The Partner

I FOUND HIM in Ponta Pora, a pleasant little town in Brazil, on the border of Paraguay,

in a land still known as the Frontier.

They found him living in a shaded brick house on Rua Tiradentes, a wide avenue with

trees down the center and barefoot boys dribbling soccer balls along the hot pavement.

They found him alone, as best they could tell, though a maid came and went at odd hours

during the eight days they hid and watched.

They found him living a comfortable life but certainly not one of luxury. The house was

modest and could've been owned by any local merchant. The car was a 1983 Volkswagen

Beetle, manufactured in Sao Paulo with a million others. It was red and clean, polished to

a shine. Their first photo of him was snapped as he waxed it just inside the gate to his

short driveway.

They found him much thinner, down considerably from the two hundred and thirty

pounds he'd been carrying when last seen. His hair and skin were darker, his chin had

been squared, and his nose had been slightly pointed. Subtle changes to the face. They'd

paid a steep bribe to the surgeon in Rio who'd performed the alterations two and a half

years earlier.

They found him after four years of tedious but diligent searching, four years of dead ends

and lost trails and false tips, four years of pouring good money down the drain, good

money chasing bad, it seemed.

But they found him. And they waited. There was at first the desire to snatch him

immediately, to drug him and smuggle him to a safe house in Paraguay, to seize him

before he saw them or before a neighbor became suspicious. The initial excitement of the

finding made them consider a quick strike, but after two days they settled down and

waited. They loitered at various points along Rua Tiradentes, dressed like the locals,

drinking tea in the shade, avoiding the sun, eating ice cream, talking to the children,

watching his house. They tracked him as he drove downtown to shop, and they

photographed him from across the street as he left the pharmacy. They eased very near

him in a fruit market and listened as he spoke to the clerk. Excellent Portuguese, with the

very slight accent of an American or a German who'd studied hard. He moved quickly

downtown, gathering his goods and returning home, where he locked the gate behind him.

His brief shopping trip yielded a dozen fine photos.

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