Rick Mofina - The Panic Zone

“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.

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.

Was Wilson right? Could he handle this story?

The taxi’s open windows invited warm salty air. He saw azure patches of Guanabara Bay and the map he’d studied on the plane came to life as he recognized landmarks during the drive to Centro.

The bureau was in a tall glass building that reflected the clouds.

The guard in the lobby studied Gannon’s passport and business card, made a call and minutes later a man barely out of his teens emerged from the elevator to buzz him through and greet him.

“Welcome to Rio, Mr. Gannon, I am Luiz Piquet. Come with me, please.” He took Gannon’s bag and in the elevator he asked, “You had a good flight, sir?”

“Call me Jack. Yes, Luiz, it was fine.”

The elevator was slow. Gannon turned to Luiz.

“Are you a staff member with WPA?”

“I am the bureau news assistant. I recently received my degree in journalism from the Federal University. I will be helping you.”

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor. The brass plate across the hall said Alianca da Imprensa do Mundo-World Press Alliance. Luiz opened the glass door to a large room that was lit only by daylight from the floor to ceiling windows at one end.

It was typical newsroom decor, an open office with half a dozen desks, each with a monitor and a keyboard; each cluttered with phones, newspapers, file folders, documents, coffee cups.

Gannon noticed the far wall: two large TV screens were suspended from the ceiling and tuned to news networks. The sound was turned low. The wall had large news photos of children in slums, a SWAT team and shooting victims on bloodied streets, the pope waving to crowds at a stadium, girls in bikinis on the beach.

The only other person in the office was a man finishing a phone call.

“Frank Archer em WPA. Voce tem o numero!” he said before slamming down the phone and cursing in English.

With his back to Luiz and Gannon, he doubled over in his chair, set his elbows on his knees and put his bald head in his hands.

Not certain he was aware of their presence, Gannon said: “Frank Archer?”

The man swiveled in his chair.

Like Gannon, Archer was in his early thirties. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face was sullen.

“Jack Gannon. I just got in from New York.”

After an awkward silence the man stood; he was about six feet tall with a medium build, like Gannon.

“Frank Archer.” The two men shook hands. “Gannon, I’m going to be blunt. I don’t know why you’re here.”

“On the call yesterday, you said you needed help.”

“And we’ve got it. Our people from our bureaus in Caracas and Buenos Aires have flown in and are out on the story. We’ve got stringers on it, too. Everyone is fluent in Portuguese and Spanish, all experienced. Wilson said you’re from where? Rochester or something like that?”

“Buffalo.”

“Right.”

“Frank, I was sent down to help. Let me help.”

Archer flipped through some papers then rubbed his face.

“Gabriela and Marcelo were my friends.”

“I understand that.”

“I was with John at the hospital last night when they told him Gabriela had died. Marcelo died in the ambulance. I’ve been through a lot of shit but that was one of the worst moments of my life.”

Gannon nodded, letting Archer go on.

“John met Gabriela in Miami when she was a correspondent there for Reuters. I went to their wedding. Now he’s at the consulate with Gabriela’s father, who flew down from Miami. They’re trying to make arrangements to fly her back to Florida in a few days to bury her there. Marcelo’s family is preparing a funeral for him.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve lost friends in Afghanistan, in Africa, but this one hits home hard.”