“Yes, I know. The armoured car came this morning.”
“Yes, yes. That is right.”
“Well then, you may live. I will not take you from your children.”
“Thank you, Senhor.”
“I regret I will have to handcuff you, also. Turn around.”
The leader took him into the luggage room. With all three prisoners bound hand and foot, their mouths taped, he was ready. “Okay, let’s do it.”
The accomplices had donned black balaclavas. It was regrettable that they had to enter the hotel with their faces exposed, but with the hit ordered at only an hour’s notice they had little choice. It was a professional risk they had taken for a few minutes – unfortunate, but unavoidable.
The leader left one of the accomplices to watch the prisoners and the other to watch the lobby. He left his own balaclava in his pocket for now, and replaced the nine-millimetre in its pocket also, in case of the unlikely event that he should meet a guest in the elevator. Time was of the essence. At the ninth floor, he went straight to room 902, pulled on some gloves and his balaclava, took the spare key which the clerk had given him, and opened the door.
The room was in darkness. He flipped on the light at about the same time that Pierre Fontaine turned over in bed, woken by the noise, and pointed his pistol at the bleary-eyed Frenchman.
Fontaine was so sleepy it took him a long moment to register what was happening to him. The figure of a masked man with a pistol pointed directly at him came into focus at the same time as he heard the words.
“Senhor Fontaine. This is a robbery. Put your hands out where I can seem them. Hands out where I can see them, right now, or I shoot.”
“All right, all right,” Fontaine managed to say in Portuguese. He slowly brought his hands out from under the covers and held them up.
“Get out of bed. Stand against the wall. Hands on your head.”
Fontaine did as he was told. He felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapping on around his wrists.
“Now then, the merchandise is in the safe, correct?”
“Correct,” said Fontaine.
“You will tell me the combination, please.”
“99 to the right, 56 to the left, 25 to the right.”
“Good. Now lie down. Face down.”
Fontaine lay on the floor. Quickly, the thief dialled up the combination and the tiny wardrobe safe popped open. In it were a number of loose diamonds, some impressive rings, some US dollars, and one large diamond-and-ruby necklace originally destined for sale to General del Campo. The thief pulled up his shirt, revealing a money belt into which he stuffed the cash and all of the jewels except the necklace, which he put in his pocket. “Thank you, Senhor Fontaine. Roll over, please.”
The thief taped up Fontaine’s mouth, then taped his ankles together.
“I apologise, but you understand it is necessary.”
Fontaine nodded his agreement. He was mostly glad that the thief was a professional. It was obvious he was not a common murderer.
“Goodbye, Senhor Fontaine.”
The light went out again. Fontaine waited in the darkness.
Back at the lobby, the leader collected his men and prepared to leave. One of the accomplices asked, “All well?”
“All well. But it’s a small haul.”
“How much?”
“Not more than half a million, tops. Maybe only a quarter.”
“Shit,” said the other accomplice. “We risked our lives for that?”
“It’s not our choice, boys. The boss wanted it done.”
“Fuck the boss.”
“Let’s get out of here. Unlock the staff entrance, we’ll go out the side.”
The three men removed their balaclavas as they stepped out into the alley at the side of the hotel. Without another word they each walked off in different directions, all relieved that the risky operation had gone well.
There would be no problem with escaping on foot. There was no need to run. No one would look twice at someone walking casually down the beach or through the streets of Boa Viagem. And soon they would reach their cars and quietly drive off into the night. Everything had gone smoothly.
The leader’s car was parked a few blocks away. He walked casually past the Little Napoli restaurant, which was now closed, and along the deserted streets with all their quiet houses hidden from view by high concrete walls. There would be a lot of drunks in those houses, he knew, sleeping off their St John celebrations. Then he came to a long alley, behind a row of houses, which led to the street on which his car was parked. He walked quickly into the dirt alleyway, silently thinking what a waste of time the job had been. Even the necklace couldn’t have been worth more than a measly quarter-million US dollars. He was hoping for at least a million.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the scurrying noise of several grubby street kids running out of the shadows and appearing menacingly in front of him. One of the little bastards actually had a tiny knife.
“Your wallet, Senhor,” said the blonde-haired kid with the knife.
The jewel thief felt only one emotion, annoyance. He pulled out his nine-millimetre without a moment’s hesitation, walked straight up to the kid with the knife and pointed the barrel at his forehead.
Junio didn’t know what to do. His skinny arm trembled. The knife shook uncontrollably. This had never happened before. The rest of the kids started backing away, leaving Junio alone.
The jewel thief was already angry about risking his neck for a pissy little heist that would barely pay his bills. He certainly didn’t need any other distractions. “Listen, you little shit, I should kill you for what you just did, kill you right here and now ...”
At that millisecond the gut-wrenching sound of a pistol shot exploded like fire in Junio’s ears. Junio’s heart seemed to stop. He thought he must be dying. Urine ran down his leg and stained the dirt.
But then the man with the gun fell to the ground. Junio was confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He dropped his knife and just stood there, paralysed with fear, unable to move, in a pool of his own urine.
