To her somewhat surprise, the embassy’s airline business account allowed her to reserve a seat on all three afternoon and evening scheduled flights back to Brasilia. She wanted to catch the soonest one out and hoped to leave Brazil that very night if Raziela could arrange it.
After leaving her room at 9:15 AM and placing her overnight bag in her rental car in the hotel parking garage, she messaged Henrique a follow-up message from the previous night when she had informed him she would leave the hotel with Cardoza for the Wall of Hopefuls at 10 AM.
Henrique responded back: Already in position.
Keep your head and do your job.
Fair enough.
Molka kept watch on the hotel’s main entrance and viewed a hulking, dark-haired, dark bearded Hispanic male—wearing a dark-blue sports coat over a black polo shirt and black dress slacks—walk through the doors and approach her.
That must be Cardoza’s driver-bodyguard.
He’s not going to be easy to keep pinned down for long.
Molka stood and moved toward him.
The man stopped before her, an obvious weapon bulge under his left arm.
He spoke in Portuguese accented English. “Good morning, Molka. I am Mr. Cardoza’s driver, Leonardo. He is waiting for us outside.”
Molka followed Leonardo across the lobby and out the main entrance. Parked in the covered arrival portico was Cardoza’s gorgeous black BMW 7 Series Sedan with Cardoza seated in the rear. Leonardo opened the back passenger door for Molka, and she slid in next to Cardoza. Leonardo got into the driver's seat and waited.
Cardoza chose as his last outfit a cream-colored, long-sleeved, open collar silk dress shirt over chocolate-colored wool dress pants and brown leather dress shoes.
An anxious, uneasy vision of the expensive shirt soon to be blood-spattered ran through Molka’s mind.
Stop thinking like that!
Remember, stay relaxed.
Keep him relaxed.
Do your job.
Cardoza smiled at Molka. “Good morning, Molka.”
Molka smiled back. “Good morning.”
“Room service informed me you only ordered a plain yogurt for breakfast. I hope you did not find our chef’s cooking unpalatable last night?”
“Oh, not at all,” Molka said. “It was great. Too great, to be honest. I overdid it. Which is why I ate super-light this morning.”
“You look to be in magnificent, if not a bit too thin, shape and hardly need to worry about an occasional heavy meal.”
“Thank you. But I’ve been binging a bit since I’ve been here. I actually had two slices of crème brûlée cheesecake on my plate at the reception the other night.”
Cardoza chuckled. “Well, are you ready to go?”
Molka smiled again. “Yes. I’m ready to go.”
But are you?
CHAPTER 24
The Wall of Hopefuls
Esperança Favela
10:24 AM
Henrique didn’t bother concealing himself behind the wire tangled power pole outside the little store across the street from the Wall of Hopefuls hill as he said he would at the briefing.
Instead, he leaned against the front of the pole wearing a straight-brimmed white ball cap, a white tee shirt, denim shorts and white sneakers. He smoked a cigarette and cast a stoic stare at the arriving black BMW.
Concerning.
The other concern Molka observed was the number of people in the street. When she and Raziela visited a few days prior in the late afternoon, the area was almost abandoned. But on her return trip, about two dozen citizens moved through the area, including several young children with their mothers.
Maybe the people felt safe to come out and do their business in the morning before the gang members woke from the previous night’s marijuana and alcohol haze. Understandable.
But the children’s presence really bothered Molka. They should not have to go through life carrying the images of what was about to happen.
Leonardo parked alongside the curb at the hill’s bottom right where Henrique said he would. And also, just as Henrique said he would, Leonardo remained in the car when Molka and Cardoza exited and climbed the stairs toward the wall.
When they reached the wall, unease filtered through Molka again.
You need to calm yourself.
Remember what Raziela said.
Cardoza can sense anxiety around him.
Just play your role.
It will be over in minutes.
Molka viewed the wall and feigned astonishment. “This is amazing work. Some of the best street art I’ve seen. And I’ve seen some of the best.”
Cardoza smiled. “I knew you would appreciate it. You cannot go wrong with whomever you choose but allow me to make a recommendation from down here at the end.”
Cardoza moved to his left down the wall.
Molka followed him.
Her peripheral vision caught Henrique leaving his pole position and looping behind the BMW.
Ok. Here we go.
Cardoza led Molka to a colorful mural depicting school children lying on a classroom floor while gang members and police officers exchanged gunfire over their heads.
“This artist is a relative newcomer,” Cardoza said, “But I think his use of color is extraordinary, and his subject matter is—”
Henrique yelled in Portuguese from behind them:
“Don’t move, or he dies!”
Cardoza and Molka turned to see Leonardo moving up the steps with his hands up and Henrique walking behind him, holding a Glock in his right hand, pointed at Leonardo’s head.
Henrique glared at Cardoza. “Put your hands up!”
Cardoza and Molka complied.
Cardoza kept his eyes on Henrique and spoke in Portuguese with composure. “Don’t be frightened, Molka. He won’t harm you, will you?”
“Shut up!” Henrique pushed Leonardo. “Get down on your stomach, fat man! Kiss the cement! You too, girl!”
Leonardo complied.
