by Mark Dawson
“Where is Lima now?”
“Under house arrest,” Saverin replied. “I would have preferred to have moved him to Curitiba, but he is a rich man—he can afford the best lawyers in Brazil.”
Milton stared at Saverin. “I need you to take me to him.”
The judge shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
Milton stared at him hard. “Rodrigues murdered an old friend of mine tonight. My friend helped me to find your daughter, and Rodrigues shot him while I was watching. Think about what he’s done: he took your daughter, he killed two of the guards you paid to protect her, and now this. Tell me honestly—will you be able to prosecute him?”
Saverin glanced down, then looked back up at Milton again. “Not easily,” he admitted. “Rodrigues would deny it. And I have only your word of what happened.”
“And Paulo’s,” Milton added.
“Would you both give evidence against him?”
Milton certainly wasn’t prepared to do that, and it would be unfair to ask Paulo. “Probably not.”
“No, of course not. And even if I could build a case against him, prosecuting it would be difficult. We would have to arrest him first, and Rocinha…” He spread his arms helplessly. “Well, they would have to send the military police in, and the government is not ready to do that yet. There would be bloodshed.”
“So Rodrigues goes free? Unpunished?”
“I didn’t say that,” Saverin began. “Eventually—”
“Eventually isn’t good enough,” Milton cut in, struggling to keep the irritation from his voice. “The longer you wait, the more difficult it will be. There’s another way. A better one.”
“You will go back into the favela? You know how stupid that would be?”
“No,” Milton said. “That would be stupid. I wouldn’t be able to get near him.”
“So?”
“You take me to his brother.”
“So that you can threaten him? Beat him up? Please, senhor Smith. I can’t do that. I have Lima by the balls—if he gets hurt because of something I’ve done, his lawyers piss all over my case and he walks free. It’s taken me six months to reel him in. I can’t risk that now.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Milton said. “I just want to speak to him.”
“Really,” Saverin said sternly. “I can’t do it.”
Milton was not about to give up. “I want to talk to Lima. That’s it. He can tell me about Rodrigues—where I can find him, how I can get to him. No one needs to know that I spoke to him. Nothing will happen to him. And you can be there the whole time.” Milton looked at Saverin; he could see that he was wavering. “Think of your daughter. He kept her in a basement for a week. She was locked in a crawlspace with nothing. Think of how scared she was. They did that to her—Lima and Rodrigues. Are you going to let that go?”
Milton watched his face and saw that he was winning: the visceral anger of the father whose daughter had been kidnapped was overcoming the resistance of the lawyer who wanted to do things by the book.
“Do you believe in justice?” Milton asked him.
“Of course.”
“You’ll get justice against Lima. You’ll win your case, and then you can punish him for what he did, lock him up for years. But if you don’t work with me, you don’t get justice against Rodrigues. He goes unpunished. If he had taken my daughter…” Milton let that drift.
Saverin looked away and bit down on his lip. “Okay,” he said, speaking quickly, as if that might prevent him from changing his mind. “This is the only way it happens: we go and talk to Lima. We get proof that Rodrigues was involved. If we get the evidence, then we can think about what to do next. Maybe I can take it to the governor, and then we can go and get him. They won’t be able to say no—he can’t be allowed to attack a judge like this.”
Milton had no intention of letting things go down like that, but Saverin’s concession was enough for him. There was no need to ask for more. “Fine.”
“You don’t hurt Lima. No violence. There’s been enough of that already. Maybe… maybe you frighten him a little.”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
Saverin sighed; he looked tired. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you.”
87
Milton took Saverin to the stolen car and drove him across the city. It was three in the morning, and the streets, while far from empty, were much quieter than they had been earlier. They didn’t speak. Saverin had called his wife before they set off and told her what had happened with their daughter. Milton had urged the judge not to send his wife to the hotel in Grumari on the off chance that Garanhão had their apartment in Ipanema under surveillance, and he had agreed on the basis that they would collect the girl as soon as they were done with Lima.
Saverin told Milton that Lima lived in Jardim Botânico, and directed him there. He seemed to be wrestling with the good sense of going along with Milton’s plan; Milton, for his part, was trying to find an alternative to the only course of action that was open to him. He was reluctant to follow through with what he had in mind, but, much as he tried, he was unable to come up with another way to reach the same ends. He had already concluded that they justified the means.
Jardim Botânico was one of the city’s higher-end districts. It was surrounded on three sides by a nature reserve and, high up, it offered a spectacular view of the statue of Christ the Redeemer standing tall atop the summit of Corcovado Mountain.
“This is a bad idea,” Saverin said as Milton parked next to a hillside. “If he says that I came here…”
“It’ll be his word against yours,” Milton said. “And he’s not going to want to give me a reason to come and see him again.”
Saverin looked over at him anxiously. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him.”
“I won’t,” Milton said. “I give you my word.”
