La Fenice, I thought, almost smirking to myself. It meant “the Phoenix.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I walked toward the sloping pedestrian bridge, the two photos I found in the flat tucked into the back pocket of my dark, low-slung jeans, one thought ringing in my head—what if Keira is with Craig at the symphony? What if this is it? I could finally have the chance to save her and simultaneously bash Craig’s head on the concrete. It was my recurring fantasy sequence. I imagined the blood on his face, the pain in his eyes.
Then I heard a stampede of running feet.
“Oh my God! You’re alive!” Charlotte screeched as she sprinted from the opposite side of the bridge, Marcus and Julian behind her. She threw her arms around me, crushing me into her, then pulled away and punched my shoulder. “What is wrong with you?”
“How late is it?” I looked at my watch. “I’m sorry, I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”
“You don’t just run off on people! You don’t come to a place like this by yourself! You could’ve been killed.” She punched my shoulder again. It barely hurt. Actually, it probably hurt her wrist more by the way her fist was flopping.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off alone, but we were up so late, and you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you. I thought I could come here and look around one more time,” I said apologetically. I probably should have left a note.
“Why didn’t you wake me? I would have come with you,” Marcus offered.
“Did you see anything?” Julian asked.
I stared at my sneakers as we continued trudging across the sloping bridge, the canal of turquoise water lapping below. If Julian’s father was behind this, then revealing Craig’s symphony plans would be akin to handing the enemy my playbook. Until I knew which side Julian was on, I couldn’t share any leads in his presence.
“I went into the apartment, but the place was empty,” I stated.
“You got in?” Julian sounded impressed. Or was he alarmed? Protecting his interests? My gut twitched.
“Yeah, it was wiped clean. No sign of Keira.”
“You could have been killed,” Charlotte muttered. “But I’m sorry you didn’t find anything.”
The time stamp on the proof-of-life meant we could finally communicate seriously with government agencies, something Charlotte desperately wanted, but I had to consider everything. Like why was a photo taken of Marcus and me? To upset Keira, make her think I no longer cared? Or was it sent to someone else? Who would care about my romantic involvements? And who wanted proof of Keira’s life other than me? I needed time to process this information before I shared it with anyone else.
“Hey, it’s not a total loss,” Charlotte offered, digging into her gray denim purse. There was a patch of a pirate skull on the flap. “While you were breaking into apartments, Julian and I were hacking into this.” She yanked out a thin black smartphone.
“Whose is that?” My forehead wrinkled.
“Craig Bernard’s,” Julian answered, sounding smug.
My sneakers skidded to a halt. “What?”
“He dropped it last night while you were chasing him. I picked it up,” he said with a self-satisfied shrug.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I snatched the phone, sliding my finger along the bottom. A password screen popped up.
“Because I couldn’t crack the code, and you already called me an idiot.” His blond eyebrows arched high. Sure, I had flung a few insults after the ill-fated boat chase, but that didn’t mean he should omit something this important. “I wasn’t sure what the best course of action was. I was thinking of sending it to a mate of mine who’s good with computers, but then Charlotte showed up.” He nodded to her, as if already impressed by her skills.
“I’m making progress. I should be able to hack in by tonight.” Her eyes were excited, thrilled to have a way of assisting.
“I told you I would help you find your sister,” Julian added.
“Yeah, if I just give you an exclusive interview on CNN,” I huffed.
“CNN’s American. I’d want more of a European market.”
“Good to know.” I rolled my eyes, my faith in him eroding further. Marcus grunted beside me, muttering something about him being a “gilipollas,” or dumbass, and I tried not to smile.
At this point, Julian was either on his father’s payroll and helping to stash my sister in a hole somewhere, or he was capable of ruining the symphony meeting tomorrow just to ambush my sister’s kidnapper with a mob of TV cameras and redeem his journalistic reputation. I couldn’t risk either scenario. And while I could tell Charlotte and Marcus the truth, I worried one of them would inadvertently slip to Julian. Additionally, Charlotte would never support a face-to-face confrontation with Craig Bernard, and while Marcus might under normal circumstances, given the revelations about his family and his current angry mood, he was probably too conflicted to think clearly.
