Hurry up, Raziela.
DING.
The other elevator chimed its arrival.
The doors opened.
Gutierrez stepped out.
Molka swayed into him, smiling. “Hello! And excuse me, handsome. I need your help.”
Gutierrez smiled at Molka. “Hello, miss.”
Molka swayed again and sloshed the big drink for effect. “The spa, the spa, the hotel spa. Where is it? Do you know?”
“Of course,” Gutierrez said. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
Molka leaned her head forward. “What did you say? Sorry, my Portuguese is not very good.”
Raziela’s face peered from the office door and froze.
Involuntarily, Molka’s head moved slightly to the left to view Raziela and then moved back to Gutierrez.
Gutierrez caught Molka’s head movement and started to glance over his shoulder toward Raziela.
Molka poked his chest and yelled: “Hey! Look at this!”
Gutierrez’s face turned back toward Molka.
Molka tossed the entire pitcher contents into his eyes.
Gutierrez stumbled back, blinded by rum and pomegranate juice.
Raziela sprinted down the hall with the beach bag over her shoulder, joined Molka in the elevator, and pushed the lobby and close doors buttons.
The doors closed.
The elevator descended.
“Everything go ok?” Molka said.
“All set.”
Molka held up the empty pitcher. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Just take it with us.” Raziela grinned. “It is a souvenir pitcher, after all. A souvenir of our first op together.” She reached into the beach bag and removed her phone from her purse, and time-checked it. “Right on schedule to meet our favela tour guide. What did that man have to say?”
“Nothing much,” Molka said. “I feel a little bad throwing the drink in his face, though. He was very polite.”
“And so were you, for a change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Raziela put her phone back in her purse. “What I mean is, the pre-Raziela, Project Molka would have unleashed one of her infamous roundhouse kicks to his head when I stepped into the hall. But with Project Molka now under Raziela’s guidance, he just got a nice, refreshing blast of Pomegranate Mojito in the face. Which, trust me, is far from the worst thing to have blasted in your face.”
Molka grinned. “Are you saying my roundhouse kicks are considered infamous by the Counsel?”
Raziela frowned. “Among other things you do.”
A moment after the elevator doors closed, Gutierrez cleared the alcohol sting from his eyes with his shirt front and pulled the two-way radio from his back pocket. “Major, this is Gutierrez.”
Radio voice: “Go Gutierrez.”
“I followed the two women up to the eighth floor. I think one of them may have been inside the Czar’s office. The other one threw a drink in my face. She’s a foreigner who was pretending to be drunk. They went back down in the elevator. I’ll try to catch up to them in the lobby.”
Radio voice: “Negative. Valdez and Margot have arrived and are watching their vehicle. Get back to the Czar’s Palace.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cardoza’s Private Lakeside Estate
Lake Tranquility
140 Kilometers Northeast of Rio de Janeiro
2:00 PM
Cardoza parked his beautiful new Jaguar F-Type convertible finished in Sunset Gold on the massive red brick circular driveway.
Three years prior—desiring a quiet respite from Rio’s crowded craziness—he purchased the 20-acre European Country-Style estate featuring an eight-bedroom, 10-bathroom, 8000 square feet main house with an adjoining 4000 square feet guest house on 300 meters of lakefront. And right after he did, all the neighbors who owned the estates adjoining his did not complain about the week-long noise when he had the original concrete driveway torn out.
Nor did they complain about all the truck traffic and noise when workmen installed the thousands of red brick pavers to build the new driveway.
They also did not complain about all the construction noise and traffic when he ordered a two-story, two-slip boathouse to be constructed on his lakefront. Or the artificial waterfall among the trees to the main house’s left. Or the months-long project raising the estate’s perimeter wall.
But when he contracted three large, white steel buildings—one a barracks-like dormitory, one a gymnasium and indoor shooting range, and one a classroom building—erected on the estate’s grassy flats behind the main house, his neighbors consulted a high-profile law firm. This law firm sent Cardoza a terse letter about various code violations the buildings infracted and that if he did not have them removed, they would file an official complaint with the state authorities.
Cardoza forwarded the letter to his much higher-profile attorneys in New York City. A few days later, Cardoza possessed a certified letter from the relevant state authorities stating his buildings did not violate any state codes, which he forwarded to his neighbor’s high-profile law firm. They issued no reply. And for several weeks after that, state inspectors descended on the estates of the complaining neighbors and found multiple code violations and wrote multiple citations.
That ended all further complaints, and Gabriel Cardoza did as he pleased at Lake Tranquility.
After a shower and a change into an open collar, untucked white dress shirt over gray dress pants and gray leather dress shoes, Cardoza exited his house and headed for the classroom building. He entered a small foyer area containing several doors. He moved to the door farthest right and entered a classroom.
Behind a lectern at the front, stood a thickset, gray-haired, late 60s white male wearing a white short-sleeved dress shirt over tan slacks.
