She doesn’t. And there wouldn’t be all that much to withdraw, even if what Barnes is insinuating were true. But it’s impossible.
“Why don’t we just get this out of the way?” Barnes suggests. “Cross it off our list.”
Ariel knows that the only reason not to do this would be if she’s scared of what she might find. She definitely is not.
“Would you like to use my computer?”
“No thanks.” She takes out her phone. “What’s the wifi?”
Barnes scribbles something, slides the paper toward her. She types the digits into her phone, and launches the banking app, waits for the log-in to load, then the next screen—
Ariel can feel her pulse speeding up. Is she actually getting nervous? She should know better. She does know better.
The wifi signal seems to be strong, but her phone’s response is slow. Ariel suspects that this is the opposite of a secure connection, it’s probably a network designed expressly to capture the browsing history and screens and keystrokes and passwords of any guest who uses it. She’s not really worried about the State Department stealing the four thousand dollars in her checking account, but she is getting antsy waiting for the page to load, waiting, waiting—
The screen loads, displaying a balance exactly what it should be. “It’s all fine.”
“Great,” Barnes says. “That’s great news.” But he’s clearly disappointed to have to discard his theory: attractive younger man marries older woman, empties her bank account, and disappears in a foreign country, out of reach of American law enforcement. Maybe that’s what she’d assume too, if she were sitting on his side of the desk, confronting a woman like her, showing up in a situation like this.
Ariel is keenly aware of being observed here, by cameras, by people who might be watching. She couldn’t help but notice all the lenses as she walked through the offices; she can’t help but imagine there’s one somewhere in this room too.
Cameras are not new to her. Ariel had been an actor in her youth, always hyperconscious of her appearance, of what she was communicating not only through spoken words and inflections but also by facial expressions, by body language, by finger fidgets or bouncing knees or shifty eyes, by the many signals we’re constantly emitting, not just when we’re on a stage or in front of a camera, but always, because we’re all being observed through some lens or another. Sometimes you can forget it, or ignore it, or pretend to. But sometimes there’s an actual camera right there to remind you, mounted in the corner of a room like this one. You’re being watched. You’re being recorded.
*
After a few more perfunctory lines of inquiry, Barnes has made it clear that he’s disinclined to lean on the local police, or to involve other embassy staff in looking for John.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Ariel gives her most pleading doe-eyed look. This used to be something she was good at, leveraging her looks to charm men, especially the ones not shrewd enough or self-aware enough to recognize that they’re being manipulated. Some men are instinctually suspicious of good-looking women who are overly nice; Saxby Barnes isn’t one of them.
Ariel leans forward; she can see his eyes flicker down to the opening of her blouse. “Please?”
This is a skill that she’d allowed to atrophy, one she wished she’d never possessed in the first place, never needed. A skill she’d wished didn’t even exist. But she grudgingly admits that there can be a utility in making bargains with the patriarchy.
“Look, Ms. Pryce, I’m not a policeman. We’re not …”
She drops her head in dismay, and she can practically feel him taking the opportunity to look down her blouse.
“That’s not what we do here,” he continues, “track down people who have left their, um, companions for a few hours. That’s a job for the local police, if it’s a job for anyone, which I sincerely hope does not turn out to be the case. But merely because your husband left your hotel this morning without telling you? That doesn’t make him missing. That just makes him a man in a rush. Or an inconsiderate man. Or a distracted man. All of which are far more likely than a man who has come to harm, and none of which are crimes. So at this stage, we can’t …”
Barnes trails off, hoping that Ariel will jump in and agree, yes I understand. But she won’t. He stands, extends his hand and another grin. “I wish I could be of more assistance.”
“Do you?”
He nods, trying to look extra-sincere in his patent insincerity. “I do.”
She’s disappointed. Not just that he won’t help her, but also that she was unable to sway him, that her charms have been resistible by a man who seems like he’d surrender so easily.
Saxby Barnes is not going to be her ally. Ariel will be better off with the Lisbon cop, who at least has a sympathetic face, and a female partner. Not much, but more than nothing, which is what this American functionary is offering. Nothing, plus a bottle of water. Sparkling.
Ariel is more than disappointed. She’s suddenly angry—at this man, at herself, at the world. It sneaks up on her, this fury. Like a volcano erupting after years of pressure buildup.
“What kind of name is Saxby, anyway?”
“A family name. Goes back ten generations.”
As if the mere fact that something is traditional makes it admirable, or defensible. The same exact justification has been used for pretty much all the injustice in the history of the world.
“So it’s, what, your proud Southern heritage? From the good old days?”
The fake grin fades. “That’s right.”
Ariel calls bullshit. She has plenty of firsthand experience with the insidious, corrosive effects of fetishizing tradition.
“Like sweet tea?”
Barnes drops his unshaken hand.
“Or slavery?”
He puffs his chest out, puts his chin up, wanting to defend his honor, frustrated that he can’t argue with this woman. He’s chivalrous! Plus it’s his job to be accommodating.
Ariel turns away, steps toward the door.
“Oh, Ms. Pryce?”
Something about his tone worries her. She looks back over her shoulder.
“Do you, by chance, go by any other name? Or does your husband?”
CHAPTER 5
DAY 1. 11:27 A.M.
She stands in front of the embassy, waiting for her pulse to slow to a regular rhythm, for her mind to regain dominion over her body. On the sidewalk, a woman in backpacking gear is holding her phone aloft, taking a picture of the embassy, with Ariel in the foreground.
Ariel unlocks her own phone, and opens the various communication apps, one after another. She’s old enough to have clear memories of life pre–cell phones, without apps, without computered cars and smart TVs and remote thermostats. She doesn’t believe in tech’s infallibility, always harbors the suspicion that the alarm clock will fail, the weather report is wrong, the voicemail never arrived.
But no, there’s nothing from John. Nothing from anyone, anywhere.
“Excuse me?”