by Rick Mofina
Since he’d left Buffalo for his new job at the WPA, he’d taken to walking New York’s streets whenever he could. He was on desk duty today and had come to this isolated tract on his lunch break to be alone.
To think.
He was five months into his dream of working at one of the world’s largest news organizations and he still had not landed a good story.
So far he’d reported on a homicide, and helped with the coverage of a school shooting in California and a charter bus crash near the Grand Canyon. He’d inserted national paragraphs into stories from WPA’s foreign bureaus. He had also been assigned to night shifts helping edit copy on the national and world desks. Soon, he realized that not everyone at WPA wanted him there, something made clear the night he’d overheard two copy editors kibitzing by the features desk.
“What do you make of Jack Gannon?”
“I haven’t seen any pizzazz. He’s out of his league.”
“Didn’t the Buffalo Sentinel fire him, or something? I missed all that.”
“He’s one of Melody Lyon’s projects. She hired him after he broke that story on the Buffalo detective and the missing women.”
“That one wasn’t bad.”
“Gannon’s got more luck than talent, if you ask me. What’s he done since?”
“Not much.”
“That’s my point. And you’re right, he was fired by the Sentinel, so was his managing editor. It was a stinking mess. I heard that O’Neill and Stone were against Gannon’s hire but that Melody wanted it done. I hear he’s disappointed people and there’s talk they might let him go.”
“Really?”
“It’s a rumor. I think he should be punted back to Buffalo.”
“Didn’t his bio say that he’d been nominated for a Pulitzer way back for the story on the jetliner and the whacked-out Russian pilot?”
“A Russian-speaking guy in the Sentinel’s pressroom did all the talking to sources overseas, Gannon just took dictation.”
That was a load of bull!
Gannon had bristled on the other side of the file cabinets, out of sight.
They were wrong about him.
Dead wrong, he repeated to himself now, as he jogged to a crosswalk to make the light. He’d earned his shot with the WPA, crawled through hell to get to New York. He belonged here and he’d prove it.
Gannon entered the twenty-story WPA building, swiped his ID badge at the security turnstile and stepped into the elevator.
He checked his phone. Nineteen minutes since Melody Lyon, the deputy executive—the WPA’s number two editor after Beland Stone—had summoned him with her first text.
We need to see you now.
He got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor with a measure of honor as he strode by the reception wall displaying WPA news photos of history’s most compelling moments from the past hundred years.
The World Press Alliance was one of the world’s largest news wire services, operating a bureau in every major U.S. city, and two hundred bureaus in seventy-five countries, providing a nonstop flow of information to thousands of newspapers, radio, TV, corporate and online subscribers.
The WPA’s demand for excellence had earned it twenty-two Pulitzer prizes and the respect of its rivals, chiefly the Associated Press, Reuters, Agence France-Presse, Deutsche Presse-Agentur, Bloomberg, China’s Xinhua News Agency and Russia’s fast-rising Interfax News Agency.
Gannon entered the newsroom with a sense of foreboding.
Something was breaking on the flat-screen monitors that streamed video and data from around the world. Whatever it was, it had hit the WPA. Some reporters looked shaken. A few were standing, hugging each other.
“Did you know Gabriela? Poor John.”
A few editors quietly cursed at their keyboards.
Gannon was headed toward Melody Lyon’s office when a news assistant caught up to him.
“Jack, they’re all in the conference room. Go there now.”
A teleconference was in progress, and solemn-faced senior editors sat around the polished table. Concentrating over her bifocals on the call, Melody Lyon, who was running the meeting, pointed at an empty chair beside her. As Gannon took it, an assistant passed him a folder.
“Sign this.” Her pen tapped a signature line on the documents. Gannon glimpsed the words Consulado-Geral do Brasil em Nova York—Visa Application form and a note affixed: “Request for Urgency.”