Saverin looked up, and Milton followed his gaze; there was a line of big villas at the top of the rise.
“What is it you think you might find?” Saverin asked.
“There are two people you won’t be able to reach: Lima’s brother and Shawn Drake. There’ll be something that links Lima to at least one of them: a bank statement, an email, a message on his phone. You speak to him, and I’ll have a look around.”
Saverin looked far from convinced, but he exhaled and gestured up to the villa nearest to the car. “This is it,” he said. “First on the right. You want to know how much it costs? Eight million dollars. Who said crime doesn’t pay?” It was rhetorical, and the judge laughed bitterly as he reached for the door handle. “We couldn’t keep him locked up, but we managed to get a curfew. He should be inside.”
88
Saverin led the way, following a neat path up the flank of the hillside. The villa at the top was constructed from glass and steel, with tall windows designed to offer up as much of the stunning view as possible. There was an infinity pool, lit from beneath the water, and two stands of perfectly kept palm trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Saverin made his way to the door.
“Who does he live with?” Milton asked.
“He lives alone,” Saverin said as he held his finger against the doorbell. “He’s a…” The judge searched for the word. “A bachelor.”
Milton noticed that there was a camera set above the door, and put himself out of view by standing beneath it. It took several minutes before they heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door from the inside.
An intercom crackled into life. Milton heard a voice, gruff and raspy with sleep. The voice spoke in Portuguese; Milton guessed Lima was asking what Saverin could possibly want at this time of night. The judge leaned closer to the microphone and told Lima to open the door. Milton didn’t understand the response save that Lima was evidently irritated to be disturbed. The conversation continued for another few exchanges, and then Saverin raised his voice and banged a fist against the wood.
There was a moment of silence, and then Milton heard the sound of the d
oor being unlocked. It swung open. Milton was at the side of the door and waited as Saverin went inside. He heard the sound of Lima’s voice, angry and declarative, and Saverin’s snapped retort.
Milton reached down, pulled the SIG from the back of his jeans, and went through the door before it could close.
He took it all in quickly: marble flooring, huge cream settees, a well-stocked bar, spotlights illuminating pieces of modern art. Saverin was two steps inside, to Milton’s left. Lima was next to the door, caught in the act of closing it. The businessman was wearing an expensive pair of silk pyjamas and, around his left ankle, a bulky monitoring bracelet.
“Que merda é essa?” Lima exclaimed.
Milton raised the gun and aimed it at the businessman.
Saverin turned and saw the weapon. His mouth fell open. “What are you doing?”
Lima was close to Milton, close enough for Milton to turn the pistol around and crack the butt down against the top of his head. Lima fell to his knees, knocking over the lamp as he reached down in an attempt to prevent himself from falling flat on his face.
“Don’t!” Saverin called out. “Smith—don’t!”
Milton moved inside and closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said to Saverin. “This will only work my way.”
“Put the gun down.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Put the gun down!”
Saverin took a step forward as if he might try to force Milton to comply; Milton straightened his arm, aiming the weapon at the judge’s head, and froze him to the spot.
“Please don’t come any closer,” Milton said calmly. “I’d rather we could part on good terms.”
Saverin’s face deformed into an angry scowl. “I don’t care what you’ve done to help me. I’ll send the police after you, just the same as I would if you were Garanhão. I can’t allow violence. You’re as bad as them.”
Milton almost said that he was worse, but he held his tongue. “Give me your phone,” he said to the judge.
Saverin looked as if he was about to resist, but he looked at Milton and then at the gun that was still pointed at his head. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Milton pocketed it.
“This isn’t justice.”
“You can’t guarantee that Garanhão will get what he deserves. I can. He will. I promise you that he will.”
“You’re a vigilante.”
“Perhaps. Now—sit down over there, please.”
Milton indicated the chair on the other side of the room. Saverin backed away and lowered himself to the chair. Milton waited until he had sat down and then stepped closer to Lima. The businessman was woozy, and his head was bleeding from where Milton had pistol-whipped him.
“Do you have a safe?”
“What?” Lima said.
“What?” Saverin exclaimed. “Now you’re a thief as well?”
Milton ignored the judge and aimed the gun directly at Lima’s head. “Your safe,” he said calmly. “Where do you keep your valuables?”
Lima pointed to a cupboard beneath the stairs.
“Open it for me, please.”
Milton followed Lima as the businessman opened the cupboard to reveal a small freestanding safe. He spun the combination dial, pulled down on the handle, and opened the unit. Milton came closer and saw bricks of banknotes and a stack of loose papers. He had noticed a paper takeaway bag on the kitchen counter; he backed up to collect it and gave it to Lima.
“Put everything inside, please.”
Lima swore under his breath, but put the money into the bag.
“Everything,” Milton insisted.
Lima turned. “Come on,” he protested.
