve rented you a room. The Gioconda. It’s modest, discreet, clean. Right in the center of Manaus. If you think it would bolster your cover as a rich American, you can show disgust and move in a day or so to something more fancy.”

“What’s his cover?”

“Government surveyor. It allows him to be out and about pretty much wherever he needs to go.”

They were now skimming beside a row of towering hotels that stretched along the beach south of Sugarloaf Mountain. “Copacabana,” Leila said. “You’ll have to come back and visit me sometime.” Leila gave Nova a long appraisal and then a big smile before turning her attention back to the street. “I like your looks, Ms. Smith. And I’m a great judge of character. Maybe you could come in February for Carnival.”

“I’d like that.”

They soon pulled up to a guarded gate leading into the underground garage of a high-rise condo building. Leila pulled a card from her purse and inserted it into the slot of a reader, the gate rolled upward and Leila waved to the guard in his little stand as she drove inside. “Lots and lots of crime in charming Rio,” she said. “You do know, don’t you, that it is quite unsafe to go out at night.”

Another security guard sat beside two elevator doors reading a comic book. He beamed at Leila, who was now lugging a hefty lawyer’s briefcase while Nova toted her overnighter. When he looked at Nova, the guard kissed the back of his hand.

Inside Leila’s condo, the view of Rio from the tenth floor at night, with the chains of lights stretching along the beach and the huge lit-up Christ and the dark patches that Nova knew were the favelas—dangerous slums housing abject poverty—was nothing short of spectacular.

But what took her breath away were all the butterflies. Butterfly lamps, butterfly pictures, butterfly images on rugs, coffee mugs and telephone notepads. “Go ahead,” Leila said, “ask about the butterflies. Everyone does.”

“I do get the feeling the condo might lift off any moment, but you don’t need to explain. I’ve got my own fetish.”

Leila smiled. “Good. I said I was a great judge of character.”

While Leila showed Nova the guest bedroom, she explained that Manaus was now crawling with Brazilian authorities, not only from Manaus but down from La Paz as well. “Ten very high-profile Americans kidnapped on Brazilian soil, one for certain killed. Big scandal. Bad news all around and a political hot potato, as the English slang puts it.”

“I will appear to be working alone, pretending to be the rich sister of one of the victims.”

“You’re alone!” Leila said, her eyebrows lifting elegantly.

“No, no. Of course I have a backup, but he stays deep. Seeming to be alone works well for me. I’ve done most of my ops that way.” The German and Italian missions, when she’d worked as a photographic team with Joe as her assistant had been exceptional…in a lot of ways. Soon she would see him. She licked suddenly dry lips. What if he was still angry? What if he was cold to her?

She pushed her fears away. “The bad guys tend to underestimate me. And because I’m a woman who comes off as rather gentle—”

Leila laughed. “Yeah, I make you for gentle. I was a bit surprised when you said you were Ms. Smith. Not at all what I expected.”

“Well, I can safely say I don’t live up to that image. But it serves me well because people tend to trust me and often divulge secrets they ordinarily wouldn’t.”

Leila chuckled again. “I guess I fit in that category with everyone else. I rarely bring an agent to my digs.” She put her arm around Nova’s shoulder. “Want something to eat or drink?”

“If you have a diet drink or iced tea or just ice water, I’ll be happy. I need to start to work on the Brazilian files in that big black briefcase of yours. See what you guys have on terrorists and gangs that we don’t. Any action in the Amazon, in particular.”

Leila set Nova up at the small dining-room table and then said, “I’m off to bed. It’s after ten and I like my eight hours of sleep. Do you think you’ll be up long?”

“I don’t need much sleep. Three or four hours is my regular dose.”

“Really!”

“Reading these files will also be good for me. I don’t read or speak Portuguese all too well. This will jump-start me into speaking and thinking in the local language.”

“Well then, I’ll see you early tomorrow. We need to get up about six to make it to the airport in time.”

“Obrigada,” Nova said.

“My pleasure,” her hostess replied, strolling down the hall.

Nova’s fully-booked flight to Manaus took off thirty minutes late. For the first ten minutes of waiting, she fantasized about Joe, who, if he had accepted the mission and was on schedule, was already there, waiting for her. Only two, two-and-a-half hours at the most, and she’d see him.

Surely he wouldn’t have agreed to come if he were still angry. She imagined the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders. She knew every part of that body. The first time she’d seen him naked, on Capri, was after their visit to Rome’s central jail. She’d delivered a message to a terrorist from the man’s son. In Amalfi, she’d caught the terrorist behind the unleashing of a killer virus that, ironically in the end, had killed the bastard’s own son.

On Capri she and Joe had made passionate, hot love for virtually all of their two-day rest and recreation, if you counted sweet talk and petting part of making love. Even eating had been a sort of devouring of food while devouring each other with their eyes. They ate every meal in her room, stark naked.

When she got to Manaus she would look first for his dark brown wavy hair and then those big, dark, chocolate-colored eyes. He virtually always had a deep tan.

This bloody longing she had for Joe felt as if something was burning slowly under her skin. The hours between them would not go fast enough.

She questioned again her decision to refuse to marry him. Had that been a truly stupid mistake? When Star had said Nova was crazy to let a great man get away, actually drive him away, Nova had countered with, “I’ve created a life I’m comfortable with, Star. I don’t know who I’d be if I married anyone, not just Joe. I need to be me. Not Mrs. Someone Else. I didn’t want to split up. He just wouldn’t settle for anything less than marriage.”

Star had snipped back with, “You’re just afraid to give up even a teeny bit of control.”

The businessman seated next to her finished skimming the paper he’d brought along. He folded it, stuffed it in the pocket in front of him, stroked his mustache and interrupted her gloomy thoughts, asking in Portuguese, “Have you been to Manaus before?”

“No. And I fear I don’t speak Portuguese very well.”

“Then let us speak English,” he said without missing a beat.