He’s having a tough time gleaning much from this agreement. It seems to be an amendment to an old contract, dated fourteen years ago, with all the same terms and penalties still in effect, but none of them enumerated in this new paperwork.
Ariel Pryce is one of the parties. The other signatory is a vaguely named LLC with a physical address in Grand Cayman that’s probably shared by hundreds or thousands of other LLCs and partnerships and corporations that all want to obscure their owners’ identities, to protect their assets, to minimize their tax exposure and legal liabilities, to hide in the shadows that were created by lawyers for the express purpose of hiding.
This shield is something that Wagstaff knows can be investigated, cross-referencing the mailing addresses and phone numbers and court filings and real-estate transfers, law firms and private bankers, stripping away one cutout after another, working backward through the maze. That would be a lot of legwork, all with no guarantee of finding a definitive answer, and no guarantee that the answer would be of any interest to anyone. But that’s what reporters do, isn’t it? That’s what investigation is: looking without knowing what you’re going to find. That’s how you discover the truth.
*
“Okay,” Jefferson says, “I’ve now ID’d a bunch of the other people from Wright’s phone records.”
Nicole Griffiths runs her eyes down Jefferson’s annotations—COLLEGE ROOMMATE, WORK FRIEND, COUSIN. She turns the page, then back. “Huh. The calls to his sister.”
“In Marrakesh.”
“They’re very regular, for a very long time. Nearly every week. And then suddenly they stop.” Griffiths flips the page again. “Completely. The last call was three months ago. Not one since.”
“They had a fight? Or maybe the sister got a different phone, with a non-Moroccan number. Maybe one of these that we haven’t yet ID’d.”
“Possible.” Griffiths examines the pages again. “But none of these other numbers are called as regularly. Why would Wright stop talking to his sister three months ago?”
“That’s when he got married. Maybe something happened?”
“Oh something definitely happened,” Griffiths says. “We need to find out what. Let’s learn more about this sister. What about that mechanic?”
“Sorry, that’s a dead end. The mechanic says he doesn’t know anyone named John Wright, didn’t place a call to anyone by that name.”
“Yet he did.”
“By mistake, maybe?”
“Maybe not, Jefferson. Press a little further. And anything more on that LLC that Pryce discussed with her employee?”
“No, sorry. I can’t get almost anyone in Langley on the phone. It’s still pretty early back home, and it’s the Fourth.”
“Okay, stay on it.”
*
“My God!” this stunning woman exclaims. “He has been kidnapped? That is horrible.”
“Yes it is,” Carolina Santos says. “And you are certain it was the same man?”
“Absolutely. But he was with his wife, so I decided to pretend I was wrong.” She shrugs. “I did not want to make trouble for him.”
“Tell me, please, how is it that you met?” Santos asks. Moniz seems to be too busy staring at the woman to ask any questions.
“At a club.”
“You saw each other how many times?”
“It was just the one night.” She says this without the least hint of shame. Good for her, Santos thinks. Maybe there’s some hope for the world.
“How long ago was this?” Santos wants to know what type of cheating John Wright was doing.
“Last fall. September? Maybe October.”
At that point Wright was already dating Pryce, but they were not yet married. Bad, but not as bad as it could be.
“And you are positive he told you his name was Luigi?”
“Yes. I was drunk, but not that drunk.”
The fake name bothers Santos, especially for a man who had already changed his name once, who is married to a woman who had also changed her name. That is a lot of hiding that these people do.
“Does he have any identifying marks that would prove he is the same man? Tattoos, scars … ?”
The woman cocks her head. “Well …”
“What?”
“His penis is circumcised.”
Moniz coughs, and blushes. If Santos did not know any better, she would say that her partner is a little in love with this woman. She supposes there are many different ways to love. Hate is much simpler.
*
Ariel answers the burner on the first ring, “Hello?”
“Do you have the cash?”
She almost admits that she doesn’t have all three million, but instead says simply, “Yes.”
“Good. Do not take it with you now. Leave the hotel, walk left, then take your first left-hand turn. You will find a souvenir shop. Purchase two matching duffel bags, both in black, that are large enough to hold all the cash. While you are still in the store, put one bag into the other. This is important. Then take the luggage to your room. Put the cash into the bag that is holding the other one. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Then what?”
“Then wait.”
CHAPTER 30
DAY 2. 5:55 P.M.
The indispensable disposable phone in Ariel’s hand rings again. She reminds herself to stay calm, to remember to breathe, to say hello.
“Hello,” she says.
“You are ready?”
“Yes.”
“Is the bag ready, packed with the other bag?”
“Yes.”
On her own initiative, Ariel had also made another purchase at the gift shop: a brand-new mobile, which is plugged into its charger but not yet activated.
“Take the bag, leave the hotel, walk across the square. Keep this phone in your hand. And leave your personal phone in the room. This is very important. Leave right now.”
*
Carolina Santos is well aware that her partner is one of those people who always knows which direction is which. Even if António Moniz is walking through a windowless hallway in an unfamiliar building, he would be able to tell you that he is facing south-southwest. This preternatural skill—or instinct?—does not have anything to do with the mechanical operation of a motor vehicle, the steering, the speed management, the situational awareness. But it is not as if they engage in high-speed car chases through the streets of Lisbon. For the most part, being a good driver as a police officer means knowing where you are, and where you are going, all the time. Moniz does. Santos does not. So she reluctantly admits that this makes her partner a superior driver. Which is why she is sitting in the passenger seat while he is behind the wheel.
For the past hour they have been parked across the square from the hotel, watching. There is no way that the ransom handoff is going to happen in the hotel. No kidnapper would walk into a potential trap like that, not one who was sane and competent enough to successfully kidnap someone in the first place. So the American woman is bound to come out, sooner or later, to deliver this ransom somewhere else. She is bound to take evasive maneuvers of some sort.
The police are ready. Moniz and Santos are waiting here in this car, another detective is around the corner with his eye on the hotel’s back door, and four others are stationed at strategic chokepoints nearby. Plus uniformed officers are strewn around the neighborhood, on alert.
“I still do not see any American watchers. Do you?”