"Always know where you are," Patrick had told her. She had studied the road atlas for hours. She turned north and stopped at a gas station to see what she attracted. Nothing. The man with the green eyes was not behind her, but this was of no comfort. He knew she had seen him. He'd been caught. He'd simply called ahead with his little cell phone and now the rest of them were watching.
An hour later, she entered the airport terminal in Pensacola and waited eighty minutes for a flight to Miami. Any flight would have suited her. The one to Miami happened to be the soonest. It would prove to be disastrous.
She waited behind a magazine in a coffee bar and watched everything that moved. A security guard enjoyed looking at her, and she found him difficult to ignore. Otherwise, the airport was almost devoid of human activity.
The flight to Miami was by turboprop commuter, and seemed to take forever. Eighteen of the twenty-four seats were vacant, and the other five passengers looked harmless. She even managed a brief nap.
In Miami, she hid in an airport lounge for an hour, sipping expensive water and watching the throngs come and go. At the Varig counter, she bought a first-class ticket to Sao Paulo, one way. She wasn't sure why. Sao Paulo wasn't home, but it was certainly in the right direction. Maybe she would hide there in a nice hotel for a few days. She'd be closer to her father, wherever he was. Planes were leaving for a hundred destinations. Why not visit her country?
AS IT ROUTINELY DOES, the FBI issued an alert to customs and immigration personnel, as well as to the airlines. This one specified a young woman, age thirty-one, traveling under a Brazilian passport, real name of Eva Miranda but probably using an alias. Having learned the identity of her father, getting her real name was a simple matter. When Leah Pires walked through a passport checkpoint at Miami International, she wasn't expecting trouble in front of her. She was still looking for the men behind her.
Her Leah Pires passport had proven quite reliable in the past two weeks.
But the customs agent had seen the alert an hour earlier during a coffee break. He pushed an alarm button on his scanner while he slowly examined every word of the passport. The hesitation at first was annoying, then Leah realized something was wrong. The travelers at the other booths were breezing through, barely slowing long enough to open their passports and having the approvals nodded back at them. A supervisor in a navy jacket appeared from nowhere and huddled with the agent. "Could you step in here, Ms. Pires?" he asked politely but with no room for discussion. He was pointing at a row of doors down the wide corridor.
"Is there a problem?" she insisted.
"Not really. Just a few questions." He was waiting for her. A uniformed guard with Mace and a gun on his waist was waiting too. The supervisor was holding her passport. Dozens of passengers behind her were watching.
"Questions about what?" she demanded as she walked with the supervisor and the guard to the second door.
"Just a few questions," he repeated, opening the door and escorting her into a square room with no windows. A holding room. She noticed the name of Rivera on his lapel. He didn't look to be Hispanic.
"Give me the passport," she demanded as soon as they were alone and the door was closed.
"Not so fast, Ms. Pires. I need to ask you a few questions."
"And I don't have to answer them."
"Please, relax. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee or water?"
"No."
"Is this a valid address in Rio?"
"It certainly is."
"Where did you arrive from?"
"Pensacola."
"Your flight?"
"Airlink 855."
"And your destination?"
"Sao Paulo."
"Where in Sao Paulo?"
"Maybe that's a private matter."
"Business or pleasure?"
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters. Your passport lists your home in Rio. So where will you be staying in Sao Paulo?"
"A hotel."
"And the name of the hotel?"
She hesitated as she struggled to grab the name of a hotel, and the little interval was deadly. "Uh, the-the -Inter-Continental," she finally said, without the slightest hint of truthfulness.
He wrote it down, then said, "And we can assume the room there is reserved in the name of Lean Pires?"
"Of course," she said, snapping back nicely. But one quick phone call would prove she was lying.
"Where is your luggage?" he asked.
Another crack in the facade, and this one even more revealing. She hesitated, glanced away, and said, "I'm traveling light."
Someone knocked on the door. Rivera opened it slightly, took a sheet of paper, and whispered to his unseen colleague. Leah sat down and tried to relax. The door closed and Rivera studied his evidence.
"According to our records, you entered the country eight days ago, here in Miami, on a flight from London which originated in Zurich. Eight days, and no luggage. Seems odd, doesn't it?"
"Is it a crime to travel light?" she asked.
"No, but it is a crime to use a false passport. At least here, in the U.S."
She looked at the passport lying on the table near him, and she knew it was as phony as could be. "It's not a false passport," she said indignantly.
"Do you know a person by the name of Eva Miranda?" Rivera asked, and Leah couldn't keep her chin up. Her heart stopped and her face fell, and she knew the chase was over.
Rivera knew they had snared another one. "I'll have to contact the FBI," he said. "It will take some time."
"Am I under arrest?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"I'm a lawyer. I-"
"We know. And we have the right to detain you for questioning. Our offices are on the lower level. Let's go" She was led away hurriedly, clutching her purse, her eyes still covered.
THE LONG TABLE was piled with papers and files, with crumpled sheets from legal pads and napkins and empty cups and even half-eaten sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria. Lunch had been five hours earlier but neither lawyer had thought of dinner. Time was being kept outside the room. Inside, it didn't matter.
Both men were barefoot. Patrick wore a tee shirt and gym shorts. Sandy wore a very wrinkled cotton button-down, khakis, no socks, the same attire he'd put on hours earlier in the beach house.
The Aricia box was empty in a corner, its contents all on the table.
The door opened while it was being knocked on, and Agent Joshua Cutter entered before he was asked. He stayed by the door.
"This is a private meeting," Sandy said, very near Cutter's face. The documents on the table could not be seen by anyone. Patrick walked to the door and helped shield the view.
"Why don't you knock before you enter?" he said angrily.
"Sorry," Cutter said calmly. "I'll just be a minute. Just thought you'd want to know that we have Eva Miranda in custody. Caught her sneaking through the Miami airport, on her way home to Brazil, fake passport and all."
Patrick froze and tried to think of something to say.
"Eva?" Sandy asked.
"Yeah, also known as Leah Pires. That's what her fake passport calls her." Cutter was looking at Patrick while answering Sandy.
"Where is she?" Patrick asked, stunned.
"Jail, in Miami."
Patrick turned and walked along the table. Jail would be horrible anywhere, but jail in Miami had a particularly ominous ring to it.
"Do you have a number where we can call her?" Sandy asked.