The Golden Vendetta by Tony Abbott Page B

long curving road from the harbor and into what Julian had called Casino Square, a collection of grand stucco buildings at least a hundred and fifty years old, nestled around an ornamental public garden. Julian waved them down from an open parking space on the street in front of the baroque wedding cake itself, the Casino de Monte-Carlo.
    Julian really looked like his father, Lily thought, which made her wonder what his mother was like. She had died when he was little and living in Myanmar. Obviously, she must have been pretty. What? Never mind. I’m tired.
    â€œJulian, man, good to see you,” said Darrell, slipping out and doing a boy handshake with him. Wade did the same. Julian’s small vintage Fiat sports car—Darrellidentified it as a 1962 Spyder—was parked between a Maserati and a Maserati. There sure was a lot of money in the South of France, she thought.
    Julian flicked his finger at another wedding cake, sitting perpendicular to the casino. “The Hôtel de Paris is hosting an auction of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century books, manuscripts, and artifacts. I’m willing to bet that Gerrenhausen is here in his official capacity as an antiquarian to purchase something for Galina.”
    â€œSomething we probably also want,” said Becca.
    â€œNo doubt,” said Julian. “I’ve been here for about thirty minutes. I took a stroll inside the hotel, helped pad the desk clerk’s wallet. Neither Gerrenhausen nor Cassa has appeared yet, but I’m hoping they will.”
    â€œCassa?” said Sara. “You mean Sunglasses?”
    â€œSorry. His name’s Bartolo Cassa. He’s Spanish. Been with the Order for the last three years. Galina recruited him in South America. Which is why he was assigned to . . . you.”
    Sara darkened. “It doesn’t help, knowing his name.”
    â€œHe’ll pay someday,” said Darrell. “He will.”
    â€œLook!” Lily gasped. “The Mercedes. Ha! I am such a homing device.”
    The silver Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the hotel. The passenger door swung up. The bookseller gotout, and the door lowered behind him. Sunglasses—Cassa—tore away from the curb around the back of the building.
    Oskar Gerrenhausen stood on the sidewalk, checking the time on his wristwatch. Then he spun on his heels and walked nimbly up into the lobby.
    â€œOkay, everybody listen.” Sara collected them behind a large tree. “We have to assume that both Sunglasses—Bartolo Cassa—and the bookseller either know we’re here or will soon. It’s only a matter of time. We have to stay out of sight, no exceptions. Even you, Julian. So let’s be smart. Come on.”
    â€œWait a second,” said Julian. “Cassa didn’t use the hotel’s valet parking, but he surely won’t leave the bookseller here alone. To me, this means he’s parking the car himself and may come back this way on foot. We can’t have him stumbling on you from behind. Maybe I should wait here and text you if I see him return, stall him if I can.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Sara.
    â€œDon’t do anything brave,” said Becca. “He’s a creep.”
    â€œI heard.”
    Sara looked around and spotted a loose group of tourists crossing the square. “We go with them. Pretendlike you’re with them, but don’t draw attention to yourselves. Come on.”
    Three minutes later, they had crossed the darkening square and were inside the Hôtel de Paris.

C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
    W ade breathed in a soft gasp when they entered the lobby. “Whoa . . .”
    â€œUh, yeah,” said Darrell.
    The room flashed with the brilliance of a million chandeliers. Massive columns held up a very high ceiling that was painted blue and gold with hundreds of chubby baby angels flying from corner to corner. The slick marble floors reminded Wade of a museum’s, except for the