“Can we narrow it down any further?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Sorry.”
“Too bad. And I’m assuming we can’t locate the phone’s present location?”
“No, it’s not active. I’d be very surprised if it was ever activated again.”
“So can you show me exactly where the device was purchased?”
“Here, this block. Which is within the same vector as where the phone was located when the call was placed.”
“Okay,” Griffiths says, standing up straight. “Let’s find out what’s in that immediate area. Begin by working out from the smallest radius from the convenience store.”
“And I’m looking for what?”
“The homes or offices of powerful men.”
*
All the technologies of Ariel’s childhood now seem like ancient history. Her family’s kitchen had a black-and-white television on which they could watch three national networks, two locals, plus PBS; nothing more. Their station wagon was the size and shape of a pontoon boat, with manually operated windows and no air-conditioning. Ariel passed handwritten notes in class, torn-up pieces of loose-leaf paper that she folded into the tiniest packets. She used the kitchen’s rotary wall phone, twirling the accordion cord around her forearm, untwirling, talking about music videos on MTV, Guns N’ Roses, Madonna, the Fine Young Cannibals. She can still remember the advent of fax machines, they were like magic.
But now it feels ridiculous, in the age of wireless streaming, to be feeding paper one page at a time into the hotel’s fax machine. Like she’s operating a telegraph.
The last page goes through with that reassuring beep.
“Thank you,” she says to Duarte, the daytime clerk. “I’m finished.”
The tech improvements have certainly made life easier, power windows and voicemail and DVRs; air-dropping is definitely quicker than a trip to the post office. But all this convenience comes with plenty of costs, perhaps the steepest of which is the loss of privacy. It wasn’t that long ago when private life could truly be private—Ariel’s whole childhood, her youth as a struggling actor, her first marriage, this all happened when privacy was still possible, in a world that was largely the same one in which JFK had mistresses and Hoover was gay and everyone who mattered knew but no one else did. A world in which secrets could be kept.
Ariel’s wedding to Bucky hadn’t been documented online; in those years, almost nothing was. The only public evidence of her nuptials was in the Vows section, a short piece accompanied by a glamour shot of a striking young woman she no longer recognizes.
When that marriage and her entire old life fell apart, social media was just exploding, digital footprints becoming ubiquitous, the internet starting to vacuum up everything—every birthday, every reunion, every gala benefit and awards ceremony and professional milestone—to make every life searchable, discoverable, documentable. There’s no longer such a thing as a private life for anyone of any consequence.
Because of the way Ariel left, she chose to maintain digital invisibility even while everyone else started reconnecting on Facebook, sharing vacation pics on Instagram, networking on LinkedIn, amplifying on Twitter, Tindering their way to sordid trysts. Not her.
Ariel Pryce is not completely invisible. But you have to know what you’re looking for. You have to know whom. You also have to care enough to look. Almost no one has.
Not yet.
*
“Oh hi, I was just coming to see you.” It’s the reporter arriving at the top of the hotel’s stairs. “Pete Wagstaff? We met yesterday at the embassy?”
“Yes of course. How did you find me?”
“I’m a reporter.” He shrugs. “Sorry for this intrusion.”
They’re standing in the landing off the stairwell; Ariel can hear footsteps descending.
“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“About your husband’s kidnapping.”
“I can’t talk to you,” Ariel says quietly as an older couple pass. “I already told you that.”
“Maybe I can be of some assistance?”
“Maybe you can get my husband killed.”
Wagstaff looks like he wants to object, but doesn’t.
“Listen, you’re a reporter, your job is to publish news stories to a wide audience. But if my husband’s abduction becomes one of your stories—”
He’s shaking his head.
“—if the kidnappers learn that their crime is being investigated by—for all I know—a half-dozen international law-enforcement agencies, how are they going to react?”
“I wouldn’t put anyone’s life at risk for a story.” Shaking his head more vehemently. “I promise.”
“Am I supposed to stake my husband’s life on the promise of a stranger? Seriously?” She smiles. “Please.”
“But—”
“And it’s not even up to you, is it?” Ariel doesn’t let the reporter defend himself. “You have bosses, and your bosses have bosses who have corporate overlords who have shareholders, and all these people care a hell of a lot more about circulation numbers and click-throughs and ad rates than they do about one man’s safety.”
Wagstaff can’t really argue with this.
“It’s not personal,” Ariel says. “But if you were in my—”
She’s interrupted by the ringing of her phone. “Oh what now.” She retrieves the electronic tyrant from her pocket, says “Excuse me” to the reporter, then “Hello?” to the microphone.
“Ms. Pryce? Nigel James again, thank you so very much for returning the signed paperwork so very promptly. But I’m afraid we have a small problem.”
For Christ’s sake. “What’s that?”
“The notary page? That seems to be unsigned. I must remind you that a signature here is not valid without notarization. It cannot be. I do hope you understand.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“A notary.”
“That’s right. I believe my covering letter was quite explicit in this regard.”
“Where in God’s name am I supposed to find an English-speaking notary, in Lisbon, on July Fourth?”
“Please, Ms. Pryce, there’s no need to raise your voi—”
“Oh go to hell.”
Ariel hangs up on him, and squeezes her eyes shut in the pain of this extra complication, there are just so many. This might be an unexpected breaking point, sneaking up on her just when she thought things were looking better; now they might fall completely apart. Her too.
“I’m sorry,” the reporter says. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
Ariel opens her eyes.
“I can help.”
Ariel appraises Wagstaff, wondering if he’s offering assistance because he sincerely wants to help her, or because what he really wants is something else.
“I can take you to a notary right now.”