Chapter 25

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS HAD now passed since Michael had arrived in Rio, and though plenty had seemed to be happening they were still no closer to tracking down the depositions, or to locating the Inferno. Probably the most frustrating aspect of it all was not having the police to turn to, when that was something every British or American person took for granted. Two more calls had come from Cavan’s kidnappers, Chambers had taken both and had negotiated a deadline of forty-eight hours for them to come up with the depositions. Now they were both back in Michael’s hotel room waiting for news from a dozen different sources.

It had been a while since either of them had spoken, except for the brief phone call Michael had taken from London when he had told Zelda he needed the line free and would call her back when he could. Hearing Zelda’s voice had, for some reason, made him think of Ellen and, with a horrible sinking sensation, the way he had walked out on her in Barbados. He guessed she would be back in LA by now, but when or even if he would be in touch with her again was impossible to say. If Michelle ever got out of this mess and he could persuade her to go home with him, then it would be all over for him and Ellen – according to her, it already was. The way that made him feel wasn’t something he could deal with right now, so putting it aside he looked over at Chambers and fought the near overwhelming urge to ask more about his son.

He was right on the verge of speaking when Chambers, who had a stack of paperwork scattered across the bed, suddenly got to his feet. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘If we …’ He stopped as the phone started to ring.

Michael was there first. ‘Hello?’ he said into the receiver.

‘Am I speaking to Senhor Michael McCann?’ a soft, male voice enquired in accented English.

Michael’s heart started to thud through his ears. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Tell me something about your brother no one else would know,’ the voice responded.

Michael’s eyes flew to Chambers. ‘Who is this?’ he repeated.

‘Is there a certain birth mark on his left testicle?’ the voice said.

Michael froze. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Not for long, there isn’t,’ the voice told him. ‘Get those depositions by sundown tomorrow,’ and the line went dead.

Michael put down the receiver and fought the nauseous fear churning in his gut. He’d tried everything he could to persuade himself that being British, Cavan wouldn’t be subjected to the kind of brutality the street kids suffered, but the phone call had completely blown that.

‘Don’t go with it,’ Chambers told him when Michael related the conversation. ‘You’ll drive yourself crazy and there’s every chance they’re bluffing.’

Michael walked over to the open French windows. His throat was dry, his hands were shaking and the terror burning in his heart was blotting out everything beyond the ordeal his brother was enduring.

Chambers stood watching him for a while, then took a couple of beers from the minibar and opened them, handing one to Michael. ‘Do you want to change your mind about going public on the kidnap?’ he said.

Michael looked down at the bottle he was holding and took some time thinking. Finally, he shook his head. ‘I don’t see how it’ll help,’ he answered. ‘It’ll only antagonize them …’ He stopped as a horrible suspicion hit him and his eyes were suddenly blazing into Chambers’s. ‘Are you looking for a story?’ he said bitterly. ‘Is that what you’re leading up to here?’

Chambers was unruffled. ‘No, I’m just making sure you know what you’re doing and why,’ he answered, putting the beer to his lips.

Michael eyed him for a moment, then he drank too.

‘I know this isn’t going to make you feel any better,’ Chambers said after a while, ‘but I’ve been where you are now, so believe me I know how hard it is to make the right choices and I live every day of my life now knowing that I made a wrong one.’

Michael looked at him and waited for him to go on.

‘You may recall the case of Rachel Carmedi, the American journalist who was kidnapped and killed in Colombia two years back,’ Chambers said.

Michael’s expression was unreadable, though his eyes widened slightly as a dawning recollection began stirring his memory. ‘Of course,’ he said, piecing it quickly together. ‘And you must be the Tom Chambers who …’

‘… tried to call their bluff and got her killed,’ Chambers cut in. ‘So don’t think I’m gonna try to push you one way or the other here, because I …’ He stopped as the telephone suddenly shrilled into the room again.

Michael looked at it, looked at Chambers, then went to pick it up. ‘Hello,’ he said, stealing himself for that same lyrical voice as before.

‘May I speak with Senhor McCann?’ a woman asked.

‘You are,’ Michael told her. ‘Who’re you?’

‘I am calling to inform you that you will be able to visit Senhora Rowe at the prison tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Please to take your passport or driver’s licence for identification.’

Michael was looking at Chambers. ‘I can see her tomorrow morning at nine,’ he repeated for Chambers’s benefit.

‘Ask, will the visit be private?’ Chambers told him.

Michael repeated the question.

‘Sim, senhor,’ came the reply. ‘The visit will be private. Is there anything else you would like to ask, senhor?’

‘Anything else?’ Michael said to Chambers.

Chambers shook his head.

