The Embassy in Rio
Rich sailed west along the southern shores of Brazil on his course to Rio. In time Rich took a reading and steered north.
In three hours the mighty rocks that protrude from Rio rose from the horizon. Entering the bay to Rio is like crossing into another world. The energy from the city entices like the Sirens of many a sea lore. A small harbor with a marina just inside the mouth of Guanabara Bay appeared suitable. He eased The Odyssey into a marina. He tied the lines and located the marina office.
Fortunately the manager spoke English. Rich said he would only be there a week at the most, but the manager would take nothing less than a month’s rental. The manager assured him that two people were always on hand to provide the boat’s security and two guards were on duty at night.
Rich walked back to the The Odyssey. He showered and shaved. During the shave something struck him; unfinished business. He locked up the boat and hurried to the marina’s office. He asked the manager to call for a cab.
In about 15 minutes a black Fiat with white detailing sped to a stop at the marina’s entrance.
Rich ducked his head in the window. “Do you speak English?”
The driver looked sorrowfully. “No speak English, Eu sinto muito.”
Rich held up his index finger. “Wait, don’t go.” He rushed back into the marina’s office and asked the manager to tell the driver to take him the U. S. embassy.
After a 45 minute drive through a labyrinth of small streets of houses plastered tight against the other they arrived at the embassy. The driver gleefully accepted a five dollar bill for the fare.
Rich didn’t expect the embassy to be so large. It looked like a county courthouse. It stood four stories.
Rich walked inside. He felt out of place. The people who moved through the lobby and hallways dressed professionally; suits, ties, dresses. It echoed like a school. The floors were polished marble and the walls paneled with rich mahogany.
Rich stepped to the reception desk. Behind it sat an attractive woman in her twenties.
“May I help you?” she said.
“Yes,” Rich said. “I’d like to talk to somebody from the CIA.”
“Do you have an appointment or do you have someone in mind,” she said.
“I can only talk to somebody from the CIA,” Rich said.
“Let me see if I can get someone who can help you,” she said. “If you could have a seat right over there,” she pointed to a bench against the wall.
Rich sat on the cushioned bench and the receptionist made a call.
A couple minutes later two men in light tropical suits walked from an elevator and stood in front of Rich.
“You wanted to talk to somebody from the CIA,” one man said.
“Yes,” Rich said.
“What can we help you with?” one man said.
“Are you from the CIA?” Rich said.
“Yes,” one man said.
“I have a file name,” Rich said.
The two men looked at each other. One man said. “Come with us.”
They walked together to the elevator and went down. The door opened to a long hallway lined with doors on both sides. They stepped from the elevator and one man opened the first door on the right.
“Have a seat,” he said.
A Naugahyde chair and couch furnished the room along with a lamp and end table.