Soccer mega-star-in-waiting Robson de Souzo, known to the soccer world and fans as Robinho, knows a thing or two about shadowing his opponents on the soccer field. He has, in fact, been hailed as the next Pele.

But for the past few weeks, he's experienced an entirely different kind of shadowing. Whether he's in his apartment in a wealthy section of the port city of Santos or at the "King Pele" training center, the headquarters of his soccer team FC Santos, his bodyguard is never far away. More than that, he's even having trouble concentrating on training lately. After kicking the ball around and shooting a few goals, Brazil's boy wonder usually descends into a brooding depression.

The reasons are clear. More than five weeks ago, unknown kidnappers nabbed his mother Marina Silva de Souza, 43, at a friend's barbecue. The official word is that there has been no contact with her abductors. According to experts, however, the fact that de Souza has been missing for so long suggests that ransom negotiations are dragging on. "In the past," says security expert Patrick McDonnell, "long-term kidnappings usually happened in Columbia. But now the Brazilians have learned how to play the same game."

British-born McDonnell, a former special ops soldier, owns Merlin, a São Paulo security firm, together with an American partner. The company advises wealthy Brazilians and foreign businesspeople on how to protect themselves against being kidnapped. Now McDonnell expects to be seeing new clients who have never paid much attention to security: well-paid soccer stars.

Brazilian soccer idols Romario, Ronaldo and other millionaire athletes are accustomed to moving around their country with relatively little concern for safety. Until now, they felt secure in the knowledge that everyone in Brazil, even gangsters, looks up to them as the country's popular icons. In the slums, fertile recruiting grounds for drug dealers and kidnappers alike, they're worshipped as rags-to-riches heroes. On the rare occasions when soccer stars have been the accidental victims of crime -- car-jackings, for example -- their would-be assailants have even been known to apologize and leave empty-handed.

Stars now have to watch their backs

But the Robinho case shows that star athletes are no longer immune to the crime wave which is increasingly gripping Brazil's megacities, Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. Kidnapping is a booming industry, and kidnappers are becoming more and more audacious. In São Paulo alone, the police have already registered 83 kidnappings this year. But this figure is probably a poor reflection of reality. Most cases never come to light, because family members don't report them to the police.

Fear of being kidnapped and blackmailed has now entered the ranks of the country's soccer heroes. Alexandre Goncalves, a brother of the German-league star Ailton, admits that "our family is afraid." Security experts even warn that conditions in Brazil could soon mirror those next door in Argentina. There, soccer players and their families are considered fair game.

It hasn't always been so, however. The recent explosion in crime has come as a result of the country's current economic crisis. And kidnapping has become a favorite way to make money: According to official figures, 224 people were kidnapped in the first six months of 2004. Most victims are kidnapped by highly specialized gangs and one of their favorite tactics is to send family members one of their victim's fingers to reinforce their demands.

Families of kidnapping victims often prefer not to notify the police. After all, the police are often involved; many criminals are well-connected within government agencies and criminal investigation units. Indeed there are even indications of government involvement in some kidnappings and the police in Buenos Aires province are especially notorious for their connections to drug dealers, car-jackers and kidnappers. Soccer players have become the new favorite targets of this kidnapping mafia.

$100,000 to free a brother

Nueva Mayoria, a Buenos Aires research institute, has documented 20 kidnappings or kidnapping attempts in the soccer world just since 2002. Cristian Riquelme, the brother of Argentinean national player Juan Roman Riquelme, was taken from the house of friends by unknown kidnappers. He was released after two days, allegedly in return for a $100,000 payment from his brother. A few months later, another gang kidnapped Jorge Milito, the father of soccer-star brothers Gabriel and Diego Milito. Florenci Macri, the sister of the president of the elite Argentinean team Boca Juniors, was kidnapped in late April of last year.

In the summer of 2003, a six-man gang staged a car accident as a cover for kidnapping the father of Leonardo Astrada, the legendary captain of River Plate, another Argentinean team. At his last game in Buenos Aires' River Plate Stadium, Astrada moved the crowd to tears by wearing a white T-shirt imprinted with a photograph of his father, hoping that his father would be watching the game from wherever he was being held captive. Astrada was released after his kidnappers were paid an undisclosed sum of money.