And seated before him—in two rows of four school desks each—were eight, late teenaged, thin to wiry built, Hispanic and black males. Each sported an identical buzzed haircut and identical black tactical tee shirts, black tactical pants, and black tactical boots.
When the boys saw Cardoza, they stood at attention beside their desks.
Cardoza addressed the man behind the lectern, “Dimitri, are your graduates ready to receive their orders?”
Dimitri gave a humble nod. “Yes, Mr. Cardoza.”
Cardoza faced the class and smiled. “Boys, I want to congratulate you on finishing your training this week and welcome you all into our thieves in law family. You are now the third Ghost Crew to become active and will be immediately sent into action.”
Cardoza’s smiling face faded into an authoritative glare. “Your first assignment will be to abduct each of the terrified Rio businessmen whose cars were bombed this morning by the first two Ghost Crews. Dimitri will give you a list of them and instruct you on how to handle their abductions. Once captured, you will express your sympathies for the bombing of their car and how very close they came to being killed.”
“You will then show them photos—taken secretly by the first two Ghost Crews—of their wives and children and other loved ones in places they thought were safe. Then you will tell them it would be horrible if something bad should happen to them and that the police cannot protect them, and to even tell the police would surely bring about a horrible fate for these loved ones.”
“You will then tell them the good news. The good news that you can save their loved ones from any and all dangers by bringing them under your roof of protection. And this roof of protection will only cost them a very reasonable monthly fee of 20 percent of their profits paid to you. Dimitri will also instruct you on how these payments are to be collected. Do you understand your first assignment?”
The boys answered in unison: “Yes, boss!”
Cardoza nodded to Dimitri.
Dimitri addressed the students. “Now, state the thief in law rules for the boss.”
The boys spoke in unison:
“I swear, I will not have a family of my own; this does not, however, prohibit me from having as many casual lovers as I want.”
“I swear, I will never under any circumstances work; I will live only on means gleaned from thievery.”
“I swear, I will help other thieves—both by moral and material support, utilizing the commune of thieves.”
“I swear, I will keep secret information about the whereabouts of accomplices.”
“I swear, I will have a good command of the thieves jargon.”
“I swear, I will teach young beginners.”
“I swear, I will have, if possible, informants.”
“I swear, I will not lose reasoning ability when using alcohol. All other intoxicants are forbidden to me.”
“I swear, I will have nothing to do with the authorities.”
“I swear, I will make good on promises given to other thieves.”
“And most importantly, I swear, on pain of death, my unconditional loyalty to the boss and will obey all his orders without question.”
Cardoza smiled again. “Superb.” He pointed to a boy in the second row. “Come up here.”
“Yes, boss.” The boy left his desk and stood before Cardoza.
“Do you really believe in the rules you just swore to?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Prove it.” Cardoza reached under his shirt, pulled a Glock 17 from his waistband, racked the weapon, and held it out to the boy. “Take it.”
The boy took the weapon into his right hand.
“Now, sacrifice yourself for me.”
The boy’s face drained pallid. “You wish me to sacrifice myself for you, boss?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, boss.”
He put the barrel under his chin.
His gun hand trembled
He closed his eyes.
“Obey your, boss,” Cardoza said.
“Yes, boss.”
A tear squeezed from his left eye.
He steadied his trembling right hand with his left.
“I’m waiting,” Cardoza said.
“Yes, boss.”
His thin right finger tightened on the trigger.
CLICK.
The boy flinched at the dry firing.
Cardoza took the weapon from the boy’s still quivering hand. “What’s your name, boy?”
The boy opened tear-filled eyes. “Andre, boss.”
“Andre, I’m appointing you captain of this crew. Wear the red skull face of the captain with pride and lead your crew well.”
CHAPTER 10
Just Outside the Esperança Favela
Rio de Janeiro
2:57 PM
“There’s almost a beauty to all that chaos,” Molka said as she and Raziela gazed up at the favela’s sprawling mass of mismatched, close-packed, multi-story structures—many painted in bright pastel colors—climbing up the side of a steep hill.
Raziela gave a thoughtful nod. “It’s hard to believe something like that exists half a kilometer from those gorgeous beaches with all their luxury hotels and apartments.”
The pair—minus their hats and sunglasses—stood on the sidewalk of a busy two-way street leading into the favela.
They parked their rental car in a parallel parking space in the medium of Vieira Souto Avenue across from Ipanema Beach about three blocks away and walked to the favela entrance.
Their staring wonderment was interrupted when two motorcycles stopped beside them. Each rider wore a helmet and a yellow tee shirt over denim shorts and Nike sneakers. Their tee shirts carried a logo resembling the favela’s buildings and black lettering stating: Olavo’s Favela Tours. Strapped on the seat behind each rider was a spare helmet.
“Our guide has arrived,” Raziela said.
The lead rider removed his helmet to reveal an early 20s black male with short hair and gleaming dark eyes.
He unleashed a beaming smile at Raziela and Molka. “Good afternoon, ladies. You are Raziela and friend, I take it?”
