VENGEANCE REAWAKENED

by Fredrick L. Stafford

  Raziela grinned. “Exactly.”

  Molka respectfully bowed her head. “Point taken.” She listened to the radio for a few more moments and said, “Those news people are speaking a bit too fast for my Portuguese. Who did they say got car bombed?”

  “Nobody, actually,” Raziela said. “Six prominent Rio de Janeiro businessmen’s cars exploded before they got in them this morning. Someone was sending them a message, obviously. But why is that such huge news in a wild and exciting city of seven million people?”

  “Maybe car bombings are a lot rarer here than in our part of the world?” Even before the words finished leaving Molka’s lips, the vision of her little Janetta shot through her heart.

  Raziela exited onto another smaller, more traffic-dense highway which passed through a long tunnel. She then maneuvered through some side streets, which ended at a stoplight leading to the six-lane Avenida Atlântica: Atlantic Avenue.

  To the left, rising from the mouth of Guanabara Bay, stood the granite and quartz monolithic Sugarloaf Mountain. But before that iconic sight could be appreciated, the light changed, and they turned right onto Avenida Atlântica to be awed by the blue-green Atlantic on their left caressing the long, sensual curve of world-famous Copacabana Beach.

  “Wow,” Molka said. “Now, here’s a destination that lives up to its hype.”

  Raziela grinned. “Kind of makes the beaches in your hometown of Haifa look a little plain, doesn’t it?”

  Molka shot Raziela a harsh face. “Don’t hate on Haifa around me.” She viewed Copacabana’s beauty again. “But I don’t disagree.”

  Even for a weekday afternoon, the beach’s yellow-gold sand and the wide, black and white wavy-patterned cement beach walkway running alongside it were filled with pedestrians and bike riders ranging from flabby, pink-skinned tourists to perfect body, brown-skinned locals. Both groups wore swimwear a bit too minuscule for Molka’s comfortable viewing.

  Raziela rescued Molka’s eyes. “There’s Cardoza’s hotel. The big white one.”

  Ahead on the right—like a gleaming white titan among the other shoulder-to-shoulder beachfront hotels—sat the imposing, 10-story, stately, marble-walled Palácio Hotel and Casino.

  “Nice,” she said. “So, what’s our recon goal for today?”

  “Let’s find a place less distractingly beautiful to park and discuss that.”

  Raziela turned right onto a side street and traveled for several blocks until she found an empty off-street parking space fronting several sidewalk food carts wafting out wonderful smells.

  Molka’s growling, lunch-less stomach hoped Raziela would suggest they get a snack while talking, but her face didn’t carry its normal calmness or even its alternate business-mode look. It displayed a new variance: operational focused.

  Raziela kept the car running to power the AC on the warm, muggy day and began. “It’s my policy to put the subject of a removal under both visual and electronic surveillance for some time before the action to establish the subject’s tendencies, travel patterns, and routines. And also, to ensure the subject will be in the chosen place at the chosen time for removal.”

  “Makes sense,” Molka said.

  Raziela continued. “However, due to our current understaffed situation, we don’t have the human assets for continual visual surveillance. So, when I came here last month, I brought a team of SIGINT specialists with me. They placed a small video camera across the street from Cardoza’s house focused on his front gate, attached GPS trackers to all four of his vehicles, and—thanks to a brilliant ruse I came up with and maybe I’ll tell you about someday—were able to hack into his cell phone. The SIGINT team continually updates all the data they gather to an app on my phone. I named the whole operation ‘Marvelous’ after Rio’s nickname as the ‘Marvelous City’ and because it’s a marvelous system. Impressive, right?”

  Molka flashed an impressed face. “Very impressive. Azzur never provided me with SIGINT like that. And as far as what happened to Azzur—”

  Raziela interrupted. “Unfortunately, the results from Cardoza’s phone have been disappointing because he seems to have adopted the Santo Trafficante method of mafia phone protocols. Which is to say, he rarely talks or messages on the phone, period. The main thing we picked up are messages to his many concurrent mistresses.”