I ran my fingers against the hard edge of the photos tucked in my pocket, and stayed quiet for now.
...
“Want another Coke?” Marcus asked as he crumpled his empty can and tossed it into the trash can next to the bed.
“I’m good,” I replied robotically, mindlessly staring at the flickering colors on the hotel TV.
It had taken all day, but I’d mentally constructed a plan for La Fenice Theater tomorrow night. It was detailed, layered, and a result of my battle with Luis—I was never throwing a wild punch at an assassin again, not if I didn’t want to end up on the ground with a knife in my arm and a hand at my throat. This time I would be prepared. First, I’d lie in wait for Craig in the café I’d sat at with Marcus—it was discreet and had a good view of the symphony house. Then, I’d watch as Craig entered the theater through the metal detectors, and I’d instantly know if he was armed. Without a gun, we could have a fair fight (relatively). I’d take him by surprise and land every punch I’d fantasized about since I first heard Keira’s bed squeak.
I decided I couldn’t tell Charlotte. She’d insist on calling the police, and while I realized that was probably a good idea and that I needed the authorities, the core of my being craved one shot to face him, alone, before there was a legal barrier between him and me, before he was locked in an interrogation room with cops potentially working for Department D. Still, I didn’t have a death wish. So I’d leave the photos I’d found behind Keira’s bed in Charlotte’s suitcase. She’d find them eventually and call for help. But I’d have a solid head start.
“I thought this was supposed to be a comedy. It’s not funny,” Marcus said, cracking open another soda as he stared at the movie. It was intended to “take our mind off things,” per Charlotte’s orders. It wasn’t working, though that wasn’t the movie’s fault.
“Yeah, it’s boring,” I agreed, not sure what Marcus was even referring to on-screen.
He took a long sip and turned my way, his breath coating the air with the scent of cola. “I’ve been thinking about my family.” His tone was serious as he muted the film. “I know given everything we’ve learned, their closeness with Urban, it seems like they must be in on it. I just don’t see how that’s possible. My dad grew a jawbone out of nothing. How could they fake that?”
“I don’t know,” I commiserated, remembering my parents’ specialty in thermochemical process design. That seemed real to me too. But it wasn’t.
“We don’t know for sure if Urban is involved in this. Maybe he really is trying to help you? Maybe he isn’t evil?” he rebuffed, his voice almost squeaking.
“Cross admitted that Urban was a part of the first mission.” I thought of the gondola photo. I’d seen the proof, hanging in a five-by-seven frame in Urban’s office. But I could understand Marcus’s doubts. If he wanted to go home and confront his family when this was over, that was probably a good idea. But guessing now about their involvement, or non-involvement, would only worsen his mental state. His eyes were already rung in dark circles, and he seemed far too eager to
take the night off. If I told him about my plans, while he was in this mood, he might tell Charlotte; they might team up to stop me. And even if he did agree to join me, I wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the truth about his family. He was in such denial, he could make a mistake. While I had given up any hope of learning my parents were anything but evil pathological liars. Nothing said about them could shock me now or distract me from my mission, which was finding my sister. Alive.
A knock sounded on my hotel room door, someone pounding with all their might. “Anastasia, open up! It’s me!” Charlotte shouted.
I looked quizzically at Marcus, then crawled out of the queen-size bed.
“Anastasia! Hurry up!” She continued pounding.
I flung open the door. “What?”
“I cracked the password! I’m in!” She rushed into the room, Craig Bernard’s phone in her hand. “There are emails, text messages… I know where to find Keira!”
My jaw fell. Whoa. “What does it say?”