“And the papers. Don’t make me hit you again.”
Lima swore again, but reached for the papers and slid them into the paper bag, too. Milton took it from him and moved him away from the cupboard.
“This is wrong,” Saverin said. “You can’t do this.”
Milton tuned him out, knelt down and inspected the bracelet around Lima’s ankle. It was of standard design. They were not designed to stay on at all costs; a device that could not be removed without special tools would pose a health risk to its wearer. This one even came with a dotted line on the fabric sheath that told him where to cut. He reached into his pocket and took out the Aircrew knife that he had taken from the assault vest and sliced through the material. Milton saw the two pieces of the wire that were sewn into the sheath and knew, now that he had severed it, that an anti-tamper alarm would have been transmitted and that the police would soon be on their way.
It didn’t matter. Milton didn’t plan on being here for long.
He reached down, grabbed the collar of Lima’s pyjama top, and hauled him up to his knees. Milton had cable ties from the cache, and he took one and secured Lima’s hands behind his back. He dragged the trussed-up businessman to his feet and shoved him toward the door.
“Smith,” Saverin protested, “please.”
“The police will be on the way now,” Milton said, gesturing down at the two pieces of the severed bracelet. “I’ll call Paulo and tell him to call so you can go and collect your daughter. Please just focus on her. Don’t try to follow me. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
There was a set of keys on a table near the door. Milton took them, opened the door and pushed Lima through, and then, without looking back at Saverin, closed the door and locked it from the outside. He had no doubt that the judge would call the police—he suspected that he was probably searching for a phone right now—but at least the door would keep him inside long enough that Milton could get Lima away from the area. He didn’t want a confrontation with him. On the other hand, Milton knew that there was only one way to play this—his way—and, although he didn’t want to incapacitate the judge, he would have done just that if Saverin had tried to stop him. As he led Lima down the steps to the car, he was thankful that violence would not be necessary.
At least not for a little while.
89
Milton’s phone buzzed with a picture message as he drove to Jacarepaguá. He checked it, opening the message and confirming it was what he needed, then put the phone away again.
He pulled into the Joy Motel. Marks had rented the room for a week, and the place had not been busy on the previous occasions that Milton had been there. He suspected that it would normally be quiet, frequented, perhaps, by prostitutes and addicts and other itinerant dregs who wouldn’t pay attention to another late arrival. He arrived in the lot, noting with satisfaction that it was almost empty, and reversed the car so that the trunk was closest to the door to the room. He switched off the engine and waited for a moment, opening his window and listening to the sounds of the city. He heard the hum of traffic, a muffled TV, a jetliner’s engines overhead, but that was the sum of it. The forecourt was peaceful, and Milton was satisfied that he wouldn’t be seen.
He took the bag from the passenger seat and looked inside: the banknotes were all high denomination, fifties and hundreds, and there were lots of them. The papers looked to be bank statements. Milton took those out and left them on the seat. He put the notes back into the bag and stuffed it in the glovebox.
He got out, crossed the lot to the veranda, and knelt down in front of the door to the room. It was a simple lock, and it took him less than fifteen seconds to pick it. He pushed the door back, went back to the car, and opened the trunk. Lima was lying there, his hands still fastened behind his back. Milton reached down for the cable tie. He used it to haul Lima out of the trunk and then dragged him backwards across the veranda and into the room. He closed the door, locked it, and turned Lima around so that he was facing him. The man’s face was deathly pale, and his eyes darted left and right, perhaps looking for a way out that he wouldn’t find. Milton shoved Lima in the chest, and he toppled back onto the bed.
Milton had been responsible for interrogating men and women for the information they held, and there had been many occasions when the means nec
essary for extracting that information had diverged from what was legal. Some of those sessions had involved techniques that Milton was not proud of, but he had always told himself that he could justify the means by reference to the ends. It was dissembling, of course, and the things that he had done had been added to the catalogue of indiscretions for which he was now seeking to make amends.
That did not mean that he would shy away from his full playbook today. He thought of what had happened to Alícia, and then what had happened to Marks, and he knew that nothing would be off the menu if Lima chose to be uncooperative. He would do whatever it took.
Lima said something in Portuguese.
“English,” Milton said.
His eyes flashed with fear and anger. “Who are you?”
Milton was silent, aware that each second that passed without an answer would increase the tension in the room, tighten the sense of foreboding that Lima must surely have been feeling.
“Do you know who I am?” Lima said.
Milton ignored him again.
Lima swallowed down his fear. “Do you work for Saverin?” he said. “I’m going to fucking ruin him, and then, when I’ve—”
Milton interrupted him, taking two fistfuls of his pyjama jacket and yanking him off the bed. He swung him across the room and sent him stumbling backwards. Milton followed him; he grabbed him again and dumped him into the wooden chair with his wrists still behind his back. The chair tipped and bounced against the wall. Milton righted it.