His office was three blocks from the Palace Hotel, on a wide shaded lot his uncle had bought decades earlier. Thick trees covered the roof, so regardless of the heat, Valdir kept his windows open. He liked the gentle noise from the street. At three-fifteen, he saw a man he'd never seen before stop and examine his office. The man was obviously a stranger, and an American. Valdir knew it was Mr. O'Riley.
THE SECRETARY brought them cafezinho, the strong sugary black coffee Brazilians drink all day in tiny cups, and Nate was instantly addicted to it. He sat in Valdir's office, already on a first-name basis, and admired the surroundings: the squeaky ceiling fan above them, the open windows with the muted sounds of the street drifting in, the neat rows of dusty files on the shelves behind Valdir, the scuffed and worn plank floor under them. The office was quite warm, but not uncomfortable. Nate was sitting in a movie, one shot fifty years ago.
Valdir phoned D.C., and got Josh. They talked for a moment, then he handed the phone across the desk. "Hello, Josh," Nate said. Josh was obviously relieved to hear his voice. Nate recounted his journey to Corumba, with emphasis on the fact that he was doing well, still sober, and looking forward to the rest of his adventure.
Valdir busied himself with a file in a corner, trying to appear as if he had no interest in the conversation, but absorbing every word. Why was Nate O'Riley so proud of being sober?
When the phone call was over, Valdir produced and unfolded a large air navigational map of the state of Mato Grosso do Sul, roughly the same size as Texas, and pointed to the Pantanal. It covered the entire northwestern portion of the state, and continued into Mato Grosso to the north and Bolivia to the west. Hundreds of rivers and streams spread like veins through the swampland. It was shaded yellow, and there were no towns or cities in the Pantanal. No roads or highways. A hundred thousand square miles of swamp, Nate recalled from the innumerable memos Josh had packed for him.
Valdir lit a cigarette as they studied the map. He had done some homework. There were four red X's along the western edge of the map, near Bolivia.
"There are tribes here," he said, pointing to the red marks. "Guato and Ipicas."
"How large are they?" Nate asked, leaning close, his first real glimpse at the terrain he was expected to comb in search of Rachel Lane.
"We don't really know," Valdir replied, his words very slow and precise. He was trying hard to impress the American with his English. "A hundred years ago, there were many more. But the tribes grow smaller with each generation."
"How much contact do they have with the outside world?" Nate asked.
"Very little. Their culture hasn't changed in a thousand years. They trade some with the riverboats, but they have no desire to change."
"Do we know where the missionaries are?"
"It's difficult to say. I talked with the Minister of Health for the state of Mato Grosso do Sul. I know him personally, and his office has a general idea of where the missionaries are working. I also spoke with a representative from FUNAI-it's our Bureau of Indian Affairs." Valdir pointed to two of the X's. "These are Guato. There are probably missionaries around here."
"Do you know their names?" Nate asked, but it was a throwaway question. According to a memo from Josh, Valdir had not been given the name of Rachel Lane. He had been told that the woman worked for World Tribes, but that was it.
Valdir smiled and shook his head. "That would not be too easy. You must understand that there are at least twenty different American and Canadian organizations with missionaries in Brazil. It's easy to get into our country, and it's easy to move around. Especially in the undeveloped areas. No one really cares who's out there and what they're doing. We figure if they're missionaries, then they are good people."
Nate pointed at Corumba, then to the nearest red X. "How long does it take to get from here to there?"
"Depends. By plane, about an hour. By boat, from three to five days."
"Then where's my plane?"
"It's not that easy," Valdir said, reaching for another map. He unrolled it and pressed it on top of the first one. "This is a topographical map of the Pantanal. These are the fazendas."
"The what?"
"Fazendas. Large farms."
"I thought it was all swamp."
"No. Many areas are elevated just enough to raise cattle. The fazendas were built two hundred years ago, and are still worked by the pantaneiros. Only a few of the fazendas are accessible by boat, so they use small airplanes. The airstrips are marked in blue."
Nate noticed that there were very few airstrips near the Indian settlements.
Valdir continued, "Even if you flew into the area, you would then have to use a boat to get to the Indians."
"How are the airstrips?"
"They're all grass. Sometimes they cut the grass, sometimes they don't. The biggest problem is cows."
"Cows?"
"Yes, cows like grass. Sometimes it's hard to land because the cows are eating the runway." Valdir said this with no effort at humor.
"Can't they move the cows?"
"Yes, if they know you're coming. But there are no phones."
"No phones in the fazendas?"
"None. They are very isolated."
"So I couldn't fly into the Pantanal, then rent a boat to find the Indians?"
"No. The boats are here in Corumba. As are the guides."
Nate stared at the map, especially the Paraguay River as it wound and looped its way northward in the direction of the Indian settlements. Somewhere along the river, hopefully in proximity to it, in the midst of this vast wetlands, was a simple servant of God, living each day in peace and tranquility, thinking little of the future, quietly ministering to her flock.
And he had to find her.
"I'd like to at least fly over the area," Nate said.
Valdir rerolled the last map. "I can arrange an airplane and a pilot."
"What about a boat?"
"I'm working on that. This is the flood season, and most of the boats are in use. The rivers are up. There's more river traffic this time of the year."
How nice of Troy to kill himself during the flood season. According to the firm's research, the rains came in November and lasted until February, and all of the lowest areas and many of the fazendas were underwater.
"I must warn you, though," Valdir said, lighting another cigarette as he refolded the first map, "air travel is not without risk. The planes are small, and if there's engine trouble, well..." His voice trailed away as he rolled his eyes and shrugged as if all hope was lost.
"Well what?"
"There's no place for an emergency landing, no place to put it down. A plane went down a month ago. They found it near a riverbank, surrounded by alligators."
"What happened to the passengers?" Nate asked, terrified of the answer.
"Ask the alligators."
"Let's change the subject."
"More coffee?"
"Yes, please."
Valdir yelled at his secretary. They walked to a window and watched the traffic. "I think I have found a guide," he said.
"Good. Does he speak English?"
"Yes, very well. He's a young man, just out of the army. A fine boy. His father was a river pilot."
"That's nice."
Valdir walked to his desk and picked up the phone. The secretary brought Nate another small cup of cafezinho, and he sipped it standing in the window. Across the street was a small bar with three tables on the sidewalk under a canopy. A red sign advertised Antartica beer. Two men in shirtsleeves and ties shared a table with a large bottle of Antartica between them. It was a perfect setting-a hot day, a festive mood, a cold drink enjoyed by two friends in the shade.