A cheap hotel room, a miserable night, and the first poor cup of coffee I’ve had in this São Paulo:

A face stares out at me from the morning newspaper: a smiling boy, perhaps a school photograph, posted under a grim headline

Casualties are mounting in the aftermath of the explosion…

My eyes follow the text, but as I reach the end of the column, I realise I don’t know what it said…

Rodrigo… The hotel boy who served my breakfast each morning. So helpful to the nice cavalheiro inglês who sometimes tipped him, as much for the smile as for good service. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

And now dead because some vengeful little bitch missed her target.

I had to grow up quick at that age…

He never will…

Did she miss her target?

Or was it all part of some plan to implicate me?

Lawrence Klempner… Trafficker, murderer, and guilty of a thousand sins, now wanted for terrorism…

?

Who knows? I’m getting beyond guessing how much mayhem Juliana is willing to unleash in her crusade against me.

How did she find me?

She knows I’m here…

She knew where I was…

So… why take so long about showing her hand?

How did she find me?

And when?

As I entered the country?

Three weeks ago…

Juliana likes

sense of

cat and

customs officer maybe? Who

It’s possible.

any warning signals, ‘the system’

they did simply spot me at Antonio’s? Or trace me back to the bar after I took out their heavy. And he knew who

Maybe they all do.

put the word out

That seems more likely.

quarry… Instead, they spotted me. She knew I’d turn up at some point, so of course, her thugs would know what I

all makes

I think…

surface, I’m picking at the

Does it add up?

Really?

What’s missing?

fit into a gang

Brazil…

‘Traditional’ values…

place you’d expect to find a woman heading

that matter, how often do you ever find women in

Find the man at the top and get control of him. That would tie in

Femme fatale…

Wonder who he is?

Poor bastard…

his life-expectancy down

who I am… If Juliana has them all reeled in

visit to Juliana’s apartment. The coffee’s

How many were there?

dozen certainly. And an uncertain number

set the newspaper to one side. But smiling, accusing eyes still stare out

What now?

Fade into the background?

Disappear?

How?

him to fit

that fucking

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