VENGEANCE REAWAKENED

by Fredrick L. Stafford

  Molka shrugged. “I received full credit for each one.”

  “In spite of that; notwithstanding, and all the same, you have the department chief to thank for receiving those full credits. It seems he’s your number one fan.”

  “What happened to Azzur?”

  Raziela closed the folder and set it aside. “The agreement you made with Azzur about him obtaining the identity and current location of your little sister’s murderer from the Counsel and then giving it to you on completion of 10 tasks still stands.”

  “That was my next question,” Molka said.

  Raziela continued. “But I want you to know that if it had been me who recruited you, I would’ve given you that information without requiring you to join the program and complete 10 tasks first. I don’t believe something like that should be held over someone’s head. It’s cruel.”

  Molka nodded. “I agree. Azzur also cruelly alluded he already obtained that information from the Counsel and hinted he might give it to me early. But I know now that was just another motivation tool. And I don’t believe he ever did have it.”

  “He actually does have it.” Raziela took another mug sip. “And I have it too.”

  An adrenaline jolt stiffened Molka’s body, and she leaned forward. “Then you could give it to me early. Like today. Like right now.”

  “Yes, I could. But I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t.”

  “Both,” Raziela said. “I’ve been ordered to hold you to your previous agreement, whether I agree with it or not. And now we won’t have to discuss that further as well.”

  Molka sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Alright. Then I still have five tasks to finish. No problem. Let’s not waste any more time. What do you have for me? And by the way, I asked Azzur to give me the toughest one he had next. Because I have the urge to really kick a very worthy—”

  Raziela interrupted. “I know everything you told Azzur and everything Azzur told you.”

  “Ok. Then what do you have for me?”

  “We’re going to discuss that now.” Raziela removed a beige, feminine-style shoulder bag from her bottom desk drawer, closed her laptop, placed it inside the bag, and stood. “But not in here.” She spun her chair toward the window, spread her arms wide, and grinned. “It’s such a perfectly beautiful day outside.” She spun back to face Molka. “I want to go to the park and enjoy it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a quick take-out stop at a gourmet coffee shop—where Raziela ordered a large black, and a slice of baklava and Molka ordered a bottled water—Raziela’s driver dropped the pair outside Tel Aviv’s Yarkon Park.

  Although much smaller, Yarkon Park is to Tel Aviv what Central Park is to New York City. The greenspace covers approximately 3.5 square kilometers and is named after the Yarkon River, which flows through it. The park includes vast lawns, sports facilities, botanical gardens, an aviary, two outdoor concert sites, and lakes.

  A beautiful venue?

  Unquestionable.

  But appropriate for a briefing?

  Questionable.

  Molka had just learned—and learned how to handle—all Azzur’s various idiosyncrasies. But would Raziela present a whole new set to be adapted too?

  Ugh. Fun.

  Raziela, with her beige bag slung over her right shoulder and carrying her coffee and bagged snack, and Molka, carrying her bottled water and a little black purse to match her outfit, entered the park through an open street-side entrance. They walked down a curving, red brick walking-running path well represented by walkers and runners moving in both directions.

  The beautiful morning continued to mature toward a spectacular afternoon.

  After a few minutes, they left the path and traversed a wide grassy lawn. Ahead waited a picnic-type metal table shaded under eucalyptus trees beside the slow-flowing, mud-colored Yarkon River. A serene breeze teased the women’s hair, and the minty, piney eucalyptus scent invigorated the nose.

  The duo arrived at the table, and Raziela laid her laptop bag, coffee, and bagged snack on the tabletop, sat, admired the admirable surroundings, grinned, and sighed. “I think talking about less than pleasant subjects in a more than pleasant setting is the way to go. Don’t you agree?”

  Molka sat opposite and uncapped her water. “At this point, I’ll agree to anything that gets me on my next task faster.”

