Despite Phil’s obvious displeasure, Claire believed he’d be as surprised as she at Harry’s news. Yes, Claire had the monopoly on hurt; that went without saying. Even so, Phil would definitely be surprised. Both men stared at one another. Finally, Claire broke the lingering silence, “Harry, why don’t you show Phil what you showed me? Show him the reason I finally opened the door.” She wanted Phil to know she hadn’t acted impulsively.
When Harry reached for his pocket, Claire felt Phil flinch. Reflexively, she placed her hand on his arm and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s not what you think.” The calmness of Claire’s voice released some of the tension from the suite; nevertheless, Claire sensed that if it was necessary, Phil was ready to pounce.
Harry opened his wallet and offered the contents for view. Phil stared for a moment, processing the sight before him. Inside the confines of the leather billfold was a badge. Phil turned questioningly to Claire and then back at the badge. Reaching for the wallet, he looked closer. The golden eagle, the woman with the scales of justice, and the words: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Next to the badge, in its own compartment, was a card which read: in bold letters—FBI with Harry’s picture and the name—Agent Harrison Baldwin.
Clearing his throat, Harry began again, “Mr. Roach, Claire’s been telling me what a wonderful job you’ve been doing keeping her safe. I’ll add that it’s taken a lot of time and manpower to locate the two of you. I applaud your abilities.”
Phil looked once again at Claire. His displeasure at this turn of events was evident in his voice. “Mr., or Agent, or whoever the hell you are—what do you want with her? Why are you utilizing federal manpower to locate her?”
“I can’t exactly divulge that information at this time.” Shifting slightly in his chair, Harry added, “To be honest, I shouldn’t even be divulging my position. It’s that we, the FBI, learned of your plans to check-out of Hotel Danieli tomorrow. After locating Claire, we don’t want to lose her again.”
Phil sat straighter. “I don’t believe that’s your choice. We’re leaving.”
“All I’m asking is that you”—his blue eyes softened with his plea—“Claire, remain in contact with me. I’d like to know your location and that you’re safe.”
Phil interjected, “She has been and will continue to be safe. Maybe the FBI should worry about things like terrorists and leave private citizens like Ms. Nichols alone.”
Ignoring Phil, Harry urged, “Please listen”—he leaned forward—“You and I—we—Claire—I’m worried about you. There’s reason to believe”—Harry shifted in his chair—“We have reason to believe that Rawlings will be looking for you. Currently, his resources are limited. We know that; however, there are rumors that Rawlings has funds outside the United States. If he accesses those funds, we can assume”—his icy blue eyes turned to Phil—“despite your best efforts, Mr. Roach, that Rawlings will locate Claire.”
Claire concentrated on her hands lying calmly in her lap. She didn’t want to make eye contact with either man; both knew her too well. When the silence became palpable, Claire took a deep breath, looked up, and green met blue. “So, Harry, did my sister send you?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “She is worried and rightfully so. Claire, I wish you acted more concerned about Rawlings.”
“Did you receive help from your law enforcement friends?”
“Yes, but they are FBI, not California—”
“Were you ever employed by the California Bureau of Investigation?”
Harry looked down. “At one time.”
“SiJo—were you ever employed by SiJo?”
Harry’s eyes met hers. “Yes, and I knew Simon; he wasn’t only my sister’s fiancé, he was my friend. This case has meaning to me!”
Claire’s jumble of emotions steadied. She knew Phil’s presence helped; nevertheless, she also realized she was once again facing someone who had lied to her on more than one occasion—someone she’d trusted. With her voice rising an octave, Claire asked, “Tell us, what else have you lied to me about in the past seven or eight months? I’m very curious. What about us? Was that a lie too? Was there any meaning there?”
Harry looked from Claire to Phil and back. “Claire”—Harry’s voice calmed—“perhaps this is something we could discuss in private?”
