by Mark Dawson
He opened his eyes and immediately wished that he hadn’t; the light stabbed into his brain, and he squeezed them tight again.
“You’re awake.”
It was Rafaela. He felt her hand on his brow.
“Hello,” he said weakly.
The mattress shifted as she sat down next to him. “How do you feel?”
“Not great,” he admitted, cautiously opening his eyes again. “How do I look?”
She reached over to the overturned wooden crate she used for a bedside table and took a mirror from her make-up bag. She held it over Paulo’s face so that he could look into it.
“Puta que pariu!” he cursed.
“Marcos said you were mugged.”
“Did he bring me home?”
“Yes,” she said. “You woke Eloá.”
“Merda,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Three guys,” he said. “They jumped me.”
“Marcos said it was outside the garage.”
“I was just coming home.”
“Do you know who did it?”
He shook his head; the motion drew a fresh throb of pain and, for a moment, he thought he was going to throw up. He didn’t like lying to his wife, but he couldn’t see the sense in frightening her any more than she already was. Palito had made it plain that last night wouldn’t be the end of it; what good was there in giving Rafaela something else to worry about, especially when there was nothing that she could do to help?
“You’re sure?”
“I told you,” he snapped, regretting his tone of voice at once.
She ignored it. “Did they take anything?”
“I don’t have anything to take.”
He put his arm down on the mattress and tried to push himself into a sitting position. The effort was dizzying. Rafaela put her arm behind him and held him until his strength had returned.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Ten.”
“Where’s Eloá?”
“With my mother. I didn’t want her to see you like this.”
He nodded. She had been right to send the girl away. He marshalled his strength, swung his legs off the bed, and put his feet on the floor. He leaned forward and pushed; Rafaela helped him get to his feet and held him again as he mustered his balance.
“I need to get to work,” he said.
“Today? Looking like that?”
“I can’t afford to take time off.”
“Don’t forget the appointment.”
That was right: Eloá had an appointment at the hospital at midday, and Paulo had made it his policy to go to all of them. “I hadn’t forgotten,” he said, although it had slipped his mind. “I’ll tell Marcos I’ll work late again to make up for it.”
“Good,” she said, resting her hand against his cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Just need to clean myself up.”
Rafaela checked that he was okay and, seemingly satisfied, said that she was going to go and get lunch. Paulo waited for her to go and then shuffled across the room to the curtain that hid their bathroom. They didn’t have the space for a shower, so Paulo filled a bucket with cold water. He reached his hands into the water and splashed it over his face. He looked down into his cupped palms and saw that the water was running red; he reached into the bucket again and splashed a double handful of fresh water over his scalp.
He needed money, now more than ever. Palito would keep coming for him until he had been paid, but, more important than that, he still had to find the money for Eloá’s treatment. He had lost his car; how could he possibly find all the money that he needed without it? Racing had been his best hope, and now that had been taken away from him.
He washed his face again and looked in the mirror. The blood was gone, revealing a patchwork of bruising: his forehead, his nose, both cheeks, all were stained with purples and blues and blacks. His right eye socket was swollen, puffed up above and below his eye, partially closing it. He looked dreadful.
He soaked a flannel and used it to wash his body. He remembered what Felipe had said to him in the bar after the race.
Speak to Garanhão.
The gangster ran the favela and had made it known that he was prepared to lend to cariocas who needed financial help. Everyone knew that his willingness to lend had nothing to do with generosity or a wish to improve his reputation on the Hill. Garanhão was a vain man, and the role of benefactor was one that appealed to him. More than that, perhaps, was a more practical motivation: lending money was a very good way of washing the proceeds of his many illicit businesses.
Paulo was fresh out of options. Garanhão was his only hope.
He took his phone from the table and called Felipe.
“What’s up?”
He swallowed. “You know what you were saying the other night? About what I could do to find the money?”
“Garanhão?”
“Yes. I need to… I think…” He couldn’t say it.
“You want to meet him?”
Paulo’s mouth was dry. “Can you arrange it?”
“You’re sure?”
Paulo could hear the equivocation in his voice, and it made him angry. “What? You thought it was a good idea.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I’m not so sure now.”
“Can you lend me the money?”
“I don’t have that much lying—”
“Then I don’t have a choice,” he cut in. “Please. You said you knew a man who knew him. Call him. Set it up.”
There was a pause and, after a buzz of static, Felipe said, “I’ll call you back.”
Paulo went back to the bed and took out a clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He dressed, grabbed his phone and the keys to the front door from the small table in the middle of the room, and went to the vestibule to pull on his sneakers. He locked the door and made his way out of the apartment.
He had to walk along a long, narrow alley to reach the street; it was dank and it smelled unpleasant for days after it had rained. He emerged, blinking, into the fierce sunlight. His head throbbed again with the brightness. An old woman called Luna had a stall just down from the apartment, where you could get a strong cup of coffee and tapioca crepes. He gave her one of his last remaining notes, and she prepared his breakfast for him. He took the polystyrene cup and the paper bag with the crepes and sat on the pavement with his back to the wall. The road bent around sharply here, and he was able to look down over the rooftops to the gleaming skyscrapers of the districts below and, beyond them, the sparkling blue of the sea.
