The Panic Zone (3 page)

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

G
annon's jet landed at Galeão 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 café 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
Aliança 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. Você tem o número!”
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 café?”

“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 Café Amaldo for this afternoon, with Marcelo to back me up. Hope São 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 café 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 Café 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 São 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 Café 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.”

A
n eerie quiet enveloped the air around the café.

Rio's Centro traffic had been diverted around the blast area or, what one newspaper called
“A Zona da Matança.”

“It means the Zone of the Slaughter,” Luiz translated for Gannon as they left their taxi and walked to the inner perimeter.

Knots of police vehicles, their emergency lights flashing, secured the street. Farther along, where the satellite trucks and news crews had parked, it was cordoned by barricades and tape, and several dozen people were rubbernecking the investigation.

Beyond the police lines, Gannon saw the office buildings and shops smashed by the blast. The awning of a boutique drooped above its shattered windows. Mangled chairs, tables and debris littered the street. The sign above the café had split, both pieces swaying now in the breeze, signifying the wound in the aftermath of the attack.

Stick to the basics, keep your notebook out of sight and observe.
Gannon knew how to work a scene.

As they drew near, he indicated to Luiz that they should go to the far end of the barricade away from the other news people.

From there, they saw the technicians in their white coveralls, yellow shoe covers and latex gloves picking through wreckage on the patio and sidewalk, collecting evidence. Others photographed the devastation, took measurements
and made notes. A police dog, its snout to the ground, sniffed for trace material, while a soft wind carried flakes of ash and papers down the avenue and alleys.

“Não aqui! Você deve mover-se!”
An unsmiling uniformed officer appeared before them.

“He wants us to move, to join the other reporters,” Luiz said.

“Tell him I'm a reporter with the World Press Alliance from New York and that two of my colleagues were killed here. Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde. Tell him I need to speak to the lead investigator, possibly, to share information. Stress
possibly.
”

As Luiz translated, Gannon held up his WPA identification. After listening and looking at it, the cop spoke into his radio.

A moment passed and a response crackled back.

Gannon saw another uniformed officer amid the scene talk into his radio, then to the two men in polo shirts and jeans beside him. One of them looked from his notebook to Gannon, then waved him through. Gannon had figured the plain-clothed men for detectives. The first one held out his latex-gloved hand before him and spoke in English.

“Give me your passport, please.”

The man reviewed it and wrote down Gannon's passport number while his partner took Gannon's picture with a small camera.

“Am I to understand that you have information on this crime, Mr. Jack Gannon?”

Gannon glimpsed the cop's ID on the chain around his neck and the words
Polícia
and
Roberto something Investigador.
His face was somber as if the weight of the world were pressing on him. A tiny scar meandered down his left cheek as his hooded brown eyes measured Gannon.

“I would like to discuss things first,” Gannon said.

“No discussion, if you have information relating to this crime, you must tell me.” The detective angled Gannon's
passport so his heavyset, pock-faced partner could read Gannon's passport number. Then he spoke in rapid Portuguese and his partner nodded and made a phone call. “If you interfere with our investigation we can revoke your visa and send you back to New York.”

“What?”

“Or we can arrest you.”

“Hold on a second.”

“Do you have information relating to this crime?”

Gannon heard the partner say “Jack Gannon” into his phone and grew uneasy. This was not like a crime scene in Buffalo. What had he stepped into? Sweat rolled down his back. His mind blurred with the reports he'd read on the plane of how elements of the Brazilian police were feared for alleged corruption, brutality and, according to human-rights groups, executing criminal suspects.

A New York detective might have offered a few words of condolence for the loss of Gannon's colleagues. Not this Roberto guy, who was tapping Gannon's passport in his palm.

“Your response?”

Gannon studied the man's ID. “You're Roberto Estralla?”

“Yes.”

“The lead detective?”

Estralla nodded.

“May I have my passport back?”

“You have failed to answer my question.”

After quick consideration, Gannon said, “Would you exchange information confidentially?”

Estralla stopped tapping Gannon's passport. “Are you attempting to bribe me? Because that is a crime.”

“No.”

“Tell me what information you have, before I exercise my authority.”

“I believe Gabriela and Marcelo were supposed to meet a source here.”

“And what is the name of this source?”

“I don't know.”

“What sort of business did they have with this source?”

“I don't know.”

Estralla spoke to his partner in Portuguese then continued, “Where did you learn of this information about the meeting?”

“We heard it at WPA headquarters in New York before I was dispatched to Rio de Janeiro.”

Estralla studied Gannon's face for an icy moment.

“In which hotel are you staying?”

“Nine Palms.”

Estralla nodded to Gannon's cell phone.

“Your telephone number?”

Gannon recited it and the moment Estralla finished noting it, Estralla's cell phone rang. He returned Gannon's passport. “You may go,” he said, hailing a uniformed officer before taking his call.

“Wait,” Gannon said, “I have some questions.” Estralla waved Gannon away to take his call but Gannon persisted. “Do you have any suspects or leads? What about a motive, or the type of bomb?”

Estralla and his partner walked away. A uniformed officer took Gannon's arm and escorted him to the police line where he was suddenly awash in bright lights from the news cameras.

“Jack Gannon,” an attractive woman wearing flawless makeup, a tailored suit and a sense of urgency beckoned him. She gripped a microphone. A man with a TV camera on his shoulder stood behind her. “You are with the WPA?” the woman asked.

The police officer nodded and nearly two dozen journalists and photographers crowded around Gannon.

“I am Yasmin Carval from Globo.” The rings on her fingers glinted as she extended her mike to Gannon. “Did the police tell you who is responsible?”

“No, I'm sure you know more than me.”

“Two of your WPA press friends were killed. Can you say something to us about that?”

The lights from the five or six TV cameras around him were intense. Gannon glimpsed Luiz at the fringe of the pack and caught a hint of Yasmin Carval's strong perfume as she stepped closer.

“Mr. Gannon, what has been the impact?” Yasmin Carval asked.

“The loss has taken a toll on our entire agency.”

“Do you think Gabriela and Marcelo were targets?”

“Targets?”

“Was Gabriela working on a story about drug gangs?”

“I don't know.”

“There is speculation that narco gangs are behind the bombing.”

“I don't know anything. I can't say more, I have to go.”

Gannon shouldered his way through the pack and when he reached Luiz, they started walking toward the bureau. It was a few blocks away.

“What the hell was that?” Gannon said. “How did they know my name and everything else?”

“When they spotted you inside the line, they thought you were getting preferential treatment and complained to the other officers, who told them you were with WPA.”

“Preferential treatment?” Gannon shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, relieved no one was following them. “I didn't get any stinking preferential treatment from that detective.”

“Roberto Estralla.”

“That's right.”

“He's one of Rio's most respected investigators but he detests reporters. Those at the barricade were impressed he allowed you to cross the police line and talk to him.”

Different town, different rules,
Gannon thought, taking a parting glance back at the scene. There was something there.

Something he was overlooking.