The car’s driver commenced evasive, swerving maneuvers, but the shooter compensated and put both front tires down.
The car reacted with a violent double spin and stopped in a smokey cloud.
The shooter ceased fire and pulled the door shut.
Three men scrambled from the wounded car: two from the front one from the back.
The dark-clothed man from the passenger side—fit, white, in his 40s with short dark hair and a close-cropped dark beard—ran a few meters down the road toward the van’s disappearing taillights. He stopped, turned around, ran back to the wounded, useless vehicle, kicked the driver’s side fender five times, and yelled out in Russian: “DAMN IT!”
PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 6
FRIDAY
APRIL 16TH
CHAPTER 14
Rio de Janeiro Botanical Garden
1:11 PM
Raziela and Molka relaxed, seated on opposite sides of a wooden table under tall, full trees next to a lily pad covered pond. Within their view, two elegant, long-legged white waterfowl strolled by without care, and a delightful marmoset scampered from tree to tree.
Their outfits reflected warm weather: casual-cute with Raziela wearing a sky-blue V-neck T-shirt over dark blue shorts and brown sandals, and Molka sporting a pink polo shirt, white shorts, white sneakers, a high-ponytail, and her black-framed glasses.
While Raziela typed on her slim, silver laptop, Molka took in the calm and lovely natural setting surrounding them. “Do you always try to conduct your briefings in such beautiful parks?”
Raziela grinned while she continued typing. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I get you like to discuss less than pleasant subjects in a more than pleasant setting, but it seems a bit inconvenient.”
“It’s worth it, though,” Raziela said. “Beautiful parks are also light on security cams. And heavy on thick canopies, which are a great deterrent to surveillance drones.”
Molka gave a humble bow. “Once again, points taken, project manager.”
Raziela finished typing, looked up and addressed her. “The contractor's name is Henrique, at least for the next few days. As I told you, he’s a former member—well, I guess once in, never really out—of the gang that’s the CV’s biggest rival: Irmãos de Irmãos, translation: Brothers of Brothers. More commonly referred to as the IDI.”
“Henrique’s been in and out of prison since he was 16. He’s in his mid-30s now. A few years back, he was recruited by a Counsel operative here—who is no longer with us thanks to the Traitors—and used on a few jobs and one removal. The details of the removal he did are classified even from me. His very thin file compiled by his former handler says he’s knowledgeable, capable, and motivated. But with questionable loyalty at times.”
Molka’s eyebrows rose. “Questionable loyalty? I’m not an experienced handler, and I don’t have a psychology degree like you, but isn’t that somewhat of a major red flag for an asset?”
“Unquestionably. However, he’s who they assigned me, and it’s my job to make it work with him. And to the reassuring side, his dream is to get out of this country and start a new life with a new identity and a good sum of money. And then have his young son join him. We’re the only ones who will ever offer him a chance to make that dream come true. So that should earn his loyalty.”
“Ok,” Molka said. “I want to go over my exit plan after the removal. You want me to continue to act panicked and tell Cardoza’s driver-bodyguard I’m going to call a rideshare to get me out of there. And then I’ll call you posing as a rideshare to come pick me up.”
“Correct,” Raziela said. “I’ll be waiting in a rental car just outside the Forbidden Zone. I’ll come pick you up, and we’ll go straight to the airport, fly back to the embassy, and hopefully get you out of Brazil before the police ask to interview you.”
“I understand all that,” Molka said. “But you want me out of there before the police even arrive. What if they beat you there?”
“Then you fake a serious panic attack, so you can’t answer questions. Have them call an ambulance for you and take you to the hospital. Once you’re there, call me again, and I’ll come get you.”
“Alright.” Molka pointed at an approaching short, thin Hispanic male wearing a white tank top, baggy denim shorts, and white high-top sneakers.” Is that the contractor?”
“Yes, that’s him,” Raziela said.
