She was right. About everything. Though I doubted that was much consolation right now.
“So I invited him out to drinks with me and Craig. I kept hitting him up for information. I thought I could get him to tell me what he knew. I was soo stupid…” She rolled her eyes, the hindsight on the situation clearly making her hate herself. “Then the two of them started to gang up on me, tell me I was going overboard. And I was. I was constantly checking my phone, waiting for the test results. I threatened to walk into the CIA and ask the girl at the front desk if she knew my parents. I was shooting my mouth off, completely consumed. And Craig kept insisting I stop, let it go. I was scared that I was turning into ‘the crazy chick,’ that I was pushing him away. I can’t believe I even cared. So, I decided to throw a party. I thought it would take my mind off things, get us back on track.”
“How did you and Craig even communicate?” I asked, glaring at her with such confusion for all the secrets she’d managed to hide from me. “Charlotte and I couldn’t find him in your phone, your email.”
“He bought me a cell phone, said it was our private line, for just him and me. I thought it was romantic.” She spat the word like she was disgusted for ever thinking this. “So I invited him to the party, and I thought this would be my chance to introduce you guys, but you seemed to hate him at first sight. Why couldn’t I see that? It took you two seconds!” She threw her head back against the train seat, groaning in aggravation.
“Because he was being nice. He was listening to you when no one else was, when I wasn’t.”
“Don’t you dare act like any of this is your fault.” There was heat in her voice.
“You didn’t think you could come to me, about our own parents! I was so horrible to you!”
“I deserved it!”
“You did not!”
Keira took a huge breath, eyes closed. “Let’s not go there right now.” She straightened her frame. “Because there’s more.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. I was so tired, my brain so drained, my body so wounded. But I placed my hands firmly on my thighs and braced myself for the question that had been plaguing me since I realized my sister was being held captive.
“When they were holding you,”—I dug my nails into my legs—“did they…hurt you?”
“No. No,” she said definitively, gripping my shoulder. “They never touched me. They didn’t feed me much, just water, coffee, bread, and pasta. They wanted me to lose weight for those photos. But that’s it. I swear.”
“Who were the photos for? The proof of lifes, the shot of me and Marcus? They never sent them to me.”
She gave me a look that said, “I’m not sure if you really want to hear this.” But I nodded. We might as well get it all out at once.
“I was sedated whenever they moved me. That’s how they got me out of the country, drugs and a private plane. Well, that and threatening your life.” She pumped her brow as if those were memories she’d rather not recall. I completely understood. If I could, I’d have the image of our tub surgically removed from my brain. “I remember them making that anonymous tip to the Boston PD about the surveillance footage of me and Craig. They were purposely trying to involve you, and I was so angry, which they loved. They found me absolutely hysterical. Then they made me shoot that awful photo in Rome—and by the way, I don’t recommend hanging out in a trunk too long in summer, it’s bumpy and a little warm.”
“They made you ride in the trunk?” I screeched.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She shook me off. “After that, I took another photo in Venice. I obviously thought they were both for you. Only everyone suddenly started acting all edgy, like something big was about to happen. That night, they drugged me and started dragging me to a boat. I could hear tons of people shouting, feet running, guns firing. It was pitch black, and my mind was spinning from the drugs, but I heard voices.” She turned toward me with a look as grave as the one she held at the funeral. “Anastasia,” she swallowed hard, “I swear I heard Mom and Dad. They were yelling for me.”
I scrunched my eyes, my forehead clenched. “No. It’s impossible. That can’t be true.” I shook my head, like I could stop the words from landing on me.
“I know, but…I think it was them.”