He had finished his coffee when his phone rang.
“He’ll see you at midday,” Felipe said.
“Thank you.”
“Be careful.”
“It’s too late for that. I don’t have any other choice.”
“I’m just thinking of your father. If he knew I’d done this—”
It was a little late for regret, Paulo thought. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“He’s not someone to fuck with, okay? Be respectful. Don’t piss him off.”
“I won’t,” Paulo said. “Thank you.”
He ended the call and put the phone away. He tossed the crepes into one of the torn-open garbage sacks that had been lined up along the wall; he had lost his appetite. He paused for a moment, knowing that he was at a crossroads that was both literal and figurative. He could turn right and head down the Hill, go to the garage and set up for the day. He would have to deal with Palito, but perhaps he could negotiate with him. Perhaps Palito would lend him the money for new parts and he could repair the car and offer it in exchange for the money that he owed, or race it with Palito as his patron.
Who was he kidding?
The other choice, the only choice, was to turn left and climb. That was where Garanhão had his business. That business involved drugs and extortion, prostitution, blackmail and violence. Paulo’s father had been caught up in that world,
and he was still paying the price for his involvement. Paulo had promised himself that he would never follow in his father’s footsteps. He had promised the same to his father, too, and to Rafaela. He had responsibilities to her and to his child. They would be lost if anything happened to him.
Yet there were no other paths that he could take. The notion that he had a choice was illusory.
He didn’t.
He was down to this. There was nothing else that he could do.
He swallowed down the bubble of vomit that crept up his throat and, one foot after the other, began to climb the Hill.
20
Milton and Drake finished their breakfasts, said goodbye to Sophia, and made their way down to the garage. Drake drove Milton across town to an industrial park in Barra da Tijuca and, after waiting for the gates to open, he rolled the Boxster inside and parked next to a small warehouse. The building was anonymous and, unlike the other warehouses around it, there was no sign to denote the business that carried on inside.
“This yours?” Milton asked.
“Yes,” Drake said. “We keep the cars and the kit here. Come on—we need to get you sorted out.”
The gates rattled again as they slid back to admit a second car. Drake stopped and shielded his eyes with his cupped hand as the car rolled up next to the Porsche.
“They work with you?” Milton asked.
“Yes.”
The new car was a top-of-the-line Lexus, almost as ostentatious as Drake’s Porsche. Not for the first time, Milton was uncomfortable about the lack of discretion that Drake—and now his employees—exhibited in a sensitive and dangerous job where it was far better to melt into the crowd. Milton would never have chosen such a gaudy car.
The doors of the Lexus opened, and two people stepped out, a man and a woman. The man blipped the locks and led the way to where Milton and Drake were waiting.
“Here you go,” Drake said. He shook hands with the two newcomers and then turned to indicate Milton. “This is John Smith,” he said. “He’s an old friend of mine from the Regiment. This is Jannike Berg, and this is Dean Hawkins. Jannike was in the Norwegian special forces. Dean was in Delta.”
The woman was tall and blonde, an almost stereotypically statuesque Nordic specimen. She took off her shades to reveal blue eyes and put out a hand.
Milton took it. “Norwegian special forces?”
“The Jegertroppen,” she said.
“You were in Afghanistan,” Milton said. “The unit, I mean. I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s right,” she said, maintaining a deliberately firm grip. “What about you?”
“John was SAS,” Drake said for him.
Hawkins stepped forward and offered his hand. “Hello.”
Milton took the man’s hand. Hawkins squeezed hard, and Milton held it without betraying even a flicker of the discomfort that he sensed Hawkins would have liked to see. The American held on for a beat too long; Milton regarded him, allowing a small upturn at the side of his mouth.
“You sure this is a good idea, Shawn?” Hawkins said.
“John knows what he’s doing.”
“Really?”
“Careful,” Milton said with an innocent smile. “Unless you want me to show you.”
Hawkins’s face darkened, but just for a moment. He smiled, exposing two rows of shining bright teeth, and took his hand away. “Maybe we’ll see about that later.”
Drake had been watching with veiled amusement. “He’s just rattling your chain.”
Milton found Hawkins irritating. He was no fan of yahoos, and he found the exaggerated bonhomie that was often evident in military personnel to be grating and tiresome. His instant assessment of Drake, Hawkins and Berg was that they had been working together for some time, and that their familiarity had bred a confidence that, as far as he could tell, might be unwarranted. Milton knew from experience that that kind of familiarity could easily lead to a reduction in a person’s awareness and professionalism, and in a city like Rio, with the family of a man who had made powerful enemies under their guardianship, that was something that made him uneasy.
“Don’t worry about Hawk,” Berg said to Milton. “He’s full of shit.”
“You’re both full of shit,” Drake corrected.
Milton kept his eyes on Hawkins. He could see that the man was going to hammer him on the shoulder, another juvenile attempt to establish a pecking order, and he flashed his right hand up and caught Hawkins’s arm at the wrist. He yanked his wrist down and bent it around, pinning it against Hawkins’s back and pressing it all the way up until it was between his shoulder blades. The American gasped in sudden pain; Berg straightened up and took a step, but Milton froze her with a smile and a wink as he released his hold.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m full of shit, too. Nice to meet you, Hawkins.”