A closer view revealed Henrique to have a dark goatee and a lit cigarette fronting his face under a straight brimmed black ball cap. He arrived and sat next to Molka facing Raziela. On even closer inspection, he carried many tattoos on his chest and arms, including IDI in black letters on his right arm with the name Javier below it.
“Good afternoon, Henrique,” Raziela said. “Did you look over the photos and final instructions I sent you last night?”
Henrique flipped his cigarette butt into the grass. “Yeah, and the only problem I have is with the statement you want me to make for Cardoza’s driver-bodyguard and any witnesses to hear afterward.”
“What’s wrong with the post-action declaration?”
“It doesn’t sound legit to me,” Henrique said.
“Well, use your own words. Make it your own.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, but me saying I killed Cardoza because he backs CV and I’m IDI doesn’t seem believable to me.”
“Why not?” Raziela said.
“Because he’s not with CV. Yeah, he might be using that wall in CV territory for positive publicity for his friend, the president, but he’s actually done a lot of good and helped a lot of people in my part of the favela too. Including people in my family.”
Raziela glared at him. “He’s also done a lot of bad and hurt a lot of people in our family. And that’s what my bosses want said, so just go with it. Ok?”
Henrique shrugged. “I get paid the same either way.”
Raziela continued. “Now, let’s coordinate your plan with Molka.” She brought the photos she took of the Wall of Hopefuls area up on her laptop and turned the screen so all three could see it.
Henrique swiped through the photos and stopped at a long view shot. “I expect Cardoza’s driver-bodyguard to park at the bottom of the hill here.” He pointed to the curbside at the hill’s bottom. “There’s no other place to park, which keeps him this close with a clear view of his boss while he walks up to the wall.”
Molka addressed Henrique. “You don’t think the driver-bodyguard will get out of the car and follow Cardoza to the wall with us?”
“No. Whenever Cardoza drives around the favela, my people tell me that his driver-bodyguard always waits in the car if Cardoza gets out. Cardoza doesn’t want to come off as threatening in any way. He wants them to think he’s one of the people.”
“Alright,” Molka said.
Henrique removed a cigarette pack and lighter from his front pocket and lit up. “When you guys arrive, I’ll be waiting across the street behind this pole.” He pointed to a wire-tangled telephone pole outside a little store. “And when you and Cardoza get out of the car and walk up the hill to the wall, I’ll approach the driver-bodyguard from behind to the right, which is his blind spot. I’ll pull him out of the car, disarm him, and walk him up the hill to Cardoza and you.”
“Then I’ll put him and you face down and side-by-side so you can be in a position to do your thing. Then I’ll take Cardoza a few steps away, so you won’t get splashed with any mess. Then I’ll do the thing, make my statement, and jump the wall. My motorcycle will be waiting in an alley on a street a block over.” He looked at Molka. “You have to keep that man, that driver-body guard, occupied for at least 45 seconds so he won’t be able to see which direction I went after I go over the wall. I’ve timed it.”
“Don’t worry about Molka,” Raziela said. “She can handle herself physically against any opponent. That’s why she was picked for this job.”
“Ok.” Henrique blew smoke.
“And then,” Raziela said, “you go
straight to the safehouse, then straight to the stolen car, then straight to the airport, and then straight to your new identity and a well-off new life, correct?”
“Yeah, and Henrique Matos will never be heard from again.”
Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “He’d better not be. Or he’ll hear from me again, and he won’t like what I have to say at all.”
CHAPTER 15
Unnamed Gymnasium
Esperança Favela
3:00 PM
Cardoza’s promptness reputation remained unblemished when he entered the gymnasium right on time for his appointment, styling a tailored, slim-fit, silver-colored suit over a white silk shirt, blood-red silk tie, and black leather dress shoes.
The high-ceilinged space with white over green two-tone walls featured a bare concrete floor and no air-conditioning. Wooden bleachers occupied the far wall and held about two dozen teenaged Hispanic and black CV males lounging and laughing and joking and drinking beer from bottles and smoking cigarettes and marijuana.
The gymnasium’s floor sported a standard size wrestling ring with red ropes and a well-scuffed white surface.
