by Mark Dawson
The girl glanced down at the food, up at him, and then back down to the food again.
“I need to go again,” he said. “I’ll be back again later. I have to lock the door, but I’ll leave the light on again for you. The best thing to do is to be quiet and patient. You won’t be here for long. You’ll be able to go home soon—I promise.”
The girl looked up at him, and he wondered whether she was about to speak, but, instead, she turned away and bit her lip again. Paulo closed the door, turned the key, and took a moment to try to ignore the guilt. He thought of the two men in the room upstairs and, on impulse, he took the key out of the lock and held it in his fist.
He climbed up to the ground floor. The men were smoking their weed; the room was thick with the sweet odour.
Paulo was about to leave the room when one of them stretched out a leg and blocked the way. “She okay?” he asked.
Paulo clenched. “She’s fine,” he said. “I’ve given her some food. You just leave her to me.”
The man looked to his mate and laughed. “What does that mean? You telling us to stay up here?”
“Garanhão told me to look after her,” he said, struggling to stop his voice quivering from the fear and anger that he felt. He knew that invoking the name of the don like that was a threat—If you do anything, I’ll tell the boss—and he knew that they were the type who would kill him as soon as look at him, but, for that moment, he found that he didn’t care.
“What’s your point?” the second man said.
“I’m going to get her something to sleep on,” Paulo said. “I won’t be long.”
The man shrugged, pulled his leg back again, and turned his attention back to his spliff. Paulo clenched his fists tight, the edges of the key digging into his flesh. He didn’t trust either of them, their judgement or their intentions, and he didn’t want to leave the girl alone with them so close to her.
But he had to go home. He had to see Rafaela and Eloá.
He left the room before either of them could say anything else.
43
The taxi driver took Milton through Flamengo, passing the stadium where both Flamengo and Fluminense played, and then into the pleasant streets of the middle-class neighbourhood of Laranjeiras. They exchanged the asphalt of the highway for cobbles and followed the road up the hill until they reached a series of houses that were secured behind neat walls. The walls were covered with ivy and topped with spikes and wires to keep unwanted visitors outside. The driver asked which house Milton wanted; he wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked out of the window. It had been years since he had been here; he wasn’t sure that he would remember. They reached a property that Milton thought he recalled: the door was secured behind a metal grille, with the entirety of the wall around it clad in ivy and clematis. Milton looked at the top of the wall and saw the corrugated metal roof of the property behind it. He hadn’t visited for ten years, but he was as sure as he could be that this was the place. He remembered the smell of the flowers.
Milton paid the driver and got out of the cab. He tried to stand, but the wave of dizziness that washed over him was so intense that he had to hold onto the roof in order to stop himself from falling. He shuffled forward and rapped his knuckles against the window. The driver lowered it.
“Help me,” Milton said.
The driver put his hazard lights on, got out of the car, and came around to where Milton was standing. “Where?” he said.
Milton gestured weakly to the gate.
The driver ducked down so that Milton could loop his right arm over his shoulders and then supported him as they crossed the cobbled street and climbed the shallow kerb. A small section of the wall to the right of the door had been kept clear of vegetation, and an intercom with a camera was set into it. Milton blinked the sweat out of his eyes and looked down at it: a strip of card was protected by a Perspex cover, and written on the card was a single name: MARKS. Milton felt a wave of relief and pressed the button.
There was a pause, and then the intercom crackled with static.
“Who is it?”
The voice was cracked with age and carried a grouchiness that Milton remembered very well.
“Hello, Harry,” he said. He shuffled to the right so that his face was in front of the camera. “It’s me.”
The intercom clicked off and, for a moment, Milton wondered if he was going to leave him on the street. He needn’t have worried; he heard a door open somewhere behind the wall, and then the door was unlocked.
Harry Marks stood in the doorway. Milton remembered him: his face was wrinkled, there were deep lines around his mouth, and bags bulged beneath his eyes. His hair was all white, although he had much less of it now than he’d had when Milton had last seen him. He had been in his late fifties then, and the erosion of the last decade was writ large. The lines were a little deeper, his eyes a little less bright, and he seemed to stoop a little as he stepped out onto the street.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“I need… help. Can I…”
Harry came to Milton’s side, and the driver stepped aside so that Harry could take his place. Milton draped his arm over the old man’s shoulders and allowed him to take his weight. Milton could feel that there was still strength in the old man’s back and shoulders.
The driver held out his hand. “Extra.”
Harry frowned, said something in Portuguese, and then, when the driver stood his ground, he reached down with his left hand and fumbled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He took out two notes and gave the first one to him. The man looked at the second expectantly. Harry said something to him, the man grunted his agreement, and Harry gave him the note.
“Told him to keep his mouth shut,” the old man said as he turned Milton around and helped him to shuffle across the pavement.
The doorway in the wall was too narrow for them to pass through side by side, so Harry went through first and then helped Milton to follow. There was a pleasant courtyard beyond that contained a number of potted plants and small shrubs. Milton remembered the fragrant jasmine.