‘Nothing else,’ Michael told the woman and the call ended.

Chambers’s fist tightened in a gesture of triumph. ‘At last,’ he said. I knew she’d come through, but I’ve got to tell you she had me worried there for a while.’

‘Who is she?’ Michael asked.

‘Right now, one of the best friends you’ve got,’ Chambers told him. ‘She’s also one of the most highly respected judges in Rio and probably the most cunning female you’ll ever meet. But don’t let that put you off, because Elena da Silva has more integrity than the Pope. She treads a real fine line here with the likes of Pastillano and the fact that she’s managed to keep her position this long is testament enough to just how shrewd a cookie she is. Now, I suggest we go grab ourselves a bite to eat and start talking about what you’re going to discuss with Michelle in the morning.’

Not for a single moment did either of them entertain the idea that Michelle might not know where the depositions were, for this was the biggest break they’d had so far and God knew they needed some hope. Not that they had exhausted all other channels, but their confidence in finding the Inferno was diminishing by the hour and even if they did, the likelihood of them being able to get in was less than zero. So finding the depositions was really the only chance of them getting Cavan back alive, and even then it was slimmer than either of them wanted to admit.

The women’s penitentiary, on the far north side of the city, was as bleak and unwelcoming a place as Michael had ever seen. With its flat, unguttered roofs, narrow, barred windows, dun walls and desolate, sandy wasteland it was even more baleful and intimidating than the rugged mountains overlooking it. Knowing that Michelle was somewhere deep within its bowels was causing a sickness inside him that veered between outrage that any living person could be kept in such a place and a growing fear of what state he was going to find her in.

They’d learned yesterday, from the lawyer she had been appointed by the British Consulate, that having now been officially charged, her trial had been set to begin in seventy days. It was an unthinkable amount of time, during which Michael had no idea what he was going to do, for he just couldn’t see how he could take their son and leave her here to face things alone. He guessed all he could do for now was take each day as it came. The lawyer was maintaining an optimism that he could get the charges dropped, but the man’s preposterous bluster and nervous laughter did nothing to inspire any confidence. Indeed, he had taken fifteen thousand dollars from Michael that very morning to begin the process, which was why he wasn’t accompanying Michael now and his wife, Mara, was.

As she brought the car to a stop outside the main gates, she told Michael to wait and walked over to the guards who charted her approach with combined insolence and suspicion. Michael watched as she spoke to them, her short, plump arms bobbing about like long balloons, her neatly crimped hair seeming as indignant as her manner. All the way there she had been regaling him with horror stories of the kind of conditions this particular prison was famous for, from the pitch-dark stinking cubicles with their squat pans and dripping water for washing and drinking, to the rats and roaches, the regular beatings and inmate attacks. Though he’d have liked nothing better than to gag the woman, he’d reminded himself that all he was having to do was imagine the nightmare, while Michelle was having to live it. It was why he was so concerned now about how well she might be holding up.

Seeing Mara beckoning him over, he got out of the car and went to join her outside the guards’ hut. The sun was blisteringly hot and not a breath of air moved over the barren patch of land. There was no shade to shelter in as Mara explained in a crisp, busy tone, what he had to do. ‘They’re not going to allow me in with you,’ she told him, ‘but you should be all right. There won’t be much need to speak to anyone, unless you’re concealing a weapon about your person, or drugs. You aren’t, are you?’

‘No,’ Michael answered.

‘Good, because I’m afraid you’re going to be subjected to a cavity search, which is only pleasant if you’re the sado-masochistic type. Don’t bother to object; if you do, you won’t get in. I’m afraid they’re doing it to humiliate you; it’s their way of making sure you know who’s in charge. My advice is, humour them.’

Fifteen minutes later, under the gloating eyes of two male guards and one female, Michael straightened up and put his clothes back on. He was inside the prison compound now, in a stark, sunlit room that was as claustrophobic as his rage. The sexual gratification that at least two of them had derived from the search was as sickening as the process itself, but he gave no indication of his feelings as he was escorted out of the room, along a dank, shadowy corridor towards a strip of sunlight in the distance.

Before they got there they turned off, descended a steep flight of stairs and a few minutes later he was being led along a narrow, greasy walkway that separated two banks of crudely barred cells where dozens upon dozens of filthy and ragged women catcalled and jeered after him. The stench hit him right away. It was so noxious he started to gag. Clouds of flies buzzed around the rotting waste in the gutters, while the noise ricocheted off the walls in a terrible refrain. As he passed, their tormented, sneering faces seemed to loom from the depths of an apocalyptic nightmare. One woman managed to catch his arm and spin him round. A guard slammed her wrist with a truncheon and she howled like a cat, while one of her cellmates bared her large-nippled breasts and beckoned him forth. His eyes travelled from one grotesque, giggling face to the next, searching for Michelle and dreading he would find her.

