by Mark Dawson
83
Milton looked behind them; Paulo had lost the pursuit, and the road was clear. He turned his attention to the girl sitting on the seat next to him.
“Are you okay, Alícia?”
She was pale, but she looked up at him and gave him a timid nod.
Milton’s phone buzzed. He took it out and checked the display.
Marks.
He accepted the call and put it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Mr. Milton.” It was a man. He spoke English with a heavy accent.
“Who is this?”
“You know, I think.”
“Rodrigues?”
The man didn’t answer. “Your friend was picked up by the police. I have him here with me. Would you like to speak to him?”
Milton gripped the phone tight. The next voice was Marks’s.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you okay?”
“I feel a bit stupid.”
“Have they hurt you?”
“Just my pride. They must’ve seen my car.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Don’t—”
The phone was taken away before Marks could finish what he was going to say.
“Please do,” Rodrigues said. “Please do come and get him. I’d like to meet you. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, one way or another.”
“Let him go.”
“Or?”
“You think this is trouble? I can make it get a lot worse.”
Garanhão chuckled. “You are a confident man, Mr. Milton. But I know about you now. Your other friend, Mr. Drake, he tells me all about you. He says you were a soldier? Special Forces. He said you were a drunk, but I think he underestimated you. I won’t make that mistake.”
“Let him go.”
“I don’t think so. Watch. I want to show you something.”
Milton pulled the phone away from his ear; the display asked whether he would accept a video call. He pressed accept, and, after a moment, the display changed to show a live shot. He saw a road, part of a car, and a fringe of vegetation. The lights of the city twinkled in the background. A firework bloomed. Wherever it was, it was high up.
Milton felt his throat tighten. He turned the phone away so that only he could see it and thumbed the volume down.
There was movement in the shot, and then a man was dragged into view. It was Marks. The old man was pushed down onto his knees and turned so that he was looking up into the camera. Whoever was holding the phone switched it to his left hand so that he could aim a pistol with his right.
“Rodrigues—” Milton began, but his warning was cut short.
There was a single bang and the pistol jerked up; Marks’s body fell to the left. The camera pulled back so that Milton could see the old man’s body lying across the road, and then the feed was interrupted as the shot switched between the phone’s forward- and backward-facing cameras.
Milton saw a man: young, smooth-skinned, a glint from a gold tooth catching the light. It was Rodrigues.
“Don’t think this makes us even, Mr. Milton,” he said. “We’re not even.”
Milton wanted to tell him that he had just made a bad mistake, that he might as well put the gun to his head and pull the trigger because that would be easier than what he was going to do to him, but Alícia was looking across at him, and he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
He kept his voice neutral and said, instead, “Why don’t we meet and talk about that?”
“I’d like that very much. I’m sure you could find me, but I’ll save you the effort. I’m at the top of the Hill. Come and see me. I’ll be expecting you this time.” He looked as if he was about to end the call, but he didn’t. “Are you with Paulo?”
Milton didn’t answer; Paulo stiffened in the driver’s seat.
“Tell him I’m disappointed. After everything I did to help him and his daughter, he treats me like this. Tell him he has been foolish, please, Mr. Milton. He’ll know what that means.”
The screen went to black.
“My family,” Paulo said at once. “I have to go to them.”
“Where are they?”
Paulo swore in Portuguese; his voice was taut with fear.
“Paulo,” Milton said sternly, “where is your family?”
“In a hotel,” he said. “I told them they needed to get out of the apartment. But he’ll find them. He’ll find them and… and…”
“Go there now,” Milton said.
84
Paulo drove them into Vidigal, a neighbourhood that was close to Rocinha. He followed Avenida Niemeyer to the Shalimar, a hotel that proudly advertised rooms starting at just fifty-nine reais.
“There,” Paulo said. “They’re in there.”
“Drive on,” Milton said.
Paulo did, and Milton examined the hotel and the surrounding streets for anything that appeared out of the ordinary. He saw nothing.
“Park,” Milton said, pointing to a bay at the side of the road.
Paulo slid the car into the bay and flicked off the lights.
Milton took another moment to look around: the hotel was on a cliff, separated from the ocean by the road, a wide sidewalk, and a stand of palm trees. There was a bus stop on the sidewalk with a number of men and women gathered there; Milton stared at them, but it would have been impossible to say whether any of them were more than they appeared to be. Probably not, but he would be careful.
“How much does your wife know?” he asked.
“Not much.”
“How did you explain why they needed to move into a hotel?”
“I said I was in trouble. I said the man I borrowed money from was coming after me. That’s true,” he added, as if he needed to justify it to himself.
To a point, thought Milton. He didn’t say that, though, telling him instead to call his wife, to tell her that Milton was coming to collect them, and to describe him to her.
“It’s one in the morning,” he said. “She’ll panic. What do I say to her?”
“She’s your wife. Think of something. What’s her name?”
“Rafaela. And my daughter is Eloá.”
Milton looked at Alícia, sitting quietly in the back next to him, and decided that more caution was required.
