by Alan Russell
Mountains and hills, in particular the Serra da Carioca range, divide Rio into the generally impoverished North Side, the Zona Norte, and the more upscale South Side, the Zona Sul. There are many bends and turns to the roads as they follow the path of the terrain. Because of the mountain range, tunnels are common in and out of the downtown area of Rio.
“The tunnels are a natural speed reducer,” Graham said. “Even in this country, cars usually slow down as they approach a tunnel.”
Carlos offered a smile and wave of his hand as explanation. “For Cariocas,” he said, “driving is a passion.”
Cariocas—what residents of Rio and the surrounding area call themselves—love to speed. The national speed limit is eighty kilometers per hour. Even in parking lots, Cariocas seem to exceed that limit.
“I’ll need you to arrange a roadblock as her car approaches a tunnel,” said Graham. “Something that will make her driver stop.”
“A barrel on fire? A stalled car?”
Graham shook his head. “Nothing like that. I want a shot of a maternal Rochelle, so it needs to be done with children on the scene. The more innocent the kids look, the better. Have them kicking a ball, or put a few bikes in the street, or tie a dog to a leash and make it look like the kids are trying to get him back. I want some real little ones, the kind with big eyes that look so adorable you can’t help but say ‘Ahhh.’ That will be the honey that I hope draws Rochelle out of her car.”
For years, ambition had ruled Rochelle. You didn’t get to the top of her field without wanting to succeed more than anything else. But now he was betting she was pregnant and that something even stronger was calling her shots: maternal instinct.
“We can assume they’ll do their usual caravan to the airport,” said Graham. “The Land Rover sandwich with the Mercedes filling.”
On their few outings from the hotel, they had used three cars. Between the scout vehicle and the shotgun car was Rochelle’s Mercedes.
“The first Land Rover usually keeps about a thirty-second lead on the Mercedes,” said Graham. “That’s our window of opportunity. As soon as the lead car passes, we have to act.”
“It will help that we make the stop just before the opening to a tunnel,” said Carlos. “The lead car won’t be able to turn around.”
“They’ll still be in radio contact, though,” said Graham. “We don’t want to spook Rochelle’s car. I want the driver to come to a stop not because he feels threatened, but out of necessity. At the same time, we want to pique Rochelle’s interest enough for her to get out of the vehicle.”
The Jackal showed all of his white teeth. “Don’t worry about that, boss. I’ll bait the hook and throw the line. All you got to do is tell me where we’re going to do our fishing.”
“Cars go too fast along the Airport Expressway,” said Graham, “so the Rebouças Tunnel is out. Ditto the Two Brothers Tunnel. Unless you can think of something better, I’d say our best bet is the Novo Tunnel.”
Carlos nodded. “That’s where I’d do it,” he said. “Developers have gotten rich widening and modernizing the Princesa. It’s time we made some money, too.”
He rubbed his thumb along his fingers. It sounded almost like the rubbing of sandpaper.
Graham pulled out a map of Rio de Janeiro. The Novo Tunnel was located on Avenida Princesa Isabel, a street that ran down to Avenida Atlântica and was the border between Copacabana Beach and Leme Beach.
“There’s lots of foliage right over the entrance to the tunnel,” said Graham. “I’ve already been up there. It’s a perfect blind. I’ll be up about twenty feet high shooting down. Assuming she leaves when you say, the sun’s going to be over my right shoulder as I’m looking down.”
He pointed to an area on the map.
“The closer you can make her car stop in relation to the tunnel, say two hundred yards and in, would be best for me. But if you have a problem with that, I can nail her from farther away.”
“No problem,” said Carlos. It was a favorite phrase of his.
Graham handed Carlos what appeared to be three palm-sized radios. “Family Radio Service,” he said. “FRS devices. Have you used them?”
Carlos shook his head.
