Gondola. My mind sprung to the small photo mounted on the wall of Randolph Urban’s office—he was steering a gondola, with my parents, looking about the same age, with the same hair, decades ago, in Venice. “He was there,” I whispered, the revelation thick in my voice. “Urban may not have been in the Aldo Moro photo, but he was part of that first mission, wasn’t he? He was with my parents in Venice. There’s a photo in his office.”
Cross’s jaw twitched, a slight pulse by his ear, then a loud shuffle broke out near the doorway. “Anastasia! Anastasia!” yelled a voice with a British accent. “Run!”
I spun to see Julian Stone barreling toward us.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Julian’s bright blue-green eyes were frenzied as he zigzagged through the crowd. Marcus stepped in front of me, his hand across my torso in protection. It seemed he was finally refocused on our conversation, and his first instinct was to jump in front of danger. I liked that about him.
“Anastasia! You must leave! Now! They’re here!” Julian yelled.
“Who are you?” I spat, though I knew the answer.
Julian stopped inches away, panting, sweat on his brow. “Pardon. I’m Julian Stone.” He smoothed his freshly ironed white button-down, which fell over his crisp dark jeans. His blond hair looked flatironed. “I’m a friend of Sophia Urban’s. I was across the piazza.”
“Yeah, I know. Why are you stalking me?” I looked at Cross as if to ask what the hell is going on? but Cross was looking at Julian.
“Mr. Stone, how many of them are there?” he asked.
“At least three, two men and one woman,” Julian replied, his eyes frantically darting toward the entrance. “I’ve never seen them before.”
I peered toward the glass doors not knowing who I was looking for, and in an almost comforting way, Marcus seemed just as lost. He kept his hand held out, and I grabbed it in solidarity.
“You sure they don’t work for your father?” Cross asked, like he wanted to see his reaction.
Julian jerked back. “What? No. Of course not. Bloody hell.” He peered at me, azure eyes wide. “I realize you don’t know me. But I know you. Or at least, I knew your father…”
“Yeah, I heard. You guys were best buds. You know, my sister is missing.” I cut to the point.
“I had nothing—”
“Not now,” Cross insisted, surveying the entrance. Then, something must have caught his eye, because he began shoving me toward the back of the café. “The bathrooms. Go.”
“What? Why?” I twisted toward the windows again, and that’s when I saw him. Luis Basso. He was standing across the piazza, a scowl on his face. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah, I see him.” Marcus grabbed my hand and began yanking me toward the dimly lit hallway that led to the bathroom. The cut on my arm throbbed as if recognizing the man who delivered the wound. We barreled into the men’s room, Julian locking the door behind us, and Marcus squeezing my palm like he was never letting go.
“What are you doing here?” I yelled at Julian.
“Presently, warning you about the men with guns,” he replied.
Cross shoved a set of car keys at me, interrupting the argument, and I let go of Marcus’s hand. Marcus immediately stepped closer to my side, as if our physical contact kept us safe. It didn’t. But it did keep me sane. He pressed his chest against my back as if ready to dive on top of me to shield me from danger, and I liked the way that felt. I wasn’t alone.
“There’s a silver Fiat parked in front of a restaurant nearby.” Cross’s tone was stern.
“What?” I stared at the foreign keys. “You want me to take your car?”
“It’s a safe car. Plates are untraceable.” His eyes skimmed all of us. “Do not use credit cards. Do not use the internet. Get as far out of town as you can before stopping. Use cash. Conceal your faces when you go through tolls. Do not use an ATM. The car is parked two blocks from Hostaria Pantheon; walk there like tourists, gaze at the architecture, blend in with the crowd. Do not run. Do you understand?”
I nodded stiffly. “But why is Luis here? What does he want? He let me go in Cortona.”
