Hot Brazilian Nights

By the time the tramcar deposited Alex once more at the entrance of the pousada, it was about half past four in the morning and the temperature was still abominably high. He'd thought the pouring rain would lessen the heat, but he felt no difference. Unable to focus for more than a second, Alex's tired, hungry brain directed his body up the stairs, and to his room, waving a limp hand at the receptionist to keep her at bay. There, he removed all clothes save for boxers, and collapsed onto the bed, feeling exhausted but relieved.

He'd wake up when it was a bit cooler.

As he relaxed into the mattress and closed his eyes, Alex felt something gnawing at his stomach, a small dark creature with no distinct form except that it had a singular head filled with vicious teeth. When he tried to swat it away, it sprouted another head, which bit his hand and glared at him with glowing eyes.

Its body was growing – soon it had swarmed over his whole torso as its warm, wet breath clung to his face and chest. More heads spouted, twisting and huffing and giving off an angry, acrid odour. It sucked away all the moisture in his body to wet its own mouth.

Alex retched. After expelling his bodily contents onto the heads, which lapped at his sick greedily, he tried to take in a breath. No air came. His heart, following his vomitus, filled his mouth, blocking the entrance to his trachea. Its beating matched the drums sounding in his ears. He tried not to burst it with his teeth.

In vain, Alex tried to spit his heart out. It wasn't working. Perhaps it was his fear that stopped him. He worried that, having rid himself of his heart, all his other organs would follow and he would be left with just the outer layer of his skin, lying in the red, wet puddle of his insides.

But he had to breathe! He shoved his heart to one side of his mouth and gurgled air around it – but no, his heart was growing, pumping sickly sweet blood that filled his mouth and lungs. He shuddered, sinking his teeth into his heart, but that only released more blood and still his heart pounded away in his mouth. The creature paid him no mind as its heads took turns eviscerating his stomach.

Now his heart launched itself into the back of his throat, choking him, suffocating him. Imagine if he died now, he thought, asphyxiated by his own heart. Blood leaked from the corners of his eyes and he convulsed, weaker now, onto his side. He stared apathetically at the door and felt his heart, thudding in his mouth, beginning to slow. With the lethargy of a dog sentenced to death, he rolled onto his front, onto the floor.

The impact shocked him awake.

The creature and blood disappeared, replaced by a gnawing hunger. But the smell of blackness remained. It was dark, and Alex felt around for the light switch to the lamp on his bedside table. Just a dream, just a dream… His searching fingers paused in their journey.

That smell… was familiar. It was important. Alex's mind placed it in the kitchen, from the toaster…

Smoke!

He looked wildly about and noticed the black air surrounding him. Hysterical laughter bubbled to the fore and he choked out a hoarse whisper, as if there was someone to hear, "Where there's smoke, there's fire!" He couldn't see the red-orange flicker of flames in his room; it must be the rest of the pousada that was burning. Instead of burning to death, he would be asphyxiated. But it was still raining outside. How could the pousada be on fire? The fire must have been lit by someone…

It must have been fishhead! That bitch hadn't kept her promise. And she'd seemed so sincere!

But that was beside the point now. He had to escape. Already, it felt as though he were in a furnace. Stumbling to the bathroom with stinging eyes, he grabbed the wash towel, and ran it under cold water. Luckily, it was big enough to wrap around his nose and mouth. He crawled to the door and put his hand to the knob.

Alex jerked his hand back. The fire was obviously very close on the other side of the door, because besides the loudness of the roaring fire, the doorknob was searing hot. How could he be so idiotic? Had Ian taught him nothing? Mindlessly, he ripped the bedclothes off and stuffed them against the crack under the door. Hopefully, it would mitigate the fire and smoke.

Crawling to the window revealed another problem: the window was glued shut, presumably by fishhead. She'd really wanted him to die this time. 'Scaring', his arse. Though he heaved with all his might, it would not budge.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. He made a second trip to the bathroom and retrieved a towel. Alex held the towel against the window as he kicked it in. The shards of glass fell to the ground in a tinkling rush. He hoped there was no-one below; but, really, why would there be?

