I held myself together until we walked through the lobby, rode the elevator, and entered our suite. Then, I fell apart, by which I mean that if my heart could have left my body and throbbed on the floor it would have. My best friend was being held hostage while I was supposed to construct an elaborate plan to steal back a black-market book collection. This was even worse than grading 120 composition papers in one weekend. Way worse.
The guys stood around while I cried for a bit and they didn’t say anything like, “Don’t cry,” or “It’ll be all right,” which I appreciated. I had already been condescended to enough for one day. Frank got me a glass of water and while Aaran helped me to the couch, Boone got his laptop and set up a little command station.
Then, once we were all seated, Boone said, “Poe, what do you need?”
The kind directness of that question almost set me to crying again, but I needed a plan more than I needed to cry. So I took a deep breath and said, “What are we going to do?”
Boone nodded and said, “First thing, we need to reach out to Bev DuBois and set up a meeting. We need to offer her more than she paid, obviously, so I need to get cash.” He looked up at me. “That won’t be a problem.”
Aaran looked up from his phone. “I’ve already begun research on the man who’s holding them. Nothing yet, but I’ll find him. Then we’ll find our leverage.”
Out of instinct, I turned to the other people in the room and looked from Frank to Ivan.
Frank didn’t hesitate when I met his gaze. “They had some heavy firepower in that room. I took count of three guns and at least two other guys.”
“Three other guys,” Ivan said. “There was one around back. I heard him pacing.”
“We need more people,” Frank said to Boone.
“Got it,” Boone said. Then, as I sat there and watched, these four men pulled together a combined rescue operation, theft, and sting all in a matter of minutes. By the time I had finished my glass of water, Boone was ready with instructions for each of us.
“Poe, you have the most important role to play, so I’m starting with you,” he said as he met and held my gaze. “You are our leader. You will call the shots, literally. We can’t afford anyone needing me to step in, so you’re going to do the coordinating. This will also keep you out of the main action.”
My heart was up beneath my tonsils, but I nodded. “Okay.”
“Frank, since you were there for the meeting with Bev before, you will handle that meet-up with Ivan as your back-up,” Boone continued. “I’ve already put a message out to Bev and made a very rich offer to buy the books back, citing new circumstances. We have to hope she gets back to us soon.”
“And if she doesn’t?” I squeaked.
“We will get the set, Poe,” Aaran said. “Beattie and Adaire are not in danger.”
I appreciated his confidence, but my questions overwhelmed the confidence he showed. “How?”
“We’ll take them,” Boone said as if he was just suggesting we order in for dinner. “By any means necessary.”
Now, I felt both more confident and more terrified and quickly decided that was the right level of emotional mayhem such a situation required.
“Anything about our kidnapper?” Boone said to Aaran.
Aaran nodded. “He goes by the ridiculous name ‘Il Capitano.’”
At this I guffawed. “From Commedia dell’arte? Really?”
The men exchanged a glance between them, then Ivan said, “Tell us more.”
I explained the old Italian theatrical form before explaining, “Il Capitano was always the braggart, the fool who took himself too seriously.” I couldn’t decide if our Il Capitano had chosen that name as a poke at himself or if he really admired the foolish character. “It’s an interesting choice,” I said, “because it tells us he’s familiar with the classics.”
“Or that he’s not,” Boone said. “Since his name is actually a sort of insult, maybe he just heard it and liked it, but didn’t have any real context for it.”
I nodded. That was possible. “But no real name?” I turned back to Aaran.
“No, but I don’t know that we need it. We can let the authorities sort that out once we capture him.” He tapped at his phone. “And I think we can do that pretty easily.”
At that moment, Boone’s laptop dinged. “Bev is willing to meet, but she stresses that she’s not likely to sell at any price.”
“Then why meet with us?” I asked.
“Oh, I might have dropped our kidnapper’s nom de plume,” Boone said with a wry smile. “Seems our Bev is as interested in him as we are.”
Boone was good at this, and I was very grateful.
“Frank, you and Ivan head out. Poe, since you need to be in charge, you and Aaran follow and observe. It’ll look more realistic if it appears you’re directing the operation.” Boone said. “I’ll stay here and get our forces rallied just in case.”
I really didn’t like it when Boone, of all people, needed a contingency plan, but I was glad he had one.
Frank and Ivan headed out, and a minute later, Aaran and I followed. We trailed behind them, pretending to be browsing shops and looking around, and then, when we reached the Clock Tower, we took up position by a low building that housed the public bathrooms and watched Frank sit on the same bench I’d been on a few hours earlier, with Ivan on the nearby one this time.
