First Thrills - Lee Child [15]
She asked how much freedom I would give her.
She said she did charity work in Brazil. Human rights, poverty relief, the usual kind of thing. Hours and days of travel in the slums and the outlying jungle. I told her about my previous South American clients. The corporate guys, the oil men, the minerals people. I told her that the less they did, the safer they got. I described their normal day. Home, car, office, car, home.
She said no to that.
She said, “We need to find a balance.”
Her native language was Portuguese, and her English was good but lightly accented. She sounded even better than she looked, which was spectacular. She wasn’t one of those rich girls who dresses down. No ripped jeans for her. For the interview she was wearing a pair of plain black pants and a white shirt. Both garments looked new, and I was sure both came from an exclusive Paris boutique.
I said, “Pick a number. I can keep you a hundred percent safe by keeping you here in your apartment twenty-four/seven, or you can be a hundred per cent unsafe by walking around Rio on your own all day.”
“Seventy-five per-cent safe,” she said. Then she shook her head. “No, eighty.”
I knew what she was saying. She was scared, but she wanted a life. She was unrealistic.
I said, “Eighty per cent means you live Monday through Thursday and die on Friday.”
She went quiet.
“You’re a prime target,” I said. “You’re rich, your mom is rich, your dad is rich, and he’s a politician. You’ll be the best target in Brazil. And kidnapping is a messy business. It usually fails. It’s usually the same thing as murder, just delayed by a little. Sometimes delayed by not very much.”
She said nothing.
“And it’s sometimes very unpleasant,” I said. “Panic, stress, desperation. You wouldn’t be kept in a gilded cage. You’d be in a jungle hut with a bunch of thugs.”
“I don’t want a gilded cage,” she said. “And you’ll be there.”
I knew what she was saying. She was twenty-two years old.
“We’ll do our best,” I said.
She hired me there and then. Paid me an advance on a very generous salary and asked me to make a list of what I needed. Guns, clothes, cars. I didn’t ask for anything. I thought I had what I needed.
I thought I knew what I was doing.
A week later we were in Brazil. We flew first class all the way, Paris to London, London to Miami, Miami to Rio. My choice of route. Indirect and unpredictable. Thirteen hours in the air, five in airport lounges. She was a pleasant companion, and a cooperative client. I had a friend pick us up in Rio. Anna had budget to spare, so I decided to use a separate driver at all times. That way, I would get more chance to concentrate. I used a Russian guy I had met in Mexico. He was the finest defensive driver I had ever seen. Russians are great with cars. They have to be. Moscow was the only place worse than Rio for mayhem.
Anna had her own apartment. I had been expecting a gated place in the suburbs, but she lived right in town. A good thing, in a way. One street entrance, a doorman, a concierge, plenty of eyes on visitors even before the elevator bank. The apartment door was steel and it had three locks and a TV entryphone. I like TV entryphones a lot better than peepholes. Peepholes are very bad ideas. A guy can wait in the corridor and as soon as the lens goes dark he can fire a large caliber handgun right through it, into your eye, into your brain, out the back of your skull, into your client if she happens to be standing behind you.
So, a good situation. My Russian friend parked in the garage under the building and we took the elevator straight up and got inside and locked all three locks and settled in. I had a room between Anna’s and the door. I’m a light sleeper. All was well.
All stayed well for less than twenty-four hours.
Jet lag going west wakes you up early. We were both up at seven. Anna wanted breakfast out. Then she planned to go shopping. I hesitated. The first decision sets the tone. But I was her bodyguard, not her jailer. So I agreed. Breakfast, and shopping.
Breakfast was OK. We went to