The Marketmaker

29

We were a ramshackle gang. Cordelia was at Luís’s apartment by the phone. Nelson, his associate Ronaldo, Euclides and I were in the car, one of two Nelson had bought the evening before from a car thief he knew. And Luís himself was in London at the Savoy Hotel, praying for our success. Nelson, Ronaldo and I had guns. We had let Euclides come with us as long as he left his treasured gun behind. He might turn out to be useful.

I had never carried a handgun before. It was stuffed in the belt of my jeans, under a loose sweatshirt. It was heavy. The metal, at first cold, had been warmed by my body. Nelson had quickly shown me how to fire it, but the idea was that I should only use it in an emergency.

I was scared. Now I was truly risking my own life as well as Isabel’s. But I also felt elated. For the first time, I felt I was doing something positive that might actually get her released. Nelson was cool, deliberate, tense. Ronaldo stared stolidly ahead, watching the traffic drive by. Slight, with an unremarkable crumpled black face and a wispy moustache, he was a former colleague of Nelson’s in the Rio police force.

The car was parked down the road from Francisco’s house. This wasn’t going to be a well-planned snatch. It didn’t have to be. Speed was of the essence, here. We had no need to keep our identity secret, or escape detection. There was little chance of police involvement. But we did need to achieve a resolution quickly.

It was Tuesday morning. The sun was still low enough in the winter morning sky to throw shadows across the road. At six thirty as usual, the gates to Francisco’s house opened and a little grey Renault edged out. There was occasional traffic on this road. Someone would see us, but Nelson was sure that the most likely response of the average Brazilian motorist would be to drive on.

As the Renault turned left down the hill, Nelson started his engine. He accelerated across the road, smashing into the other car with a jolt, driving it into the wall. The seat-belt bit into my chest and shoulders on impact. I quickly released it and leaped out of the car. Nelson had already pulled open the door of the Renault. Francisco filho hadn’t been wearing a seat-belt, and had hit his face on the steering wheel. There was blood on his mouth and he was dazed. Ronaldo and Nelson dragged him out of the Renault, and I ran to the other car we had parked a few yards down the road. Euclides had the boot open, and we bundled the kid in before he knew what was happening. Then we were in the car and off.

I had noticed several vehicles drive past during all this, but as Nelson had expected, none of them had stopped. Neither had I seen anyone run out of Francisco’s house just up the road.

Ronaldo drove fast and accurately, a typical Ayrton Senna in Rio’s morning traffic. Nelson pulled out his mobile phone and told Cordelia we had the boy.

The car banged and rocked, especially when we stopped at traffic lights. Sitting in the back, I could hear muffled shouts. But the commuting cariocas around didn’t seem to hear, or if they did, they took no notice.

It seemed to take us for ever to get out of Rio. Although we were generally going in the opposite direction to Rio’s rush hour, we had planned on a slow journey. But it added to the tension. I sat stiff in the back seat, my hands clasped tightly together, the gun biting into my thigh. Nelson and Ronaldo seemed perfectly calm in the front. Euclides sat next to me with shining eyes and a big smile. None of us said a word.

An hour later, as we were finally beginning to break free of Rio, Nelson’s phone chirped. He answered it, spoke for a few seconds and put it down.

‘Cordelia has contacted Francisco.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he needed time to think. He said it might be a set-up. Cordelia said if we wanted to kill him, there would be many easier ways. She gave him ten minutes.’

Oh, God. We needed Francisco to respond immediately. A prolonged stand-off would be much harder to deal with. The families of kidnap victims were advised to be cautious about accepting kidnappers’ first demands as Francisco would well know. But we weren’t asking him for money. We merely wanted him to go somewhere to pick up a message.

The ten minutes ticked slowly past. It was fifteen before Cordelia called back.

Nelson listened quickly and grinned. ‘He’s agreed,’ he said. ‘He’s taking a mobile phone so Cordelia can stay in touch with him.’

We were out of the city now, and heading up into the hills. After half an hour, we reached an empty stretch of road about twenty kilometres from Sao Jose. We stopped in a lane just off the road, with a clear view down a hill to a petrol station, bearing the by now familiar orange and green insignia of Petrobrás. Cordelia would instruct Francisco to park on the forecourt, and wait for a further message. The two men working the pumps had been paid to see nothing.

We hauled the junior Francisco out of the boot of the car, gave him some water, gagged him, bound his hands, and then stuffed him back in.

