Vanishing Point (Circle of Spies Novella) (10 page)

And she drifted.

Thirteen

In the early hours of morning, a monk sat on the rocky shore staring out at the waters, meditating. The morning breeze caused the hood of his robes to graze his cheek. His name was Adamos and he’d woken from a puzzling dream, a vision. He’d dreamed of a girl with long black hair like spun silk; and a fire with red-hot flames.
 

The girl needed help.
 

As he sat, watching the wind create small white caps on the water, he grew frustrated. What was he supposed to do with this vision? Was it from God?

Soon, as the morning fog lifted, he caught sight of a boat drifting closer to shore. The raft was blackened with patches of dirty orange showing through. It wasn’t often a life raft floated by the monastery, so he peered through the morning mist rising off the waters.
 

An icy grip clamped inside his chest.

 
A pale white arm, cold from a night on the sea, hung over the side.
 

At once, he scrambled to his feet and rushed into the water. The waves crashed against his chest and flowed up through his robe, the material fanning around him. He pushed through the water to meet the raft and pulled it back to shore.
 

He took one look at the woman lying in the boat, the puke sloshing about in the bottom and the ugly red welt on her head, and he dragged the raft onto the rocky beach. He raced back into the monastery and called for a few of the brethren to help.

He returned and they pulled the lady from the boat and carried her inside. They did not know of whom she spoke as she rattled off names and mumbled to herself.

Inside, in a small modest guest room, Adamos stripped off her soaked clothes, turning stiff from the salt, and wrapped her in the orange robes they all wore. He brought hot tea and left it by her bed. Then he sat and watched for her to wake.

***

Marisa stirred. Even though her body felt weighted down by bricks, she had to get up. She had to be somewhere. A fog had taken up residence in her brain and she could barely remember her name.

A heavily accented voice spoke, his English flawless. “Would you like some hot tea?”
 

She blinked her eyes open, lifting her hand to create a shield from the light, however dim. Slowly, she adjusted to the small dark room. With a groan, she turned. A modest bedside table with a small washbasin on top stood next to the bed.
 

A man sat beside her.

Images of guns and shooting flames created instant panic. Marisa shot up in bed but stabbing pain forced her to slump back down.

The man, wearing orange robes, dabbed her forehead with a cloth. “You should not sit up so fast. You received a blow to the head. You need time.”

“Who are you?” she managed to ask, her breath raspy from the smoke.

“My name is Adamos. I am one of the brethren. Your boat washed up on shore yesterday morning. You’ve been sleeping ever since.”

Birthday party! Marisa shoved Adamos aside and stumbled from the bed, even though rocket-like pain shot between her ears. She bit back a groan and searched wildly for her clothes. “Clothes. I need clothes.” The tears, unbidden, came. “My daughter. It’s her birthday. I promised I’d be there. I have to be there.”
 

Then his words sank in. “Yesterday?” She sagged onto the bed. “The birthday party was last night. I was supposed to be there.” Tears dripped off her nose.
 

Adamos reached over and rubbed her arm. “You are not ready to travel. You’re welcome to stay here for however long you need. Maybe when you feel better and if you want, you can tell me your story. I am a good listener.”
 

Her story? “My life is a mess.”

He nodded, kindness and understanding written into the way he smiled and the way his eyes were open and honest. “That’s okay. My life was once a mess too. You will survive. Drink the tea, and I will be back with some hot broth. You must be hungry.”

Adamos left and Marisa wrapped her hands around the warm mug. Images returned from her dreams over the last twenty-four hours. Dreams of daring adventurous women who went on dangerous rescue missions to all parts of the world. But it was more than that. The images and fragments of tales were set in all different time periods.

She racked her tired brain, her adrenaline racing.
 

That was when memories burst into her mind, flooding in all at once. The snickerdoodles! Growing up, every time her mom baked, she’d tell stories. Maybe her mom was really telling her the past, providing her proof for when this day came. The snickerdoodles were meant to be a memory trigger. Of course, Marisa couldn’t prove it, but the pounding of her heart and the gathering sense of dread in her stomach, told her that Will had been telling her the truth.

She’d just forgotten.

No wonder he didn’t believe that her successful missions were accidental. No wonder he tried to kill her. After all that had been his plan, but a part of her had never quite believed him. She was safe here. What about once she left these protective walls?
 

The lines had been drawn.
 

She knew the dangerous truth. Thankfully, Will thought she was dead. He was watching her family. Her heart squeezed inside her chest at the repercussions of her situation. She felt suffocated as if she couldn’t draw breath. As long as Stephen and Savvy acted innocent and continued on with their life, never interfering in Will’s life, they would be safe.

It would be her life’s mission to make sure that happened. A lone tear slid down her cheek, a silent goodbye to the ones she loved, because she could never go home.

Adamos entered with a tray and steaming bowl on it. Marisa would be forever grateful for this man who took a chance on her. “Is it possible that I write a letter to my family?”

He studied her. “You do not plan on going home?”
 

She blinked back tears. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“Then I will get that for you; and later, we will talk.”
 

***

A couple weeks later, when Marisa felt well enough to walk about, she returned to the rocky shoreline. The wind teased the ends of her hair, and she remembered that just a week or so ago, she and Savvy had been driving in the car, talking and planning her party. That moment seemed like ages ago.

The vast Mediterranean Sea spread out before her. Any signs of Will’s murder attempt had been swallowed, the boat lying at the bottom. That’s where her secret must remain too.
 

Stephen and Savvy should’ve received her letter. She’d apologized and told them she loved them, but at this point in her life, needed time away to rethink her life. She’d be in touch.
 

They would not understand. They would think her selfish. They would possibly grow to hate her. Marisa held back the wave of sadness washing over her, stealing any joy or peace the monastery brought.

