Blowout

By Xingu Fawcett

The discovery of tens of billions of barrels of oil in fields far off the coast of Rio de Janeiro was billed as one of the biggest finds of this century when it was announced in 2006. Many hoped it would deliver a bonanza for education and health and make Brazil one of the worlds major economies. What happened?

On February, 14, 2014, at 5: 30 AM during the final phases of drilling the exploratory well at Foz do Amazonas (Mouth of Amazon River), Poseidon, a $ 400 million oil rig suffered a catastrophic blowout, a geyser of seawater erupted from the marine riser onto the rig, shooting 480 ft into the air. This was soon followed by the eruption of a slushy combination of drilling mud, methane gas, and water. All 110 workers were presumed killed in the initial explosion. After approximately 5 hours, Poseidon sank. Was it a sabotage? Or, an accident?

What began as an investigation into the causes of the destruction of Poseidon, quickly turned into something much greater, bribery, kickbacks and money laundering involving staggering sums of money, uncovering a vast and intricate web of political and corporate racketeering. The case would go on to discover illegal payments of more than $20bn to company executives and political parties, put billionaires in jail, drag a president into court and cause irreparable damage to the finances and reputations of some of the worlds biggest companies. It would also expose a culture of systemic graft in Brazilian politics, and provoke a backlash from the establishment fierce enough to impeach one president and convict another for organized crime.

At the center of the bribery, kickbacks and money laundering criminal is a cartel operated by two passionate uninhibited Brazilian women, a Wall Street High-Frequency Trader, an Environment Protection Agency Administrator, and a reckless thrill-seeker young American offshore oil rig engineer, in a torrid love triangle. Action filled romance, intrigue, and betrayal of two women by a thrill-seeking man. Sex does not happen in a tranquil world. Love, sex, money and betrayal make for excellent storytelling. Who won?

On September 6, Its 5 AM in Rio de Janeiro. A salmon pink dawn draped the horizon, and the police helicopter hovered under patches of pale blue sky. There appeared to be police activity bear a villa in Avenida Visconde de Albuquerque, Leblon, Rio de Janeiro. Motorcycle officers, followed by police cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing, rushed to a big villa in Leblon, where they found a mans body floating face down in an infinity edge swimming pool. Who killed him and why?

A murder has been reported from one of those big houses in the three hundred blocks. A financial superstar master of the universe is involvedone of the biggest. The body of a young man was found floating in the pool of his mansionwith bullet holes in his back and one in his stomach. Close to the swimming pool, there is the dried carcass of an exotic multicolored lizard. No one has explained what the lizard was seeking at that pool deck. The multi-colored lesbian lizard is a native of Sonora Desert in Mexico. The story reveals all, eventually.

The story will eventually end with us getting all answers to why this guy ended up dead in the pool, and what the lizard was looking for at the pool deck

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546209386

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Golden beaches and lush mountains, samba-fueled nightlife, and spectacular football matches: welcome to the Cidade Maravilhosa. Rio de Janeiro is a place of exaggerated tropicality, but that’s not the only thing that’s exaggerated. There are forested mountains and a sinuous coastline, grand Parisian avenues and modern concrete behemoths, and more than six million people living in a jungle by the sea. There’s no point in easing into a city this shamelessly exuberant.

Leblon, Rio de Janeiro, is adjacent to Ipanema but more exclusive, being the home of rich and famous people. The beach is quieter and more relaxed than the hip and trendy beach of Ipanema.

September 6, 2017, 5 a.m. It was a full-moon night in Rio de Janeiro. A salmon-pink dawn draped the horizon, and a police helicopter scooted under patches of pale blue sky.

The police activity was situated near a villa in Avenida Visconde de Albuquerque in Leblon. The road was littered with barricades and crime scene signs.

Motorcycle officers, followed by police cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing, rushed to a mansion in Leblon, where they found a man’s body floating face down in an infinity-edge swimming pool.

An O Globo TV news reporter narrated events in a cynical voice. "Yes, this is the famous Avenida Visconde de Albuquerque, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. It’s about five o’clock in the morning. That’s the homicide squad, complete with forensic examiners, detectives, TV news crews, and newspapermen. A murder has been reported from one of those great big houses in the ten thousand block. You’ll read about it in the late editions, I’m sure. You’ll get it over your radio and see it on television, because a young financial superstar is involved—one of the biggest, a master of the universe. But before you hear it distorted and blown out of proportion, before those Brazilian scandal-sheet columnists get their hands on it, maybe you’d like to hear the facts, the whole truth. If so, you’ve come to the right party. You see, the body of a young man was found floating in the roof-top pool of his villa with two bullet holes in his back and one in his stomach. Nobody important, really. Just a young, reckless American offshore oil rig engineer. Close to the pool deck is a carcass of an exotic multi-colored lizard. No one has explained what the lizard was seeking at that pool."