  Raziela grinned again. “Excellent answer.” She sipped her coffee, removed the baklava slice from the bag, and crunched into a big bite. “Mmmm…so good.” She offered the unbitten end to Molka. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you,” Molka said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Molka sipped her water. “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Azzur told me you always try to eat clean and healthy.” Raziela fabricated the cheery smile again. “Good for you. Depriving yourself of a little pleasure is well worth staying anorexic-like thin.”

  “I don’t look anorexic-like thin.” Molka glanced down at her body. “Do I?”

  Raziela’s face flipped back to business mode. “It’s story time.” She opened her bag, removed the laptop, opened it, and placed it so they could both view the screen. “The story of this task was set into motion 11 years ago right here in Tel Aviv with a criminal gang the media dubbed the Black Ghosts.” She swiped to the digital scan of an old newspaper headline:

  Black Ghosts Killed In Police Shoot Out.

  Below the headline, Molka viewed what appeared to be the ID photos of eight late-teenage white and Arabic males.

  Raziela addressed Molka. “Do you remember them?”

  “No,” Molka said. “But I was pretty preoccupied with other things 11 years ago. Why were they called the Black Ghosts?”

  “Because they seemed to appear out of nowhere and disappear into nowhere, and they always wore all black tactical clothing. They were actually a crew of a Russian mafia family based here at the time. They engaged in robberies, extortion, racketeering, and gangland murders but what really brought them to public notoriety was a series of kidnappings they carried out of several ultra-wealthy citizens from which they collected huge ransoms.”

  Molka made a slow nod. “Ok. I definitely remember my father complaining about all the Russian mafia guys we kindly let immigrate here years ago.”

  Raziela continued. “The Black Ghosts weren’t Russians themselves. They were local poor and troubled youths recruited from the inner cities and the territories. Their run ended when the police were tipped off to the location where they were holding their last kidnap victims: the Harlev family.”

  “The police attempted a rescue mission which resulted in all the gang members being killed along with all the Harlevs.” Raziela swiped to a happy family portrait. “Father Moshe, mother Sara, daughter Ayala, age 14, and son Daniyyel, age 10.”

  “Controversy still remains as to who actually fired the fatal shots because, tragically, both police and gang members’ rounds hit the Harlevs in a massive crossfire.” Raziela swiped to another newspaper photo showing covered bodies on ambulance stretchers.

  Molka shook her head. “That’s really sad.”

  Raziela continued. “The investigation of the Black Ghosts pointed to a man named Yakov Andreyev as being the leader and mastermind behind the crew. This was a surprise—because although Andreyev’s father was the godfather, so to speak, of a Russian mafia family here—Andreyev himself was never believed to be involved in his father’s criminal activities. This supposedly came at the insistence of his Brazilian-born mother, who doted on her only child. She encouraged him to go into social work, and Andreyev actually did run a non-profit for disadvantaged youths in Jerusalem for a time. There were even glowing news stories back then about the mafia leader’s son gone good.”

  Molka smirked. “But behind the scenes, with his Black Ghosts crew, he had gone bad.”

  “Very bad,�
� Raziela said. “Andreyev was indicted on a stack of charges for the Black Ghosts’ crimes, including the Harlevs’ deaths. But before he could be arrested, he disappeared with what is thought to be tens of millions in profits from his criminal enterprises.”

  “Disappeared where?” Molka said.

  “It was believed he went back to Russia. But before the Russian police could even start looking, they said he was killed in a car bomb placed by a rival crime family. Although, the body was unidentifiable, and a DNA match was never produced.”

  Molka smirked again. “I taste the tasteless vodka flavor of a good old-fashioned Russian coverup.”

  Raziela grinned. “Funny. But after Andreyev’s explosive demise, the police here considered the Black Ghosts case closed.”

  “Is that the end of the story?” Molka said.

  “It was thought to be until several months ago when one of our open-source foreign intelligence monitors watched a televised roundtable discussion the president of Brazil held to address urban poverty and took notice of one of the president’s advisors. A man named Gabriel Cardoza.”