Molka did, too, putting herself next to Leonardo between him and Cardoza. She put her hands together in front of her head and laid her head on her hands with her face turned toward Cardoza. Her view also included several adults and children across the street watching the drama unfold.
Cardoza addressed Henrique with composure again. “Don’t rob them. Just rob me. Take my wallet. It’s in my front pocket. There are over 1000 reais in it.”
“Shut up!” Henrique used the Glock to gesture down the wall. “Move over there!”
Cardoza didn’t move. “I’m Gabriel Cardoza.”
“I know who you are! Move!”
“Who’s your captain? I know many of them here.”
Henrique’s left hand pulled up his right tee shirt sleeve to expose his IDI tattoo. “I don’t run with the pussy CV.”
Cardoza’s eyes focused on the Javier name tattoo below it. “Javier, is that your father’s name or your son?”
“I never had a fucking father.”
“So, it’s your son.”
Henrique gestured with his pistol again. “Move!”
Molka turned her head away and closed her eyes.
She’d watched enough men being executed.
People, please don’t let those kids watch this.
Cardoza raised his voice: “You’re IDI, and you have a son named Javier.”
Henrique: “Shut up and move over there!”
Cardoza: “You know me and what I’ve done for Esperança. And now you know—when all those people watching across the street identify my killer to the CV as an IDI soldier with a son named Javier—what could happen to your family and little Javier, don’t you?”
Henrique: “I’ll take my chances. I—I’m IDI, and you back the CV pussies, and all CV pussies must die, so you must die!”
He’s supposed to yell that declaration afterward!
Cardoza: “You now realize you’ve made a decision which can never be undone, don’t you?”
; Henrique’s voice softened: “I know that. Move over there.”
Cardoza raised his voice again: “This man’s family and his son Javier are not to be harmed in any way for his actions on this day.” His voice lowered. “Your family and Javier are safe now.”
Henrique: “Ok. This—this needs to end now.”
YES! What are you waiting for?
Cardoza: “Very well. Move over there so my friends won’t get any of the mess. I’ll come with you.”
Cardoza’s taking this like a man.
Henrique: “I’m sorry I brought this down on you, Mr. Cardoza. I didn’t think it through as much as I should have.”
Cardoza: “No offense taken, son.”
Wow. Honor among killers.
Henrique: “Thank you, Mr. Cardoza.”
Cardoza: “Are you ready?”
Henrique: “Yes, Mr. Cardoza.”
Cardoza: “Go ahead.”
A single shot sounded.
A body thudded to the cement.
Molka, eyes still closed, yelled:
“OH NO!”
“OH NO!”
“OH NO!”
She rolled onto Leonardo in contrived terror.
He tried to roll away.
She leg-locked one of his legs to pin him in place.
Leonardo yelled:
“Let me up!”
Molka didn’t let him up and yelled again:
“OH NO!”
“OH NO!”
“OH NO!”
Ok. Henrique should be over the wall and gone by now.
Molka turned her head and opened her eyes to verify.
Henrique hadn’t made it over the wall.
He lay four meters away sprawled on his back.
His pistol lay beside his right hand.
His mouth and eyes were frozen open.
Blood oozed from his temple.
Dead from a self-inflicted gunshot.
Cardoza, uninjured, moved toward Molka. “It’s ok, Molka. You’re safe now.” He reached his hand down to Molka. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet.
Leonardo lumbered to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cardoza. Are you ok?”
“Never better. My charmed life saved me again.”
“Who was he?” Leonardo said.
Cardoza glanced back at Henrique’s body. “He was a very confused and angry young man. But in the end, he did the right thing.”
CHAPTER 25
Counsel Basement Office
Israeli Embassy
Brasilia, Brazil
4:29 PM
“He was a very confused and angry young man. But in the end, he did the right thing?” Raziela said from her end of the video conference call after Molka finished her report.
“Yes,” Molka said from her seat at the secure video conference terminal in the comms room. “Those were Cardoza’s exact words.”
“Tell me again everything you said and did after Henrique killed himself.”
“As I said, I said very little. I played it shocked and distressed. Which wasn’t hard. Then Cardoza said there was no reason for me to stay and be traumatized further. He said his driver-bodyguard would take me back to the hotel to get my car while he stayed and waited for the police. He said he would tell the police this. Then I went to the airport, caught the next nonstop flight, came straight here, and contacted you.”
Raziela frowned. “If Henrique lost his nerve, why didn’t he just run away?”
“I think you misunderstood me. He didn’t lose his nerve, as much as Cardoza kept his. He made Henrique believe the CV would hunt down and kill his family and son. And that the only way for Henrique to save them was to kill himself. Cardoza even made it sound like it was honorable. And Henrique was humbled and appreciative for it. Cardoza is very clever and manipulative. He’s more dangerous than I first thought.”
Raziela listened to Molka’s restating of events, but—like the first time—her focus was more on sending signals to Henrique’s phone to delete all the messages she and Molka sent him—even though they were encrypted—and then to fry the electronics. “This is a bad situation. Very, very bad. I need to contact Tel Aviv for further instructions.” Her eyes refocused on the camera. “While I do that, I have a critical errand for you to run.”