Let’s go back about three and a half years, to the day when it all started.

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On February 9, 2014, green-and-yellow microlight plane flew over the sand dunes in Maranhao, Brazil. The day was blistering. No shadows for miles. No place to hide from the sun. Just white sand. Sand dunes rose and fell like something incarnate, time-bearing, and peaceful, and yet, in their isolated desolation, the dunes were terrifying.

That morning, Jorge and I were flying the microlight plane, which was silhouetted against the vast empty desert below. A great spellbinding image of the plane’s shadow passed over the undulating seductively contoured white desert. The sun burnt away the few specks of white clouds. The sky was clear, deep blue in color, and darker higher up. The distant mountain, shaped like a woman’s back and copper in color, was shrouded in a haze of swirling dust.

We were two offshore rig-drilling engineers working for Petromar, an energy company. Recently, our drilling crew had had success at the Pitú exploration well in deep water. We’d struck vast quantities of oil and gas.

I think they’re drilling too fast, Jorge said.

Tens of thousands of offshore wells have been drilled without incident. Drill teams often face difficult conditions miles down in a hole, but they use a battery of measures to proceed safely, I replied.

Petromar went with the least-safest option—choosing a well structure with fewer barriers against kicks of gas—and nobody batted an eye, Jorge said.

In the glint of the morning sun, the first sign of trouble appeared no larger than a human fist. A sudden gust of wind was full of dust and sand. The leading edge of the sandstorm appeared three miles away.

Visibility is reducing to zero, Jorge said.

Dry, hot winds and sand came suddenly, blowing from the south, shrieking and changing direction rapidly.

The sputtering of the stalling motor was replaced with a single loud pop, followed by a chilling stillness.

The tank is almost empty. I forgot to re-fuel, I said.

All we have is a narrow spit of sand, shifting dunes, and a strong wind, Jorge replied.

I got the plane down to a thousand feet. We had to endure agonizing minutes of the slow, deathly spiral as the stricken plane glided down toward the narrow strip of sand on the edge of the South Atlantic.

I circled the flat beach once to gauge the wind speed and direction, and then I dropped in from the west before a precarious touchdown in a swirling cloud of sand.

We waited for the wind to die down before disembarking.

It will be hard to find fuel, I observed.

We were on Caburé Island near the Preguiças River. Caburé was served by a ferry that went to the nearby town of Barreirinhas.

To our surprise, a curvaceous woman in a bright white bikini emerged from the sea holding a harpoon gun. She seemed as startled by our presence as we were by hers.

Stop! she said, pointing her harpoon gun at me as I approached her. "Mãos para cima!"

I put my hands up.

What are you doing here? she asked. Looking for shells?

No, just looking, I responded glibly.

I tried to shift my eyes beyond her cleavage, but I could not. She was the only bright spot on the desolate landscape. This is Jorge, and I’m Bruno, I said.

She did not extend her hand, but she offered her name. I’m Camilla von Dorndorf.

I tethered the plane and left with Jorge, our backpacks, and our cameras. We took the ferry to Barreirinhas to get fuel.

On the ferry, I encountered Camilla again. I waved at her, and she waved back.

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I returned hours later with fifteen gallons of fuel. Then Jorge and I flew to Sao Luis, the capital of Maranhao, which is on the beach near Brisa Mar Hotel.

In the evening, we were seated near the swimming pool for dinner. Soon, other families on vacation filled up the restaurant. The small band played a few gentle dance numbers and then the tropical music of the Caribbean.

Two couples from the nearby family table were dancing. Soon, others joined in. Camilla, who was in a white strapless dress, was dancing with a young boy. She noticed us and waved.

Jorge and I were in informal clothes—Hawaiian shirts and khaki trousers. We asked two young Swedish tourists to dance with us. They refused our request. Next, we approached two Canadian ladies, and they did a passable mambo with us.

As we returned to our table, Camilla passed us. Why don’t you come and meet my family? she asked.

Jorge excused himself. I have an entire weekend of work ahead of me.