“Drive up the road a little and then call her,” he said. “Tell her I’m coming to collect her and Eloá and describe what I look like.”
“She doesn’t speak English,” Paulo said.
“So tell her what to do.”
Milton didn’t wait for Paulo to say that he understood. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat of the night.
The Shalimar was even more down-at-heel than it had appeared from the road. It was separated from the sidewalk by a ten-foot-high wall that was ugly and utilitarian, with the only means of access through a gap marked ENTRADA. The entrance was across a small courtyard and beneath a large awning with a cheap vinyl sign that proclaimed the price of their rooms.
Milton eyed the men and women waiting at the bus shelter, but, as had been the case before, none of them arrested his attention. Satisfied but far from complacent, he passed through the opening and approached the entrance. He felt the comforting weight of the SIG against his leg, brushing his fingers against its cold edges as he pushed open the door to reception and went inside.
The desk was unmanned, and Milton could hear the sound of a television in the office behind it. He didn’t wait, crossing the lobby and taking the stairs to the third floor. Paulo had told him that his wife and daughter were in room 311, and Milton followed the corridor until he reached the right door.
He knocked on it gently and waited in the corridor until he heard the sound of footsteps. The door opened; a woman stood there with a young girl half-hiding behind her legs.
“I’m John,” Milton said.
The woman paused, looking intently into his face. Milton hoped that Paulo had told her what he looked like, and that she was just comparing him to
his description. She bit her lip, unable to hide the trepidation that Milton guessed she must be feeling.
“Rafaela?” he said.
She nodded.
He gestured to the girl. “And this is Eloá?”
She nodded for a second time.
“We need to go,” Milton said firmly. “Okay? I’ll take you to Paulo.”
She swallowed and, for a moment, Milton thought that she was going to close the door. But, instead, she stooped down and picked up a bag that Milton hadn’t noticed. With the bag in one hand and her daughter’s hand in the other, the woman stepped into the corridor and let the door swing shut behind them.
Milton led the way to the stairs.
85
Milton waited in the lobby of the hotel until he saw the Renault. He opened the door, letting the humid air wash inside, and hurried Rafaela and Eloá across the courtyard to the entrance. He stepped out first, checking left and right, and then, with his hand close to the SIG, he crossed the sidewalk, opened the car’s rear door, and beckoned Rafaela to follow. They got into the back of the car next to Alícia. Paulo must have explained at least some of what was happening when they spoke on the phone because she sat quietly and said nothing about what they were doing, nor did she enquire as to the identity of the young girl who was on the back seat with them.
Milton shut the door and went around to get into the front passenger seat. He closed the door, and Paulo pulled away.
Milton glanced over and noticed Paulo exchange a look in the mirror with his wife. He saw that Milton was watching and looked back to the road. “Where now?” he asked.
“Somewhere outside the city,” Milton said. “A hotel. Somewhere no one would look to find you.”
Paulo exchanged words with his wife. “We know a place,” he said. “Rafaela’s mother is in Campo Grande.”
“No,” Milton said. “That’ll be one of the first places they look. Somewhere else.”
Paulo and his wife spoke again, and, when Paulo turned back to Milton, there was certainty in his answer. “There’s a hotel in Grumari. We’ve been there before.”
“So you go there,” Milton said. “You don’t stop. Understand?”
Paulo nodded. “Yes.”
“And I want you to take a picture of Alícia when you get there and send it to me.”
Paulo nodded.
“You’re responsible for Alícia,” Milton said a little more quietly. “Make it right.”
Paulo didn’t answer, but he set his jaw and gave a determined nod.
Milton turned around to the girl in the back of the car. She was pressed up against the door, her knees drawn up to her chin. She looked so small and fragile, and Milton couldn’t help the fresh doubt about whether he was doing the right thing. He wondered, again, whether he should stay with her until she had been safely handed over. He knew that what he had decided to do could be considered selfish. And then he thought of Marks, and he knew that he had no other choice. He had a code, and there were certain crimes that could not go unpunished. Rodrigues had crossed a line—several lines—and that had consequences.
The doubt was still there, but then he thought of Paulo and the way the girl had clung to him as soon as Milton had fought his way out of the building, and his fears receded just a little.
They passed a nightclub with a rank of taxis outside it.
“Pull over,” Milton said.
Paulo slid over to the kerb and stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Remember,” Milton said. “Don’t stop. Not for anything. Just drive.”
He reached for the door handle and opened the door.
“You’re not coming?”
“I have something I need to do.”
To Milton’s surprise, Paulo reached over and snagged his arm. “No,” he said. “That’s crazy.”
“Paulo…”
“You want Garanhão?” Paulo said in an urgent whisper. “There’s nothing you can do. Forget him—just be thankful you can still get away.”
Milton gently removed Paulo’s hand. “I can’t do that.”
“He wants you to go up there,” Paulo protested, “and he knows you’re coming this time.”
“I’m not going back. He’s coming to me.” Milton opened the door and stepped out. “Good luck.”
Paulo reached his hand across the cabin again and offered it. “Thank you,” the younger man said.
