by Mark Dawson
Milton saw Drake’s beaming face in the mirror and looked back out of the window, stifling his laugh before it could come. The child had a naïve innocence that was impossible not to love, and a way of expressing herself that was both charming and entirely guileless. Milton had never been paternal and had long since decided that to bring a child into his own life would be both the height of selfishness and entirely impractical, but he found that Alícia charmed him. He gazed back at her now: her hands were folded demurely in her lap, and she watched out of the window with an open, inquisitive face.
Valentina caught his eye and smiled at him.
Milton smiled back. He was enjoying the afternoon rather more than he had expected he would.
27
Paulo took the road around to the back of the last warehouse on the left, as the don had instructed. There was a slope that led down to a large opening that, in turn, led to the interior of the building. The room had a double-height ceiling with dirty skylights set high above. There was an old loading bay and a raised platform that was guarded by a metal rail. There were two beaten-up vans parked against the platform and a Jaguar XF next to the trucks.
Paulo made his way inside and walked across to a man in a blue-and-white-checked bandana.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The man turned to him. “What?”
“I’m here to see Alessandro.”
The man pointed to the corner of the loading bay. “In the office.”
Paulo followed the man’s directions, climbing a flight of stone steps to the raised loading dock and then continuing across it until he reached a wooden door. The door was closed, but there was a dusty panel of glass set into it and, as he looked through it, he saw an office space with a table and filing cabinets. He couldn’t see all of the room, but he could see that there were at least two men inside. They were playing cards, both of them with their backs angled toward him.
He knocked on the door.
“What?”
Paulo opened the door and stood in the doorway.
One of the men turned around. He was bearded and was wearing a sleeveless vest that exposed the tattoos on both arms. “Yes?”
“I’m Paulo. Don Rodrigues sent me.”
“You’re the driver?”
“That’s right.”
“So don’t just stand there—get in here.”
“And close the door,” the second man said without turning away from the table.
Paulo did as he was told, closing the door and stepping up to the table. The man with the beard laid his cards down and stood up. He hawked up a ball of phlegm, turned his head and spat it onto the floor. “I’m Alessandro,” he said. He pointed to the man at the table, who still had not turned around. “That’s Junior. You’re driving us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Ipanema,” he said.
“What for?”
“You just worry about driving us down there and back here again. That’s all you got to concern yourself about.”
Paulo decided not to press it. He felt a little frisson of disquiet, but he told himself he was being paranoid. It was a simple enough job. Garanhão had told him: take them down the Hill and bring them back again.
Junior stood. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay with it. Where’s the car?”
“Outside,” Alessandro said. “The Jaguar. Go make sure it’s ready. We need to be down in Ipanema by one thirty.”
“Then we have to leave in five minutes—”
“Just as well you came when you did, then. Get on with it.”
28
The Our Lady of Mercy School was found between Lagoa and Botafogo, a short drive from the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon. Traffic remained heavy, and it took them twenty minutes to make the short four-mile transit from Ipanema. The entrance to the school was on Rua Visconde de Caravelas, a side street that was too narrow for the line of cars as parents waited to drop off their children. Milton looked up and down the street anxiously; it would be impossible to make a quick exit here if they were put under attack. There was a drop-off zone to their left, marked by a dotted white line and a painted yellow box, but it was jammed with cars. The driver of one car—an expensive Lexus—was trying to slide his vehicle into a space that was much too small for it, bullying his way ahead in an attempt to persuade the driver of the big SUV ahead of him to get out of the way.
Drake was anxious, too, and he pressed on the horn as a Honda pulled out without warning and blocked his way ahead. The car had left a space, though, and, with the second Range Rover blocking the rest of the traffic behind them, Drake seized the opportunity. He reversed into the space and raised his hand in thanks as Berg and Hawkins went by in the second car.
“It’s not normally as busy as this,” Drake said. Milton knew that Drake would have been embarrassed to have driven them into a spot like this and, although Valentina might not have appreciated the risk, he knew that Milton most certainly would.
“The recital is always popular,” Valentina offered. “It was like this last year. Everyone comes. All the parents.”
Milton got out of the car first and checked up and down the street. Cars were parked on both sides, with others slowly trying to pass between them. He turned to the school itself: the doors that led inside were set into a modern-looking brick façade, with coils of barbed wire set atop tall walls composed of concrete slabs that were still scarred by the ghostly markings of graffiti that had been partially cleaned away. There were a lot of parents gathered around the entrance, and an enterprising young woman was hawking inflatable balloons as the children passed on their way inside.
Drake got out of the car.
“I don’t like it,” Milton said over the roof.
“I don’t either,” Drake said.
“It’s a choke point.”
“I wouldn’t have brought them in this way if I’d known,” Drake replied, a little defensively.
There was an old saying that Milton remembered from running protection operations: ‘If you’re not mobile, get mobile. If you are mobile, stay mobile.’ Drake had dropped the ball. Milton was about to tell him that he should have known the lay of the land, that a little reconnaissance would have made the issue self-evident, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to embarrass an old friend in front of his client.