A few moments later, Bev sat down next to Frank. He showed her the check she had given us earlier plus the briefcase full of cash that Boone had sent Ivan to collect. They talked for a few minutes, but then she left, without her check and the cash. I wanted to cry again.
Aaran bumped into me to get my attention. “It’s not over, Poe. We have lots of options.” He started walking to meet Frank and Ivan as they strolled toward us.
“No sale?” Aaran said.
Frank shook his head. “She already resold the set,” Frank put an arm on my shoulder, “but she did give us some good information.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel and talk about it then,” I said as I suddenly remembered I was supposed to be the one in charge.
A small smile lifted the corner of Aaran’s chin as he stepped beside and slightly behind me and let me lead the way back to the hotel. I was dying to know what Frank had found out, but I didn’t want anyone else to hear… and to be honest, I was kind of enjoying the power I had as a “leader.”
Back in our suite, Boone was still in the same seat he’d been in, but now he was on the phone. “Yes, that’s right. 20. 11 p.m. I’ll confirm at 10:45.” When he hung up, he looked at me like he had only been ordering pizza. I suspected, though, that he was ordering an army.
“No go then,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“Well, you look like someone stole your favorite journal, but also, you don’t have the books,” Boone said as he turned his eyes toward Frank. “She wasn’t willing to sell.”
“She couldn’t. Already sold the books.” Frank sat down on the couch. “But she did say that Il Capitano’s real name is Dylan Frye, and that he’s from Milwaukee.”
I remembered our captor’s South African accent and wondered if Bev had been mistaken.
“He’s apparently quite a good actor and enjoys taking on the nationalities of wherever he is. In this case, he’s South African,” Frank continued. “But that’s not the good part. Bev also said he has a pretty intense relationship with the American mafia.”
“Dylan Frye is a mafioso?” I asked.
“Oh no, most definitely not,” Frank said. “He’s in trouble with them, and Bev suggested that if he was this desperate for these books it was because they wanted them.”
Boone sat back and tapped his finger against his lip. “That is good, good information. We’ll have to find a way to thank our new ally.”
I stared at Boone for a second and realized he was talking about Bev. How she could be an ally to a sting operation on black-market books when she herself had bought and resold such books, I didn’t understand, especially since we were getting that set of books back after this was all over. Again, I was drowning in my own questions, but I quickly checked them and looked at Boone. “How does this help us get Beattie and Adaire back?”
Boone sat forward. “Well, that’s the easy part.”
I raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh really, great spymaster, please explain.” I was past the point of being annoyed by Boone’s bravado. I knew, now, that he could do whatever he said he could do. But my best friend and a man I cared about were in that old school building, and I wasn’t about to be left out of whatever was going to go down.
As if reading my mind, Boone said, “Don’t worry, Poe. You’re the key to the operation.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was the most terrified and the most exhilarated I had ever been in my life. Boone had laid out his plan—a plan I got to claim as my own in the most elaborate way possible—and I knew in my bones it was going to work.
This kind of confidence in anything, much less my own feelings, was pretty new to me, but I was finally learning to trust that when I saw something happening, it would happen. It was absolutely exciting, and while I knew this whole scheme that Boone had set out would work, I also knew it would require me to take more risk than I’d ever had in my life. Holy cow.
But for now, I was left to fret. The plans were made. The prep completed. Now, we had three hours to kill before “go time,” as Ivan called it. Downtime like this was never great for me. When I was between classes or meetings, I had a hard time making productive use of those hours. I didn’t want to get too involved in something I’d have to cut short, but I didn’t feel like I could completely relax either.
Now, though, I was in a fancy hotel with a soaking tub, any type of bath accoutrement I could order, and the softest robe in the universe. I knew just what I was going to do.
After excusing myself from the guys to go rest, I put my earbuds in, turned on Patty Griffin, and ran a bath so hot and full of lavender that it nearly burned me and sent me to sleep in the same moment. Room service had brought me the most decadent lavender bath bombs, and I used all of them.
While Patty sang to me about angels, I let myself soak and took some deep breaths. I thought of the way Beattie walked me through a body scan when I got agitated and I did that for myself, trusting that even thinking about her was sending her some kind of energy and peace.
When I was almost to the prune stage, I got up, wrapped myself in the robe, and wandered into the living room. I was surprised to see it was only Boone there, and he was sitting on the couch with his feet up and The Repair Shop on the TV.