She glared at the waves, at the water, as if Will stood before her. Bitterness ate away at the edges of her soul. And deep inside where only the darkest of thoughts reside, she made a promise that someday he’d pay. One way or the other.

Fourteen

With shaky hands, Marisa punched in the key code at the back door of Will’s family home. How Adamos managed to get these things or where he learned these skills were a mystery to her.
 

She never questioned how he learned that Will lived with his family or how he managed to find their address.

The alarm clicked off and she entered. The carpet felt soft beneath her feet. The hint of cinnamon, maybe a candle, swirled around her. She stole through the kitchen, down a hallway and into the den.
 

A heavy oak desk sat in the back of the room, its pristine polish spoke of elegance and wealth. The walls were lined with bookshelves with heavy tomes about who knew what. Hadn’t the man heard of ebooks? Seriously.
 

She started with the desk, opening drawers, digging through papers, flipping through books. Nothing. But there was a picture. A family picture framed on the corner of the desk. Marisa zeroed in on Will. She wanted to circle his face with a red Sharpie and draw a big black X over it.
 

A silent scream tore up her insides. Where was the evidence? The family history? She sank into the plush leather swivel chair. She had to think like a villain. Of course, the information wouldn’t be lying around. It would be hidden. In a locked drawer. A secret box.
 

She headed to the small fireplace and touched the bricks on the inside. She pressed and searched for some kind of notch. But nothing. Then silently laughed. Secret compartments were only for movies.

A door shut farther away in the house.
 

Sweat broke out on her forehead and a queasy feeling seized her stomach. Had they returned? Or had someone been home the whole time?

“I forgot the files. I’ll be right back!” a voice roared.

Marisa searched the room. No long velvet curtains to hide behind. She pressed her body against the bricks surrounding the fireplace. She closed her eyes. This would be the end.
 

The doorknob to the den turned but the man paused and yelled to someone.
 

At that exact moment, Marisa gripped the bricks as if she could magically melt into them and turn invisible. She dropped her head back against the top brick, resigning herself to torture and captivity or whatever these people would do to her. As her head hit the brick, a panel in the wall adjacent to the fireplace slid open and musty air wafted out like a breath of hope.
 

Marisa dove into the opening. Frantically, she ran her hands up and down the inside wall searching for a flip or lever. Just as the man entered the room, Marisa’s hand hit a lever and the panel slid shut. Complete and utter darkness swallowed her.
 

She groped for her cell phone and turned it on. She flashed the light around the room. Filing cabinets, turned-over crates, and a desk. It wasn’t a large room. Just big enough to store secret documents about your family if they happened to be assassins.
 

She didn’t dare open the files in case they creaked. Instead, like the suave spy she was turning into, she crept to the back part of the room and squeezed behind a filing cabinet, then shut off her phone. It was in moments like this that she desperately wished she could shed the pounds.
 

A second later, the panel slid open again. A light switched on.

She sucked in her stomach and pressed against the wall.

“Are we on for tomorrow night?”
 

Marisa tried not to gasp. It was Will.

A deeper and older voice responded. “Yes, but I was thinking of bringing Malcolm on early. Let him get his feet wet.”

“He can take his turn and do his introductory year starting next month, just like I had to do.” Will’s voice was cold and Marisa could picture his narrowing eyes and thin mouth. Her body involuntarily shuddered.

The older man sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I hope he’s ready.” His voice dropped at the end of his sentence and the severity of his words settled in the room. “Over dinner, we’ll explain a bit to Malcolm about his role in the next year. Have you done the legwork?”
 

“Yes.” A certain haughtiness filled Will’s voice. “It’s all right here in the file. A Mr. Jolie Pouffant. A French pastry chef who is dabbling in more than confectionary sugar and croissants. He’s harmless but perfect for Malcolm’s testing year.”

“Perfect. Then let’s go. We don’t want Malcolm or your mother to come looking for us.”

The panel slid open and then shut. Once again, the darkness surrounded Marisa and their words invaded her head and beat a message in her heart. What were their full intentions with this pastry chef? She couldn’t let innocent men die. She slumped to the floor holding her middle. The muscles cramped from her holding her stomach in for so long.
 

With her eyes closed, she remembered the details of Will’s face. The strong jaw, straight nose, dark eyes, a very classic good-looking young man, one who stood tall and didn’t take crap from anyone.
 

Someday, probably not soon, but someday, she’d pay him back one hundred fold. She’d spend the rest of her life trying to protect the people they wanted to hurt. She might have been clueless and innocent before but not anymore.

She waited in the dark for what seemed like hours, too scared to move in case they were hovering outside the door waiting for her to give herself away. When her leg cramped for the fourth time, she realized they were gone and this was her chance. She wanted to spend hours looking through their secret files, digging up their evil past, but she couldn’t risk them returning.
 

The panel slid open and Marisa stole into the den. She blinked at the light in the room. The burden of her mission rested on her shoulders. A man’s life depended on her. Mr. Jolie Pouffant. She was the only one who knew his time was running short.
 

Marisa tracked her steps and left the house. A dog slept in the shadows. She barely gave him a glance as she scaled the stone wall and made it back to Adamos waiting patiently in the get-away car.
 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.
 

“Nothing. We’ve got work to do.”
 

His gaze moved up and down her body. Marisa glanced down. Red marks scraped her arms from climbing the stone wall. Her hair fell in tangles around her face. She brushed it aside and returned his piercing gaze.
 

“Tell me,” he said.
 

“Paris. We need to go to Paris.”

Epilogue

Months later in Paris, Marisa cooked whole-wheat pasta in a small pot in their tiny kitchen in their even smaller rented apartment. It was nothing special. Just enough to meet their needs and enable them to melt into the lower class perfectly.