“They’re like walkie-talkies,” Graham said, “but you can lock into your own private channel, and you don’t have to worry about electronic disturbances. Their only drawback is that they’re only good over a relatively small area, but I did a test run already. I was at the tunnel and had a bellman transmit to me from the Copacabana Palace. The reception was perfect.”
Graham pointed to a button. “To transmit, all you do is press here. I’ve already programmed the code. That will allow our team to listen in on everything that’s occurring. You’re going to need to bring aboard two reliable lookouts: one at the hotel, and another right about here.”
He jabbed at the map, pointing out the corner of Rua Ministro Viveiros de Castro and Avenida Princesa Isabel.
“Lookout one will transmit to us when they leave. And lookout two will give you a one-block heads-up. That should give both of us time to have everything ready.”
“No problem,” a smiling Carlos said.
The more he heard those words, Graham thought, the more nervous he felt.
Graham had attached one of his three cameras to a small tripod. He used it much like a spotting scope, swiveling it around to take in the lay of the land. There was a doubler on the 800mm telescopic lens. He zoomed in on Carlos and his group. His party, and that seemed to be the right word for it, was camped along the bicycle lane that paralleled the street. Carlos didn’t look too worried over preparations. He and a group of children were busy playing hacky sack. Carlos was a big hit with the laughing kids. Half of them seemed to be hanging on to him.
Carlos and the children were behind a concrete embankment that ran along the street. He had told Graham the children were locals, kids he had picked up in a van from one of the nearby favelas—shantytowns. They were all related to one another, Carlos had said, with most of the children coming from just one family. The ringleader was the oldest, a boy who looked to be eight or nine. Carlos had explained what he wanted from him, and the boy seemed anxious to please.
The children, especially the little ones, were as precious as Graham could have hoped. The two smallest girls were picture perfect, with huge brown eyes, heads of hair with rich dark curls, and colorful dresses. They were wonderful little peas of the same pod, the older one perhaps three, and her younger sister no more than two. The girls were barefoot. Carlos had brought the children to his waiting area almost two hours earlier. In all that time the girls had held each other’s hand, never letting go.
Graham snapped a few pictures of the girls just for something to do. Rochelle and her party were long overdue. He picked up his FRS and hit the transmit button. Carlos had brought in one of his friends, a fellow named Sergio, to monitor the hotel. Sergio seemed competent, but Graham was still nervous.
“They still haven’t left yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Sergio. “But they loaded the luggage in the cars. Hotel security has roped off the entryway, and no one is getting by who’s not a registered hotel guest. Her guards are keeping everyone well away from the cars. Most of the photographers have given up. They’re making it impossible for them to get a shot.”
Graham didn’t mind Rochelle’s being so zealous about her privacy. It would ultimately make his product that much more valuable.
He didn’t have to say it, but he did anyway: “Call the moment it looks like they’re leaving.”
It was big game hunting. Waiting around the watering hole hadn’t worked, so Graham was making his own watering hole. In his work, he was the carnivore. Like any hunting animal, if he didn’t get the kill, he starved.
Graham turned his camera on Carlos and saw him lower the FRS from his ear. By the looks of it, he wasn’
t suffering from Graham’s case of nerves. He had brought a boom box along, and some of the children were dancing to its music. There was also food and drink, making it look like a roadside picnic.
It was hot and humid. Biting insects had found Graham amid the green jungle above the bridge. There was no footpath to the top of the bridge; Graham had bushwhacked through the brush to his concealed spot. Though the greenery mostly shielded him from the sun, Graham could feel its hot presence on the back of his neck and head. As morning had stretched into the afternoon, the sun had grown ever hotter. Graham leaned over and looked through the viewer of his state-of-the-art Canon EOS. The camera automatically read the glare and compensated accordingly. Most of the time all Graham had to do was shoot straight.
“There’s movement!” Sergio’s excited voice emerged from the FRS. “You hear what I’m saying? There’s movement!”
“I copy,” said Graham. “If you can, confirm that it’s Rochelle getting into the Mercedes.”
