KEY POINTS:
Go to Kilometre 88 on the highway and pick up note at the cemetery" - the message arrives inside a bouquet of flowers at a ritzy hotel in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
The recipient is Zildo Santos, a retired Brazilian policeman who 10 years ago left policing for the far more dangerous job of kidnap negotiator.
Zildo, a gregarious, fit 62-year old who looks more like a chic bouncer than a hard case bodyguard, calls a cab. Within the hour he picks up the kidnapper's message, stuck in a flower pot at a cemetery.
The second message is crucial - "Get US$600,000 and wait for a call." It's a scenario familiar from scores of movies, but for Zildo it's a real-life role that has brought him a nice home and a good living.
Between every message, Zildo whips out one of his cell phones and calls the client. ( Pros never use the same cell for talks with victims and kidnappers.) He asks the kidnappers for instructions.
As the middle man in some of South America's most delicate kidnapping cases, Zildo is always thinking customer service. How best to get the kidnap victim back home without "an incident", how best to deliver the cash without the police (his former colleagues) picking up his trail.
Zildo knows that the most dangerous element is police intervention. In some South American countries, the police organise kidnappings, so you never know who to trust. In Brazil, the anti-kidnapping police are stretched thin, 120 officers for a city of 18 million people.
Thus, the logical response to a kidnapping of a "high wealth individual" is to call the Bagman, Zildo Santos, the only man in all of kidnap-happy South America who has made a career negotiating and delivering million dollar ransoms. For his services Zildo charges US$1000 ($1325) a day.
In the Buenos Aires case, the victim is chief executive of a bank. The kidnappers are also members of the professional elite - as former members of guerrilla groups, they recruit experienced operatives from Argentina, Chile, Panama and Uruguay.
Zildo looks like an extra from Chips, the cheesy 70s TV show that immortalised California Highway Patrol cops as friendly boys with billowing blow-dried blonde hair, Harley choppers and aviator shades.
"I would rather negotiate with the gang that asks for $1 million than the guy who asks for $10,000," he explains. "When the ransom amount is low, and the victims are not very rich everything gets worse.
"He (the kidnapper) is not organised, has no skills and is very stupid and possibly things will finish bad."
"Bad" might mean having matchbox sized pieces of your body chopped off. A finger. Part of an ear. A toe. The bloody mess is mailed to the family inside a gift of flowers. Prompt payment is expected.
Zildo is not involved in trying to prosecute or catch kidnappers. His job is to pay them. Get the whole tragic affair over. As the family confidant, Zildo has access to cash and power.
In the Buenos Aires case the family immediately organised a US$600,000 withdrawal from an Argentine bank.
When the cash is counted, sorted and stacked, Zildo enters the bank, adrenaline pumping.
"Someone at the bank knows you are the courier. They don't count it out, they just hand you a bag," says Zildo as he describes walking nervously out of the bank, his gym bag heavy with $100 bills.
Leaving the bank, he observes as the two suspects flash their walkie talkie, letting him know he is being watched.
Back at the hotel, a telephone call brings a new message - "Go to the zoo, the condor cage and bring the cash."
At the condor cage, Zildo finds a Marlboro cigarette pack. Inside the pack, is a note with the final instructions - "Leave the bag here. Don't look behind. Walk away."
Zildo is a pro, he leaves the bag then looks. "You have to see that the kidnappers get the money, that's basic in this job."
For every delivery, Zildo has superstitions, rituals, and a code of conduct. He dresses like a tourist, in a short sleeve shirt ("so they don't think you have a weapon up your sleeve") blue jeans, a watch ("kidnappers are usually late") and a plain bag ("Why does Hollywood always use a suitcase? They looks important and grab your attention.")
His rose-coloured aviator glasses are a personal touch, as is his caustic humour and love of living on the edge. Zildo always drives a small car - fast to get near the location, then exaggeratedly slow, to deliver a message - the Bagman has arrived.
For the past 10 years, Zildo has been travelling South America making these top secret payments. At a samba school. At deserted waterfronts. He has made the secret rendezvous more than 50 times.
His clients are top executives at multinationals, rich families - anyone who has had the bad fortune to fall into the hands of a professional gang of kidnappers in South America.
"I can't stand the term "drop off" because who is going to leave a bag with $600,000 in it? You don't drop anything." Zildo sounds irritated at the cheap Hollywood version of what he considers a noble calling.
Most South American kidnappings are known as "relampago" (lightning) and the victim is held for less than 12 hours, but Zildo works "traditional kidnapping" in which the victim can be held for weeks or months. The zoo case lasted two and a half years.
Sao Paulo is the capital of kidnapping. Every day, someone is snatched and locked away until their family buys back their freedom.
The case always comes down to money. Everyone pays, eventually. Some sell the car, others round up money from the family. The super-rich cash a check. Payments in South American kidnappings can be huge - as much as US$15 million to have a loved one come home alive.
"They tell the victim that this will not happen again - that he has a vaccination against kidnapping," says Zildo. "It is bullshit. There is no vaccination against kidnapping. You can be taken by another gang."
In the Buenos Aires case, the banker's family agreed to pay US$5 million cash in exchange for his freedom. To guarantee delivery of the money, the ex-guerilla kidnappers ask for the payment to be made in five deliveries over over 30 months.
But to throw off surveillance, the kidnappers are always changing the timing. In this case, Zildo made two deliveries in single weekend.
From Buenos Aires, he was sent to Montevideo, Uruguay. From the airport, he was directed along the coast. He was searching for a small boat, anchored in the sand.
Zildo spotted the boat, climbed inside the boat and waited. He assumed the kidnappers were in the marshlands, watching him from behind the reeds, making sure he was not being tailed.
"They came from the vegetation with their face uncovered - you see them and they see you. They always tell you, 'Don't stare'. You look down and you don't stare at them. You are supposed to pretend you are not a danger. If they think you are dangerous? You are dead."
The following evening, Zildo took another US$400,000 to the Montevideo docks. In a deserted area near the port, he was instructed to take a taxi, then walk towards an underpass. The instructions contained half a map, the delivery location circled in red.
Zildo knows the routine. He left the money on top of the other half of the map and walked away. Immediately, he heard a motor behind him. Two men on a scooter swung up in front of him.
"One had a machine gun," remembers Zildo. "The reason they show you the machine gun is to say, 'Don't try to be smart'. Remember, they are always stressed. They are always afraid that the police are coming ."
A half block away two more armed men stood outside a stolen car, just in case. In seconds, the money and men were gone and Zildo was alone.
He walked 40 minutes before finding a bus to bring him home. At the hotel, he finally relaxed.
When the victim is saved, the family tradition in Brazil is to have a homecoming. Zildo is invited, a VIP guest but he knows this celebrity status is fleeting.
"One year after that, if you give them a call, I would not be surprised if they say they are busy. People want to forget about you. You represent something bad, part of that bad story. They want to get rid of that nightmare, and you are part of the nightmare."