His cheek was swollen where he had bumped it on the steering wheel of the Renault when we had snatched him, but his mouth had long ago stopped bleeding. His eyes were wide with fear, and he babbled pleas in Portuguese. I felt sorry for the kid. It wasn’t really his fault that Francisco was his father. But, if all went well, he would be released soon.

We waited. Ronaldo smoked endless cigarettes, and Nelson borrowed a couple from him.

‘I didn’t realize you smoked,’ I said.

‘I don’t,’ he replied.

Cordelia called to say that Francisco was two kilometres away. She had delayed saying exactly where he was to stop until she knew he was almost there.

Nelson pulled out his binoculars and trained them on the petrol station.

Within five minutes a blue car pulled up. It parked on the forecourt, and sent the petrol pump attendant away. No one got out, but I could see there was only one occupant. We waited another ten minutes to make sure Francisco was unaccompanied, and then Nelson started the engine, and drove the car down the hill.

As we neared the petrol station we could see Francisco in the front seat of his car, looking at his watch and then at us. Nelson swung into the forecourt, and we parked right next to him.

Nelson and I got out of the car, as did Francisco. He was hot: beads of sweat oiled his bald brow, giving it a grimy shine. He had never seen Nelson before, but he recognized me. He was about to say something, but then thought better of it. He still didn’t know how much we knew.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if we search you and your car?’

‘Yes, I do!’ protested Francisco, but Nelson flung the heavier man against the car and frisked him. Francisco struggled briefly, and then held still. I bent down and quickly searched the car. There was a gun in the glove compartment, which I handed to Ronaldo.

When Nelson finished his search, Francisco turned and glowered at us. ‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded.

Nelson beckoned to him to follow him round to the back of our car, and unlocked the boot. Francisco junior was writhing and grunting, but when he saw his father he stopped, his eyes full of alarm.

‘You can’t keep him there! Let him out!’ growled Francisco.

‘We will,’ I said. ‘In good time. But first come with us. We’ll take your car.’

I sat in the back with Francisco, and waited while Nelson quickly handed the petrol pump attendant some banknotes to add to those he had given him earlier. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and drove off. Behind us were Ronaldo and Euclides, with Francisco junior still in the boot.

We drove back the way we and Francisco had come, and after a few kilometres took a turning to the left towards Sao Jose. Francisco watched the road ahead grimly, his thin lips pursed, his brow and shirt damp. He didn’t say anything.

As we made our way further into the hills, the sky became greyer and the sun disappeared. We were driving up a broad valley, with a river rushing down its centre. There was farmland on either side, and every few kilometres we came across a village. Further up the hillsides were dense trees. I was reminded of my night blundering through the Tijuca forest.

We soon reached Sao Jose, and turned left up the narrow road Euclides had shown us the day before. We drove past the second farm and stopped. Above us, about a quarter of a mile away at the end of the road, was the farmhouse where Isabel was being kept. Above that, pasture turned into trees and rock-face, as the valley melted into the mountainside.

I opened the door of the car and motioned for Francisco to get out.

It was cooler up here. The grass and poorly tarmacked road were glistening with moisture. A stream tumbled down under a small bridge a few feet in front of us, carrying the recent rain on its steep journey down to the Atlantic. There was little sound, the straining of a truck’s engine from the road up to Sao Jose below us, the urgent rushing of the water, and the occasional bleating from a group of bedraggled sheep further up the hill. The farmhouse behind us was quiet, and we couldn’t see any signs of life in the building above. Two large black raven-like birds circled over it, almost as though they were reconnoitring it for us.

‘Isabel Pereira is being held in that farmhouse up there,’ I said. ‘We want you to release her.’

Francisco, who had been silent since we had set off from the petrol station, chose this moment to protest.

‘I told you, I know nothing about her kidnapping! I can’t release her. Just give me my son back. Now!’

‘No, Francisco,’ I said, trying hard to keep my patience. ‘I want you to walk up to the house, and explain to those men that they should let Isabel free. We will have your son down here. As soon as she begins to walk down the hill to us, we’ll send him up. We give you our word that we won’t inform the police about any of this. You and whoever is up there with Isabel can go unharmed.’

‘You don’t listen to me!’ cried Francisco. ‘I don’t know anything about this!’

I interrupted him. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something to persuade them to let her go. We’ll be waiting. Oh, and by the way, if Isabel isn’t making her way down that hill in ten minutes, we leave. With your son.’

‘What will you do with him then?’

‘We’ll leave that to Isabel’s father to decide when he returns. I don’t think he likes you very much. I doubt he’ll be sympathetic. Now, go!’

