Chapter 54 - The Maze of the Alfama
Julian did not draw a weapon. He was far too calculating to die in a shootout on a tourist terrace. Instead, with a sudden, violent shove, he hurled his heavy tablet directly at my chest. I twisted aside; the device clattered against the stone bench and shattered across the cobbles. In that same instant, Julian sprinted toward the steep, narrow alleyway cutting downward into the Alfama.
"Polícia! Parado!" shouted the lead officer, bursting into a run.
The square erupted into immediate chaos. The street musician stopped playing mid-chord, clutching his guitar as tourists scrambled away from the shouting plainclothes officers. Pigeons scattered into the golden afternoon light, their wings clapping like small firecrackers against the ancient limestone facades.
I did not run after him. I was sixty-six years old, and my knees reminded me of that fact with every descending staircase. Instead, I picked up my handbag, adjusted the strap over my shoulder, and pulled my mobile phone from my coat pocket.
There was a missed call from an unlisted New Hampshire number, followed immediately by a short text message: *Package secure. Henderson in custody. Move to the consulate.*
The breath rushed out of my lungs in a shuddering wave of relief. Patrice was safe. Caleb had actually come through. When he called me two nights ago from the quiet wreckage of his ruined marriage, weeping over the cowardice that had allowed Tori to drive our family toward financial ruin, I had given him one chance to act like his father’s son. I had told him where Henderson kept his private office and who to call in the state attorney's office. For once in his life, my son had stopped making excuses and made the right phone call.
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I turned away from the terrace and began walking briskly toward the designated transport waiting at the base of the hill. Below me, the labyrinthine streets of the Alfama swallowed the sounds of pursuit—distant shouts echoing off century-old stucco, the sudden screech of tires on damp cobblestones, and the shrill whistle of port authority reinforcements locking down the docks.
Julian thought he was the hunter because he held millions of dollars in offshore shell accounts. But he had forgotten the terrain. Lisbon is a city built on the ruins of empires that thought they were invincible, and its narrow streets have a way of swallowing men who believe they can outrun the past.
