Wariness crystallized into disbelief, but Silva was careful to keep his voice neutral.

“You think a cabal of Argentineans snatched the Artist’s mother?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Honestly, Director, I don’t think-”

“Call Nunes. I don’t want him sitting around on his ass waiting for you to get there. I want him over at that Argentinean club questioning suspects. Tell him that.”

Silva suppressed a sigh. “I’ll tell him, Director.”

Sampaio stabbed the photo with a forefinger. “Did this come by email?”

Silva nodded.

“We can trace emails, can’t we?”

“Not in this case.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They used a free, Web-based account and logged in through an unsecured wireless link.”

“Whatever the fuck that means.” Sampaio’s language tended to get saltier when he was under pressure. “Have you booked your flight?”

Silva nodded and looked at his watch. “It leaves in fiftyfive minutes.”

“Get a move on then.” Sampaio took another bite of nail.

“We’ll continue this conversation when I get there.”

Silva raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming to Sao Paulo?” “Are you hard of hearing, Chief Inspector?”

The Director loved to throw his weight around. Unfortunately for his subordinates, he generally threw it in the wrong direction. Allowing him to go to Sao Paulo would hinder, not help, the investigation. Silva acted immediately to defuse the threat.

“I’m sure Minister Pontes will be pleased with your personal involvement,” he said.

Antonio Pontes, the Minister of Justice, was the government’s Witch Hunter-in-Chief.

For a while, Sampaio didn’t reply.

Silva knew what he was up to. He was turning it over in his head: Go to Sao Paulo and assume all responsibility, or stay in Brasilia and blame Mario Silva and his team in case of failure?