Atiradeira, where Lincoln had rented his farmhouse, and Ternos. From what I could tell, Passarinho na Mão is also known for precisely nothing – I had never heard of it before poring over maps of the Ternos region. Once in Passarinho na Mão, Pedro made his way to the local used car lot where he asked for a small SUV. With his eyes on the floor, Pedro explained that he didn’t have any documents but that the SUV was just going to be used on his cousin’s farm… once he got to the farm.
The salesman regretfully told him the dealership didn’t operate that way, “No documents, no car.”
Pedro tried the junk yard and was told they had no cars that ran.
Pedro walked back to the bus stop to wait for a bus to the next town. Over the next day and a half, he walked into six car dealerships and two junk yards with no success. But at the third junk yard, his luck changed. Pedro handed over the equivalent of a little over $3,000 and drove off with a two-year-old GM SUV that, as far as the insurance company and the Brazilian police knew, had been totaled in a landslide. Using the maps he had brought with him, Pedro managed to navigate his way to the farm Lincoln had rented. As he arrived at the farm, Pedro pulled off his bandana.
The overgrown weeds were clear evidence no one had been in the area for months, which made sense, since it was as isolated as it looked on Google Earth. It would serve my purposes to a T. I pulled the car into the dilapidated barn and closed the doors.
By then it was almost dark. I looked at the farmhouse about 100 feet away. It looked as decrepit as the barn, and some of the windows were broken. The longer I looked at it, the creepier it looked. No way was I going to be sleeping in there. I toyed with the idea of driving into town and finding a cheap hotel room but I didn’t want to be remembered.
I peed on a dried up bush and went back to the truck. I was hungry. There wasn’t much edible in Pedro’s knapsack – a piece of semi-stale bread, some water, a chocolate bar and two small bags of chips. As I scarfed it all down, I tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. That was about five or six seconds before a cloud of mosquitoes zeroed in on my position. Not surprisingly, it hadn’t occurred to Pedro to pack any bug spray. I was glad I wouldn’t need Pedro again – he was socially inept and didn’t plan ahead. For all their foibles, Fernandez and Lincoln do Nascimento were interesting raconteurs and meticulous planners, and a lot of fun.
It was a long night. I finally fell asleep sometime around 3 AM, but even then, it was fitful sleep. My back gave me problems throughout the night.
The next morning I wiped down all the surfaces in the car I had touched, and then some, with bleach. Then I walked into town. It was an hour hike, and I was hungry, tired and sore. I bought some stale biscuits at a general store next to the bus stop, but otherwise kept to myself until the bus arrived. Eight hours later, I was back in São Paulo. An hour after that, I was back in my hotel room, taking a long shower and wondering how much blood the mosquitoes had sucked out of me the night before.
I thought about what the job would require over the next few weeks. A mustache and beard would probably be a good idea, though I had never worn either one. Fortunately, Pedro hadn’t thought to bring shaving gear, so he had gotten me a head start on the process.
The next two days were slow. I used the time to grow facial hair and to track down information on the next few targets near the top of my list. I was careful to do those searches in Portuguese from a public wifi system at a local mall using a rented computer. And I muddied the waters, also locating information on a bevy of Brazilian celebrities and businessmen.
At the end of the week, the Caipira’s orders were ready for pickup so Francisco Fernandez, the Argentine businessman from Cordoba province called the cabbie he had used the previous
The salesman regretfully told him the dealership didn’t operate that way, “No documents, no car.”
Pedro tried the junk yard and was told they had no cars that ran.
Pedro walked back to the bus stop to wait for a bus to the next town. Over the next day and a half, he walked into six car dealerships and two junk yards with no success. But at the third junk yard, his luck changed. Pedro handed over the equivalent of a little over $3,000 and drove off with a two-year-old GM SUV that, as far as the insurance company and the Brazilian police knew, had been totaled in a landslide. Using the maps he had brought with him, Pedro managed to navigate his way to the farm Lincoln had rented. As he arrived at the farm, Pedro pulled off his bandana.
The overgrown weeds were clear evidence no one had been in the area for months, which made sense, since it was as isolated as it looked on Google Earth. It would serve my purposes to a T. I pulled the car into the dilapidated barn and closed the doors.
By then it was almost dark. I looked at the farmhouse about 100 feet away. It looked as decrepit as the barn, and some of the windows were broken. The longer I looked at it, the creepier it looked. No way was I going to be sleeping in there. I toyed with the idea of driving into town and finding a cheap hotel room but I didn’t want to be remembered.
I peed on a dried up bush and went back to the truck. I was hungry. There wasn’t much edible in Pedro’s knapsack – a piece of semi-stale bread, some water, a chocolate bar and two small bags of chips. As I scarfed it all down, I tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. That was about five or six seconds before a cloud of mosquitoes zeroed in on my position. Not surprisingly, it hadn’t occurred to Pedro to pack any bug spray. I was glad I wouldn’t need Pedro again – he was socially inept and didn’t plan ahead. For all their foibles, Fernandez and Lincoln do Nascimento were interesting raconteurs and meticulous planners, and a lot of fun.
It was a long night. I finally fell asleep sometime around 3 AM, but even then, it was fitful sleep. My back gave me problems throughout the night.
The next morning I wiped down all the surfaces in the car I had touched, and then some, with bleach. Then I walked into town. It was an hour hike, and I was hungry, tired and sore. I bought some stale biscuits at a general store next to the bus stop, but otherwise kept to myself until the bus arrived. Eight hours later, I was back in São Paulo. An hour after that, I was back in my hotel room, taking a long shower and wondering how much blood the mosquitoes had sucked out of me the night before.
I thought about what the job would require over the next few weeks. A mustache and beard would probably be a good idea, though I had never worn either one. Fortunately, Pedro hadn’t thought to bring shaving gear, so he had gotten me a head start on the process.
The next two days were slow. I used the time to grow facial hair and to track down information on the next few targets near the top of my list. I was careful to do those searches in Portuguese from a public wifi system at a local mall using a rented computer. And I muddied the waters, also locating information on a bevy of Brazilian celebrities and businessmen.
At the end of the week, the Caipira’s orders were ready for pickup so Francisco Fernandez, the Argentine businessman from Cordoba province called the cabbie he had used the previous
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