With great difficulty, he dragged the mattress – thanking the pousada owners (or was it the managers who made bedding decisions?) that the mattress was extra thick – over to the wide window and dropped it to the ground. A moment's hesitation considering the precious contents – the laptop! – in his bags was all he needed before he dropped his manbag and Samsonite down the cliff as well. With a deep breath, Alex followed them out the window, stifling the yelp that threatened as his stomach fell out from under him.

In preparation of landing, Alex extended his knees, and moved smoothly into a roll. Pausing to gather his wits, he stood up, dusted himself off and gathered his bags. An inexplicable sense of loss suddenly overcame Alex and he turned to face the cliff-face to say goodbye to his room in the pousada. The tramcar was disabled, in case the fire caused havoc with the controls, so Alex walked towards the top of the stairs he had arrived on.

Before he could reach the stairs, he was interrupted by a voice.

"E aí, gatão, como estás?" simpered the reception lady with fluttering fake eyelashes. She looked somewhat naked somehow without the large desk hiding her.

Alex smiled vaguely. "Eeh aiee, gah tow, kaw moh iss tahzz," he mumbled, hoping that was a decent reply.

The lady frowned a little, but continued, unfazed. "Would handsome enjoy company of my house for the night?"

Shaking his head, Alex tried to inch past her to the stairs.

But still the woman persisted. "Poor boy, should not be alone. I can take care."

"I'm sure you can," Alex nodded, trying not to sound sarcastic. "Now, I just need to get—"

"I can get anything!" cried the woman passionately. "Anything for you, I can get an—"

"Hmm," Alex cut her off and leapt towards the stairs. Before the lady could protest her undying love, she was shouldered aside by a fireman with a bored expression. A spark of interest had lit his eyes in anticipation of conversation with Alex. Honestly, it was five thirty in the morning! Couldn't they leave him in peace?

"Are you harassed?" the fireman droned. He nodded, satisfied, when Alex shook his head violently. It seemed that tonight was a night of much head movement. The fireman gestured towards the house and mumbled a segue. "Did you call us here?"

Alex shook his head again and moved closer to the stairs. The fireman blocked his path and blinked at him as if surprised he wanted to escape. "Because," he enunciated pointedly with a glare at Alex's pale skin, "caller was Englishman." He nodded as if this was some grand secret he had been harbouring for the right time to release it into the air.

"Hmm," Alex replied noncommittally, and attempted to shove past.

The fireman stepped in front of him again. "And," he whispered in Alex's ear, "he was happy. He was proud." Once more he nodded upon imparting this information. Yes, tonight was a night of nodding and shaking heads.

"Oh my," Alex muttered and tried to slip under the fireman's elbow.

He got an elbow to the face for his troubles. Apparently, the fireman hadn't finished. "Also," the fireman pronounced, "he was strange."

Nonplussed, Alex decided that this conversation would be over faster if he could entice the fireman into giving up his information as quickly as possible. The sooner he could leave, the sooner he could end this whole business with fishhead and the sooner he'd get back to his football season. His mates would have been training for their third game by now. "How so?" Alex enquired, twisting his face into an expression of polite interest.

"Well," said the fireman, clearly pleased that he had snared a listener, "all the time he was calling himself by the strange name."

"Yes?" Alex prompted.

"Yes," agreed the fireman, nodding. "He was calling him 'icy'."

Alex froze. "icy?"

"Yes," repeated the fireman, enjoying Alex's reaction. "I think he is lighting the fire."

"Not…" Alex trailed off. "Not fishhead?"

This so confused the fireman he didn't notice Alex slink away, shaking his head in upset confusion. Well, at least fishhead had kept her promise.

xxx

At the airport, Alex checked the laptop's recordings of the transmissions. Unfortunately, he hadn't figured out how to access the page through careful selection and pressing of keys, and had to resort to reconstructing his fit on the keyboard. It was a good thing he was sitting in the corner, although he spotted at least one person quickly sidling away after seeing the slightly furtive-looking boy vigorously attack the laptop.

The screen showed the transmission as '. (icy). Location: Singapore.' For some reason, it couldn't be any more accurate than that. Well, at least Singapore was sort of smallish.