At last he was shown into a long, bare room with high, rough stone walls, unreachable windows and a bench table running right down the centre. Above and below the bench were closely spaced iron bars, obviously there to prevent any physical contact between visitor and prisoner.

The guard barked at him in Portuguese and pointed at a chair. Assuming he was being told to sit, Michael did so and the guard, after scowling at him preposterously and uttering more unintelligible commands, left him alone.

Michael looked around and tried to get to grips with the reality of where he was and what he was doing there. It seemed so utterly incredible that this should be the setting in which he was at last going to see Michelle again, the woman he had loved so deeply and known so well, but who was now beginning to feel like a stranger. So many times he had imagined how it would happen, where it would be, what they would say, how they might feel. A thousand different scenarios had played themselves out in his mind, but none had ever been anything like this. He’d always imagined it would happen in England, for in his heart he had never really stopped hoping that one day she would come back to him and bring their son with her – the son he daily, hourly, thought of and longed to know, even though he’d never laid eyes on him.

As he sat there now, trying to make himself accept that she was going to walk through the door at any moment, he thought of how inseparable they had once been. It seemed so hard to credit now, but that was how it had been, right from the start, always together, never wanting to be apart. Everything had been so perfect, from the way they had created a home that was so uniquely theirs, to the certainty that each had found their soulmate. But maybe, in the end, it was the perfection that had ruined it, for it didn’t take a cynic to know how ill at ease life was with perfection. Even so, nothing could have prepared him for the blow she had delivered the day she had told him she was leaving. He hadn’t even known she was unhappy, hadn’t sensed any restiveness or dissatisfaction with the way they were going, so to find out that she had hidden all this without him even noticing had shaken him right through to the core. But she wasn’t unhappy, she had insisted, nor was she restless and dissatisfied, she was quite simply going to do what in her heart she knew she must – go to help the poor, abused and orphaned children of the world. The fact that she was carrying his child, or breaking his heart, had done nothing to change her mind; it was something she had to do and he must try to understand. They had argued for days, he had done everything he could to persuade her to stay, until, in the end, hurting more than he could bear, he had told her if she went, then he never wanted to see her or the child again. As far as he was concerned they would both be dead.

Now, more than five years had passed and in that time they had neither seen nor spoken to each other once. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for the foolish pride that had kept him from his son, or for the pain he must have caused Michelle by sending back her letters and the photographs he had guessed they contained. It was only because she had told his mother that he knew the baby was a boy, that he’d been born on 5 October and that his name was Robbie. More than that he had never tried to find out, nor had he wanted to know, for the need to have them with him was made so much worse by hearing their names. Now, he could only feel shame at how bitterly he had hurt them all by taking the stand he had – and whatever damage he had caused his son he could only pray he would soon get a chance to repair.

Hearing footsteps, he looked along the length of the room to the door they were approaching. He wondered how he was going to feel when he saw her and experienced a moment’s dread of being suddenly possessed by the love he had kept buried for so long. A fleeting thought of Ellen came into his mind, then the door was opening and the guard was coming through.

He stood up and watched as two shadowy figures entered the glaring, misty bands of sunlight. Instinctively he knew that one of them was Michelle, though it was difficult to see in the blinding rays. He was so tense he could barely breathe. She started towards him, moving like a ghost at the other side of the bars. Still he couldn’t make out her features, until finally she reached him and turned her back to the sun.

‘Michael,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, Michael,’ and pushing a fist to her mouth she started to cry.

Her face was streaked with blood and dirt, her hair was tangled and matted to her head. There was a swollen cut on her lower lip and her left eye was circled by a livid purple bruise. He watched the tears drop on to her cheeks and more than anything else in the world he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her out of there. But he could barely touch her and his heart had been hardened against her for so long that even feeling as he did he could find no words.

She averted her head as the guard came up behind her and started to shout. It appeared he was telling her to sit, and after ordering Michael to do the same he turned abruptly on his heel and marched out of the room.

As the door closed, Michael started to speak, but she cut him off, ‘Don’t mention him,’ she whispered. ‘Not here. Just tell me, is he safe?’

Michael nodded and thought for a moment she was going to collapse.

She forced a smile and made a futile attempt to rearrange her hair.

‘But it’s over, you must know that,’ he said.

She looked at him with wide, bloodshot eyes.

‘You know what I’m saying,’ he told her.

She looked down at the table, then back at him. ‘Are you giving me an ultimatum?’ she said softly. ‘I either come home with you or you’re going to leave me here?’

‘For God’s sake,’ he responded angrily.

