What Beethoven was to music, Rembrandt to painting, Tico “The Artist” Santos was to the art of futebol. He was the new Pele. Some alleged he was better than Pele. With Tico in form, his team was expected to go on to glory. With Tico depressed and worried about the fate of his mother, Brazil ran a grave risk of suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of the country’s most bitter rival-Argentina.

Even that wasn’t the worst of it. Brazil, the only country to have won the Cup five times, was hosting the series for the first time in more than sixty years.

Every important government official, from the President of the Republic on down, had acquired tickets to the games. And every one of them had been looking forward to the grand finale, where they’d rub elbows, mid-field, in the great stadium of Maracana, and watch Brazil crush the opposition.

Opposition that would, according to the bookmakers in London, most likely be wearing the blue and white of the Argentinean national team.

But now, the great elbow-rubbing fest had been thrown into jeopardy. A serious risk had arisen that Argentina might rub dirt into Brazilian faces. And, indignity of indignities, that dirt might be Brazilian dirt.

The task of finding the Artist’s mother had fallen to the Brazilian Federal Police. If Juraci Santos wasn’t quickly-and safely-returned, there was no one more likely to be targeted by the witch hunt that would surely follow than the Director in charge of that organization.

Nelson Sampaio.

“The Argentineans have a club in Sao Paulo,” he said, biting one of his nails. “That’s as good a place as any to start.”

Silva eyed him warily. “Start what?”

“Interviewing Argentineans, of course. It’s a question of cui bono. If Tico can’t do his stuff, who benefits? The Argentineans! That could be it right there! That could be the motive.”