The Panic Zone

by Rick Mofina

  Gannon was waiting in the hall.

  “Jack.” Her voice was weak.

  The doctor left them alone.

  Gannon sat beside her. His face was bruised.

  “Thank you for saving my life, Sarah.”

  She smiled at him.

  “You have to get the story, Jack. Expose the truth. For Maria, your friends, Gabriela, Marcelo—and to keep your word to the Blue Brigade.”

  “Three of their gang members were killed. The youngest was thirteen. Dragon escaped.”

  “He’ll be incensed.” She coughed. “He’ll suspect that you brought police to his favela. Take his threat seriously. You must uncover the truth behind the bombing.”

  “I need more information.”

  Sarah drank some water then said, “We’ll get Maria’s documents to you quickly and our contacts around the world will have more on this.”

  A nurse came in to tend to Sarah.

  Gannon put his card in Sarah’s hand.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll never forget what you did.”

  She reached up, cupped her hand to his face.

  “We’re counting on you, Jack.”

  Their eyes met and the strength he saw in hers filled him with resolve.

  He bent down, kissed her cheek and left.

  On his way out of the hospital, Gannon switched on his cell phone.

  He now had messages from Globo TV, O Dia, Jornal do Brasil, AP, Reuters, Estralla, the WPA desk in New York, Luiz, Frank Archer, George Wilson and Melody Lyon.

  He hadn’t had time to return any calls to elaborate on what had transpired. Within minutes of the shootout in the favela, he’d used his phone’s camera to take several exclusive pictures of the carnage and police bending over bodies in the street. He sent them to WPA headquarters in New York for the global wire. Then he called, dictated a quick bare-bones story about his hostage-taking and the gun battle. He was advised to call back with updates, just as police had taken him into custody.

  After paramedics treated him at the scene, detectives questioned him. He was careful not to reveal too much. While describing his ordeal, Gannon thought it strange that he never saw Roberto Estralla among the cops questioning him. When he was released, Gannon had hurried to the hospital to check on Sarah.

  Now, as he reached the hospital’s main doors, he stopped to sit down and absorb what he’d just been through.

  A gun to his head. A shoot-out.

  Think of Maria, Gabriela, Marcelo. Suck it up, Gannon. Get back to work.

  He called Melody Lyon’s cell-phone number, to alert her to his new lead: the café bombing could be linked to a bigger story.

  “Gannon!”

  Roberto Estralla caught up to him from behind. Gannon abandoned his call to Lyon.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” Estralla pointed to an empty section of the reception area where they found chairs and privacy. “My colleagues shared your statement with me. I have a few questions.”

  “First, how did you and your SWAT team know I was there?”

  “Luiz at your bureau was concerned when he could not reach you. He called, telling us of your interest in going to Céu sobre Rio. Then our sources in the favela confirmed an American might have been taken by the Blue Brigade. So we moved fast, for your safety.”

  Gannon took his time assessing Estralla’s account.

  “Jack, what you did was very foolish. You’re lucky you are not in a body bag at this moment.”

  “The Blue Brigade insists they are not behind the café bombing, that they did not kill the Colombian’s daughter.”

  “The narco vendetta was always speculation by the press.”

  “The Brigade insists Rio police planted the story to trigger a gang war.”

  “We’ve always stated that we’re investigating all aspects.”

  “The WPA will move a story with the Blue Brigade’s denial of involvement in the bombing of the café.”

  “A denial made with a gun to your head?”

  “You carry guns, too.”

  “But we’re sworn to uphold the law, not deal in death. Jack, it wouldn’t be wise for you to be seen siding with murdering narco dealers.”

  “It wouldn’t be wise for me to be seen siding with police, either. I am only interested in the truth.”

  “Then we’re on the same side.”

  “Tell me then, what more do you have on the bombing? Did you find anything in those documents you took from me?”

  “We’re still investigating. However, I am curious to know what you found when you went to Maria Santo’s home in the favela?”

  “I found myself with a gun to my head.”

  Estralla nodded, glanced around to collect a thought, scratched his chin then reached into his pocket and produced Gannon’s passport, turning it over in his hands.

  “You should leave Brazil now, while you can fly home upright.” Estralla placed Gannon’s passport in his hands. “That is a little friendly advice, from one Buffalo Bills fan to another.”

  Estralla’s phone rang. Before taking his call, he shook Gannon’s hand then left. Gannon sat alone for several minutes, pondering his passport when he heard his name being cursed.

  “Goddammit, Gannon, what the hell is wrong with you? You don’t answer your phone?” Frank Archer had entered the hospital with an older man in a light suit, a man Gannon didn’t recognize. “Police told us at the scene that you had come here.”

  “Hello, Frank.”

  “Lawrence Chapin,” the older man introduced himself. “With the U.S. consulate. State Department. You got some nasty bruises there. Are you all right, son?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Physically, maybe.” Archer snorted. “I get back from Gabriela’s funeral in Miami and New York’s screaming that Gannon’s been taken hostage by drug dealers in a favela! There’s been a shoot-out! People are dead! I’ve been unable to reach you. Jesus, Gannon!”

