Chapter Sixteen
The message came before sunrise. It was a text. My phone was set to silent, but it didn’t take much to wake me. I heard it vibrate as it rattled the nightstand. Given that I was waiting for the ominous threat Sophia dangled when she exited, and that my sister was currently on a Mediterranean party island with a guy I wasn’t sure was smart enough to pet-sit a goldfish, my hand shot for the phone.
The text read:
It was followed by an address for a country village outside of Krakow. And while it didn’t say who the message was from, I had a strong suspicion it wasn’t from the parents who raised me.
It was from Randolph Urban.
A few months ago, I would have hopped on a train to meet Urban before my friends could awaken and realize I was missing. It was what I did in Venice. I ran off to confront Craig Bernard, alone, all five-foot-four of me, with only a black belt in my arsenal, while my friends frantically searched the city’s alleys and waterways for me, fearing the worst.
I couldn’t do that again.
So I woke them up. They each read the text, then transformed Charlotte and Julian’s hotel suite into the Churchill War Rooms. First, they tried to trace the incoming phone number, which was pointless. He used a burner. So did we, but Sophia must’ve pulled my number with some techie gizmo when we met. This meant we had no idea where Urban was, or whether he actually sent the text, but whoever did could track me. Thus there were strong arguments for me to not go (many of them involving living to see tomorrow), but it was clear to everyone that I would. We’d spent weeks trying to track down my parents, and now presumably one was on the other end of that phone line, the one who kidnapped my sister. I knew in my gut it was him. The “voice” in the text message was too businesslike to be my mom and dad. It wasn’t how they spoke. It was how he spoke.
This brought us to our next debate: Should I go alone as instructed? Or call the police? Or call Martin Bittman and the CIA? What if it was Urban and this was our only chance to capture him? Or what if he saw the authorities coming and ran, and I never got to ask a single question? It was the exact scenario I posed to Marcus last night—if we found our parents, what would we do? We still weren’t sure.
We determined that if the text came from someone who wanted to kill me, the person wouldn’t send a traceable electronic message in advance—there were more anonymous and efficient ways to murder someone. If it was a kidnapper, the last attempt to take a Phoenix girl didn’t work out for anyone. And if it was Randolph Urban, and he was luring me in, hoping to draw out my parents, maybe that was a good thing.
So I had to go. I couldn’t risk losing this rare opportunity.
And I had to go alone. Given all the precautions Allen Cross took when he met me in Rome, I doubted Urban, or any trained spy, would miss a gaggle of police descending. I couldn’t risk calling the cops. But if this was our only chance to deliver Randolph Urban to the CIA with free shipping, we needed a well-measured plan.
Julian ordered an armored car, one usually reserved for presidents and prime ministers, to drive me with the aid of an armed security professional. The car also had a tracking device, as did my phone. My friends would give me a thirty-minute head start before they followed suit with the authorities.
It would be a one-hour drive to the town of Wisniowa in Lesser Poland, where I was instructed to meet. I was going by myself, with faith that the person who sent the text didn’t mean me harm and that we could somehow turn the tables and end this nightmare. Today.
…
I left before the cafés even opened. I exited onto the touristy street outside our hotel as a light snow fell from thick clouds—in April. Apparently, Easter Monday is a holiday in Poland, so, like yesterday, nothing was open but Starbucks. I popped in for a drip coffee, confusing the baristas, who didn’t have a pot brewing because they typically made only espressos and lattes. So I did them a favor and ordered a cappuccino with cinnamon instead.
I strolled toward the historic city gate to meet Julian’s driver as a somber bugle played from the cathedral tower in the town square. The melancholy tune echoed through the sleepy street as a trash truck rumbled past, the garbage men exiting to pick up every loose napkin and crumpled gum wrapper they saw. I wondered if they did this throughout the city or just in the touristy sections; I was betting it was the latter. I pulled my scarf tighter, giant snowflakes sticking to the wool, as I walked through the gate, a hot cup warming my hand.
A black armored car waited.
It was time to meet my father.
We drove for an hour, the driver separated from me by a glass partition. Dusty farmland and rolling green hills stretched forever outside the window. Bare trees dotted the countryside, awaiting their leaves and giving clear views of the creamy stone cottages with orange-shingled roofs that rested inside handmade wooden fences.