“Craig Bernard is going to be at the Venezia soccer match in three days! The text says he’s bringing ‘the package.’ You know it has to be Keira. It has to be!” She was bouncing on her flip-flopped feet, waving the thin black phone in the air.
Julian squeezed in behind her, his own burner phone pressed to his ear as he looked at Charlotte. “I’m speaking with him now…”
“What’s going on?” My eyes darted between the two of them, sensing an uncomfortable closeness that left me out of the loop. I thought Craig was going to the symphony tomorrow night. Had his plans changed because of our boat chase? Was he now going to a soccer game?
Julian moved his phone to his chest, muting it. “I’m speaking with a mate who works in British intelligence. He’s going to send a team to the soccer match. Turns out Interpol knows Craig Bernard bloody well. They’ve been looking into him for years. He’s wanted in connection with countless crimes.” Julian shook his head, his turquoise eyes glowing. “It’s going to be a huge story!”
I was ready to smack him across his pearly white teeth. Of course he would care more about what this could do for him.
“Julian, stay focused,” Charlotte snipped, shooting him a look of warning. Then she grabbed my hands. “Anastasia, in three days, this will all be over. We’re getting Keira back! We did it!” She flung her arms around me, hugging me so tight she cracked my back. I tried to smile, to will myself to believe her, but it just didn’t feel right.
Craig, a highly trained spy, accidentally dropped his cell phone where we could retrieve it? My amateur hacker friend was able to crack his password in less than one day? His covert orders were just sitting there in a text message?
Everything they’d done so far had been purposefully easy to follow. Cross warned me that I’d be walking into a trap in Venice, but I hadn’t yet. Maybe this was it. Maybe the phone was a piece of expertly placed disinformation meant to lead us where they wanted us—the soccer match.
Was the symphony house a bogus lead, too? It seemed so unlikely anyone would know I’d talk to that priest. Keira hid those photos for me, not them. And even with Charlotte’s new lead, there still wasn’t any harm in staking out the theater. If Craig didn’t show, fine—I’d wait for Interpol to do its thing in two days. But if he did…
Charlotte leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “You should know, Julian’s been calling every member of his family nonstop. They don’t know anything. They think he’s mad. I really don’t think they’re involved in this.” Then a smile burst from ear to ear. “Can you believe it? We found Keira! Do you realize that? You did it!”
There were tears in her eyes, and I wanted more than anything to share that feeling, but we were dealing with an organization that specialized in misleading the world. No matter what Charlotte thought, I couldn’t trust anything that came from a phone Julian Stone happened to pick up. And I couldn’t discount everything I’d learned from the priest.
My plan was still on.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was a quarter after five in the morning when I awoke, my brain still exhausted as if having reviewed my strategy all night while I slept. I lifted Marcus’s heavy arm from my torso. He’d slept at my side, groaning in his sleep, the suspicions regarding his family seemingly twisting his thoughts. I considered every Dresden Kid I’d ever met. We were all raised by criminals. How many knew the truth? Sophia Urban surely did. She could have warned me days ago, maybe years, but she didn’t. Of course.
I slid out of the hotel into the rainy morning, hopping a passenger ferry traveling the length of the Grand Canal. I watched as one hotel after another passed and wondered which one held my sister, or if that lead was false, too. A soft drizzle tumbled outside my window, casting a gray haze on the otherwise colorful buildings, sucking the life out of Venice.
My goal was to get as far away from Piazza San Marco as possible before my friends awoke and searched for me in every walkway, bar, and restaurant in the area. I knew I was leaving them in panic, Charlotte especially, but I couldn’t sit around all day acting like everything was normal. I had to confront Craig tonight; this was my family, my call. If anything bad happened, Charlotte would eventually find the photos in the front zippered pocket of her carry-on luggage, and she’d know what to do.
I stared out the window as the ferry glided over the turquoise water, passing under a stone pedestrian bridge full of tourists lining the arched metal railing with umbrellas in one hand, snapping pictures with the other. It was just another morning in Venice, everyone blissfully ignorant to the lives in the balance.
