The Panic Zone

4

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Gannon’s jet landed at Galeao airport.

As he walked through the terminal, the satellite phone the New York office had given him blinked with a message from George Wilson.

When you arrive go to the WPA Bureau, Rua de Riachuelo 250 in Centro. See Frank Archer.

Gannon collected his bag, got his passport stamped at customs and stepped into the equatorial humidity to find a taxi. The driver nodded after seeing the address Gannon showed him. As they drove down a southbound expressway, his satellite phone rang.

“Gannon.”

“It’s Melody in New York. Where are you?”

“In a taxi headed downtown.”

“Jack, last night-” she paused to clear her throat “-we got official confirmation. Gabriela and Marcelo were among those killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re all reeling. Wilson’s taking this very hard.”

“I understand.”

“We’ve suffered a huge loss. Bear that in mind when you’re dealing with everyone down there.”

“I will.”

“You didn’t know Gabriela and Marcelo. Your thinking won’t be clouded with grief and anger. I need you to help us find out who is behind this attack on the cafe and why. We must own this story, Jack, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.”

Adrenaline surged through Gannon as his taxi fought traffic and Rio de Janeiro rose before him. He exhaled slowly, marveling at the sprawl. Rio’s skyline stood in contrast to its favelas, which ascended in wave upon wave of ramshackle houses shoehorned into crowded slums, notorious for drug wars and gun battles. The shanty towns clung to the hills that ringed the city and overlooked the South Atlantic.

Was Wilson right? Could he handle this story?

The taxi’s open windows invited warm salty air. He saw azure patches of Guanabara Bay and the map he’d studied on the plane came to life as he recognized landmarks during the drive to Centro.

The bureau was in a tall glass building that reflected the clouds.

The guard in the lobby studied Gannon’s passport and business card, made a call and minutes later a man barely out of his teens emerged from the elevator to buzz him through and greet him.

“Welcome to Rio, Mr. Gannon, I am Luiz Piquet. Come with me, please.” He took Gannon’s bag and in the elevator he asked, “You had a good flight, sir?”

“Call me Jack. Yes, Luiz, it was fine.”

The elevator was slow. Gannon turned to Luiz.

“Are you a staff member with WPA?”

“I am the bureau news assistant. I recently received my degree in journalism from the Federal University. I will be helping you.”

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor. The brass plate across the hall said Alianca da Imprensa do Mundo-World Press Alliance. Luiz opened the glass door to a large room that was lit only by daylight from the floor to ceiling windows at one end.

It was typical newsroom decor, an open office with half a dozen desks, each with a monitor and a keyboard; each cluttered with phones, newspapers, file folders, documents, coffee cups.

Gannon noticed the far wall: two large TV screens were suspended from the ceiling and tuned to news networks. The sound was turned low. The wall had large news photos of children in slums, a SWAT team and shooting victims on bloodied streets, the pope waving to crowds at a stadium, girls in bikinis on the beach.

The only other person in the office was a man finishing a phone call.

“Frank Archer em WPA. Voce tem o numero!” he said before slamming down the phone and cursing in English.

With his back to Luiz and Gannon, he doubled over in his chair, set his elbows on his knees and put his bald head in his hands.

Not certain he was aware of their presence, Gannon said: “Frank Archer?”

The man swiveled in his chair.

Like Gannon, Archer was in his early thirties. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face was sullen.

“Jack Gannon. I just got in from New York.”

After an awkward silence the man stood; he was about six feet tall with a medium build, like Gannon.

“Frank Archer.” The two men shook hands. “Gannon, I’m going to be blunt. I don’t know why you’re here.”

“On the call yesterday, you said you needed help.”

“And we’ve got it. Our people from our bureaus in Caracas and Buenos Aires have flown in and are out on the story. We’ve got stringers on it, too. Everyone is fluent in Portuguese and Spanish, all experienced. Wilson said you’re from where? Rochester or something like that?”

“Buffalo.”

“Right.”

“Frank, I was sent down to help. Let me help.”

Archer flipped through some papers then rubbed his face.

