“Ariel Pryce visited the embassy very late last night, when everything was shut down, to use the secure-communications room. No one I’ve spoken to knows why.”
“You’re saying that this was not at the direction of the ambassador?”
“Definitely not.”
What does this mean? It means that Ariel Pryce was summoned to the embassy by someone powerful who either works for the federal government or has deep connections. This is a good tip from Barnes. In fact, a great one.
“So what is it that you have for me, Mr. Wagstaff?”
“The birth certificate of Pryce’s thirteen-year-old son lists no father. And I’m almost positive that she signed an NDA about the paternity.”
Barnes doesn’t respond for a few seconds, then asks, “So that means what?”
This guy really is a simpleton.
“So, Barnes, the person who provided the ransom, and the person who’s the father of Ariel Pryce’s child? They’re the same person.”
“Huh. Do you have any idea how we might identify this gentleman?”
Wagstaff looks up toward the woman’s hotel room, all the windows open, curtains fluttering. She’s in there right now with her recently rescued new husband, and two Lisbon detectives, trying to keep the lid on this explosive secret that she’s apparently been hiding for the past decade and a half. And Wagstaff is about to light the fuse. His heart is already racing.
“No,” he lies to Barnes. This is something he needs to pursue himself, far away from anyone who might want to stop him. “No idea.”
CHAPTER 38
DAY 2. 9:42 P.M.
“Senhora, how did you procure the ransom?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”
The detective waits for more of an explanation, doesn’t get it, and Ariel chooses not to fill the silence.
“I do not understand,” Moniz says. “You do not know where the money came from?”
“Yes, of course I know. But I’m legally forbidden to reveal it.”
“Even to the police?”
“There are no exceptions.”
Moniz shakes his head. “I still do not understand.”
“I signed a legal agreement promising that I would not divulge any details about the interaction. That I will not divulge even the existence of the agreement. To anyone, ever. So right now, by telling you this, I’m already breaking the terms of the agreement.”
This cop should not want to induce Ariel to break the law; that’s not what cops are for.
“This is common in America.” Ariel knows she needs to make this abundantly clear, so the police know why she’s refusing to answer. She turns to Santos. Although Moniz is doing most of the talking, Ariel is pretty sure that Santos is the one who needs to be convinced.
“It’s called a confidentiality agreement, or nondisclosure, NDA. Have you heard of this?” Neither cop responds, so Ariel continues, “The rules are rigid, the penalties severe. If I broke the terms, I’d be ruined financially, and I’d probably go to jail.” She levels her gaze at Santos; she needs this woman to understand this part. “I’d also face other dangers. To my personal safety.”
Ariel assumes that both cops know what she’s communicating; they’re cops, after all, they know what men do to women, what men do when angry, what powerful men are capable of. This is the job of being a cop. Ariel needs them to understand that she’s scared; they should be able to figure out why.
“You have reason to fear this man?” Moniz asks.
“I didn’t say it was a man.”
“This man has hurt you before? Or threatened you?”
Ariel doesn’t answer.
“But it was not your ex-husband who provided the money?” Moniz glances down at his notes again. “Buckingham Turner. He seems to be wealthy.”
“He is, and I did try Bucky. But he doesn’t have all this cash just lying around.”
“Yes, three million euros is a large amount of cash.”
Ariel thinks about correcting Moniz, but decides against it.
“There are not many people who are having these funds available on such short notice. So it is very lucky for you, yes? That you are able to find someone with this unusually large amount of cash, as you say, just lying around.”
“Lucky? You think lucky is what I’ve been?”
“These kidnappers, they are committing a complicated crime with no witnesses, no clues, no mistakes at all. A very well-planned crime. Yet these very careful kidnappers are failing to consider how difficult it is for you to find this large amount of ransom in such a short time. Difficult especially for an American, during an American holiday. These are large obstacles, yes?”
Ariel shrugs.
“And these large obstacles are foreseeable, and avoidable, for very careful criminals. Do you think the kidnappers are considering these obstacles?”
“I don’t know what the kidnappers considered. Obviously.”
“You and your husband are not known to be wealthy. Not in this way, with three million in cash. Yet this is what the kidnappers are demanding.”
Ariel just stares at him. If these cops truly believed that something irregular was going on, and had any evidence, then this conversation would be happening in the police station.
“So yes, senhora, I do say it is very lucky that you are able to find such a person. Do you not agree?”
*
Ariel has given a lot of thought to the concept of luck, to what it means to be which types of fortunate, to how providence should inform behavior. She has often looked like a very fortunate person; she has often been one. She certainly looked fortunate driving that giant luxury SUV, a car that cost more than the average house in America, wearing a runway-ready dress and seven-hundred-dollar shoes, dripping with collectible jewelry, on her way home from a party filled with the rich and famous and powerful that would be detailed in next weekend’s social pages for the masses to leaf through, envious, God I wish I were one of those lucky people.
Ariel was one of those lucky people. Yet here she was, chauffeuring her husband and their friends along the quiet backroads of the Hamptons while her whole body was still shaking from a sexual assault that ended only minutes ago. Her hands were so jittery that she could barely grip the wheel; she kept doubting which was the gas pedal and which the brakes. She was halfway worried that she’d crash into a tree. She was halfway hoping for it.
She somehow managed to find the drunken Mitchums’ crushed-oyster-shell driveway, then she spun the black Range Rover around, back into the dark night, while Bucky prattled on, who knew what he was even talking about, he seemed to be getting drunker by the second as his final drink was still being absorbed into his bloodstream.
She realized that she could not tell him tonight; Bucky wasn’t in any condition to process the narrative, nor to do anything constructive with it. He could not be part of any solution tonight. More likely he’d be an additional problem, irrational and unmanageable and possibly violent. Bucky was a messy drunk, intellectually and emotionally.
Sexually too.
Suddenly this horror stuck: What if Bucky wants sex tonight? They were trying to conceive, of course. Plus he was, as a rule, a horny drunk.