Interlude — The Flight

The humidity is unacceptable.

I stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk caftan. The concierge, a young man who looked terrified, was wringing his hands.

"I apologize, Mrs. DeLuca," he stammered. "It is... the tropics."

"It is poor climate control," I corrected. "I want a dehumidifier in the suite immediately. Industrial strength. And tell the kitchen my green tea was lukewarm. If it happens again, I’ll have the bill adjusted."

"Yes, Madame. Right away."

He scurried off.

I took a sip of the lukewarm tea and checked my phone.

Project Manager (Jersey): The audit team is asking for the Carrara manifests. What do I tell them?

I typed back instantly: Tell them they are in transit. Delay. I’m handling it.

I put the phone down on the glass table.

I wasn't panicked. Panic is for people who don't have leverage. I had leverage.

I looked at the empty chair across from me. Max’s chair.

He wasn't in his room. The bed hadn't been slept in. The closet was open, his linen suits hanging there like shed skins.

"Where are you, Max?" I whispered.

I knew where he was, geographically. My phone showed his dot moving rapidly down Padre Billini Street, heading this way.

But I wanted to know where his head was.

Was he having an episode? That was the narrative I was building. The "Grief Relapse." It was plausible. Ten years since the accident. The stress of the project. He had snapped. He was wandering the streets, confused, playing "local" to cope with the trauma.

It was a good story. It protected the firm. If the marble turned out to be fake, well... poor Max. He was confused. He mixed up the orders in his delirium.

"Señora DeLuca?"

I looked up.

A man was walking across the courtyard. He was dressed in a white linen suit that was slightly too tight. He had a gold watch that glinted in the sun.

He wasn't supposed to be here until Wednesday.

I stood up, smoothing my caftan. I put on my "Boardroom Smile"—the one that didn't reach my eyes.

"Minister," I said, extending a hand. "What a pleasant surprise. I thought we were meeting later in the week."

Castillo took my hand. His palm was damp. He didn't let go immediately.

"Catalina," he smiled, his eyes sliding over me. "I was in the neighborhood. Inspecting the... cultural assets."

"I assume the port permits are ready?" I asked, pulling my hand back.

"They are... complicated," Castillo said, sitting in Max’s empty chair without being invited. He crossed his legs. "The environmental impact report came back. It seems there are... turtles. Nesting turtles."

"Turtles," I repeated flatly.

"Very rare," Castillo nodded, looking sad. "Protected species. To disturb them would be... expensive."

I stared at him. I knew this dance. It wasn't about turtles. It was about the new yacht he wanted to buy.

"How expensive?" I asked.

He held up five fingers.

"Fifty thousand?" I asked.

He laughed. "Dollars, Catalina. Not pesos."

I didn't flinch. I did the math in my head. The "Carrara" switch saved us five hundred thousand. A fifty thousand dollar bribe was a rounding error.

"Done," I said. "But I want the permits signed today. Before the gala."

"A pleasure doing business with you," Castillo grinned. He leaned forward. "And your husband? How is the genius architect?"

"He is... unwell," I said, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The heat. The stress. He is having a difficult time. I may need to take him home early."

"A pity," Castillo clucked his tongue. "He asks a lot of questions, that one. He was asking my cousin at the port about shipping containers. Very curious."

My blood ran cold.

Max was asking about the containers?

So he wasn't just having a mid-life crisis. He was investigating.

"He is confused," I said sharply. "He doesn't know what he's looking for."

"Make sure he stays confused, Catalina," Castillo warned, his smile vanishing. "Curiosity is dangerous in this city. Accidents happen. Scaffolding falls."

The threat hung in the humid air, heavy and sweet like rotting fruit.

"He won't ask any more questions," I promised. "I'm putting him on a leash."

Just then, the gate opened.

Max walked in.

He looked terrible. His shirt was wrinkled. He hadn't shaved. He smelled of sweat and... something else. Something cheap. Vanilla perfume.

He stopped when he saw us. He saw Castillo sitting in his chair. He saw me.

"Max," I said, standing up. "There you are. We were just worried about you."

Max looked at Castillo. "Minister."

"Architect," Castillo nodded. He stood up. "I will leave you to your reunion. Catalina, call me when the... donation is processed."

Castillo walked past Max, pausing to pat him on the shoulder.

"Rest, my friend," Castillo whispered. "You look tired."

He left.

I turned to Max. I crossed my arms.

"Sit down, Max," I commanded.

"I'm standing," he said. His voice was rough.

"Where were you?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Does it matter?" He looked at me, his eyes dead. "I'm here now."

"You look like a vagrant," I said, wrinkling my nose. "Go shower. We have a brunch with the investors in an hour. And Max?"

He paused.

"If you ever embarrass me like this again—disappearing, leaving me to handle Minister Castillo alone—I will make sure you lose more than just your weekend privileges. Do you understand?"

He looked at me. For a second, I saw a flash of something in his eyes I hadn't seen in ten years. Defiance.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. The shoulders slumped. The light went out.

"I understand," he whispered.

"Good," I said, sitting back down and picking up my phone. "Now go. And use the bleaching soap. You smell like the street."

I watched him walk into the suite.

He was broken. Good. Broken things stayed where you put them.

I dialed the bank in Zurich. It was time to pay for the turtles.