by Vince Milam
A chorus of disconcerting thoughts accompanied my shower. If the Russian consulate proved a dead-end—and it well might—then the next steps were long shots. I could walk the wide sidewalks of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon beaches. Those sidewalks had miles of outdoor tables and chairs, grouped to associate with their respective hotel or bar or restaurant. Amsler might hang among the crowds. A daunting search, and likely fruitless. I could check hotel registries, but with her paying cash a false registration name bordered on the guaranteed. Check university libraries in Rio, places she’d utilize to access the internet if uncomfortable using her laptop. Places where she’d dive the dark web and communicate with others of her ilk. I knew the dark web well enough—used it myself for communiqués with the Clubhouse and my client, Global Resolutions. A deep and murky place where electronic sniffers from clandestine agencies were thwarted and frustrated due to false IP addresses and packet encryptions. A place where arms deals, drug deals, sex traffickers, and scum from every corner of the earth dwelled. Including terrorists and flavor-of-the-month revolutionary groups. The fact I also hung there wasn’t lost on me.
Chasing Amsler would head downhill quickly if the consulate gambit failed. A stone-cold reality. I’d been hired to find Amsler among Amazonia environs. She’d left those. But Global Resolutions offered consistent contracts due to my track record. Case Lee went the extra mile. Stayed on point. Maintained dogged pursuit. I’d deliver the same here. At least for a couple of days.
The Amazon presented an operational arena where experience, learned and inherent skill sets, and wilderness environments held court. Accompanied by a bio-prospector who’d turned out a stellar teammate—solid, reliable. I missed her in more ways than one. And yeah, the kiss bordered on epic. Mercy.
Now into an urban area with a wisp of a trail. Iranians, Mossad, Russians, and the Company shifted at the periphery. Behind the yellow tape. I erected a mental barrier, all energies focused on Amsler. If I was able to capture her and the malignant container—and capture was the correct term at this point—I still leaned toward a Switzerland delivery of the toxic sample. Neutral turf. If I came up empty, I’d inform someone besides my client. I couldn’t leave Amsler to roam without some form of pursuit. The trigger point for contacting US law enforcement also signaled a big fat undeniable fact—Case Lee had failed. Tracked Amsler to the dead zone, and Coari, and Rio. Big whoop. She escaped and I failed.
I could wallow among the what-ifs and wishful thinking or get my butt in gear. Chose the latter. Jeans, running shoes, loose dark button-up shirt. I slid a Glock into the waistband and, hand on doorknob, returned to the weapons duffel and stuffed two additional loaded ammo magazines into a front pocket. Okay. Good to go.
As expected, a sprinkling of consulates populated Leblon’s back streets. A quiet, upscale area with shaded streets and quiet neighborhoods. The Russian consulate nestled within one such neighborhood. Unlike embassies that teemed with the hustle and bustle of daily business, consulates tended to be the quiet and obscure cousins of the diplomatic family. Visits through scheduled appointment the norm.
I had little doubt that Amsler would have contacted them, to crow about her success and ask about her next steps. It may have taken a day or two for communications to line up, but they would have connected her with MOIS. Maybe arranged the meeting, given the fact that her phone remained off. But the consulate was a starting point, and it helped shove the whole grasping-at-straws element aside.
I cut away from the beach promenade and into sedate neighborhoods, aware of my back trail, aware that MOIS and perhaps the Russians occupied space within this section of Rio. I performed the usual trail-checking maneuvers, paused at upscale shop windows, checked reflections. Crossed quiet streets often. Reversed course twice. No alarm bells, no sign of a hunter.
The Russian consulate was tucked down a small side street, shaded and quiet and lined with stone-and-concrete walls. Insular living for the well-to-do. The Russian address was no exception. Well, a few exceptions and expected. Broken glass bottles cement-embedded along the wall’s top as a don’t-even-try barrier. Discreet brass plaques announced Russian diplomatic turf. The plaques were positioned on either side of a gray steel door that matched the wall’s color. There was a small call box, the speaker set at shoulder level.