“What?” Molka said.
“The police will identify Henrique by his fingerprints and start asking around about him so they can find and notify his family. Eventually, they’ll locate the safehouse in the favela I rented for him where he’s lived for the last month. I need you to get back to Rio on one of the evening flights, check in to the airport hotel again, rent a car, drive to the apartment, and do a clean out.”
“Alright.” Molka picked up a pen and pad on the computer desk. “Address?”
“One second.”
Raziela stood. Before she moved off-screen, Molka caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a black leather motorcycle gang vest over her light-blue tee shirt. Really?
A few seconds later, Raziela returned—no vest over her tee shirt—with her open laptop and sat back down. “There are no reliable addresses in that favela, so I’m going to give you the GPS coordinates.”
Raziela read, and Molka copied down the coordinates.
Raziela continued. “It’s a gray-ish colored, two-story structure, and his apartment is on the first floor. Enter through the back door. An alley beside the building leads there. You’ll have to break in, but don’t worry, no one else lives in the building. And it’s outside of the CV’s Forbidden Zone, so you won’t have any problem getting in or out.”
“Good to know,” Molka said. “What am I cleaning?”
“Inside, you’ll find Henrique’s old ID and his new ID and passport. Also, a new phone. And behind a false wall in the bedroom closet is a backpack containing the cash part of his fee. Make sure you glove up before you enter. Then collect all those items, bring them to the basement on the first flight back in the morning, and contact me again immediately. Got it?”
Molka finished jotting instructions on the pad. “Understood.”
Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “Azzur was right. A task is never easy with Project Molka.”
“What happened to Azzur?” Molka said.
Raziela ended the call, and the screen went blue.
CHAPTER 26
Alejandro “The Bull” Abreu’s Home
Forbidden Zone
Esperança Favela
5:33 PM
Leonardo parked the black BMW curbside on a narrow street right behind an abandoned-looking, older white Toyota coupe and a junky-looking, older silver Honda sedan.
Both sides of the street contained two, and three-story buildings crowded together in typical favela style. Most presented as drab and disused except for the large, three-story building the cars fronted.
Painted a garish red, Abreu’s home and headquarters stood out like a fresh wound among old scars.
The ground floor contained a car stereo business: Closed. The second floor served as an apartment with a street-facing metal railed balcony where several CV soldiers sat drinking beer and smoking their dual preferences.
The third-floor apartment also had a street-facing metal railed balcony where two more CV soldiers lounged, making no effort to conceal the AK-47s casually resting on their laps.
Cardoza exited the BMW and walked to the driver's window. Leonardo lowered the window. Cardoza spoke to him, and Leonardo handed him a phone. Cardoza pocketed the phone, looked up at the sentries on the third-floor balcony, and waved.
One removed a two-way radio from his pocket and spoke into it. A moment later, a CV soldier opened the closed car stereo store’s door and allowed Cardoza to enter.
Inside the open space lounged about 20 CV soldiers. Some on couches some on chairs, and several sitting at a table playing Truco. A movie played silent on a large screen TV while funk carioca from a sound system played loud.
Marijuana smoke overpowered the nostrils.
&nbs
p; Cardoza walked through the room without making or receiving comments and proceeded to a staircase in the back. He climbed to the third floor, walked a hallway to a red door, and knocked.
The door opened to a blue tee shirt, and jean’s wearing Felipe. “Mr. Cardoza. Come in.”
Cardoza entered into a red-walled living room with newer black leather furniture and newer white carpet. A huge flat-screen TV occupied one wall. And another wall was covered in framed promotional photos and framed wrestling magazine covers, all featuring “The Bull.”
Felipe excused himself to the kitchen, where something spicy cooked.
“The Bull” relaxed in a leather recliner—clad only in gray athletic shorts—watching a crime-thriller movie on his big screen.
Cardoza moved to the recliner and stood aside it. “Sorry for coming by unannounced, Alejandro.”
Abreu didn’t look away from the TV. “And I’m sorry I agreed to do business with someone who doesn’t call or message me before stopping by.”
“You heard what happened this morning?”
“Of course. One of my boys witnessed what that dumb fucker did. It’s all over the favela now.”
“I need a favor,” Cardoza said.
“I just did you a favor, which the more I think about it, might come back and take a hunk from my ass.”
Cardoza continued. “I think the IDI might have found out that the Ghost Crews on the loose in Rio belong to me. And since the IDI doesn’t want any more competition than they already have with CV, they decided to hit me before I got too big.”
Abreu flashed a skeptical look at Cardoza. “I don’t believe they’re too worried about your twenty, or whatever you got now, boys.”
“Nevertheless,” Cardoza said. “I need you to set up a meeting with the IDI at Fantasy World and let them know I don’t want a war. At least not until I’m ready to fight one.”
Abreu’s eyes went back to his movie. “I don’t have to set that meeting. The pussy who runs the IDI sent a truce flag messenger here and told me they didn’t order the hit. And if the hit guy—who I’ve been told was too old for a soldier—ever was IDI, it was before their time. He said they don’t want a war over this either.”
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