Ariel is not. She’s worried that this is merely a tactical retreat, a feint, after which the interrogation will swing back. She’s worried that John should have a lawyer present for this inquiry, an American lawyer, and it should be happening in the American embassy. If only she could trust the integrity of the American embassy. Of American lawyers.
“They told me to sit on the bed, as they always did before opening the door. Then one man said that I was lucky, my ransom had been paid, I was going to be let go. But I had to wear a gag, and a hood. He said that now was not the time to be a hero; I was just a few minutes from freedom. So I sat still while he filled my mouth with a gag, and put a heavy, itchy hood over my head. Then they led me down the hall, and maybe twenty more steps, then I could feel fresh air. I was bent over and shoved into a car. We drove for about thirty minutes, then I was pulled out of the car, walked a few steps. I was pushed into a chair, I felt my feet being tied together, my hands too. Then I heard footsteps receding, a car door slam, the car shift gears and pull away, and a big door slide shut.”
“You can find this place?”
“I can,” Ariel jumps in. Everyone turns to her. “I know exactly where it is.” One of the things that Ariel has learned: how to be a credible witness. Certainty is critical. Certainty is everything.
“Good.” Moniz nods. “And the hood that you were wearing?”
“It’s right there,” Ariel says, pointing at the kitchen counter.
“Would you mind if we … ?”
“Go ahead.”
Ariel has taken over the role of witness, deflecting attention away from John. His energy seems to be flagging; the fight-or-flight response is exhausting. Afterward, you’re always at least a little confused, and not necessarily capable of making the best decisions. Though you don’t realize this at the time. Nor, possibly, ever.
*
Ariel was trembling, assessing the damage, triaging, like a field medic who’d come upon her own injured self at the end of a bloody battle.
She didn’t want to walk through the party looking like she’d just been raped. She wiped away her smeared lipstick and mascara, her unsteady hands doing an inefficient job. Took a swipe at fixing her hair, but this seemed to do more harm than good. She adjusted her panties, smoothed her dress, winced when she suddenly became hyperaware of Charlie’s semen, warm and slick, the idea making her sick, a ferocious attack of nausea, and she spun to the toilet to throw up, another violent wrenching that hurt her whole body.
Then Ariel stood, started cleaning herself again, wondering: What should she do now?
She could storm back to the party, yell it out for everyone to hear. But then what?
Or she could make a 911 call right here in the bathroom, then go wait for the police by the front door, where a couple of Maseratis and a Lamborghini had been valet-parked in the most visible locations, posing for the other guests. There he is, she’d say to the cops. That fucking monster over there. But then what?
Or she could make her way to her husband, whisper, Could I talk to you? After she explained, maybe Bucky would call the police himself. Or maybe he’d march over and punch Charlie in the face. Either way: then what?
Or she could pretend like the whole thing never even happened, just as her father had once counseled. But then what?
Then what? Then what? Then what?
*
She didn’t know if she’d be able to walk, but she managed, barely, unsteady, with a loud din in her head, as if different parts of her were all yelling at once about everything that was wrong, the pains in her body, in her psyche, the shittiness of the predicament, and she still was unable to decide what specifically to do, other than knowing this one thing for certain: She needed to get the hell out of that party, immediately.
Ariel staggered among the tables, drawing one glance after another, feeling as if her whole body were cloaked in the assault, soaked in Charlie’s sweat, his spit, his semen, as if everyone could see it on her, smell it, and she was hit with another wave of nausea, and needed to lean against a chairback, and someone at the table asked, “You okay?” and she muttered, “Mmm,” then resumed her slog across the lawn.
“Bucky?” she croaked out quietly, her voice weak, hoarse.
He looked up from telling some story. People seemed to be anticipating a punch line.
“I’m not feeling so great.”
Bucky didn’t respond immediately, and Maggie Mitchum flung herself into the silence, said to her husband, “Come on, Aubrey, let’s blow this joint.”
The two couples had carpooled so only one person would need to remain sober. It certainly wasn’t going to be either of the Mitchums, nor Bucky. These three were all people who were never sober at the end of a party, not even on nights when they intended to be.
Another function of Ariel’s job.
“Okay,” Bucky acceded, with obvious reluctance. He started shaking hands.
“Hey,” Maggie whispered. “Are you okay?”
Ariel was afraid that if she tried to speak again, she’d lose it. She just nodded.
“You sure?” Even drunk as Maggie was, this woman whom Ariel barely knew could still see that something was wrong, while Ariel’s own husband had no clue.
“Mmm,” Ariel said again, lips clamped shut, trying to prevent herself from crying, from sobbing, from throwing up again, from breaking down completely in front of everyone.
“I just gotta say good night to Charlie,” Bucky said.
Oh there was absolutely no fucking way in hell.
“I already did,” Ariel managed to say. “I’ll get the car.”
She held out her hand for the valet ticket, which Bucky fished out of the fifth pocket he searched: a seashell with a hand-painted number on it, very beach chic, like everything here, the luxury, the elegance, the fancy people in their fancy dress. This certainly didn’t look like the scene of a violent felony.
*
“Mr. Wagstaff! Saxby Barnes here.”
“Hey.” Wagstaff begins to walk toward the far side of the square, away from the hotel. He’d been sitting near a man who looked like he could have been American, possibly CIA. Wagstaff doesn’t want that guy to hear this conversation. “What’s going on?”
“I’m wondering what info you’ve been able to dig up, on that story we discussed?”
“Such as what, Barnes?”
“I don’t know. Such as anything.”
Wagstaff isn’t sure what Barnes is digging for, and he’s not going to just give him the whole story.
“You have to be more specific, Barnes.”
“The ambassador is concerned that something about this situation might turn out to be problematic.”
“I see,” Wagstaff says. “Okay. I might have something to share with you, Barnes. If you have something to share with me.”
Barnes doesn’t answer, but Wagstaff knows he can wait out the embassy functionary. Pete has been doing this much longer, and he’s much better at it. You don’t need to be employed by Langley to be a good spy. In fact many of the best spies aren’t. Plus at this moment Barnes needs him, but Pete does not need Barnes.
“Okay,” Barnes caves. “But you can’t use me as a source, or even on background.”
“Understood.”