Alex decided that there was probably more information to be gleaned from the internet – or at least, he couldn't bear wasting the free wi-fi service in the airport. An IP address look-up told him that the transmission was through iiNet, and that the browser used was, ironically for icy's pseudonym, Firefox. He – or she; Alex had learnt his lesson after meeting fishhead – also had Windows 7.

With renewed determination, Alex stood up and made his way to an ATM. After suffering the Pousada Favelinha, he was eager for the luxury that could be bought with access to the funds in his bank account. Or rather, MI6's bank account for agents. Alex rubbed his hands together.

Although previously he'd shied away from accessing the account, preferring to use hard cash and fearing that whoever was after him would somehow trace his whereabouts, Alex figured that he was leaving for Singapore in a few hours, and what could possibly happen in that time? fishhead, at least, was out of the equation. And icy surely would think him dead.

Singapore Airlines, economy class, was his choice. He wasn't so eager for luxury to buy his way into business or even first class – that would attract more attention than he was able to suffer. It would take almost a day to get to Singapore, but the airline provided movies and meals and that was all Alex really needed. He would definitely appreciate not fearing for his life for a day. Taking off and landing were the tricky bits.

After booking his flight, Alex walked to a payphone to book a hotel for his arrival in Singapore. He didn't know much about the hotels there, but a quick flip through a tourist guide gave him the name and number of a hotel that looked pretty decent. It was better than the pousada, at any rate. It was called the Amara.

"Hello, this is the Amara Hotel, how can I help you?" a young female voice chirped in a strange accent, a mixture of conglomerate Asian and Caucasian – English or American? he wasn't sure – that made it seem as if the voice on the other end of the line was carefully enunciating each syllable in order to be understood.

Alex cleared his throat. He needed to be convincing, and so spoke in Received, with a faint hint of a French accent. "Ah, yes, hello. I was wondering if I could book a room?"

"Yes, Sir," agreed the voice, and added, "would that be a single room? Executive? With internet?"

"Yes, thank you, with internet," Alex confirmed.

There was a pause. "And what time period were you hoping for, Sir?"

"Er," Alex stalled. How long would it take to meet and sort out icy? He played for time. "From tonight, if that's possible."

"Yes, Sir, we have several rooms available," the voice assured him, a little exasperatedly. "When would you be ending your stay with us, Sir?"

Once more, Alex cleared his throat, playing for time. "Perhaps for a week – would I be able to extend my stay at the end of that?"

"Yes, Sir," the voice replied after a pause. "However, you may be asked to change rooms, although that eventuality will be avoided if at all possible, of course."

"Excellent," Alex smiled. "Shall I bring payment on arrival?"

"Yes, Sir," the voice repeated, "you should also bring your passport. It will be just over one thousand and five hundred Singapore dollars, tax inclusive. In Brazilian Real, that is just over two thousand and five hundred. Would you like that in pounds or Francs, Sir?"

Alex was startled by her knowledge of his location, not to mention her picking up on what he'd thought was a very subtle accent. What possible use could a hotel have for knowing where its callers were? Pushing his surprise to the back of his mind, he declined and ended the call.

Next, Alex checked in his Samsonite, and headed towards passport control. The officer at the head of the queue for passport control that Alex was in was young and looked a little like some sort of rodent, with limp black hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail, and a small, half-hearted goatee. As Alex stepped towards the man, he was assaulted with the smell of stale smoke and fish, and had to force himself to show no reaction.

The man, as though he held a longstanding grudge towards everyone, scrutinised Alex's face carefully, comparing it to the passport that proclaimed Alex to be 'Louis Le Châtelier', a name Alex had chosen on the spur of the moment when buying the counterfeit documents.

"What you think, Miguel, is he looking like who he say he is?" Alex's officer coughed a wet chuckle at the officer at the desk beside him. The other man grunted, but continued with his own traveller. The ferret officer scowled, but nodded to Alex. Reluctantly. "Go through."

According to Alex's boarding pass, he was to board the plane at seven o'clock that morning, but the plane wouldn't actually start moving until an hour later. His wristwatch told him that he still had half an hour before he had to consider moving to the gate. And what else to do at six o'clock in the morning but eat breakfast?