I dropped my chin to my chest, pressing my fists to my ears. I wanted to believe with every cell in my being that it was the drugs in her system, that the voices were warped in her head, but after what Craig said, it was hard to bury this reality and ignore its existence. If they’re alive, then what they put us through, what they put Keira through, is sadistic. They couldn’t seriously let their children plan their funerals? Grow up orphans? But then another thought defiantly slithered into my brain. They could be alive. I could have my parents back, I could have my family back…
“Look, I was drugged. I could be wrong,” Keira continued, interrupting my dangerous train of thought. “But the whole time those guys had me, it felt like they were laying a trap, only as time went on, it felt like the trap wasn’t for you. The way they were talking, it was like they wanted revenge, like they couldn’t wait to see someone’s twisted face. Only why would anyone have a grudge against you? And if you didn’t get the photos, who did? Who else would care about pictures of me?”
Mom and Dad.
My jaw tensed so much, my teeth ground audibly. I couldn’t take anymore—the lies, the fear, the anger. Keira swung her arm around me, hugging me to her, feeling my pain, our pain. I remembered the car crash, the wreckage, the dental records. It was too much.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I left you.”
“I found you,” I retorted, trying to sound cheerier. “Well, with Charlotte and Marcus’s help, of course.”
“You know I want to hear all about Marcus. That photo of the two of you sucking face was the best part of my captivity. I might get it framed.”
“Shut up.” I pushed her away, teasing as I realized I might never see him again. The CIA shuffled me and Keira out of the country so fast, with new passports and new names, we weren’t allowed to speak to anyone. No one knew where we were going, not even Charlotte’s parents, my pseudo legal guardians. What would the world think? That we were dead? That we disappeared? Would Tyson and Regina have to attend a funeral for me? Would I be making them grieve my fake death the same way that I had grieved my parents? Then there were Marcus, Julian, and Charlotte—they knew what really happened in Italy. Were they expected to keep quiet? Were they being sent into hiding, too?
I couldn’t imagine never seeing Charlotte again, after everything she did for me. She deserved to be here now, hugging Keira. I couldn’t have gotten to this moment without her help.
And Marcus. I would have slipped back into the funk a dozen times over if it weren’t for him. My stomach flipped at the thought of him, then sank when I realized that was all he’d be now—a thought, a memory. I’d lost him, and I never got to tell him how I felt. I wasn’t even sure how I felt. I just knew that I needed him, that I wanted him.
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat. Keira didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride, not until we got to Amsterdam.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I awoke in a sunny hotel room. It had been days and, so far, Keira and I had kept our promise. For one week, we swore we wouldn’t think or talk about what happened. Instead, we’d visit Anne Frank’s attic, ride bikes, cruise the red-light district, and hit the “cafés.” We were going to live the touristy fantasy I’d imagined having with my sister every night since she’d disappeared.
We even continued the family tradition of testing the local cuisine, and this morning we set out to find the best spekdik place in Amsterdam.
“So you really had a funeral for me?” Keira asked as she ate her fat pancakes stuffed with bacon and syrup.
“Yeah, sorry,” I grumbled between gooey bites. “It wasn’t my idea. Charlotte’s par
ents insisted. They printed programs and everything. A choir sang ‘Danny Boy.’”
Keira snorted. “I can’t believe people gave speeches. I wish I could have heard them.”
“Dr. Baskin from pediatrics told that story about you spilling the bedpan.” I cracked a smile.
“Don’t tell me anyone talked about the Nurse’s Ball and the piña coladas!”
“Of course they did,” I chided, then changed my expression. “But we’re not supposed to talk about this.”
“I know. It’s just so surreal.” She took a long sip of coffee, the bells above the shop’s front doors ringing as they opened.
We both turned and saw what felt like a mirage. Marcus, Charlotte, and Julian stood in the entry with smiles wider than a bridal party.
Air expelled from my lungs as I rose in shock, in joy.
“Omigod! How did you find us?” I yelped, racing toward them, throwing my arms around Charlotte.
“How do you think?” Charlotte mocked. “I’m not a hacker god for nothing.”
I pulled away and looked at the three of them. They were all here. Even Julian.
“She only figured out you were in Amsterdam,” Marcus interrupted, stepping to my side. “I’m the one who figured out you would come here. You said your family always tried the local cuisine, so I figured it was only a matter of time before you looked for the best spekdik.”
I flung myself at him, wrapping him in a tight hug. “You remembered.”
