[h3]Sao Paolo, Brasil[/h3]

She tucked the flashlight under her chin and slowly cracked the second drawer of the big filing cabinet. Around her towered dozens of other similar, the records room for the [i]Folha International[/i], the local paper that had covered the visit of the Princess Mariana and her family to Brasil. The room smelled vaguely of mildew and dust, and she was certain she could rat tracks in the dust that covered a pile of cardboard boxes nearby. The floor above her creaked as someone walked down the main hall and she glanced guiltily upward. She had given the janitor fifty pesetas to let her in to the records room and leave her alone for an hour as she searched the battered filing cabinets.

Jomi, it seemed, had trusted no one, and kept very little in her desk. Isabel had pretended to be Jomi's sister to gain access to the building and knew it was only a matter of time before someone figured out she'd lied. When she had first been able to see her friends desk it had appeared painfully clean. Isabel had sat in a leather chair that bore hardly any sign of having been sat in before. Some pens, empty paper stack, and a few half written stories about local celebrity gossip. Nothing of real value was in the desk and Isabel recalled how Jomi had always told her that she kept her best stuff locked away so no one else could steal it from her.

Seated in Jomi's chair, Isabel thought back through their mutual letters to one particular note, set a couple years previously, in which Jomi had mentioned being forced to hide a key on her desk since she kept forgetting her usual one at home. She had said something about a false drawrer. Isabel, no longer watched by Jomi's editor, had quickly made a study of the drawers and, after a few moments of gently tapping the pressing, she found a small sliding cover that revealed a key. Nothing fancy, but enough to avoid the basic prying eyes.

Isabel had palmed the key and, with the Editor still facing away from her, had slipped out of the room and in to a narrow hallway, hurrying down it until she found the stairs that would take her in to the basement. She had found the janitor, a kindly old woman, in what could only have been her office and home  a shabby little space filled with memorabilia of a life long gone by. The pictures of a smiling man and pretty woman, who could have once been the janitor, a collection of playing cards from Italy, empty wine bottles held fading flowers, and a few simple letters with the unsteady hands of children wishing "Grandma" happy birthday, all that she had to show for nearly sixty years of life.

Grandma had been resistant at first. The basement was her domain, it seemed not even the Editor did much without her permission down there, but at last, persuaded by the money, she had agreed to let Isabel in to the records room. So here she was, standing in front of a metal filing cabinet, surrounded by dust and mildew, looking for she knew not what. 

Her fingers gently pulled the old stained manila envelopes forward one by one. Older titles had been blotted out and new ones written over top. Stories about Football stars, television stars, actors visiting from America, a wide array of what could easily be called "Gossip News".

At last, near the centre of the files, she hit pay dirt. The file read "Portuguese Royals". Her heart pounding, she pulled the manila folder out and laid it on top of the cabinet, a small puff of dust swirling up from the edges. She opened it slowly and found herself looking at another, smaller envelope. This one was sealed and she pulled the penknife from her pocket to cut the top open, doing so as carefully as possible.

She thought she heard footsteps outside for a moment and stopped. Then above her she heard the unmistakable sound of heated discussion. Mens voices. One angry. The other afraid. She didn't know what it meant but every fibre of her being screamed at her to run. She shoved the envelope in to her shirt, closed the filing cabinet, locked it, and dropped the key in to the floor drain. She hurried in to the hall, nearly colliding with the janitor whose eyes were wide with concern.

"The Police, they have come for Jomi's files. They say she had no sister!" The words were not an accusation, just fact. The money Jomi had paid was enough for the woman to know she did not belong. "You must go, and quickly."

Feet sounded on the floor above them, many of them, and all moving toward the staircase Isabel had used to access the basement. She glanced down the other hall and the janitor nodded at the unspoken question.

"There is an outside door, go, quickly."

Isabel ran. She burst through the far door just as the one at the bottom of the stairs opened and several policemen rushed through it, heading for the file room, guns drawn. She didn't waste a second, hurrying up the flight of stairs in front of her. Her feet seemed impossibly loud on the concrete and she could hearing shouting and screams everywhere in the building now. The police were everywhere. The main floor landing presented her three options, and she took the easiest, bursting out of the side door and in to the street.

A surprised policeman only had a moment to open his mouth in a shout before he folded over as she kicked him hard between the legs. He dropped to the pavement, three passing women giving her a cheer as stepped over the groaning man and ran. The street was busy with cars and buses as they sped up and down the boulevard. The sidewalk was packed with those heading home after a long day of work, a kaleidoscope of faces and noises.

Shouts behind her. The sound of a police whistle. Still she ran. Not for the first time in her life she was thankful she was on the smaller side, able to slip through the crowd far faster than her pursuers. She duck and wove, dodging through oncoming crowds of businessmen and around groups of mothers with their strollers and small children. Some called after her, others ignored her, a few cheered her on without knowing why.

For three blocks she ran, not bothering to turn off until a narrow alley allowed her to duck in to the darkness. She panted in the darkness for a moment and then nearly jumped out of her skin as a hand touched her shoulder.

"You alright?" 

Isabel almost ran back in to the street but managed to stop herself at the last second as she managed to get a look at her new companion. He was about her height, his face scarred with acne, his hair black but well trimmed. He wore rumpled but well fitting clothes and a cigarette dangled from his other hand. He made no move toward her. 

"Yes, yes, I am, thank you."

Just then a police car raced by with siren wailing and she shrank back in to the darkness. The man chuckled slightly and stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. 

"Yea, sure you are. That's why you're hiding from the police." He tugged his jacket a little straighter and then looked her over. "You're Spanish?"

"Yes." She didn't see any reason to deny it and the man was still not approaching her.

"Well, Spanish or not, if the police are after you, we might be friends. Can I offer you a place to stay?"

"To stay?" Hers eyes narrowed.

"Yea, somewhere to hide. And," His teeth flashed in the shadows as she smiled. "Do you have much choice? They won't give up easy."

As if to hammer his point home another police car drove past, more slowly this time, two officers scanning the crowd. Fearing capture, and with no other choice, and she nodded at the stranger and followed him deeper in to the alley.