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…

our Juliana

sense of power

cat and

officer maybe? Who recognised

It’s possible.

If my face had flagged up any warning signals,

perhaps 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 I was when

Maybe they all do.

put the word out

That seems more likely.

a habit of going to the restaurant… hoping to spot my quarry… Instead, they spotted me. She knew I’d turn up at some point, so of course, her thugs would know what

all makes much more

I think…

surface, I’m picking

Does it add up?

Really?

What’s missing?

fit into a gang of that

Brazil…

‘Traditional’ values…

to

do you ever find

top and get control of him. That would tie in with what

Femme fatale…

Wonder who he is?

Poor bastard…

life-expectancy down the

am… If Juliana has them

mental replay of my visit to Juliana’s apartment. The coffee’s dreadful stuff, but at least the caffeine hit does its work. My

How many were there?

dozen certainly. And an uncertain

one side. But smiling, accusing eyes still stare out at me. After a moment, I turn the paper over, photo

What now?

Fade into the background?

Disappear?

How?

get him

fucking phone

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