That show was one of those that people either loved or hated. I, for one, loved it. It was all old things being fixed up, memories preserved, history saved. Plus, they worked in a thatch-roofed barn, and I adored that building.
I dropped down next to Boone on the couch and put my own feet up. “I love this show,” I said.
“Me, too,” he said as he handed me the remote. “Feel free to go back to the first episode you haven’t seen if you want. I don’t mind rewatching.”
I glanced over at him and decided to take him at his word. I clicked back to the beginning of the new season and pressed play. They were repairing a woman’s stuffed rabbit that she’d had since childhood, and I was fascinated both by the woman’s story and the repair.
As the episode wrapped, someone knocked on the door and Boone went to answer it, coming back with a tray that included two covered dinner plates and a bottle of good old Coke. “I thought it was best we eat, and I didn’t think you’d want to drink tonight.”
“Right,” I said. I didn’t think it was good I drink, for sure, and the kick of sugar and caffeine in the soda was just what I needed. “What did you order me?”
“I heard you say one time that you loved this sandwich but didn’t get it often.” He lifted the lid on my plate, and there was the most delectable French dip sandwich I’d ever seen. The roll looked soft, the meat tender, and the au jus smelled heavenly.
“Thank you,” I said, “but I didn’t think French dips were really a South African thing.”
“Oh, they’re not,” he said, “but I sent the chef the recipe from Tyler Florence’s website. They were happy to make some for us.” He lifted the cover off his plate to reveal an identical meal, complete with what looked like batter-dipped fries.
“Were the fries on the menu?” I asked as I dipped one in the au jus.
He shook his head, “But I think they will be now. The chef’s text about them was full of delighted exclamation marks.”
“You’re on texting terms with the chef of The Silo in Cape Town?” I asked just before I took my first bite of the delicious sandwich.
Boone finished chewing and said, “I learned a long time ago that it’s the people who work behind the scenes at most places that are most important, both to keeping the business running but also for anything I might need.” He took another bite and closed his eyes.
“So good,” I said. “So, they’re useful to you?”
Boone frowned as he chewed. “No,” he said when his mouth was clear, “you misunderstand. I don’t mean they are important because they are useful. I mean they are the heart and soul of any place like this, and they are often severely underappreciated. I do my best to let them know that I truly appreciate their work.”
I tilted my head. “Well, I’m sure they appreciate your kindness.”
“I think so,” he said, “but like all of us, I think they prefer the sizable tips I leave even more.” He took another bite of his sandwich and looked out the window before turning back to me. “You probably think I’m bragging?”
I thought about that a minute. “Well, maybe a little, but I also like it. I’ve never been in a position where I could give people the financial respect they deserve, but now, well, I can… and I think I’ll follow your lead.”
Boone smiled. “Another episode?”
I leaned back and set my plate on my stomach. “Absolutely.” I looked over at him then. “And thank you.”
He smiled and pressed play. “Anything for you,” he said quietly.
I glanced over at him but didn’t respond. I couldn’t handle exploring that comment just now.
Two hours, four episodes, and two plates of the most amazing lava cake I’d ever had later, Frank and Ivan returned and I stepped back into my room to get dressed. Boone’s suggestions about my attire required I raid Beattie’s closet, something she never minded but that I rarely did, mostly because I was almost a foot shorter than she was but also because I just didn’t have the physical confidence my best friend did.
Tonight, though, I needed sexy, and Beattie had sexy down. I grabbed a skin-tight leopard-print dress and some black strappy heels. After I was dressed, I did my make-up about three times darker than I would normally wear it before twisting my hair into an up-do that looked sophisticated but also would hold my hair out of my face for tonight’s events.
Finally, I slipped on Beattie’s long, pearl-drop earrings and a simple gold chain that dropped in my cleavage. I spritzed myself with Beattie’s favorite perfume and then stepped out into the living room.
All four men stopped and looked at me. Frank spoke first. “You look spicy, Poe,” he said with a smile. “Perfect.”
Aaran and Ivan agreed, and then I turned to Boone. His face was still and fixed, but it was also a little pink at the cheeks. “Perfection,” he said. But then, he was back to business and had us all looking at a map he’d drawn and laid out on the dining room table.
The first part of our plan involved me making a scene. I wasn’t a stranger to being the center of attention, but typically, I became such from clumsiness or some sort of unknown wardrobe malfunction, like the three times my skirt had gotten caught in my tights before an important meeting with college administration. My colleagues had begun waiting outside the bathroom for me just to be sure I didn’t show more people my bloomers.
