That’s where I need to be to check out on the Factory’s investment.
My job requires a lot of flying. Statistically speaking, it’s still the safest way to travel, of course, but I never let myself forget that crashes are almost always fatal.
The landing’s a little rough. The pilot could be drunk, tired, or simply a novice. In any case, I’m pretty sure he’s eaten up a lot more runway than he’s supposed to. Oh, and now there’s a plane streaking toward us as the tires squeal on the tarmac.
Only in Brazil for a few seconds and already I feel like I’ve taken my life into my hands. Hopefully this won’t be the hallmark of the entire trip.
We do manage to avoid collision, and taxi over to a waiting jetway. Grabbing up my carry-on, I fall in line to disembark.
Thank goodness the Factory sprang for first class. Coach seats are not made for anyone over six feet tall.
A lot of women my height won’t even consider heels. Why? Because they know men are uncomfortable around members of the opposite sex taller than they are. Not me. Heels are a staple of my business-centric attire. Who cares if some man’s ego gets bruised? Besides, if it happens, I take it as a win. In my line of work, intimidating a man in the line of duty often helps to avoid power games.
The Macapá International Airport boasts some familiar franchises… Even out here, who knew?
I roll my carry-on to the baggage return.
A middle-aged woman approaches while I’m waiting for the rest of my luggage to emerge from the curtains. She wears simple but flattering business casual attire. I recognize her as Sister Isabella.
Let’s get this show rolling.
I’ve never met Sister Isabella, but I’ve seen the photos in the file they gave me.
Her full name is Isabella Romano, and despite my research, I haven’t been able to ascertain what religious order she belongs to.
That alone should have been a red flag for the Factory.
“Pardon me,” she says, “but are you Heather Duncan?”
“I am. How did you know it was me?” I cock an eyebrow and stare sternly down at her.
I know perfectly how she figured it out, but I want her to get the message fast: I’m not here to make friends. Especially not with her, if what the Factory suspects is right and she is indeed doing despicable things.
Before answering, Isabella swallows nervously. Or acts as if she’s swallowing nervously, I can’t tell yet.
“Well, not to sound politically incorrect, but you’re the only white woman in this airport.”
I grunt. “Besides yourself, of course. Have you prepared the materials I asked for?”
She seems a little put off by my brusque manner, but if she’s researched me too, she must know I have a reputation for bluntness. When I’m on the job I can’t be bothered with niceties. I’m not about to start with her.
“I’ve put together most of the files you wanted on a memory stick in PDF format,” she answers while rummaging around in her handbag. A few seconds later, she hands the USB stick to me. I rub my thumb on its sleek metal carapace, then catch her eye again.
“Most of?”
She licks her lips. “I don’t have all of the invoices on there. You see, my scanner broke about halfway through the personnel files.”
“Of course it did.” I heave a sigh. “No matter. I’ll be wanting to go through all of your paperwork in person anyway.”
Isabella’s eyes widen. “You—you will?”
“Of course. A thorough audit requires no less, and I’m a professional.”
Isabella shakes her head. “Maybe you don’t know. Our offices are right outside of Ipixuna, and Ipixuna is a six-hour journey by boat. I thought you would be happy to do what all the previous controllers sent by the Foundation did.”
“And what is that?” I ask, wondering again what order she supposedly belongs to. Obviously, one that doesn’t have issues with the nuns wearing civilian clothing.
She flips her hands palm up in an isn’t-it-obvious gesture. “They handled all the business here, in Macapá. Can’t we do that?”