“That’s right,” Raziela said. “I’m Raziela, and this is my friend Molka.”
“Welcome to Esperança.”
Raziela and Molka nodded their greetings.
Olavo motioned to the other rider, still seated on the bike with a helmet on. “And this is my cousin, Miguel.”
Raziela and Molka nodded their greetings.
Olavo continued. “He runs a transportation service which will take us up to the top and later bring you back here. There is no extra charge for this, of course. It’s included in the tour price you’ve already paid.”
“Great,” Raziela said.
“Just a word before we depart,” Olavo said. “To ease your minds. There have been many stories and rumors about how dangerous this favela is. But as someone who’s spent their whole life there, I can promise that you are much more likely to be mugged and or assaulted in a well-known tourist area in Rio and or on one of Rio’s beautiful beaches than you are in my beloved Esperança.”
Raziela grinned, appreciative. “Thank you for that reassurance.”
Olavo’s eyes gleamed anew. “Wonderful. Then let’s begin.” He removed the spare helmet from his motorcycle and handed it to Raziela. Miguel handed his spare helmet to Molka.
The women put on the helmets and got on the bikes behind their respective riders. A moment later, they sped up the favela’s main street and headed for the top.
Two men observing from a parked black car across the street from the favela entrance witnessed Raziela and Molka’s arrival on foot and their departure on a motorcycle. The passenger spoke into a two-way radio: “Major, this is Margot.”
Radio voice: “Go, Margot.”
“Sir, the two women have just entered the Esperança favela riding on the back of motorcycles driven by two younger black males.”
Radio voice: “Are the younger black males CV?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. They looked too sober and polite. I think they’re favela tour guides. Their tee shirts said so, at least. Would you like us to follow them?”
Radio voice: “Negative. Go back to where they parked their car and wait for their return.”
“Yes, sir.”
The motorcycle climb up the curving, two-lane street—negotiated with speed and precision by Olavo and his cousin—lasted about 15-minutes as it ran through a cavernous-like opening between a double row of three and four-story structures.
They passed a few cars along the way, but motorcycle and scooter seemed to be the predominant transportation mode.
The road ended, and the motorcycles pulled over against a guardrail fronting a steep jungle-covered hill. Below the hill, in the distance, lay photo quality views of Copacabana and Ipanema Beaches.
Olavo dismounted, removed his helmet, and bid Raziela and Molka do the same.
They complied.
“We’ll walk from here,” Olavo said. “My cousin and his man will have the bikes waiting for us at the end of the tour.”
“Perfect,” Raziela said. “Now you say we’re at the top of the favela?”
“Yes, and as you can see, the view is spectacular. Feel free to take photos.”
Raziela and Molka played along and took several photos of the beach view, some selfies and asked Olavo to take one of them together with the beaches in the background.
The next stop was a little shop across the street packed with various knickknacks and favela mementos.
“This is my uncle’s shop,” Olavo said. “And many of the hand-crafted items you see were made by my cousins. I’ll give you a few moments to look around.” He excused himself into a door in the shop’s rear.
Molka whispered to Raziela in Hebrew. “I think he brought us here because we’re supposed to buy something to help his family out.”
Raziela answered Molka in whispered Hebrew. “I don’t think his family actually owns this shop. I think he gets a percentage of the sales from the tourists he brings in.”
“S
mart businessman,” Molka said.
“Let’s buy some stuff anyway.” Raziela opened her purse, pulled out a stack of currency, peeled off some, and passed them to Molka. “That’s 300 Brazilian reais.”
“Want me to spend that much in here?”
“A good portion of it. I want Olavo in a good mood for the detour request I’m going to make.”
The real tour began, and Raziela and Molka—each with a plastic bag of souvenirs—followed Olavo through an incomprehensible route over and under and up and down the favela’s back streets and paths as he gave a well-practiced history of the favela and various interesting facts.
Molka zoned out a bit on his commentary and focused on the people they passed. Predominantly black and Hispanic, they dressed for the most part in casual shirts, shorts, and sandals. Many had phones held to their ears or were tapping away on them. The demographics ran from tiny infants carried by young mothers to elderly couples walking with canes. And except for several middle-aged men carrying birds in cages—which apparently was a big thing there—she could have been walking down one of the little neighborhood streets back in her hometown of Haifa.
Far from a den of depression, the favela played as a vibrant community of smiling people going about their daily lives with perseverance and pride in the face of poverty.
It inspired Molka in a way.
After an hour, they trailed Olavo up steep stairs to an apartment door. He stopped at the stair’s top and turned back to them. “This is the mid-point of the tour, and this is my home. Here you are welcome to use the bathroom, and refreshments have been prepared for you.”
He opened the door, and they entered a small living room with well-used but clean furniture.
Across the room, a pretty, young black woman stood in the small kitchen in a red tank top and shorts. Two cute toddler boys played with toys on the floor.
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