Milton shook his hand. “Be careful.”
Milton released his hand, closed the door, and watched the car drive away.
Part VII
The Eighth Day
86
Milton stole a car from a quiet side street near the Sheraton and drove it across the city to the cache for the things that he thought he might need for the rest of the night. The gate to the yard was closed, but Milton was able to scale it without being seen. He jogged to the garage and opened the door with the key that Marks had given him. He picked out the things that he wanted and left the garage as he had found it; he wondered how long it would take for Marks’s store to be discovered. Months, probably. He doubted that he himself would ever return.
He drove south and parked the car two blocks north of the apartment block in Ipanema, grabbing his bag of gear and making his way to the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s on Rua Visconde de Pirajá. He had called Felipe Saverin earlier. He had arranged to meet the judge here and, as he approached, he saw that Saverin was waiting for him. Milton paused on the other side of the street and observed. Saverin was sitting in the window with a cup in front of him. He was picking at the cup, peeling pieces of Styrofoam away from it and discarding them on the table. Milton was not surprised that he was anxious. He waited on the street for another minute, checking for any sign that Saverin had been followed. Nothing stood out.
Milton crossed the street and went inside the restaurant. Saverin was the only customer there, and he turned at the sound of the door. Milton made his way to a table away from the window and beckoned Saverin over. The judge left his empty cup, came across, and took the seat opposite Milton.
He spared the pleasantries. “Where is she?”
Milton took out his phone.
“What happened?” Saverin pressed. “What happened, Smith? Where is my daughter?”
“You can speak to her.”
Milton dialled Paulo’s number. The call connected.
“Hello?” Paulo said.
“Where are you?” Milton asked.
“We’re here.”
“In the hotel?”
“Yes. Everything’s fine.”
“I’m with senhor Saverin,” Milton said. “Could you pass the phone to Alícia, please?”
Milton handed the phone to Saverin and watched.
“Alícia?” the judge said tentatively.
And then his expression melted, replaced by one of joy. Saverin spoke quickly. Milton didn’t understand the Portuguese, but his reaction was just as Milton would have expected: there was a catch in his throat, and his eyes filled with tears. Milton let him speak for as long as he wanted; Saverin’s hand was shaking when he finally handed the phone back again.
“Where is she?” he asked, his eyes red and damp.
“A hotel in Grumari. I’ll give you the address and you can go and get her.”
“Who is she with?”
“A man I trust. Paulo de Almeida—she’s with him, his wife and his daughter.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s going to need your help,” Milton said. “Antonio Rodrigues was extorting him. He made Paulo drive the car the day they took Alícia. He had no idea what he was being asked to do, and then they threatened his family unless he agreed to guard Alícia. He helped me to get her out tonight—I wouldn’t have been able to do it without him.”
Saverin’s brows clenched angrily. “He worked with Garanhão? And Alícia is still with him? Are you crazy?”
“You’re not listening to me, senhor Saverin. Paulo was desperate and naïve. But he’s more than
made up for it since then. You need to look after him and his family. They’re in danger.”
“We will put them in protective custody until I work out—”
“No,” Milton cut him off firmly. “No custody. No investigation. He’s the only reason your daughter is still alive. I wouldn’t have been able to find her without him, and then he stopped us both from being shot when I was bringing her out. There’s no case to make against him. He deserves your gratitude, not your suspicion. That part of this is non-negotiable—please don’t push me on it.”
Saverin stared at Milton, but Milton did not look away; instead, he fixed the full focus of his cold eyes on him. Eventually, the prosecutor nodded his head. “Fine. He will be protected. Him and his family.”
“Thank you.”
“Where is Rodrigues?” Saverin asked. His relief had been replaced by the steel that Milton remembered.
“I don’t know,” Milton said. “He wasn’t there when I got her out. But I want to find him.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
Milton rested his forearms on the table and leaned a little closer. He stared at Saverin again. “Someone hired him to take Alícia,” he said. “I want to know who it was.”
The judge paused; Milton could tell that he knew who was responsible, but he didn’t immediately say.
“Who paid him?” Milton pressed.
“He wasn’t being paid,” Saverin said. “At least I doubt that he was.”
“So why would he take her?”
“There is a man—a businessman—called Andreas Lima. I arrested him last week for corruption and fraud. When you said Rodrigues was involved, I knew it had to be him. But the relationship between Lima and Rodrigues isn’t commercial. It’s nothing to do with money.”
“So what is it?”
“It’s family. They’re brothers. Well, half brothers,” he qualified. “They were both born in Rocinha. Same mother—Meleni. Meleni married a man who ran a store, and Andreas was their child. The marriage broke up, and Meleni started a relationship with a crook who was with one of the gangs. Antonio was born a year later. Lima has always made a big show of how he made his way out of the gutter. Rags to riches. He’s been in magazines about it.” Saverin shook his head derisively. “But he’s a charlatan. He keeps his relationship with his brother quiet, as you might imagine, but he goes to him whenever he needs something done. I guessed this was him when it happened. I should have been more careful.”