Chapter 50 - The Dead Man's Trap
The villa in Sintra had stood for two centuries, its ochre walls draped in bougainvillea, overlooking the misty valleys toward the Atlantic.
Duarte led me through the iron gates and into the vaulted stone study. Behind an oil painting of the Tagus estuary hung a small, mechanical wall safe. Duarte dialed the six-digit combination, the heavy brass door swinging open with a muted click.
Inside was a single black leather binder and an envelope bearing the seal of the International Criminal Police Organization.
"Arthur spent the last five years of his life finishing the audit," Duarte said, handing me the binder. "Every shell company Vance created. Every wire transfer Tori received. Every dollar Vance laundered through his offshore trusts. Arthur compiled it all and certified it with international notary seals. It is enough to freeze every asset the Vance family owns across five continents."
My phone rang. The screen displayed an unknown Lisbon exchange.
I took a slow, steady breath and answered. "Julian."
"Your little stunt at border control bought you two hours, Myrna," Vance’s voice purred through the line, cold and lethal. "My lawyers cleared the hold. I am in an executive car heading out of the city. My men in New Hampshire are regrouping. You have thirty minutes to meet me at the Miradouro de Santa Luzia in Alfama. Bring the coordinates to the canister, or the fire at your farmhouse will be visible from three towns over."
"You won't touch that farm, Julian," I said, my voice dropping to a low, venomous calm. "Because if you do, the digital copies of Arthur's 1988 audit will be transmitted to the Federal Reserve, the European Banking Authority, and the Department of Justice within sixty seconds."
A dead silence fell over the line. For five seconds, only the sound of Vance’s shallow, furious breathing came through the speaker.
"You don't have the digital files," he rasped.
"Meet me at the Miradouro," I replied. "Come alone. If I see a single one of your hired thugs within fifty yards of that terrace, I press send, and you spend the rest of your miserable life in a federal penitentiary."
I hung up, looked at Duarte, and picked up the binder.
May you like
"Let's end this," I said.
***