Placing her hand again on Phil’s arm, she replied, “I don’t intend to have that, or any other discussion with you in private. Please leave.”
“You’re in danger. You know that. The FBI wants to help you. Don’t be stupid and trust the wrong people.”
Claire stood. “Hmm”—straightening her shoulders and feeling the fire flash in her eyes, she replied—“Yes, I’ve definitely been stupid”—emphasizing his word—“in the past. I believe I’m finally learning from my mistakes. Goodbye, Agent Baldwin.”
Harry took a step toward her. “Claire.”
Phil quickly moved between them.
Harry continued speaking, “Listen to me—I didn’t call you stupid. It’s just that you have a blind spot when it comes to Rawlings. Even after everything he’s done.” Harry spoke quickly, “What I mean is that you never would have left, like you did, if there wasn’t some part of you who still feared him.” When Claire started to turn away, Harry reached for her hand. “Just give it some thought. Seriously, I don’t blame you for being upset with me, but I never kidnapped you, raped you, hurt—”
Claire interrupted and pulled her hand free, “No, you didn’t, but you weren’t honest with me either! You misled me into believing you were someone you’re not. At least Tony was honest with who he was.”
“Really? Was he honest when he said his name was Anthony Rawlings or Anton Rawls?”
The intensity of Claire’s eyes grew with each word. “Anthony Rawlings is his legal name. That isn’t, nor was it, a lie; however, I have yet to be assured of your legal name.” When Agent Baldwin failed to respond, Claire continued, “I will repeat—Tony has changed, and he isn’t the person who I’m running from.”
“Then tell me, who are you running from? Who scared you enough to leave him, let your family and friends think you’re possibly dead, and hide out in another country?”
“You’re the FBI—figure it out.”
Phil’s deep voice entered the conversation. His steadfast tone didn’t invite debate. “I believe Claire asked you to leave.”
Once again, disregarding Phil, Harry continued, “Claire, how about if you don’t leave?” His tone mellowed. “Stay here a day or two longer and think about what I said. Tell me who you’re running from. Let me tell you what we know about Rawlings and his connections to other open cases.”
Claire stepped past Phil and walked toward the door to the bedroom. “Phil, please show Agent Baldwin out.” With that, she disappeared through the threshold, shut the door, and left the two men alone. If she tried, she could hear their words, but Claire didn’t want to try. She didn’t want to think about how yet another person, someone she’d trusted, had lied to her. Tears formed as she remembered late nights with Harry, sitting with him on the sofa of Amber’s condominium and recanting details of her private life. During those times, she’d felt safe and supported as she recounted things she never thought she could share with another man. Today, she felt used.
Harry’s words from only a few minutes earlier came back to her: I never kidnapped you, raped you, hurt...Before she walked into the bathroom to get ready for bed, Claire whispered, speaking aloud, yet not for anyone to hear—more as a validation to herself, “You’re wrong, Harry. Now you’ve hurt me.”
When she returned to her room, Phil was standing in the open doorway. His presence surprised her. He usually knocked before he entered her room. “What are you..?”
“Are you all right?”
The concern in his voice wouldn’t allow Claire to be upset by his invasion of her private space. She swallowed and nodded.
Phil grinned. “You see, your instincts were right.”
A reneg
ade tear slid down Claire’s freshly washed cheek. She didn’t want to be sad. After all, she’d left Harry for Tony. She wanted to compartmentalize Harry away; however, from the moment she watched Harry walk out of that hospital room, she’d thought she was the monster, the one who took advantage of his feelings and crushed them. During those months in Palo Alto, she considered Amber and Harry her reinforcements, her chess pieces fortifying her with the strength to face Tony. She wondered, was she just a pawn in a much bigger game? Was anything real?
With a lump in her throat, Claire answered, “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
“It will, one day. Just keep listening to them. What are they saying right now?”
Claire shrugged. “That I need to push this away, get some sleep, and concentrate on getting to paradise.”
