Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

The junkie heard it in her stupor and said, “Estella says Urso’s in on that shit, big-time. The American they took... like in that trial? Just show. About the money. So much — whoo — Estella gonna be able to quit her shitty life once and for good.”

When Claudia fully awoke fifteen minutes later, Lopes pressed her about what she’d said. But the junkie said she had no idea what Lopes was talking about.

Lopes said, “She stuck to that story until she walked out my door. But when you administer an opiate antagonist, many people react as if they’ve been given truth serum. You can’t believe some of the confessions I’ve heard.”

“Who’s Estella?” Tavia asked.

“Claudia’s sister,” Lopes said. “And Urso’s longtime girlfriend.”

“You know where Estella lives?”

“I do,” she’d said, and she’d told her how to get there.

Tavia said, “That’s damn close to where we talked to Urso that first night.”

As traffic finally began to move, my cell phone buzzed. The third Favela Justice video was coming in. Tavia downloaded it to her iPad and hit Play.

We got that scene again with Andrew Wise at the center of the screen, tied to the heavy chair, and everything around him cast in black. Wise looked defiantly at the camera, but you could see the ordeal was weighing heavily on him.

Rayssa appeared in the primitive mask, said, “You’ve seen the damning evidence. You’ve had the night to think on it. Now is your chance to vote. Use Twitter and hash tag WiseGuilty or hash tag PayTheBillion if you think Mr. Wise should pay the ransom. You have five hours. The results will be released this evening at nine.”

Behind her, Wise shouted, “Don’t I get a defense? Or is this a total kangaroo court you’ve got going here?”

That seemed to startle Rayssa, who looked back at him.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” she said.

That charged up the billionaire.

Wise stared at the camera, said, “Did my company, WE, build many of the Olympic and FIFA venues? We did. We were invited to enter a global competition with many other fine construction firms. We made detailed bids, and we won.”

“You gouged the people of Brazil,” Rayssa said.

“We offered Brazil the best deal they were going to get,” Wise snapped. “The government could have turned our bid down, but it didn’t. You want someone to blame, blame them. I am in business to make a profit. You may not like that idea, but there’s our difference of opinion. And if you don’t like it, you should have put together a bid yourself with zero profit built in.”

Rayssa said, “Many of the documents we’ve shown the world are overage requests above and beyond your bid.”

“Prices change over time for basic construction supplies like rebar and concrete,” the billionaire said as if she were a naive fool. “We had a clause in the contract that said explicitly that WE could file for additional payments if supply costs exceeded a certain threshold. There is nothing shady about this. It’s how business is conducted in the real world.”

Wise fixed his attention on the camera again, said, “All this bullcrap about Favela Justice? Don’t believe it. That’s a cover game. They’re not out to help the poor. They’re just after my money. If you agree, vote hash tag WiseDecision and—”

The screen went to static for several long moments before Rayssa came back on, saying, “Believe a billionaire’s spin, or believe the cold hard facts Favela Justice has put before you. Voting is open now.”

The screen went black. I immediately called the lab.

Sci answered, said, “That was a clumsy attempt at erasing part of the tape.”

“Can you restore it?”

“Already done,” Sci said. “It’s coming your way now.”

I waited, then heard Tavia’s iPhone ding, alerting her to the file.

We opened it and saw a fuzzy image of Wise; it was like we were looking at him through snow. His voice crackling, he said, “Give them nothing.”

The big guy in black wore a new samba mask as he stepped into view from Wise’s left side, punched the billionaire in the face, and then gagged him.

Tavia nodded angrily. “I’ll bet that was Urso.”

“So who’s Rayssa? Estella?”

Pointing at the steep hills of the favelas ahead and above us, she said, “I think the answer to that question is up there.”

Thursday, August 4, 2016

5:10 p.m.

Twenty-Five Hours and Fifty Minutes Before the Olympic Games Open

The winter sun hung low over the western mountains, casting the Spirit favela in a slanted light that shadowed the walkways of the slum. The smells, sounds, and visuals were as vibrant and depressing as ever.

Like a buzzing hive, the favela teemed with a stinging energy all its own. But it was an existence lived so close to the margin and in such close quarters that it made me think that Favela Justice had a point.

What would have happened if the billions spent on World Cup and Olympic venues had instead been spent in places like this? New schools. Better homes. Sanitation and clean water, at the very least.

That was basic, wasn’t it? Didn’t we have an obligation to lift the lowest to an acceptable standard of living? Or was an existence in a shack with raw sewage running by the front stoop acceptable?

In my book it wasn’t, and I said so to Tavia.

“You’ve got no argument from me,” she said. “But what if Wise was right? What if this whole Favela Justice thing is a cover, a diversion for extreme extortion?”

“Then why go to the trouble of having this sham vote on Twitter? What’s the point?”

“Maybe they want a two-for-one deal. Shame Wise and get his billion.”

“Possible,” I said. “But as bright a guy as Urso is, I can’t see him orchestrating something like this. On such a grand scale. Or am I underestimating him?”

“I would never underestimate the Bear,” Tavia said. “But I agree that it seems a stretch for a slum gangster to take down a billionaire.”

“The Wise girls said Rayssa was in charge.”

“Hold that thought,” Tavia said and stopped to talk to a woman in a doorway. I caught every fifth word and the name Estella. At the mention of Estella, the woman got a sour look on her face but waved vaguely uphill and to the right.

“I’ve got a solid idea where she lives now,” Tavia said. She led us up through the maze of the slum, passing two side alleys that ran along the contour of the steep hillside.

We took a right into the third contour passage up the hill. It was barely three feet across. We had to stand sideways when other people came our way. The smells of each shack simmered with those of every other off the alleyway, making an aerosol soup that was alluring one moment, putrid the next.

At a dark blue door with stars painted on it, Tavia stopped and knocked. A television played inside. The drape in the window fluttered.

“Who’s there?” said a girl with a thin, reedy voice.

“My name is Tavia. I’m a friend of Urso.”

“You don’t look like a friend of Urso.”

Tavia laughed, said, “He worked for me just last week, and I wanted to give him another job.”

“Urso’s not here. Try his house.”

“We looked for him there already. Where’s Estella?”

There was silence. Then: “Estella’s not here. How do you know her?”

“Through Urso,” Tavia said pleasantly. “Could you open the door? I promise I won’t bite. I just want to talk.”

After several moments, we heard a chain slide. The door opened a crack, revealing a beautiful girl who looked about eight years old. She stared at us suspiciously.

“What’s your name?” Tavia asked, crouching down.