I nodded, an anxious pit opening inside me.
“That was my first real job, so I wanted to take it seriously, show my parents I had a strong work ethic.” He seemed to be repeating their words. “I was the fastest courier on my team, and I loved how proud my dad looked, like I was the responsible one. Unlike my brother, who was drinking and fighting every guy who bumped into him.”
“The brother who now works for Dresden?”
“He’s changed a lot.” Though Marcus sounded like he didn’t see this as a good thing, and I was starting to realize he missed his brother in more ways than one. “To be fast, you need to make sure you don’t waste too much time talking to customers,” Marcus went on, biting his lip as he now stared at the floor like he didn’t want to look at me. “I’m not typically chatty with old men in suits. I hardly even looked at my clients. That’s why I didn’t realize it before…” His voice trailed off, and my head slumped toward my chest.
Don’t say it. Only I saw Marcus’s reaction when we were at the gelateria listening to Sophia Urban and, if the way he was biting his thumbnail with a panicked expression was any indication, he was about to say something very bad.
“I delivered that manual to Julian Stone,” he blurted. “I’ve seen it before, the composition book and checkered sack. I remember it.”
I nodded, peeling my body away from him, away from the quiet moment I so desperately wanted. Of course he did. Marcus was a Dresden Kid, my father “worked” for Dresden. My dad probably used their cycle courier, their copy machines, and their staples for his criminal activities.
“Who gave you the manual?” I asked, though I already knew.
He bit his thumb. “I swear, I didn’t realize it before. I got paid by the amount of items I was able to deliver in a day, so I hardly spent more than a second with clients, but the package was memorable. Who uses composition books anymore? And the checkered sack… It was your father who gave it to me.”
I continued nodding robotically, wanting this day to end, wanting all the duplicities my parents fed me to stop. My biggest question now was whether Dresden and Department D were the same company. Because no matter how many times I asked Cross today, he refused to answer. And I was not leaving that coffee shop tomorrow without a yes or no.
“I’m gonna force Cross to tell me about Randolph Urban and Dresden and all of this.” I threw up my hands like we were surrounded by madness, which we were.
“There is no way they’re connected. That would mean that my parents and my brother are spies too,” he spat.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head, having nothing more to add.
Marcus stood up, moving away from me, like he might catch the disease of deceit that was infecting my family. “I get that my brother’s a little nontraditional for a corporate sales guy, but my parents are biomedical engineers. I’ve seen them at work, I’ve been to their labs. My father grew human tissue out of nothing. Their projects are in the news. Are you saying the entire world is in on it?”
“It would be a very elaborate front…” I conceded.
“And Randolph Urban? You’ve known him your whole life.”
“I thought I knew my parents, too.” I flopped back onto the bed, the crisp white cotton duvet enveloping me as I closed my eyes, information swirling like a kaleidoscope, every word warped and twisted. It took all my strength right now not to let the funk in, not to drift away and just feel numb.
“I should go.” Marcus turned toward the door, and I swiftly reached for his hand.
“Don’t.” I peered at him, my lids hooded with exhaustion. If I spent the night alone tossing and turning in five hundred thread count sheets reliving every word that was said to me today, recalling every suspicious moment I spent with my parents, every excuse they gave for moving us across the globe, I didn’t know whether I’d be able to get out of bed in the morning. The funk would take me, and I’d let it.
“Will you stay?” I whispered.
Marcus squeezed my hand, his thumb gently caressing my palm, then lowered himself onto the bed. He spread his long body beside mine and draped a heavy arm across my waist. I closed my eyes, my mind finally quieting from his touch. I needed him.
...
A hand nudged my shoulder, gently rocking my sore arm until my eyelids crept up. Marcus was perched on his elbow, staring at me from across a goose down pillow.
“It’s time to go,” he whispered, nodding toward the digital clock as I peered tentatively through my lashes. “It’s seven fifteen.”