“Are we still leaving?”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes brightened. “Can you get us away from Catherine and the FBI?”
Phil smirked. “I’ve always done better under pressure, and just in case my recent babysitting assignment has in anyway caused you to doubt my abilities, you should know—I love a challenge! Tell me, how attached are you to the things in those two suitcases?”
Claire smiled. “I’ve started over from nothing before. I could care less about the contents of those suitcases, and for the record, I think you’ve done an amazing job with your babysitting assignment. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t continue to trust you with me and my baby’s lives.”
“Good.” Phil casually leaned against the door jam. “We’ll keep our reservations for 10:00 AM. There’s a taxi scheduled to pick us up; however, we’ll leave earlier. There’s a seldom used private water entrance to the hotel. We’ll be going by motorboat. It’ll be cooler, so you might want...” Phil grabbed Claire’s jacket, the one that had been lying on the chair since Claire’s afternoon outing, and flung it toward her. When he did, something dropped from the pocket.
His casual demeanor evaporated. Putting his finger to his lips, he picked the object up and turned the small device all different directions. Claire watched as his eyes shone and his lips turned upward. With new excitement to his voice, Phil said, “You get some rest. I have a little work to do. This just got easier.”
Claire nodded.
As he started to walk away, Phil added, “Oh, and Claire, no matter what sort of ID someone shows you, please don’t...”
She grinned. “I won’t open the door. I’m going to sleep.”
Phil closed the door to her bedroom. Seconds later, she heard the door to the suite open, close, and lock.
By the time they reached the plane, Claire wasn’t sure where they were, or who they were. The Alexanders were gone—forever. At Phil’s urging, she agreed to keep Harry’s card with a phone number tucked inside her carry-on bag. Phil said it was just in case. Prior to their departure, he examined everything—her purse and clothing—everything, to be sure there were no more tracking devices. The best part of his plan, in Claire’s opinion, was when he found another couple scheduled to leave Venice the same time as their reservations. Ingeniously, Phil planted the tracking device in their luggage. Eventually, the FBI would learn it wasn’t Phil and Claire; in the meantime, his diversion bought them some additional time.
It wasn’t that Claire wasn’t willing to work with the FBI or any other branch of law enforcement to bring Catherine down. It was—well—she was hurt. Yes, it may be petty in the grand scheme of her troubles; nonetheless, she needed time to process the new notion of who Harry was and who he wasn’t.
He was an FBI agent.
He wasn’t her friend—or at least—he wasn’t the friend she thought he was.
The haze of sleep faded slowly as the harshness of Tony’s new reality filled his consciousness. Fighting the need to wake, he heard the sound of another person breathing. Instinctively, he reached for the source. As his hand brushed the rough surface of the cheap sheet covering the twin-sized mattress, he pushed away the disappointment and contemplated the turns in his life. Forcing his eyes to open, he faced the drab, dimly lit interior of the hostel.
The room where he’d slept held ten twin beds—all occupied. As he looked about the room, Tony even noticed that one bed contained two people. Laying his head back on the pillow, he exhaled and questioned this reality. Venice, Italy had always been the lap of luxury. From the first time he visited with his grandfather, it was a milieu of opulence. Looking up at the cracked plaster and listening to the sounds of multiple sleeping people, Tony knew the customary five star suites and gourmet meals were nearby; nevertheless, until he reached Geneva and accessed the safety deposit box, they might as well be a million miles away.
Rubbing his face, the softness of his recent beard growth continued to catch him by surprise. It was part of his new persona. The proprietors of the hostel didn’t know him as Anthony Rawlings or even as Anton Rawls. No, the identification he carried, as well as the passport he held, contained a different name.
