by Mark Dawson
He knelt down and encouraged her to crawl over to him. She sobbed, but came forward and allowed him to sweep her into a tight embrace.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I want my mama.”
He turned to make sure that they were alone and then, speaking quietly, he said, “You’re going to see her soon.”
“When?”
“Soon,” Paulo repeated. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Please,” the girl said, clinging even more tightly to him. “Please. Please. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“It won’t be long, I promise. You just need to keep being patient, just like you have been.”
“How long?”
“Very soon. Can you be brave?”
She sniffled.
“Can you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ll try.”
He put his hands on the girl’s shoulders and moved her back so that he could look into her face. “You need to go back inside again,” he said. “It won’t be for much longer.”
“You’re not staying with me?”
“I have to see someone. It’s important. It’s about getting you out. Is that all right?”
She looked as if she was going to cry again; instead, she swallowed hard and nodded.
“Good girl,” Paulo said.
He rested his hand on her cheek, gave what he hoped was his most reassuring smile, and then gently impelled her to go back into the crawlspace. She did, taking up the same position with her back against the wall. Paulo closed the door, locked it, and put the key back into his pocket. He reminded himself that he would have to give the key to Milton when he delivered the recorder with the video footage.
He didn’t want to leave her alone again, but he told himself that it would be the last time and, fighting back a mixture of contrition and fear, he climbed the stairs to the office once more.
66
Antonio Rodrigues looked out of the window at the vista laid out beneath him. Rio. That was one of the things about living at the top of the Hill that he liked so much: he could see everything, from the thousands of makeshift buildings that made up the favela to the spires of Leblon and Ipanema. The pleasure he felt was derived not from the impressive nature of the view, but by the knowledge that his influence extended as far as he could see.
He turned away from the window and the irritation returned. Shawn Drake was pacing the room. The man had annoyed him before, but that was nothing compared to the exasperation that he felt now. It had all been so promising before. Garanhão had approached him after his brother had asked him whether there was a way that he could exert influence on Felipe Saverin and the investigation that was systematically bringing down the pillars of Brazilian society. Garanhão was not interested in maintaining the status quo and had even enjoyed vicarious thrills as pompous politicians and businessmen had found their habitual immunities no longer protected them. He had smiled as they were paraded across the evening news and the morning papers, given the same inglorious treatment that was usually reserved for traficantes. But Garanhão had made many millions of reais from the corrupt men and women who were now in full-blown retreat, and it was in his best interests to keep the money flowing. He had told his brother that he would do what he could, and he had been true to his word.
Garanhão had paid a police officer he employed to investigate Saverin and to see whether there were weaknesses in his security that could be exploited. The officer had identified Shawn Drake as a particular weakness. Drake was greedy and vain and had overreached himself with expensive loans to finance his extravagant lifestyle. There was a woman involved, and Drake was pushing himself beyond his limit in order to impress her. He had been refused credit by the banks after defaulting on previous loans, and now his only recourse was the predatory lenders who preyed on the vulnerable. Garanhão had bought the loans and that meant, to all intents and purposes, that he had bought Drake, too.
He had then given him an opportunity to wipe the slate clean: deliver Saverin’s wife and daughter and he would liquidate the debt. Drake had said yes with an alacrity that had both disgusted and amused Garanhão, and had assembled a plan that Garanhão had been happy to back. Drake would deliver the Saverins in return for his debt and an extra quarter of a million dollars to start a new life. Alessandro had shot him during the abduction, the flak jacket that he wore beneath his shirt preventing any serious injury, and Drake had been whisked away in the confusion that followed the shoot-out. Garanhão had plenty of other officers in his employ, and a few additional reais in their monthly stipends meant that there was no investigation into his involvement.
Everything had gone so well until this morning.
“This man,” Garanhão said. “Milton. Tell me about him.”
Drake stopped pacing and replied in Portuguese. “He used to be a soldier. We served in the same regiment. A long time ago.”
“You told me that he was nothing to be concerned about. ‘Nothing special,’ you said. ‘A pathetic drunk.’ Did you underestimate him?”
Drake shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps.”
“And now he has caused me a very serious inconvenience. Six of my men are dead because of your mistake. Four when we took the girl, and now Alessandro and Junior.”
“With respect, Don Rodrigues, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if they had finished the job when they took the girl.”
Garanhão felt his temper flare; he had never been very good at hiding it, and Drake saw at once that he had chosen his words poorly.
“This was your plan,” Garanhão spat over Drake’s half-finished apology. “This is your mistake. I hold you responsible. And don’t ever talk to me like that again.”
“Don Rodrigues,” Drake said, his hands raised in an attempt to placate him, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Garanhão dismissed the apology. “You want to make this right? Then find this man and kill him.”
“That won’t be easy. He—”
Garanhão clapped his hands together. “Stop making excuses!” he snapped. “Do I have to do everything myself?”
