by Joel Shulkin
Despite his reassurance, Cristina’s neck muscles tightened when she saw the uniformed officer waiting at the hangar entrance. She scanned her passport for the tenth time. Her visa was good for another year. Good thing her parents had been planning that trip . . .
Cristina gripped the passport more tightly. Were they really her parents?
The cockpit door opened. Jimmy appeared with a mannequin-quality smile. “You’re good to go. Remember, your ticket says you return in three weeks, but we can come get you whenever you need.”
“Right.”
“You’ve got the address for the safehouse?”
She recited the Alto Leblon address he’d given her.
“That’s it.” He ushered her to the hatch. “Don’t worry. They’ll have everything you need. We do this all the time.”
As Cristina stepped onto the air stairs, the summer heat assaulted her, making her winter clothes feel ten times heavier. She glanced over her shoulder.
Jimmy waved. “You’ll be fine. Don’t forget to stop by Zuma’s. They have the best stroganoff around.”
She half-smiled and continued down the stairs. Her heart pounded as she approached the customs officer. A local meal was the last thing on her mind.
When Cristina reached the bottom of the stairs, she forced a smile and handed her passport to the officer with a warm, “Bom dia.”
“Bom dia.” He plucked the passport from her fingers.
As he flipped through the pages, she held her breath. What if he doubted her identity? What if he ran fingerprints? At any moment, Cristina expected him to rip off a mask, revealing Agent Forrester, and shout, “Gotcha!”
The officer looked up. “How long is your stay in Rio?”
“Three weeks.”
“Business or pleasure?”
She wanted to say neither. “Pleasure.”
He studied Cristina’s face, then the passport, then her face again. Seconds ticked by. Cristina tried to keep her expression neutral, to pretend the sweat running down her forehead was from the heat.
The officer pounded a stamp onto her passport and again on her arrival card. “Welcome to Rio.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cristina stepped again into the sticky outdoors. She’d thought the CIA would’ve provided her a private vehicle, maybe a limo, but Jimmy told her she needed to rely on local transportation. Zero Dark had discovered all the agency’s Rio contacts. For their own protection, they had to disavow themselves of any connection. Inside the safehouse, the agents could protect her, but in public Cristina was on her own. Still, Jimmy warned her to ignore the gypsy cab drivers who bombarded her as she left the terminal and only use an official yellow taxi.
After a minute of searching, Cristina found one. As the young driver opened the door for her, he looked puzzled.
“Não tem bagagem?”
She shook her head. In Portuguese, she said, “I travel light.”
He helped her inside, closed the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned back to face her. “Ipanema? ”
When the driver smiled, Cristina saw a half-dozen missing teeth.
Cristina started to recite the address Jimmy gave her but stopped. Once she entered the safehouse, they’d probably keep her there. And she had one question she needed to answer before that happened. She removed the locket from around her neck and held it out to the driver. “Actually, do you know where this is?”
“Of course! Very famous place in Rio. But very boring.” His eyebrows bounced up and down. “You prefer to go to Copacabana, no? Much better party.”
“Thank you, but no. If you know where this is, please take me there.”
The driver shrugged and started the taxi. “Tudo bem. But do not complain to me when you miss out on good samba.”
A ringing woke Gary Wilson from deep sleep. He slammed the snooze button on his alarm clock and buried his face in his pillow. He tried to return to sleep and failed. His mind had remained full throttle for hours after he dropped into bed, and now he was paying for the lack of sleep. Every time Wilson had closed his eyes, he’d thought of another possible connection between Agent Forrester and Zero Dark. And when he’d finally manage to stop thinking about that, he’d worry about Cristina and what might’ve happened to her. Reports said that she’d boarded a private jet bound for Paris before the no-fly went into effect, and then disappeared. What the hell could she be doing in France?
