“Get into it. The driver is expecting you. Ask for the rua de S?o Paulo tram stop.”
“Pryce?” the driver asks through the window. Ariel nods and gives the destination as she’s climbing in. The car swings around a turn, and descends a steep incline, and quickly they are out of the shopping district, into an area that’s grittier, the sidewalks narrower, the buildings close to the roadway, the feeling claustrophobic. This would be a good spot to stage an ambush, roadblocks, cross fire.
“Tell me when you have exited the taxi.”
At the bottom of the hill the car merges onto a busier street, less worrisome looking, and within a few fast blocks they come to an abrupt halt. A short trip.
“Obrigada,” Ariel says, handing a bill to the driver. Then to the phone, “I’m out.”
She glances back against the one-way traffic, looking for a tail. She doesn’t see anything at first, but then she does, a moped fifty yards behind her, slowing, pulling to the curb.
“Walk past the tram stop, to the yellow building.”
She looks up at the dirty graffitied structure, an open arched doorway, a sign that announces ASCENSOR DA BICA. “I’m there.”
“Walk into that building.” A dim industrial space, the lower terminus of a funicular. A car is waiting, doors open, a handful of people already seated. “Board the ascensor. Watch for anyone who arrives after you. Tell me when the gates close.”
Ariel is on the lookout for the man who followed her on the moped, but he never arrives. A few other passengers do in the minute before the doors close.
“Okay,” Ariel says, “we’re moving.”
“Look around at those passengers who boarded after you.” A middle-aged woman carrying groceries, an older man with a newspaper, a young couple. “One or more of those people might be following you. Can you tell which?”
“No.”
The tram creaks its slow way up the steep hill.
“Tell me just before you pass the first street that intersects the tracks.”
It’s coming up already. “We’re just about there.”
“Now jump off.”
“What?” There’s a folding gate blocking the doorways. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can. It is not difficult. Do it. Right now.”
She stands, and it’s just two strides to the gate, and sure enough it’s not that hard to swing one leg over the gate, which she does as someone behind her says something loudly that Ariel ignores, now folding her second leg over the gate while holding the edge of the cable car, and now her butt is balanced on top of the gate, and there’s nothing to do but do it— *
“This is definitely the correct transaction?” Griffiths can’t hide her disappointment. She was hoping that this would be the big reveal, there he is, the man in DC who’s being extorted for millions of dollars by Ariel Pryce. But instead Kayla Jefferson’s screen shows a woman standing at the counter of a convenience store, buying a prepaid cell phone, with cash.
“No doubt about it,” Kayla says. “Sorry.”
“Okay, so what can we learn here? Let’s rewind … There, her open wallet. That’s an American Express green card. And it’s in a Louis Vuitton wallet.”
“Or a fake.”
“Good point.”
“It looks like she’s wearing a lanyard under her jacket,” Kayla says. “I can’t think of anyplace that uses that color of ribbon. Does it mean anything to you?”
“Pink?” Griffiths scoffs. “Yeah, to me it means that she bought her own lanyard to hold her ID card. Any exterior footage?”
“Not from the convenience store, no. But I have calls in to other businesses on the block whose cameras might have an angle on the door. I’ll let you know when we hear back. But—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know: July Fourth. I’m not holding my breath.”
*
Ariel lands awkwardly on the steep street, stumbles, falls onto one knee and plants both palms to steady herself, and more people are yelling at her from the tram, but she sees over her shoulder that the yellow car doesn’t stop, the operator shaking his head in consternation, all the other faces at the windows, everyone tsk-tsking.
“Are you injured?”
Ariel gets to her feet, pulls the duffel over her shoulder.
“Not really.”
“Did anyone get off the tram to follow you?”
“No.” She rubs her knee, confirming that it hurts. With all the adrenaline, it’s hard to tell.
“Good. Walk on that intersecting street, make your first right, it will be just a few seconds.”
“I’ve turned.”
“Now your first left. There is a place called Bar Porto. Do you see it?”
“I do.” There are a few groups of young people out on the narrow street, beer bottles and clove cigarettes, sandals and harem pants and patchouli oil.
“Go into the bar, walk through the front room to the hall, then turn back to face the door.”
It’s a dimly lit space with lights strung from the ceiling, and barrels for tables, and the scent of something musky. At the far end of the room is a beaded curtain to a short hall, and a flimsy-looking door labeled WC.
“Should I go into the bathroom?”
“No. Just watch the front door for any tail.”
The bar is crowded, but no one is paying Ariel any mind except the bartender, who nods. Ariel nods back, then cuts her eyes to the door as the form of a man appears, and pauses, and— Oh no, she thinks.
—and keeps walking.
“Has anyone followed you in?”
It has been maybe fifteen seconds since she entered. “No.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“Past the toilet are two more doors. Open the final one, and walk through it—”
And then Ariel is in a narrow alley, stone walls close on either side, trash cans, a wooden crate filled with empty beer bottles.
“—and shut the door behind you.”
One end of the alley is a dead end, and in the other direction is a bend. Ariel can’t see what the bend opens to, but it must be a street. That must be where she’s going.
“And now what?”
The voice doesn’t reply, but the answer is suddenly obvious: Someone has appeared at the bend, filling the narrow space, closing in on Ariel, very quickly.
*
“Hey Pete, how you doin’.”
“Myron. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem. First off, about that LLC in Cayman, I gotta warn you: This is not an easy lift. It’s probably gonna take weeks, or months, possibly never. These legal shields are set up specifically to be opaque, that’s the whole point, usually by people who know what the hell they’re doing.”
“You said probably going to take a while. Which means it might not?”
“The exception is if the legwork has already been done by someone else who took the time to investigate this particular LLC, or another entity affiliated with the same law office, or bank, or local corporate governance. Then it could be a matter of days, or even hours. But don’t count on it.”
“Okay, thanks Myron. I’ll be patient.”
“Like hell you will.”
“And what about the birth certificate?”
“Yeah, I suspect you’re not going to like that answer either. But it’s not uninteresting.”
CHAPTER 31