  “This is Gabriel Cardoza.” Raziela swiped to the photo of a middle-aged man’s clean-shaven, thin—but not gaunt face—featuring a masculine square jaw and a strong brow over deep-set gray-brown eyes. His neat, short salt and pepper colored hair was combed forward to form a V-shaped peak on his broad forehead.

  If he was 10 years younger, Molka might have found him attractive.

  Raziela continued. “And Gabriel Cardoza—highly respected Rio de Janeiro businessman and special advisor to the Brazilian president on urban poverty—is, in fact, the former leader of the Black Ghosts, Yakov Andreyev.”

  “So he faked his own death in Russia,” Molka said. “And then relocated to Brazil.”

  “Yes. Which makes sense because he speaks fluent Portuguese, thanks to his Brazilian mother, and he visited the country several times as a youth. Why the police didn’t look into that possibility closer is probably because his alleged death happened so quickly after he fled.”

  “And we’re sure it’s him?” Molka said.

  “I took a team to Brazil last month and verified it.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “I’m getting the feeling my 90-day Brazilian Portuguese language course was not just to help rehab my brain. But since this is a criminal matter, our country should ask Brazil to detain him for extradition and prosecution. But that’s not what’s going to happen, obviously. Which is why I’m here.”

  Raziela grinned. “Aww…listen to baby sister figuring things out all by herself. She’s growing up right before our eyes.”

  Molka smirked. “Cute…older sister.”

  Raziela’s grin sank into a frown. “Please call me big sister, not older sister. You’ll understand when you get to my age.”

  “What’s the task?” Molka said.

  “It’s been decided at the highest level that Yakov Andreyev aka Gabriel Cardoza—which is how we’ll refer to him from now on since that’s his legal name in Brazil—is to be quietly and permanently punished for the Harlev family’s tragic deaths.”

  “You mean assassinated,” Molka said.

  Raziela shrugged. “I prefer to call it removal.”

  “And I’m sure this Cardoza deserves it. And it seems Azzur has told you a lot about me. But I guess he didn’t tell you I’m not an assassin, so I don’t remove anyone for the program.”

  “Actually, Azzur did tell me you’re not an assassin, and therefore, you don’t remove anyone for the program.” Raziela spun the laptop toward her, opened another file, and read from the screen. “Except, of course, for the five men you gunned down in Turkey. And the man in the aircraft near Bermuda who you stabbed in the eye before slashing open his throat. And the six mercenaries you took out in Canada, two of whom you incinerated with a helicopter gunship. And the 14 men you and Project Laili slaughtered together in the Virgin Islands, and speaking of which, there are rumors about two other bloodbaths you participated in down in the Caribbean, but we won’t count those for now. And then there were the two men in Australia you shot, including blowing off the head of a GBR operative which is still causing us major retaliatory concerns.” She looked back to Molka and fabricated another cheery smile. “But other than all those, you’re not an assassin, and you don’t remove anyone for the program.”

  Molka’s eyes shifted from Raziela to view the river in the distance. After a moment, she spoke with a lowered voice. “Every one of those incidents was in self-defense or to eliminate an immediate security threat.”

  “As you claimed and justified in your reports.”

  Molka’s eyes shot back to Raziela. “It’s not a claim or a justification. It’s the truth.”

  “It doesn’t matter either way.” Raziela closed the file and spun the laptop back to its previous position. “The removal action has been contracted out. You will be assisting in a support role only.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  Raziela continued. “Cardoza arrived in Brazil two years after his faked death—with his completely legal new identity already established—and reinvented himself as a wealthy entrepreneur who had come to live in his mother’s native country.” She swiped to the photo of an expansive, 10-story hotel set on a gorgeous beach and constructed in a classic style with a gleaming white stone facade. “Cardoza leveraged—some say muscled—his way into becoming part-owner of this beauty, the Palácio Hotel and Casino in Rio de Janeiro, and set out to live his best life in the Brazilian rich and famous fast lane. But somewhere along the way, he also took an interest in the people of Rio’s favelas.