Two muscular, sweat glistening, Hispanic males outfitted in wrestling trunks and wrestling boots practiced holds and falls.
And on the ring’s apron outside the ropes giving the competitors instructions stood Abreu clad in a red wrestling singlet and red wrestling boots.
Cardoza approached the ring, and Abreu jumped to the floor to meet him.
Cardoza removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat beads from his brow. “You know, Alejandro, I just built a new multi-million reais sports complex for this favela. Why not hold your classes there in climate-controlled comfort?”
“You don’t get hard training easy.”
Cardoza nodded. “Well said. Mind if I steal that?”
“You steal everything else of value you see. Why stop now?”
Cardoza grinned. “What does your man have for me?”
Abreu waved toward the bleachers, and a tall, thin black male in his 20s stood and approached them. He wore an authentic Team Brazil football jersey over black jeans and bright white sneakers. A thick gold chain-weighted down his neck and an oversized gold watch weighted down his left wrist.
Abreu said to Cardoza. “You remember my second in command, Felipe?”
“Yes,” Cardoza said.
“Then I’ll let you two talk business.” Abreu jumped back onto the ring apron and resumed his instructions.
Cardoza addressed Felipe. “What do you have for me?”
Felipe pointed to the wall opposite the bleachers where four late teenage boys—three Hispanic and one black—stood watching the wrestlers.
Cardoza viewed the foursome. “A couple of them look a little young.”
“Two are 18 and two are 19, Mr. Cardoza,” Felipe said.
“One hundred percent verified?”
“Yes, Mr. Cardoza.”
“And you also one hundred percent verified all my other requirements?”
“Yes, Mr. Cardoza,” Felipe said. “Our man in the police department ran them all through the national database. And I conducted two sets of interviews with their families.”
“Superb. And my compliments on your thoroughness.” Cardoza reached into his jacket’s breast pocket, removed a thick white envelope, and handed it to Felipe.
Felipe peered inside at the cash, and a smile overtook his face. “Thank you, Mr. Cardoza. “I’ll have more candidates ready for you next week.”
“How many?”
“Maybe…three or four more. But I could bring you dozens if you relaxed the no arrests requirement.”
Cardoza viewed the CV teens in the bleachers. “My heart breaks for boys that young who have already become known to law enforcement because I know their lives are on an unstoppable path to ruin.” His eyes focused on Felipe. “However, to relax my standards would do a disservice to myself and to the boys who’ve earned the right to serve me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Cardoza.”
“Bring them to me.”
“Yes, Mr. Cardoza.”
Felipe trotted over to the boys, spoke to them a moment, and led them at the trot back to Cardoza, where they lined up.
Cardoza addressed them. “As you have been told, you are being hired for very exclusive and well-paying jobs. The boarding school you are being sent to for your training will be demanding and intense. Some of you might not make it through the training process. Do you understand this?”
The boys nodded.
Cardoza continued. “If you do complete your training, though, you will be welcomed into my family as brothers and receive rewards you cannot even begin to imagine.”
The boy’s eyes viewed Cardoza with inspired awe.
“Now,” Cardoza said, “if any of you wish not to begin this great adventure, walk away now.”
The boys all remained.
“Good,” Cardoza said. “Be out in front of this building at 7 AM tomorrow. My man Leonardo will pick you up. Bring nothing with you but the clothes on your back. From tomorrow onward, everything you will ever need again will be provided for you by your new boss. I’m, Mr. Cardoza: your new boss.”
PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 6
SATURDAY
APRIL 17TH
CHAPTER 16
Food Court
Upscale Shopping Mall
Brasilia, Brazil
12:44 PM
Seated at a table in the busy lunchtime food court, Raziela devoured a plate heaped with a hearty beef and pork stew and sides of black beans over rice and cooked greens.
Molka—across from Raziela—opted for a simple salad. Not because she had a problem with the amazing-smelling, traditional-type Brazilian cuisine Raziela prodded her to try, but because the dress they’d just purchased for Molka to wear to the embassy’s Independence Day reception the next evening didn’t leave a centimeter for residual bloating.