The second Range Rover found a space ten metres ahead of them and pulled up next to the kerb.
“Berg will stay out here and watch the car,” Drake said. “Hawkins will stay by the entrance and wait for us.”
“All right,” Milton said.
Drake went to the door and opened it. Valentina Saverin came out first, then reached back into the cabin to take her daughter’s hand so that she could help her out.
Milton went around the car and joined them as they passed through a gap in the slow-moving line of cars. Valentina was on the left and Milton the right, with Alícia between them both.
The little girl looked up at him. “Are you coming in, senhor Smith?”
“I am,” Milton said. “Is that all right?”
The girl gave a solemn, satisfied nod of her head. Milton looked back to the road and felt her small hand slip into his. He felt her fingers lying across his palm and looked down; her hand was small and dainty. She felt his eyes on her and smiled up at him. Milton found himself smiling again, too. The shadow of his unease faded in the brightness of her expression.
They went through the entrance and into the school beyond. It was squeezed into the cramped city block and did not have the space for grounds or any sort of outdoor facilities. Valentina led the way down the corridor and then out into an enclosed concrete yard that looked as if it was where the children went outside to play. They crossed the yard and entered another building; this one opened onto a performance space. It was designed as a rotunda, with the small stage surrounded on all sides by seating. Alícia was more confident now that she was in a place that she, rather than the
grownups, recognised, and she led the way across the space to a man who turned to meet her with a smile.
“Alícia,” the man said. He turned to her mother. “Senhora Saverin.”
The man—Milton guessed that it was Alícia’s teacher—spoke in Portuguese, and Milton was unable to translate. He and Drake took a step back, finding a discreet position where they could observe the room without standing out too much.
“Is this expensive?” Milton asked.
“Not cheap,” Drake replied. “But there are more expensive schools.”
“The Saverins aren’t rich, then.”
“No. Between us, I agreed to a reduced rate for the job. It’s not really about the money for me. This is good for the CV. And for introductions to the other people Saverin knows.”
Milton nodded, but, before he could respond, Valentina came over to them both. She had an awkward expression on her face.
“That was the headmaster,” she said. “I’m very sorry—he says the hall will be full today. School policy is for parents only, but, given that my husband isn’t here, he said it would be all right for one of you to stay.” She turned to Drake apologetically. “I’m sorry, senhor Drake, but Alícia asked if senhor Smith could stay. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Of course not,” Drake said. “Let me just speak to senhor Smith, and then I’ll wait outside.”
She nodded her assent and went to take one of the few empty seats in the middle of the nearest bank.
“I’ll go outside,” Milton said. “You should stay here. The wife knows you.”
“It’s fine,” Drake said, waving the suggestion away. “There’s only one way into the hall, and the school has guards, too. I don’t need to be here. I can wait in the yard.”
“Are you sure?”
Drake grinned. “You’ve made a new friend.”
“So it would seem.”
Milton turned. Valentina was looking in his direction, and, as their eyes met, she raised her hand and then pointed down at the empty seat beside her. Milton ignored the feeling that a six-year-old girl was calling the shots and, raising his hand to acknowledge the girl’s mother, he started toward her just as the doors to the yard were closed and the lights started to dim.
29
The recital was charming. The school catered to children from Alícia’s age all the way up to sixteen years old, and a selection of musicians from across the age range entertained the audience for an hour. An older teen gave a dazzling performance of Beethoven’s ‘Waldstein’ sonata, and others followed with an extract from Rachmaninov’s third piano concerto, Haydn’s Sonata No. 42 and Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie. Classical music wasn’t Milton’s favourite, but it was impossible not to be charmed.
At ten minutes to the hour, a fifteen-year-old who had just dazzled them all with Mozart took his applause and left the stage. There was a pause, and then Alícia appeared. The girl walked confidently to the front of the stage, faced the parents, and gave an exaggeratedly deep bow. The adults clapped enthusiastically. Milton turned his head a little so that he could look at Valentina; the girl’s mother was absorbed in the moment, caught between clapping and raising her hand to catch her daughter’s attention.
Alícia turned away from the crowd and took her seat before the big piano. She looked tiny, her legs barely long enough to reach down to the pedals. She took a moment to compose herself, and then, resting her hands on the keys, she started to play. Milton looked down at the program and saw that Alícia was going to play the first movement from Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata.’ Milton didn’t recognise the particular piece; the music was fiery and rebellious, with a hint of darkness beneath it that Milton found impossible to miss. The girl was extraordinarily talented. Her hands flew over the keys, her nimble fingers picking out the notes with a fluency that, if not perfect, was still remarkable for one so young. She finished the piece with a bravura flourish, and the audience rewarded her with an enthusiastic ovation.
Milton clapped, too, and, as he looked over at Valentina, he saw that her eyes were wet with tears. The girl’s mother saw that Milton was looking at her and, for a moment, their eyes met. Valentina smiled at him with a sort of bashful pride, and Milton gave a single nod of his head, a gesture that he hoped she would interpret as a mark of how impressed he was with her daughter.
