Cut and Run Page 8
“No. No, he was not a kind man, Enrico. I should know, I was married to him. He was a gigolo, a manipulator. He fooled me just the way he fooled your mother. He thought he was entitled to live like a king on my money because he was, after all, royalty, a count! A penniless count, to be sure.
“I had no idea the lengths he went to until after he died. My financial people were horrified at the millions and millions that he squandered. I realize that doesn’t say much for me, but I did have a few illusions where he was concerned. I hated to give them up, but in the end, numbers do not lie. You may find this hard to believe, but I am glad that he at least provided for you and your family. Think about all the other families where he squatted that didn’t fare so well. What’s that saying, love ’em and leave ’em? Something like that.” Annie couldn’t help but notice how closely Sophia was listening to her words. She noted a spark of something in the woman’s eyes but had no idea what it meant. Was it possible this woman could be an ally?
“Enough of this bullshit! I don’t believe a word you’re saying. If that’s your story and what makes you happy, so be it. I know what I know,” Enrico sputtered in the same ugly tone.
“Then you are an utter fool,” Annie said wearily. “If all you believe is true, just ask yourself why your father didn’t divorce me and make an honest woman of your mother. Stop lying to yourself, Enrico. Accept what is and get on with your life. I could be wrong about this, but I don’t see the zeal you have in your two brothers. What? Because you are the oldest you have to . . . what . . . make yourselves legitimate? That’s impossible. You can’t prove Armand was your father. All the pictures of your fairy-tale life will not work in a court of law.
“One indisputable legal fact is that, until the day he died, I was married to the man you thought was your uncle. The world that you lived in believed Armand was your uncle. Your uncle. Not your father. There is no DNA to match against yours! Therefore, no proof. You need proof. Rock-solid proof. You do not have that.
“What you’re doing is blackmailing me. You kidnapped me and my friend. That in itself is a serious offense. Thank God Myra got away; she’ll go to the authorities, to the American embassy, and they will hunt you down. Your days are numbered, Enrico. We are Americans, wealthy Americans, and our people will come after you with a vengeance.
“You threatened the padre and the whole village. Those people will testify against you. That’s against the law also. You are trying to extort money from me. That is also against the law. You can’t win, don’t you see that? Even if you kill me, you won’t win. You and your brothers will never see a penny of my money. This is all for nothing.
“Let me go. I’ll go back to America and pretend this never happened.” Annie knew she was wasting her breath, but she had to try. It was only a small effort compared to what Myra had done.
“Save your breath, Countess. Unless you give me what I want, you have no other option but to reconcile yourself to living out the rest of your days in this house under lock and key. They will never find you,” he thundered. “Yes, my aunt is old and no match for your strength, but there will be guards outside. As you Americans like to say, you are doomed.”
“Like I don’t already know that,” Annie muttered under her breath. It’s all on you, Myra. All on you. Please, make it happen. Get me out of here.
* * *
While Annie was coming to terms with what lay ahead of her, Myra walked outside of her hotel room onto a tiny balcony. She wondered how safe she really was here. On her arrival, the desk clerk had given her a very hard time because she didn’t have a passport to turn over. He had gone on and on about how the hostel was for students, and it was clear she wasn’t a student. His English was good enough that he took pity on her when she said she was a teacher with a group who had gotten mugged and robbed. She asked him how to get to the U.S. Consulate, and he’d written out instructions, but not until one hundred dollars in U.S. currency changed hands. He was also smart enough to ask what she was doing with a backpack if she had gotten mugged and robbed. She’d forced tears of frustration to trickle down her cheeks when she said she had simply picked the bag up off the ground when the students ran off. He’d looked skeptical, but in the end he allowed her to register.
Myra decided she was safe for another few hours, possibly a day, after which she would have to make a move.
