shook his head. “It’s not your time. You must trust me on this. Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”
Tariq nodded.
73
PULLING INTO the town of Paulinia just after sunset, Shasif Hadi could see the lights of the refinery, still some four miles away, long before he could see the complex itself. Seventeen hundred acres of distillation columns, fractionation towers, and high-voltage wires, all festooned with blinking red lights designed to warn off low-flying aircraft, and all unnecessary, as far as Hadi was concerned. If any pilot managed to miss seeing the dozens of pole-mounted stadium lights illuminating the complex’s work areas, he deserved to crash.
The main highway from Campinas, the SP-332, wound along the northern outskirts of Paulinia before swinging back first to the west, then to the north, before finally passing the refinery complex on the left. Hadi drove past it and continued north for another mile before reaching his turnoff, a two-lane asphalt road heading due east. This he followed exactly one and a half miles to where the road curved yet again and the blacktop gave way to gravel. A hundred yards ahead, his headlights picked out what looked like a bridge spanning the road. Hadi felt his pulse quicken. This was not a bridge, he knew, but rather an ethanol pipeline. As he passed under the line, he glanced out his passenger window and could see a grass-covered clearing barricaded by a cattle gate. Sitting in front of the gate, hood facing out, was a white pickup truck. Hadi kept going, making one more turn, this time south, onto a dirt road. After fifty yards he slowed, scanning the tree line to his left. He spotted the gap between the trees and pulled in and shut off his headlights as he coasted to a stop. He checked his watch: on schedule.
He got out, locked the door, then walked out of the trees to the edge of the road. He looked right. A half-mile down the road a pair of headlights appeared around a corner. Ibrahim’s blue Volkswagen Fox slowed beside Hadi, its brakes squealing slightly.
“No trouble?” Ibrahim asked.
“None.”
Hadi climbed into the backseat. Fa’ad sat beside him, Ahmed in the front passenger seat. As part of their exfiltration plan, Fa’ad and Ahmed had parked their cars on back roads to the southeast and northeast of the refinery, where they were picked up by Ibrahim. If for some reason the group became separated, they would rendezvous at one of these cars and make their way back to the coast.
Ahmed handed Hadi a pistol, a 9-millimeter Glock 17 equipped with a noise suppressor. “The truck is there,” Hadi said. “I couldn’t be sure, but I think I saw two figures sitting in it.”
“Good. Ahmed, you will do it.”
Headlights off, Ibrahim put the car in gear and drove on, retracing Hadi’s inbound route. Fifty yards from the pipeline, he stopped the car. Ahmed climbed out, crossed behind the car, and walked into the trees. They sat in silence, Ibrahim keeping track of the time on his watch. After two minutes, he turned on the headlights and started out again. “Down in the back,” he told them. Hadi and Fa’ad hunched down below the windows. As the car drew even with the pickup truck, Ibrahim slowed the car and got out. He had a map in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he called in Portuguese, as he walked toward the truck. “I’m lost. Can you give me directions back to Paulinia?”
No one responded.
“Excuse me, I need help. Can you—”
A hand appeared out of the driver’s-side window and waved him forward. Ibrahim walked up to the window. The decal on the door said PETROBRAS SECURITY. “I think I missed a turn somewhere. How far away is Paulinia?”
“Not far,” said the guard. “Follow this road west until it runs into the highway, then turn left.”
Through the truck’s open passenger window, Ibrahim could see Ahmed’s outline emerge from the trees and start toward the truck.
Ibrahim asked, “How far is it?”
Before the driver could answer, Ibrahim took a step back. The first muffled shot went into the temple of the passenger-side guard; the second went into the neck of the driver, who slumped sideways. The noise suppressor, made from steel soup cans and fiberglass insulation, had worked well. The shots had been no louder than a muted hand-clap.
“One more each,” Ibrahim ordered.
Ahmed fired another round into the first guard. He then extended the gun into the cab, took aim, and fired a round into the driver’s