Chapter 63 - The Countermeasure
"Davies," the federal prosecutor answered on the second ring, his tone sharp. "I’m in the middle of preparing the formal extradition request for Julian Vance’s holding accounts. Tell me you’re in the air."
"I’m still in Lisbon," I said, keeping my voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Cancel the Newark reception. Roland Vance is alive."
There was an immediate, dead silence on the line. When Davies spoke again, all the legal arrogance was gone from his tone. "That’s impossible. Roland Vance’s dental records were verified by the Swiss Federal Police thirty-six years ago."
"Whoever is on the tarmac just threatened Caleb and the children in New Hampshire," I said, my knuckles white around the phone handle. "They knew about the ledger Arthur took. They called Julian a trustee. They have access to the ground operations here, and they’ve given me twenty minutes to walk into a vehicle parked at arrivals."
I heard the frantic tapping of keys in Davies’s background. "Myrna, listen to me very carefully. If Roland Vance is alive, the asset freeze we filed this morning is worthless. Julian wasn't the principal. The money Julian moved through London was just petty cash—an allowance. Roland was Arthur’s senior handler before the firm collapsed."
"Arthur was an accountant," I hissed. "He balanced books for maritime shipping companies."
"Arthur balanced books for private capital syndicates that financed illicit port acquisitions across three continents," Davies corrected, his voice tight. "When Arthur walked away in eighty-eight, he didn't just take his savings. He took the cryptographic routing keys that locked Roland’s consortium out of their offshore reserves. Roland has spent thirty-six years trying to find the physical hardware."
"I don't have any hardware," I said, glancing out from the alcove. Two men in dark suits, wearing fluorescent airport security vests over their coats, had just entered the corridor from the executive lounge exit. They weren't looking at signs; they were scanning faces.
"Arthur hid it in something you own," Davies said. "Something you took with you when you left the country. Think, Myrna. What did Arthur give you before he died?"
My mind flashed back to the small rosewood jewelry box on my dresser in New Hampshire, the antique brass compass he carried on his sailboat, and the heavy leather-bound Bible that had sat on our mantel for four decades.
"The men are in the concourse," I said, ignoring his question. "If I go out through the front exits, they have me. What do I do?"
May you like
"You don't take a car," Davies ordered. "Take the underground metro line directly into the city center. Change trains at Alameda. I have an associate with the American consulate in Sintra—a retired liaison officer named Marcus Lind. Head for the coastal road. I’m transmitting his coordinates to your phone right now. And Myrna—turn off your cellular data the second you read it."
The phone chimed with an encrypted text. I memorized the address, deleted the thread, and switched the device into airplane mode just as the two men turned down my corridor.
