“The congressman said one thing that struck me. He went into a long exposition, interesting but interminable, and I wasn’t able to follow his reasoning, there were so many names, the crimes, the ins and outs of the investigation — until he mentioned the Global Golf Club.”
Otto perks up.
Harley continues: “Mindinho frequents the Global Golf Club.”
“How can that be?”
Harley doesn’t answer.
“Impossible. There has to be some mistake. Are you sure? Is Torturra sure? That place is a bunker for aristocrats. Know how much you pay to be a member? One million dollars. The guy pays that fortune to prove he’s a millionaire, but that’s not enough. The members have to approve each new candidate. A secret vote, campaign, the whole shebang. It’s a monarchy, man.”
“Plutocracy.”
“He’s not a member. He can’t be. If he frequents the place it’s because he has a friend there, the backing of someone very powerful. But why? A very odd friendship.”
“If we could identify the friend, we’d be halfway there. Could you maybe take advantage of a bright Sunday and visit the club? If Mindinho is a regular visitor and if there’s some connection between today’s events and those weird contacts, he’s not going to waste the Sunday. Tomorrow’s going to be sunny. You could go there with Francisca and Rafa, very innocently.”
“Impossible. Nobody gets in there.” Otto leaps up.
Harley, startled, does the same. Standing, looking at the sea, he continues: “There’s only one way. Do you remember Fábio?”
The next two hours are dedicated to planning for the following day.
Sunday, August 21, eight a.m. Harley’s cell phone rings.
“Guess where I am. A cop’s life has its charms. Does it or doesn’t it? How wonderful. Guess.”
“A cop’s life, Otto, is shit. At six this morning I was in the vicinity of the bastard’s mansion. Corporal Vito Florada lives in a mansion. No exaggeration. A horror, aesthetically beneath contempt. I’ve never seen anything so tacky. It looks like some motel on Avenida Brasil. The guy doesn’t even go to the trouble of disguising his wealth. I spent hours with my ass in this junky little car I bought with my laughable salary, without a bite to eat, without coffee, and on high alert because the guy has his hired gunmen. It’s true, he goes everywhere with bodyguards. If he goes to São Conrado, I doubt the cops enter the club with him. I bet they’re going to follow him to the entrance and from there go to Rocinha and drink, extort traffickers, whatever.”
Nine twenty. Otto’s phone rings. The name Harley appears on the screen.
“On the way. I really think they’re headed for São Conrado.”
Nine thirty-five. Another call from Harley.
“Copy that. You can get ready.”
“I’ve been ready for hours.”
“You like it.”
“I love it.”
Nine fifty-five. Harley calls Otto again.
“Target entering the club. No problem at the reception area. They raised the barrier immediately. He’s known there. He must actually frequent the place. He went in driving his own car, alone. The gunmen stayed in the backup car and went away, in the expected direction. Stolen plates on both cars. Now it’s up to you.”
Otto makes the long-awaited signal to Fábio. He’s hardly slept at all, anticipating this moment.
“You know what to do. Once a champ, always a champ,” Fábio proclaims loudly for all near the ramp to hear. It’s a kind of homage to his old companion of so many cases. Otto smiles proudly, adjusts his belt, rechecks the equipment. In the past, he flew by himself or took someone. It’s the first time he will be taken. Fábio makes his living guiding tourists from Pedra Bonita, at the peak of São Conrado, to the beach, with the possibility of longer flights depending on the weather and the price negotiated for the ride. He has been to Corcovado, flown over Rodrigo de Freitas Lake, the routes vary. This morning he will make a flight for the sake of friendship. Though short, the route will demand precision.
Fábio runs to the end of the ramp, pulling vigorously on the glider’s structure, and hurls himself into emptiness, dragging Otto as passenger. The hang glider dips and rises, the ocean open before it, Tijuca Forest to the left, Gávea Rock to the right. (Otto would dedicate the following weeks to describing to Rafa the sensation of that leap. He would quickly give up repeating it all to Francisca and Harley, who are less tolerant of repetition.)
Obeying Otto’s instructions, Fábio maintains sufficient height so that the flight over the golf course goes unnoticed. Several hang gliders are circulating in the area, and it is not difficult to blend into the landscape. The camera is efficient. Otto has studied Mindinho’s features on the Internet and has no trouble locating him. Otto focuses on the group the corporal seems to interact easily with. He soon moves away with an older man. For the next fifteen minutes he converses and walks, slowly. Mindinho says goodbye. There is no possibility that the militiaman has come to the club to play golf or drink with friends. Otto records the images in high resolution, including the face of Vito Florada’s principal interlocutor. With regret, Otto tells Fábio that he’s ready to descend.
Harley waits for them, sipping coconut water on the patch of beach designated for landing. Fábio receives Otto’s gratitude in the form of a hearty embrace and the promise of a feijoada. Harley photographs the leave-taking, posts it on his Instagram account, and sends it to the two friends. They help Fábio fold the glider, forming a long tube, and carry it to the small headquarters of professional flyers in the square next to the sand.
They leave the pilot, extending their effusive compliments, and sit at a kiosk at the edge of the beach that specializes in Bahian food. It’s eleven thirty, early for that spicy lunch. Harley opens his laptop. At his request, a friend at the federal police sent him, half an hour earlier, a pen drive with the list of members of the golf club. A stroke of pure luck, without which there are no conquests in love, gambling, and literature: The feds had done a survey of clubs for the elite when suspicions arose about the influx into Rio of large amounts of dirty money from various sources. Nothing was found at the Global Golf Club, but the data bank was still there and it was recent. “It must be good for something,” the federal investigator told Harley in confidence, wishing him success.
Otto is anxious. He takes over the keyboard and issues the command to open the folder, whose title is explicit: GGC. He selects the images file and navigates to the album of photos. He turns his camera to exhibit mode and selects the close-up of Mindinho’s interlocutor. The powerful zoom permits a clear display of the calm countenance. The man is elderly but healthy, almost athletic, corpulent, tall, and nice looking. The screens on the computer and camera allow a comparison. In short order, the individual is identified. The man is a major player in the real estate sector. There are no charges sullying his record. What now?
They eat shrimp with garlic and oil along with sliced French bread. The laptop is closed on Harley’s knees. Otto carefully puts away the camera, a wish-list item that Francisca made a reality for his birthday in 2009. They yield to dispiritedness. After such high expectations, the sudden deceleration is depressing. Two bipolar days, extreme highs and lows. Enthusiasm and disappointment back to back. Frights and deferred redemption. Silently, they gaze at the sea. They pay the bill and walk toward the condo. Otto finally breaks the silence.
“You were right. It was absence, not excess. What’s strange is the absence of a link. I can’t conceive of anything that connects the two of them.”