She shuddered and bunched her hands tightly on the table.

‘What happened to your lip?’ he asked.

She touched the cut with her fingers, then attempted to smile. ‘You should see the other woman,’ she said.

Michael forced a smile in return. It was so hard to know what to say, to step around all the surging emotions and find a place where they could communicate without hurting or accusing or wounding. ‘We’ll get you out of here,’ he told her.

She nodded, but her head had fallen forward so he couldn’t tell if she believed him.

‘Listen,’ he said, sitting in closer, ‘I don’t know how much time we’ve got, so I have to ask you now: where are the depositions?’

Her eyes were surprised as she brought them up to his. ‘Do you honestly think I’d tell you just to get myself out of here?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Do you know how many children have died …?’

‘Michelle, they’ve got Cavan,’ he said, cutting her off.

Her face paled even further. ‘You mean they’ve arrested him too? But he had nothing to do …’

‘They’ve kidnapped him. He’s being held to ransom.’

‘Oh my God,’ she murmured, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

‘So where are the statements?’ Michael urged. ‘You have to tell me, or God only knows what they’ll do to him.’

She was shaking her head and tears were starting again in her eyes.

‘You’ve got to tell me, damn you!’ Michael seethed. ‘It’s probably our only chance of getting him back alive.’

Still she was shaking her head. ‘No, listen, you don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they are. I swear it. If I did, for Cavan I would tell you. But Antônio took them. He was hiding them. I don’t know where they are.’

Michael closed his eyes tightly as a bolt of anger and frustration rushed through him.

‘There’s a journalist here,’ she told him quickly, as though afraid his temper would explode. ‘His name’s Tom Chambers …’

‘I know, I’ve met him,’ he interrupted. ‘And he doesn’t know where Antônio is either.’

‘But he has to,’ she protested.

Michael merely looked at her.

Her eyes moved frantically in their sockets, then, looking at him again she said, ‘There’s a café in Santa Teresa …’

‘We’ve already tried that,’ he said, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. ‘We’ve left a dozen messages and there’s not been a single reply.’

Her eyes remained on his as her mouth started to tremble and tears blurred her vision. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘You’re sorry!’ he snapped. ‘What the fucking good is sorry going to do?’

She lowered her eyes and as he looked at her he was blind to the woman he had once loved. He saw instead the son he was so terrified he might never know. Then he saw Cavan and felt the unspeakable horror of his ordeal. She had caused him more pain than he could bear and now it was going to get so much worse. But venting his anger would do nothing to help Cavan, so struggling to control it he said, ‘Was there anyone else? Someone you didn’t tell Tom about who might know where the depositions are?’

She shook her head, then jumped as frustration brought his fist down hard on the table.

Forcing himself back in control he said, ‘Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all.’

She thought for some time and in the end she said, ‘I expect you’ve already spoken to Sister Lydia at the shelter?’

Michael insides folded with despair. ‘Yes, we tried her,’ he answered.

‘Maybe you should try her again,’ she said. ‘She’s very fond of Antônio; she could be hiding him and not letting him know you’re trying to find him.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Give me the address, I’ll go there on my way back.’

She did so quickly, then looked round as the guard came back into the room. She got to her feet and looked at Michael through the bars.

‘Do you need anything?’ he said. ‘Is there something I can bring you?’

Her eyes were imbued with feeling as she looked at him and whispered, ‘Have you seen him?’

He shook his head.

‘Are you sure he’s safe? Tom got him out?’

‘Yes.’

Tears welled in her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry about Cavan,’ she said brokenly.

He looked at her and knew that if she were even half as afraid as he was then it was his strength she needed now, not his bitterness. So putting a hand to the bar he waited for her to do the same and linking their fingers together he said, ‘He’s going to be OK. I’ll make sure of it.’

Those final words were still echoing through his ears as Mara drove him back through the town to the shelter. He just wished to God he had even a fraction of the confidence they had seemed to convey, for the fact that Michelle hadn’t known where the depositions were was scaring the hell out of him. All he could hope for now was that Sister Lydia would come through, or he didn’t even want to think about what it was going to mean to Cavan.

It was just after one o’clock when Michael got back to the hotel. Collecting his messages, two of which were from the office, the other from Chris Ruskin in New York, he went straight to his room and picked up the phone to call Chambers.

‘By the time you get to the door,’ Chambers told him, ‘I should be right outside.’

Replacing the receiver, Michael unlatched the door, then went to take two beers from the fridge. As he opened them Chambers walked in, threw his cellphone and keys on the bed and went to stare out of the window as Michael told him about his visit with Michelle and the wasted trip to the shelter.

