The things I do, Susana Alvarez Lecter thought.
It had been a few days since her return to Buenos Aires. The day after they had gotten back, Susana had gotten on the phone and called in a few favors to people she knew. Luke Taylor had gone under the knife at a private hospital, and with enough of a financial gift to the doctors and staff they had agreed to keep shut about it. She'd been in the OR with him while they did it, removing a few inches of intestine and repairing the bullet wound Lisa Starling had put there.
For two days she had cared for him in her mansion. Only once had she hired a nurse so that she could sleep for a bit. But Luke had rallied, and when she had told him to get up and start walking he had asked if they could go to church. Somehow, she had expected it.
So here she was, sitting next to him, interminably bored in the pew. The priest's sermon was long and boring. Susana wore sunglasses, so he could not see when she rolled her eyes. She scanned the fellow churchgoers and rated their clothing out of boredom. There was one good point to all this, she thought. It had given her a reason to go shopping for hats. That she had liked a great deal, and it had taken her a few hours to settle on the wide-brimmed designer hat she now wore. In some ways it amused her to think of it: while Lisa and the rest were cowering in the basement at Quantico, hoping to bring her back to prison, here she was. Free, rich, and shopping for hats in an expensive Buenos Aires boutiques.
But now she was bored insensate by the droning of the priest. Luke seemed completely in tune with it all, even though he didn't speak Spanish. His color looked better, she noticed. He was still slow in walking and would be for a while. She had gotten him a cane – a fancy, black one, with a bit of a surprise she knew he would like. Pain medication kept him free of discomfort and antibiotics kept him free of infection.
Susana wasn't entirely sure what to do next with Luke. She didn't plan on killing him. He had been there when she needed help, and so she would stick by him for now. She was weighing two alternatives in her mind: staying in Argentina, as her parents had. They had enjoyed a long and happy life in this country. Alternatively, she knew, they would be looking for her in Argentina. Being extradited did not worry Susana, but it would mean a lot of legal bills. Alternatively, she could leave the country and seek a home elsewhere. She was leaning more towards that. Any country in South America would be happy to have a wealthy woman like her, and buying protection from officials would be easy. Argentina was her home, but they would be looking for her here, and without her parents there was no need to stay.
Susana watched as they prepared communion. She helped Luke to his feet and got into line behind him. The line moved slowly, each person stopping to receive a wafer. Luke did and then she stepped up. Susana watched how the others put their cupped palms out to receive it. She had rarely been in churches and never actually done this before.
The priest smiled benevolently at her and offered her a wafer.
"El cuerpo de Cristo," he said.
"Muchos gracias," Susana said, and popped the wafer in her mouth. She enjoyed the look of surprise on the priest's face. Ahead of her, heading back to his seat, Luke seemed horrified, at least what she could see from behind him. Back in the pew, he looked at her with an expression of stunned disapproval.
"You aren't supposed to take communion," he said in a hissed whisper.
"Why not?" Susana asked back. "You did."
"You're not…you're not a Catholic."
Susana shrugged. "You get a piece of bread and I don't? That hardly seems fair."
"That is not it," Luke said. "It is a sin. That is the body of Christ."
Susana tilted her head at him and grinned. This was fun. "Jesus was made out of bread?" she asked, in order to annoy him. "That is novel. I'm a doctor, I've seen a lot of things, but I have never seen a man made out of bread before."
"No!" Luke's lips twisted. "It becomes the body of Christ."
"So it's human flesh? I doubt that, Luke, I know how it tastes."
Other people were beginning to look at them, even though the Argentines surrounding them did not speak English. So Susana piped down, grinning. When the services were over, back in the car, he still seemed angry about it.
"It's sacrilege," he tried to explain. "You must profess faith before you can do that. You have to be baptized and confirmed. And take first communion and confession."
Behind the wheel, Susana chuckled. "All that for a little piece of bread? How awfully inconvenient. I'll buy bread at the supermarket, thank you."
"It's a sin," he said.
"Sin?" Susana asked. "Maybe for those who worship the gingerbread-man Messiah. But I have spent a great deal of time and effort to get you down here, Luke. I could have left you back in Virginia, but I didn't. I've spent a great deal of time and effort on you, so let me have my little sacrileges, will you?"