“Jesus,” Drake said with mock exasperation. “Can’t you at least try to get on?”
Hawkins rubbed his wrist, glaring at Milton. Drake took a key from his pocket, nudged his way between them, and opened the door.
The warehouse was dark, but, as Milton’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see two identical black Range Rover Sports parked inside. It was a fairly standard choice of vehicle for those in close protection: four-wheel drive, powerful, and rugged enough to take a decent amount of punishment.
Drake went into the warehouse, flicked on the lights, and walked between the two vehicles to the back of the space. Milton followed and saw two large gun lockers fixed to the rear wall. Drake took a second key from his pocket and opened one of the lockers. There was a selection of firearms inside: Milton saw a variety of pistols, a Bernelli combat shotgun and two HK416s, which, upon further inspection, he noted were military issue with single, three-round, and fully automatic modes. The bottom of the locker contained boxes of ammunition for the firearms.
Drake moved along to the next locker and opened that, too. There were black flak vests inside.
“Help yourself,” he said to Milton.
Milton went to the jackets first and took one out. It was made from Kevlar with pouches intended to house ceramic plates. The plates made the jackets too bulky to be worn underneath normal clothes, and they had been removed; the Kevlar was supposedly strong enough to stop a 9mm round on its own. Milton put his arms into the jacket and pulled it on over his T-shirt.
Berg and Hawkins had gone straight for the firearms. They took out the AR-15s and started to check them over.
Milton cocked an eyebrow at Drake. “Seriously? You show up with those and you’re going to terrify the kid. She’s going to a recital—it’s not the Alamo.”
“We keep them in the back of the cars,” Drake said. “Backup, just in case.”
Drake took out one of the handguns and handed it to Milton. It was a Browning Hi-Power, the sidearm used by the Regiment. It had a single-action-only trigger that was light and smooth and broke evenly. Milton ran his finger along the steel frame. It was strong while also being light, lending the weapon a thinner profile than others Milton had used. He wrapped his hand around it and remembered how comfortable it was to hold.
“You need a licence to carry here?” Milton asked Drake.
“You need a permit to carry outside of the home. We’re all registered.”
“But I’m not.”
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a shame. You’re going to have to go without. May I?”
He held out his hand, and Milton returned the Browning.
“The judge is a stickler,” Drake explained. “If he found out one of my men was unregistered…”
“What about if he found out you only had three armed guards instead of four?”
“I’m hoping he doesn’t find that out.” Drake grinned.
Drake went back to the locker and took out a clip-on holster and two spare magazines. He pushed the weapon into the holster and attached it to his belt, then put the spare magazines into his pocket. Berg pulled on a flak jacket and
clipped an identical Browning to her belt. Hawkins slung his own jacket over his shoulder and took out another pistol. He made a show of racking the slide, shoved it into a holster, and went back for spare ammunition.
Milton looked at his watch.
“Eleven thirty,” he said. “How long will it take us to get to where we need to be?”
“Twenty minutes,” Drake said. “We need to be on the road.”
21
The favela became more dangerous the nearer Paulo climbed to the summit; there was a stratification, with each upward step bringing him closer to the man who ruled the slum. Paulo needed to ascend to Rua Um—Road One—and the building where Garanhão had his office. The area of the Hill above Rua Um was known as Laboriaux, and, with Garanhão decreeing that no one was to add to the shanty beyond his own buildings, it offered a peaceful sanctuary from which it was possible to look down on the rest of the favela and, beyond it, the rest of the city.
Paulo followed Estrada da Gávea as it climbed, passing through the districts of Cachopa and then Dionéia, tightly packed slums that clung determinedly to the flanks of the Hill. He kept going, crossing over Rua Dois—Road Two—and climbing again until he reached Rua Um. The sides of the road were piled high with trash that had gone uncollected for weeks. The buildings on either side of the narrow road were crumbling and almost on the verge of collapse; graffitied gang tags had been daubed over every inch of free space, with fresher tags painted atop them. Stores had been carved out of the buildings: there were bars, places that sold mobile phones and SIM cards, and establishments where proprietors slept beside trays of rotting fruit and vegetables that were good for nothing but the dump. Vehicles crawled up the Hill, and hundreds of men and women picked their way between them, everything rendered sluggish and torpid by the monstrous strength of the morning sun.
Paulo tried to remember everything he could about Garanhão. His full nickname was Pequeno Garanhão, meaning ‘Little Stallion,’ or, more commonly, ‘Little Womanizer.’ Local legend had it that his nickname had originally been Pequeno Antonio, a diminutive bestowed upon him as a child when he had been so much smaller than the other boys that he played football with on the beach. Most people thought that Antonio Rodrigues secretly liked that his nickname might be considered unflattering; he looked at his lack of stature as a permanent reminder of where he had come from. By sheer force of will and a terrifying propensity for violence, Pequeno Antonio had risen faster and farther than any of his contemporaries. His appetite for women had led to his first name being dropped from his moniker and replaced with a more apt description.