He doubted she would be using a decoy, but stars wanting to avoid the press often used look-alikes, rushing them into cars. The dogs were usually only too ready to chase after the lure rabbit.
Graham swung his camera down and focused on Carlos. He wasn’t playing hacky sack anymore. He was listening to Sergio.
“They’re pulling out,” said Sergio. “The car and her bodyguards blocked my line of sight. I couldn’t see her face.”
“I copy,” said Graham. What was it about these devices that made him talk like a cop? “Does she have a police escort?”
“No. Just the two Land Rovers.”
That had been their only concern. You don’t fool around with the Brazilian police. They would have called off their operation if she had utilized them as an escort.
“Are you in position, Leonardo?”
His shouted reply made Graham hold his FRS out at arm’s length. “I don’t see nothing yet!”
Leonardo was another one of Carlos’s cronies. His English wasn’t as good as Sergio’s, but it was still understandable. He was positioned on the corner of Viveiros de Castro and Princesa Isabel, about two hundred meters from where Carlos was waiting. Timing was all-important.
“You ready, Carlos?”
“No problem.”
His famous reassurance. Graham felt another pang of anxiety. He’d left many of the details of this operation up to Carlos, knowing greed was a great motivator. Carlos knew the score. It would be feast or famine for him. If Graham succeeded, he would get a major payday. Failure would mean he wouldn’t get more than the per diem he and Graham had worked out.
“The first car!” screamed Leonardo. “She passes.”
Graham took in the shot through the camera’s viewfinder. He swung the arm of the tripod down, raised the tilting head, and started scanning. From his vantage point he could look far down Princesa Isabel. He sighted the lead Land Rover, then searched for the Mercedes. It was a full block back. Graham tracked the black and shiny vehicle. He wasn’t the only one seeing it.
“Now the second car!” shouted Leonardo. “Her car comes! She comes! She be in the right lane! I tell you, the right lane!”
He was shouting so loudly that he might not have even needed the walkie-talkie. Graham swiveled the pan handle down and over. With a press of a button he autofocused on Carlos. He could see him gesturing and pointing, his little general at his side. The troops were breaching the bicycle path, spilling out on the shoulder of Princesa Isabel.
It almost looked like a Chinese fire drill. Children were running both up and across the street. Graham wondered what the hell Carlos was up to.
Everyone seemed to know their positions. Those in the front looked back to Carlos and signaled. The glare had intensified. The children were using their hands as visors to deflect the harsh rays of the sun so that they could better see Carlos. As the Land Rover passed by the first group, they started gesticulating wildly.
Two of the boys who’d navigated across the street had their backs to the center aisle and were looking down Princesa Isabel. Graham saw them suddenly gesturing and shouting to Carlos.
He tried to read what was going on, and a sudden thought made his stomach lurch. Carlos couldn’t be considering that. It was unthinkable. But he had sent all his troops out into the field, save for the boy general and the two smallest of them all.
Their brother, the field leader, was shouting directions at the two little girls. Hand in hand, the small sisters took tentative steps forward. Their tiny steps took them out to the busy street.
“No!” Graham jumped out of his blind and continued to scream, “No! No! No!”
The girls couldn’t hear him, of course.
“Carlos!” Graham screamed into his radio. “Carlos!”
The momentary respite in traffic had passed. A car was charging down the right lane. It was about one hundred meters from the girls when the flag waving began. The children danced into the right lane, snapping their bright red towels. They had the agility and nerve of rodeo clowns, putting their limbs and lives in jeopardy, trying to not only get the attention of the driver but force him into a sudden detour. The driver pressed on his horn and brakes at the same time, working both vigorously, before swerving into the next lane. The miniature bullfighters successfully averted disaster.
Graham was screaming so loudly into his radio set it looked like he was chewing it. “Stop this the fuck right now! You hear me, Carlos? Get those kids the fuck out of the street!”
