“Yes,” Molka said.
“I know it’s a primitive solution, but blame the Traitors for making our lives so much more difficult.”
Molka frowned. “I do every day.”
“I have to go.” Raziela exited with Molka following, moved toward the stairs, then paused, looked back at Molka with a grimace. “I feel really bad about leaving you here alone to see this task through.”
“No worries,” Molka said. “I’ll handle it.”
Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “You misunderstood me. I don’t feel bad for you that I’m leaving you here alone to see this task through. I feel bad for me.”
Raziela trotted up the stairs and left Molka alone.
Molka reached behind her head with the right hand, used her hand to form a ponytail with her hair, and tugged on it.
PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 6
MONDAY
APRIL 19TH
CHAPTER 21
Palácio Hotel and Casino
Copacabana Beach
Rio de Janeiro
6:55 PM
Molka’s father used to say: “Before going to bed each night, forgive everyone whose angered you and sleep with a clean heart.”
Molka’s commander, when she served with the Unit, used to say: “Never go to bed angry at someone, stay up and plot your revenge instead.”
After absorbing Raziela’s parting shot, Molka stuffed her purse with Counsel cash, left the embassy in a rideshare, went back to their apartment, got into bed, and decided to combine her most admired men’s sayings.
She would forgive Raziela and sleep with a clean heart right after staying up angry and plotting her revenge.
And her revenge would be completing the task without Raziela peering over her shoulder and-or yelling into an earpiece.
Molka woke refreshed and motivated that morning and went shopping. She needed two outfits. One two wear to the dinner with Cardoza that evening and one to wear the next morning at the Wall of Hopefuls.
She chose a simple black cocktail dress and black flats for dinner. The color was chosen to respect the Harlev family during Cardoza’s last evening alive and not make it seem a festive occasion.
She picked a cute black track suit with white stripes on the sleeves and pants for the removal action. Not for the cuteness or comfort, rather for the flexibility and protection it would offer when she lay on concrete, pinning down Cardoza’s driver-bodyguard while Henrique made his escape.
She liked it so much that she bought another identical one in white with silver stripes to wear on the long flight back home.
At 6:55 PM, when the elevator doors opened on the 8th floor, Molka—wearing her new black cocktail dress with her hair down and her black-framed glasses on and carrying an overnight bag—glanced at the carpet for a recent Pomegranate Mojito stain.
No stain remained, and she lifted her eyes toward Cardoza’s office door to see a Hispanic teenage male porter outfitted in a smart, white formal hotel uniform standing outside the office door.
Molka approached him.
The porter spoke in Portuguese accented English. “Miss Molka?”
“Yes,” Molka said.
“Mr. Cardoza sends his regrets. He is in an important meeting that ran longer than expected. He has asked that I escort you to the roof.”
“The roof?”
“Yes, there is a private terrace up there where your table awaits.” He removed a keycard from his pocket and handed it to Molka. “This is for your suite, The Beach View Presidential, on the 10th floor. I will take your bag there for you while you dine.”
Molka handed him her bag. “Thank you.”
“Please follow me.”
Molka followed the porter back to the elevators, up to the 10th floor, and to an unmarked door at the hallway’s end. He used a keycard to open the door onto metal stairs which Molka followed him up one flight to another metal door.
He opened that door, and they stepped out onto the hotel’s flat roof and crossed it to a large terrace with a plexiglass safety railing and featuring a dining table with a white tablecloth set for two and a spectacular twilight view of Copacabana Beach.
The porter gestured toward the table and excused himself.
Waiting beside the table was a cute, petite, Hispanic teenaged female dressed in a smart, white formal hotel uniform holding a large leather-bound menu and a water pitcher.
When Molka arrived at the table, the girl spoke in Portuguese accented English. “Good evening. My name is Eloa, and I will be your server this evening. I was specially chosen because I was told you were a foreign guest who preferred English. Which I speak well.”
Molka smiled. “Yes, you do, Eloa.”
“Please be seated.”
Molka sat.
Eloa filled Molka’s water glass. “May I start you with something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
She handed Molka the menu. “I will wait here as you make your selection. Please take your time.”
Molka laid the menu on the table. “I guess I should wait for Mr. Cardoza to join me before that.”
“Regrettably, Mr. Cardoza has informed me his meeting is still running late, and he asked that you go ahead and order without him.”
“Ok,” Molka said. “No one has to ask me twice to eat when I’m starving.” She picked up and opened the menu. It was in Portuguese, and reading Portuguese was not in Molka’s purview yet. She smiled at the server. “Why don’t you give me a recommendation?”
Over 90-minutes later, Molka finished Eloa’s suggestion of an amazing top sirloin cap, known as picanha in Brazil, served with traditional sides of a black bean stew eaten with rice and sautéed collard greens and bacon, also delicious.