Oh my God! We were supposed to meet Cross at eight. I shot up, the white sheet falling to my waist. I’d slept in my clothes. I glanced at Marcus; he was naked from the waist up. My eyes turned back toward the sheet, a flush spreading across my face.
“I need to get ready,” I muttered quickly, my mouth tacky. I could taste my teeth.
“I tried to let you sleep as long as I could. You needed it.” He cracked his neck, his bull tattoo stretching my way.
I didn’t know when he’d removed his shirt, but it was hard to look at him with all those muscles showing. I’d never spent the night with a guy, in any sense of the term. I’d fooled around with a competitor after a karate tournament once, but it never got to nakedness—just some awkward kissing, nothing like kissing Marcus in Cortona. Having him in my bed right now felt intimate.
“Um, okay. We should call down to the concierge, get a cab.” I flung back the crisp sheets in a jerky motion and jumped out of bed, not looking at him.
He’d saved me from myself last night. Just his presence calmed the chaos in my brain. I could breathe. I could relax. I could sleep. It was good that he stayed, only I wasn’t expecting him to undress.
“Is everything all right?” he asked as he watched my eyes flick about the room for fresh clothes, shoes, a brush, anything to offer a distraction.
Calm down. You look like a freak. Nothing happened.
I took a long breath and forced my eyes to meet his. “I’m going to hop in the shower. I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I stated as composed as possible.
“Okay. I’ll get ready next door.” He stepped out of bed, then peered down at his bare chest and back at me as if finally catching on. “I get hot when I sleep,” he muttered, having the good sense to finally sound embarrassed.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” I spun toward the bathroom, my face ready to combust. At least he was still wearing shorts. I rushed inside and flicked on the recessed lights, exhaling audibly. You’d think I’d never been to a beach, never seen a guy’s shirt off. Only this felt different. This was the type of naked that sent a buzz of excitement through my belly followed by a rush of guilt. How could I get so distracted? If I was being held captive somewhere and learned that my sister was busy flirting and cuddling with some random guy, how would I feel? I couldn’t do that to Keira. I had no right, especially after all the years of judgmental snipes I threw at her.
I turned on the shower and listened as Marcus exited the room.
...
We took a cab to Piazza Sant’Eustachio, and Allen Cross was right—there was no guess as to where he wanted to meet—everyone was funneling into one overwhelmingly crowded café. We entered the caffeinated chaos, snaking our way to the counter, the steamy scent of espresso permeating my skin. Patrons all around stood shoulder to shoulder sucking down coffee as the impatient mob continued to grow. And people think Americans are pushy. Most of our coffee shops were full of hipsters lounging with screenplays and stay-at-home moms feeding toddlers five-dollar cookies.
I scanned the crowd for Cross as Marcus waved euros at the baristas. A pretty brunette with unnaturally long lashes fluffed her hair as she moved toward Marcus. It took moments for drinks to land in our hands. We leaned against the rounded edge of the bar, holding our scalding cups.
“Do you see him?” Marcus asked, eying me over his tiny espresso.
“Not yet.” I licked my foam.
“What if he doesn’t show?”
“
He will.”
Charlotte had left a voicemail overnight saying she was able to confirm Sophia’s story, which unlike me, she had recognized from the news. Julian Stone’s reputation was destroyed by that London terror scandal—every media outlet from Fox News to El País carried the story—but she couldn’t verify that my father was involved, nor that he was even in London at the time, but I guess that went with the spy territory. She could confirm that Julian was currently in Rome; he’d boarded a first-class flight yesterday. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was he following me because his family was behind Keira’s kidnapping? Or because my dad set him up and he was hoping to destroy everyone in my dad’s bloodline?
Surprisingly, Charlotte couldn’t locate the photo of Keira in the trunk of the car, and without proof, Boston PD seemed unwilling to seriously consider the lead, which made me feel like Luis was right—maybe there were agents working to ensure no one looked into my sister’s case.
