Buried Strangers by Leighton Gage Page B

both the victim and the accused), by case number, by date of entry into the locker, and by item. Soares started searching by item.
    When he couldn’t find the listing he was looking for, he opened his briefcase and took out the notes he’d made dur-ing his search of the archives. The man who styled himself Abdul Al Shakiri was a terrorist, arrested fifteen months ear-lier while in transit through Guarulhos airport.
    International pressure, mostly from the Americans, had resulted in a speedy trial. An appeal was under way, but it wasn’t likely that the exhibits used to convict Al Shakiri would be required any time soon, if at all. Soares typed in Al Shakiri’s name and hit ENTER.
    Nothing.
    He referred back to his notes and tried the man’s real name, Muhammad Wahabi.
    And got a hit.
    When he’d done the search by item, he’d tried “explo-sive,” “plastic,” “ plástico, ” and “plastique.” Now he could see why he’d been unsuccessful. The stuff Al Shakiri/Wahabi had been arrested with was listed under its brand name: Semtex. The detonators were in the same cupboard as the explosive. Both were securely stored away in his briefcase by the time Sergeant Blessa knocked on the door.
    “Find everything you need?” Blessa asked.
    “Four fifty, you said?”
    Blessa nodded.
    Soares fished out his wallet and counted out nine bank-notes of fifty reais each. Blessa put them into his hip pocket and smiled.
    “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said, looking very much like he’d just snapped up a fat and extremely tasty dragonfly.
    “THREE FULL watts of power.”
    The owner of the model-aircraft shop said it with a touch of pride, as if he’d designed and built the thing all by himself.
    “And that’s the most powerful one you’ve got?” Claudia said.
    The owner looked hurt.
    “Well . . . sure,” he said. “That’s the maximum permitted by law. You don’t need any more than that. By the time it gets out of range of this baby, you’re gonna need binoculars to see whatever you’re flying.”
    “That should do it then.”
    “Absolutely. Aileron control here, rudder control here, and elevator control here,” he said, stabbing at the front panel of the remote control designed for model aircraft.
    “Receiver and motors?”
    “In the box. Everything you need is in the box. Instructions, too. What’s the wingspan by the way?”
    Claudia knew nothing of aircraft models. She gave him the first number that popped into her head.
    “One meter sixty-two.”
    It was her height.
    The owner whistled. “That big, huh? Jesus, you don’t fool around, do you? I can see why you’d be afraid of losing it. You’re gonna need a set of batteries. They’re not included.”
    “Okay.”
    He selected some batteries from a shelf behind him, turned back to the register, and started hitting buttons.
    “The whole business,” he said, “comes to eight fifty seven and sixty centavos. Let’s call it eight fifty seven even, okay?
    “Fine.”
    Claudia opened her purse and took out her wallet.
    “Cash or credit?”
    “Cash.”
    “I don’t get many women in here,” the shop owner said, taking her money and giving her three reais in change.
    “It was my uncle’s hobby,” Claudia lied. “He taught me.”
    In fact, the things her uncle Ugo had taught her were more in the nature of what an erect penis looked like, and how she’d better keep her mouth shut about what he did to her with it.
    The shop owner closed the drawer of the register, brought out a plastic bag from under the counter, and filled it with her purchases.
    “You got any questions, just call,” he said.

Chapter Seventeen
    BRAZIL ABOLISHED SLAVERY IN 1888.
    The imperial family and the majority of the people were in favor of the act.
    The great landowners were appalled. Who’d pick their cotton? Cut their sugarcane? Harvest their coffee?
    In desperation, they turned from Africa to the Orient, solving their labor problem by importing tens of