Part 2 (2/2)
”I asked you first.”
He laughed aloud. Some of the earnest heads down in the pit turned up to look at him, then back to their business. Annja supposed they were saving the world in the event eternal life didn't pan out.
”I won't ask even you to deliver what does not exist,” he said. ”But I suspect if I asked the impossible, in just the right way, you'd deliver.”
”Flattery will get you well, I guess it usually works in the real world, doesn't it?”
”I never flatter,” he said simply. He took her gently by the arm. ”Come and meet your a.s.sociate.”
”Annja, this is Dan Seddon,” Publico said. ”He'll be accompanying you to Brazil.”
They stood in an echoing s.p.a.ce beneath what appeared to be the interior of a pyramid of translucent white blocks. A young man stood in the center, next to a slowly rotating statue of dark metal, possibly bronze. The shape suggested a feather sprouting from the floor. He turned with a certain fluid, alert grace at their approach.
When he saw Annja he smiled. She smiled back and held out her hand. He took it and shook it firmly. He didn't seem the sort to kiss it.
He had a stylish brush of hair, either brown or dark blond, frosted lighter blond. His eyes were a green or hazel, not too different from Annja's own and alive with curiosity. His face was a tanned narrow wedge with dark brows. His nose had been almost patrician thin and straight, but had been broken at least once and had a b.u.mp in the bridge to give it character. His grin had a practiced flash to it.
”Good to meet you, Ms. Creed,” he said, businesslike enough. He wore a lightweight jacket over a white s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans. His shoes were walking shoes, good quality. That scored points with Annja. An experienced field archaeologist who also tramped great distances in the course of her work with Chasing History's Monsters, Chasing History's Monsters, she knew the value of good footwear. she knew the value of good footwear.
”My pleasure, Mr. Seddon,” she said. ”So, you're an archaeologist?”
”No.”
”Anthropologist?”
”No.” His manner was relaxed. Perhaps even a trifle superior.
”Dan is a troubleshooter,” Publico put in as smoothly as his gravelly voice would allow. ”He's been a major activist for years, campaigning against globalization all over the world. Seattle 2000. Italy '03. Now he specializes in getting things done for me. He's proved himself a key part of my humanitarian operations.”
Seddon smiled a lazy smile.
Annja frowned. ”I'm sure Mr. Seddon has great abilities in his field,” she said. ”But I'm not sure what he brings to the table for an archeological expedition.”
”It doesn't really rise to the level of an expedition yet,” Publico admitted. ”I hope it'll turn into one. In the opening phases, though, it's likely to entail a combination of intensive historical research and detective work.”
”You've got the historical angle nailed,” Seddon said with a grin. ”I know you're good at that. Not like that bimbo Kristie.”
Maybe this guy is okay, Annja thought.
”Mark's career as a campaigner has involved no small amount of investigative work,” Moran said.
”Digging up dirt on exploiters and polluters,” the young man said. ”Also I might just be able to look out for you. I've been around some.”
Annja had to press her lips together at the thought of his looking out for her. ”I'd certainly appreciate your having my back,” she said, truthfully if not so candidly.
He looked her up and down a little more deliberately than was strictly polite. ”That I can do, Ms. Creed,” he said. ”That I can do.”
Chapter 4.
”I said, Emo's for people not optimistic enough to be Goth,” Dan said. said, Emo's for people not optimistic enough to be Goth,” Dan said.
Annja laughed. On the long journey to Brazil from Publico's Manhattan penthouse her companion had proved consistently entertaining, with a sharp eye and facile wit. Those traits didn't exactly translate into being of perceptible use in fieldwork, but they did help to pa.s.s the time. And there was no doubt that his air of self-a.s.surance, quite untainted by any hint of bragging over his own abilities or achievements, was an encouraging sign.
The Belem riverfront was splashed with noonday sun and alive with people as they strolled along it. It was hot, the humid air like a lead blanket that wrapped about her and weighed her down. The rain that had fallen as they ate a late breakfast at a cafe near their small but well-appointed hotel had done nothing to alleviate the heat. If anything the extra moisture in the air made it more oppressive.
The floppy straw hat Annja affected helped a little, but she still felt overdressed in sleeveless orange blouse and khaki cargo shorts. She had even forsaken her trusty walking shoes for a pair of flip-flops.
Her companion shook his frosted head. He wore a white polo-style s.h.i.+rt over khaki trousers, a surprisingly conventional upscale-tourist look. When she had called him on it at breakfast he had explained frankly that dressing like a more conventional college-age American, in jeans-and-T-s.h.i.+rt scruff, tended to attract a little too much attention from the local law enforcement.
”If there's one thing I learned from Genoa,” he had said over a forkful of scrambled eggs and bacon to Annja's relief he was no vegetarian ”it's to pick your battles with the Man carefully.”
Genoa, she had learned, was the antiglobalization protest where police had killed demonstrators, resulting in a scandal that rocked the whole European Union.
”I wish I had a better idea where this shop we're looking for is,” he said, waving a sc.r.a.p of paper holding the address of their first contact. ”Unfortunately it's not the sort of place you find in a clean and well-marked spot. Or even on Google Maps.”
Feeling surprisingly rested after what amounted to a protracted nap, Annja was noticing how different Belem looked and felt than Rio de Janeiro, that gaudy metropolis sprawling like a drunken giant along the Atlantic coast far to the south. Tourists didn't come here as often as they did to Rio, or to So Paulo. It was hot as Dante's imagination, a degree south of the equator, and hadn't felt any cooler when they'd arrived at the hotel before sunup.
The esplanade where they walked was wide and bright and clean enough. But they were clearly in a poorer section of the city. Dan stopped and frowned dubiously down a narrow side street. ”I'm sure it's down one of these alleys,” he said. ”But I'm afraid we could wander for days looking and not find it.”
”I can't believe you're acting like a stereotypical man,” Annja said. ”Why not ask for directions?”
He raised both brows at her in an uncharacteristic and utterly amusing look of helplessness. ”Because I can't speak Portuguese?”
”Fair enough. But you know some Spanish, don't you?”
”Enough to get by. But that's a different language.”
She laughed. ”So native Spanish speakers and Portuguese speakers are always trying to convince me. But if you just listen and try, you'll find you can make out a whole lot more than you think. Trust me I did when I first started trying to learn Portuguese after knowing Spanish.”
He set his chin in an expression she took for provisional acceptance. He seemed to cultivate a fas.h.i.+onable sort of perpetual three-day facial fuzz. She had to admit he wore the look well. Perhaps it was the underlying toughness he never alluded to in words, but was to Annja's practiced eye unmistakable in the wary way he moved. He was always balanced and ready for action. It redeemed him from looking like some orthodontist's kid from Seattle rebelling against capitalism and the modern world on a five-figure allowance.
Annja spoke to a pair of middle-aged women wearing white blouses and colorful skirts. They seemed surprised to find an American speaking to them in good Brazilian Portuguese, but were as friendly as most Brazilians Annja had encountered, and quickly told her how to find the address.
”Watch yourself,” the taller one suggested. ”That's not the best part of town for a white girl.” It was spoken matter-of-factly.
”I will,” Annja said in response to the warning. ”Thanks.”
Annja led Dan away from the river down a relatively wide street.
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