I pushed Francisco along the road towards the farmhouse.

He walked quickly up the hill, his arms swinging on either side of his ample backside. As he reached the house the door opened, and he disappeared inside.

That was a good sign. It meant that whoever was in there knew him. Although I hadn’t really believed Francisco’s protests, at the back of my mind I had been worried that perhaps he really had had nothing to do with Isabel’s kidnapping, and we had made some horrible mistake.

Nelson pulled Francisco filho out of the boot, and stood him upright in the middle of the road facing up towards the farmhouse.

We waited, Ronaldo, Nelson, me and the scared boy.

The two big black birds were joined by a couple more. A tractor drove up the road towards us from the village, but turned off into the first farm below. We were exposed here, exposed to local curiosity, and also to the kidnappers calling up reinforcements.

My eyes never left the door of the farmhouse. Although farmhouse was probably too grand a word for it. Peasant hovel was closer. It cannot have held more than two or three small rooms on each of its two floors. The walls were partially covered in white paint, which was peeling to reveal concrete underneath. I wondered what it would be like to be cooped up in there for two months. A red pick-up truck was parked next to it, presumably the one Euclides had hitched a ride in.

My nerves jangled. It wasn’t just the obvious fear that Isabel wouldn’t make it, though that was bad enough. After all this time, now that there was a good chance I would see her, I was nervous. What would she be like after so long in captivity? Would she be all right physically? Would she have suffered psychological damage? And what about me? How would she feel about seeing me again? Would she care? It was a selfish thought, but I realized that part of what scared me was the fear that, after all my efforts to set her free, I would discover that I meant nothing to her.

Where was she? I checked my watch. The ten minutes was up. It had taken Francisco a few of them to puff his way up the hill but, even so, he should have sent her out by now.

I glanced at Nelson next to me.

‘What do you think?’

He looked at his watch. ‘We can give him a bit more time. Maybe they’re having some kind of discussion. But we can’t risk staying here too long. We don’t want to meet the rest of the gang on the way down.’

I glanced anxiously down towards the road to Sao Jose. The traffic was infrequent, but the odd car did pass up or down. We had no way of knowing if it was the kidnappers’ friends. But if they were coming all the way from Rio, and it was a good guess that they were, it would take them a while.

A quarter of an hour. Still no sign of her. Why hadn’t we told Francisco to take his mobile phone with him so we could talk to him and find out what was going on? Stupid!

I began to think about what we would do if we were forced to leave without Isabel. All would not be lost. We’d still have Francisco filho, and while we held him Isabel should be safe. But a long stand-off would be difficult to sustain, and not just emotionally. Francisco and his men knew who we were. They’d be looking for us and looking for the boy, and they would be willing to use more ruthless methods than we to get him back. No, we had to avoid that if at all possible.

I glanced again at Nelson. He shrugged. Francisco filho was biting his lip. He was just as anxious as us. Poor sod.

Then his eyes widened. I looked up the hill to see the door of the farmhouse open. A figure was pushed out. Slight, long hair blown over her face. Isabel.

She straightened up, and began to walk slowly down the hill.

I looked across to Nelson, who gave Francisco filho a rough shove. He stumbled up the hill towards her.

I would guess it was about four hundred yards between us and the farmhouse. Although he was going uphill, Francisco filho was covering more distance, so that he was soon further away from us than she was from them.

Suddenly a figure broke out of the farmhouse and began to run down the hill. He was tall, lithe, fit. Francisco followed, shouting.

‘Run, Isabel!’ I screamed.

She paused, looked up, turned to see the man bearing down on her, and only then began to hurry. Francisco filho was quicker off the mark. He broke into a run straight away.

Damn! I couldn’t shoot the boy, but if I let him go, we’d lose our chance to free Isabel. I’d have to catch him before he reached the kidnapper, who was hurtling down the hill towards him.

I sprinted.

I heard two shots behind me, as Nelson fired at the kid, and saw dirt leaping up away to his left. Nelson was firing to miss, and was only scaring the kid into running faster.

But not as fast as me. I had some distance to make up, but I was closing on him, the gun in the waistband of my trousers biting into my groin with every stride. He had no power in his long legs, and he was finding the gradient difficult. His hands were still bound and his gag must have made it difficult to breathe. Above me, the man had caught up with Isabel, throwing her to the ground. As they struggled to their feet only a few yards ahead, I dived and grabbed at the boy’s ankle. He tripped, and I was on him, gun out, and to his temple. I flicked the safety-catch off.