The incidents in the capital, which have repeatedly prompted tens of thousands of people to take to the streets in protest, have caused many professional athletes to make drastic changes to their lifestyles. After spending a number of successful years team-hopping in Europe (FC Seville, Lazio Rome, AC Parma, Inter Milan), Matias Almeyda, a member of the Brazilian national soccer team, was planning to return home. He had already signed a contract with Independiente Buenos Aires, but then the police told him they had received warnings that one of his family members could be a potential kidnapping victim. Almeyda tore up his contract, flew back to Europe, and signed on with the soccer team in the Italian city of Brescia.

A dangerous Christmas holiday

The security situation has even affected expat Argentinean players who feel relatively safe under contract with European teams. Five Argentineans playing for VfL Wolfsburg, a German team, are planning to head home for Christmas this week, "but they all have to be extra cautious," reports Antje del Molino, who manages the South Americans. Three of them, Andres d'Alessandro, Oscar Ahumada and Juan Menseg, were teammates of Leonardo Astrada at River Plate Buenos Aires when his father was kidnapped and know the risks of their Christmas holiday first hand.

Mindful of growing social tensions in Argentina, the soccer players' union recently asked the press to refrain from publishing players' earnings and transfer fees. Young players who, in the past, would rush out to buy a luxury car with their first salary have likewise been forced to adjust to the changing times. "Now they drive inconspicuous cars, never take the same route to workouts, and don't give out their mobile phone numbers," says Diego Canto, the manager of US security firm Kroll's Buenos Aires office, whose list of clients includes a number of prominent soccer players.

Many athletes have taken out kidnapping insurance policies. The policies, though prohibited in Argentina, are available in other countries through Control Risks, a British firm. The managers of Boca Juniors, a team whose home games at La Bombonera Stadium in Buenos Aires have already been likened by Uruguayan daily El Pais to "playing soccer in a prison yard", recently considered hiring bodyguards for each team member.

Compared to the situation in Argentina, soccer players and their families in Brazil are still easy targets for gangsters. Many have no qualms about flaunting their wealth, and have a naïve penchant for nightclubbing in Rio and São Paulo, often accompanied by an entourage of dubious groupies. They're generous to family members and friends, often giving away cars and even condos. Even as millionaires, many players stay in touch with friends from the slums where they grew up.

From the slums to the stars

Robinho, praised by sports writers for his dribbling skills and already being called the "next Pele," was still living with his parents in a damp slum apartment only five years ago. His mother was a cleaning woman, his father worked odd jobs as a plumber for the local water utility, and Robinho often went to school with no money for lunch.

He drives an Audi today, and he gave his mother a Mercedes. It was the car she drove to the friends' house in one of Santos' most notorious neighborhoods, where she was kidnapped. She is a cheerful woman and proud of her connections to old friends, a reputation her kidnappers may have used to their advantage.

Maintaining these old ties is a risky business. Famous soccer players are often hit up for loans and gifts by former playmates and friends from the slums. But what would seem to be a form of begging is often nothing but poorly concealed blackmail. "When players refuse to pay up, they can expect reprisals," says McDonnell. To offset the problem, he recommends that players fund welfare projects in the slums. "Unfortunately," he says, "these players don't exactly have much of a social conscience."

In a controversial interview, Mano Brown, an underground rap musician idolized by young people in the shantytowns on the outskirts of São Paulo, was harshly critical of the superstars' craving for status. "The first thing these guys do is get themselves a blonde, buy a Jeep Cherokee, and head for the clubs," says Brown. "In contrast, the kids who attend their matches usually don't even have enough money to eat. Someone should really kidnap three or four of these players and teach them a thing or two about humility."

Some former street urchins turned soccer superstars, however, have their own reasons for feeling safe when it comes to this new threat. They grew up on the street, and they're all too familiar with the world of drug dealers and petty criminals. They're convinced that criminals can't touch them, and they've even been known to look to the underworld for help, as evidenced by the kidnapping of Romario's father ten years ago, the first prominent case of its kind to strike home in the world of Brazilian soccer.

The elder Romario was kidnapped in a Rio slum, but was released under mysterious circumstances just a few days later. Allegedly, no ransom money was paid. After the incident, Romario bragged that he had asked the drug dealers in the slum where he grew up to assist in the investigation. But this sort of chumminess also has its price. A few weeks ago, the entire who's who listings of the Rio soccer world was on hand at the funeral of a prominent mafia boss.