The man had dropped his gun. He was lying in the dirt gasping desperately for air and coughing up blood. The blood was bright red, and there was so much of it. It was so ugly. Junio could see it in the light from the street lamp at the end of the alley. The man was gargling on his own blood, spluttering like he was drowning, desperately fighting for every breath, fighting to get oxygen. Junio stepped back. It was a sight he would never forget as long as he lived. It was like something from hell.
Paulo, the leader of the street kids, stepped out from his hiding place and walked over to the dying man. He kicked him in the back – viciously – at the point where the shot had entered his chest and punctured his lung. The man twisted in agony but he could feel oxygen getting into his lungs at last. He might survive. He might live.
“Junio,” said Paulo, laughing. “You have pissed your pants!”
“No, Paulo. I didn’t.”
“You did! Look, you crybaby, you pissed your pants. Look, see here on the ground, here it is. Pissed your pants! Pissed your pants!”
The injured man managed to gulp down some more air, but he couldn’t move. He was dying after all, he decided. More blood dripped out of his mouth, there were clots in it. He wanted to scream – for the pain – but he could not. It was all he could do to spit up the blood and try to breathe.
“I didn’t, Paulo. I didn’t piss my pants.”
“Never mind, Junio. What shall we do with this man, here? You know he was going to shoot you? You want I should kill this stupid man, Junio? You want I should kill him?”
The injured man turned his grey, pale face up from the dirt and saw a skinny fifteen-year-old boy with a rusty revolver pointed at his chest. “No,” the man managed to say. “Don’t shoot.”
Paulo repeated the question. “You want me to pull the trigger, Junio? This man is a mess. Look at all this blood on his face, on his teeth. Phew!
You are a mess, Senhor. I think you are better off dead.”
Junio ran over to Paulo. There were tears on Junio’s face, dirty tears flowing down onto his neck. “No, Paulo! Please, no! Don’t kill him. Don’t kill the man. Please, Paulo. No.” Junio didn’t want to see a man die. He had never seen a man die. He thought that God would send him to hell if he should see a man die with his own two eyes. “No, Paulo.”
“You are no fun, Junio. What a sissy-boy.” Paulo whistled loudly. The other children came out of the shadows again and looked curiously at the dying man on the ground. “Get his wallet, take his things.”
One of the young boys hesitantly put his hand in the dying man’s pocket and pulled out the diamond necklace. “What is this, Paulo?”
Paulo took the necklace. “I’ll take that. Give it to me.”
The dying man gasped louder for breath. The children didn’t want to touch him. There was too much blood. Paulo had killed before but there had never been so much blood. It was too ugly.
“All right,” Paulo declared. “Come on, let’s go. The police will come.”
Junio took one last look at the dying man. “I’m sorry, Senhor,” he said pathetically, looking at the man’s blooded face. It was as pale as a ghost. The man looked up at him, his face twisted in the dirt, still gasping, unable to speak. Junio turned and ran as fast as he could.
The man tried to move, once the street kids were gone, but a shooting agony raced up his neck to his skull each time he tried it. His limbs would not obey him. He could not rise. He knew he was destined to die here, lying in a clotted pool of his own blood and the foul urine of the bastard street kid. He would never last more than an hour, he knew that for sure. He closed his eyes, spat some dirt and saliva out of his mouth, and realised death was upon him. Death tasted bad, like blood. Then he was unconscious.
When he came to again, he saw dirt and dried blood. He remembered where he was, still lying in the alley, but now there was a voice calling out and someone was shaking him.
“Captain! Captain, over here! I found a victim.”
The thief tried to turn over, to see who was speaking. Then he felt strong hands on his shoulders pulling him around until he was lying on his back. He let out a cry of pain as his broken rib grated along his spine. When he was able open his eyes again, the sight of a young military police corporal bending over him came into focus. The military police! He was lost.
“Senhor, are you all right, Senhor?” said the corporal.
“I’ve been shot. I need a hospital,” the thief managed to whisper.
“All right, Senhor, all right. Don’t worry, we will get you to a doctor.”
Behind the corporal, two privates looked on.
The corporal shouted at them. “Don’t just stand there! Help this man sit up.” Then he spoke quietly. “Hold still, Senhor. I will check your wounds.” He unbuttoned the man’s shirt and saw the small, ragged hole where the .38 calibre bullet had exited his chest. There was blood everywhere.
“I’m bleeding to death. Please, get me to a doctor. Get me a doctor.”
“We will take you to the hospital. But I must check your wounds.” The corporal opened the man’s shirt further, and saw the black money belt wrapped around his waist. “Were you robbed, Senhor?”
“No, no.” He was beginning to lose consciousness again.
The corporal removed the money belt and opened it. He was confused by the sight of two dozen diamond rings, countless loose jewels, and a thick wad of US dollars. “What the hell? What’s all this? This man ... this man is one of the thieves, from the hotel. Here are the jewels, they are here.” He shouted again. “Captain! Captain, I have the thief!”
The injured man let his head slump forward. Now he knew he was dead. He wished he could have just died in the alley, without recovering consciousness. That would have been much better.
A hulking military police captain got out of the parked police van, slammed the door in annoyance and stomped down the alley to his corporal.