She declined dessert, and right after Eloa left with her plates, Cardoza stepped out onto the roof and headed toward the terrace styling a tailored, slim-fit white suit over a white silk shirt, a blood-red silk tie, and black leather dress shoes.
Cardoza arrived at the table and sat. “A million pardons, Molka. I was trapped by two associates in town from Brasilia and São Paulo who wanted to debate me endlessly as if I was stealing their businesses from beneath their feet.”
Molka smiled. “And did you?”
Cardoza smiled. “Of course! I always get what I want. I have lived a charmed life. You look absolutely gorgeous, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Molka said.
Cardoza viewed Molka’s cleared place setting. “It appears I missed dinner. But I have ordered wine for us. Red to go with your steak. So, have you given any thought as to what type of mural style you want for your embassy?”
Ok. Here goes.
Remember, just hit the highlights Nathan gave you.
Molka affected a thoughtful face. “When it comes to street artist murals, I’m a huge fan of Keith Haring. Especially his early guerrilla work in New York City. Who isn’t, though? And I love the elusive Blu, particularly his work in Spain. But I’m thinking more along the lines of 3-D realism as done by Brazil’s very own superstar artist Eduardo Kobra who, as you know, started on the streets. Do you agree a similar artist would be a good choice?”
Cardoza offered a humble smile. “I must confess when it comes to art, I am not formally educated like you. I just know what I like. However, I am sure we will find an artist who fits your vision.”
Molka smiled. “Yes, I’m sure we will.”
He’s more art illiterate than me.
Whew. I dodged a bullet there.
Oh. Maybe a bad choice of words.
Eloa returned to the roof carrying a bottle of red wine and two wine glasses. She put a glass before Cardoza and Molka and poured.
“Thank you, Eloa,” Cardoza said. “I will not be dining. So that will be all.”
“Yes, Mr. Cardoza.” Eloa smiled. “I just have to say, Mr. Cardoza, of all your lady friends I have served at this special table, none have been as polite, beautiful, and classy as Miss Molka.”
Cardoza smiled. “
I agree, Eloa.”
Eloa smiled and departed.
Cardoza sipped his wine. “She is a sweet—if not outspoken—girl. Our guests love her. I am so happy to have her on the staff.”
“She’s very sweet,” Molka took her lone wine sip for the night. “I noticed you have a lot of younger people working here.”
“Yes, most of them are part of a special program run by my favela assistance foundation. They are all favela residents from underprivileged backgrounds, naturally, who are given employment opportunities here. They must be in school, maintain their grades, and stay out of trouble. And then for every real they earn; I match it with 25 reais put into a special account for their university education or a technical school of their choice. In the six years since I put this program into motion, we have no less than 21 university and technical school graduates, and I expect to triple that number in the next several years.”
“That’s wonderful,” Molka said. “You must be incredibly proud.”
Cardoza shrugged. “I am more proud of the kids.” He spread his hands toward Copacabana Beach. “Have you been enjoying this terrace view? The best in the city, I would say.”
“It’s stunning. But when I turn my head the other way, I can’t help but see the tragedy of the Esperança favela so close.” Molka turned her head to the favela’s lights clinging to the steep hill in the near distance. “It’s such a stark contradiction.”
Cardoza sipped his wine again. “This whole country is a contradiction in many ways, based on how it was constructed from its colonial days. But as the product of a contradiction myself, I understand and accept these things as they are.”
“You’re the product of a contradiction in what way?” Molka said.
“My late father was a very successful businessman in his own right. And he built his business up from the streets using his guts and guile and raw determination until he achieved great wealth for our family. Wealth he wished for me to build upon and take to new heights after he retired.”
“My mother, on the other hand—the most beautiful and sweetest of women who left this world far too soon—believed acquired wealth should be used mainly to help the less fortunate, and most of it should be given away so that you left this world with nothing, just as you came into it.”
“My father thought this to be foolish and expected me to enter the family business. While my mother wished me to finish university and dedicate my life to charitable works. And as an idealistic youth—and admitted momma’s boy—I followed my mother’s wishes for a time.”
Cardoza used his left forefinger and thumb to twist the thick gold ring on his right middle finger. “But in the end, my father’s uncompromising will pulled me into the family business. My mother did not say so, but I knew it broke her heart.” Cardoza’s face saddened, and his eyes glistened. “Right up until the day I lost her.”
His genuine reaction touched Molka. “But I’m sure she would be very happy with all your charity work. Like the jobs program for disadvantaged kids.”
“I could only hope so.” Cardoza checked his watch. “And on that note, I will say good night. It is getting late, and I am sure you are ready to turn in for the night. I will have my man Leonardo pick you up from the hotel lobby just before 10 AM and take us to the Wall of Hopefuls if that is acceptable?”
Molka’s eyebrows rose. “Um…ok. Sounds good.”
Cardoza stood. “If you will wait here a moment, I will have a porter escort you to your suite.” He noticed Molka’s bewildered face. “You seem surprised.”