Myra leaned on the balcony railing and closed her eyes. She was so tired. And hungry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She did not remember the huge breakfast she had had with the two priests. All she could remember was that she had waved the airline dinner away when the hostess tried to set it in front of her. She didn’t want to get airsick. Instead, she’d nibbled on a small bag of stale pretzels. She’d accepted the little carton of apple juice. Her stomach started to grind, reminding her again of how hungry she was. She was probably also dehydrated, which would account for her light-headed feeling. She closed her eyes again and wished she were back at Pinewood.
Myra gave herself a mental shake, opened her eyes, and stared out at the darkness. She couldn’t see a moon, and only a few stars twinkled overhead. Down below, she watched traffic on what looked to be a two-lane road that probably led into town. In the distance, she could see pinpricks of light everywhere. They reminded her of the fireflies back at Pinewood on warm summer evenings. She blinked away her tears of frustration.
Myra looked down at the special phone that was in her hand. Her lifeline. She was so relieved to see the two bars winking at her that she grew even more light-headed. She knew what the bars meant on a regular cell phone but was unsure what they signified on this special phone that was, she thought, satellite driven. Always powered up was what she had been led to believe by Avery Snowden. Unless there was no satellite overhead. She’d give up everything she owned right now to know that the old spy and his operatives were here in Spain, looking for her. Maybe someday she would understand it, but right now all she could do was think about calling Charles.
Myra’s hands were sweaty. She wiped one first on her jeans, then the other, transferring the precious phone from left to right. She needed to calm down, she needed a steady hand. She clicked the number one and waited. Nothing. Damn. She waited a minute and tried again. Still nothing. She ran back into the room to get Astrid Lansing’s phone, which was fully charged. It looked just like her personal Verizon phone, which Enrico had confiscated. But it bore a carrier she’d never heard of. She knew the country code for the United States, so she pressed in the numbers. She was thankful the phone apparently didn’t need a password. The call went immediately to voice mail.
Myra started to babble like a three-year-old on steroids. She wound down by giving the name of the youth hostel where she was and Astrid’s cell number. “I’ll wait here for you to get to me, Charles. You have to hurry, they have Annie, and I don’t know where they took her. At first we thought they weren’t killers, but I don’t think that anymore, Charles. I’m afraid for Annie. Hurry, please.”
Myra was so emotionally drained that she trudged back to the small room and plopped down on the bed. She hoped the reason Charles didn’t pick up was because he was on his way to rescue her. She absolutely would not believe he didn’t pick up because he didn’t recognize the British cell phone carrier.
Exhausted, Myra closed her eyes and fell asleep with Astrid Lansing’s cell phone clutched in her hand, unaware that Astrid had turned the phone to vibrate instead of ringing in preparation for boarding a flight. Or disembarking, whatever the case was.
* * *
It wasn’t until they were through Customs and their bags loaded into the long stretch van that Charles pulled out his cell phone. Six calls, none of them important enough to hold up the drive. He squinted at the last call, trying to figure out the number since it was a UK number. He held up his hand to stop everything and for quiet. He listened to the message, a smile spreading from ear to ear. He could hear the group’s collective sigh of relief at his expression.
/> “That was Myra. She called on a phone that she stole from some drunk young woman. Along with her money and clothes. That’s my girl! She got away from the men holding Annie captive. She’s off the mountain in a small youth hostel. I have the name. The bad guys still have Annie. The bad guys are Annie’s husband’s illegitimate children. They want her fortune. That’s the bottom line.”
Suddenly, everyone was talking at once. Questions peppered the air, but all Charles could say was, “I told you everything Myra said; beyond that I know nothing. All we can do now is speculate. Myra is waiting for us to pick her up. She sounded tired and worried and frightened. And yet she managed to get away. That’s my girl!” Charles said, and the second time, it sounded prouder.
“Are you going to call her?” Yoko asked.
Charles was already dialing the number that appeared on the screen. He winced when the call went straight to voice mail. He drew in a mighty breath and let it out. “We’re here, old girl, we’re coming to get you, so sit tight. We just have to figure out where your youth hostel is compared to where we are. Do not, I repeat, do not leave your hotel.”
