CHAPTER SIX
Brasília–Presidente Juscelino Kubitschek International Airport
Brasília, Brazil
2:22 PM
Raziela—dressed veteran-long-haul-flyer-ultra-comfortable in a light-blue V-neck tee-shirt over wide leg, white linen pants, and white slip-on sneakers—and Molka—dressed comfortable in a sleeveless yellow summer dress, yellow canvas sneakers, French braided ponytail, and black-framed glasses—rode the people mover through the busy terminal toward the main entrance.
Each woman carried one carry-on bag and bleary eyes from the around the clock transcontinental, transatlantic flight, which caused them not to notice the man 10 meters away paralleling them on foot.
Their observer—a mid-30s white male, medium build and height, with receding short dark hair and a dark beard—wore a black polo shirt over dark gray tactical pants and black tactical boots. Tactical sunglasses sat perched atop his head, and a large black tactical watch dominated his left wrist.
He removed a phone from his front pocket, scanned through some photos, viewed Raziela and Molka again, re-pocketed his phone, and picked up his pace.
When Raziela and Molka stepped off the people mover and made the turn toward the terminal’s exit door, the man had positioned himself in their path, facing them with his arms folded across his chest.
Molka noticed the man and nudged Raziela. “Black shirt guy ahead. He’s watching us with an aggressive stance.”
Raziela spotted the man and grinned. “It’s ok, I know him. That’s how he always stands.”
Raziela and Molka approached the man and stopped before him.
Raziela grinned again and spoke to the man in Hebrew. “Is this just a coincidence, or are you here for us?”
“I’m here for you,” the man said in Hebrew. “I’m picking you up.”
“Molka,” Raziela said, “this is Director of Embassy Security Geller.”
Molka offered a polite nod. “Director Geller.”
Geller presented Molka a warm but not flirtatious smile. “Please call me Danny. I’m parked fairly close. Please follow me.”
Raziela and Molka trailed Geller out the exit, through the curbside arrivals area, and into the short-term parking lot on a clear, warm, humid day.
Raziela spoke. “We were just going to get a quick rideshare over the bridge to the embassy. Why the VIP escort?”
“The ambassador’s orders,” Geller said. “I’m to personally greet all non-diplomat visitors to the embassy before the big reception on Sunday.”
Molka spoke. “And when you say greet, I think you mean prescreen.”
Geller smiled, polite. “That’s another way of putting it. It’s the blue car right over there.”
They arrived at a blue four-door Toyota. From the passenger side exited a serious-faced, younger Hispanic woman wearing a blue security officer uniform complete with a blue patrol cap and a holstered sidearm. Shoulder patches and a clipped-on ID badge identified her as Israeli embassy security.
Geller addressed Raziela and Molka. “Before we go, I realize you cleared El Al’s excellent screenings in Tel Aviv and again in London and Sao Paulo, but with embassy security heightened, I’m afraid I’ll need to search your bags. And…” He gestured to the security officer. “Officer Pereira will need to search you. Again, the ambassador’s orders.”
Searches conducted without incident, a 15-minute drive from the airport across the Ponte das Garças bridge led to a quiet tree-lined boulevard fronting several embassy compounds.
Molka—riding backseat with Raziela to Geller driving and the security officer sitting as front passenger—noted the Swiss, Japanese, and Austrian Embassies on the right all clustered close together.
The boulevard continued on another 400 meters through open grassy space and ended outside the green metal gate to the high-walled Israeli Embassy compound. A compound located well away from the neighboring embassies probably due to Israel’s ever-present security concerns.
Gellar stopped the car just before three vertical, yellow metal retractable barriers designed to prevent gate ramming. To the gate’s right side sat a large, green-roofed, white-walled guard shack. The shack’s door opened, and a strapping, younger Hispanic male, and a fit, younger Hispanic female both wearing the same blue security officer uniform as the passenger—and carrying tactical slung Tavor-21 bullpup assault rifles—stepped out, approached the car, and focused wary gazes at Raziela and Molka.
Raziela spoke. “I see your people have new attitudes to go with their new uniforms.”
Geller answered. “They, as well as Officer Pereira, are actually private security we added on in the last couple of weeks.”
“Staffing up for the reception?” Raziela said.
“Yes. They handle the outer perimeter, which frees up my team to concentrate on the compound’s interior. And make the ambassador sleep better. And…I’m afraid they’re going to need to search your bags again and search you both again before entering. Please don’t take it personally.”
Raziela smirked. “The ambassador’s orders, of course.”
“Yes. No exceptions.”
“We would like to meet with the ambassador as soon as possible.”
“He said the same about you two,” Geller said. “He’s waiting in his office right now.”
Geller pulled up outside the large, white-walled, two-story, embassy building’s front entrance. Further ahead, on the compound’s far side, sat a large, white, two-story contemporary style home serving as the ambassador’s residence.
A nervous-faced younger man in a blue suit exited the embassy and stood waiting.
“That’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Geller said. “He’ll take you up to see the ambassador.”
“He doesn’t look happy to see us,” Raziela said.
Geller smiled. “He always reflects the attitude of his boss.”
