The Games (Private #11)(11)
Feeling afraid and shaky for the first time, I said, “Strip, burn our clothes, and cover ourselves in Saran Wrap?”
Chapter 9
LUCAS CASTRO WAITED until he was blocks away from Maracan? Stadium before he removed the blond wig and fake mustache and dropped them in a trash can.
They can’t ignore that, the doctor thought, looking back at the brilliantly lit stadium where Shakira was singing. Someone will pay attention now. The deaths of Jorge and his sister won’t be in vain. The death of— A firework rocket soared over the stadium and exploded in a series of thundering claps and flashes, then dwindled away to silver glints that rained down on the World Cup venue like a brilliant mist. The image was satisfying enough to turn Castro toward home.
Dr. Castro had no doubt that he would hear how the crisis was handled. Once the body was examined, someone would come to him, and he’d be able to blame it on Igor Lima. No histrionics that might raise suspicions. Just a clear account of the truth.
I warned Senhor Lima. But he was more interested in protecting the World Cup than the people of Rio.
Dr. Desales would back him up. No doubt. And when it came to it, Pinto, the hospital administrator, would do the same, if only to save his own ass.
When Dr. Castro reached home, he was pleasantly tired, and he poured himself a glass of wine, proud of himself. He hadn’t stood back. He’d fought for something, sacrificed for it, even spent four thousand dollars for a scalped ticket to the game.
The doctor had watched Henri Dijon through binoculars for the entire match, or at least whenever he was visible. After seeing those same two from Private catch the FIFA spokesman and lead him away, he knew it was only a matter of time before a call went out for a doctor, a call that he would answer.
Encountering Morgan and Reynaldo again, he’d had a moment of panic that they would recognize him from the night before. But his disguise and the urgency of the situation had been enough to keep all attention on the dying man.
Dijon had conveniently expired before Castro had time to make even a mock examination. Then it was simply a matter of suggesting Ebola was the culprit and acting the scared, unethical plastic surgeon out to save his own hide.
By now the entire stadium must be under lockdown, the doctor thought as he poured himself a second glass of wine and turned on the television, expecting the late local coverage that Sunday night to be all about the virus outbreak.
But there was nothing. Just stories about the game and how smoothly it had all gone. Not even a protest had marred the event. FIFA and the government were declaring the tournament and the final a classic, one for the ages. Never once was Henri Dijon mentioned. And watching a live stand-up inside Maracan?, he could see that the stadium was empty.
Castro couldn’t believe it.
They’re burying Dijon’s death, he thought with growing bitterness. Even the death of someone like Dijon wasn’t enough to shatter the facade. They were burying the story for FIFA’s and Rio’s image, just like they’d buried the two poor kids.
The doctor sat there for hours staring at the screen, telling himself that at some point, word of Dijon’s death and its manner would get out. But by dawn, watching the early newscasts, he wasn’t even trying to believe it anymore.
Dijon’s death will be attributed to a heart attack or something. The virus will never be mentioned. I’ll never be contacted. And more will die until…
No, that’s not happening, Castro decided, feeling angrier and more obsessed than ever. There has to be payback. That is all there is to it.
He owed those dead kids payback. He owed all the poor of Rio payback as well. And Sophie? He owed her most of all.
Castro went to his refrigerator and pulled out a vial. He held it up to the morning light and swore he could see the ghosts of Sophie, the children, and even Dijon swirling in the rest of the contaminated blood.
Every single ghost was howling at him to go on.
Twenty-Four Months and Two Weeks Later
PART TWO
A Tale of Two Cities
Chapter 10
Thursday, July 28, 2016
ONE WEEK AND one day before the opening ceremony of the 2016 Summer Olympic Games, Rio was almost ready to show the world how to party.
Construction went on around the clock as workers finished up the Olympic venues spread across the city. Corporate hospitality tents had gone up on the beaches and in the parks. The new subway line to the Olympic Park in Barra da Tijuca had opened the week before, to much fanfare.
In Ipanema and Copacabana, hotels were fully booked for the upcoming sixteen-day event, and the few apartments available were going for twenty-five thousand dollars U.S. a week. The first of several massive cruise liners had already sailed into Rio’s harbor to provide overflow sleeping space for the five million people expected to come to the Marvelous City for the games.
Newspapers wrote about nothing but the Olympics. It was the only topic on the radio, the only thing you saw on television. Even in squalid places like Alem?o, the so-called German favela of northwest Rio, there was an energy in the air; anticipation, yes, but something more that Rayssa couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Standing behind a four-foot masonry wall high up one of the six steep hills of the Alem?o slum, Rayssa was pissed that she couldn’t name that energy.