I lifted my ceramic cup, the scent of cinnamon filling my nose as an elbow bumped my back. Cappuccino splashed onto my hand, and I cursed, wiping my fingers on my jeans. I turned to see Allen Cross standing behind me, wearing a canary yellow bow tie and holding a small cup.
“I see you had no trouble finding us,” I greeted, as I dried my sticky fingers on the only clean pair of pants I had left.
“Americans are pretty easy to spot. Spaniards, too.” He turned to Marcus. “Good to see you again.” Then he nodded toward the door with his balding head. “You seem to have drawn a crowd. Julian Stone is in the café across the piazza.”
We swung our heads toward the glass doors, morning light shining through in defined rays as I scanned the faces in the crowd outside. No one looked familiar.
“Sophia told him I was here,” I noted, surveying the masses.
“I wouldn’t talk to Sophia Urban anymore, or take any more of her grandfather’s money,” Cross instructed.
“Are you admitting it then? Urban is involved in this?” I braced myself for the awful truth. As much as I didn’t want to believe Urban could be connected to a plot to harm my sister, I couldn’t ignore that all the roads seemed to lead back to Dresden.
“Of course he is. You went to his office and asked for his money.” Cross eyed me over the rim of his tiny cup.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. If I’m not supposed to take his money anymore, then tell me why. Are Dresden and Department D the same thing?” I looked at Marcus, watching the fear slip into his eyes.
“Dresden is a real company,” Cross defended carefully. “But yes, it is connected to Department D.”
Marcus’s chest caved like a balloon had been popped within him.
“So it’s Urban who took Keira?”
“I can’t say that for sure. Believe me, he loved your parents, especially your mother. I would think him the last person who’d want to hurt their kids.”
“The Bassos loved my parents, too!” I huffed, slamming my drink on the bar with a thud. “So did you. But that didn’t stop you from screaming at them on Christmas Eve like you hated them.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Why were you so angry with them?” My eyes narrowed.
“Because I wanted out of the organization, and it’s not exactly an easy business to leave.”
“So what happened?”
“I’m a law professor now, aren’t I?”
“A professor with criminal ties, a professor who still peruses espionage chat rooms and receives Dresden mail. You were like family to us, showering us with gifts, then we never saw you again. How am I supposed to trust you now?”
He swallowed a gulp, his throat tight. Then he exhaled a loud, coffee-drenched gust and looked at me with a softer expression. “When your parents died, your sister dropped out of college, right? She was pre-med?”
I nodded, not knowing where he was going with this. I peered at Marcus, but his face had drained to the color of day-old oatmeal. If Dresden was in on it, so were his parents, so was his brother. He needed a minute.
“She reenrolled unexpectedly,” Cross continued, “because she won a grant to go back as a nursing student, tuition free, correct?” He stared at me, unmoving, letting his words hang in the air.
I took a step back, clarity sinking in.
“It was you?” I could hardly form the question.
He glanced away, almost embarrassed. “Randolph Urban wasn’t the only one helping you all these years. Your parents were dear friends. And they had a lot of cash that was rightfully yours tied up in the organization.” He hissed the last words through his teeth.
“You think I want their blood money?”
Old men don’t typically roll their eyes, but it looked like Cross wanted to. “Your sister graduated, didn’t she?”
“Because she worked her butt off.”
“And because she had the money. You also stopped eating potato chips for dinner.”
“You want me to thank you?”
“I want you to realize I’m on your side.”
If you added me to the list of people on my side, we wouldn’t even be able to play doubles tennis. I had two allies—Charlotte and Marcus. That was it. Maybe Cross was responsible for upgrading Keira and I from ramen noodles to frozen lasagna, but I had no proof of that. Only his word. And so far his words weren’t telling me everything I needed to know.
“You want me to believe you? Then prove it. Who’s behind this? Urban? The Bassos? The Stones? Who?”
“Julian Stone is harmless.” Cross waved me off. “I’m not even sure he’s aware of his father’s criminal activities.”
“So his dad’s a spy, too?” I asked, sounding more defeated than bewildered. How could I have been so oblivious to the world around me? To the world my parents built?