Groaning, Wilson rolled over and pressed his thumbs against his forehead. He’d hoped interrogating Devi Patel would yield low-lying fruit, but the woman had remained harder to shake than a granite pillar. It was only near the very end, after he’d asked for the fourth time where Cristina was, that Devi’s demeanor softened.
“You care about her, don’t you?” she asked, searching his face.
“I care about her safety, as I would any victim’s,” he answered quickly, hoping anyone watching wouldn’t pick up on the subtext of her question. “And I know you do too. That’s why I need you to tell me anything that might help us find her.”
Devi swirled her tongue inside her mouth and then motioned him closer. Cautiously, keeping his fists ready in case she tried to attack him, he leaned in.
She whispered, “You know where she was, right? She told you?”
Keeping his expression passive, he nodded.
“She said to trust you. Did she give you something before she left?”
Remembering the burner phone—hidden in his apartment until he figured out what to with it—Wilson nodded again.
“Don’t lose it.”
Devi leaned back and crossed her arms, staring straight ahead. Wilson tried pressing her, but she remained silent after that. When he left the room, he found Agent Vasquez watching through the one-way mirror.
“What was that about?” she asked, brow furrowed.
He shrugged. “A few choice words about your agency. Not worth repeating.”
The ringing restarted, shocking him back to the present. He snatched up the alarm clock and realized it was turned off. He traced the ringing back to the cell phone on his nightstand.
“Cristina,” he said after activating the phone. “Where are you?”
“It’s not Cristina.” The voice was deep and masculine, with a heavy accent.
“Who the hell is this?” Wilson checked the caller ID and realized he wasn’t holding his phone. He was holding the phone that Santos had given Cristina.
“Detective Wilson, my associate told me to trust you, and so I’m reaching out to you because I fear Cristina is in danger.” The caller breathed heavily into the mouthpiece. “I need your help.”
Chapter Fifty
Blaring horns and thrumming engines surrounded the taxi as they crept along the bustling Avenida Republico do Chile through the center of town. Devils, superheroes, birds and natives mingled with throngs of whooping partygoers dancing and taking selfies. Cristina’s taxi turned off the packed street, passing through a metal gate and up a narrow lane. Cristina marveled at the conical pyramid directly ahead. Off to the right stood another tower comprised of layered rings, topped with a simple cross. They rolled to a stop in front of the pyramid.
“Chegamos.” The driver engaged the emergency brake, then turned and gesticulated at the pyramid. “Metropolitan Cathedral. Oitenta reais.”
“Eighty?” Cristina frowned. “You said sixty.”
“Yes.” He gave an apologetic smile. “But traffic was very bad, you know? That is the risk when you visit Rio during Carnival.”
Sighing, Cristina flipped through a roll of colorful bills. She’d been surprised when copilot Jimmy had handed her a giant wad of Brazilian currency.
“Ten thousand Reais,” he’d said. “Plenty to get to the safehouse. Once there, our agents can get you whatever you need.”
“You had this lying around?”
; “We keep over fifty different currencies available so agents don’t have to deal with local exchanges or bank cards that can be tracked or hacked. Once you leave the Rio airport, use cash only. No hired cars, no plastic, nothing traceable. It will be easy to disappear in a crowd of two million tourists.” Jimmy had given her a pointed look. “Cristina Silva needs to become a ghost.”
Now, she shuddered at the irony of his statement. Cristina Silva was already a ghost. So, what did that make her now?
“Here.” She counted out five bills and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change.”
“If you get bored praying, a samba parade runs through here in twenty minutes.” He gave a thumbs-up. “Free party!”
Cristina managed a faint smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
As she stepped out of the cab, the air stuck to her skin like hot oil.
“Boa sorte! ” He drove off.
Cristina fingered the locket around her neck as she studied the cathedral. What could this place have to do with Santos’s daughter? Maybe the origin of the locket wasn’t important, which meant Cristina had wasted a trip. But as long as she was there, she would check it out.