“Gabriela and Marcelo were my friends.”

“I understand that.”

“I was with John at the hospital last night when they told him Gabriela had died. Marcelo died in the ambulance. I’ve been through a lot of shit but that was one of the worst moments of my life.”

Gannon nodded, letting Archer go on.

“John met Gabriela in Miami when she was a correspondent there for Reuters. I went to their wedding. Now he’s at the consulate with Gabriela’s father, who flew down from Miami. They’re trying to make arrangements to fly her back to Florida in a few days to bury her there. Marcelo’s family is preparing a funeral for him.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve lost friends in Afghanistan, in Africa, but this one hits home hard.”

“Frank, do the police have any leads on who’s behind the attack?”

“The strongest theory is that it’s narco terrorism. Globo, the TV network, is reporting that a Colombian drug lord’s daughter is one of the victims. There’s speculation she was the target in a vendetta with a Rio drug network.”

“What’s the thinking on Gabriela’s being at the cafe?”

“That’s a mystery, for now.”

“I understand she left a message for John that she was meeting a source.”

“She did.” Archer turned to his phone and pressed numbers. “John gave me his access code. It’s not much, listen. It’s in English.”

After a few tones, Gabriela Rosa’s last words to her husband played through the speaker, her voice filling the darkened bureau.

“Hey, it’s me. Finished that story about pickpockets on the metro, you’ve got it. Meanwhile, I got a call from an anonymous woman who claims to have a big story and documents for us. I set up a meeting at the Cafe Amaldo for this afternoon, with Marcelo to back me up. Hope Sao Paulo was fun. Did you say hi to Archer for me? Tell him I found a girl for him. Have a safe flight home, catch you later. I love you.”

Gannon fished his small digital recorder from his laptop bag and Archer replayed the message so he could record it.

“Do you think Gabriela’s source could have wanted to tip her to the narco attack and something went wrong with the timing?” Gannon asked.

“I don’t know. It seems unlikely since Gabriela picked the location.”

“Has the bureau here written anything recently that threatened any of the criminal networks?”

“Not really-the crime gangs usually target the local press.” Archer glanced at his watch. “You flew overnight, you must want to drop off your bags at your hotel, wash up. Get something to eat, right?”

“I could use a coffee and a hot shower.”

“We got you a room at the Nine Palms Hotel. It’s a good place and nearby.” Archer handed Gannon a large envelope. “The address is in here. Tell the taxi driver ‘hotel de nove palmas.’ You got some cash? You want Luiz to go with you?”

“I have cash and the company card.” Gannon peered in the envelope. “I should go myself.”

Archer’s phone rang. He answered, saying something quickly in Portuguese before cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Jack, I have to interview a source with Public Safety, then the cafe owner. Meet me back here in ninety minutes. I’ll have something for you.”

The Nine Palms was three kilometers away, off a busy thoroughfare, hidden atop a narrow cobbled street. The greenery was so lush Gannon almost missed seeing the hotel behind a set of wrought-iron gates.

It was a modernized massive nineteenth-century colonial mansion with shuttered windows, ceiling fans and dark mahogany floors. In his room, he ordered food then took a hot shower before it came-a plate of fruit, fresh baked bread, juice and coffee.

It recharged him.

As he ate, Gannon struggled to comprehend coverage of the Cafe Amaldo bombing in Rio’s newspapers but didn’t get far before someone knocked on his door. Through the peephole, he saw Luiz Piquet.

“Sorry to disturb you, Jack, but Mr. Archer sent me. He’s had to change his plan because he’s going to be tied up on calls while putting the latest story together with the other WPA correspondents. He said to tell you that senior editors Beland Stone and Melody Lyon are flying to Miami to attend Gabriela’s funeral. George Wilson is flying to Sao Bento do Norte, to assist Marcelo’s family with his service there.”

“So what does Frank want me to do?”

“He wants me to take you to the Cafe Amaldo, now.”

“The crime scene?”

“Yes, his instructions are for me to help you to talk to the lead investigators, to push them for more information. Then go directly to the bureau, to help update the story.”

“Let’s go.”