Spontaneous protests broke out in favelas around Rio. In Alem?o, police were shot at with semiautomatic weapons. Two cars were burned. From high up inside Vidigal favela, unseen gunmen fired several hundred rounds. The sounds of them echoed all the way to Copacabana.
Sirens went off all over the city as police who’d gathered for the Olympics now set out for the rioting slums. There had been footage on every channel the evening before, and that morning on the Today broadcast, Matt Lauer had brought up the possibility that the Rio Olympics might be canceled due to violence and unrest.
“This has been the rap against Rio as an Olympic host from the start,” Lauer said. “The International Olympic Committee was worried that the government would be unable to control the favelas, which would put the games in danger. Though Brazil has cracked down hard on crime in the slums over the past ten years, last night’s riots clearly show that there is widespread anger over the money spent on the Olympics and, before it, the World Cup. The potential for danger throughout the—”
The anchor stopped, listening to something being said in his earpiece. “We’re getting reports that the United States is threatening to pull its athletes unless their safety can be assured.
“I repeat, in a stunning development, the U.S. Olympic Committee has—”
General da Silva punched off the remote in a large conference room at the Olympic authority offices. Tavia and I were there along with the three top echelons of the security team that had been assembled in Rio for the games.
“This will not happen!” da Silva roared. “Not a chance. These Olympics are going to go down flawlessly from here on out. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” many of them shouted back.
“I’ve spoken with the president and she has assured me that I will have whatever I need, right up to martial law in the favelas, for the games to go on.”
I winced. The day before the opening ceremony, and Rio was going to be painted black. Who wanted to go to some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, much less the Olympics, if there was the possibility of a violent uprising six miles away?
But what choice did da Silva have? Several countries had announced they would pull their teams if they did not believe their athletes were safe. The general had to show that he was not letting the situation spin out of control; if he didn’t, the Olympics would end before they started.
In my eyes, da Silva was up to the task. In the next fifteen minutes, the general outlined a plan that would double police presence outside and inside the favelas most likely to riot. He ordered six helicopters into the sky at dusk to assist teams of BOPE operators being lifted and dropped into hot spots.
“I also want a noticeable bump in the number of police assigned to Copacabana, Ipanema, Leblon, and all the beaches south to Barra da Tijuca,” he said. “The world is coming to see Rio’s finest, so let’s make sure they get it. And no one talks to the press. Until further notice, I am the only spokesman. Clear?”
The police brass nodded, and he dismissed them.
When they’d all filed out, the general came over to me and Tavia.
“Is there anything I missed?” he asked.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all covered,” I said. “The helicopters will help, but it’s a blow to Rio’s global image.”
“Unless we stamp it out now,” da Silva said. “They want to protest, they can do it peacefully. That’s all we’re saying. No rights get trampled if we—”
His cell phone rang. The general grabbed it and listened as he walked a short distance away.
“What?” da Silva demanded.
He listened again, and as he did, a vein at his temple began to bulge and quiver. Then, his face reddening, he barked, “We’ll be right there.”
He punched off his cell, looking shaken. “That was the medical examiner. Some test results came back on Luna Santos. He says they’re frightening.”
Chapter 59
IN THE PATHOLOGY department in the basement of Hospital Geral, Dr. Emilio Cardoso scratched at his belly while waiting for a computer file to open on a large screen on his office wall.
“There,” Dr. Cardoso said after the screen jumped to two side-by-side images. “The cells on the right are from Luna Santos’s liver. The cells on the left were taken two years ago from Henri Dijon.”
Every cell looked like the shell of an alien insect with a coiled, snakelike body and multiple heads.
“Hydra,” I said. My stomach reeled. I took an involuntary step back.
Tavia was also rattled. Our exposure to the deadly virus at the tail end of the World Cup had been a terrifying affair, one we did not want to repeat.
General da Silva’s face was sweaty and stony. “Are you sure it’s Hydra?”
“No doubt,” Dr. Cardoso said. “A mutation of the virus killed Luna Santos before her blood was drained and before she was shot and burned. But the thing to notice is that in Dijon’s liver cells, there are six heads. In the sample from Luna’s liver, there are nine. It certainly makes poor Castro look like a prophet.”