Two men stood at the entrance, dressed all in black, with heavy bulletproof vests and combat boots. Each held a semiautomatic rifle. Badges on their shoulders identified them as Civil Police. Cristina tried to look like a casual tourist—not a fugitive who still wore long sleeves and dress slacks in summer heat because she had no other clothes. As she passed, their mirrored sunglasses reflected everything. Their mouths, set in grim lines, revealed nothing. Cristina caught their heads shifting briefly, following her as she entered. She held her breath and kept walking. Her body tensed involuntarily.
No footsteps behind her. She dared a glance back. The guards remained in position.
Her tension ebbing, Cristina looked forward again and gasped. Gorgeous stained glass windows stretched in columns along the four walls of the cathedral from the floor all the way to the ceiling, casting a vibrant glow over the rows of pews in the center of the chamber. The ceiling formed a cross, white light spilling through. A handful of other tourists meandered about, their footfalls echoing and reverberating.
Cautiously, Cristina took the long way around the room to the other side, staring up at the glass arcs. A fresco depicted two cardinals smiling at what she assumed was Christ, while what appeared to be a brown rope twisted between them. She figured it had some religious meaning that escaped her. She scanned the other frescoes.
By the time Cristina reached the opposite wall, her chest felt heavy with disappointment. None of this sparked any personal recognition or memory, and she had no idea how it connected to Santos or his daughter. She sat on a pew and stared at the fresco. Now what? Go to the safehouse and hide?
Her watch beeped. She cursed and shut it off. She’d already missed another three doses of Recognate. How long before she started losing memories?
As Cristina trudged back to the entrance, she passed a tour group taking photos in front of a statue. She glanced at the statue and did a double take. The statue was of a man tied to a tree. Arrows pierced his chest and thigh. She pulled the locket out from under her shirt. The statue matched the engraving.
“Excuse me,” she asked the woman she decided was the tour group leader. Cristina pointed at the statue. “Who is this?”
“São Sebastião,” the woman said with a hint of annoyance at being interrupted. “Rio’s patron saint.”
The guide continued her spiel, but Cristina wasn’t listening. She stared at the statue, her mind hearing the clicking of pieces falling into place.
“Sebastian dos Santos,” she whispered. “Sebastian of the saints.”
Cristina’s pulse pounded as she waited for the guide to finish. She was in the right place, after all. As soon as the tour group moved on, she sprang to the statue and inspected it. No obvious imperfections. She crouched and ran her finger along the base, hoping to find a note tucked away, or maybe a secret switch.
As she touched the marble surface, the scene changed. Organ music channeled through hidden pipes. Worshippers filed in to fill every pew, rubbing against each other. The pungent odor of sweat hung heavy in the air. An archbishop raised his arms, leading the congregation in prayer. A woman sat beside her, seeming vaguely familiar though Cristina couldn’t see her face.
What is this? The organ music swelled into a majestic coda. A memory?
Yes, said the voice in her mind. But not yours.
Outside the church, someone shouted. Then gunfire at the entrance.
Everyone screamed. Scattered in all directions. Some stumbled, fell, only to be trampled by others fleeing. Cristina knelt, throwing her hands over her head. More gunshots echoed. She shrieked.
She heard her name. Gazed upward. A giant stood over her, dressed in black. She tried to focus on his face but could not make it out. From his back sprouted two wings. He spoke, his voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place, but gentle. “It’ll be all right. You can trust me . . .”
Look out!
The image vanished. Cristina heard footsteps behind her.
Her body reacted. She spun. Her fist shot out. Connected with bone. The police officer staggered backward, hands covering his nose. His sunglasses clattered on the ground.
Behind him, his partner retreated. The officer swung his rifle toward Cristina.
She lunged. Somersaulted. Wrapped her thighs around his head. Squeezed as they toppled.
