No, Ariel knows: Fanatic, dogmatic dedication to your community is not what makes anyone a good person. Self-proclaimed patriotism is not proof of anything.
On the screen, this man is wearing a bespoke suit and a smug grin, holding one of those ceremonial checks, a piece of cardboard the size of a beach towel, showily donating a million dollars to adult literacy. This is a charade, and not even a complicated one, nor convincing, just another everyday lie that everyone pretends to not notice. Another strategy for protecting the hefty bulk of his fortune by shaving off a sliver here and a sliver there, giving away little bits to ensure that he can keep the rest. One of the many manipulations available to men like him, created by men like him for the benefit of men like him, the tax structure and capital gains and mortgage-interest deductions, marriage and religion and capitalism and so-called representative democracy, all constructed so men like him could be not only the players but the house as well, everything about the game fixed in their favor, with not only backup schemes but also backups to the backups, and no way for them to lose, not at this game they invented called America.
Ariel has been learning the rules of this rigged game her whole life, trying to figure out what sort of response would be fair and proportionate but also productive. For a long time, all she wanted was simply to not play, to not watch, to pretend it wasn’t even there. But that’s not really possible.
Recently, though, she came to a different conclusion: There was, just maybe, a way to win. By inventing her own game, and rigging it herself, then making it impossible for someone to refuse to play.
CHAPTER 23
DAY 2. 9:53 A.M.
Ariel notices Joao hovering, looking concerned. “I am very sorry to bother you,” the waiter says, then waits for permission to bother her.
“Yes?”
“The police are here to see you. May I bring them? After you finish your breakfast, of course.”
Ariel wipes her mouth. “Just send them in now, please.”
She’s sitting beside the French doors again, the curtains, the breeze, the busy square, the whole city going about its everyday business on a Tuesday morning. It’s a big room, and she watches Moniz and Santos cross it, and Joao resumes clearing while the kitchen preps lunch, that interstitial period between meals when it looks like nothing is going on in a restaurant, but that’s when the whole superstructure is being erected and maintained.
“Good morning, senhora.”
She raises her eyebrows at Moniz.
“Yes, you are correct, it is perhaps not such a good morning for you. I am sorry. A habit.”
“Is it okay?” Santos indicates the empty seat across from her, John’s seat. Ariel nods. Moniz pulls an extra chair from another table.
“I understand that the kidnappers telephoned you?” he says.
“How do you understand that?”
“We were informed by a diplomat from your embassy.”
“A diplomat?” Ariel wonders which sort: a diplomat who’s really a diplomat, or a diplomat who’s really a spy.
“Yes. And these kidnappers, they are demanding a ransom of three million euros. Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And you do not have this money, so you are contacting someone in America?”
“Who told you all this?”
“The man is not identifying himself by name. Only that he is calling from the embassy.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“I did. He is telling me that it does not matter.” Moniz shrugs. “This is true. A name is easy to lie about, especially on the telephone. Are you planning to procure this money?”
“Yes.”
“Senhora.” It’s Santos who speaks now, leaning forward. “This is not seeming like a good idea.”
“Of course it’s not a good idea. But do you have a better one?”
“Are you trying to ask your husband’s company?” Santos asks. “Perhaps they are helping.”
“They’re closed for the holiday, July Fourth. But I did leave messages yesterday, one in John’s private mailbox, one on a general line. Maybe someone will pick up his messages. Like his assistant maybe.”
“You do not know?”
“I never call John’s office line.”
“Never? Why?”
“He said that it’s bad form, that no one at his company ever uses business lines for personal calls. That all calls are monitored, maybe recorded; Big Brother and all that. He said I should use the office line only for an emergency. So I’ve never called his line before.”
This is not entirely true. She had in fact called that direct number once, as an experiment. This was soon after they’d met, nearly a year ago, when Ariel started to poke around the edges of John Wright’s life. She felt a little like a Gen Z intruder, but not nearly as competent, trying to snoop into the private life of someone who was actually private. She wasn’t able to find all that much.
“Tudor Consultants, John Wright’s office, how may I help you?”
“May I speak with Mr. Wright, please?”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wright is offsite today.”
Ariel was expecting this. John had told her that he was going to be out of the country.
“What’s this regarding? Perhaps I can help?”
“Oh, no. I’ll call back another time.”
She didn’t. Ariel had already accomplished what she’d needed, verifying that he really was traveling when he said he’d be, and that the man who called himself John Wright had given her a phone number that corresponded to a John Wright who worked at Tudor. But this wasn’t the same as confirming that the man she knew really was John Wright.
It had taken her a few weeks to recognize the thing that was worrying her: When someone seems too good to be true, he’s not.
Even now, she still hasn’t known John all that long; they still haven’t spent that much time together. He spends his weekdays and -nights in the city, and his work requires travel on some weekends too. So most of the time, Ariel’s life is still just her and George, the two of them together every afternoon, every evening, the boy’s routines unchallenged. She’d made this clear to John, from the very beginning: her son would always be her first priority.
“Of course,” John had answered. “That’s not even a question.”
“Also, I should warn you.” They were driving back to her house for the first time.
“Yes?” He met her eye, then turned back to the dark country road. “By all means. I appreciate timely warnings.”
“I talk to my dogs sometimes.”
“Sometimes” was a vast understatement. It’s a nearly constant patter she keeps up with the dogs. George had been the one who’d named the little brown rescue Scotch; he was the color of butterscotch, and was supposedly a Scottish terrier, though that lineage was dubious. “Maybe not exactly a Scottie,” George admitted, after comparing the dog to the photos in The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds, his favorite book in the world. “Scottish, maybe. Or Scotch. How’s that for a name?”