His departure from the United States had been well planned, well executed, and well—sudden. After the FBI agents removed him from his hotel suite, Tony was given two options: be retained on charges stemming from harming Claire Nichols or disappear and allow the FBI to continue an ongoing investigation. The Federal Bureau of Investigation guaranteed the charges would eventually be confirmed, amended, or dropped—though their disclosure was less than full. The fact the FBI offered an out—a plan B—seemed preposterous. Tony knew something wasn’t as it appeared. After all, when it came to deceptive appearances—he was the master.
It was, without a doubt, the card game of Tony’s life. As he listened to the potential choices, he maintained his poker face and kept his cards close to his chest.
The FBI made it perfectly clear; he was going to be protected from the undisclosed threat. How he chose to accept that protection was up to him: incarceration or temporary vanishment. Although the agents offered a minimum security prison with many liberties, incarceration didn’t sound appealing, even if it was, as they said, for his own good.
Tony chose option number two.
Of course, Anthony Rawlings wouldn’t take their offer at face value. Being the true businessman, Tony negotiated the terms of his disappearance. During those negotiations, he failed to mention the hundreds of millions of dollars he had socked away in Swiss bank accounts. The FBI made demands: all contact with anyone from his past was forbidden. No one could know about his current situation, with the exception of Brent, since the bureau had a gag order signed by him. Tony agreed to the loss of contact and offered anonymity; in return, he was free to travel. Tony told them it was his opportunity to see the world without the responsibilities of his empire—a rather transparent lie—if he had time to work on it, Tony knew he could’ve come up with something better. Not buying their story about Claire leaving on her own, he needed the ability to search.
Agreeing to his proposal, the FBI provided Tony with a new identity. With that, they even provided limited funds, including credit cards; however, they too had stipulations for their negotiations. They wanted to be able to reach Tony at all times. When he countered their demand, they remained adamant—determined that they needed a way to contact him in the event of new information regarding Claire. It was clearly an attempt at manipulation—move; countermove.
Honestly, in Tony’s opinion, the FBI had been less than forthcoming. Why would he all of a sudden believe that they needed to contact him to reveal deep secrets? There was no reason to believe that the distance between he and them would suddenly make them forthcoming. On the other hand, Tony couldn’t take the chance of missing information—if they were willing to share.
After their negotiations, the agents gave Tony his new identity and a cell phone. The final words from Agent Jackson still infiltrated Tony’s consciousness from time to time, Mr. Rawlings, this phone must be with you at all times. You’re not to re-enter the United States or contact anyone. If you fail in these directives, option two is gone, and you are sud
denly a fugitive on the run from the federal government. Be confident—we will find you.
Tony stood straighter. Although his mind was dominated by thoughts and concerns about Claire, the agent’s words registered. He considered retorting: perhaps like you’ve been able to find my ex-wife? In a brief moment of decorum, he chose to remain silent. Maintaining his look of indifference, he replied, “I find this extremely unusual—all this deception and secrecy over a possible charge of domestic violence.”
“Oh, Mr. Rawlings, we both know it’s more than that, and when the evidence presents itself, I know of more than one agent who’s looking forward to contacting you, via your phone.”
Tony tried to make sense of the agent’s innuendos; his mind swirled with possibilities. While he debated his response, Agent Jackson added, “Rest assured, when it comes to our own—we never forget, and we never stop. No case is ever too old or trail too cold.”
“Agent Jackson, I seriously have no idea what you’re trying to say.”
“Of course not, Mr. Rawlings. That seems to be a reoccurring theme with you. Perhaps, while abroad, you should look into treatment for your memory issues.”
Tony’s jaw clenched. Fighting with the man who was presenting him with temporary freedom would be counterproductive; nevertheless, the displeasure rang clear in his voice. “I don’t have memory issues, Agent. I’m sure we’ll be talking again.”
“Yes, I’m sure we will—soon.”
Tony knew that his current paradigm was his own doing. He could’ve taken the bureau’s credit cards and identity and maintained a better standard of living than he was currently enduring, but he wasn’t willing to play by their rules—he had his own rules.