Cross looked jittery, as if warring with the words in his head, with the information he clearly knew but didn’t want to share. “They want something from me,” he admitted reluctantly. “You’re right, they do want you and your sister in Italy for a reason, and I’m a part of that. They’re hoping I’ll tell you what I know about past events.” His golden eyes looked cagey, even more elusive than usual, like he was not just withholding something, but something vital. “It took me decades to get out of this business, and I’m not going to draw you and your sister in now. I’ll do whatever I can to get her back, but that’s as far as I’m taking this.”
“They want information from you,” I realized, finally catching on. “And they thought you would tell me?”
“Yes. But I won’t. All I’m going to say is that your sister is in Venice, and we will find her.”
“You mean the flat?” Julian interjected, stepping between us. “Because I have the address where she was held.”
I gawked at him, openmouthed.
“I’m sure Sophia told you I saw the articles,” he blurted. “My family’s media holdings afford me many useful contacts throughout the world, and there was chatter about an American girl being held at a flat in Venice.”
What in the world? My eyebrows wrinkled together. “You know, your dad’s on the short list of people who might have taken her.”
“Impossible. It wasn’t my family. I assure you.” Julian shook his head, his blond hair swaying with overly styled perfection. “I can help you, though. I know the address. Campo dei Frari, Building 3070.”
I sucked a quick breath and looked at Cross, who seemed equally impressed. “You’ve got good intel, Mr. Stone. Your father should be proud.” He gripped my shoulder. “Now, out the window. All of you.”
“You want me to take him with us?” I spat.
“I doubt he’s in on it,” Cross said as he cut a sideways glance toward Julian. “But his father’s a bastard who you should avoid at all costs.”
“No argument here,” Julian grumbled.
“Besides, I’m sure Mr. Stone can solve a few cash flow problems now that Randolph Urban’s funds are out of the mix.”
“Yes. I have money! Lots.” Julian’s face lit up. “I just need you to—”
“Quit while you’re ahead, kid,” Cross snapped.
“How is his money any safer than Urban’s? His father’s a criminal, too,” I shrieked, and Julian recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “And why should I take your car? You’re just as bad. Every adult in my life is a lying psycho!” I knew I sounded like a melodramatic soap star, but my life was starting to feel unreal. I was just waiting for the evil twin to pop out.
“Anastasia, it was a job,” Cross sounded exasperated. “I know you want a loftier explanation than that, but it’s really that simple. We were good at what we did, and we made lots of money. Money I tried to give to you and your sister.” His hazel eyes softened, that hint of kindness gleaming through. “Your parents loved you. Everything they did was for you. But people don’t become powerful without having secrets.”
Just then a crash erupted inside the café as if a large tray of cups clattered to the floor. Everyone looked to the bathroom door. “That’s them. Go!” Cross shoved me toward the window. This time no one hesitated.
Marcus jumped onto the closed toilet seat and cranked the grimy window open. “I’ll catch you on the other side,” he said, looking only at me.
He squirmed face-first through the small rectangular opening, and Julian guided his feet, though I doubted Marcus wanted the help. Then Julian scurried out behind him, and I stepped onto the toilet, turning back toward Cross. His eyes looked sad.
“If you go to Venice, they’ll be waiting for you,” he warned.
“She’s my sister,” I replied, summing up every choice I’d made since I saw that tub. Keira wa
s out there, right now, praying for someone to find her. And I was the only one looking. I had to go.
“Do not talk to the Italian police. They encountered your parents often over the years, and they are loyal to the Bassos. They won’t do you any favors, but I’ll send help when I can.”
I reached down and hugged him from my perch on the toilet, feeling a sudden burst of emotion for the Uncle Aleksandr of my youth. “Are you sure about Julian?” I asked in his ear.
“Keep him close. He could be an asset. Think—if it is his father who has your sister, then it’ll be beneficial to have his son. But do not let him plaster you on the front page of some newspaper.” His words were hushed, though there was no way Julian could hear from outside. Then he shoved me toward the window. “Now go. Stay safe.”
“I will.”
