“Manners are what’s necessary for the smooth operation of a civilized society.” Her father liked to trot out this bon mot when there were guests around. This was the same person who’d advised his daughter to just forget about a sexual assault. But he knew his manners.
Even her tea was perfect, imported from New York after imported from London after imported from India, brewed with water from a state-of-the-art reverse-osmosis filtration system, Tiffany cup and saucer, shiny sterling silver spoon. She felt an impulse to fling it all into the pool.
And last night: Was that one of the costs? Could she bear it?
She knew that this perfect life was bankrolled by entitled men who took whatever they wanted as an entertaining type of challenge. In these lives of sporting aggression, where were the lines between what was illegal and what was merely boys-will-be-boys, locker-room talk, fun and games? In sports and law and hostile takeovers, in shock-and-awe bombing campaigns and drone strikes, in big-game hunting and stand-your-ground laws: Rules of engagement separate the illegal violence from the legal, from the encouraged violence, the celebrated violence. Is it a surprise that all this sanctioned violence leaks into other spheres?
All the lines were, to some extent, arbitrary. The difference between tackle football and a bar fight and aggravated assault.
There was a point in her life when Ariel was amused by testosterony vigor, maybe attracted to it, strong men, strong-willed, strongly held opinions. That’s what men are supposed to be, isn’t it? That’s what women are supposed to love. And she did love Bucky. But it wasn’t because he was so hard. It was because occasionally he was soft.
Maybe last night could have been expected. Maybe a self-described apex predator like Charlie Wolfe would of course—of course—want to screw his business partner’s wife. Because that’s how he wins, isn’t it? That’s how he proves he has won.
Winning in complete privacy is meaningless. Without at least one witness, it isn’t really winning.
Ariel was the witness.
CHAPTER 40
DAY 3. 12:07 A.M.
They bring nothing. No luggage. No change of clothes. No laptop, no chargers, no headphones. They leave the hotel as if they’ll be returning after a drink or a bite, with nothing except the clothes on their backs, their wallets, their phones, and Ariel’s cell and untraceable new burner. And their passports.
*
Wagstaff does another line, just a small one, then runs his fingertip across his gums, an aspect of cocaine that he enjoys almost as much as the mental and emotional parts: the immediacy of the physical numbness, the confirmation that yes, this is a powerful fucking thing he’s putting into his body.
The lists are spread on either end of his dining table, printed from various websites. Wagstaff has found very few definitive facts about Ariel Pryce’s life back when she was named Laurel Turner; the world was different then, not much was real-time documented online. But in the years since, some useful things have been digitized: the old membership roll of a private club to which she belonged; a list of patrons of a historical society where she was among the Platinum Donors Circle; a literacy organization whose annual gala made the society pages of Wagstaff’s very employer, with a red-carpet photo of Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham Turner plus another couple, the four of them looking as glamorous as movie stars. It’s hard for Pete to reconcile the young long-haired Laurel Turner in that photo with the frantic middle-aged Ariel Pryce here in Lisbon. It’s not the physical differences so much as everything, the whole package, that makes them seem like completely different people.
These three lists are all that Wagstaff could find of Laurel Turner’s participation in New York society. The names on these rolls were her friends and acquaintances, her world, the women she lunched with, the husbands she flirted with.
The husbands, of course, are the point.
Buckingham Turner, on the other hand, is an extremely visible person these days, with an exponentially larger archive of photos and lists—boards of directors, club rosters, alumni gatherings, reunions, weddings, social-media connections. It’s easy to chart the social web of a man like this, at a moment like this.
Not his ex-wife. She has obviously gone out of her way to keep a low profile. Nonexistent.
His and her lists are on the left side of the table: these were the possible men in Laurel Turner’s life a decade and a half ago. On the right side, Wagstaff has compiled lists from contemporary DC: the administration from the president down through a few layers of senior staff; the top echelons of the CIA and the FBI; every member of the Senate and House; every cabinet secretary and undersecretary. Only the men, of course. These are the possible people whom Pryce extorted for the ransom.
Wagstaff surveys this hastily secured territory, a landscape of perhaps a thousand names. Now it’s time to start heading in the other direction, to winnow these lists. When that’s eventually finished, he’ll look for the overlap between the left side of the table and the right. The anticipation is delectable. How many names will there be? A dozen? Two dozen? A hundred?
He does another line.
*
The crowds have thinned but not disappeared, there are cars and mopeds driving around, people are drinking and smoking and laughing, hanging out in the square, loitering in front of the entrance to a dance club. Lisbon is a late place, even on a Tuesday night.
“There,” Ariel says, and John sees it too, and raises his hand, and yells, “Taxi!” One of the few words that’s the same in English and Portuguese.
“Time Out Market, por favor.”
As they settle into the backseat, Ariel keeps her eye on the CIA car that’s parked on the far side of the square. Sure enough, the sedan pulls out of its parking space, not even trying to be subtle. Ariel continues to examine other vehicles, all around the square, and just before the taxi turns the corner she sees it.
Crap. She was hoping it was just the CIA who’d be watching, but it looks like the Lisbon police are still at it too. Which confirms to Ariel that she and John are making the right choice. It’s always satisfying to get positive feedback immediately, even for bad news. At least you verify that you were right.
On the other hand, this will make it that much harder to execute the plan. And that much more crucial to succeed.
*
“Can you wait around this corner? Five minutes.” John holds up his hand, five fingers extended.
The taxi driver looks dubious. Ariel extracts a hundred-euro note, rips it in two, extends one half toward him. “The other half when we return.”