The ferry pulled into the train station, and I exited with the crowd, trying to look casual as I glanced up at the massive departures board: Verona, Milan, Amsterdam, and Munich. I imagined my sister and I boarding a train, leaving together. It was the one place no one would look for me. With my sister so close and a plan set for the soccer match, it was inconceivable that I’d leave town. So I’d have time here alone to prepare, and money thanks to Julian’s unattended wallet. I needed a black T-shirt and pants, and a pare of army boots if I was going to fight—not a sunny yellow dress. I spent the morning shopping, then the rest of the day preparing for the confrontation, surveying the symphony house, planning my routes.
I was ready. It wouldn’t be another impulsive attack like my disastrous fight with Luis.
My dark hair was pulled back, and my mind was focused.
It was time for Phase Two.
...
I dodged droplets of rain as I hurried to a ferry. A crowd of passengers waited to board on the outdoor platform, their voices forming a collective hum in my ears. Do you know how to get to the Bridge of Sighs? Aren’t the gondolas expensive! I can’t believe it’s raining! I wanted to be them. I wanted to sit in a water taxi with Keira and worry that the driver was hiking up our fare. I wanted to go home and lie on the couch and complain that there was nothing to watch on TV, I wanted to yell at my sister for leaving her shoes piled in front of the doorway, and I wanted to hear her whine that I used up all the hot water. I wanted my life back.
I plopped down on a ferry seat and stared out the window.
But I guess that never really was our lives. Our parents were spies. They lied, broke the law, conducted secret missions, and moved us around the world to fit their criminal needs. I had no idea who we really were, what our last names even were, but I had to hope that whatever super-spy skills they had were somehow passed down in my DNA, because I was going to need every killer instinct my family had to get my sister back. Tonight.
...
“Miss, would you like another glass of water?” asked a young male waiter as he stepped into my line of sight. I was seated in the shadow of the café’s cloth awning, nursing a large glass bottle of Pellegrino like I had the other night with Marcus. Only this time, I was waiting for my sister’s kidnapper to emerge in the crowd of elegantly dressed Italians arriving at the symphony.
“I could bring you some wine? Maybe some pasta?” the wa
iter continued.
“No, gratzi.” I flicked my hand, shooing him away like a rude American as I scanned every face, analyzed every walk. Couples strolled arm in arm up the marble stairs with gowns brushing their soaring heels and designer suits tailored to perfection.
I squirmed in my seat, peering at the walkways, scanning every shadow, until I finally saw his face emerge from the crowd. It was like I could feel him in every cell of my body, a tingle rushing through me.
His stride was quick as Craig Bernard moved up the steps of the theater, a hand running aimlessly over his greasy low ponytail. He was wearing a dark suit and shiny black dress shoes.
He was alone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
He stepped through the towering gray metal detectors—not a beep, not a flash. He had no gun. My knee started bopping, rattling my water glass as I watched him walk through the lobby. My sister wasn’t with him. Not that I actually expected her to be, but I had hoped.
I bit my thumbnail. The show was sold out, so I couldn’t get inside. I’d have to wait for him to exit, which thankfully would be the same way he’d entered. There was only one set of doors. I’d checked the perimeter twice.
Twenty minutes later, Craig reappeared, pacing the theater’s stark white lobby, a cell phone pressed to his ear. (So much for the one he’d “lost.”) Frown lines deepened as he argued on the phone, then he charged out of the building and headed toward a walkway. I knew exactly where he was going; the path led to the Grand Canal. It was the same route we’d taken with Julian the other night.
Craig turned the corner, and I rose from my chair, tossing euros on the table as I raced quietly behind, his hard shoes clicking the way. I’d practiced every possible course to the Grand Canal, so I knew this walkway led past three piazzas. Two were packed with restaurants and shops while one was nearly abandoned—the same one Marcus, Julian, and I had briefly stopped in days ago. I’d confront him there.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 25