“Phillip Stone’s not a spy, but think about what we do.” Cross cut me a look, head tilted. “Department D uses the press to mislead the world about major international incidents, and Phillip Stone owns the press. He’s a media giant.”
“Is that why my parents went after his son?” I pictured my father’s handwriting on that manual, him deliberately writing false information, smirking sinisterly as he crafted an elaborate scheme I could barely understand or could have ever dreamed him capable.
“They didn’t go after Julian. Phillip was making business difficult, and he needed to be put in his place.”
“But you didn’t put him in his place. My parents went after his kid, so maybe now he’s going after theirs.”
“It was a long time ago, and his business has rebounded. Besides, that photo of Keira, the Aldo Moro connection, the Stones had nothing to do with that.” Cross rested his empty cup on the bar, and immediately a crowd flocked toward us, shooing us away.
I thought of the black-and-white photo of my parents at that awful crime scene. Randolph Urban and Phillip Stone weren’t there, but there was someone else who was. “There were four people Photoshopped out of that Moro photo. My parents, you, and the future Deputy Director of the CIA.”
“Martin Bittman?” Cross chuckled, then glanced around to ensure no one was listening. The name was probably recognizable. He cleared his throat. “He’s as straight and narrow as they come. He really was a random witness to that crime, a college student backpacking while on break from Stanford. Only he remembered every detail he saw, every face, including ours, and he was majoring in world languages with a perfect score on the SATs. The CIA recruited him the next day.”
“So, if he works for the CIA and my parents didn’t, that puts them at opposite ends, right?” I shivered, hating that my parents were the Lex Luthors of this scenario. “Maybe he has a grudge? You said whoever’s behind this had to be there at the beginning.”
“It’s not him.” Cross shook his head definitively. “Besides, your sister was running a DNA test; that’s what started this mess. Do you really think the CIA would kidnap an innocent woman just to stop a lab test?”
“I don’t think anyone would
kidnap someone to stop lab work!” I yelped a bit too loudly, but I didn’t care. There was more going on in this situation, and I was certain that Cross knew but wasn’t sharing. “Luis said that there were double agents in every branch of law enforcement, including the CIA.”
Cross pursed his lips. “He wishes his reach were that deep. Now, I wouldn’t trust the Italian authorities—the story about his Uncle Angelo is true. But the CIA is definitely not involved in this. In fact, I might be able to enlist their help. I’ll make some calls.” His eyes flicked toward the glass doors, as if hearing a sound I missed. He paused, straining to listen, then turned back. “You should know, we think your sister’s still in Venice.”
A puff of air escaped from my chest, like I had been holding it and didn’t realize it, just waiting for my sister to be found. She was in Venice, only hours away, and she was alive. I wanted to bust through the café doors and run there, full speed, right now. I bounced on my toes, ready to sprint.
“She’s at the apartment? You said yesterday that it was empty.”
“It is, but there are certain procedures for transporting a kidnapping victim, and none have been taken.”
“So you think she’s still there?” I grabbed Marcus’s arm, my heart leaping, and he seemed to finally jolt back from his daze. I could see the question marks swirling behind his dark eyes, what this meant for his family, who they really were. We were Dresden Kids, and that was no longer a good thing. Given how much he’d helped me, I knew I should comfort him, come up with the perfect thing to say, but there were no words. Hallmark doesn’t make an “I’m sorry your parents are criminals” card. Maybe we should add it to Happy Legal Guardian Day.
“I can’t say for sure, but every other move they’ve made has mimicked our first mission. We flew into Florence, completed the job in Rome, pit stopped in Cortona with the Bassos and, when things got hot, we hid out in Venice. You and your sister are hitting each of those spots. It’s like they want to be easy to follow. They want you on her tail. They showed you the Aldo Moro photo, posted a picture of her crammed into a trunk, and practically gave you my address. At this point, they might as well send you a postcard of Keira riding a gondola.”
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 20