‘Sister Lydia insists she doesn’t know where Antônio is,’ he said, ‘and frankly I believe her. It was a long shot anyway, but I had to try it and now I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do.’

‘Take it easy,’ Chambers said, turning back into the room. ‘It’s not as grim as it looks. Marcelo, the gang leader I told you about, made contact this morning.’

Michael’s eyes widened. ‘Does he know where the depositions are?’ he said.

‘No and I didn’t expect him to. But he’s pretty certain he knows where Antônio is.’

Michael choked on his beer. ‘So what are we waiting for?’ he cried.

Chambers put up a hand. ‘Confirmation,’ he replied. ‘He’s heard that they’re holding Antônio over at the Leblon lock-up. He’s checking to make sure and is going to get back to me some time in the next couple of hours. The other piece of good news is there’s a chance Michelle might be out some time tomorrow.’

Michael stared at him in amazement. ‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘You mean that joke of a lawyer managed to pull it off?’

‘Him – and the fifteen grand,’ Chambers responded. ‘And the fact that they’re probably now taking the view that if they let her go, she might just be stupid enough to lead them to the depositions. Anyway, whatever they’re thinking, our priority is still Cavan. Did Michelle know he’d been taken?’

Michael shook his head.

Chambers looked surprised. ‘I thought they’d have used it as a means of persuasion,’ he said, picking up his cellphone as it started to ring, ‘which just goes to show they’re not as bright as they think they are. Tom Chambers,’ he said into the phone.

As he listened to the voice at the other end Michael was about to turn away when Chambers’s head suddenly came up, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘OK,’ he said, looking at Michael. ‘I got it. Thanks for letting me know. Keep in touch,’ and clicking off the phone he said, ‘Antônio was at the Leblon lock-up. They released him ten minutes ago.’

Michael felt his adrenalin starting to thump. ‘So where is he now? Can we talk to him?’

‘Not yet. He’ll be on his way to the shelter or the café, so he should get the messages we left any time in the next half-hour. If they didn’t tell Michelle they were holding Cavan, it’s doubtful they told Antônio, so he won’t know the urgency of getting in touch until someone tells him. He will, though; in fact, there’s a chance he could be on his way over here. We’ll just have to sit it out and wait, which is no bad thing, because there’s something I’ve got to discuss with you and the quicker we get to it, the quicker we can make some decisions. Did you eat yet today?’

Michael shook his head.

‘Good,’ Chambers responded and picking up the hotel phone, he ordered a feijoada for two.

‘A what?’ Michael asked when he rang off.

‘Feijoada,’ he repeated. ‘It’s tradition, everyone eats feijoada on Saturdays and I’m famished. Oh, it’s kind of black beans and stewed beef and God knows what else they throw in. We’ll skip on the caipirinhas, though, we need to keep a clear head.’ As he finished, his phone started ringing again. ‘Tom Chambers,’ he barked into it. ‘Yeah, I got a call from Marcelo,’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t hear anything yet. You bet,’ and he rang off. ‘One of Marcelo’s people checking to make sure we knew Antônio was released,’ he explained. ‘So, where were we?’

‘There was something you had to discuss with me,’ Michael reminded him.

Chambers’s energy rush seemed to dip, as he moved his eyes to Michael and narrowed them thoughtfully. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘I just hope you’re up to dealing with it.’

Michael’s insides churned at the note of portent that had crept into Chambers’s voice. ‘If you’ve heard something about Cavan,’ he said …

‘Nothing,’ Chambers said, cutting him off. ‘If I had, I’d have told you by now. But we’ve got to deal with reality here – there’s just under five hours to go now before the deadline’s up and so far we don’t have the first idea whether we’re going to be able to meet it. But say we can,’ he continued forcefully as Michael made to interrupt. ‘Say Antônio does come through with the depositions, there’s still every chance Pastillano’s going to try double-crossing us and take the stuff without handing Cavan over.’

Michael was staring at him hard. ‘What are you getting to?’ he said.

‘What I’m getting to,’ Chambers said, ‘is that unless they give us some proof Cavan’s alive, there’s no point in us going to the trouble of handing the depositions over.’

Michael’s jaw hardened as a bolt of fear dipped through his heart. The possibility that Cavan might already be dead was one he was living with every minute of the day and speaking it aloud made it no easier to handle. ‘And just how are you proposing we get the proof?’ he asked.

‘They’ve got to call to set up a meet,’ Chambers replied. ‘We put it to them then.’

Michael took a moment with that, then said, ‘I don’t know how they’re going to do it, but if they do prove he’s alive? What then?’

‘We want him handed back at the exact same time as we give the documents over,’ Chambers said. ‘Of course, the problem with that is, they might well end up killing us all.’

