“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 Café 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 São 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 Café 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 café, 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 Café 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 café 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 café, 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 café, 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 Café 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 café. 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 café, 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 spilled some of the cream meant for her coffee.