the other he has his javelin, symbolically held aloft as he leads his team forward.
‘Is that even allowed?’ Paz asks.
I shrug again, as my stomach starts to tighten slightly. As we watch, Gilmore hands his flag to a teammate. I can see that it’s Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower. Gilmore turns and looks our way and, with his javelin held aloft, steps away from his team and begins to jog slowly against the flow of the parade, directly towards us.
Gilmore picks up pace, heading for the presidential party with his javelin held aloft. All at once, I am convinced something terrible is about to happen. I see his arm pull back into a throwing position, and finally the President and the crowd around her see the danger. Gilmore arches his back, ready to sling his javelin forward.
A woman next to me screams, but the music pumps on. Suddenly I’m aware of the gun in my hand and the cold metal of the trigger on my finger. I do not choose to fire; I don’t make any consciousdecision. It just happens. Three times, straight into the chest of Tim Gilmore. He twists and falls to the floor, and I watch a security team spill out from the VIP section and drag his lifeless body away out of sight. A huddle of nearby athletes watch on, horrified, but soon they are swept away in the tide of others. My gunshots were lost in the explosion of fireworks, and the TV cameras are pointing elsewhere. The show goes on.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paz says, and I turn to find her right next to me, badge out and gun drawn. ‘What the hell just happened?’
Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower, is walking against the tide of athletes and is staring straight at us. A tight scrum of security guards is moving the President away from the arena, but the parade continues and the fireworks still explode and the lights continue to flash. And the only thing that has changed in the world is that I’ve got a sinking feeling that Tim Gilmore is dead.
CHAPTER 4
ABOUT A MINUTE after Tim Gilmore hits the floor, a group of Policia Militar arrive and bundle Paz and me towards the exit. Paz twists back in time to see Juliana grab hold of Felipe, and then falls into line with me and the boots and the berets, because there is no point fighting them. Nobody says anything until we are deep enough into the bowels of the Maracanã that the fireworks are no more than muffled thuds and the crowd is a distant memory.
‘He’s Tim Gilmore,’ I say, looking at the tall military policeman leading the way.
He stops walking and turns round to face me, his eyes shining with a potent cocktail of machismo and adrenalin.
‘He went missing yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘We’ve been investigating since five a.m. this morning.’
The tall commander inches closer to me and puts a rough hand on my chest.
‘This is my stadium,’ he says. ‘My jurisdiction. And I didn’t ask you to talk, old-timer.’
The commander is dressed for action, with his black protective vest over navy combat gear. He has a gun strapped to one thighand another across his chest. None of it impresses me. I’m wondering whether Tim Gilmore is dead or alive, and this guy is worrying about the size of his jurisdiction. I ignore his guns and grandeur and look him in the eye.
‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to speak.’
‘You sure as hell need my permission to shoot in a restricted area,’ he says, jutting his chin and getting in my face to emphasise the point. ‘You’re lucky we didn’t fire back.’
He pushes at my chest to see if I’ll yield. I don’t. Instead, I slowly bring my hand up and take hold of his thumb. He is twenty years younger than me, but one of nature’s laws says that if you bend a man’s thumb back, he has only two options, regardless of how tough he is. Either he moves with the pressure, or he waits for the bone to snap. Moving with the pressure goes something like this: you move your wrist to compensate for the pressure on your thumb. Then you’re forced to move your elbow to
‘Is that even allowed?’ Paz asks.
I shrug again, as my stomach starts to tighten slightly. As we watch, Gilmore hands his flag to a teammate. I can see that it’s Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower. Gilmore turns and looks our way and, with his javelin held aloft, steps away from his team and begins to jog slowly against the flow of the parade, directly towards us.
Gilmore picks up pace, heading for the presidential party with his javelin held aloft. All at once, I am convinced something terrible is about to happen. I see his arm pull back into a throwing position, and finally the President and the crowd around her see the danger. Gilmore arches his back, ready to sling his javelin forward.
A woman next to me screams, but the music pumps on. Suddenly I’m aware of the gun in my hand and the cold metal of the trigger on my finger. I do not choose to fire; I don’t make any consciousdecision. It just happens. Three times, straight into the chest of Tim Gilmore. He twists and falls to the floor, and I watch a security team spill out from the VIP section and drag his lifeless body away out of sight. A huddle of nearby athletes watch on, horrified, but soon they are swept away in the tide of others. My gunshots were lost in the explosion of fireworks, and the TV cameras are pointing elsewhere. The show goes on.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paz says, and I turn to find her right next to me, badge out and gun drawn. ‘What the hell just happened?’
Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower, is walking against the tide of athletes and is staring straight at us. A tight scrum of security guards is moving the President away from the arena, but the parade continues and the fireworks still explode and the lights continue to flash. And the only thing that has changed in the world is that I’ve got a sinking feeling that Tim Gilmore is dead.
CHAPTER 4
ABOUT A MINUTE after Tim Gilmore hits the floor, a group of Policia Militar arrive and bundle Paz and me towards the exit. Paz twists back in time to see Juliana grab hold of Felipe, and then falls into line with me and the boots and the berets, because there is no point fighting them. Nobody says anything until we are deep enough into the bowels of the Maracanã that the fireworks are no more than muffled thuds and the crowd is a distant memory.
‘He’s Tim Gilmore,’ I say, looking at the tall military policeman leading the way.
He stops walking and turns round to face me, his eyes shining with a potent cocktail of machismo and adrenalin.
‘He went missing yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘We’ve been investigating since five a.m. this morning.’
The tall commander inches closer to me and puts a rough hand on my chest.
‘This is my stadium,’ he says. ‘My jurisdiction. And I didn’t ask you to talk, old-timer.’
The commander is dressed for action, with his black protective vest over navy combat gear. He has a gun strapped to one thighand another across his chest. None of it impresses me. I’m wondering whether Tim Gilmore is dead or alive, and this guy is worrying about the size of his jurisdiction. I ignore his guns and grandeur and look him in the eye.
‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to speak.’
‘You sure as hell need my permission to shoot in a restricted area,’ he says, jutting his chin and getting in my face to emphasise the point. ‘You’re lucky we didn’t fire back.’
He pushes at my chest to see if I’ll yield. I don’t. Instead, I slowly bring my hand up and take hold of his thumb. He is twenty years younger than me, but one of nature’s laws says that if you bend a man’s thumb back, he has only two options, regardless of how tough he is. Either he moves with the pressure, or he waits for the bone to snap. Moving with the pressure goes something like this: you move your wrist to compensate for the pressure on your thumb. Then you’re forced to move your elbow to
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