The little girls were now in the middle of the far right lane. Carlos and the oldest boy were motioning for them to stand there. The youngest girl was crying.
Another car zoomed toward the tunnel, this one in the middle lane. Its windshield reflected the glare of the sun. Graham could see the driver fighting to see. He was only one lane over as he sped by the little girls. It appeared the driver never even saw them.
“Carlos! You fucking answer me! Carlos!”
Graham wasn’t sure whether he was being ignored, or whether Carlos was so intent on what he was doing that his voice wasn’t registering with him. He swung his camera around and watched the children hand-signaling each other.
Another car was powering down the right lane, but this time the young matadors moved back. They didn’t wave their red flags. The Mercedes was where they wanted it. They weren’t even trying to slow it down, for God’s sake.
Graham’s throat felt as if it were caught in a squeezing vise. “Carlos,” he croaked.
They were trusting that Rochelle’s driver would be able to see the girls. Never mind how small the children were, and how easily they could be overlooked, even with optimal visibility. And it was anything but that now. The sun’s glare over the bridge was hellish.
The Mercedes kept coming.
Graham was waving his arms. He was praying that the driver was wearing the ultimate in polarized sunglasses, the kind potent enough to casually view the sun during a solar eclipse. For an instant, Graham considered leaping off the bridge. Maybe that would get the driver’s attention. But he also knew it would get him two broken legs, minimum.
The Mercedes didn’t seem to be slowing.
Graham forced a scream out of his constricted throat: “Get those girls out of the street!”
Maybe Carlos heard. Maybe not. He had been hunched behind the concrete barricade, but now he was up and standing, waving his arms, too. The window of the Mercedes looked like a ball of fire. In a desperate attempt to reach the driver, Graham swung a camera in each hand, hoping they might reflect against the sun and be seen.
A terrible realization hit Graham. It was too late, he thought. Even if the driver slammed on his brakes, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.
At that moment, as far away as he was, Graham heard the shriek of brakes. The driver had to be putting his foot almost through the floorboard. The car was shrieking and trumpeting like an
elephant being brought down. The ABS brakes kept the car on a mostly straight line, though it was shaking and bucking from bumper to bumper. Smoke from all four wheels obscured the Mercedes in a black, moving cloud.
Graham dropped down and looked through his camera’s viewfinder. The smoke made it hard to see. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t turn away. Despite the best intentions of the driver, the Mercedes was still bearing down on the girls. They were looking with wide eyes as death charged them, their bare feet frozen into immobility.
The girls were holding on to each other very tightly.
“God,” Graham said over and over. “God, God, God.”
And then, in despair: “Goddammit.”
The car hit the girls, knocking them down.
Too late, the Mercedes came to a shuddering stop. The terrible damage was already done. The girls were down.
Down, he realized. But not run over. They hadn’t been thrown into the air. The Mercedes had all but come to a stop before hitting them. Through his camera, Graham watched Carlos bending over the sisters. Even after being struck, they were somehow still hugging each other. Then he saw something else. Movement. A tiny foot was twitching. Then Graham heard something that normally would have alarmed him, but now was music to his ears. As far away as he was, he could hear the girls screaming and crying.
They were alive.
Almost ten minutes had passed since the near accident, but Graham was still trembling. Climbing down from the bridge, his legs had twice buckled under him. It wasn’t the treacherous footing, but his being so shaken. Even now, he found it hard to walk in a straight line down Princesa Isabel.
Carlos saw him approaching from the distance and waved. The party was on again. His boom box was blaring and the children were dancing. The little girls were being feted as heroes.
“Hey!” said Carlos, flashing a big smile. “A bloody mouth and some scrapes, that’s all. We cut it a little close, but—”
Graham’s fist caught him on the side of his face. He followed up with a second blow to his stomach, and then a hard smash to his nose. Carlos covered up while Graham continued to pummel him. Graham didn’t mind the pain shooting up his hands and arms. It ridded him of his trembling.