Now, though, the attention was going to probably be equally as embarrassing but also very well planned. That is if I could do what Boone had asked me to do.
Five minutes later, the four of us were in the lobby of the hotel. Frank and Ivan had put on three-piece suits, and with their broad shoulders and sunglasses, they looked every bit the part of formal body detail. I was grateful, both for their performance and for the very real truth of their ability to protect us.
The essential part of this first stage in Boone’s plan was subtle spectacle, a paradox of performance that made sense in the same way that photos of celebrities without make-up and styling did. People loved to see people doing things that seemed out of the ordinary for them, and today, I was definitely dressed in a very un-ordinary way for me.
As Boone took my arm and led me across the lobby, I took a deep breath and concentrated on walking. For his part, Boone had donned a tuxedo, a dark brown one that complemented my dress in the most appealing way. Where he had found a tux, much less a matching one, was beyond my understanding at this or any moment. I focused on the feel of his arm beneath mine, not at all an unpleasant place to put my attention.
I moved slowly because these heels would definitely snap themselves or my ankle if I wasn’t careful, but letting myself be seen was part of this plan. Boone leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek, and around us, I could see heads turning. We were definitely getting attention.
“Mr. Stallone, may I assist in calling you a car?” the concierge asked. “Perhaps a limousine.”
“Yes, please, Gregory” Boone said. “We’re going to Allan Victora’s restaurant, La Taverna.”
Gregory raised one eyebrow but then gave a curt nod before stepping to his desk and picking up the phone. Our first objective was complete—everyone in this lobby, including anyone watching us, now knew we were headed to Victora’s place.
I wanted to look around and see if anyone had suddenly gotten on their phone or begun scurrying toward the front door, but this plan needed complete coolness and disinterest on my part. We had to seem like American businesspeople going to a high-class meeting, not a former English professor and a master spy undercover.
Fortunately, years of pretending like I didn’t hear the snide comments students made about how tedious our reading or discussions were gave me practice in seeming nonchalant when anger was tipping my tongue. So, I focused on a memory of the time a kid, who had friended me on Facebook, posted during class about how boring his English teacher was. I had managed in that moment to sublimate my anger and embarrassment by typing a quick comment that said, “Perhaps if you were actually engaging in the conversation with your group, you wouldn’t be so bored.”
The look on his face had been priceless, and his shock had been serious enough to keep him from wondering why his professor was on Facebook during class time. Just remembering that moment brought a small smile to my face, and when Boone noticed, he squeezed his own arm to pull mine against his chest. “Tell me the story?” he asked.
We walked the rest of the way toward the lobby door as I recounted the tale to my date, and by the time we were stepping into our limo on the sidewalk, I was as calm as I’d been since Adaire and Beattie had been kidnapped. For the rest of the ride, I regaled Boone with some of the funniest moments from my teaching career, including the time I had accidentally loaded a porn website onto the projector screen while teaching my students the importance of accuracy and domain suffixes in URLs. “Someone was very smart when they created whitehouse.com,” I said to Boone with a laugh.
“Indeed,” he said as his face grew serious. “Poe, you really do look stunning.”
I blushed and said, “Thank you.”
“But I think you’re stunning in anything you wear.” He looked away then before saying, “I’m partial to your hot pink hoodie and jeans myself.”
This compliment made my heart kick hard against my ribs, and I felt my face grow even redder. I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept my mouth shut and slid my hand over to hold Boone’s.
The ride to Victora’s restaurant took only a few minutes, and when we pulled up to the curb outside, Frank and Ivan exited first and waited beside the car for Boone and then me to step out. For a brief minute, I felt like a movie star at a red-carpet event as I slid my bare leg out of the limo and put my foot on the sidewalk.
Then I wobbled and the illusion slipped. Fortunately, Boone grabbed my arm before I could tumble, and I was able to regain my balance—if not my calm—as we walked to the door.
A large man in a suit very similar to our bodyguards’ getups opened the door. “Mr. Stallone, Ms. Baxter, we have been expecting you.”
I smiled and nodded as if someone awaiting my arrival at a restaurant was a totally normal occurrence instead of a pinprick to the bubble of a billion questions I carried around with me all the time.
Inside, a small woman in a black skirt and white blouse asked us to follow her. Once we were seated and Frank and Ivan had taken up their places at the bar, I said to Boone, “Someone told them we were coming?”
He nodded as he sipped his water. “Now, our question is who?”
I stared at him a moment and then smiled. “The game is afoot,” I said. I was becoming quite the fan of quoting Sherlock Holmes these days.