Eventually, it stopped snowing and the sun broke through, making it look like spring, even though the temperature still felt like winter. Country rabbits scampered by, but no people. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the weather or the holiday, but it made me feel more alone. More isolated.
Suddenly, the glass partition inched lower, pulling my attention.
“We’re almost there,” the driver said, his voice a deep baritone. “The church should be around the bend.”
“Thanks,” I replied, but the glass was already lifted.
I was instructed to meet at Saint Martin’s Church in Wisniowa, but there were no further instructions. I wasn’t sure what I was expected to do once I got there, or if the church would even be open to tourists on a holiday. What if a mass was going on? It was Easter Monday, after all.
Our dark sedan pulled around the bend, and I spied the old wooden church atop a grassy hill, but that wasn’t what held my gaze. Down below, directly in the street blocking our path, stood a handful of men (or boys?) in ridiculous costumes—not traditional Polish folk attire or fancy Easter duds or even period ensembles for The Passion of the Christ. No, these men were dressed for Halloween, like creepy, horror movie Halloween.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as the armored car slowed and the glass partition cracked.
“There seems to be a disturbance. I’m going to back out,” explained the driver, his voice calm but his tone not nearly as controlled as earlier.
He put the car in reverse, and as soon as he did, the local men surrounded our vehicle. We were the only car on the road, not a single other pedestrian was around, and the street was full of debris—a tractor trailer tire leaned against a broken wheelbarrow, bits of apple crates were scattered about, remnants of orange spray paint covered the pavement, and there looked to be a tiny makeshift wooden stage large enough to hold three or four people. Was this performance art? Some sort of festival?
Then a monkey banged on our windshield—not a real monkey, a man wearing a full furry suit with a disturbing plastic monkey face with giant ears and buckteeth. He reminded me of those annoying toys children have that wind up and bang cymbals, only this monkey was life-size, and the person inside was committed to the part—tilting his head and sweeping his armpits.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, as the monkey slapped the glass. He was holding a tin can.
Then a clown appeared, only it wasn’t really a clown—it was more like an evil skeleton with stringy, white hair, wearing an colorful ‘80s blouse and women’s shorts. He was carrying a green plastic horn and a crumpled bottle of water, and he was looking straight at me. The eyeholes of his creepy, white mask were rung with dark circles, making his gaze menacing and only adding to the exposed gums and fangs that comprised the mouth.
“Can you get us out of here?” My voice shook. We were surrounded.
“I’m trying.” The driver shifted forward and back, trying to move in any direction, but he couldn’t without hitting them. He laid on his horn.
This didn’t help. The malevolent clown reached for my door handle, yanking again and again. It was locked (thank God), so he threw water at my window from his plastic bottle.
His friends approached. A guy in a black fedora wearing a mask from the movie Halloween, complete with a choppy, matted brown wig, shook his crotch at our windshield, though he was squeezed into a pink gingham dress with large rubber boobs. Two more monkeys hobbled over, squawking, along with another clown in women’s clothing.
Then I saw Guy Fawkes.
Not the original. He died hundreds of years ago when he was tortured in England for trying to blow up Parliament. He was the reason the Brits celebrate Bonfire Night, the fiery festival Marcus and I stumbled upon while searching for his brother Antonio in Lewes, England. The man before me was wearing a Guy Fawkes mask, the ivory sinister face with arching eyebrows and a twisting black mustache (made famous by the hacker group Anonymous). He also was dressed in a long, black priest robe and holding a bundle of palm fronds that he dipped into water and splashed on our car.
Palms. Holy water. Palm Sunday.
I looked toward the cathedral up on the hill.
“Is this a church festival?” I asked, eyes narrowed.
I didn’t expect a response, but my driver answered.
“I think so. Or something like that, only everyone’s drunk.” His voice no longer sounded on edge, and I noticed the sounds of an accordion playing in the distance.
Guy Fawkes approached the driver’s window, a blue plastic bucket in hand housing a small collection of wrinkled bills. He wanted money.
My driver laid on the horn, this time hitting the gas, and finally, the men made way. They returned to the debris along the side of the road, accepting defeat, until another car came into view and the spectacle began anew.
“That was like The Purge,” I said through nervous laughter, twisting my neck to watch the scene unfold for the next unsuspecting vehicle.
“Your destination is ahead,” said the driver, returning to business. “I’ll wait directly outside the door.”
He steered up a winding path to the wooden church on a hill. The partition closed.
I had no idea what would be waiting inside.