He swore under his breath and went over to the table where he had left one of his burner phones. He opened Telegram, the encrypted messenger service that he relied upon to communicate with the other members of the gang, selected the picture of a beaten-up BMW that had been sent to him an hour ago, and tossed the phone across the room to Drake.
“See the photograph? My lookout saw that car near de Oliveira’s house this morning. He said a white man got out of it. He is sure that the white man is your friend. I have passed the details to one of the policemen who helps me. He will try to find the car. If we find the car, perhaps we can find your Mr. Milton. And, if we do, you can go and do what you should have done this morning. Kill the filho da puta. Make him wish he had never come to Rio.”
67
Milton drove the Fiat back to the motel. He passed through the arch onto the lot and saw Marks’s BMW parked in the same spot. He climbed the step to the veranda and knocked on the door.
Marks opened the door.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Is he here?”
“In the bathroom. He’s just thrown up.”
“And?”
“Come in. I’ll show you.”
Milton stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The cheap television on the bureau was switched on, and a cable had been run from a port on the side to a small black DVR recorder.
The bathroom door opened and Paulo came into the bedroom. He looked pale and there was a film of sweat on his forehead.
“Just in time,” Marks said. “I was just going to play it again.”
“You okay?” Milton asked him.
“I feel like shit,” Paulo said.
“You look like shit,” Milton replied. “But you’re nearly done now. Was it okay?”
“I felt like they all knew.”
“Yet you’
re still here,” Marks observed. “I’d say you got away with it. Sit down.”
Paulo sat on the edge of the bed. Milton stayed where he was and waited as Marks fiddled with the playback functions. The TV screen flickered with static before a shot of the interior of a car replaced it.
Milton watched as the picture flared, the camera struggling for a moment with overexposure as Paulo came out of the car, walked out of a darkened space, and emerged onto a bright and busy street. The camera did not come with a microphone, and the street—full of traffic and men and women going about their business—was silent.
“Where is this?” Milton asked.
“The top of the Hill. That building over there is where Garanhão has his meetings. The building I’ve just come out of is the warehouse—that’s where they’re keeping Alícia. I go back there later.”
Milton gestured, and Marks fast-forwarded the footage. They watched in silence as the POV shot accelerated along the street, turned to the first building, and halted by a closed door.
Marks ran the footage at normal speed.
“Tell us what’s happening here,” Milton said.
“They have guards on the door,” Paulo said. “I told them I was there to see the don.”
Milton watched as the footage rolled on. Paulo waited outside the door and then was led up to a room on what looked to be the top floor. He was met by a man who Milton, although he had not seen him before, knew at once was the don. He was young, slender, and had an air of nonchalant authority that was evident even without the sound to hear what he was saying.
“That’s him,” Paulo said. “That’s Garanhão.”
Paulo moved into the room, and Milton saw the second man sitting on the sofa with one leg crossed over the other. He bit his lip to stop himself from cursing.
Marks must have noticed him tensing up. “Your friend?”
“That’s him,” Milton said.
“His name is Drake,” Paulo offered.
“Did he speak to you?”
“Not really. He was there to see the don. Garanhão was not happy with him.”
“He’s going to be thrilled with him when I’m done,” Milton muttered.
The footage continued as Paulo moved across the room and Garanhão started talking.
“What did you tell them?” Marks asked.
“What you said I should: that I was outside the house and I heard gunshots. I said I panicked and left.”
Milton only half heard Paulo’s answer. His attention was fixed on Garanhão. He noticed the way he held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together when he emphasised what he was saying; he saw the glint of a gold cap in his mouth when he yawned; he saw dead eyes, without life, and recognised a quality that he shared. A lack of empathy. The absence of compassion. The eyes of a killer. He was trying to do better, but he knew that they were cut from the same cloth.
“Did they ask about me?” Milton said.
“Yes,” Paulo replied. “Senhor Drake showed me a picture. I said I couldn’t be sure that it was you.”
Milton was fine about that. Drake knew that Milton was out there. He wouldn’t know whether Milton would run or come after him. The uncertainty would keep him off balance; uncertainty often led to mistakes, and Milton would be ready to take advantage of even the smallest error.
“Garanhão knows your name,” Paulo said. “John Milton.”
Drake would have given the don everything he knew. It made no difference; Drake’s information was incomplete.
“Did you go to where they are keeping Alícia?” he asked.
“Afterwards,” Paulo said.
“Move it on,” Milton said.
Marks forwarded the footage. They watched as the conversation with Garanhão and Drake ended and Paulo made his way back outside. He crossed the road to the warehouses. Marks slowed the footage and, at Milton’s suggestion, Paulo provided a running commentary. Milton watched as Paulo went around to a loading bay at the rear of the building.
“The door is open during the day and closed at night,” he said.
“Could you open it?”
“Probably.”