Charles turned to the girls, and said, “I’m thinking Myra does not know the cell owner’s password to retrieve messages or how that particular phone works that she has in her possession. Of course, I could be wrong, but my thinking is she’s glued to that phone waiting for me to get back to her. Nothing else makes sense. We need a map.”
“I have one right here,” Maggie said. “Doesn’t look too far from where we are. The address Myra gave you in Barcelona is centrally located and is near to Las Ramblas and Plaça de Catalunya. There are a couple of student reviews that say the shared bathrooms could be cleaner, but they are understaffed. The price for a night is $23 American. Which, by the way, is kind of pricey for a youth hostel that usually goes from ten to twelve bucks a night with breakfast included. Just saying.
“And before you can ask, we’re booked at the Oriente Atiram, Las Ramblas, and it’s right on Las Ramblas Boulevard. Says it is a two-minute walk to their metro station. That’s good to know, I’m thinking.” No one disagreed.
“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go!” Nikki said.
The gang scrambled aboard the oversize van, with Ted at the wheel.
“Hold on, people, I have a text coming in from Avery,” Charles said. Everyone stopped in their tracks while Charles read the tiny words on his phone.
“Avery is here. He said he is right in the heart of town and will meet us at the center of Las Ramblas at an open-air café. He said he’ll find us if we leave now.”
Ted tapped the horn lightly, and yelled, “All aboard. Next stop, Myra’s digs!”
Everyone’s arm shot high in the air as they scrambled to their seats to buckle up.
Ted waited impatiently for the fast-moving traffic to slow long enough for him to inch his way onto the busy thoroughfare. Espinosa rode shotgun, with the understanding that he would do all the talking if Spanish was required with anyone they would need to converse with.
“So what’s our game plan?” Jack asked.
Charles called over his shoulder. “First, we pick up Myra. Then we head to town to meet up with Avery, after which we will go to the hotel that Maggie secured for us and check in. After that, we will listen to what Myra has to tell us, at which point we’ll formulate a plan to get Annie out of the situation she is in and back among us.
“According to the map, Maggie, how far to our destination, meaning the youth hostel?” Ted called over his shoulder.
Maggie stared down at the local map on her computer. “This is just a guess on my part, an hour, maybe a little more.”
“We’re off to the races, people,” Ted bellowed.
* * *
Myra rolled over, sighed, then opened her eyes. This was definitely not the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in. The fact of the matter was that she hadn’t slept in a twin bed since she was seven years old. She was amazed that she hadn’t fallen onto the floor. Back home, she had a California king bed that she dearly loved. She looked at her watch. She’d slept through the night. She could see dawn starting to break through the window. She still felt tired.
Myra’s thoughts immediately flew to Annie and her safety. And then on to Charles. Maybe he had called. She looked at Astrid Lansing’s cell phone and felt the vibration. Then she swore, words that even Kathryn probably didn’t know. Charles might have called while she slept and she would have missed his call because the phone was set to vibration mode. She noticed a blinking red light. Since the phone had been fully charged, the light must mean there were messages or texts to be retrieved. How to retrieve them? She had no clue, so she tried everything she would have tried on her American cell phone, with no results other than to see the number 23 pop up on the screen. That had to mean Astrid had 23 messages or texts. For a young woman, she supposed that was par for the course. Without a password, though, Myra knew she would get nowhere with the cell phone.
Now, what should she do? How would she know if Charles had returned her call or not? She wouldn’t, was the answer she gave herself. Maybe what she needed to do was go to whatever passed for a town and see if her satellite phone would work there. Why, she asked herself, did everything go wrong just when you so desperately needed it to go right? Since there was no answer to that question either, Myra plopped Astrid Lansing’s straw hat with the colorful streamers on her head and left the room, still in the clothes she’d slept in. She wished she had time for a shower, but time was of the essence.