  “What’s a favela?” Molka said.

  Raziela swiped to an overhead shot of thousands of rough constructed, mismatched buildings and houses packed together and perched on a steep hill. “That’s a favela.”

  “It looks like a huge slum,” Molka said.

  “A low-income informal settlement would be a nicer way of putting it.”

  Molka frowned. “Whatever you call it, it looks tragic.”

  “Yes, very tragic,” Raziela said. “The favelas are controlled by well-armed drug trafficking gangs with the dominant gang being the CV, the Comando Verde: translation, the Green Command who are in a constant state of open warfare with rival gangs and the police, catching the poor, honest favela residents in between.”

  “In a call back to his earlier life social work here, Cardoza founded and generously funds a charity assisting the people of Rio’s largest favela: the Esperança favela. He also generously funded the current president of Brazil’s campaign and continues to generously fund the president’s reelection. The grateful president—citing Cardoza’s good works for the underprivileged—named him the special presidential advisor, I mentioned, to address the plight of the favelas. And the two men have also become personally quite close.”

  Molka nodded. “And I have a feeling that close personal relationship Cardoza has with the Brazilian president is why our country hasn’t asked Brazil to detain and extradite him.”

  Raziela grinned. “Right again, baby sister. As I said earlier, the prime minister wants permanent justice for the Harlev family. But without it being traced back to our country.”

  “Why?”

  “The prime minister pointed out we now have extremely good relations with Brazil and also several lucrative trade deals with them that the prime minister helped negotiate with the Brazilian president. So our country asking for one of his close advisors, and close friends, to be arrested for heinous crimes would be very embarrassing to the Brazilian president and, therefore, very detrimental to the president’s reelection.”

  Molka smirked. “And I know the prime minister is very conscientious of avoiding embarrassing situations detrimental to reelection campaigns.”

  Raziela sipped her coffee and grinned. “You’re talking about your Paz Davidov task.”

  Molka continued. “And I would say Cardoza is using his faux charity work an
d political donations and presidential friendship to get himself untouchable in Brazil if his true identity is ever discovered. Or so he thinks.”

  “That would be a reasonable assumption,” Raziela said. “But he doesn’t think his true identity will ever be discovered.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s already fallen into my trap. And as far as his charity work, it’s actually legitimate and has done a lot of good for the poor. We’ll use that against him, though.”

  Molka sipped her water. “What’s my legend for this task, the Veterinarian Exchange Program again?”

  “Not this time,” Raziela said. “You’ll be assigned to the Cultural Department at our embassy in Brazil’s capital city, Brasilia.”

  “Explain what the Cultural Department at our embassy there does.”

  “It’s responsible for disseminating various cultural aspects of Israel such as the arts, shows, music, dance, etc. And it promotes exhibitions, personality visits, and events in general.”

  “Alright,” Molka said. “But I’m not a student of culture by any means.”

  “That won’t be an issue. The head of the department in the embassy, a sweet boy named Nathan, will get you up to speed enough to complete your task.”

  “Ok.”

  Raziela continued. “Only the ambassador there will know the Counsel sent you, and he has been instructed to extend all his resources to assist you. However, he does not know the objective of your task.”

  “And how will I assist the contractor to…quietly and permanently punish Cardoza?”

  “Cardoza’s charity also supports the street artists in the Esperança favela. He’s a very proud patron of their talents, in particular the many murals painted in the favela.” Raziela swiped to several photos of colorful, well-done murals depicting people and street scenes painted on walls. “Cardoza says they bring some beauty to an ugly situation.”

  “I agree,” Molka said.

  “In six days, our embassy in Brasilia will hold a reception to mark our Independence Day. The guest of honor will be the Brazilian president and several of his ministers and advisors, including Cardoza.”