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Hali studied the terrain and put his hand up to feel the direction of the light breeze wafting up the side of the mountain. Then he nodded.
“Shouldn’t be a problem as long as the monkeys stay out of my way.”
“Let me know if you run into any snags,” MacD said. “Ah’ll give you a shout when Ah’ve got her.”
“I hope she’s not afraid of heights.”
“She had to take the cable car to get up here.”
“Not the same thing,” Hali said, unzipping his pack.
MacD peered over the ledge to the water a thousand feet down. “You’re right.”
While Hali unpacked the equipment, MacD went back to the trail and walked up the remai
ning section until he could hear the sound of voices coming from the crowd gathered on the observation platform.
The huge deck spread in a semicircle around the building housing the cable car loading area and winch. There were several buildings housing the snack bars and the stores selling knickknacks and souvenirs. Hundreds of visitors leaned against the railings to take in the view, took selfies, or sat at tables, gazing at the incredible scenery.
MacD was looking for a CIA agent named Jessica Belasco. According to the photo and bio he’d studied for the operation, she stood an athletic five-six, held a black belt in tae kwon do, and she had long black hair, full lips, and a white three-inch scar down the side of her neck. He’d also noticed she was very cute, so he had no doubt she’d be easy to spot.
Belasco had infiltrated a Bolivian cocaine cartel and was tasked with discovering links between it and a series of government assassinations throughout South America. She was in Rio to connect with their Brazilian counterparts.
According to her weekly report, Belasco and some of the cartel’s big bosses had cable car tickets that would have put them at the top fifteen minutes earlier. This was the only place where she’d be in public during the Rio visit, so the extraction had to occur there.
MacD wandered through the stores and around the deck, just another tourist among many who was taking in the sights. But unlike the rest of the people, he wasn’t looking at the statue of Christ the Redeemer or at Copacabana Beach. He was systematically scanning the crowd for his target.
He finally spotted her sitting at a table with two men and a woman. They were eating cups of gelato while speaking animatedly in Spanish and laughing. Belasco looked like she was having fun. MacD was about to spoil it.
He walked up to the table and used the French he’d learned growing up near New Orleans.
“Pardonnez-moi,” he said. “En aurez-vous bientôt fini avec cette table?”
Pardon me. Will you be done with this table soon?
As he’d expected, the three people with Belasco looked at him blankly. But MacD knew the CIA agent spoke French. She responded, “There are plenty of free tables around us, monsieur.”
She switched back from French to Spanish and explained what he was asking. They all looked at him like he was a moron.
“I know,” he continued in French, “but this is my favorite table. It reminds me of a place where I grew up, a small country village outside of Chamonix.”
“A small country village outside of Chamonix” was her blown cover code. She swallowed her ice cream and looked up at him, her smile faltering only slightly.
“It does?”
He nodded with a serious expression to let her know that she’d heard correctly. “While I wait for the table, I’ll browse the gift shop on the other side of the deck. I want something that reminds me of this place when I leave. À bientôt.”
See you soon.
He smiled at the group, then turned and walked away, certain that she understood the message.
Two minutes later, as he scanned the postcards, she sidled up beside him, but facing the other direction.
“I only have a few minutes,” Belasco said. “I told them I wanted to do some shopping before I went back down.”
“You can’t,” MacD said. “Your cover is blown. They’ll get a text at any moment that you’re really a CIA agent. They might not even wait to get into the cable car before they kill you.”
“And you are?”