‘Holy Christ,’ Michael murmured. ‘Is there any way we’re going to come out on top of this, because if there is, it’s sure eluding me.’

‘I’ve got to admit we still don’t have much going for us,’ Chamber confessed, ‘but we could change that.’

Michael frowned, then felt his insides freeze as the phone suddenly rang. Picking it up he looked at Chambers as he said hello.

‘Michael, it’s Chris Ruskin here,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Did you get my message?’

Biting down hard on his frustration, Michael said, ‘Yeah, I’m sorry, things are getting complicated here and right now is a bad time, Chris.’

‘Well, whatever’s happening there,’ Ruskin said, ‘I think you should get yourself back here pretty pronto, because something very strange is going down with World Wide and …’

‘You’ll have to handle it,’ Michael broke in. ‘There’s no way I can leave here right now.’

Ruskin started to protest, but as the second line started to ring, Michael cut him off.

‘Yeah, he’s right here,’ Chambers was saying into the other phone. ‘I’ll pass you over,’ and blocking the mouthpiece with his palm he said, ‘Now’s your chance. Remember, we need proof.’

Michael’s head started to spin and as he took the phone his insides turned hot with misgiving. He’d had no time to think this out, had not a single clue what he was going to say.

‘Mr McCann?’

Michael’s heart stopped beating. It was the same softly spoken voice as before. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Do you have the documents yet?’ the voice asked.

Michael was thinking fast and praying he was going to come up with the right answers. ‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘At least we know where they are.’

‘That is good. I will call you again at six to give you instructions on where to take them.’

‘No! No, hang on,’ Michael shouted. ‘I want some proof my brother’s alive, or there’s no deal.’

There was a brief silence at the other end, before the voice said, ‘You are prepared to take that risk, Mr McCann?’

‘There is no risk if he’s already dead,’ Michael replied. His head and heart were in such chaos now he barely knew what he was saying. He’d never been a gambler, but here he was, trying to bluff it out for his brother’s life and not having the first idea what he had to call on next.

‘Your brother is alive, you have my word on that,’ he was told.

‘Not good enough,’ Michael said. ‘I want proof.’

‘You want me to bring him to the phone?’

‘You can do that, but what guarantee do I have that you won’t kill him straight after? I want to see him.’

Chambers was staring at him hard.

‘You will see him when you hand the papers over, Mr McCann,’ the voice told him and the line went dead.

‘Damn!’ Michael muttered, as he slammed down the phone.

‘You did good,’ Chambers told him.

‘Are you crazy?’ Michael said angrily. ‘I could have spoken to him! They offered that and I fucked it up by saying I wanted to see him. Jesus Christ,’ he seethed, turning away. ‘Why the hell did I do that?’

‘If they offered to bring him to the phone, then we can be pretty certain he’s still alive,’ Chambers pointed out.

Michael’s head was still bowed as finally he nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But think about it. I just told them we’ve got the depositions which is an outright lie; and I’ve let them know we’re not stupid enough to trust them to hand Cavan back as soon as they’ve got the papers. They could have been counting on our stupidity and now I’ve just alerted them into thinking their strategy through even further.’

‘Or you’ve got them worried,’ Chambers countered. ‘Listen, they’ve got to have figured out for themselves by now that we’re not just going to let those papers go without some kind of insurance …’

‘I don’t see that we’ve got any choice,’ Michael butted in. ‘It’s the only chance we have of getting him back …’

‘That’s what I was trying to tell you just now,’ Chambers said. ‘It’s not the only chance. The alternative isn’t perfect, it’s true, but right now it’s the only alternative we’ve got. Are you ready to listen?’

Michael nodded.

‘The guy I told you about at the US Embassy in Brasilia got back to me this morning. Apparently there’s this couple, husband and wife, living right here in Rio, under the names Rita and Carmelo Ferrante. The Embassy didn’t come right out and say so, but my reading of the situation is these guys are a couple of ex-federal agents who probably infiltrated the mafia or some whacko terrorist group or something and are living under assumed names now. I stopped by to see them on my way back here, and the bottom line is they’ve agreed to come in and help.’

Michael’s face was white. ‘Just exactly what are you saying?’ he said.

‘What I’m saying is the three of us discussed it and we’re all of the opinion that the only sure-fire way of getting Cavan out, depositions or no depositions, is to go in and get him.’

Michael stared at him as though he had lost his mind. ‘You mean stage a raid like we were the marines or the SAS?’ he responded scathingly. ‘Because of course we’ve got the training, haven’t we?’

‘These guys do,’ Chambers cut in.

‘OK, but aren’t you forgetting something? Like, we don’t even know where the god-damned place is.’

