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　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　fortable　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。
　He　had　jogged　in　a　prior　life；　though　in　the　months　before　he　disappeared　his　mileage　shrunk　as　his　weight　ballooned。　Now　that　he　teetered　on　the　brink　of　emaciation；　they　were　not　surprised　to　see　him　running　again。　He　left　his　house；　locking　the　gate　behind　him；　and　began　a　slow　trot　down　the　sidewalk　along　Rua　Tiradentes。　Nine　minutes　for　the　first　mile；　as　the　street　went　perfectly　straight　and　the　houses　grew　farther　apart。　The　pavement　turned　to　gravel　on　the　edge　of　town；　and　halfway　into　the　second　mile　his　pace　was　down　to　eight　minutes　a　mile　and　Danilo　had　himself　a　nice　sweat。　It　was　midday　in　October；　the　temperature　near　eighty；　and　he　gained　speed　as　he　left　town；　past　a　small　clinic　packed　with　young　mothers；　past　a　small　church　the　Baptists　had　built。　The　roads　became　dustier　as　he　headed　for　the　countryside　at　seven　minutes　a　mile。
　The　running　was　serious　business；　and　it　pleased　them　mightily。　Danilo　would　simply　run　into　their　arms。
　THE　DAY　after　the　first　sighting；　a　small　unclean　cottage　on　the　edge　of　Ponta　Pora　was　rented　by　a　Brazilian　named　Osmar；　and　before　long　the　rest　of　the　pursuit　team　poured　in。　It　was　an　equal　mix　of　Americans　and　Brazilians；　with　Osmar　giving　the　orders　in　Portuguese　and　Guy　barking　in　English。　Osmar　could　handle　both　languages；　and　had　bee　the　official　interpreter　for　the　team。
　Guy　was　from　Washington；　an　ex…government　type　who'd　been　hired　to　find　Danny　Boy；　as　he'd　been　nicknamed。　Guy　was　considered　a　genius　at　some　levels　and　immensely　talented　at　others；　and　his　past　was　a　black　hole。　He　was　well　into　his　fifth　one…year　contract　to　find　Danny　Boy；　and　there　was　a　nice　bonus　for　snagging　the　prey。　Though　he　hid　it　well；　Guy　had　been　slowly　cracking　under　the　pressure　of　not　finding　Danny　Boy。
　Four　years　and　three　and　a　half　million　dollars；　with　nothing　to　show　for　it。
　But　now　they'd　found　him。
　Osmar　and　his　band　of　Brazilians　had　not　the　slightest　hint　of　Danny　Boy's　sins；　but　a　fool　could　see　that　he'd　disappeared　and　taken　a　trainload　of　money。　And；　although　he　was　very　curious　about　Danny　Boy；　Osmar　had　learned　quickly　not　to　ask　questions。　Guy　and　the　Americans　had　nothing　to　say　on　the　subject。
　The　pictures　of　Danny　Boy　were　enlarged　to　eight　by　tens；　and　tacked　along　a　wall　in　the　kitchen　of　the　dirty　little　cottage　where　they　were　studied　by　grim　men　with　hard　eyes；　men　who　chain…smoked　strong　cigarettes　and　shook　their　heads　at　the　photos。　They　whispered　among　themselves　and　pared　the　new　photos　to　the　old　ones；　the　ones　from　his　previous　life。　Smaller　man；　odd　chin；　different　nose。　His　hair　was　shorter　and　his　skin　darker。　Was　it　really　him？
　They　had　been　through　this　before；　in　Recife；　on　the　northeastern　coast；　nineteen　months　earlier　when　they'd　rented　an　apartment　and　looked　at　photos　on　the　wall　until　the　decision　was　made　to　grab　the　American　and　check　his　fingerprints。　Wrong　prints。　Wrong　American。　They　pumped　some　more　drugs　in　him　and　left　him　in　a　ditch。
　They　were　afraid　to　dig　too　deeply　into　the　current　life　of　Danilo　Silva。　If　he　was　in　fact　their　man；　then　he　had　plenty　of　money。　And　cash　always　worked　wonders　with　the　local　authorities。　For　decades；　cash　had　bought　protection　for　Nazis　and　other　Germans　who'd　smuggled　themselves　into　Ponta　Pora。
　Osmar　wanted　to　grab　him。　Guy　said　they'd　wait。　He　vanished　on　the　fourth　day；　and　the　dirty　little　cottage　was　in　chaos　for　thirty…six　hours。
　They　saw　him　leave　home　in　the　red　Beetle。　He　was　in　a　hurry；　came　the　report。　He　raced　across　town　to　the　airport；　jumped　on　a　small　muter　at　the　last　moment；　and　was　gone。　His　car　was　parked　in　the　only　lot；　and　they　watched　it　every　second　of　every　hour。　The　plane　was　headed　in　the　general　direction　of　Sao　Paulo；　with　four　stops　in　between。