Alícia came to the front of the stage, gave a second bow, and, still tiny next to the big piano and on the wide stage, she gave a third bow before turning and heading back to the room from which she had emerged.
The applause petered out.
“That was outstanding,” Milton said.
Valentina smiled her gratitude. “Thank you, senhor Smith.”
“You should be very proud.”
“I am. I just wish that her father could have seen her.”
“Yes,” Milton said. “But I imagine he can listen to her at home.”
“He can,” she conceded. “He does. But it’s not the same as being here.” She paused, biting her lip until the flesh whitened. “It’s difficult. His work is very important. But sometimes…” She paused again and, this time, did not continue.
Milton felt uncomfortable. He doubted he had the empathy to finish the conversation in the right way, without appearing gauche or patronising, but he knew that he had to say something, so he offered, “I’m sure it won’t be forever.” Then, before she could respond, he told her he would meet her at the door and made his way down the stairs to the exit.
30
Valentina and Alícia met them in the yard, and Drake led the way back through the school to the entrance. He had called ahead, and Hawkins was waiting at the entrance, while Berg had brought the first Range Rover up to the kerb. She left the engine running as she got out and opened the rear door for first Valentina and then Alícia. Milton went around to the front and got into the passenger seat. Berg shut the rear door, conferred briefly with Drake, and then jogged down the road with Hawkins to get into the second car. Drake slid into the driver’s seat and rolled away from the kerb. He slowed down and flashed his lights, and Berg and Hawkins pulled out in front of them. They headed west in formation and then turned to the south, following the road around the lushness of the Parque da Catacumba.
“Senhor Smith?”
Milton turned to look back. “Yes, Alícia?”
“Did you enjoy the recital?”
“I did,” he said. “Very much. You’re very talented.”
The girl screwed up her face and turned to her mother, who translated for her. She smiled when she looked back to Milton again. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Milton corrected her. “Thank you for asking me to come. I had a lovely afternoon.”
Milton gazed past the girl and her mother and looked out at the vast Honda dealership on Rua Real Grandeza. The traffic was still heavy, and Drake had no choice but to keep their speed low. The second Range Rover was just ahead of them, the brake lights flashing on and off as Berg reacted to the intermittent flow ahead of them. Milton felt a knot of disquiet in his stomach. They were vulnerable. There was no easy way to get off the road. If he were planning a hit with the Saverins as his target, this would be precisely the kind of place that he would choose. A couple of attackers on motorbikes, a drive-by with MP5s or a magnetic mine slapped onto the chassis… He sucked his teeth.
“This isn’t unusual,” Drake said, gesturing to the traffic ahead of them. Had he sensed Milton’s unease?
Milton wanted to tell him to keep his eyes open, but he didn’t want to betray his anxiety in front of the girl and her mother. And, he reminded himself, it was probably just his paranoia. He had seen nothing to make him suspect that an attack was a possibility. It was his habitual wariness. He had spent so long working out how to get to difficult targets and, less often, how to defend potential targets from attack, that it had seeped into his bones.
“How long do you think it will take?” Valentina asked.
“Half an hour from here,” Drake offered.
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“We have to get to the airport,” she added.
“Not a problem. Your husband said we’ve got plenty of time.”
Milton concentrated on the view out of the window. The traffic moved sluggishly.
31
The Jaguar was the XF Sport in black, with tinted windows, and looked as if it was new. It was the 3.0-litre V6, with 376 horsepower and a six-speed manual transmission. Alessandro and Junior got into the back, and Paulo drove them out of Rocinha and then east along the coast until they reached Ipanema. Alessandro told him to go to Avenida Vieira Souto, the exclusive road that separated the high-end apartments, restaurants and hotels from the beach and the sea. Paulo had been here just two nights earlier, racing in the opposite direction. It seemed longer ago than that now. A lot had changed in the meantime. He had lost his car and the money that he had been saving, he had been beaten and threatened by Palito, but then—perhaps—his luck had changed. He had been given all of the money to pay for Eloá’s treatment.
But it wasn’t that simple, Paulo reminded himself: Garanhão had not offered him the money because of some altruistic motivation; he wanted something in return, and Paulo would have to start paying it back now.
Paulo glanced in the mirror at Alessandro and Junior. The latter, now that Paulo had seen him properly, was fearsome-looking: he had a tattoo across his face, the design attesting to his membership in the Red Command gang, of which Garanhão was the local leader. The two men were silent, but Paulo had the impression that they were both keyed up by the prospect of whatever it was that they were here to do. He wondered what that was. Garanhão had said only that it was ‘business,’ that he was to drive the two men to and from Ipanema. He knew that anything to do with Garanhão was likely to be illegal, but he hoped that the scale of that illegality was minimal.
They approached a red and white building from which the owner rented beach equipment to those going down onto the sand.
