The "bolthole," as Father Angelo called it, was directly in front of the fireplace. ,, we built this," he said, rolling back the carpet that covered the entrance, "back in the days of the dictatorship. I told you we were tortured?"
"Yes, you did."
Father Angelo set the carpet aside and dusted his hands. "We were fearful they might come again. We set to thinking about how we could escape them if they did."
He inserted the tips of his fingers into a gap in the rough wooden flooring and started to pull, raising an oblong section about seventy-five centimeters long by fifty centimeters wide. "This was the solution. Anton's idea, inspired by the hiding places built for English priests in the time of the Tudors."
He set the section of floor aside, revealing a wooden ladder descending into a dark shaft. "We did all the work ourselves," he continued. "It took us seven months. We kept the earth we'd removed in baskets and spread it around the garden during the night. Those baskets were heavy, to say the least. Fortunately, I was younger and stronger then."
"Did you ever have occasion to use it?"
"Not until Edson came along."
"Edson? Edson Souza? He's down there?" Silva pointed at the shaft.
Father Angelo bent over and stuck his head into the hole.
"Yes," he said. "Thanks to Anton, he's still there. Come up, my boy. Come up and meet the people from the Federal Police.