The Brazilian policeman howled. Dropped his rifle. Cristina jammed her knees against the base of his neck. The policeman dug at her legs, choking. She squeezed tighter. He collapsed. She tumbled off. Snatched up his rifle. Clutched it by the muzzle. Twirled, swinging it like a baseball bat. The butt crashed into the first officer’s temple. He collapsed.
Cristina sprinted, clutching the rifle. Her heart raced, senses heightened. The congregation parted, allowing her to pass. Their frightened murmurs reverberated in her ears. She pressed on until reaching the exit.
Sunlight blinded her. Drumbeats echoed up the hill from the street below. She shielded her eyes. A mass of partygoers paraded, singing and dancing around floats filled with samba bands and costumed revelers.
“Stop,” someone shouted from behind.
Cristina glanced back. A woman appeared at the cathedral entrance. Dark hair spilled over the shoulders of her bright-pink sundress.
Keep running. You’re not safe.
The woman transformed, morphing into Carl Franklin, dressed in fatigues and a combat helmet. An assault rifle appeared in his hand. Blood streamed down the side of Carl’s face. His brow furrowed. Lips twisted into a snarl.
“You did this,” he said, his voice sounding distant, filtered. “You’ll pay.”
Cristina fired her rifle at the Carl apparition, and he scrambled for cover. Cristina threw away the gun. Bolted down the hill toward the street. She reached the parade, dived into the crowd. Fell in step with a group of revelers.
A girl in a bikini and blue afro locked arms with Cristina and handed her a plastic cup overflowing with greenish liquid and mashed-up limes.
Drink it, the voice commanded.
Cristina’s eyes darted side to side. No sign of Carl Franklin look-alikes or the police. But the people dancing around her had noticed her odd clothing choice. They eyed her suspiciously, whispering among themselves. Up ahead, Cristina spotted three police officers dragging away unruly carousers, beating them with billy clubs.
Blend in! If you don’t look like you belong, they’ll turn you in.
A powerful craving overtook Cristina. She threw back the drink. The afro girl cheered her on. A cold tingle rushed over her. She drained the glass. Her feet felt lighter. The voice ceased.
Cristina.
This time it wasn’t from inside her head. Her heart pounded as she looked ar
ound. Someone was calling her name. She scanned the crowd.
Cristina.
Her senses heightened. Alcohol, sweat, and urine assaulted her nostrils. She pushed her way through a sea of dancing bodies.
Cristina.
Her name resounded from every direction. She covered her ears, snapped her eyes shut.
Liar. You lied to us.
Cristina’s eyes flew open. Everyone around her was dressed in rags. Blood streamed from their foreheads. They pointed at her with bony fingers.
You did this to us.
“No!” Her temples throbbed, bass drums pounding. “I don’t know what you want.”
Cristina.
“Stop. Please stop.” She covered her ears again. Their shouts permeated her fingers, over and over. Liar! Liar!
“Sabrina.”
A hand wrapped around her wrist.
Cristina jammed her nails into the assailant’s fingers. Heard a pained cry. Spun around. Slammed her fist against the attacker’s elbow. Another howl. Cristina rolled to the ground. Jumped up to face her attacker.
“Ai! Puta que pariu! ” It was the woman in the pink sundress. She clutched her hand and pressed it against full lips. Her dark hair fell away, revealing warm coffee-colored eyes and a regal nose. “Tá doida?”
The voices stopped. The bloody specters vanished. The pounding in Cristina’s head subsided. Merrymakers jostled her as they shoved past.
“I’m sorry,” Cristina said. “I thought you were trying to hurt me.”
“I only wanted to speak to you.” The woman surveyed Cristina from head to toe and shook her head. “Não acredito. I didn’t believe it was you, but it is. I thought I’d never see you again, Sabrina.”
Apprehension crawled up the back of Cristina’s neck. “What did you call me?”
The woman tilted her head. “Sabrina. That’s your name.”
Cristina’s cheeks cooled. It hadn’t been her name she’d heard being called. It was Sabrina. Somehow her mind had changed it, made it familiar.