“What the hell are you shouting about, Corporal? I have General del Campo on the radio and he’s in a mood like the devil. What’s the problem?”
“This man, Captain Sollo. He’s not a victim. He’s one of the thieves. Look!” The corporal stood up and handed over the money belt.
A flash of anger came across the captain’s face. He had thick features, a nose broken years before in a drunken brawl, and what little hair he had was clipped back to a military fuzz. He took his heavy black truncheon in his hands and swung it silently in thought for a moment. “Stand aside.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hold this man still!” the captain barked. The two privates lifted the injured man a little higher. “Hold up his head so he can see me.”
The thief looked up weakly at the towering figure of Captain Sollo.
“You are the thief who has robbed Senhor Fontaine, yes?”
“What does it matter?” the thief whispered, dribbling bloody saliva.
Sollo brought his truncheon down in a vicious, sweeping arc, smashing it into the thief’s right cheek, splintering the bone in an instant.
The man’s blood-choked cry of pain rang out in the dark alleyway. He wished again that he were already dead.
“Now, we will try again. You are the thief who robbed Senhor Fontaine?”
It was difficult to speak at all with a fractured face. “Yes ... yes.”
“That’s better. Well then, we shall have a little talk in private. Corporal, have this man put in the back of the van. I will interrogate him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sollo returned to the front of the van and leaned in for the radio. He grabbed the microphone. “I’m sorry, General, for the delay.”
The sound of General del Campo’s voice hissed from the dashboard speaker. “What’s going on, Sollo? Have you recovered the jewels?”
“Some of them, General. We have caught one of the thieves. Over.”
“Does he have the necklace, the diamond necklace?”
“No, sir. What do you want me to do with him?”
“Find out where the necklace is. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. And the man?”
“Kill him. And get me that necklace, Sollo. This is a nightmare.”
“I understand, General. Leave it with me, sir. Out.”
Sollo replaced the microphone and went around to the back of the large van. He closed the doors behind him and kneeled down on the hard floor by the thief, who was propped up in the front corner as helpless as a baby.
“Now, my friend. You have stolen something which is very important to a friend of mine. A diamond necklace with two large rubies. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it. For God’s sake, get me to a doctor. I’ll find it for you.”
“I might consider bringing you a doctor, Senhor, if you tell me what happened to the necklace. Perhaps your accomplices have it?”
The thief coughed. His shirt was soaked with blood. “No, I had it myself. Listen to me. I was shot by some fucking street kid. He took it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Do you think I would shoot myself, Captain? Look at me.”
“Then tell me about the street kid.”
“He was tall, about fifteen. Skinny ... light skin, dark hair. He had an old revolver. The others called him Paulo. I remember the name.”
“How many were there, altogether?”
“I don’t know. Five. Maybe seven.”
“And the necklace?”
“I told you, the tall kid took it. He took it, I tell you.”
Sollo touched the thief’s face. “You have a nasty injury there. I’d say it’s broken. And this gunshot wound, not good. Not good at all. You could die soon. Probably without a doctor you will die very soon. And if you are lying to me, Senhor, then I assure you, you will die. So, is this the truth?”
“It’s the truth. The kid has the necklace.”
Sollo fingered the fam
iliar handle of his army knife and grasped it firmly in his right hand, slowly drawing it out of its sheath. “I am glad you have decided to tell me the truth, Senhor. It will go much better for you now. Because I will find this child, Paulo, and I will recover the necklace. The general will be very happy with me for this, you understand? Very happy.”
“All right. Just get me to a doctor, I’m begging you.”
“Of course, Senhor. Of course. You have cooperated.”
Without warning, Sollo thrust his knife deep into the thief’s exposed abdomen. With an expert movement, like that of an abattoir slaughterman, he cut away the man’s life. It took two seconds.
The thief’s eyes widened in horror and in a wave of unbearable pain, then the knife came out of him. He looked down at his own belly, fresh blood seeping out like some vile acid, mixing with the dried blood from the gunshot wound. Then he took one crackling breath and fell forward into blackness.
Sollo shook his head over the dead man’s body. “You should not have stolen from General del Campo, my friend. That was your mistake.”
He kicked open the rear doors of the van and called out to his men. “Corporal, take this man to the morgue. He has died of his injuries.”
The corporal saluted and asked no questions. “Yes, sir. At once.”
Fifty miles away, in a quiet farmhouse, Bob Richards slept peacefully. Susan was curled up by his side. The candle in their room had burned out.
It was completely dark.
Chapter 9
They were careful at breakfast. Several of the guests had stayed overnight at the farm. Fabriola had set up a table outside with juice and fruits, fresh bread and cured meats. There were even leftover cakes. People were crowded around the table, jostling for their breakfast of choice, carrying their plates away to chairs and tables set around what had been the dance floor a few hours previously. Everyone was a little subdued from the heavy drinking the night before. Susan and Richards talked to different people, queued in different lines, sat at different tables. After breakfast, Susan thanked Fabriola again and explained that Richards had to get back to Recife and since she was sharing a car with him she would have to go.
The Street Angel Page 7