In the small lobby, Myra looked at her surroundings because she really hadn’t paid much attention when she arrived. Then all she wanted was a safe room with a lock on the door. There were no frills in this hostel. It was spartan, to say the least. The lobby, if that’s what it was, was long and narrow, with four chairs that looked reasonably comfortable and a table with outdated magazines and newspapers, all in Spanish. The floors were Spanish tile, a reddish copper color, and the walls were cream colored. Pictures of outdoor scenes, all rendered in green and yellow, graced the walls. Local talent, she surmised. A tired-looking plant whose leaves were more yellow than green, and badly in need of water, stood next to the only window in the room.
Before she entered the lobby, Myra craned her neck to see if the desk clerk was behind the desk. Right now, she didn’t want any questions or conversation. When she didn’t see anyone, she went directly for the door, and the moment she was outside, she turned left for no reason other than that was the direction the other pedestrians were going. She fell in line and meandered along, ever watchful. No one seemed to pay any attention to her. Astrid Lansing’s backpack was on her back.
Twenty minutes into her walk, Myra spotted a line of outdoor cafés, bistros, and tourist shops featuring souvenirs. She entered the first café she came to and looked around. She had to reach out to grasp hold of the back of a chair when she felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. She needed to eat and drink NOW. She sat down, shook her head, and asked for a glass of water, which she consumed in three long gulps. She asked for another glass of water and a pot of coffee. Not a cup, a pot, she said clearly, so there was no mistake. Then she pointed to a picture on the wall of a plate filled a foot high with pancakes.
Her head clearer now that she had finished off the second glass of water, she realized that her first mistake, which Avery Snowden had drilled into all their heads, was that she was sitting with her back to an open doorway. Always know where your exits are and how many there are. Always have a clear line of sight. She immediately moved quickly to a table farther back in the room. The waiter, a young man of maybe sixteen or so, looked puzzled, but Myra just smiled at him.
Only one exit, the one she’d walked in through. One window, with a luscious-looking green plant hanging in the center, impeding the view beyond.
Myra’s coffee arrived. At last. As far as she could remember, it had been days since she’d had any coffee. She could barely contain herself when she poured f
rom a full carafe. Nothing in her life had ever tasted as good as the coffee she was drinking. It was dark, robust, with possibly a hint of chicory in it. She drank two full cups, straight up, no cream or sugar. She thought she could feel the caffeine course through her entire body.
Two full glasses of water and two full cups of coffee demanded she head to the restroom, which was surprisingly clean and even pretty, with fresh flowers on the vanity sink. Myra washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and actually started to feel a bit like her old self.
When she took her seat at the small table in the back of the room, she was stunned to see her breakfast waiting for her. This was a Maggie Spritzer breakfast, not a Myra Rutledge breakfast. She counted eight pancakes dripping with golden butter and thick syrup. Nestled alongside the pancakes were four generous-sized sausage patties. There was no way on earth she could eat all that was on the oversize plate. No way.
She was wrong. When she finished eating, the only thing remaining on her plate was one sausage patty and a small puddle of syrup. The coffee carafe was empty.
Myra paid the bill, $7 in U.S. dollars. When she walked out of the café, she felt like a million bucks and ready to take on the world. She looked around, practicing what Avery Snowden had taught his pupils, tradecraft. Always know where you are, always be aware of your surroundings, know the path to take if you need to elude someone, keep your eyes on the people around you, do they look like they belong or not belong? There’s always a “tell” if someone doesn’t belong. Never look over your shoulder. Instead, listen to footsteps if there are no storefronts where you can window-shop and still see what’s behind you. She remembered it all and did everything she was supposed to do. That’s when she saw the large white van. It didn’t look like it belonged. All the other cars were small Fiats and, of course, the mopeds clogging the narrow road. The van was creeping along behind a string of mopeds. She could see it in the window of a shop that sold handmade boots.