  Molka gave a knowing nod. “And a man with many concurrent mistresses is a very insecure man.”

  “Good analysis,” Raziela said. “Did you study psychology too?”

  “No. I just studied a man with many concurrent mistresses.”

  “Oh…sorry to hear about that. Anyway, as Cardoza is a businessman, we assume if not over the phone and not at home—as our front gate cam shows he gets no visitors—he must conduct business at his office at the Palácio Hotel. And that’s the goal of our little side-op. You and I will get a monitoring device placed in his office shortly. That should complete an adequate surveillance loop to carry out the removal.”

  “Ok.”

  “But first, let’s check in with Marvelous.”

  Raziela removed her phone from her purse on the seat next to her, pulled up an app, tapped some controls, and spoke into the phone on speaker mode: “Marvelous, Project Manager Raziela.”

  Speaker voice: “Project Manager Raziela, Marvelous. Authenticate.”

  Raziela framed her face within a red box on screen.

  Speaker voice: “Authenticating Project Manager Raziela. Stand-by.”

  Pause.

  Speaker voice: “Project Manager Raziela authenticated. Go ahead.”

  “Please give me the current location of all four of Cardoza’s vehicles.”

  Speaker voice: “Black Mercedes, silver BMW, and green Hummer all currently parked at Cardoza’s main residence in Rio de Janeiro. Gold Jaguar currently traveling eastbound on highway BR-101 approximately 100 kilometers east of Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Acknowledged,” Raziela said. “Thank you.” She closed the app.

  Molka said, “Cardoza seems to be traveling out of town.”

  Raziela placed her phone back in her purse. “He’s driven out that way before. Probably has another woman there. While he’s away, we’ll go by his home and verify if his other three vehicles are there. If so, we’ll know the Marvelous equipment is working properly.”

  With Samba music finally playing on the radio—to Raziela’s head-bopping delight—they drove back to Copacabana Beach, cruised to the end of Avenida Atlântica, turned right away from the beach and passed through a residential area containing several blocks of apartments and condominiums. They then emerged onto Avenida Vieira Souto—Vieira Souto Avenue—which cruised alongside another gorgeous beach.

  Raziela continued to bop her head and pointed out her window. “Look, that’s Ipanema Beach. I’ve always wanted to walk that beach to the sea: just like the tall, and tan, and young, and lovely girl in that song.” She grinned. “Maybe we’ll do that when we’re done working today.”

  After a few blocks, Raziela turned right—sadly away from the beach view—and into another residential area for several more blocks until they reached a large lake. They crossed over to a winding lakeside road and followed it past a huge horse racing track.

  Australia and the beautiful Slay Time and good man Mack Mason crossed Molka’s thoughts until Raziela turned the radio down and spoke. “We’re almost there.”

  Raziela turned left, away from the lake and onto a two-lane street which started a twisting climb up a hill dotted with upscale homes.

  Five minutes into the climb, they passed a white work van parked beside the street. And beside the van, two Hispanic, white hard-hatted, gray coveralls and orange safety vests wearing workmen crouched beside an open storm drain.

  Just past that, Raziela and Molka reached a cul-de-sac. At the cul-de-sac’s end, a black iron gate fronted a driveway leading to a large, gorgeous two-story mansion terraced into the hill.

  Raziela slowed as she drove around the cul-de-sac. “That’s Car
doza’s palatial abode, and let’s see…black Mercedes, silver BMW, and green Hummer. All here, so the equipment seems to be all working properly.”

  She drove back down the road a few meters and pulled over with the house’s driveway still in sight. “Get pics of those vehicles for the contractor. You’ll probably be riding in one when Cardoza takes you into the favela.”

  “Alright.” Molka removed her phone from her purse on the floorboard and clicked a few pics of the cars. “Done.”

  “Good,” Raziela said. “Time to go to work.”