George Wilson, the third most powerful editor after Lyon, was in charge of WPA’s foreign bureaus. He eyed Gannon, checked his BlackBerry then said to the caller, keeping his voice loud: “Everyone, Reuters just moved an item claiming two journalists are among the victims. No other details. Frank, let’s run through that again.”
Frank Archer, WPA’s São Paulo bureau chief, who was on the speaker phone, kept his emotions under control. He had landed in Rio de Janeiro and was at the scene. Sirens could be heard in the background.
“John Esper was returning to Rio from São Paulo where he was helping with coverage of the U.S. vice president’s upcoming visit,” Archer said. “John landed in Rio about four hours ago and learned the news about the Café Amaldo bombing. At that time he picked up Gabriela’s message saying she was headed to the café with Marcelo Verde—”
Gannon read the note Lyon had passed to him:
“John Esper is WPA’s Rio de Janeiro bureau chief. Bureau reporter Gabriela Rosa is his wife. Marcelo Verde is WPA’s Rio photog.”
Archer continued, “John first thought Gabriela and Marcelo were en route to cover the bombing but when he couldn’t reach them, he rechecked her message about meeting a source at the café. That’s when it hit him—they were there when the bomb exploded at the café. It was the last thing John said to me before I rushed to the airport. I can’t reach him now.”
“Frank, it’s George,” Wilson spoke up. “John texted us saying that he’d gone to the hospital where they took most of the victims.”
“Wait!” Archer said. “A friend at Globo just told me that police have found Marcelo Verde’s wallet and Gabriela Rosa’s bag among the dead and debris.”
“Oh, my lord.” Melody Lyon cupped her hands to her face. “It’s true.”
Gannon’s stomach tightened.
“The toll,” Archer struggled, “is now seven dead and several critically injured, so it will rise. George, we need help down here.” Archer was fighting emotion. “Our Rio bureau’s been—George, we need help.”
“We’re on it, Frank. I’ve sent in our people from Buenos Aires and Caracas. We’re also sending help from New York.”
Wilson looked at Gannon.
“Melody here, Frank. Any claims of responsibility? Any thoughts on who’s behind the attack?”
“O Dia says it’s narco gangs from the favelas, but who knows. I have to go.”
“Keep us posted, Frank.”
George Wilson removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and took stock of the other editors, stopping at Melody Lyon, who outranked them all.
“Jesus, Mel, I think we just lost two of our people. Did you alert Beland?”
“He’s in Washington. We told him when the unconfirmed reports first broke. I’ve been updating him.”
A soft rap sounded at the door. “Excuse me, Melody?” The news assistant had returned.
“Yes, Rachel.”
“Melissa’s left in a cab to the Brazilian Consulate to get Jack’s visa application processed. Our consular contacts expressed concern and agreed to expedite Jack’s application.”
“Thank you, Rachel.”
“Jack.” Lyon turned to Gannon. “There’s a TAM flight that leaves JFK in five hours. It’s direct to Rio de Janeiro, arrives 8:30 a.m. tomorrow.”
“You’re sending me to Brazil?”
“We need you to help our team there.”
Gannon’s heart beat a little faster.
“Certainly,” he said, “but you should know, I’ve never been there and I don’t speak Portuguese, or Spanish.”
“Local support staff will help you,” Lyon said. “Go home and pack.”
A vein in George Wilson’s temple pulsed as his steel gray eyes locked on Gannon.
“I want you to know,” Wilson said, “that I don’t think you’re the right person to send down there at this time.”
“George, please,” Lyon said, “we’ve been over this.”
“Melody’s the boss, Gannon, and she believes your fresh eyes, as she calls them, could be an asset.”
“I will do my best,” Gannon said.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Wilson said. “You’ll take direction from New York and from my correspondents down there who have far more foreign-reporting experience than you ever saw at the Buffalo Sentinel, and you will stay out of the goddamned way.”
That’s not what I do.
Gannon looked to Lyon for support but she was pondering the Empire State Building, Manhattan’s skyline and her anguish. Everyone’s hurting now, he thought. Out of respect, he bit back on his words and absorbed Wilson’s misdirected insult.