I reached onto the gritty ledge and shimmied my way through, Julian and Marcus guiding me down to the cobblestones. Then we all left together, for better or worse.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We cut through the massive crowds surrounding the circular Pantheon, walking as calmly as our panicked bodies would permit until we located Cross’s silver car. Marcus took the wheel while I sat shotgun, and Julian spouted directions from the back like a local on his daily commute. He even took us past the Coliseum, the only time in my life I’d ever seen the iconic structure, not that I got the chance to appreciate it. Though I did imagine all the gladiators who’d been here before us; at least they had spears.
Once we were on the autostrada, with no gun-toting crazies in sight, I finally was able to absorb the fact that I was stuck in a compact car with a guy whose family may have potentially arranged for my sister’s kidnapping. Not that I was afraid of Julian, at least not physically. He was only a few inches taller than me, probably about ten pounds thinner, and his jeans looked too skinny for the Olsen twins. I doubted he could fight in those things. But still, for the sake of our getaway, I waited until we were safely on the highway, cruising past lush green mountains and soaring over sky-high bridges, before I allowed myself to address the size zero elephant.
“Sophia told me she sent you,” I said, turning toward his perch on the hump of the backseat. “But I don’t really get why you’re here.”
Julian smiled like a teeth-whitening ad, looking relieved for the opportunity to finally speak. He spouted his saga. Supposedly, he and my father met while Julian was seeking a linguistic expert to translate the Arabic manual. He said that my dad was using the alias “John Frazier” (Joe Frazier was his favorite boxer), and that his knowledge of world languages was extensive, which I knew. My father became somewhat of an advisor, sharing pints at the pub as he praised Julian’s efforts to bring down the terrorist cell. Then he ultimately destroyed the Stone family name and crippled their media holdings. Julian never saw it coming, nor did he ever meet my mother.
Additionally, while he was aware of his own father’s questionable ethics, he denied that his family was guilty of any criminal activity that didn’t involve a corporate boardroom. He swore the Stones had nothing to do with Keira’s kidnapping. I didn’t know how much I trusted my instincts anymore, but it didn’t seem like he was lying.
He leaned between the front seats. “After I was publicly flogged, our fortune diminished, my family completely cut ties with me. While I still have my trust fund, no one speaks to me. Not my parents, not my siblings.” He shook his head in a mixture of disgust and humiliation. “All I want is to fix the damage I caused, to set things right for everyone and to clear our family name.”
“That’s why you’re here? You think I can help you? Because if you haven’t noticed yet, I’m a little busy.” I scanned the drivers whizzing by, fearful of spotting Luis Basso or another assassin. I knew that there was a trap waiting for me in Venice, but I had to go. I had to find a way to give them what they wanted, if it meant bringing Keira home.
“I’m sorry about your sister. That’s why I looked into your situation, that’s how I discovered the address where she was held.”
“For all I know, your father gave you that address.” I pumped my shoulders like I didn't believe him. “That man back there, Allen Cross, says that your dad’s a criminal, that everything my father did to you was because your dad wanted too much power.”
“Well, he does love to be in control.” Julian scratched his forehead with a shiny buffed fingernail. “But he’s a successful, well-documented entrepreneur. His corporate holdings are extremely public. There’s no way he’s a criminal, unless you count corporate espionage or illegal stock trades.”
“Julian, my parents were very successful and well-documented engineers. So are his.” I pointed to Marcus, who flinched at my words as if still unready to accept what our situation meant for his parents, his brother. “Dresden employees have had their pictures taken with government leaders from around the globe. Their contracts make headlines. Yet apparently, the company is also a front for a ring of criminal spies. So you can understand why I’d think your father is capable of anything, including kidnapping.”
He sucked his lips between his veneered teeth, then shook his head defiantly. “If my father is what you say he is, it would mean that everything that happened to me, the last few years I’ve spent being slandered by his own papers, was because of him.” Julian knotted his hands in his lap, his gleaming leather shoe tapping furiously on the floor mat. “It’s not possible. I don’t believe it…”
Though it sounded like he already did. Unfortunately, I knew the pain of that betrayal all too well—from every adult in my life.