Marks went around and looped Milton’s arm over his shoulder again. “What happened?”
“Car crash,” Milton said weakly.
“And I take it you’d rather not go to a hospital?”
“Was in one,” Milton said. “Discharged myself.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Ambush,” Milton said. “Ipanema. It was…” The words degraded into gibberish; Milton knew that he was mumbling, but he suddenly found it impossible to speak clearly.
“I’ll look into it,” Harry said. “I’ve got a spare room. You can go in there.”
A pair of French doors opened off the courtyard, and Marks led the way inside. Marks took him through the room to a corridor that led deeper into the house. There were two doors at the end, and Marks opened the one on the right. They slid through it sideways and stepped into a small bedroom. There was a bed, a single wooden chair, and a small chest of drawers. Marks helped Milton over to the bed. Milton sat down. The window was closed and the room was stuffy. Marks opened it, and a gentle breeze started to ruffle the thin taffeta drapes.
Milton winced with pain as he managed to slip his shirt off his shoulders. All of his muscles ached. Marks put his hand on Milton’s chest and gently pushed him back. Milton was too weak to resist. He sank down onto the mattress, feeling the coolness of the sheets against the clammy skin of his back. He felt fresh sweat on his brow and on his body, more of it gathering despite the breeze that blew over him from the open window. His eyes were heavy, and he allowed them to close. He was tired. He needed to sleep.
Part IV
The Fifth Day
44
Milton became aware of the sound of birdsong. It was light and cheerful, a pleasant noise that was close at hand. He could see the glow of light from behind his half-closed eyes and, focussing on the chirping of the bird, he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, and the
first thing that he saw was a ceiling that he did not recognise. There was a fan above him, spinning slowly and sending a gentle breeze down onto his body. He turned his head a little until he could see an open window with taffeta drapes pulled aside and, beyond the window, a colourful jasmine. It was loaded with purple flowers and, when he inhaled, he could smell their fragrance. A small bird had taken up a position in the branches of the tree, and it chirped merrily, oblivious to its audience.
Milton turned his attention back to the room. It had whitewashed walls, bare save for a framed Mondrian print. He was lying on a bed, with linen sheets folded back down to his waist. There was a small table to his right with a glass of water standing on it.
He lay back on the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and remembered.
Drake.
Alícia Saverin.
He closed his eyes.
He took a moment to gather himself and then opened them again and tried to sit up.
The effort sparked an explosion of dizziness. He was weak and lethargic. He gave up, falling back down on the bed.
“Hello?” His mouth was dry. “Hello?”
He heard the sound of footsteps and then the squeak of old hinges.
“You’re awake.”
Milton turned his head toward the voice and saw Harry Marks standing there. The old man was wearing a linen suit and a pale lilac shirt. He was drying a glass with a tea towel.
“Hello, Harry,” Milton said.
“How are you feeling?”
“Shitty. How long was I out?”
“Bit more than a day. You—”
“What?” Milton protested. He tried to sit again. “That long? I can’t—” He felt a wave of weakness and lowered himself back onto the mattress. “Ouch.”
Harry came closer. “Take it easy. You have a very bad concussion. My friend was concerned.”
“Your friend?”
“Used to be a doctor. He’s been very helpful.”
Milton groaned. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
He closed his eyes and tried to recall what had happened. “Not all of it.”
“You came here straight from the hospital. Remember that?”
“No.”
“I went out to get my friend, and when I came back, you were on the floor in the other room, saying something about how she was just a little girl and how you couldn’t stay here. He said you needed to sleep, and he put you under. You’ve been out the whole time.”
“Thank you,” Milton said. “And I’m sorry. It was unprofessional of me not to call ahead.”
“You were in no fit state,” Marks said. “Forget it. You thirsty?”
“Yes.”
Marks helped Milton to sit, putting two pillows behind his back and then giving him the glass of water from the table next to the bed. Milton drank it with careful sips, wary of gulping it down and bringing it straight back up again.
Marks took the glass and replaced it on the table. “You want to go through what you do remember?”
Milton told Marks as much as he could recall. He told him about Shawn Drake and agreeing to stand in for the missing man while they took Valentina and Alícia Saverin to and from the girl’s recital. He told him about the ambush outside the apartment in Ipanema.
“Hold on,” Harry said.
Milton waited as Harry disappeared into the other room and returned with a copy of the previous day’s O Globo. He opened the newspaper to the second and third pages and started to read.
“‘Seven people have been killed in Ipanema after gunmen attacked a car containing the wife and daughter of Felipe Saverin, the anti-corruption judge. Police would not say how many suspects were involved, but Mrs Saverin and her daughter were targeted by at least four assailants at around 2 p.m. The attackers were confronted by private security guards, and a shoot-out followed. Mrs Saverin was able to escape, but her daughter was abducted and taken by three men, who fled the scene in a Jaguar. Witnesses said that one of the guards gave chase, but that the car that he was travelling in was subsequently involved in a crash at Avenue Niemeyer.’”