“I will do my best, George,” he repeated.
4
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Gannon’s jet landed at Galeão airport.
As he walked through the terminal, the satellite phone the New York office had given him blinked with a message from George Wilson.
When you arrive go to the WPA Bureau, Rua de Riachuelo 250 in Centro. See Frank Archer.
Gannon collected his bag, got his passport stamped at customs and stepped into the equatorial humidity to find a taxi. The driver nodded after seeing the address Gannon showed him. As they drove down a southbound expressway, his satellite phone rang.
“Gannon.”
“It’s Melody in New York. Where are you?”
“In a taxi headed downtown.”
“Jack, last night—” she paused to clear her throat “—we got official confirmation. Gabriela and Marcelo were among those killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re all reeling. Wilson’s taking this very hard.”
“I understand.”
“We’ve suffered a huge loss. Bear that in mind when you’re dealing with everyone down there.”
“I will.”
“You didn’t know Gabriela and Marcelo. Your thinking won’t be clouded with grief and anger. I need you to help us find out who is behind this attack on the café and why. We must own this story, Jack, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.”
Adrenaline surged through Gannon as his taxi fought traffic and Rio de Janeiro rose before him. He exhaled slowly, marveling at the sprawl. Rio’s skyline stood in contrast to its favelas, which ascended in wave upon wave of ramshackle houses shoehorned into crowded slums, notorious for drug wars and gun battles. The shanty towns clung to the hills that ringed the city and overlooked the South Atlantic.
Was Wilson right? Could he handle this story?
The taxi’s open windows invited warm salty air. He saw azure patches of Guanabara Bay and the map he’d studied on the plane came to life as he recognized landmarks during the drive to Centro.
The bureau was in a tall glass building that reflected the clouds.
The guard in the lobby studied Gannon’s passport and business card, made a call and minutes later a man barely out of his teens emerged from the elevator to buzz him through and greet him.
“Welcome to Rio, Mr. Gannon, I am Luiz Piquet. Come with me, please.” He took Gannon’s bag and in the elevator he asked, “You had a good flight, sir?”
“Call me Jack. Yes, Luiz, it was fine.”
The elevator was slow. Gannon turned to Luiz.
“Are you a staff member with WPA?”
“I am the bureau news assistant. I recently received my degree in journalism from the Federal University. I will be helping you.”
The elevator stopped on the tenth floor. The brass plate across the hall said Aliança da Imprensa do Mundo—World Press Alliance. Luiz opened the glass door to a large room that was lit only by daylight from the floor to ceiling windows at one end.
It was typical newsroom decor, an open office with half a dozen desks, each with a monitor and a keyboard; each cluttered with phones, newspapers, file folders, documents, coffee cups.
Gannon noticed the far wall: two large TV screens were suspended from the ceiling and tuned to news networks. The sound was turned low. The wall had large news photos of children in slums, a SWAT team and shooting victims on bloodied streets, the pope waving to crowds at a stadium, girls in bikinis on the beach.
The only other person in the office was a man finishing a phone call.
“Frank Archer em WPA. Você tem o número!” he said before slamming down the phone and cursing in English.
With his back to Luiz and Gannon, he doubled over in his chair, set his elbows on his knees and put his bald head in his hands.
Not certain he was aware of their presence, Gannon said: “Frank Archer?”
The man swiveled in his chair.
Like Gannon, Archer was in his early thirties. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face was sullen.
“Jack Gannon. I just got in from New York.”
After an awkward silence the man stood; he was about six feet tall with a medium build, like Gannon.
“Frank Archer.” The two men shook hands. “Gannon, I’m going to be blunt. I don’t know why you’re here.”
“On the call yesterday, you said you needed help.”
“And we’ve got it. Our people from our bureaus in Caracas and Buenos Aires have flown in and are out on the story. We’ve got stringers on it, too. Everyone is fluent in Portuguese and Spanish, all experienced. Wilson said you’re from where? Rochester or something like that?”
