“I guess I’m going to try to get as much money as I can. What else can I do?”
Griffiths continues to look at Ariel in a way that feels vaguely like suspicion. Though maybe this look is not specific to Ariel; maybe it’s just a general professional disposition.
“How is it that you’re going to try?”
“I’m not entirely sure. But I’m going to start with my ex-husband. He’s got some money. Probably not this much, but maybe a start. In fact I should probably call him immediately. May I do that here? In private?”
“Sure, I’ll give you the room.” Griffiths stands. “While you’re doing that, could we do a quick exam of the kidnappers’ phone?”
Ariel is confident that the device won’t have fingerprints other than her own, nor is it likely to be traceable to a person, a credit card, other phone numbers. No kidnapper would make that type of stupid mistake. But the phone was purchased somewhere, at some point, and these are facts that can be ascertained, and might lead to surveillance records, to clues, leads, locations.
“Please make it quick,” Ariel says. “They told me to keep it with me at all times.”
“Of course,” Griffiths says. “Can I ask: Do you have a good relationship? With your ex-husband?”
“No, not really,” Ariel says. “I haven’t spoken a word to him in fourteen years.”
*
“Christ, Guido, you really look like shit.”
“Thanks Boss.”
“Why don’t you go home.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Griffiths turns to Kayla Jefferson, hands her the cell phone. “See what you can find on this. Make it fast. She wants it back in her hands asap, and I don’t blame her. Also, let’s get taps on all her phones, immediately. Record everything.”
The young woman hustles away. Jefferson is not an analyst-level computer geek, but for an operations officer out in the field, she is shockingly tech-literate, which seems to be a competency of her entire generation. Unlike Antonucci here, and unlike Griffiths herself, who are both in the generation that struggles to master their TV remote controls. This is a stark divide in the intelligence community: The older generation continues to prioritize human intelligence above all, the type of intel that’s gathered in face-to-face interactions, interrogations, manipulations, betrayals. For the younger, though, it’s all about the digital world. If they can find everything virtually, why do anything else?
There’s nothing virtual about the condition of Antonucci’s face. The whole left side is swollen, as if he had half his teeth pulled, with pliers. “At least put some ice on that,” Griffiths says.
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
Antonucci knows that it’s coming, sooner or later. It’s going to be brutal, the teasing. Maybe he thinks that if he’s stoic now, he can mitigate some of that later mockery. He’s wrong.
But Griffiths isn’t going to start now. Neither is Jefferson. Antonucci will be granted a grace period while they’re active in this operation. Even after the op is over, they might still continue to let out the false-security line an inch at a time. Antonucci will have to wait, and wait, and wait, with the torment of knowing that humiliation is just over the horizon somewhere. The waiting might even be worse than the humiliation itself.
“I’m sorry,” Griffiths says now. He really does look bad. “Especially if this turns out to be nothing.”
He shrugs. Antonucci has been around the block more than a few times. He knows that the CIA investigates plenty that turns out to be nothing, and this may be just another of those: another kidnapping of another citizen for another ransom. Not related to national security, not an Agency matter. They can always decide that later, toss the investigation back to consular to coordinate with the local police, Interpol, the FBI, whichever arms of law enforcement are appropriate.
But if it turns out to somehow involve national security, or espionage, or terrorism? Then it is never too soon to get on top of it. Griffiths would bet a hundred to one that this won’t turn out to be a CIA matter. But she wouldn’t bet her career on it, not with any odds.
*
Like nearly everyone else, Ariel has been buying a new phone every few years for two decades, whenever a battery dies, or the GPS fails, or the thing takes a dunk in a soapy sink, or any of the planned obsolescences that are built into these devices. With each new purchase, she transfers all the old data to the new phone, all the old photos and videos and apps and passwords and contacts. Which is why she still has Bucky Turner’s numbers programmed into her address book, even though she hasn’t contacted him in fourteen years.
She hits CALL, and waits for the international line, and waits, and waits, and—
CALL FAILED
Ariel tries again, fails again. She glances around, sees a landline on an end table.
Griffiths is waiting in the hall, just in front of the door.
“I don’t have any cell service in here,” Ariel says to her. “Can I use that landline?”
“Sure. Hit star-zero for an outside line, then the plus symbol, then one, then the area code.”
“Thanks. There’s a labeled number on the handset. Can I get a direct callback on that line?”
“Yes.”
Ariel shuts the door, takes a seat, stares at the handset. She has no expectation of privacy on this line, does she? Absolutely not. She punches in Bucky’s cell, and this time the ringing starts.
Two rings.
Three.
He isn’t going to pick up.
Four.
This isn’t a surprise: Bucky doesn’t recognize this number, and he won’t take a call from an unfamiliar number in Portugal. That has spam written all over it.
“Bucky,” Ariel says to voicemail, “it’s, um, Laurel. I really need to talk to you, it’s an emergency. Please call me asap. It’s a matter of life or death.” She rattles off the landline number, then repeats it, then right before she hangs up, she remembers to say, “Thanks.”
Ariel has no doubt that Bucky will call her back. What ended their marriage wasn’t his dislike of her; the other way around. Bucky did eventually become hostile, but not because he hated Ariel. It was because Bucky hated himself, and she was the one who made him aware that he should.
*
Griffiths leans over the wall of Jefferson’s cubicle. “So?”
“There’s practically nothing on this phone. Only one connection was ever made, presumably the ransom call, which was placed from another burner. Both phones were purchased at the same time and place two weeks ago. A convenience store in Málaga.”
“Málaga? That’s odd.”
“I’ve left a message at the store, and I’m waiting to hear back about their surveillance footage. But my guess is that there won’t be any, which is why that location was chosen. I’d also guess that the transaction was in cash.”
“Okay,” Griffiths says, “so this phone is probably going to be a dead end. What about John Wright’s?”
“Still working on that. America, you know: not completely open for business on the day before the Fourth.”
*
“How’d you meet him? Your ex?”