Two scenarios started to formulate in my brain. The first, that Randolph Urban never loved me, that he took my sister for some unknown reason and that he sent me here to find her for an even more obscure reason. The second, that Randolph Urban was a criminal just like my parents, who knew exactly which enemy not only held the greatest grudge against them, but also would be willing to use a child for revenge, because my parents had used his child against him—Phillip Stone.
“Think about it.” I looked at Marcus, who glanced at me from behind the wheel. “What if Randolph Urban knows that Phillip Stone has Keira, and that’s why he sent us to Europe. Look at what he’s done since we’ve been here—he sent his granddaughter to talk to us, gave us that manual, then told Julian to find us. Maybe he’s trying to help.”
“But if Urban knows who has your sister, why wouldn’t he get her back himself? He has the resources,” Marcus pointed out.
“Maybe he tried,” I continued. “Cross said a team of Department D agents raided the apartment in Venice. It was empty. Maybe Urban was working with them. Cross was very reluctant to say that Urban was behind this. Maybe Cross is trying to protect him.”
“But then why send you, or me?” Marcus snapped, his forehead tense with wrinkles. “I thought Urban cared about you. If these lunatics are going after kids, why would he send us here?”
I thought he cared about me, too. Of course, I also thought that my parents were good people, and that my sister believed our espionage theories were crazy jokes. Clearly, I’d been wrong about a lot of things.
“I don’t know.” My voice swelled with emotion as I acknowledged the lies around me. “But he hasn’t returned my calls since we got here, and have you heard from your family once?”
“How is your family involved?” Julian snapped, his blue-green eyes glaring at the back of Marcus’s head. “I’m supposed to sit here while you attack my family, but have you told her that you brought me that manual? Your tattoo’s rather memorable.”
Marcus rubbed his neck, where the angry bull was inked, his eyes locked on the road. “I had no idea what I was delivering. It was just a job.”
“Been hearing that a lot lately,” Julian huffed.
I watched Marcus’s jaw flex, out of guilt or irritation, I didn’t know. Probably both.
I stared at the road in front of us, my mind racing faster than the car. If all this really were true, then somehow the children of thr
ee very high-ranking criminal families were now seated in the same car, heading toward a foreign city, where someone somewhere wanted us. We were purposely brought together, and it was clear there was much more waiting for us in Venice than my sister.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We crossed a long bridge into Venice, the afternoon sun bouncing off the glassy water of the bay so brightly I had to shield my eyes. Ahead, I spied a smattering of drab, smoggy industrial buildings and a generic concrete parking garage, but no submerged homes, no flowing canals, and no gondolas. It wasn’t the Venice I’d imagined.
We parked the car near the swarming bus station, a cloud of diesel exhaust enveloping us as we crossed the four-lane street. Julian had booked a hotel, swearing he had enough cash in his wallet for us to stay as long as we’d like, which now conveniently left us at the mercy of someone whose family was leading the race for most-likely-to-have-kidnapped-my-sister. But I didn’t have many alternatives. If his father did have Keira, keeping Julian in my sights was a good idea—as Cross suggested. And given that I had about ten euros in my pocket, it was either let him pay for dinner and a warm hotel or sleep in a two-door Fiat and pray for stale crackers between the bucket seats. I chose the former.
“Follow me,” Julian said as he led us to a wide concrete staircase.
We began descending the steps, and a broad canal of thick turquoise water came into view.
Now, this was the postcard.
Ancient, colorful residential buildings sat with their foundations fully immersed in the rising tides of the canal. Arched pedestrian bridges crossed the muggy current at random intervals. Shutters framed every window, and the remains of centuries-old front doors peeked from far below the water line.
“Wow,” I gaped in wonderment. It was like seeing the ruins of Atlantis.
Marcus grabbed my hand, as if on autopilot, as if the scene was too romantic not to hold someone’s hand. “How does this even exist?” he asked, echoing my sentiment.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 21