He lay still, scared, his chest heaving. With the gun pressed to his head, I looked up at Isabel. She was on her feet now. A man was holding her round her neck with his left arm, pointing a gun at her head with his right. He was breathing heavily. Her brown eyes stared at me, wide with fear. I caught them for a second, trying to give her reassurance, tell her she could still be free, and then she was yanked backwards up the hill by the man. He was in his thirties, wiry and capable looking.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘We can still make the exchange.’

‘No! I take her!’ and he pulled Isabel up the hill with him.

The voice was deep and authoritative, and I would have recognized it anywhere. Zico.

I pulled Francisco filho to his feet. ‘Let her go!’ I shouted. ‘We’ll let you escape.’

‘How do I know that? Perhaps the police wait for us. No, Isabel goes with me!’

He dragged her up the hill. I followed with the boy. At the top I could see Francisco and another man, who looked little more than a kid. A fellow kidnapper, presumably.

We were nearing the farmhouse and a red pick-up truck.

‘Stop!’ I said. ‘Or I’ll shoot him!’

‘No!’ cried Francisco.

Zico laughed. ‘Go ahead. Shoot him. I don’t care. He’s not my son.’

He looked into my eyes, mocking me. Of course I wasn’t going to shoot the boy. I released my grip on the kid, and let my gun fall to my side. He ran up the hill to meet his father.

Zico dragged Isabel towards the pick-up truck. She looked back at me, her eyes helpless, pleading with me to do something.

Damn! There she was, just a few feet away. The elation that I had felt seeing her walk out of the farmhouse had turned to almost unbearable anxiety. I was so close to freeing her and now Zico was simply going to drive her away from me, right under my nose. I couldn’t try to shoot him. He’d kill her first, and probably me too. The only experience I’d had with a handgun was the five minutes Nelson had taken to show me how it fired. Now it felt heavy and useless in my hand.

If Zico got away with her, what then? He might kill her. Or he might let her go when he had no more need for her. Or he might ransom her for cash. She still had a chance. Stay calm, then, and let him go. She’d be OK as long as I stayed calm.

I saw movement some distance behind the pick-up. Thin black limbs scurried across the ground to a water drum. A moment later a head and a short grey barrel peeked out from behind it. Euclides! And he had the gun Nelson had given him. Where the hell did he get that? He must have hidden it on him somehow. Oh, shit! The last thing I wanted was some cock-eyed heroics from a twelve-year-old. Someone would get killed, and it would most likely be Isabel.

Zico glanced at me as he neared the truck, and I quickly switched my eyes back to him, not wanting him to realize I had seen something. I moved slowly closer.

‘Keep away!’ he shouted.

I stopped.

Behind him, Euclides ran from the drum towards the pick-up truck. I still don’t know what he was trying to do. Hide in there, probably, and surprise Zico later on. But he trod on some old corrugated iron that gave out a sharp clatter. Zico spun round. Euclides stopped in his tracks, caught in the open. He began to move his gun towards Zico, and hesitated, presumably afraid of hitting Isabel. Zico whipped his weapon away from Isabel’s temple and pointed it at Euclides. Two shots rang out, and Euclides uttered a sharp cry.

I had no time to think. Instinct made me raise my arm, and point it towards Zico. I looked down the short barrel straight into Isabel’s terrified eyes. I jerked my arm to the left and pulled the trigger in one motion as Zico turned back towards me. I hit him in the right shoulder, throwing his arm back. His gun went spinning to the ground.

He let go of Isabel and bent down to pick it up. I ran towards him. There was another shot, Zico’s head jerked sharply to one side, and he fell.

Euclides lay on the ground, gun pointing towards the crumpled figure of Zico, a broad smile on his face. There was a dark patch on the grass around his chest.

I ran to Isabel, who was squatting on the ground, sobbing.

‘Are you OK?’

She looked up and a smile broke across her tear-stained face, the smile I had played through my mind so many times over the last few weeks. She nodded.

I turned and ran over to where Euclides had fallen. He was lying in a pool of blood, which grew in front of my eyes. It was pumping out from somewhere underneath him. I hesitated, unsure what to do. Euclides was struggling to keep his eyes open. His lips moved. I bent down to listen.

‘I hit him, meester,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, you did,’ I said.

I turned his small body over and tried to use his flimsy shirt to staunch the flow of blood from the hole in his chest. It was hopeless. Within a minute, life had drained away from him, into the damp grass.