　There　was　instantly　a　plan　to　enter　his　home　and　catalog　everything。　There　had　to　be　records。　The　money　had　to　be　tended　to。　Guy　dreamed　of　finding　bank　statements；　wire　transfer　reports；　account　summaries；　all　sorts　of　documents　arranged　in　a　neat　portfolio　which　would　lead　him　directly　to　the　money。
　But　he　knew　better。　If　Danny　Boy　ran　because　of　them；　then　he　would　never　leave　behind　the　evidence。　And　if　he　was　in　fact　their　man；　then　his　home　would　be　carefully　secured。　Danny　Boy；　wherever　he　was；　would　probably　know　the　instant　they　opened　his　door　or　window。
　They　waited。　They　cursed　and　argued　and　strained　even　more　under　the　pressure。　Guy　made　his　daily　call　to　Washington；　a　nasty　one。　They　watched　the　red　Beetle。　Each　arrival　brought　out　the　binoculars　and　cell　phones。　Six　flights　the　first　day。　Five　the　second。　The　dirty　little　cottage　grew　hot　and　the　men　settled　outdoors…the　Americans　napping　under　a　scrawny　shade　tree　in　the　backyard　and　the　Brazilians　playing　cards　along　the　fence　in　the　front。
　Guy　and　Osmar　took　a　long　drive　and　vowed　to　grab　him　if　he　ever　returned。　Osmar　was　confident　he　would　be　back。　Probably　just　out　of　town　on　business；　whatever　his　business　was。　They'd　snatch　him；　identify　him；　and　if　he　happened　to　be　the　wrong　man　they'd　simply　throw　him　in　a　ditch　and　run。　It　had　happened　before。
　He　returned　on　the　fifth　day。　They　trailed　him　back　to　Rua　Tiradentes；　and　everybody　was　happy。
　ON　THE　EIGHTH　DAY；　the　dirty　cottage　emptied　as　all　the　Brazilians　and　all　the　Americans　took　their　positions。
　The　course　was　a　six…miler。　He　had　covered　it　each　day　he'd　been　home；　leaving　at　almost　the　same　time；　wearing　the　same　blue　and　orange　runner's　shorts；　well…worn　Nikes；　ankle　socks；　no　shirt。
　The　perfect　spot　was　two　and　a　half　miles　from　his　house；　over　a　small　hill　on　a　gravel　road；　not　far　from　his　turning…around　point。　Danilo　topped　the　hill　twenty　minutes　into　his　run；　a　few　seconds　ahead　of　schedule。　He　ran　harder；　for　some　reason。　Probably　the　clouds。
　A　small　car　with　a　flat　tire　was　just　over　the　hill；　blocking　the　road；　trunk　opened；　its　rear　jacked　up。　Its　driver　was　a　burly　young　man　who　pretended　to　be　startled　at　the　sight　of　the　skinny　racer　sweating　and　panting　as　he　topped　the　hill。　Danilo　slowed　for　a　second。　There　was　more　room　to　the　right。
　〃Bom　dia；〃　the　burly　young　man　said　as　he　took　a　step　toward　Danilo。
　〃Bom　dia；〃　Danilo　said；　approaching　the　car。
　The　driver　suddenly　pulled　a　large　shiny　pistol　from　the　trunk　and　shoved　it　into　Danilo's　face。　He　froze；　his　eyes　locked　onto　the　gun；　his　mouth　open　with　heavy　breathing。　The　driver　had　thick　hands　and　long；　stout　arms。　He　grabbed　Danilo　by　the　neck　and　yanked　him　roughly　toward　the　car；　then　down　to　the　bumper。　He　stuck　the　pistol　in　a　pocket　and　with　both　hands　folded　Danilo　into　the　trunk。　Danny　Boy　struggled　and　kicked；　but　was　no　match。
　The　driver　slammed　the　trunk　shut；　lowered　the　car；　tossed　the　jack　into　the　ditch；　and　drove　off。　A　mile　away；　he　turned　onto　a　narrow　dirt　path　where　his　pals　were　anxiously　waiting。
　They　tied　nylon　ropes　around　Danny　Boy's　wrists　and　a　black　cloth　over　his　eyes；　then　shoved　him　into　the　back　of　a　van。　Osmar　sat　to　his　right；　another　Brazilian　to　his　left。　Someone　removed　his　keys　from　the　Velcro　runner's　pouch　stuck　to　his　waist。　Danilo　said　nothing　as　the　van　started　and　began　moving。　He　was　still　sweating　and　breathing　even　harder。
　When　the　van　stopped　on　a　dusty　road　near　a　farm　field；　Danilo　uttered　his　first　words。　〃What　do　you　want？〃　he　asked；　in　Portuguese。
　〃Don't　speak；〃　came　the　reply　from　Osmar；　in　English。　The　Brazilian　to　Danilo's　left　removed　a　syringe　from　a　small　metal　box　and　deftly　filled　it　with　a　potent　liquid。　Osmar　pulled　Danilo's　wrists　tightly　toward　him　while　the　other　man　jabbed　the　needle　into　his　upper　arm。　He　stiffened　and　jerked；　then　realized　it　was　hopeless。　He　actually　relaxed　as　the　last　of　the　drug　entered　his　body。　His　breathing　slowed；　his　head　began　to　wobble。　When　his　chin　hit　his　chest；　Osmar　gently；　with　his　right　index　finger；　raised　the　shorts　on　Danilo's　right　leg；