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.