Amsler would have pressed the call button and stood, waiting. Stated her case. “I met with your people in Bern.” Another and much longer wait. Then an electronic buzz, entry allowed. Dollars to doughnuts she carried the surprise package with her. If only those poor bastards inside knew. But the overriding point was she stood and waited, exposed. Seen by others. So I worked the small shops and bistros a half-block away. Endeavored to enlist my own agents of sorts. A short time frame, limited options, and a tinge of desperation drove this ad hoc recruitment. I relied upon an old standby, and subtlety be damned. I waved Benjamins.
A US hundred-dollar bill represented many things in countries with high, and sometimes runaway, inflation. A Benjamin was good as gold. Better than gold. Convertible in an instant, but often stashed as a solid savings investment, stuck under a mattress. A hedge against hard times and, more often than we’d like to think, a life raft.
Two high-end shopkeepers—owners of small couture establishments—took a gander at Amsler’s photo with no sign of recognition. The proprietor of a tiny bar/coffee shop displayed interest and signs of acknowledgement. I handed over a Benjamin and my phone number and told him four more bills were his if he provided clarifying information. Such as when and how she’d arrived and left.
I approached a tiny corner kiosk selling smokes and newspapers. The man there gave a tight nod and a “Perhaps so” after a long stare at Amsler’s photo. Another Benjamin dispensed. Several taxis were parked, waiting for a rider, wealthy families and consulate patrons their bread and butter. The first two displayed utter indifference when shown her photo. The third eyeballed Amsler’s likeness, eyeballed me, and glommed onto opportunity. Fine by me.
“I cannot say I have seen this woman,” he said and turned down the soccer game that aired over his vehicle’s radio. “But I do know my fellow drivers who work this area. I could enquire, if you like. And if worth my time.”
I unrolled another bill. “Does this make it worth your time?”
“It most certainly does.” To his credit, he didn’t attempt to snatch the bill, preferring to play the long game. “And if I could connect you with a driver who knows of this woman? What would that be worth?”
I produced four more bills and spread them as a poker hand. His response was also nonverbal. A frown of concentration, a single tight nod, and the gentle removal of the first bill from my other hand. I scribbled my phone number on a receipt book he carried.
“Day or night. Call me.”
Done and done. He pulled a cell phone and began dialing for dollars. Three hasty recruits, my assets, now worked the immediate area. I considered going as far as ringing the Russian embassy’s buzzer myself, but stopped short. They did want me dead, after all.
I strode back toward Leblon’s promenade, intent on a long stroll while my newly acquired agents wracked memories and worked contacts. It was late afternoon, the atmosphere muted, at ease, before the evening parties cranked up.
I’d visited Rio de Janeiro at other times. Relaxing times. The setting, stunning. The people, even better. Cariocas. Rio residents. Cariocas were often an object of derision within Brazil. Driven in part, I suspected, by envy. Paulistanos—São Paulo locals—were hand-wave-dismissive of the Rio lifestyle. The hard-working commerce center two hundred fifty miles south of Rio—and the largest South American city—viewed Cariocas as frivolous, base. They had a point. The residents of this gorgeous city had a let-the-good-times-roll attitude with more than a dash or three of self-indulgence tossed in. The Cariocas lifestyle peaked each year at Carnival—a bacchanal with no-holds-barred hedonism.
The walk was a leg-stretch exercise as much as a search. The odds were poor that Amsler sat among the hund
reds of outdoor bistros lining Leblon, Ipanema, and Copacabana. But you never knew. I checked often for tails. MOIS, Mossad, the Russians. Or the CIA. Nothing. Just ol’ Case on a fast stroll along Leblon and Ipanema with irregular stops, checking my back trail. I was preparing for a cut-through toward Copacabana when the phone buzzed.
“This the Americano?” the voice asked. I recognized it as the taxi driver who’d called his friends, seeking information on Amsler.
“Yes.”
“I believe my friend knows your lady.”
“Where is your friend?”
“He will arrive in ten minutes.”
“Me too.”
I jogged, cutting through neighborhoods, bee-lining toward the Russian consulate area, and well aware I might be heading into a money-draining operation, a scam. Hell, it was a high probability. But it was something, a pinpoint of light, hope kept alive. Shadows lengthened; dusk approached. I arrived and found my taxi driver outside his vehicle, speaking with another driver, his taxi parked nearby. We shook hands.