Raziela and Molka exited the vehicle with their carry-on bags, and the secretary escorted them inside, up to the second floor, and into the ambassador’s well-appointed office. He showed them to padded brown leather chairs fronting a large desk and then excused himself.
A moment later, a side door opened, and the tall, lean, mid-60s, sharp dark blue suited with thinning gray hair and gold-framed glasses ambassador entered, sat behind the desk with a more nervous face than his secretary, and said:
“I don’t know the reason why you’re both here, and I don’t want to know. Not that you would reveal it to me if I did. I’m telling myself your presence has something to do with assuring the reception goes off smoothly and safely, even though I know that is not the case.”
Raziela grinned. “We’re definitely not here to interfere in any way with the reception, Mr. Ambassador.”
The ambassador continued. “Raziela, I’ve been in diplomatic service for 33 years. This is my 14th posting. And in all that time and in all those wonderful places, I’ve witnessed the activities of your organization on several occasions get good ambassadors recalled, and their careers prematurely ended.” His face fell to pleading. “My wife really loves it here. So please have mercy on me.”
“Sir, about our housing,” Raziela said, “when I was here last month, I just used a hotel because I was only here a couple of days. But I was informed you could assist us with more convenient accommodations since we don’t have a set time for our stay.”
The ambassador frowned. “You can share the furnished visitor’s apartment we lease in the city. See my secretary for the information on that.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re also going to need roundtrip plane tickets to Rio de Janeiro and a rental car when we get there.”
“We have business accounts with airline and rental car companies in Brazil. I’ve already instructed my secretary to add you both as authorized users. See him for more information on that so you can just handle your own reservations as needed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Raziela said. “Also, did a package addressed to you in care of me arrive?”<
br />
“It arrived yesterday.” The ambassador opened his desk and passed Raziela a set of keys. “I had it locked in the Counsel’s old office, and I prayed it wouldn’t explode.”
Raziela and Molka exited the ambassador’s office, descended back to the ground floor, and traversed a hallway that ended at a double-locked steel door.
Raziela used the keys the ambassador gave her on the locks, and she opened the door onto metal stairs leading to a basement.
Raziela led the way down. At the bottom of the stairs, she flipped a wall switch, and fluorescent lights illuminated an open space containing about a dozen cubicles. Disinfectant odor battled a musty-mold aroma, and disinfectant was losing.
Computer monitors in the cubicles had dust covers over them. And a hallway on the space’s opposite side contained a row of closed doors.
Raziela scanned the room with a nostalgic face. “They tell me this station was once staffed with over 50 Counsel employees.” She sighed. “The good old days.” Her eyes perked up. “Ah, there’s my package.”
She moved to the first cubicle and retrieved a large, white overnight express box. “Let’s go sit down and talk.”
Molka followed Raziela and entered the hallway, which held five closed doors: two on each side and one at the end.
Raziela paused. “Might as well give you the tour.” She pointed to the first door on the left. “That’s the comms room.” She pointed to the next door on the left. “That’s the “toy closet.”
“Toy closet?” Molka said.
“Yes, some fun and unique equipment in there.” Raziela pointed to the first door on the right. “That’s the lounge. It contains a couple of couches that pull out into beds, some cots, a table and chairs, a little kitchenette, and a bathroom with a shower. All necessary, because sometimes they worked down here—especially during all the troubles next door in Argentina—for weeks without a break.” She pointed to the next door on the right. “That’s the briefing room where we’ll be going.” She pointed to the door at the hallway’s end. “And that’s the former station chief’s office. It has a safe inside with cash we’ll need for the task.”
Molka raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I had no idea the Counsel could have such facilities hidden under an embassy.”
Raziela grinned. “That’s the whole idea.”
She moved to the briefing room door and flipped on more fluorescents which illuminated a 12-seat conference table. The room’s light-gray walls mounted a large, dormant flat screen and several Brazilian maps at the national, states, and city levels.
Raziela moved to the table’s far end seat, placed her package and bag on the tabletop, collapsed into the high-backed leather chair, and exhaled heavy. “No matter how many times you make those mega-flights, you never get used to them. Sit. We can start discussing some of the specifics of your task.”
Molka laid her bag on the tabletop by the seat to Raziela’s right and sat.
Raziela began. “Tomorrow, we’ll fly to Rio and do some reconnaissance work and then do a little side-op.”
“What kind of side-op?” Molka said.
“I’ll explain that when we get to Rio. Then after that, I booked a tour of the Esperança favela. I’m going to make a special request with the tour guide to take us to the Wall of Hopefuls, so you can get a look at the actual removal spot for Cardoza and familiarize yourself with the surroundings. Also, I’ll get some recent photos of the site for the contractor so he can finalize his plan.”
“Ok,” Molka said. “Sounds good.”
“We’ll spend the night in Rio, and the next day we’ll meet with the contractor so you two can coordinate. Then we’ll fly back here and have one day to get ready for the reception.”
“Alright,” Molka said. “I studied my script on the flight about what to say to Cardoza at the reception. But how’s my introduction to him going to be handled?”
“That introduction will be handled by the sweet boy I told you about, Nathan: the real Cultural Department employee. But it’s just a protocol formality. Cardoza is already expecting to meet with you.”