  “I said in my note to New York that I was fine, Frank.”

  “Well George doesn’t think so.” Archer pulled out an envelope and gave it to Gannon. “You’re done here. This is your ticket.”

  “What do you mean? I’m still on the story.”

  “Not anymore. You’ve been a disaster. You’re being called back to New York. A flight to JFK leaves in five hours. So check out of your hotel and bon voyage, pal.”

  “What does Melody say?”

  “Doesn’t matter—Beland backs George. You’re done in Brazil.”

  “Excuse me,” Chapin said, “I need a moment with you, Jack. You see whenever a U.S. citizen is a victim of crime—”

  “You know, Jack—” Archer shook his head “—we’re going through a tough time down here. It’s not easy burying friends. Everyone’s emotionally pushed to the breaking point. And while her intentions were good, I think Melody Lyon made a huge mistake sending us someone like you, a person who clearly is not ready to handle a major story of any kind.”

  Gannon looked long and hard at Archer, standing there, oozing Ivy League arrogance through his designer polo shirt.

  “You know, Frank, I think you’re right.”

  “Of course, I’m right. And another thing, you might want to consider going back to Buffalo. Do they still have a newspaper there?”

  “That’s a thought. And I was going to give you a point to consider but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Gannon turned to Chapin. “We can talk in the taxi to my hotel.”

  Along the drive, Gannon summarized his ordeal for Chapin, a seasoned diplomat, who’d been involved in many tight situations around the world.

  As the car approached the hotel, Chapin offered Gannon his assistance.

  “Can I ask you a confidential question?” Gannon said.

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you know of a Drake Stinson, an American with Worldwide Rio Advogados? He used to work in Washington, D.C.”

  “Yes. I’ve got friends in the Justice Department and I asked them about Sti
nson when he arrived in Rio de Janeiro. Seems he used to be a lawyer for the CIA.”

  “The CIA?”

  “You could look him up in old obscure legal bulletins and newsletters. But you won’t find much. Stinson handled legal work on critical cases that were usually classified, secret proceedings due to national security.”

  “Really?”

  Gannon turned to the window letting the revelation sink in all the way to the Nine Palms Hotel.

  30

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  At Rio’s Galeão International Airport Gannon sat in preboarding, turned on his laptop and began drafting a news story.

  He had less than forty-five minutes before his flight departed for JFK.

  He tried again to reach Melody Lyon.

  No luck.

  As time ticked by, he worked on his story that would say that mystery continued to shroud the identity of those behind the attack that had killed ten people at the Café Amaldo. He quoted Dragon’s denial of gang involvement and his accusation that police had fostered rumors of a blood vendetta to trigger a war among competing drug networks.

  As Gannon wrote the final paragraphs, the first preboarding advisory for his flight was announced over the PA system. After a quick rereading, he filed his raw copy to the WPA in New York. Once they’d edited his story, it would be translated and offered to WPA’s international subscribers, which included virtually every news organization in Brazil. His story would be posted to online sites and would run in print editions the next day. Gannon was hopeful his article would satisfy the Blue Brigade and they would remove their threat to WPA staff.

  This should save Frank Archer’s arrogant ass.

  Gannon waited until New York confirmed receipt of his file in an e-mail.

  Got it. Thanks, Jack.

  In his article Gannon had made no mention of Maria Santo’s meeting with Gabriela or the bigger story because he was still a long way from nailing it.

  This is what he knew: Maria Santo was about to give the WPA secret documents alleging that the law firm where she worked was involved in the illegal adoption and trafficking of stolen children. The documents were marked for destruction. The firm’s staff included a former CIA lawyer experienced in highly classified cases. Santo was killed at the café when she’d met Gabriela.

  Another preboarding call piped through the air.

  Gannon had a story here. Every instinct told him he was on the right track. He had to keep digging but he needed help. He searched his e-mails for anything from Sarah Kirby’s organization. He needed to see the complete set of documents Maria Santo had obtained. He needed them now because he would have no Internet access on his nine-hour flight.

  But nothing had arrived.

  He checked his spam.

  Nothing.

  He checked his cell phone for any messages.

  Nothing.

  Again he called Melody Lyon’s cell phone. He didn’t want to leave a message. It was crucial that he talk to her confidentially about where they go next on this story.

  As it rang, people lined up and started boarding.

  One woman did a double take at Gannon’s bruised face, staring like he was familiar. Her attention bordered on rude and he turned away keeping his phone pressed to his ear.

  Gannon did not notice that, in the preboarding line, a man reading a newspaper had also been watching him. Gannon didn’t know that the stranger had followed him into the airport, watched him check in, then bought a ticket for the same flight.

  Gannon cursed under his breath.

  He’d failed to reach Lyon and hung up.

  The line of passengers boarding was shrinking and just as he was about to take his place, he checked his e-mail a final time.

  He froze.

  A new one had arrived.

  He didn’t know the sender. The attachment was labeled One of Ten. Gannon sat down, opened it and recognized the scanned page bearing the letterhead of Worldwide Rio Advogados. The attachment included a second page of text. It had been translated into English for him.

