Charlene's hotel room was much nicer than the cell Hannibal Lecter currently occupied. That was something. For one thing, she had air conditioning and a toilet. For another, she could leave whenever she wanted. But the room seemed cell-like, anyway. She didn't like Argentina. Mostly, she supposed, it was because Dr. Hannibal Lecter had been free in it for eight years, going where he wanted with some bimbo on his arm while her aunt Clarice was dead in an unmarked grave somewhere. Or eaten.
Besides, everything she'd spent a year planning had now come to a head. Jack Crawford was quite happy with her. She had done something no one had done since before she was born: capture Hannibal Lecter. At this point, her future was as bright as it got. Mr. Crawford might be able to get her into Behavioral Sciences for real now.
She ought to be happy. She was Crawford's shining star. Dr. Lecter had been captured and would pay for the murder of Clarice Starling. They were going to try him in Virginia. Crawford had explained it to her. Virginia had tough juries and rules tilted in the prosecution's favor. Dr. Lecter would likely end up on death row for his crimes.
But she wasn't. The mid-price hotel room in Buenos Aires was insufferable. So she grabbed her bathing suit and headed down to the hotel's swimming pool. Once there, she stared into the chlorinated depths. No more swimming pools for Dr. Lecter, that was for sure. Knowing that, she plunged into the water and swam busily back and forth, her muscled legs propelling her through the water. She wasn't sure how long she spent in there. Back and forth, her body knifed through the water until she reached the concrete edge of the pool. Then she turned around and swam back to the opposite wall. Again and again, until her muscles were exhausted. But the angry energy remained, fueling her from a seemingly inexhaustible source.
"Starling." That made her head bob up and she swam to the shallow end of the pool where she could stand. When she did, her eyes widened. Ten feet away from the edge of the pool stooped an older man. He observed her carefully. Charlene suddenly felt embarrassed.
"Mr. Crawford!" she said. "I didn't know you were here."
"I flew down last night," he said. "Checked in and collapsed. Caught you in the pool, did I?" he grinned.
"Well, yes, sir," she admitted, as if she wasn't supposed to be here. All the same, she didn't move to get out of the water. The idea of Jack Crawford checking her out in her bathing suit made her uncomfortable, even though her suit was perfectly modest.
"Well, here," he said, and picked up a towel. "I need you to saddle up. We just got a squeal on a secondary objective of the Lecter op."
Charlene sloshed out of the pool and accepted the towel, feeling oddly naked under Crawford's level gaze. She wrapped herself in the towel and felt more shielded.
"Okay," she said cautiously. "I'll just need a minute to get changed. Secondary objective? What's going on?"
Crawford sighed. "Well," he said, "we've found Clara Paloma. We've got the place staked out and we're going to take her in." His face tensed and she looked at him curiously. Why would bringing in Dr. Lecter's wife cause him pain? She was just some South American babe he'd picked up somewhere.
Charlene nodded. "Give me ten minutes to get changed and I'll be ready," she said. "Where is the strike team meeting?"
"Agent Thompson's suite," he said. He seemed to be cautious, as if he was holding something back. She eyed him curiously. Maybe he was just uncomfortable with being around her in her bathing suit.
"OK, sir," she said. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
He cleared his throat. "Starling," he said, "look. You did great work bringing Dr. Lecter in. Don't let anyone take that away from you. I'm proud of you."
Even dripping wet and wearing a towel, Charlene found herself brightening under the praise. "Thank you, sir," she said. Then she vanished upstairs to the elevator in order to make it back to her room and change. Vanity was almost alien to Charlene's way of thinking. After running a brush through her wet hair, putting on her pants and boots, and holstering her .45, she was ready. Her only concession to being female was long hair, and she tied it back in a ponytail before heading down the hall to Thompson's suite.
The meeting was already underway. Charlene's lips twisted. She hated being late. Crawford was standing in front of them like a professor. He glanced at Charlene emotionlessly. He didn't seem angry.
"OK, people," he said. "We're not going to waste time. Let's get Clara Paloma in custody."
