Russell The Marble Sea

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-6678-1006-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 392 Seiten

While visiting Venice, Nora and Peter Brandt, a high profile Hollywood couple, enter an exclusive boutique so that Nora can try a dress. She never returns from the dressing room. In this heart-pounding novel, Peter tracks her to Istanbul and begins his search. Nora, who has been delivered to a powerful collector of all things beautiful, must use her wits and her skills to survive. The Marble Sea is the entrance to the Bosporus Straits, which flow through Istanbul to the Black Sea. The straits are the crossroads of the world, the link between East and West. The ancient city of Istanbul provides the backdrop for this fast paced tale of loss and desperation. Throughout the novel, we are taken on a journey from the dark streets of the ancient city of mystery to the gleaming palaces that line the shores of the Bosporus Straits. 'The Marble Sea' is a race against time and impossible odds. Is Peter's love strong enough to survive the challenge? Will he find Nora alive?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Russell, Brian

Leseproben

Chapter 2 The next morning, the sun was late breaking through the clouds but when it finally did, the city blossomed in its warmth. It was almost eleven when Peter and Nora, arm in arm, strolled from the hotel onto the dock where the attendant immediately beckoned for a gondola. A few minutes later, they were disgorged at the famous Hotel Danieli not far from St Mark’s. They’d thought of staying at the Danieli this time, for a change, but at the last minute had decided to stick with the Gritti. Although the Hotel Danieli was fabulous, it was a bit touristier and a bit louder. They smiled independently as they watched people streaming in and out of the hotel’s front door. Unspoken language was something they’d nearly perfected over the years. The Brandt’s crossed the square to the clock tower and disappeared through the small archway that led to Merceria and the great shops. As was his custom, Peter had agreed to help Nora find something special. It had become a habit for them. Great clothes had been supplied to her for the film but by the end of the shoot she was tired of wearing them. She craved something new. They spent an hour or more sauntering around the district, checking out the shop windows but nothing compelled Nora to venture inside. The stuff was too Euro for her. She’d learned from experience that usually when something looked just right for an environment like Venice or Paris, it never looked right back in the States. She had stuff in her closet back home that hadn’t seen the light of day since being hauled home from a shoot. Suddenly Nora stopped, grabbed her husband’s arm and pointed across the street. There in a shop window was something appealing. They crossed to the shop and Nora’s face broke into a smile. It was a long flowing dress, burnished red in color, almost like her hair. The material appeared coarse but soft at the same time. The style was Arabic, Moroccan maybe. It was very nice. Peter agreed. They entered the shop to the accompaniment of a little bell that jangled pleasantly above their heads. A moment later, a man stepped through the curtains, placed his hands together, offered a small bow and smiled in greeting. “Good morning,” he intoned, “welcome to my shop. It is a beautiful day, is it not?” The man was middle-aged, overweight and of dark complexion. If he was Italian, Peter was thinking, he was from much further south. The man was no Venetian. “How did you know to speak English?” Nora asked cheerfully, ready as always to engage in friendly conversation. “Are we that obvious?” Ever the merchant, the man took a moment to consider his options and decided to fawn. “I’m afraid so,” he replied softly. “Any woman as beautiful as you must be a film star or something comparable. That is why I assumed you were Americans, you see.” “Ah,” she nodded solemnly, “that explains it. Now I understand.” She then flashed a cheeky grin at her husband. “What may I show you madam?” asked the round man. “Did you by any chance notice the dress in the window? Marvelous piece that one. One of a kind you know, it appears to have been made for you.” “Yes,” Nora smiled, “I would like to try it.” Peter watched his wife enjoying herself. As always, he was pleased by her pleasure. It was something he wanted to last forever. He glanced around the shop, looking for somewhere to perch and spotted a chair in the corner. He crossed the tile floor and sat down to wait as the proprietor led Nora towards the curtains from which he had emerged earlier. At the last moment she turned, blew her husband a sultry kiss and disappeared. Peter picked up a magazine and began leafing through it. Ladies fashion could hold his interest for only so long and he couldn’t read a word of Italian. The bell on the door rang and a young woman entered the shop and said something