I don’t have to file the disaster response report until next week, I replied.

I went to Camilla’s family’s table and introduced myself. I’m Bruno Antonioni, a petroleum drilling engineer from California working for Petromar. I’m honored to meet you all.

Camilla took me around and introduced me to her family. Bruno flies a strange plane, she said. It looks like a hang glider on three wheels, with an engine, a propeller, and an open cockpit with two seats.

I pulled up a chair between Camilla and her sister, Fabiola. I invited Fabiola to dance with me. When Fabiola walked out on the dance floor, all eyes were on her. Her shoulder-length burgundy hair framed her face, which conveyed an expression somewhere between a question and an invitation. Her black satin dress had a straight neckline and a long slit down the side, exposing her long legs. She danced with her arms over her head. She was so richly endowed that she would have gotten whistles had she been wearing a laundry bag. We danced for some time. She seemed entranced by the music.

Afterwards, I followed Fabiola back to the family table and thanked her for the dance.

What brings you to Maranhao? she asked.

I do seismic and geophysical surveys to find oil and gas.

We have a lot of unexplored oil and gas, Fabiola said.

The oil is in very deep waters, and it’s expensive to bring it to production, I replied.

Fabiola nodded. I’m a high-frequency trader for a Chinese mega bank. Then she explained the business of trading in foreign exchange, equities, and commodities. It became clear that she was a heavy hitter, dealing with hundreds of millions of dollars in New York and London while sitting at a trading desk in Sao Paulo.

Following her explanation, I turned to Camilla. What do you do?

I’m the administrator for the Brazilian Environmental Protection Agency. I approve environmental impact reports. I work in Florianopolis in Santa Catarina. We’re German Brazilians.

Fabiola stood up. I’m going to dance with my father. With that, she left the table.

My son, Cyro, is the apple of my eye, Camilla continued. He’s from an early relationship while I was a student at Blumenau University. He’s my love child. He’s ten years old.

Fabiola finished dancing with her dad and then sat down next to me.

Tell me about the places you grew up and the life you enjoyed, Camilla said.

My mother died when I was eight. I was sent to my uncle’s cattle ranch in the Sierras in California. My aunt and uncle were childless but very loving. When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a rodeo competitor.

What was your life like on the ranch?

The day’s work began as the early morning fog began to lift and swirl through the gnarled oak trees, and I joined my family as they gathered cattle. I was flung off horses on the rodeo circuits as I vied for pro rodeo steer-wrestling dollars. I was more comfortable in the saddle.

It must have been a rugged life, Camilla said.

I nodded.

Fabiola looked at me and drew her chair closer. What was the reward?

It was a part-time job. I got daily wages, food, board, a saddle, and a palomino horse. No family tied me down. I had no real home. It ended when I graduated from the University of Oklahoma as a petroleum exploration engineer. I was twenty-two.

The conversation was witty, and I let the two sisters dominate it.

Finally, Fabiola got up. "Enough talk, Bruno. Let’s do the forró. She smiled with excitement. You take the lead."

With my eyes locked on to hers, our hands clasped, our legs entwined, and her hair flowed down her back. I blotted out the noise and the excitement. She wrapped herself up in my arms, and I felt her vibrant energy. While we were in position and waiting for the music to begin again, she pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked up at me.

"Move the hips in rhythm. Pay attention to the hips. That’s the main focus when it comes to the forró."

We banged away with our thighs, my right leg in between her legs, our hips syncopating with the rhythm, and her torso swaying with the wild beat.

"This way, forró is about love, passion, jealousy, or love memories," Fabiola explained.

After the song ended, I returned to the table and helped her get seated.

Now, it’s my turn, Bruno, Camilla said as she led me to the dance floor.

Camilla was the face of glamorous and uninhibited hedonism. With her lustrous blonde hair, she had voluptuous beauty, but she had a European mystique and sexiness about her as well.

Camilla danced riotously. She did not need me as a partner; she undulated to the tune of a slow, mellow, haunting tango called "Por una cabeza." The onlookers were enthralled. I was like a telephone pole—stiff and erect.

To dance like a Brazilian is to dance with abandon, your entire being thrown into the rhythm, Camilla whispered.

We danced for hours. I was gripped by the music and the dancing of the two sisters. I found Camilla and Fabiola equally seductive. At the end of the evening, I thanked them and their family for their pleasant company, and then I bid them goodnight.