  Raziela and Molka drove back down the hill and past the white work van and the two workmen still crouching beside the open storm drain.

  When they passed, one stood and watched them until they disappeared from his view, removed a two-way radio from his coveralls pocket, and spoke into it: “Major, this is Gutierrez.”

  Radio voice: “Go Gutierrez.”

  “Sir, two females just slowly drove by the Czar’s Palace, stopped, took photos of it, and left.”

  Radio voice: “Did you get their tag number?”

  “Negative, sir, we didn’t have the angle.”

  Radio voice: “Leave Sanchez there and follow them and get it for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Parking Garage

  Palácio Hotel and Casino

  Copacabana Beach

  1:56 PM

  Raziela backed into a far corner parking space on the garage’s ground level.

  A moment later, the white work van driven by the workman Gutierrez entered the garage and parked on the opposite side unnoticed by Raziela and Molka.

  Raziela shut off the car. “Last month, I got a room here and put Cardoza’s private office under surveillance. It’s a converted ocean view suite on the eighth floor. Very nice. I observed he arrives about 4 PM, takes a few meetings, and leaves by 5:30 PM.”

  “Casual hours,” Molka said.

  “Let’s get out. Bring your phone. Leave your purse.”

  Raziela and Molka exited the vehicle.

  Molka followed Raziela to the car’s rear, and Raziela opened the trunk. Inside sat the two overnight bags they’d brought and a large, black hard side luggage case Raziela wheeled from their apartment that morning.

  Raziela continued her briefing. “On day five of my observation here of Cardoza’s office—after he left for the evening—I entered the office and took pics of the smoke detector on the ceiling. Then I sent the pics to our engineers in Tel Aviv who fabricated this.”

  Raziela popped the latches and opened the hard side case. On top sat Raziela’s still sealed overnight package from the embassy. She used the car key to slice the package’s seal, tore it open, and removed what appeared to be a standard hotel room smoke detector.

  “It’s an exact replica of the one in Cardoza’s office,” Raziela said. “Except for the mini-camera and mini-microphone installed inside it which will send data to Marvelous. We’re going up there now to replace the real one with this one.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “But how were you able to enter Cardoza’s office for the pics you took for the engineers?”

  “The same way I’m going in today. Through the locked door.”

  “You broke in?”

  Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “It’s so interesting how your mind fixates on the minutia of the tactical aspects rather than the broad strategic aspects of an operation.”

  Molka shrugged. “Well, that’s how it fixates so….”

  “Cardoza’s office uses the same keycard lock system as the rest of the hotel. A tech person attached to our SIGINT team used the information on my room keycard to create a master keycard that will open any door in the hotel. I have that keycard in my purse.”

  Molka shot Raziela a perplexed look. “It’s just that simple?”

  “It’s just that simple. Keycard locks are ridiculously easy to hack. They’ve really taken the art form away from surreptitious entry.”

  Raziela set the smoke detector aside in the trunk and exposed the hard side case’s next items: a folded, multi-colored canvas beach bag and two folded, multi-colored beach towels. She unfolded the beach bag, placed the smoke detector inside it, and covered the smoke detector with the towels.

  “I was wondering about that stuff,” Molka said. “I didn’t think we were really going to the beach when you bought it.”

  Raziela laid the bag on the cement near her feet. “And finally, a couple of accessories for the hotel security cams.” She removed the last item from the case: a large plastic shopping bag. “I picked these up last night.”

  “You went back out after I passed out?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were up over 24-hours,” Molka said. “And you barely napped on the flights. How did you keep going?”

  Raziela shrugged. “I just did. Responsibility is the biggest enemy of sleep.” She opened the bag and removed two floppy, wide brim, straw beach hats: one with a fuchsia-colored band which she handed to Molka and one with a violet-colored band which she held onto. Her hand went back into the bag and retrieved two pairs of oversized, gaudy, fake Tortoiseshell women’s sunglasses. She kept one and passed the other to Molka. “Gear up, soldier.”

  Molka put on the hat and sunglasses.