“Buffalo.”
“Right.”
“Frank, I was sent down to help. Let me help.”
Archer flipped through some papers then rubbed his face.
“Gabriela and Marcelo were my friends.”
“I understand that.”
“I was with John at the hospital last night when they told him Gabriela had died. Marcelo died in the ambulance. I’ve been through a lot of shit but that was one of the worst moments of my life.”
Gannon nodded, letting Archer go on.
“John met Gabriela in Miami when she was a correspondent there for Reuters. I went to their wedding. Now he’s at the consulate with Gabriela’s father, who flew down from Miami. They’re trying to make arrangements to fly her back to Florida in a few days to bury her there. Marcelo’s family is preparing a funeral for him.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve lost friends in Afghanistan, in Africa, but this one hits home hard.”
“Frank, do the police have any leads on who’s behind the attack?”
“The strongest theory is that it’s narco terrorism. Globo, the TV network, is reporting that a Colombian drug lord’s daughter is one of the victims. There’s speculation she was the target in a vendetta with a Rio drug network.”
“What’s the thinking on Gabriela’s being at the café?”
“That’s a mystery, for now.”
“I understand she left a message for John that she was meeting a source.”
“She did.” Archer turned to his phone and pressed numbers. “John gave me his access code. It’s not much, listen. It’s in English.”
After a few tones, Gabriela Rosa’s last words to her husband played through the speaker, her voice filling the darkened bureau.
“Hey, it’s me. Finished that story about pickpockets on the metro, you’ve got it. Meanwhile, I got a call from an anonymous woman who claims to have a big story and documents for us. I set up a meeting at the Café Amaldo for this afternoon, with Marcelo to back me up. Hope São Paulo was fun. Did you say hi to Archer for me? Tell him I found a girl for him. Have a safe flight home, catch you later. I love you.”
Gannon fished his small digital recorder from his laptop
bag and Archer replayed the message so he could record it.
“Do you think Gabriela’s source could have wanted to tip her to the narco attack and something went wrong with the timing?” Gannon asked.
“I don’t know. It seems unlikely since Gabriela picked the location.”
“Has the bureau here written anything recently that threatened any of the criminal networks?”
“Not really—the crime gangs usually target the local press.” Archer glanced at his watch. “You flew overnight, you must want to drop off your bags at your hotel, wash up. Get something to eat, right?”
“I could use a coffee and a hot shower.”
“We got you a room at the Nine Palms Hotel. It’s a good place and nearby.” Archer handed Gannon a large envelope. “The address is in here. Tell the taxi driver ‘hotel de nove palmas.’ You got some cash? You want Luiz to go with you?”
“I have cash and the company card.” Gannon peered in the envelope. “I should go myself.”
Archer’s phone rang. He answered, saying something quickly in Portuguese before cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Jack, I have to interview a source with Public Safety, then the café owner. Meet me back here in ninety minutes. I’ll have something for you.”
The Nine Palms was three kilometers away, off a busy thoroughfare, hidden atop a narrow cobbled street. The greenery was so lush Gannon almost missed seeing the hotel behind a set of wrought-iron gates.
It was a modernized massive nineteenth-century colonial mansion with shuttered windows, ceiling fans and dark mahogany floors. In his room, he ordered food then took a hot shower before it came—a plate of fruit, fresh baked bread, juice and coffee.
It recharged him.
As he ate, Gannon struggled to comprehend coverage of the Café Amaldo bombing in Rio’s newspapers but didn’t get far before someone knocked on his door. Through the peephole, he saw Luiz Piquet.
“Sorry to disturb you, Jack, but Mr. Archer sent me. He’s had to change his plan because he’s going to be tied up on calls while putting the latest story together with the other WPA correspondents. He said to tell you that senior editors Beland Stone and Melody Lyon are flying to Miami to attend Gabriela’s funeral. George Wilson is flying to São Bento do Norte, to assist Marcelo’s family with his service there.”