Charlene Starling felt a sudden misgiving. Was she in trouble? She didn't want to look like the golden girl, slacking off in her success. Oddly, none of the other agents seemed to hold it against her. They simply nodded at her as they walked past.
She waited so she could fall into step with Crawford and Thompson, who was the field commander of the team.
"Sirs," she said urgently. "I am so sorry for missing this meeting. I had no idea."
Thompson was the team commander. Like everyone else on the team, including Charlene herself, Jack Crawford had handpicked him for the arrest of Hannibal Lecter. He shot a brief glance at the older man before answering.
"That's all right, Starling," he said.
"No, really," she said.
Crawford took over. "Starling," he said calmly, "it's all right."
"Look," Charlene offered, "if you want, I can actually take Clara Paloma into custody. Might head off a sexual discrimination case at the outside."
The two men traded a glance. Charlene tilted her head and stared curiously at them. More misgivings probed her stomach now. She had the distinct feeling she wasn't making the grade here. And what the hell was all this about, anyway? It didn't make any sense. She was good enough to track down Hannibal Lecter. Why in God's name were they being coy about having her on the team to arrest Clara Paloma? Charlene hadn't been able to find out much about her, but she had her ideas. Probably a pretty but vacuous piece of fluff who the good doctor would be able to hang off his arm at his parties and opera and all that stuff he liked. She would happily wear stiletto heels and party dresses and all that froufrou girly crap. Well, wait. Dr. Lecter had refused to cough up any information on her. Maybe he thought she would get away. Maybe she was brighter than Charlene thought.
"It's being handled, Starling," Thompson said. "Just stay back. We may need you on this one."
She could feel the barrier between her and the others swinging slowly shut. What was worse that she had no idea why this was happening. She hadn't messed up. As she had gotten closer to pinpointing her prey, she'd worked around the clock. Hannibal Lecter knew his own schedule only slightly better than Charlene did.
"Sirs, please. Have I done something wrong here?"
Jack Crawford's gnarled hand came out to pat her shoulder paternally. "Actually, Starling, it's more of a reward. I know how hard you've worked. This is a small detail, really. So you're just along for the ride. The other agents can take care of it. The way I see it, you've done your job, so you get to sit this one out. It's not punishment. If I had a problem with you, you'd know it."
Charlene Stenson Starling fell into step behind the nominal commander of the team and the actual commander. Crawford's words were quite comforting. But even as she got into the vans and headed out with the rest of the team to capture Clara Paloma, she was not quite convinced. She was a good investigator. And she knew something was up.
Jack Crawford was hiding something.
…
The Retiro train station was an excellent place to get lost in. It was Buenos Aires's main train station. Built in the European style, sprawling and baroque, it was almost always thronged with travelers. One woman in a dress with a single suitcase barely attracted any notice. And that was just how Clarice liked it.
The loss of Dr. Lecter still hurt as badly as it had when she'd seen him marched away by the FBI. In fact, Clarice thought, it was worse than her father's death. Dr. Lecter had freed her from a life that promised only pain and given her one that contained so much joy. To add insult to injury, it was her own flesh and blood that had taken it from her. Damn Charlene anyway! Had Crawford gotten to her? He must have. He'd probably gotten her to work endless hours in hopes of a payoff he always kept juuuuust a bit too far away to grab at. Clarice knew. He'd done it to her for years.
Well, now she knew where she stood. She'd wondered sometimes what had happened to Charlene. Now she'd gotten her answer and boy it was a doozy. She had to flee. She knew that. Even though the image of Dr. Lecter in handcuffs was burned into her mind, she knew she had to get away. If she went in to try and save him now, she would only get caught herself. The evening news had said Dr. Lecter was being held in one of the most secure prisons in the city.
It was a horrible choice. She couldn't get him out of here. But if they took him to America, she'd stand zero chance of getting him back. They'd throw him in one of those new supermax prisons and she'd never see him again. The thought made her eyes well with tears.