They watched as Paulo went into the warehouse and climbed a flight of steps to a dock. Milton concentrated hard, committing as much of the building to memory as he could. He paid attention to the doors and corridors that led away from the bay, noted the vehicles that were parked, saw a walkway that ran around the wall fifteen feet up from the ground, noted the positions of the lights fixed to the wall and those suspended overhead.
“Keep going?” Marks asked.
Milton nodded. The footage continued as Paulo passed through an empty office and then descended a set of steps to a basement. There was a door in the wall with a light shining beneath it. They saw Paulo’s hand reach forward to insert a key into a lock; the key turned and the door opened. The camera flared again as it adapted to the bright artificial light behind the door and then snapped back into focus: there was a girl sitting on the floor of a narrow crawlspace, her knees drawn up to her chest and her head down. She looked up, right at Paulo, and Milton felt a kick in his gut.
Alícia Saverin.
68
It was ten in the evening when Marks drove Milton to the cache. He parked the BMW in front of the garage, and both men got out. The drive had been quiet. Milton didn’t much feel like talking, and Marks, perhaps aware of that, let him sit and think about what he was going to do. Milton knew that he was taking a big risk. He knew that he did not have the element of surprise, but trusted, instead, that the audacity—perhaps even the stupidity—of an attack in the heart of the gang’s territory would mean that Garanhão and his men would discount it. He had decent intelligence thanks to the footage that Paulo had provided, and, in the young carioca, he had an inside man who would be able to warn him of anything that he needed to know before he went too far to turn back.
Milton would have preferred to have had time to scout the target area himself, but Paulo had made it plain that time was not a luxury that they had. Beyond that, Milton did not want to leave the girl there for a moment longer than was necessary. He did not like to cut corners—his careful preparation was one of the reasons that he had lasted as long as he had in a profession where longevity was the exception rather than the rule—but he couldn’t see how that could be avoided now.
“Get it unlocked,” Milton told Marks. “I need to make a phone call.”
Marks nodded. He unlocked the roller door and heaved it up and out of the way. He switched on the light, went into the garage, and lowered the door again so that it was almost closed.
There was no point in pretending otherwise: Milton was nervous. What he was proposing was dangerous. It was dangerous, but that was no reason to put it off. This would be his best opportunity to get the girl back again. Perhaps his only chance. The longer he waited, the longer the odds would be.
He took one of the burner phones that Marks had provided, switched it on, and dialled the number that GCHQ had found.
The call took a moment to connect.
“Hello?”
“Judge Saverin?”
“Who is this?” The reply was indignant; this was a personal number that would not have been made readily available to anyone outside the family.
“It’s John Smith.”
Saverin’s reply replaced irritation with confusion. “Smith?”
“I was there when—”
“Where is my daughter?” he cut in.
“I’m sorry to call unannounced,” Milton said.
“Where is she?” he said with sudden urgency. “Alícia—where is she?”
“I need you to listen very carefully, Judge. Shawn Drake was working for Antonio Rodrigues. You know who he is? Garanhão?”
“Of course I know who he is,” Saverin snapped.
“Garanhão has her. I expect he took her to order—if you asked me to guess, I would say that one of the men you’re prosecuting hired him to do it.”
Milton
heard the sound of footsteps on the line and then a muffled, whispered conversation in Portuguese. He guessed that Valentina Saverin must have heard her husband mention their daughter’s name.
“Please pay attention. It’s very important.”
“Jesus,” Saverin swore. “Jesus. Do you know where she is?”
“I do. And I’m going to go and get her. I’ll bring her to you.”
“Where is she? In Rocinha? Please—just tell me.”
“It won’t be helpful for you to know that now.”
“Of course it would,” he snapped again. “I’ll tell the police—they’ll go and get her. They’ll send a battalion.”
“I think we both know that wouldn’t work.” Milton spoke calmly. “Even if we assume that Rodrigues doesn’t have officers on the payroll—and we both know that he almost certainly does—his men will see the police coming as soon as they start up the Hill. If Alícia is lucky, they’ll just move her somewhere else. If she’s unlucky…” Milton let that end without elaboration. “If they do move her, I might not be able to find her again. I have an advantage—they don’t know that I know where she is—but that’s temporary. Involving the police would mean that we have no advantage at all.”
“I’m sorry—I’m… I’m…”
“I know this is a surprise.”
He heard the same female voice in the background and then a more muffled conversation as, he guessed, Saverin cupped his hand over his phone.
“Judge,” Milton said, “I don’t have long. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to go and get her.”
“With who?”
“I have a little help, but I work better alone.”
“It’s the fucking Hill,” Saverin said desperately. “You’re going to go alone? You won’t make it halfway up.”
“You’re going to have to trust me.”
“You already lost her once.”
The jibe was automatic and stinging, but Milton understood it. It was understandable; he might have felt the same way if the shoe had been on the other foot.
