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.