Both women dressed casual in tee shirts, shorts, sandals, and tight ponytails.
Raziela swallowed another bite and pointed her plastic pork across the food court at Nathan waiting in line at his preferred food vendor. “So, what do you think of Nathan?”
“I like him,” Molka said. “I like his sense of style too. The dress he picked out for me is much cuter than your choice.”
“But the one I picked out goes better with the accessory I have for you.”
“What’s that?” Molka took a bottled water sip.
“I’ll show you when we get back to our basement. So you have a good feeling about Nathan? As in, we can trust him?”
“I think so. He has a comforting gentleness about him.”
“He’s not that gentle,” Raziela said, rolling her eyes. “He served in the 38th Brigade.”
Molka’s eyebrows rose. “That’s an elite paratroopers’ unit.”
“I know. He was combat decorated too.”
Molka took a salad bite. “Impressive.”
A few moments later, Nathan arrived and sat at the table with his food on a tray. He wore a pressed, crimson-colored, slim-fit dress shirt tucked into pressed white slacks, a white tie, white dress shoes, and accessorized with white-framed glasses and white earrings.
Raziela wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and grinned at Nathan. “Look at you. What’s a nice, sweet Israeli boy like you doing all the way across the world in the heart of South America?”
“Living a nice quiet life,” Nathan said. “I have a nice quiet group of friends here I spend time with, and we don’t like to watch the news or talk politics, we just like to indulge our hobbies and interests, and it’s been very quiet and nice. Until you showed up last month and started bothering me.”
“But why did you come here in the first place?” Raziela said.
Nathan curled his lip to form a sarcastic grin. “What, that didn’t show up on your comprehensive background check?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Nathan sighed. “If you must know, there was someone back home I wanted to get as far away from as possible. And this was as far away as possible.”
“Actually, that was in my check. I just wanted to see if you would admit it. You like to give pro tips, here’s one for you: admit nothing, deny nothing. That keeps you well covered.”
Nathan smirked. “Words to lie by.”
Raziela chuckled and looked at Molka. “He’s snarky-funny, like you.” Her face flipped back to business mode. “Ok, let’s get back to work. Nathan, I want you to type up a one-page summary about street artist murals for Molka. Keep it very basic. Just list a few famous ones Molka can mention when she’s with Cardoza. She can improvise from there. You can get that to me as soon as you get back to the office so Molka can study it tonight, right?”
“I suppose,” Nathan said.
Raziela continued. “Now, please give Molka your impressions of Cardoza from your meeting.”
Nathan addressed Molka. “Ok, so, I know he’s only half Russian, but he has that whole…East Slavic hairy thing going on. He looks like he has a black guinea pig peeking from the top of his shirt. It’s like, hey, try manscaping your chest a little, Ivan.”
Raziela shook her head. “I’m not talking about looks. I’m talking about something Molka can use to build a repertoire with him. I want him to feel at ease with her.”
“Not sure if I can do that,” Nathan said. “I can say he’s very intelligent. And a very smooth talker and always a gentleman. But he creeped me out for some reason.”
“In what way?” Raziela said.
“It’s hard to explain. Just a vibe I got. He has some really bad karma, I think. And there’s a bad boy streak inside him too.”
“How so?” Molka said.
“After we visited the Wall of Hopefuls and we were leaving the favela—driving along one of those narrow little streets—some big, shirtless bald guy on a third-floor balcony—filled with younger guys drinking beer and smoking weed—yells down at our car. He yelled for Cardoza by name to stop. So Cardoza has his driver stop, and Cardoza rolls down his window. And this big bald guy asks him to come up and have a drink with him and his boys. Then he taunts him with, ‘unless you’re too good to drink with us’ or something like that. And then Cardoza tells me the big bald guy is an associate of his and tells the driver to wait while he goes up and quickly says hello. And asks me to wait in the car too.”
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