in response: Roger. He dialed The Campus. Sam Granger answered. Chavez said, “He’s in.”
“The message is uploaded. We’re sending him to a pool hall at the corner of Travessas Roma and Alegria at the south end of the Rocinha.”
“Time?”
“Seven.”
Chavez hung up. Ten minutes passed, and then Hadi walked out of the café. He looked up and down the street, then walked to his car and got in.
“Moving,” Chavez said. He sprinted back through the yard, down the alley, and emerged on the street. To his left, Hadi’s Marajó pulled up to the intersection and stopped.
Dominic said, “I see him.”
Hadi turned left.
“Coming to you,” Dominic radioed.
“Negative. Stay there.” Chavez sprinted up the street and reached the Hyundai in thirty seconds. “Okay, go. Left at the intersection, then turn left and pull up to the stop sign.”
Dominic did as instructed. As they reached the stop sign, Hadi passed in front of them, heading north. Dominic let two cars pass, then pulled out.
Fifteen minutes later: “Someone’s on us,” Dominic said. “Or Hadi.”
Chavez glanced in the side mirror. “Blue Lancia?”
“And two more behind that. Green Fiat compact, red Ford Corcel.”
“What the fuck? You sure?”
“Saw the Fiat and the Ford circle the block twice while I was going around behind the café. Can’t be the cops.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Cops would be better at it. They’re in a goddamned convoy.”
Chavez checked their map. “Let’s get a face.”
Dominic slowed beside a parking spot and put on his blinker. Behind them, the Lancia honked its horn. Chavez stuck his hand out the window and waved him past. As the Lancia swerved and sped by, Chavez glanced over.
“Looked like the same ethnic persuasion as Hadi. His partners in crime, you think?”
“Could be. Maybe Hadi didn’t make a clean break.”
Dominic let the third car, the Corcel, pass, then waited five beats, then pulled out and fell in behind it.
Musa’s third day of travel went as smoothly as his first two, and by late afternoon he reached his final overnight stop: Winnemucca, Nevada; population 7,030; 350 miles northwest of Las Vegas.
81
TO HIS CREDIT, Hadi did his best to dry-clean himself on the way to the Rocinha, skirting the slums for two hours as he drove in circles and doubled back, looking for signs of pursuit that should have been plain to him. The Lancia, the Fiat, and the Corcel remained in convoy formation, never changing places and never more than a hundred yards from Hadi’s rear bumper.
“We’ve got a decision to make,” Dominic said. “Better do it now, before it’s made for us.” If he and Chavez had a chance to snatch Hadi and his three partners, did they go for it or concentrate on Hadi alone?
“The more, the merrier,” Chavez said, “but we gotta remember it’s just you and me, and the Rio cops wouldn’t see any difference between us and Hadi’s group if things go sideways.”
At 6:15 they broke off their pursuit and made their way back to the Rocinha’s southern entrance. Leaving Hadi on his own was a risk, they knew, but neither knew anything about the meeting’s location; they would have to hope Hadi’s pursuers didn’t decide to intercept him in the next forty-five minutes.
The sun was slipping behind the mountains to the west, casting the slums in golden light.
While the Portuguese translation of Rocinha was “Little Ranch,” Dominic and Chavez saw nothing small about it. Covering roughly three-quarters of a mile from north to south and a quarter-mile from east to west, the slums were situated in a shallow, sloping valley bracketed on both sides by thickly forested hills and cliffs. Shaded by crisscrossing clotheslines and makeshift canvas awnings, the narrow streets meandered up slopes of densely packed and pastel-painted saltbox apartments, many so close that their balconies touched and their rooflines merged. Crumbling concrete and brick stairways covered in climbing vines rose up from the streets and disappeared behind buildings. Telephone and power poles festooned with hundreds of feet of exposed wires and cables extended in every direction. Lining every alley were dozens upon dozens of huts made from planks and corrugated tin. Sewage ran down shallow gutters filled with trash.
“Unbelievable,” Dominic said.
“How many people in this place?”
“Hundred thousand at least. Maybe a hundred fifty.”
They found a parking spot down the block from the pool hall and got out. “You take the back, I’ll take the front. Gimme fifteen minutes, then come on in.”
“Roger.”
Dominic headed down the street and turned the corner. Chavez walked across the street, bought a bottle of Coke from a street vendor, then