“Oh good God Almighty. What are you talking about?”
“I can’t actually say anything more. This is just a courtesy heads-up.” Griffiths shouldn’t reveal any details to this loyalist kleptocrat; neither should she refuse to alert him to a pending clusterfuck. So she has settled on this middle ground, which will also have the bonus of pissing off Snell no end.
“A courtesy? What type of goddamned courtesy is this vague bullshit?”
The fuck-you type, Griffiths thinks. “The courteous type. Don’t be surprised if there’s some big action over the next hours or days. Please do your very best to stay available.”
“Available?” He snorts. “I’m always available.”
“I guess what I mean specifically is: Stay sober.” Take that! “Also, you might want to stay away from your Brazilian mistress.” And that! You smug jackass. “Her bed in Belém is not where you want to be found if Washington calls.”
*
Ariel can see that the wadded-up cloth gag is secured by duct tape around John’s head; she knows firsthand how horrible a gag is, how uncomfortable, how frightening, how degrading. She can’t see any choice but to rip off the heavy tape, which must hurt like a son of a bitch—John’s eyes roll over, and he grunts something from low in his chest, like the distant rumble of thunder. She plucks the wad from his mouth. Plenty of hair has come off on the tape.
“Ow,” John says.
“I’m sorry. Oh God. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
She’s trying to untie his hands but is having trouble with the knot. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I can’t get this. Shit.”
“I’m okay,” he repeats.
And then the knot is free, but there’s blood—why is there all this blood, and she hears herself asking “But what is this?” while swiping at his cheek with her fingers. “What is this?”
“I got punched. It’s just a cut.” He rubs one wrist in one palm, then the other.
“Are you in pain?”
“The cut? It burns a little. But hey, look at me: It’s over.”
Ariel realizes that she’s crying. She nods, and drops to her knees to unbind his feet, which she manages easier than the wrists.
John gets up, shakes out his legs, bangs his toes on the ground. “My foot’s asleep.”
She expected to be relieved at this moment—of course she did—but she’s surprised by the depth of her emotion, it’s a visceral, full-body experience. She’s unable to stop shaking and sobbing.
“Oh God,” she says, and collapses against John’s chest, wraps her arms around him, squeezes tight, puts her cheek on his shoulder. They stand there for a few seconds, in a tight embrace, then she pulls back, places her hands on his waist, and stares into his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I am.”
“The blood on the hood,” she says. “For a second I thought …”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine. Are you?”
It’s a good question. Ariel can’t for the life of her come up with the answer.
CHAPTER 33
DAY 2. 7:59 P.M.
“Look,” she says, “a taxi. Hey! Hey!”
The car stops. The driver glances at John’s bloody face, pauses for a second to consider it, then nods. Ariel and John tumble into the back.
She takes his hand. It’ll be just a short ride to the hotel, during which Ariel knows they should remain silent. This is not a conversation they should have within earshot of anyone, not even a taxi driver, if that’s what he really is. This guy might actually be a cop. Or CIA. And even if he’s neither, he could quickly become an asset of either.
Ariel stays quiet, and so does John. He understands.
As the car pulls around the square, Ariel sees that Moniz and Santos are already waiting in front of the hotel.
“Okay.” Ariel takes a deep breath. “Those are the detectives who’ve been handling my case. Your case. They probably want to talk to you, right now.”
John nods.
“We could tell them to leave us alone for tonight. We can do that, you know.”
“No.” John shakes his head. “Let’s get it over with. If the cops are going to have any chance of catching these guys, we should do it now.”
Moniz is already approaching the taxi as it pulls to a stop.
“John Wright?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Moniz says, nodding, looking relieved. “This is good.” He examines John’s bloody face. “You are injured? You are in need of medical attention?”
“No, it’s not serious.”
“Good. I am Detective António Moniz, and this is my partner, Carolina Santos.”
They all shake hands on the sidewalk. A few passersby have noticed this odd foursome. Someone snaps a picture.
“Let us go inside,” Moniz says, and they all step into the entryway. “You must be very tired, senhor. And very happy to be back here, with your wife.”
“I am.”
“You were carrying a bag, senhora?”
Ariel shakes her head. “It was a decoy filled with worthless newspaper. I handed off the ransom bag a long time ago, in an alley.”
“I see,” Moniz says. “I am sure you want to rest, both of you. But I am also sure you want us to catch the people who abducted you, senhor. So I am afraid we cannot wait to ask you some questions.”
“Of course. But can you give me a few minutes to take a shower? And get something to eat?”
“Please. We will be happy to gather some food for you from the taberna.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“I will return in fifteen minutes? Or twenty?”
“Why don’t you give us thirty.”
“My pleasure. And these policemen”—Moniz indicates a couple of uniformed cops who are standing near a squad car—“they will wait here. For your safety.”
Just another one of those lies that we pretend isn’t. Ariel and John nod, tacitly contributing to the pervasive culture of dishonesty, reinforced every time we hear a blatant lie and refuse to challenge it. Refuse even to acknowledge to our own selves that it’s a lie.
*
Tonight is going to be an important night. Sometimes you think you know this in advance: a hot date, a long-awaited reunion, a milestone party. But in Ariel’s experience, such eagerly anticipated events have never turned out to be noteworthy. Her important evenings have all snuck up, cloaked in the disguise of the mundane.
That horrible night was one of those, starting like so many others in front of a full-length mirror, trying to rally the enthusiasm to spend the evening with people she didn’t particularly like.
“Get it together,” she muttered to herself. “This is your job.”