The Panic Zone

14

The offices of Worldwide Rio Advogados were in a skyscraper in Centro’s east side, near Guanabara Bay.

As the elevator rose to the twenty-eighth floor, Gannon weighed the pros and cons of a cold visit.

Sure, he risked being turned away. But the fact that the Jornal do Brasil had already reported the firm’s connection to the bombing might help-press interest would be expected.

According to its Web site, Worldwide Rio Advogados was a global operation that practiced in international trade, labor, family law, international adoptions, banking, patents, corporate law and the list went on. The firm functioned in several languages, including English. Gannon had decided to go alone, realizing that his chances of obtaining new information were slim.

Still, he had an edge.

His agency and the law firm shared a common bond in the tragedy-they had both lost staff to the bombing.

But it was the firm that had secrets linked to it.

Gannon had to learn those secrets and he had to do it now because time was working against him. At any moment, someone could beat him to it. Or Estralla could force him back to New York.

Gannon considered the bloodied pages he’d gathered from the street.

Copies were now folded in his jacket pocket as he stepped from the elevator to a polished stone hallway and passed through the brass-plated doors of Worldwide Rio Advogados to the reception desk. The woman seated there finished a call.

“May I help you,” she asked in English, then Portuguese.

“Jack Gannon, from the World Press Alliance.” He placed his card on the counter. “I don’t have an appointment but I’d like to speak to Maria Santo’s supervisor. It will only take a moment.”

“World Press Alliance?” She read his card, looked around her desk sadly as if searching for a response, then said, “Yes, please sit down. I will call someone.”

She spoke softly into the phone as he went to the waiting area and sat in a thick-cushioned leather chair. To one side, a large window offered views of the bay and planes landing at Santos Dumont Airport. Down the hall, he saw a room with files.

“This way, Mr. Gannon, please.” The receptionist led him to a door bearing the nameplate, Drake Stinson, then opened it for him.

“Jack Gannon?” A tall, silver-haired, well-built man in his late fifties stood. He wore a tailored suit and a smile as he crushed Gannon’s hand in his. “Drake Stinson, I’m here by way of Washington, D.C. Always nice to see a fellow countryman-too bad about the circumstances. Have a seat. Are you hearing anything new on the investigation?”

“Only that the victims’ names have been released. You know we lost two of our bureau people.”

“Yes, terrible.” Stinson handed Gannon his card, and Gannon glimpsed Stinson’s title: special international counsel. “What were they doing there? Anything to do with the press reports that this was an execution in a drug war with the Colombians? Did your agency have an inside scoop?”

Gannon cautioned himself.

He was not there to reveal information, but to obtain it.

“No, we think Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde just happened to be at the Cafe Amaldo for lunch. It’s a short walk from our bureau.”

“I see,” Stinson said, “and I think that is how we lost Maria. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Which is why I’m here.” Gannon opened his notebook and pen.

A hint of unease flickered across Stinson’s eyes.

“We’re profiling the victims,” Gannon said, “and I was hoping you could tell me about Maria Santo.”

“The firm won’t comment other than to say we are saddened by this horrible event and our thoughts go to the families of the victims.”

“Can’t you elaborate? Both of our organizations lost people here. Can you tell me the kind of person she was?”

Stinson shook his head.

“Why not? You lost an employee-why not offer a few compassionate words to let people know just what kind of innocent person was murdered here?”

“I can’t.” Stinson paused. “Would you consider going off the record?”

“What’s the information?”

“I have your word you will not attribute what I’m going to tell you to this firm in any way?”

“Go ahead.”

“This is terrible to say but Maria was going to be let go.”

“Why?”

“We think she was stealing files. One of the other girls saw her leave with case files in her bag and that’s a firing offence.”

“Which files? Which case?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Any idea why she was stealing files?”

“Who knows? Maybe she had thoughts of selling them to narco terrorists, corporate competitors of our clients, other law firms that were opposing us on cases?”

“Would she want to go to the press about anything?”

Stinson took a moment to assess the question.

“You’re talking about the coincidence of Maria and your people being there at the same time?”

“Just trying to get a sense of the files.”

Stinson shook his head.

“No, our files are legal mumbo jumbo, nothing newsworthy.”

“I thought you didn’t know which case she was taking files from?”

“I don’t, but I know the type of cases we handle and it’s really all contractual stuff.”

“Contractual stuff-that is of interest to narco terrorists? You said she could’ve wanted to sell the files to narco terrorists.”

“Look, the files contain personal information on some wealthy clients. Hostage-taking for ransom is a business down here. Bottom line-we really don’t know why she would be taking files,” Stinson said. “She had a rough up-bringing in one of the gang-controlled favelas. She’d been with us less than a year. Came to us through a temporary placement service, the Rio Sol Employment Agency. I hope this helps you understand our position.” Stinson stood. “And on behalf of the firm, our condolences for the loss your news organization suffered.”

Gannon finished making notes and stood.

“Thank you. Yes, this helps.”

“We’re clear on quoting me then?” Stinson went to the door.

“Right.” Gannon tucked his notebook in his jacket. “I’m curious, how did you come from Washington to be-” Gannon glanced at Stinson’s card “-special international counsel for this firm?”

“Me?” Stinson smiled. “I’m from Connecticut-Hartford. I went to Yale, practiced in D.C. a lifetime ago. Dry government stuff, then I retired. Then my wife passed away. I couldn’t stand living alone. Submitted my CV to a global headhunting firm, got back into the game with a job here where the weather suits me. Coming from Buffalo, you’d know about winter weather.”

Gannon stopped.

Stinson smiled.

“I checked you out online when we saw you on the Rio news channels. You used to write for the Buffalo Sentinel before you joined WPA. You were nominated for a Pulitzer. Interesting what you can find out about people on the Internet, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

Afterward, as he descended in the elevator, Gannon tapped his notebook to his leg trying to decide how much of what Stinson had told him was a twisted version of the truth and how much was a flat-out lie.

In his taxi back to the bureau, he unfolded the blood-stained pages from the files Maria Santo had shown to Gabriela.

There’s a story here, he told himself, looking off to the favelas blanketing the hillsides around Rio de Janeiro.