“Pleasantly surprised,” Molka grinned. “I was invited to your special table, after all.”
“You expected me to ask you to sleep with me?”
Molka smiled and spread her arms. “Considering these amazing circumstances, most men and gentlemen would at least attempt it.”
Cardoza favored Molka with his disarming smile. “I will tell you what type of man or gentleman I am. I believe there are women, and there are ladies. With a woman, you invite them to your special table and afterward make your case as to why they should sleep with you and hope for the best. Whereas with a lady, you invite them to your special table, and afterward you do not make your case as to why they should sleep with you and hope for the best. Until tomorrow. Good night, Molka.”
“Good night,” Molka said.
Ha. The last of the real gentleman?
As Molka watched Cardoza leave the roof, two other foolish questions crossed her mind.
Foolish questions that followed the thought about a person who did something really bad once a long time ago. And maybe they didn’t even do it themselves, but they were still responsible for it. And maybe after that really bad thing, they spent years doing good things. Really good things for people in desperate need. And they had the means to go on doing really good things for people in desperate need. So, would all the really good things this person had done since the really bad thing in some way make up for it? And if someone decided it didn’t and planned to kill this person, would it be wrong to warn them to leave the country and go somewhere else and keep doing really good things for people in desperate need?
No.
Don’t be foolish.
Remember the Harlevs.
You’re here for them.
Cardoza still deserves his removal.
But that didn’t mean she would enjoy being there when it happened.
CHAPTER 22
Little Moscow Bar
Rio de Janeiro
11:29 PM
Dimitri—the head instructor at Cardoza’s Lake Tranquility thief in law school—entered the Russian-themed bar crowded with Russian expatriates and a few locals. He dressed in a blue polo shirt and black slacks.
He paused and viewed the tables along the back wall. In a corner table, alone, waited a fit, white male in his 40s with deep blue eyes, short dark hair, and a close-cropped dark beard. He wore a beige tee shirt that exposed hirsute arms. A half-filled vodka bottle and two shot glasses sat on the tabletop.
Dimitri moved to the table, sat across from the man, and spoke in Russian. “I can’t stay long.”
The man answered in Russian. “This will not take long if you give me the current location of the Kozlov brothers.” He pushed an empty shot glass and the vodka bottle toward Dimitri.
Dimitri examined the bottle’s label. “You drink Swedish?”
The man nodded. “They make the best. The location of the Kozlov brothers?”
Dimitri poured and drank a shot. “I already told you where, when, and how they were coming into this country. But you missed them.”
“You told us where, when, and how, but we missed them because you failed to tell us they would have a paramilitary escort which nearly killed us.”
Dimitri poured and drank another shot. “I still believe I fulfilled my obligation.”
The man leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Your granddaughter Svetlana is a lovely child. And the surgery you wish to pay for to correct her unfortunate disfigurement would give her a much happier life in the superficial and judgmental world in which we live. But to collect your reward, the brothers must be in our possession. Where are they?”
Dimitri’s eyes fell to the table, and his thick fingers squeezed the shot glass. “It’s difficult for me to say.”
The man frowned. “I know your hesitation doesn’t come from a sudden sympathy for the Kozlovs. You hate them as much as—if not more—than we do. So, I believe your hesitation comes from concern that it may expose your current employer, Señor Gabriel Cardoza, formally the late Yakov Andreyev.”
Dimitri’s eyes darted to the man with surprise.
The man continued. “Yes, we know about that too. And we assume he brought the Kozlovs into this country to assist him in whatever criminal enterprises he’s now engaged in. Correct?”
Dimitri remained silent.
The man continued. “And now you’ve just verified that. But don’t let this trouble you. Our organization has no i
nterest in Gabriel Cardoza’s activities in Brazil.”
Dimitri spoke. “And what of his activities as Yakov Andreyev?”
The man leaned back and poured another shot. “As far as we are concerned, Yakov Andreyev is still officially dead.”
“Even if I tell you,” Dimitri said, “you don’t have the resources to capture them. They’re too well protected.”
“They’re being guarded by the paramilitaries?”
“Yes, but not just by the few you encountered. They’re in a secure compound protected by dozens. All dedicated fanatics. You will not be able to get close to them, let alone get them out of the country.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” The man drank his shot. “Just tell me everything about this…secure compound and the dozens of fanatics guarding it.”
PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 6
TUESDAY
APRIL 20TH
CHAPTER 23
Lobby
Palácio Hotel and Casino
9:56 AM
Molka sat with her purse and phone on an audacious, overstuffed red velvet sofa which didn’t look a bit out of place with the hotel’s vintage décor. As planned, she came outfitted in her new black tracksuit and white cross trainers. Her hair was high-ponytailed, and her contacts were in.
She woke at 6 AM in the luxurious—way too large for just her—Beach View Presidential Suite more convinced than ever that Cardoza deserved his removal that day. But she didn’t feel any better about being there.
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