“Geoffrey Barnes? Listen, we have a problem.”

There was no city like London, thought Sarah Monteiro. She was on her flight back from Lisbon to her home on Belgrave Road. Her plane had been circling the airport for about half an hour, waiting for a runway. This was all part of her pleasurable anticipation after a monotonous two weeks’ vacation at her parents’ home-her father a retired captain in the Portuguese army; her mother an English professor (hence the addition of the h to her name, as well as her love for everything British). It wasn’t that she didn’t like Portugal. On the contrary, she thought her birth country was beautiful, but despite its long history, there had been too many revolutions and too few reforms. But Portugal was Sarah’s usual destination two or three times a year. She loved to spend Christmas on a farm near Beja in Alentejo, where her parents had retired a few years ago. Its fresh country air, so different from that of the British capital, had become essential to her.

The plane seemed to land normally, just the usual rattles and jolts. In about twenty minutes they would be deplaning, but the passengers were already jostling to collect their belongings first and get out.

“We have just landed at Heathrow. The temperature in London is twenty degrees centigrade. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop, and… we wish to thank you for choosing to travel with us,” the flight attendant trailed off mechanically. No more than two or three people were listening, certainly not Sarah, so used to flying, not only on her trips to Portugal but also to other destinations, in her job as a London correspondent for one of the largest international news agencies. It was a convenient and interesting career for foreigners, getting paid for simply bringing news from their hometowns. She still had two days of vacation left before having to get back to the newsroom, to the daily flow of news and the never-ending search for sensational events.

The plane finally stopped, and as the passengers hurried to leave, she got her carry-on and handbag. Going down the aisle, she called her parents to let them know she’d arrived safely, and that she would call them later. She trekked through the long carpeted halls, decorated in green and black, and stood in line for customs. Citizens of the European Community, Switzerland, and the United States on one side, other nationalities on the other, all ready with their passports or equivalent documents. Sarah was waiting dutifully behind the yellow line so as not to disturb the spectacled man ahead of her, nor pressure the customs officer at the booth.

“Next, please.” He didn’t sound friendly at all. She could have chosen another window. The female officer in the next booth looked much nicer. Too late now.

Sarah held out her passport with her best smile, and he looked at it.

“It’s nice to be back. How’s the weather been?” she asked, hoping to smooth out the situation.

“You can’t see the weather from in here,” the officer grunted, sounding even surlier. He had probably gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, or maybe had had an argument with his wife, if he had one. “There seems to be something wrong with your passport.”

“Something wrong? I can show you my ID, if you wish. I’ve never had a problem with my passport.”

“Could be a system error.”

The ill-tempered officer’s name was Horatio, according to the tag on his uniform. The phone on the counter rang. “Yes, but there is something wrong with the passport.” He listened for a few moments more and then hung up.

“Everything seems to be in order now. You can go.”

“Thank you very much.”

The unpleasant attitude of the man had put Sarah’s nerves on edge. Now all she needed was to find a taxi driver just like him to top off her less than smooth arrival. But first she had to claim her baggage, so all in all it would be about an hour before she got home, assuming her luggage wasn’t lost.

IN A SECURITY OFFICE elsewhere in the airport, while Sarah dealt with the customs officer, an alarm had flickered on a computer. A young officer in his twenties responded to the routine alarm. The stripes on the shoulders of his white uniform shirt indicated his rank as a security officer. He was trying to determine the source of the flickering red alarm. Probably it was a false or expired passport, or maybe just one in bad condition. He carefully observed the image on the security camera: a beautiful woman, thirtyish, facing window 11, the one manned by Horatio-a very meticulous, dull widower for whom everything had to be in perfect order. Still, he had to notify his superior.

“Sir.”

A fiftyish man, graying at the temples, came in and leaned over the computer screen.

“Let me see.” He glanced at the information, typed something in, and new details appeared. The name Sarah Monteiro and other data scrolled by very fast. “Don’t worry, John. I’ll take care of this.” Picking up the phone, he called Horatio. “It’s Steve. Let her go. Yes, don’t worry, let her go. Everything is in order.” Still holding the handset, he called another number. “She just came in.”

WELL, THINGS WERE NOT going too badly, after all. In barely half an hour she was already in a taxi, leaving Terminal 2, on her way home.

“ Belgrave Road, please,” she told the driver. In another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes, depending on traffic, she would be soaking in a very welcome bubble bath, almost overflowing her tub. She was thinking of a soothing combination of strawberry and vanilla, an effervescent mix that would relax her muscles and bring peace to her spirit.

The taxi went around Victoria Station, overcrowded as usual, and continued on Belgrave. The street, lined with cheap hotels and busy sidewalks, was very London. A porch supported by two columns, some plain and others a Corinthian imitation, depending on the taste of the architect, or owner, fronted most of the houses. With exposed red bricks or a new coat of paint, these Victorian houses were at least a hundred years old but very well kept.

The taxi was approaching her home at the corner of her block when it had to brake suddenly. Sarah almost bumped her head against the glass separating driver from passengers. A black car with tinted windows had passed them, then abruptly cut in and stopped. The taxi driver honked hard, in a rage.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” he shouted. The driver in the car ahead of them lowered his window, stuck his head out, and hollered, “Sorry, mate,” and sped away. Seconds later the taxi stopped in front of Sarah’s house, and the driver graciously took care of her luggage. Inside she found a mountain of mail strewn on the floor. Postcards from colleagues, the inevitable bills to pay, junk mail of all kinds and sizes, and some mail she didn’t feel like opening then. She took her suitcase to her bedroom on the second floor, went into the bathroom to fill her tub, and changed into something more comfortable. She was finally home. In two minutes she was enjoying her honey-scented bubble bath; she was out of vanilla, but the result was equally soothing-relaxing. She had already forgotten the surly customs officer at the airport, and the disturbing incident in the taxi. Downstairs by the entryway, in the midst of the scattered correspondence, was an envelope clearly displaying the sender’s name: Valdemar Firenzi.