No. Wait. They had to extradite him. There was her chance. That would take a few months; he had good attorneys and they would plead that he would face the death penalty and therefore could not be extradited back. There was her slot in. For now, she had to get to Brazil. She'd need to get some papers and a gun. Once they brought him in to court for a hearing, go on in, crash boom bang, a few dead guards but she would have him back. She didn't like the idea of killing law enforcement officers. She had enough of her old life to dislike that. But Dr. Lecter had explained to her his rationale in his escape from Memphis. He had thought the guards who held him to be reasonably civil, but there simply was no other way to be free. So it would be again.
What if Charlene was there? Would she shoot Charlene? Right now she was angry enough at her niece to do so. Even so, she was almost positive that Charlene had been Crawford's pawn just as she once had. No, she would cross that bridge when she came to it, but she would seek to spare her niece's life.
Clarice boarded the train and tipped the porter to bring her bag down to her private compartment. She would have her own bed and bathroom for her trip to São Paolo. She closed the door and locked it before settling down on the bed with a mighty sigh.
Could she get a fake Argentine police uniform in Brazil? Probably. She closed her eyes and consulted her memory palace for a moment. There were the addresses of forgers and middlemen there. They could have gotten Clarice anything she wanted for a price. And she had the money.
If there was one thing she didn't like about Argentina, it was the fact that womens' rights were a hundred years behind the times. A few people had stared at her, trying to figure out if she was single or not. As if the diamond Dr. Lecter had given her didn't tip them off, helloooo.
Some garbled voice came from the speaker overhead. A train whistle blew. The train began to chug out of the train station. Clarice sighed and lay down on the bed. She was away and safe. That was all that mattered. Once she had a base in Brazil, she could set about doing what she needed to do to get Dr. Lecter out.
She was quite tired, as she had been running for thirty-six hours without sleep. Once Dr. Lecter had been captured, she'd taken a taxi back to the house to see if she could get anything from it. Nope; uniformed cops had surrounded the place. Off to the safe house in working-class Buenos Aires, where she'd gotten the suitcase, cash, and identity paperwork that they'd stashed there. She'd stayed in the safe house overnight, but hadn't been able to sleep. No, she'd stayed totally awake.
The compartment was quite anonymous and modern. Clarice thought about getting a soda or some coffee to keep awake. No, she needed sleep. So she shot the bolt on the door and laid down on the bed. The chugging of the train was quite soothing. The bed was wonderfully comfortable. Clarice Starling's eyes closed as the train went forward.
When she awoke, she didn't know how much time had passed. She did know something had changed. There was danger in the air. Clarice did not know exactly why, but she automatically dove for her suitcase. Charlene might have her original .45, but she had another one, and she pulled it out now.
A loud bang came from her door. Clarice recognized the sound. That was no porter banging to ask for something. That was 'Avon calling' – a twelve-gauge round of powdered lead. It would blow just about any lock to smithereens without hurting anyone inside.
Fuck fuck fuck, Clarice Starling thought, and gripped her .45, planning to fight her last stand. The door was not designed to withstand shotgun rounds and shuddered in its hinges before meekly opening as if acknowledging its tormentors had bested it.
Then there were people in the doorway, rushing in fast and low. Clarice aimed the .45 at the one in front. For a fraction of a second, she saw the agent's eyes widen. He knew as well as she did that he was a big fat target in front of a very big gun. All she had to do was fire.
But then something stopped her. She knew this guy. Tony Marshall. He'd been a newbie when she was in the Bureau. Some of her assignments in the ghetto had been with him – he because he was new, and she because Krendler had been merrily pissing in her file. Decent guy, willing to learn, had a son and a daughter. She'd had a pleasant working relationship with him.
Clarice's finger went limp on the trigger. Killing him would accomplish nothing except create another orphan. For a moment, the world wheeled and spun around her. The thought of shooting someone else's daddy made nausea rise high in her throat. She clamped her eyes shut and felt tears come. Were they for her now, her in the past, or Dr. Lecter? She didn't know.
But her foes were relentless in the here and the now. They overwhelmed Clarice. Bodies piled atop hers. At this point, Clarice knew better than to fight it. She let them put her on the bed and wrench her arms behind her back. But anger and pain shot through her. Hadn't they done enough? Why wouldn't they leave her alone? Hadn't she suffered enough?