Back at the house, she set him up in the living room on the couch with the TV. He needed to rest. Plus, she was feeling too much temptation to harass him about his religious beliefs, which she found amusing. The thought of the authorities factored for very little in her mind. It was remarkable, she thought, how safe she felt here. The mansion was a sanctuary, a bulwark against the authorities who wanted her. Of course, the fact that the local police were in her pocket helped a great deal.
…
Buenos Aires was pretty big, even compared to DC. Lisa discovered relatively quickly that her knowledge of Argentine Spanish was about the level of a five-year-old's. The first snag came up at Customs, when she explained she was armed. Fortunately, her FBI credentials along with a copy of the original arrest warrant sufficed to get her through that. And thank God they hadn't actually called back to the FBI.
She'd caught a cab to her hotel – a decent place with clean sheets and a bed, although nothing like Susana's tastes in hotels. After a quick shower and a night's sleep, she was ready to start seeking out her cousin. It was much more difficult than she thought. The language barrier was higher than she would have imagined. It took much longer to explain what she wanted. Plus, she knew, she didn't want the police finding her here; they would go back to the FBI and Lisa would be on a plane back to the US, to face an angry boss.
Her first stop had been the American embassy, where she had gotten an unpleasant surprise. The embassy had been helpful in turning over whatever records they had on Susana Alvarez. Lisa had poked through the folder critically, and then at the back, she had found something that stunned her.
Many years earlier
"I think this does it," the consular official says, smiling at the woman. "That's all the documentation we need. We would have liked to meet with your husband, though."
Maria Alvarez is uncomfortable here in this building, here on this tiny patch of home soil of her former country. She can understand why her husband was unable to meet with the consulate, though. Had the embassy known that Maria Alvarez was in reality Clarice Starling, there is little they could actually do to her. Had they known Alonso Alvarez was actually Hannibal Lecter, it would have been much worse. But the official had met Dr. Alvarez for lunch one day, satisfying their requirements. It is the practice of the American embassy to try and be as helpful as possible to American citizens living in Argentina. She smiles at the woman, Susana Alvarez in her arms attempting to inventory the contents of her mother's pockets.
"He's very busy," Clarice says. "I know you wanted to meet with him here, but she's my daughter, and I am an American citizen. That's good enough, right?" The paperwork backs her up, too. Her identity documents are top-notch, and prove to anyone who might want to know that Maria Alvarez was born in Chicago to Argentine immigrants, and as an adult she has returned home. The fact that there never was a Maria Alvarez until six years ago is a secret of Clarice's.
"It's fine," the woman says. "Usually we try to get people to register right after the baby is born, though."
"We've been very busy," Clarice says. "Caring for a baby—well, you know." This is a risk, Clarice thinks, a real risk. But she thinks it unfair that her daughter be denied what is rightfully hers, and after all, it's only money. Once Susana is registered, they can always flee the country if need be. She has no intent on ever returning to the United States, but Clarice Starling is a loving mother, and does not want to deprive her daughter of anything she is entitled to. Dr. Lecter, too, feels that it is dangerous, but Susana is the apple of his eye (as she will remain for many years), and he is no better at denying her anything than he is at denying himself.
"Yes, of course," the woman says. She smiles across the desk at the two-year-old girl in her mother's arms. "Hi, honey," she says to the little girl. Clarice puts the child down for a moment, and the little girl scurries across the room to look at the American flag beyond the glass door in the lobby. Her patent leather maryjanes make little sound on the carpeted floor. Having satisfied herself with the pretty colors, she walks confidently across the room to the wall where several wanted posters hang as her mother talks with the consular official.
"Well, Mrs. Alvarez, we'll go ahead and issue Susana a Consular Record of Birth Abroad, a Social Security card, and a child's passport," the woman says. "Did you bring photographs of her?"
Clarice nods and hands the woman an envelope containing official passport-sized photographs of her daughter. The woman takes them and hands Clarice a blue piece of paper. After another few minutes, the passport is ready, and she gives that to her too.
"Oh, wait," the woman says, "she's got something." Clarice turns quickly, feeling the automatic flush of embarrassment that any parent of a toddler knows intimately. Susana marches back to her mother with her prize in hand: a wanted poster. She holds it up proudly for her mother and the official.