  Must’ve been why they’d taken so long.

  Checking his e-mail, Gannon saw that attachments two and three had arrived. This was going to take time. He neared the end of the line and checked his laptop’s battery, it was at half-strength.

  The line was getting shorter.

  The attendants collecting boarding passes shot glances at him, cradling his laptop. By now, as attachments six and seven arrived, Gannon fumbled in his pocket to get his passport and boarding pass ready.

  He was near the desk when eight and nine arrived.

  The problem came with attachment ten.

  It had downloaded to 50 percent then stopped.

  Gannon cursed to himself and didn’t move another step.

  “Right this way, sir,” the attendant said, repeating it in Portuguese.

  “Yes, sorry, one moment.”

  The tenth attachment completed downloading. Now that he had them all, he moved quickly to a seat near the desk.

  “Sir, you must board.”

  “Please, bear with me.”

  The attendant at the desk was glaring at him. No one else was waiting at preboarding.

  “Sir, you cannot delay this flight.”

  He moved the documents quickly en masse onto his hard drive, put them into one folder and e-mailed that folder to Melody Lyon’s home e-mail, labeling the document Confidential from JG in Rio.

  “Sir, we have to leave now!”

  Once his e-mail was sent, Gannon shut his laptop and boarded.

  The flight taxied into position but its departure was delayed for an excruciating hour. Some thirty minutes after the jetliner finally roared from Rio de Janeiro, it leveled off.

  The elderly lady in the window seat beside Gannon had fallen asleep.

  He turned on his laptop and resumed his work.

  He scrutinized every attachment two or three times trying to determine what he had. He saw the unsigned note demanding that files, hardcopy and electronic, be destroyed, and that “no record exists in the firm that makes mention of their existence, including this one which should be destroyed after these instructions are carried out.”

  From that point, most of the ten pages seemed to be a catalogue of files, and cross-referenced file numbers. All the pages looked similar. Again, he studied the entries on the first few, trying to make sense of them.

  LA #212005 to New York67

  LA #907864 to Texas908

  LA #376274 to Minnesota9087

  LA #181975 to Wyoming847

  LN #77-487 to Bristol26

  LN #F8-787 to Manchester98

  LN #FF-879 to Dublin948

  LN #00-977 to GlasgowS93…

  And so on, and so on. While he could not decipher them, Gannon was convinced they were significant because a handwritten notation on the last page said “Security breach, have alerted E.D., action required.”

  Who was E.D., he wondered, and what type of action was required?

  Below the note he saw the separate message posted to the document that was addressed specifically to him from Sarah Kirby’s group.

  “To Jack, on behalf of Sarah: We have contacted our friends in London, who have more information and have agreed to help you based upon Sarah’s assurance that you can be trusted. See the contact e-mail below. Your contact’s name is Oliver. Good luck.”

  Gannon contemplated the airphone installed in the backrest of the seat before him. He thought most airlines had taken the phones out because passengers complained.

  He needed to reach Melody Lyon.

  “Excuse me,” he asked the attendant who was making her way by, pushing a beverage cart. “Are these working? Can I make a call?”

  “Yes.” She glanced around. “We’re about two-thirds full. If you use one in the empty back rows you’ll have more privacy.”

  “Can I just move my stuff to a seat back there?”

  “Sure.”

  After Gannon settled in at t
he back, he inserted the WPA credit card into the mechanism, then called Lyon’s cell phone, estimating that it had been over two hours since his last attempt.

  It was answered on the third ring.

  “Melody, it’s Gannon.”

  “Jack, I’ve been trying to call you. I just got back from Miami. George told me what happened, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little bruised.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the plane back to New York, we just left Rio.”

  “How the hell did you get taken hostage by a drug gang?”

  “It was a misunderstanding. I’m fine as long as we run the story I just filed. It’s critical that the desk doesn’t cut the Blue Brigade stuff.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “Turns out the hostage thing was the price I paid for a strong lead into the bombing. Did you read the material I sent you, the ten attachments of the secret files?”

  “I did.”

  “This is shaping up to be a major story.”

  “Bring me up to speed.”

  Gannon related everything he’d learned on Maria Santo, the law firm, Sarah Kirby and the human rights network, and how Marcelo’s incredible photos of Maria and the bombing helped advance the story.

  Lyon listened, asked an occasional question, then concluded the call.

  “Jack, the first thing you’re going to do when you get to New York is your laundry. Then pack again. I’ll authorize and clear the way. I want you to follow this story to London and wherever else it leads us.”

  31

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Emma sat at the big polished oak table in the conference room at the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation.

  Shadows on the wall drawn by the midday light bled through the blinds. As Emma studied them she blinked back tears, trying not to scream.

  Nearly two agonizing days had passed since she’d received the mysterious nighttime call, and police were still no closer to telling her who had made it.

  For two days Emma had repeated the circumstances of the call to every official she was referred to. She recounted every detail and answered every question while they took notes. But she soon realized that their concern was just pretense.