Her hands were cuffed behind her back and the men atop her rolled her over so that she could sit on the bed. She sat there and exhaled a loud sigh of resignation from her nostrils. Resolutely, she blinked away the tears. Two figures appeared in the doorway. Clarice set her jaw and stared them down firmly.
One was a young woman she recognized almost instantly. Curly brown hair instead of straight, but the resemblance was still there and still strong. She stood five foot three inches, an inch shorter than Clarice. Her face hadn't changed much, Clarice noticed. But it was pinched and troubled.
Charlene Stenson Starling stared across the small compartment at her aunt. The color drained slowly out of her face. Clarice watched her emotionlessly. Her gun was out, muzzle depressed. As shock overcame her, her lips paled and her lips made a perfect O of shock. She stumbled into the compartment and sat down hard on the built-in bench. Her hands began to jitter. Blue eyes the same shade as Clarice's stared at her as if she'd seen a ghost. That, Clarice supposed, was pretty close to the truth.
For several long moments Charlene said nothing. Then a squeak emitted from her open mouth. Beads of sweat began to appear on her brow. Clarice found herself feeling vaguely sympathetic. If Charlene had leaned over and puked she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. Charlene set her pistol down next to her with a shaking hand.
"Clara…p-p-Paloma," she said. Her voice jig-jagged up and down in shock as she stuttered. "Paloma. D-dove." Her body wracked with shock tremor as she made the final connection. "S-s-st…," she swallowed. "Starling."
"That's me. Hi, Charlene," Clarice said with no friendliness, leaning on the drawl. "Happy with whatcha done here?"
"But…but…no," Charlene whispered. "I…you…I saw…this cain't be."
"Fraid so, kiddo," Clarice said, and her voice began to break.
Jack Crawford walked into the compartment from where he had stood behind Charlene. Clarice's eyes narrowed at him instantly. He seemed not at all surprised to see her. Somehow, she just knew: he had ridden her niece to this position of victory. Had he ridden her in other ways as well? She'd blow his goddam brains out if he had. The man had no business with a girl who could've been his granddaughter.
"Clarice," he said calmly, and sat down coolly next to her pale and staring niece. He put a paternal hand on her shoulder. If it had been within her power to do so, she would have killed him then and there.
"Mr. Crawford," Clarice whispered acidly.
"We're taking you back to the United States, Clarice," Crawford returned. "We're going to make you better." The agents holding her began to pull her to her feet.
Clarice's eyes narrowed. She didn't think Charlene was faking. Girl looked about ready to keel over and die when you came right down to it. Maybe that was something she could use.
"Charlene," she said sharply.
Charlene looked up at her, eyes still wide with shock, skin still the color of parchment. Her mouth worked. Tears glittered in her eyes.
"I hope you're happy with yourself," Clarice said acidly. She was angry, and her drawl deepened. In the back of her mind she supposed it would hurt Charlene to hear it. Right now she didn't care. "I really, really do. You done a job and a half. But ask yourself this on the plane ride home, kiddo. You don't look like you were expecting to see me."
"Aunt Clarice," Charlene choked. She let out something that might have been a sob.
"Crawford knew, Charlene. He knew I was here. He knew I was alive. And he held that information back from you. You think about that, honey. Think about it while you think of new ways to ruin my life."
Clarice didn't know if it had registered or not. She was already in shock. Crawford simply eyed her from behind his hooded eyes. Always keeping his cards close to his chest, always laying back in the tall grass. An eminence grise. He'd always been a gray man, blending into the woodwork, directing others from behind closed doors. His pawn had taken her queen, and now it was checkmate.
Then the agents behind her were wrestling her out of the compartment. She knew she was outmatched and didn't try to resist. She did glance back and saw her niece finally put her face in her hands and break down in hysterical tears. Crawford patted her back calmly. Clarice found herself wanting to retch. She wasn't sure who she was angry with. Right now it hardly seemed to matter.
Then they were dragging her down the hall, and she couldn't see them anymore.