“Can you tell me what she looked like?” I asked, keeping Amsler’s photo pocketed.
“Blond. Thin. European. How much money does this involve?”
“Four more for him,” I said and pointed toward my initial contact. “And five fresh ones for you. If you convince me.”
“Let me see her photo.”
“Not yet. What else can you tell me about her?”
“Her face was somewhat hidden. She wore a large, loose sun hat.”
“Okay.”
Silence. Was this guy playing me or wracking his brain to pull more detail?
“A woman quite thin. But tall.”
“What bird did she remind you of?”
“Bird?”
“Yeah. Bird.”
More brain-wracking as he squeezed his chin with thumb and forefinger. “Uma garça,” he said toward the ground.” Head lifted, we locked eyes. “Sim, uma garça.” A heron.
My blood rushed, and my nostrils flared. A heron or stork or egret—the same descriptive I’d use. Bay at the moon, the trail was hot.
“Did you deliver her here or pick her up?”
“A pickup.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“How do you know she was European?”
“Her Portuguese was quite good, although with a European accent. Unlike yours. You are clearly an American, although your Portuguese is quite good as well.”
A bit of stroking on his part, but legit intel delivered.
“Give me more. What else do you remember?”
“She carried a large straw bag. Nothing unusual.”
Other than it carried the potential to kill everyone in Rio.
“What else?”
He pressed his chin once again. Seconds ticked by.
“She smoked.”
The trail’s scent increased. I struggled to maintain a calm demeanor.
“What kind of cigarettes?”
He shrugged. Okay—a detail too far.
“Where did you take her?”
“A most peculiar destination. And one I would only perform during the day.”
“Where?”
“A person with money. A wealthy person. A European. It was most unusual.”
Chill, Case. A Brazilian, telling a tale. Let it stretch.
“Unusual?”
“Very unusual. She asked me to drop her off in Rocinha. I would not enter, of course, but did drop her off at its boundary.”
Rocinha. Over a thousand favelas perched on the hillsides around Rio, their borders understood and defined and defended by the local residents. A million people strewn high above the city. Living with abject poverty, drugs, crime, and one of the highest murder rates in the world.
Rocinha was Rio’s most infamous favela. A slum where the cops didn’t dare enter. And it made sense. Well, it made sense if you waded the hellish waters I kept finding myself in. She’d contacted fellow revolutionaries on the dark web. Where global authorities couldn’t snoop. Arranged a haven, a sanctuary where she was untouchable. She understood she’d be pursued. Pursued by someone like me.
I pulled her face shot photo and handed it, folded, to the taxi driver. Focused on his face. As he unfolded it, I saw clear indications: raised eyebrows, a tight smile. His passenger.
“Yes, this is her.” We locked eyes again. “I have no doubt.”
“Take me. Take me where you dropped her off.”
“Perhaps tomorrow. In the morning.” He lifted a hand and eyes toward the approaching night skies.
I unfurled five Benjamins and placed them inside my shirt pocket.
“Now. Payment upon delivery.”
He shared a shrug with his fellow taxi driver. “Why is my life filled with crazy people?” he asked his friend, who responded with a few sympathetic clucks. “Fine. Get in. But I will not stop. Only a pause. A pause long enough for you to pay me and get out.”
The hunt—full force on a hot trail. The quarry—treed. Up one helluva tree, no doubt. But I was on her. No hiding, Amsler. Not from Case Lee.
Chapter 25
A gunshot echoed a half-mile away, followed by a second one closer and farther uphill. The evening festivities within Rio’s favelas had kicked off. The taxi drop-off point was at the foot of a narrow hemmed-in passageway, headed upward. The driver scooted away, downhill, toward civilization and safety. No point standing around. The end game waited. I entered a different and deadlier jungle.