After checking in his bags, he followed a map to the food section. The bright lights and tantalising pictures welcomed hungry travellers. Given such a large choice, it was hard for Alex to choose which particular venue should be graced by his presence. He looked down at his boarding pass: 'Terminal 1'. Well, he could narrow his choices down by choosing those places near his terminal. Crossing the wide expanse, he entered Passenger Terminal 1.

Here, there was still a number of places Alex could eat, though these were separated by category of eatery, and so it was easier. He surveyed his choices with a keen eye. A café, 'Black Coffee', held a number of young to middle-aged women; couples with screaming children queued at the counter of Brunella Ice; young men about his age with American flags and footballs populated SP Burger; suave businessmen and women dined at the Viena Restaurant. Alex would have gone to the burger place, but seeing the footballs made him feel bitter and pouty and so he turned away from the sight. The black and white sign of 'Crepe de Paris' greeted him, promising comfort and quiet solitude. He approached it and scanned the menu.

Much as he would have liked to try the various breakfast and dessert crepes, Alex required something to sustain him for a while; he'd been eating mostly snacks in Brazil, and who knew how nutritious the food on the plane would be? For only eighteen Brazilian Real, Alex was served the Paris Special: a crepe of magnificent proportions, overflowing with chicken, mushrooms, olives and mozzarella, and oozing with 'special' gravy. Alex's tastebuds watered.

At least thirty minutes later, though, the food had been consumed and it was time to enter Terminal 1.

As he approached the x-ray scanner, his heart began to thump a staccato rhythm that only grew stronger as he walked closer. It had always done this, even before Ian's death. There was just something in the silent watchfulness of the guards, and the ever-present worry that the machines would find something and give off an alarm. What did he have? Money, toiletries, expanding gum, papers and a mobile. Would the mobile set off the alarm? Would the gum? He doubted it, Smithers was too good for that. Alex put the mobile in the tray for the scanning machine and walked through, looking as innocent he could.

Stepping through the scanning gateway, Alex's heart gave a little skip and he paused. The alarm. It was ringing. He looked at the light. Yes, it was for him. The guard was motioning to him, saying something. Brain racing furiously, Alex re-checked everything on his person. Ah, yes! Relief. It was his wristwatch. Alex smiled sheepishly and returned under the gateway, put his watch in a tray and stepped back through.

This time the alarm did not beep.

Gathering his belongings, he made his way to one of the two free seats beside the terminal gate. One other seat was sandwiched between two large families, both of which had more than their fair share of howling babies. Anything was better than that, surely. He headed towards the other seat: it was on the end of a row.

The man beside Alex reminded him of a grown up version of the disguise SCORPIA had equipped Alex with when he entered England to kill Mrs Jones: overweight, with black curly hair, thick glasses, terrible skin, and a slight moustache on his upper lip. The man had purchased a pizza and a coke from somewhere in the airport, and was ploughing his way through each, while reading the news on his iPad. Alex cringed mentally as he watched the man swiping his greasy fingers across the keys, and licking his plump lips.

Eventually, business class was called to board, and the man left.

Bored, Alex turned the boarding pass over. He frowned. There was writing…

NOTICE TO CUSTOMERS TRAVELLING TO OR FROM THE UNITED STATES / FROM BRAZIL

If you are travelling on a flight to or from the United States / from Brazil, please provide the name and telephone number of a person not travelling with you. The information will be used only in the event of an emergency and may be released to relevant U.S. / Brazilian government agencies. Thank you.

Underneath this notice, were spaces for the person's name, relationship to him, city or state, country, postal code, telephone number and fax number.

Alex shrugged and wrote in Smithers' details, or what he knew of them, which wasn't much. What was Smithers' first name, anyway? Derek. He couldn't put MI6's phone number, because the emergency services would probably be a little sceptical with the Royal and General Bank answering so he left that blank. The relationship section was also left blank. That he left up to Smithers.

Just as Alex completed the form, the PA called for all economy class passengers to board. Groaning as he stood, he collected his manbag and headed towards the plane.

AN: Got any ideas for the person going after Alex? Clue: It's someone you all know.