It is standard practice to put up the wanted posters of criminals on the FBI's Ten Most-Wanted List in American embassies. Susana is only two, and cannot read the word WANTED across the top of the poster; nor does she know the words WARNING: ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS, words that will be used to describe her later in life. The photograph she does know, however. Even though it is a comfortable two faces behind, Susana knows the man in the picture. She brandishes the wanted poster for Hannibal Lecter at her mother and the consular official and taps the picture with her other hand. A scar is visible between the middle and ring fingers of the toddler's left hand. It is small and faded. By the time Susana starts school years later, it is almost unnoticeable, and she will not even bother to think about the scar until fourteen years later. But for now, she is much more interested in the wanted poster and the picture of the man in it.
"Papa," she says, and smiles brightly, tapping the black and white picture.
"That's not your papa, honey," the woman says, amused, and offers Susana a lollipop in exchange for the poster. Mrs. Alvarez has the good graces to appear mortified and apologize, but the consular official is not mad. The little girl has just taken down the poster, that's all. Like any two-year-old, Susana's eyes light up at the sight of the sugary treat, and she reaches out for it with a small, chubby hand. The concept of trading, though, is not one that comes easily to her. She attempts to get the lollipop and keep the poster, too. Her hand firmly clenches the heavy paper as the official tries to pry it away. Eventually, though, she does give it up and settles in to eat her lollipop while the women talk.
"This is Susana's CROBA, and this is her passport," the woman says with practice. "Keep them very safe, because they are her proof of citizenship. She'll need to come back here to renew her passport, unless you happen to move back to America. Did you have any questions for me?"
"Oh, no," Clarice says, smiling and extending her hand. Internally, her heart was pounding. Thank God Susana was only two. The consular official appears not to have noticed Susana's maroon eyes, or the scar on her hand where her extra finger had been removed six months ago. "Thank you so much for everything."
"Our pleasure, Mrs. Alvarez," the woman says. "You have a nice day." As Clarice gathers up her daughter and heads out the door, the woman watches her go. Susana stares over her mother's shoulder at the woman, and then at the flag. Those eyes are something else, the woman thinks. Maroon eyes, staring out of that little baby's face. Pretty, but somehow frightening.
The official gathers up her copies of the papers given to Clarice Starling. One copy, as stipulated by federal law, is sent to the Department of State in the diplomatic bag. There, it sits undisturbed and unmolested for years. There are so many listings for Alvarez that it sits unnoticed. Clarice Starling does not tell her daughter she is an American citizen. She wants to wait until Susana is old enough to understand that her parents were not always rich Argentines, and that she must be careful, because the paperwork is based on Clarice's false claims. As time goes on, the fact of her daughter's citizenship simply is forgotten. The papers remain in Clarice Starling's safe, and Susana will find them when necessary.
Nineteen years later, when Susana first journeys to the United States, the investigation does not turn it up for the simple reason that Susana entered the United States on her Argentine passport and does not claim American citizenship. She does not know herself what her mother has done. Two years after that, when she returns to the US, she bears several false identities to pad the way – necessary, for Susana is by then wanted herself. When she is arrested, even then it is not found, because Susana identifies herself as an Argentine.
The remaining copy remains in the possession of the consulate. It is put into a manila folder and remains with all the others, never taken out, never seeing the light of day. Years pass, and a second Starling enters the American Embassy of Buenos Aires, seeking out information, and she is amazed at what she sees.
Dear God, Lisa thought ruefully. We couldn't have even deported her. Maybe it wasn't legit – after all, Clarice had used forged paperwork – but that would've been up to a judge, and Susana would have had one hell of a good-faith argument. She had been two years old when the CROBA had been issued. It was entirely possible that a judge might give her the benefit of the doubt. But there was nothing beyond that: the child passport was years out of date, and Susana had never sought another one. Either she was saving this up as an ace in the hole, in case she had no other identity to use, or she didn't know herself. Lisa thought the latter more likely – it made no sense for Susana to employ an American passport in her own name as a last-ditch identity.
But still. Three times now Susana had gone on a killing spree, and three times the FBI had delved into Susana's past. And they missed this? No one had thought to go to the Department of State and put her name into their computer? What a bunch of great investigators, Lisa thought. There was a certain amount of self-criticism in there as well, and she accepted it. She had learned where Susana went to high school. She had been the one who had realized that the Susana Alvarez in the old Skinner investigation was her cousin. She had seen the apartment in Boston where Susana had lived during her med school and residency years. But she, too, had completely fluffed this one. Susana liked to flaunt it, to be right under the noses of her pursuers, and this had to be the biggest example of all. All those newscasters musing about it had been wrong, and the proof right here, all the time. Susana Alvarez, U.S. citizen. She stared at the picture of two-year-old Susana. Awfully cute for a murderer. It was weird to think of her malevolent cousin, who killed whenever she chose, as a two-year-old with pink barrettes in her hair, but there it was.
