A few editors quietly cursed at their keyboards.
Gannon was headed toward Melody Lyon’s office when a news assistant caught up to him.
“Jack, they’re all in the conference room. Go there now.”
A teleconference was in progress, and solemn-faced senior editors sat around the polished table. Concentrating over her bifocals on the call, Melody Lyon, who was running the meeting, pointed at an empty chair beside her. As Gannon took it, an assistant passed him a folder.
“Sign this.” Her pen tapped a signature line on the documents. Gannon glimpsed the words Consulado-Geral do Brasil em Nova York-Visa Application form and a note affixed: “Request for Urgency.”
George Wilson, the third most powerful editor after Lyon, was in charge of WPA’s foreign bureaus. He eyed Gannon, checked his BlackBerry then said to the caller, keeping his voice loud: “Everyone, Reuters just moved an item claiming two journalists are among the victims. No other details. Frank, let’s run through that again.”
Frank Archer, WPA’s Sao Paulo bureau chief, who was on the speaker phone, kept his emotions under control. He had landed in Rio de Janeiro and was at the scene. Sirens could be heard in the background.
“John Esper was returning to Rio from Sao Paulo where he was helping with coverage of the U.S. vice president’s upcoming visit,” Archer said. “John landed in Rio about four hours ago and learned the news about the Cafe Amaldo bombing. At that time he picked up Gabriela’s message saying she was headed to the cafe with Marcelo Verde-”
Gannon read the note Lyon had passed to him:
“John Esper is WPA’s Rio de Janeiro bureau chief. Bureau reporter Gabriela Rosa is his wife. Marcelo Verde is WPA’s Rio photog.”
Archer continued, “John first thought Gabriela and Marcelo were en route to cover the bombing but when he couldn’t reach them, he rechecked her message about meeting a source at the cafe. That’s when it hit him-they were there when the bomb exploded at the cafe. It was the last thing John said to me before I rushed to the airport. I can’t reach him now.”
“Frank, it’s George,” Wilson spoke up. “John texted us saying that he’d gone to the hospital where they took most of the victims.”
“Wait!” Archer said. “A friend at Globo just told me that police have found Marcelo Verde’s wallet and Gabriela Rosa’s bag among the dead and debris.”
“Oh, my lord.” Melody Lyon cupped her hands to her face. “It’s true.”
Gannon’s stomach tightened.
“The toll,” Archer struggled, “is now seven dead and several critically injured, so it will rise. George, we need help down here.” Archer was fighting emotion. “Our Rio bureau’s been-George, we need help.”
“We’re on it, Frank. I’ve sent in our people from Buenos Aires and Caracas. We’re also sending help from New York.”
Wilson looked at Gannon.
“Melody here, Frank. Any claims of responsibility? Any thoughts on who’s behind the attack?”
“O Dia says it’s narco gangs from the favelas, but who knows. I have to go.”
“Keep us posted, Frank.”
George Wilson removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and took stock of the other editors, stopping at Melody Lyon, who outranked them all.
“Jesus, Mel, I think we just lost two of our people. Did you alert Beland?”
“He’s in Washington. We told him when the unconfirmed reports first broke. I’ve been updating him.”
A soft rap sounded at the door. “Excuse me, Melody?” The news assistant had returned.
“Yes, Rachel.”
“Melissa’s left in a cab to the Brazilian Consulate to get Jack’s visa application processed. Our consular contacts expressed concern and agreed to expedite Jack’s application.”
“Thank you, Rachel.”
“Jack.” Lyon turned to Gannon. “There’s a TAM flight that leaves JFK in five hours. It’s direct to Rio de Janeiro, arrives 8:30 a.m. tomorrow.”
“You’re sending me to Brazil?”
“We need you to help our team there.”
Gannon’s heart beat a little faster.
“Certainly,” he said, “but you should know, I’ve never been there and I don’t speak Portuguese, or Spanish.”
“Local support staff will help you,” Lyon said. “Go home and pack.”
A vein in George Wilson’s temple pulsed as his steel gray eyes locked on Gannon.
“I want you to know,” Wilson said, “that I don’t think you’re the right person to send down there at this time.”
“George, please,” Lyon said, “we’ve been over this.”
“Melody’s the boss, Gannon, and she believes your fresh eyes, as she calls them, could be an asset.”
“I will do my best,” Gannon said.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Wilson said. “You’ll take direction from New York and from my correspondents down there who have far more foreign-reporting experience than you ever saw at the Buffalo Sentinel, and you will stay out of the goddamned way.”
That’s not what I do.
Gannon looked to Lyon for support but she was pondering the Empire State Building, Manhattan’s skyline and her anguish. Everyone’s hurting now, he thought. Out of respect, he bit back on his words and absorbed Wilson’s misdirected insult.
“I will do my best, George,” he repeated.
4
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Gannon’s jet landed at Galeao airport.
As he walked through the terminal, the satellite phone the New York office had given him blinked with a message from George Wilson.
When you arrive go to the WPA Bureau, Rua de Riachuelo 250 in Centro. See Frank Archer.
Gannon collected his bag, got his passport stamped at customs and stepped into the equatorial humidity to find a taxi. The driver nodded after seeing the address Gannon showed him. As they drove down a southbound expressway, his satellite phone rang.
“Gannon.”
“It’s Melody in New York. Where are you?”
“In a taxi headed downtown.”
“Jack, last night-” she paused to clear her throat “-we got official confirmation. Gabriela and Marcelo were among those killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re all reeling. Wilson’s taking this very hard.”
“I understand.”
“We’ve suffered a huge loss. Bear that in mind when you’re dealing with everyone down there.”
“I will.”
“You didn’t know Gabriela and Marcelo. Your thinking won’t be clouded with grief and anger. I need you to help us find out who is behind this attack on the cafe and why. We must own this story, Jack, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.”
Adrenaline surged through Gannon as his taxi fought traffic and Rio de Janeiro rose before him. He exhaled slowly, marveling at the sprawl. Rio’s skyline stood in contrast to its favelas, which ascended in wave upon wave of ramshackle houses shoehorned into crowded slums, notorious for drug wars and gun battles. The shanty towns clung to the hills that ringed the city and overlooked the South Atlantic.