“I remember,” Milton said. “He forced me off the road. I rolled the car.”
“That adds up,” Marks replied. He read on. “‘The guard was taken to hospital but discharged himself before the police could speak to him.’” He laid the newspaper on the bed. “Is that true?”
Milton said that it was. “Do you know how I got here?”
“Taxi,” Marks said. “And, yes, before you ask, the driver would definitely remember you. We’re going to have to be a little bit circumspect until the fuss dies down.”
“I can’t hide away,” Milton said. “They took the girl. She’s six. I have to find her, Harry. Help me up.”
“Take it easy,” Marks said, but, at Milton’s insistence, he reached down a hand and helped him to his feet. “You must be hungry.”
“I am.”
“So let me fix you some breakfast. Then we can work out what to do.”
45
Marks had set up a table and two chairs in the courtyard next to the jasmine. An awning had been fitted to the wall, and it stretched out to provide a little shelter from the sun, which, despite the early hour, was already burning bright. Marks told Milton to take a seat and then went into the house to fix breakfast. Milton lowered himself into the canvas chair and breathed in the fragrant air. He closed his eyes and assessed how he felt. His muscles ached, he was bruised, and his neck was sore from whiplash, but, those ailments aside, he felt stronger than he had any right to feel. He knew that he had been lucky; he could very well have been killed in the crash or during the firefight that preceded it. He thought of Drake. He had been less fortunate. And then he thought of Alícia, and his anger boiled up again. He was going to find her, and then he was going to punish the men who had taken her.
Marks returned with a tray laden with two mugs, a jug, a basket of bread and a bowl of sliced papaya. “Café da manhã,” he said, setting the tray down. “Morning coffee. Want one?”
Milton said that he did, and Marks poured strong black coffee into both mugs.
“Thanks, Harry,” Milton said. “I owe you.”
Marks waved his gratitude away. “Forget it.”
Milton sipped the coffee. The natural bitterness had been ameliorated with a lot of sugar. “What else can you tell me?” he asked, setting the mug back down.
Marks sipped his coffee. “So,” he began once he was finished, “I made a few calls while you were sleeping. I have a friend who used to work in the police, and he asked around for me. The newspaper is right—the police are looking for a man who walked out of Miguel Couto Municipal Hospital two days ago. He was admitted after being pulled unconscious out of the wreck of a car on Avenue Niemeyer. White, mid to late forties, believed to be English.”
“He say anything else?”
“He did. An AR-15 and a Glock 17 were found in the wreck, and seven people are dead. This kind of thing happens in the favelas. They can forget about it up there, but not when it happens in a place like Ipanema. That’s why the police are interested. And because of the girl who was taken. Saverin is a big deal. This is already a big story.”
“Do you know anything about the dead?”
“Funny you should say that.” Marks took a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket and flipped pages. “Shawn Drake, Jannike Berg and Dean Hawkins. All three working in private security, contracted to guard the Saverins.”
“And the bad guys?”
He looked down. “Pedro Santos, Luiz Belle, Fabrício Moretti and Gael Alves. All reputed to be members of Red Command, and all with criminal records as long as your arm.”
“Red Command?”
“It’s one of the gangs—there are three: Comando Vermelho, Terceiro Comando Puro and Amigos dos Amigos. Red Command runs Rocinha, the biggest favela. You don’t know any of this?”
“No. Nothing.”
“So this isn’t a Group job
?”
“You didn’t hear? I’m not in the Group anymore.”
Marks shook his head. “I didn’t. But that’s not the kind of information they’d share with an old stringer like me. What happened?”
Milton exhaled wearily. “I told them I didn’t want to do it anymore.”
“And how did that go down?”
“About as well as a cup of cold sick.”
Marks chuckled. “What was it Control used to say? ‘The only people I owe my loyalty to are those who never made me question theirs.’”
“I forgot you knew him,” Milton said.
“I’ve known him for years. We served in West Berlin together, but he was always a little more ambitious than I was. And a little more ruthless, too. I heard some unsavoury things about him. Were they true?”
“Probably. He was playing both sides. He betrayed one of his agents.”
“And?”
“And that particular agent is not the kind of woman I would have betrayed.”
“So he’s out of the way?”
“He’s dead.”
Marks didn’t look surprised. “We weren’t close. He wasn’t the kind of man I was ever completely comfortable about trusting. Brilliant, but he always had his own agenda. He would have sold his mother down the river if he thought it would be good for his career.” He finished his coffee and refilled both mugs. “So this isn’t work?”
“I came here for the festival and to see an old Regiment friend. Shawn Drake. He owned the security business. He said he was a man short for a job the next day, and I offered to step in.”
Milton thought of the meal that he had enjoyed with Shawn and Sophia. When had that taken place again? He had lost track of the days. Three days ago? Two days? And then Drake, Berg and Hawkins had been shot, and Alícia had been taken. He would have to go and see Sophia, to tell her what had happened, but not yet. He had to work out exactly what had happened before he did anything else.