Lisa peeled one of the pictures away and stuck it in her pocket. She had to be careful – she didn't want word floating back to the States about what she was doing. That meant she couldn't ask for much in the way of police help from the local boys. But that might have been better – Susana didn't have a problem killing police officers, and Lisa did not want her to have any reason to kill more.
Her next stop was at the local telephone company, and that was where she got an amazing break. She knew Susana's home address from her first visit to the US. Her FBI badge got her what she wanted. The clerks seemed amused by her fumbling Spanish, but they kept their amusement to themselves. They gave her what she asked for, and she could hardly believe it.
The phone number for that address had been in the name of Maria Alvarez for years, from the dates of service. About two months ago, the name on the account had been changed, from Alvarez, Maria to Alvarez, Susana. A notation on the account noted Madre difunta – hija toma responsibilidad. The account had been switched over perhaps two days after Susana's escape.
Could it be this easy? Was Susana living under her own name in her home country? Lisa knew that her cousin liked to flaunt it when she could, and it was quite possible that she felt safe enough to use her own name here. Or maybe it was a red herring. Maybe someone else was living in the mansion, and Susana holed up somewhere else. Lisa remembered the Ana Castillo switch all too well. She would not put it past her cousin to try it again.
There was only one way to find out. Lisa got herself a map of Buenos Aires and located Susana's address on it. Not far from the French embassy, Lisa noted. It took her a little bit of time to plot a route from the public library she had holed herself up in to Susana's home, but eventually she got it.
She walked out and caught a taxi. Communicating her destination to the driver was a bit difficult, but after showing him the address on the phone company receipt and a bit of Spanglish, she was able to get her point across. As the cabbie drove off, Lisa lay her head back and thought.
What was she going to do? She had no authority to arrest Susana herself, not here. If she was caught here she'd get in trouble. Although probably not, she allowed, not if she brought Susana back in cuffs. They would do their extradition bit and all, but Lisa would do what she had done before and bring her cousin to justice.
The accusations nagged at her, but those were up to the judge. For just a moment, she wondered what would happen if the judge did throw out the charges against Susana. But that wasn't her job, she allowed. If the judge let Susana walk…well, Lisa would be horrified, but that was the breaks. She would not allow the FBI to railroad her cousin, though.
And maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she wanted a bit of time to explain: to have Susana in a cell somewhere where Lisa could talk to her and make her understand that she, Lisa Starling, had nothing to do with the trumped up charges nor the FBI's refusal to hand over the evidence in the legitimate charges. Lisa would see that Susana's attorneys got whatever she was legally entitled to. If the USDA had to drop the death penalty to get her extradited, that was fine, Lisa could deal with that and the rest of the FBI would have to find some way to cope. If the judge threw out the charges against Susana because of the FBI's malfeasance…the thought of that galled Lisa, but she would accept that. But she was going back, and she was going on trial, and she was going back to jail, at least for the time being. That Lisa would not negotiate on. Susana had killed and so she must be held to answer for that.
The houses got tonier and more expensive, and Lisa nodded. Here, Susana had grown up with the tastes and preferences that vast wealth brought. She told him to let her out half a block up the street from where Susana lived. After tipping him, Lisa walked up the street, her hands in her pockets, scoping things out.
This is dumb, she thought. I could lose my job for this.
Yeah, but I'm here, another voice answered back. In for a penny, in for a pound, and someone has to do what's right.
Lisa walked up to the mansion in which her first cousin had lived for years and where her first cousin once removed currently lived. She took in a deep breath and surveyed the house. All was quiet on the street. Then she drew her Glock, screwed up her courage, and walked up the driveway. On the ground floor, she saw a window open for ventilation. It was big enough for her to wiggle into.
Lisa Starling slipped onto the carpeted floor of her cousin's mansion. She stood and looked around at the opulence: in the hall hung a portrait of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Next to that was a painting that Lisa thought might be a Vermeer. She could hear a TV, tuned to an English-speaking channel. She hefted the Glock and went in search in search of the sound for it.
Lisa's strike against her cousin had just begun.