to the proprietor in Italian. The proprietor responded and pointed to a rack on the back wall. The woman crossed to the rack, pushed aside a couple of hangers and removed a dress. Peter looked up from his magazine just in time to see the woman disappear through the curtain. A few more minutes passed, and it occurred to Peter that Nora was taking her sweet time. He looked at his watch. He could never understand what took so long with women. Any mirror automatically provided an opportunity to fuss. He glanced at the proprietor who was leaning on the counter reading a newspaper, totally unperturbed. Peter stood and crossed to the man. As he did so, the young woman who had entered the shop just a few minutes before, emerged from the curtain and without saying a word, hurried out the door. “Maybe I should give my wife a hand,” he ventured, sounding a little uncomfortable. “Maybe she’s stuck or something.” “If you like sir,” the man replied calmly. “Please, as you wish,” the man inclined his head toward the curtain. The man was not Italian, Peter decided, Lebanese maybe or Turkish, something similar; definitely not Italian. He parted the curtain and stepped through. The light inside was very dim and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. “Honey,” he called softly, “where are you? Do you need some help? ” He paused, “Where are you – Nora, I can’t see you.” There was no reply. The only sound was that of his breathing which was getting heavier by the second. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He knew something was wrong. He moved farther in. “Nora,” he called hoarsely, “what are you doing? Are you in here?” He looked around and then spotted the door in the far wall. It was small, no more than five feet high. He quickly reached for the door handle, turned it and pushed hard. The door was surprisingly heavy and resisted slightly before giving way. Finally, it burst open, and Peter stumbled through. He found himself outside, behind the shop, standing on a dilapidated wooden dock. The dock didn’t look like it got much use. The water that slid past was dark and oily and smelled putrid. There were one or two gondolas on the narrow canal, but none had passengers. As Peter turned to head back inside, he noticed a set of wet footprints on the wooden platform. The blood drained from his face as he ran back into the shop and pushed through the curtain. “What the hell’s going on here?” he growled. “Where is my wife?” The proprietor blanched. “What do you mean?” he stammered. “Where is the lady?” Peter was about to reach for the man’s throat but thought better of it. He stood glowering down at the man who was by now trembling. Brandt took a deep breath and struggled to keep control. He exhaled, turned away, walked to the front door and stepped into the street. He was immediately engulfed by the dozens of shoppers who crammed the narrow space. He shook his head and returned to the shop. He re-entered just as the shopkeeper came through the curtains. The man was muttering to himself. “She really is gone,” he murmured, shaking his large head. “How is that possible?” “Telephone,” barked Peter, snapping the man to attention, “I need the police.” “Yes of course the Carabinieri,” he pulled a cell phone from his pocket, pushed a key and handed it to Peter. The American took it with trembling hands. When the call was answered he realized that his Italian was not up to the task, so he handed the phone back to the proprietor. In less than five minutes the cops arrived. “We don’t know,” he repeated for the umpteenth time, exasperated. Since neither of the cops understood English, the shopkeeper had been acting as the translator until eventually Brandt was totally excluded from the conversation. The man told quite a story apparently. As he spoke, he became more and more animated and kept pointing at himself. Clearly, the man was intent on eliminating himself from any culpability. A few minutes later, Peter was being escorted by the Carabinieri through the crowd towards the Rialto. It occurred to him that he was in the exact spot he and Nora had stumbled on when they escaped from the darkness. Last night he’d felt saved. Now he felt lost. They reached the Grand Canal where a blue and white police launch was waiting at the dock. At the wheel was a young woman wearing the same light gray uniform as the two men. She looked at him blankly as he was ushered aboard. One of the male officers hopped aboard after him as the other cast them off and disappeared into the crowd, apparently heading back towards the dress shop. “So, Mr. Brandt,” said the officer who was seated next to Peter in the stern, “we have a problem here and I won’t try to minimize it. That would do neither of us any good. We’ll have to move fast if there’s to be any chance.” “You’re speaking English, damn it,” Peter sputtered. “That whole scene was crap back there. What’s going on here? What problem are you talking about?” “Oh, I just wanted to find out if the shopkeeper was in any...