‘But we’re going to find out,’ Chambers responded. ‘Whether it’s today, tomorrow or a week from now, we’re going to find out. And when we do, what then? Knock on the door and politely ask for his return? This is the only way, Michael. The Ferrantes have done this kind of thing before, plenty of times they tell me, and they’re willing to come in and help us out, providing you’re for it. He’s your brother, so you get final say.’

Michael’s eyes were trained on him hard as he did a rapid run-through of all the possible ramifications he could think of to this new proposal. In the end, as Chambers’s cellphone rang, he said, ‘OK, I’m for it.’

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Chambers picked up his phone. He listened for a few seconds, then, with a triumphant light in his eye as he looked at Michael he said, ‘Good man. Can I speak to him? Sure, I’ll be right there,’ and clicking off the line he said to Michael, ‘That was Roméro, at the café. Antônio just showed up.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time did that guy say he’d call back?’

‘Six.’

‘OK, that gives us four and a half hours. God knows if it’s going to be enough, but we better start by getting the Ferrantes over here to talk to you, while I go pick up the depositions from Antônio. Just pray God he’s got them, or knows where the hell they are.’

Michael looked at him and knowing how utterly hamstrung he’d be without him, wished there were a way he could express his appreciation without embarrassing them both. But there wasn’t, so instead he said, ‘What’s wrong with getting Antônio to bring the depositions here? If he’s got them.’

‘They’re almost sure to be watching him,’ Chambers responded, picking up his keys, ‘which is probably why he didn’t come straight here. Of course, I’m only guessing, but the boy’s a long way from stupid and if he does have the depositions, or knows where they are, he’ll be as mindful as anyone of just how god-damned precious they are.’

‘So how are you going to get them? If he is being watched,’ Michael asked.

‘That’s a good question,’ Chambers replied. ‘Why don’t we put it to the experts?’ and clicking on the phone he called the Ferrantes’ Copacabana number.

‘OK,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘Carmelo, the husband, is on his way over here to start getting detail from you, while I go over there to pick up Rita, the wife, who’s coming with me to visit Antônio. So it looks pretty much like we’re about to put this show on the road,’ and with a wry tilt of his eyebrows, he pulled open the door and came face to face with a room service waiter and the feijoada he now had no time to eat.

From the instant Ferrante walked in the door Michael could feel his confidence level rising. He was a short, stocky man, with muscles like granite, skin like a lunarscape and a New York accent that was as rough as the streets he had come from. It was clear, as soon as he started talking, that he was as unfazed by the task ahead as he was serious about accomplishing it. And with his unnervingly direct eye and straightforward talk, he didn’t leave much room for doubt that he would. He wasted no time in giving Michael a run-down on the information he’d been given, then set to work on getting whatever else Michael had to offer.

By the time an hour was up both men had a healthy respect for each other and an optimism that was as quietly understated as it was well-founded. Chambers had called from the café to inform them that they could be about to get the biggest break of all, as not only did Antônio know where the depositions were, but he had actually found himself in the lock-up with an ex-inmate of the Inferno, who knew an ex-member of a rival death squad who might just know the whereabouts of Pastillano’s prison for a couple of hundred bucks.

‘OK, it sounds a bit of a run-around,’ Chambers had said, ‘but when you consider how long we’ve been working on finding this place, which is months before you got here, then remember, this is the closest we’ve come. So conclude here that when needs must, life delivers. Or maybe it’s when Pastillano panics, lieutenants fuck up, because he should have been told who Antônio was banged up with, but obviously wasn’t. It could turn out to be the sonofabitch’s Waterloo. Providing, of course, this ex-death squad low-life turns out to be on the level. We’ll keep you posted.’

There had been no communication since, and with Michael’s debriefing over there was nothing for him and Ferrante to do but sit and wait. Michael considered ringing Chris Ruskin in New York, but whatever problems Ruskin and World Wide were facing right now there was nothing he could do and besides, he really didn’t need the distraction.

Each minute seemed endless as he and Ferrante took turns walking about the room, going out on to the balcony to take in the view, or just lie on the bed staring at CNN. It was during a sudden newsflash of how former British actress, Michelle Rowe, was expected to be released from prison in Brazil within the next couple of hours, with all charges against her dismissed, that the telephone rang again.

Still staring at the screen Michael picked it up.

‘Hello? Seu Michael? Is Franco, the concierge. Your car is here.’

Michael frowned and looked at Ferrante. ‘What car?’ he asked.

‘The car you order?’ Franco answered uncertainly. ‘Not car from hotel, different car. You not satisfied with car from hotel? We can change. Is no problem …’

‘I didn’t order a car,’ Michael interrupted.

