Emma was.
2
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
The next day, Gabriela Rosa, a reporter at the Rio Bureau of the World Press Alliance, reached across her desk to answer her phone.
“Alo, Gabriela Rosa, WPA.”
“Eu tenho que falar a-” The female caller’s voice was overtaken by street noise. She was likely using a pay phone.
“Please speak louder.”
“I have to talk to a reporter with your news agency about a big story.”
“I am a reporter,” Rosa said. “What’s the story?”
“Not over the phone, we have to meet.”
“Give me your name, please?”
“I can’t.”
“Perhaps you could come to our office?”
“No. I want to meet you somewhere public. I have documents. This has to get out as soon as possible.”
The woman’s voice betrayed fear and desperation, as if she’d had trouble summoning the courage to make this call, forcing Rosa to make a quick decision. She had nearly finished a feature on crime on the metro. Then she’d planned to visit a detective, but she could skip it.
A good reporter never turned a tipster away.
Rosa would meet the caller but she would be careful.
“Fine,” Rosa said. “We are in the Centro on Rua do Riachuelo near O Dia’s offices. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Five blocks west of us on Rua do Riachuelo there is the Cafe Amaldo. Meet me there at 2:00 p.m. sharp. My name is Gabriela Rosa. I have brown hair. I’ll be wearing sunglasses, a pink shirt and white slacks. I’ll be reading Jornal do Brasil and I’ll have my white bag on the table. I will be alone. Are you coming alone?”
“Yes.”
“Give me your name.”
“No name. I’ll find you.”
“Fine, meet me at two sharp. I’ll give you my cell-phone number in case you must cancel. Do you want to give me a number?”
“No. I will be there at two.”
“Can you give me some sense of what this story is?”
“I will tell you when we meet.”
Afterward, as Rosa finished her feature, she took stock of the empty office. The bureau chief was out of town. The stringer and photographer were on assignments. The news assistant was off. Rosa was alone as she pondered her tip and WPA’s rules for staff called out to meet unknown sources: “Tell people where you are going, who you are meeting and never go alone.”
Rio was one of the world’s most beautiful cities. It was also one of the most violent. Much of its major crime arose from drug dealing and gang wars afflicting the favelas, the crowded shanty towns that blanketed the hillsides overlooking the metropolis.
Rosa, like other news reporters in Rio, was mindful of the risks. Criminals had kidnapped and murdered journalists who threatened to expose their networks. She would not meet her source alone. She called a cell-phone number.
“Alo, Verde,” a man answered.
“Marcelo, it’s Gabriela. Are you getting back soon? I need you for a job.”
“I’m leaving Santa Teresa now. Got some very nice pictures New York will love. I have to get lunch.”
“No. Meet me on the street in front of Cafe Amaldo. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“That’s a deal. What’s the job?”
“I’m meeting a source and you’re my backup. Be there at one-thirty. Don’t be late. Call me if you are delayed.”
Later, as Rosa prepared to leave the bureau, she called John Esper, her husband, who was also the bureau chief and who, by her estimation, would now be on a return flight from Sao Paulo, where he’d helped cover news of the upcoming visit by the U.S. vice president. Rosa left Esper a voice mail on his cell phone advising him she would be meeting an anonymous source at the Cafe Amaldo but would be with Marcelo.
Rosa walked to her meeting, absorbing the bustle of downtown Rio with its beautiful colonial buildings juxtaposed with highrises, shops and corporate towers. Some days, she could feel the city’s excitement mounting in the lead up to the World Cup and the Summer Olympics. But today, as she neared the cafe, she thought only about the call she had received.
Sure, it could be something but these things never amounted to much. Usually, they had more to do with a personal matter of a malcontent who wanted a reporter to publicly embarrass their adversary. If that happened today, it wouldn’t be a total waste. She would at least have lunch at Cafe Amaldo and a tale to tell Esper.
Marcelo met her near the restaurant. He was one of Brazil’s best news photographers, an ex-beach bum from Copacabana who was also a bodybuilder.
“My source is meeting me here in thirty minutes. A woman,” Rosa said. “You know the drill. Can you set up over there?” She nodded to the cantina across the busy street.
“Sure.” He had his hand out. “But you promised me lunch.”
Shaking her head, Rosa put a few bills in his palm.
“I want a receipt and the change, buddy.”
Marcelo winked then left Rosa, who found an outdoor cafe table with a clear line of sight for Marcelo. She put her bag on the table, adjusted her sunglasses and read her newspaper.
Twenty minutes later, a taxi stopped near the cafe, cuing a chorus of horns. As the female passenger paid the driver, a motorcycle with two people aboard growled around it. After scanning the crowded cafe, the taxi’s passenger approached Rosa’s table and stood before her.
“May I help you?” Rosa asked.
“Gabriela?”
“Yes.”
“I am the woman who called.”
She had a tight grip on the strap of her bag, running her thumb over her knuckles as she took quick stock of the busy restaurant. Rosa set her newspaper aside.
“Sit down, please.”
The two women filled Marcelo’s lens. As he prepared to take his first shot from his table across and down the street, a large truck making a delivery blocked his view. Marcelo cursed under his breath, left money for his drink, grabbed his bag and trotted toward the Cafe Amaldo, passing by the mouth of a dark alley.
He did not notice that the same motorcycle, which earlier had sped by the cab, was now in the alley, sitting back from the street. Two men stood next to it, their attention fixed on the cafe. The driver talked in low tones on his cell phone. His passenger, dressed in a suit like a downtown banker, checked his hair in the side mirror. He slid on dark glasses, then he unfastened a tan leather briefcase that was strapped to the motorcycle’s backrest.
At the cafe, Marcelo found a table inside, next to the large open-air window that looked out over the alfresco area. He liked the Amaldo and had used it many times like this with reporters. It had Wi-Fi wireless access. And with his camera’s Eye-Fi card preconfigured, he was good to go.
Marcelo ordered a soda and sandwich then worked ever so casually, so that anyone watching would conclude he was merely cleaning his lens, when in fact he was shooting photos.
Rosa tapped her pen on her notebook while waiting for the woman to tell her story. The woman was in her twenties. She had a good figure and was pretty. She seemed educated and poised but her hand shook and she