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The next morning, I joined Camilla and Fabiola for breakfast near the pool. It was no surprise that some social confusion accompanied the two sister soul mates who shared a strong love and affection for each other.

It must be wonderful to share love and affection with your girlfriends, Camilla said.

I haven’t any.

No girlfriends? Why not?

I don’t know.

You are handsome—like Adonis.

I shrugged. I know lots of girls, but they don’t last. They’re pretty but so young. All they think about is falling in love.

What’s wrong with that? What qualities do you look for in a girl?

What qualities attract me to older women? Their life experience makes them more grounded and realistic.

What has a mature woman offered you that you couldn’t find in a younger woman?

Emotional stability, I replied. Need I say more? They were able to see things in me that I could not. Also, there were levels of honesty unlike anything I’ve experienced even with best friends.

How do you know these things? You’re so young, Camilla commented.

I shrugged. I’ve been around young girls. They know a lot of things, but they lack wisdom. The last girl I knew was smart and pretty, but she kept telling me, ‘Love is nothing more than the touching of two skins.’

And?

I told her love is much more than that. She cried when I left her. I’m not proud of that. I hate when things break up—partings, crying, letters, and goodbyes.

When you touch a body, you touch the entire person, Camilla said. The intellect, the spirit, and the emotions.

A goodbye is never painful, unless you’re never going to say hello again, I replied.

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Fabiola was a financial superstar, raking in a nine-figure salary and performance bonuses just a year after working for Goldman Sachs and Dragon Capital. She was also going through difficult emotional breakups—chronicles of the sweet life of lesbian women, fading aristocrats, second-rate movie stars, aging playboys, and vapid women of commerce.

Whenever two individuals think in different ways, a conflict arises, Fabiola said.

Conflict is a clash between individuals arising out of a difference in thought processes and emotional and physical needs, Camilla replied.

It’s all about sexuality and affairs with straight men, Fabiola said.

No. It’s all about you and me, Camilla retorted.

I don’t need a man, Fabiola said, but I’m happier with one. I like to have someone I can touch and squeeze and kiss.

I noted the discordant tone in their voices. It’s best to discuss solutions rather than conflicts and problems, I said.

Fabiola left the table to go to the beach.

Camilla turned to me. My sister is not a traditional woman, she said in a quiet voice. "The femme fatale in her represents the most direct assault on the traditional woman and the nuclear family. She refuses to play the role of devoted wife and loving mother that mainstream society prescribes for women. She finds marriage confining, loveless, sexless, and dull. She is not won over and pacified by love for the hero."

Is she an independent and strong woman? I inquired.

She leaves behind the image of a strong, exciting, and unrepentant woman who defies the control of men and rejects the institution of the family, Camilla said.

I looked Camilla in the eye. Are you a traditional woman looking to make a nest?

Yes. I want to build a nest with someone I love. Being a young, single mom was my first taste of life as raw and dynamic as it should be. It liberated me.

Fabiola returned and put her hand on mine. Are you coming to the beach with me?

I looked at her and nodded. Yes.

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We went into the water. I love body surfing. Fabiola asked me to launch her into the oncoming waves.

If you’re in deeper water, or if you’re catching waves that are breaking farther outside, you need swim fins to gain enough speed, I said.

I get it, Fabiola replied.

"The secret to body surfing is to get your head and shoulders down below your hips and legs. Then your hips and legs rise, and your center of balance shifts downward. Gravity, aided by the force of the wave and your strokes and kicks, starts the slide.

Once the slide begins, and you feel the exuberant rush, your head and shoulders will come up. Then your chest becomes a planed surface, and off you go, with your body becoming a surfboard.

That sounds easy, she said. Let me try it with you.

Fabiola ran her back down my chest and thighs. She slided down my whole torso, touching my groin. She danced her way back up, stood up, and faced away from me—a kind of underwater lap dance. I held her hips firmly to launch her into the oncoming surf.

Bruno, you’re turning me on. Stop it!

I did it repeatedly, and she enjoyed it every time.

This body surfing is exciting, she said with a flushed face.

I noted Camilla watching us with curiosity the entire time. She did not take her eyes off us.

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Camilla waded out and asked me to swim with her to a nearby rock. On the rock, she found a secluded niche. She asked me to put suntan lotion on her. I covered her firm, exposed body carefully with the clear lotion.

She closed her eyes. Do you like Fabiola?

I ignored her question, so she repeated it, but I remained silent.

Camilla changed the subject. "Do you have recurrent