Franco’s confusion was almost audible. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I have message to say your car is here. You want that I send it away?’

‘Hang on,’ Michael replied and putting his hand over the receiver, he related the conversation to Ferrante.

Ferrante crossed to the balcony and looked down at the street below. The view to the reception was obstructed by the pool terrace. Turning back he said, ‘Tell him you’ll be right down,’ then picking up the remote control he flicked off the TV and checked the gun in his waistband.

‘It could be just a mistake,’ he said, his pock-marked face and muscular body seeming to harden before Michael’s eyes. ‘I doubt it, though. What I reckon is it’s a couple of Pastillano’s operatives come to take you for a ride.’

Michael’s heart gave a thump of alarm. ‘You mean they’re going to do as I asked and let me see Cavan?’ he said.

Ferrante shrugged. ‘Could be,’ he responded.

‘So what do I do?’ Michael asked.

‘Well, as we don’t got any of the technology and back-up we usually got in these situations,’ Ferrante answered, ‘we go with what we got. Meaning, you give me enough time to get my car round to the front of the hotel, then you go down and find out what it’s all about. If you get in the car they’ve got waiting, remember, there’s no guarantees they’re going to take you to your brother, nor of them letting you out alive. But the way I see it it’s not in their interest to let anything happen to you yet. They want those depositions and they want them real bad. And Pastillano might have been dumb enough to lock Antônio up with an ex-inmate, but we can’t count on him being that dumb again. Now, we don’t have time to hang about here; if we do, they’re going to start getting suspicious. So just remember, whatever you do, keep telling ’em we’ve got the depositions. If they ask where they are, say someone’s bringing them to you just before the six o’clock deadline. OK?’

Michael nodded. ‘OK,’ he repeated.

Ferrante shook his head. ‘This could turn out to be a smart move on their part,’ he said, obviously not liking the situation too much. ‘No advance warning a car’s on its way, no setting up a meet, just, boom, the car’s there, get in if you dare.’

Michael watched him leave and tried not to feel as though his lifeline was being reeled in. Though he knew there was no way he would back out, he still couldn’t help wondering if he really had the courage to go through with this – after all, he was an entertainment agent, for God’s sake, not James fucking Bond. He looked at the gun Ferrante had left for him and thought of Cavan and Michelle, and most of all Robbie. He had no reason to be so afraid for his son, but the spectre of never getting to see him was haunting him night and day. There was no clarity in his mind as to whether his fear was based on something happening to Robbie, or if it was to do with getting himself killed in the attempt to free Cavan. Probably it was both. All he knew for certain was that he was prepared to do whatever it took to get them all out of this alive, and with Michelle being freed at any moment and Robbie being kept in a safe place, the only one he had to concern himself with was Cavan.

The dark Mercedes saloon, with black-tinted windows, was waiting right outside the hotel entrance. As he approached it a doorman stepped forward, opened the rear door and from the darkness inside he was told to get in.

Fighting the urge to make sure Ferrante was in sight, he did as he was told. As he slammed the door closed he heard the click of the central locking cutting off his escape, then noticed the dividing screen between passenger and driver compartments sliding shut. Sitting adjacent to him, his back to the road ahead and a gun pointing straight at Michael’s chest was a thick-set, cheap-suited man whose face, except for the limpid brown eyes, was hidden by a grey, woollen mask.

‘The gun,’ he said, pointing his own towards the one in Michael’s pocket.

Michael’s mouth was turning dry, as handing the weapon over he felt the car pulling away.

‘Put this on,’ the man commanded, tossing over a blindfold.

Michael took it, looked at it, then, hearing the click of the gun’s hammer being pulled back he slipped it on, attempting to position it so that he could at least get a glimpse of where they were going.

The car was moving out on to the Avenue Atlantico and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost his bearings completely. For some odd and unidentifiable reason he found himself thinking about Ellen and the things he’d been planning to say before Cavan’s call had come and blown it all apart. Then, realizing why he was thinking about her now, his blood turned cold. A rogue instinct, that had come out of nowhere, was suddenly telling him that he was never going to see her again. Then it hit him why, and he could hardly believe what idiots he and Ferrante had been not to have seen through this straight away. Ferrante had said it could be a smart move on their part and now Michael was realizing just how smart. For by allowing no time to think, to plan, not even to second guess, they had lured Michael into what had to be the easiest kidnapping in history. And the only reason they’d need to do that was because they needed another hostage to take Cavan’s place.

He tried to tell himself he was overreacting, but as he heard the crashing and grinding of metal behind him he knew instantly what it meant, that Ferrante had just been very effectively ambushed and he was now completely on his own, heading for God only knew where … or what.