A sight to see during daylight. Housing stacked on the hillsides, one or two or three stories. Each appeared on top of the other, Lego pieces supporting one another. Brick, stone, tin, wood—a wash of colors ascended. Few roads traversed the favelas. The few that did were layered with local-built concrete speed bumps. Not for safety. An impediment for the rare cop car. A forced slow-down, which allowed locals a view, an assessment, and an easier shot if needed. The lion’s share of access within the favelas was provided through narrow passages and sidewalks and alleys—veins and capillaries spread among the neighborhoods acting as turf demarcations. Gang boundaries.
At night, tens of thousands of lights shone through open windows and doorways. Music blared, faded, blared again as I climbed. Kids dashed past, and women gathered in doorways, their chats stopped long enough to eyeball the intruder. Babies cried, and young men yelled. Old men, survivors, sat grouped on recycled chairs. Collected around tiny corner bodegas, a beer or glass of cachaça in hand. They acknowledged my passage with a chin lift, a one-sided smile. Impossible to interpret—good luck or you’re an idiot or welcome to a nightmare.
My concerns were with the young men, teenagers included. Concern coupled with the acknowledgement that they were my conduit, my sole informational source regarding Amsler. The women and old men, if approached, would become mute on the subject. But I had a plan. Loose, fluid, immediate adaptations expected. But a plan. It first required a statement. A message.
Overhead, electrical wiring collected as rats’ nests, running throughout the neighborhood. The locals tapped into free electricity with wires strung across alleyways and rooftops. Satellite dishes were scattered here and there, unseen voices chatted, meager suppers were prepared. The place smelled of sewage and sweat and despair.
“Hey. Americano. How much money you got?”
A young man’s voice emanated from the shadows. I’d cut across another passageway, a side-hill direction, the footing dirt instead of stone or concrete. I’d meandered with anticipation of a particular moment, a specific vignette. It had arrived.
“Enough for your hospital bills when I’m finished.”
High odds this notorious favela was controlled through several drug gangs. Affiliated gangs, perhaps. Or not. Dog-eat-dog within these near-vertical slums, and a head dog housed Amsler. But dogs barked, communicated. And the first communiqué stood on the cusp of delivery. Another gunshot popped—low caliber, a pistol, from far up the hillside.
The voice emerged from th
e deep shadows. Shirtless and fit, he smiled and worked a stiletto knife like a baton twirler. His fingers danced, and the blade flashed under light from an open window overhead. His two companions emerged as well. They lined my left side along the narrow passageway, the drum major closest. The Glock nested in my right pocket and remained hidden.
“This one must be dangerous,” knife-boy said with sarcastic humor. “Are you dangerous, gringo?”
The chubby young man alongside him crossed his arms above his gut, an old revolver in his right hand pointed skyward. I glimpsed electrical tape along the pistol’s grip and a wire wrapping near the cylinder. The kid appeared as a Pancho Villa poster imitation, albeit one with less reliable weaponry. All he lacked was a bandolier across his chest. The third kid—the youngest of the lot—displayed no weapons.
“Only dangerous to little cockroaches.” A baby cried through a nearby open window. Someone cranked up the stereo thirty yards down the passageway. Music poured from the hovel’s front door. “I’m looking for my friend. A tall, thin European woman. Blond. Have you little cockroaches seen her?”
Pancho took umbrage at the remark, stepped forward, and swung his gun in my direction. I performed a lightning slide toward him before he could complete the gun hand arc. Gripped his wrist, twisted, and continued positioning behind his back. Took the now-empty gun hand with me. The pistol plopped in the alleyway’s dirt and grime and filth. He yelped at the pain. A blistering kidney punch removed the little fight he had left.
I glanced at the youngest kid now behind me. He leapt forward, although the look in his eyes told a tale of action through compulsion rather than true intent. He received a backward thrust kick to the solar plexus. A harsh grunt and explosive exhale resulted. He tumbled down and away.
Drum major became desperate for engagement with the stiletto, but Pancho now acted as a blockade. The kid with the knife shot short violent thrusts around his companion’s sides, ineffective and borderline comical.
I shoved Pancho forward, toward the drum major. Pulled the Glock. Checked my rear. The young kid I’d kicked pulled himself up, took a few ragged breaths, and viewed a modern semiautomatic pistol pointed toward his buddies. One or two more quick catch-up breaths and he turned, hauled ass. Excellent. The message was on its way.