“He is?” Molka said. “When did that happen?”
“I’ll brief you on that now. Last time I was here, I arranged for Nathan to meet with Cardoza about having one of his favela artists possibly doing a mural for the embassy and to take Nathan to see the Wall of Hopefuls. Cardoza was overjoyed. Then right after that, I sent Cardoza’s office an official email from the Cultural Department formally making the mural request. He enthusiastically accepted. My follow-up message to him stated that a representative of the Cultural Department’s home office—you—would be visiting the embassy during the week of the Independence Day reception, and perhaps he could meet you in Brasilia around that time to finalize the project. But he went one better, saying he could get himself invited to the reception through the Brazilian president and meet you there. That was his arrogance on display.”
Molka offered a respectful nod. “And that’s when you knew he fell for your trap. Very clever.”
“Thank you,” Raziela said. “Besides the introduction, Nathan will also get you up to speed on favela art so you can discuss it competently with Cardoza.”
“And this Nathan has obviously been informed about assisting me with all that.”
“Not yet.” Raziela stood and grinned. “Let’s go do that right now.”
Raziela and Molka ascended the stairs and walked the hall to the embassy’s first-floor business section and a cubicle maze filled with busy embassy employees doing busy embassy employee things. And since it was Molka’s first time inside an embassy, she didn’t really know exactly what all that entailed.
They weaved the maze and stopped outside a cubicle featuring a smaller, short platinum-haired male seated and engrossed on his monitor.
Raziela tapped on the cubicle wall. “Knock, knock.”
The man looked up at Raziela and sighed. “You kept your threat. You came back.” He curled his lip to form a sarcastic grin. “Oh, how wonderful.”
Molka placed the less than happy man in his early 30s. He featured sleek, designer titanium-framed eyeglasses that matched large titanium-hoop earrings hanging from each earlobe. He dressed Tel Aviv hipster-style in a lavender slim-fit long-sleeved dress shirt—accessorized with a thin titanium-colored silk tie—tucked into slim-fit, black dress pants.
Raziela spoke. “Molka, this is Nathan, head supervisor of the Israeli Embassy Brazil Cultural Department. Nathan, this is Molka.”
“Hello,” Molka said.
“Hello,” Nathan said. “And head supervisor is the misleading title they gave me—instead of a raise—because I’m the only member of the Israeli Embassy Brazil Cultural Department.”
Raziela grinned. “That’s why we’ve come from the home office to assist you during the big reception.”
Nathan faked a serious face. “Have you? Thank goodness.”
Raziela continued. “And by the way, congratulations Nathan.”
Nathan flashed Raziela a suspicious gaze. “For what?”
“You passed your comprehensive background check.”
“What comprehensive background check?”
“The one I ran on you,” Raziela said. “Don’t you remember? And you qualified for a basic security clearance. Which means you’re cleared to assist us on our fact-finding mission.”
Nathan rolled his office chair back and crossed his legs. “I don’t think so. I don’t get paid enough to assist in Counsel operations.”
Raziela frowned. “Counsel operations?”
Nathan smirked. “Please…the fact you’re with the Counsel and not the home office of the Cultural Department is the second-worst kept secret in this compound right after the ambassador’s wife having fake boobs.” He addressed Molka. “Did she tell you what she asked me to do when she was here last month? She sent me to Rio into a dangerous favela to look at some gangster art.”
“Now hold on,” Raziela said. “You told me it was really good and well
worth the trip.”
“It was,” Nathan said. “But the company you made me keep on that trip wasn’t. That creep Gabriel Cardoza.” He addressed Molka again. “Pro tip: in foreign service, never volunteer for anything outside of your specific job description.”
“And speaking of that,” Raziela said. “I assume the ambassador has talked to you about us?”
Nathan sighed. “Yes. I’m to give you all the assistance you ask for. But I want you to know—since that is NOT part of my job description—I assist you under protest.”
Raziela gave a small nod. “Your protest is noted.”
Nathan sighed again. “What would you like me to do?”
“First, check out an embassy vehicle and take us to do a little shopping. While we do that, I’ll fill you in on what other help we need from you in the coming days. Then drop us off at our apartment so we can get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a critical day for us.”
PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 6
THURSDAY
APRIL 15TH
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
12:47 PM
“The car bombings, the car bombings, the car bombings, is that all they’re going to talk about?” Raziela continued to scan the stations on the silver Toyota rental car radio as she drove south on the Linha Vermelha expressway from Galeão International Airport toward Copacabana Beach. “I want to hear some authentic Samba to go with our cute new outfits.”
Raziela’s “cute new outfit” featured an ankle-length, pink sundress with an eye-straining floral print, huge gold hoop earrings, and red canvas sneakers.
Passenger Molka—wearing a knee-length white sundress printed with a large, ridiculous, red, yellow, and blue parrot, silly green leaf earrings, and orange canvas sneakers—offered Raziela a quizzical face. “Ok. I wasn’t going to mention this, but since you did, I will. These…costumes you’ve picked out make us look more like tourists trying to look native than actual natives.”
VENGEANCE REAWAKENED Page 4