  Raziela did the same.

  Raziela viewed Molka and chuckled. “You look absolutely ridiculous.”

  Molka smirked. “So do you.”

  “Perfect.” Raziela placed her purse in the beach bag, slung the beach bag over her right shoulder, and closed the trunk. “Ready to do this?”

  “Yes. What do we do first?”

  Raziela grinned. “Go to the hotel bar and order a great big drink.”

  In the white work van, Gutierrez observed Raziela and Molka move from their car toward the hotel entrance attached to the parking garage.

  He spoke into his two-way radio again: “Major, this is Gutierrez.”

  Radio voice: “Go Gutierrez.”

  “Sir, the two women are entering the hotel. Would you still like me to keep their vehicle under observation or follow them?”

  Radio voice: “Follow them. Valdez and Margot are on the way there and will take over observation of the vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Palácio Hotel and Casino’s classic exterior carried over into the hotel’s lobby adorned in white marble floors, polished mahogany walls, crystal chandeliers, brass fixtures, and desk clerks and porters outfitted in smart, white, formal uniforms. If not for the electronic din from slot machines on the adjoining casino floor, you might have walked into a scene from the 1920s.

  Raziela and Molka—their faces well covered by their floppy hat brims and oversize sunglasses—moved across the lobby, entered the hotel lounge, and stopped at the long mahogany bar.

  A white-uniformed bartender placed two coasters on the bar in front of his new customers. “How may I help you, ladies?”

  Raziela answered in Portuguese. “What is the biggest drink you serve?”

  “You mean the strongest?”

  “No, the biggest in size.”

  “I make an excellent Pomegranate Mojito for two that comes in its own keepsake pitcher.”

  Raziela grinned and clapped her hands. “Wonderful. We’ll take it.”

  Drink made, served, and paid for, they moved away from the bar.

  Raziela handed the pear-shaped glass pitcher—etched with the hotel name and logo—to Molka. “It’s all yours. Enjoy.”

  Molka shot her a puzzled glance. “What am I supposed to do with this, not drink it?”

  “No, it’s just a prop. Or a weapon.”

  “A weapon for what?”

  Raziela lowered her voice. “Shhh. We’ll discuss it in the elevator.”

  Molka followed her back into the lobby and over to the twin brass-doored elevators. A group of guests waited to go up.

  Raziela took Molka’s arm. “Let’s hang back and take an empty one.”

  They hung
back watching until all the waiting guests boarded the next two arriving elevators, then moved back to them and pushed the up button.

  A few moments later, an empty elevator arrived.

  They quick-stepped inside, and Raziela pushed the button for the eighth floor and doors close button.

  As soon as the doors closed, Raziela spoke. “When we get up there, stay with the elevator and hold the doors open for me. It should only take me a couple of minutes to make the switch.”

  “Ok,” Molka said.

  “And if anyone gets off the other elevator or comes out of a room, don’t give them the chance to see me leaving the office.”

  “How?”

  “Pretend you’re a drunken lush lost in the hotel trying to find the day spa. Hold their attention on you by asking for directions with your limited Portuguese and act like you don’t understand their answers. If they get frustrated and give up, accidentally spill the drink on them and make a big deal apologizing and helping clean them off. That should give me time to get clear. Got it?”

  Molka nodded. “Understood.”

  With his coveralls removed to expose an untucked white tee shirt and blue jeans, Gutierrez moved from the hotel lobby pillar where he had just observed Raziela and Molka’s elevator wait and departure. He watched the digital display over the doors stop on the eighth floor. He moved to the other elevator and pushed the up button.

  Molka stood halfway in and halfway out of the elevator on the eight-floor—staring down the hall toward Cardoza’s closed office door—with her back holding the elevator doors open.

  She peeked at her bare left wrist from operational habit where her old pilot’s watch was not. She regretted not wearing it for luck.

  She time-checked her phone instead.

  Raziela had been in Cardoza’s office for over two minutes.