“You okay?” he whispered into my hair.
I nodded, watching Keira and Charlotte in a tight embrace. Despite everything, I was okay. I had Keira. We were safe. And the guilt that had constantly consumed me since I saw that bathtub, that rushed over me every time Marcus flashed his dimples, was finally gone. I felt only butterflies, and gratitude, and comfort.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Keira warned as she simultaneously gestured for everyone to join us at the table. We all took seats, and my sister scanned the group. “This is too dangerous.”
Marcus looked at her from across the table, his seat close to mine. “You must be Keira. Mucho gusto.” He held out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She snorted. “I’d imagine. Nice to meet the boy from the photo.”
“Don’t start,” I shot her a sisterly glare before turning to Charlotte. “Seriously, how did you guys find us?”
“I lived with you for three years,” Charlotte stated as if it were obvious. “Penelope Storm? Don’t worry, unless the evil spy overlords know of your dream of being a weather girl, I don’t think they’ll hunt you down. We covered our tracks.”
“I told you it was a stupid name,” I hissed at my sister, then looked at Julian who was sitting quietly beside Charlotte. “I’m surprised you’re here.”
“You should thank him,” Charlotte replied. “If it wasn’t for Julian, we never would have found you in Venice. We were all running around absolutely panicked, and it was his contact from the first night who was able to track you down at the symphony. Hey, did you know La Fenice means ‘the Phoenix’?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, glancing at the Londoner squirming awkwardly in his wooden chair. “Thank you for bringing the cops. I know it wasn’t your dad who took her. I’m sorry I accused you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet.” He shot Charlotte a nervous glance, and she bit her lip.
Something was wrong. “What is it? What happened?” My heart seized.
Charlotte glanced at Marcus, nodding as if to say “the floor is yours.” Marcus peered at me, his voice lowered. “It’s my brother, Antonio. We can’t find him. And not like before. He’s completely off the grid, even from my parents. And Urban’s disappeared. No one knows what’s going on.” He swallowed hard. “I’m worried something’s happened to him…”
“Because you helped me,” I finished for him. Another family member in danger. Because of me.
“I’ve tried all of my contacts and nothing,” Julian offered. “All I was able to turn up was his call list from the last day his cell was in service.”
Marcus gave me a serious look. “My brother’s last conversation was with Allen Cross.”
Uncle Aleksandr.
“Did you talk to Cross? What did he say?” I asked, looking at Charlotte.
“He hasn’t returned our calls,” Charlotte admitted, her tone obviously concerned.
Marcus looked at me, a new fear in his eyes, so raw, so familiar. This was never going to end, was it?
“We’ll find him,” I promised, taking Marcus’s hand. “Dresden Kids stick together, right?” Now it was my turn.
“Good, because that’s where you girls come in.” Julian looked at me and Keira. “Mr. Cross might ignore our calls, but we don’t think he’ll ignore you. We need you to call him, email him, send some Morse code. We need to find out what he knows, about everything.”
“You have to help me find Antonio,” Marcus squeezed my hand tighter, his eyes pleading with me like I held the fate of his family in my hands.
No pressure, I thought. My dreams of returning to Boston, of returning to Tyson and Regina and the life of a teenage girl flaking off her senior year, were unequivocally shattered. This was my life now, all of our lives. We weren’t safe. and we never would be, as long as Department D was out there, as long as Urban was in the wind.
I looked at Keira.
We had to end this.
We had to bring down Department D.
The Truth
Aldo Moro was the prime minister of Italy from 1963 to 1968 and from 1974 to 1976. He was kidnapped on March 16, 1978 by the Red Brigades, a Marxist-Leninist terrorist organization, and killed after fifty-five days of captivity. There are many conspiracy theories relating to his death, including ties to a meeting with Henry Kissinger, advisor to President Nixon, and links to the KGB. Moro’s body was discovered in the trunk of a car on a street in Rome. The photo Anastasia and Charlotte uncover is based on the actual photograph of the crime scene, only with Anastasia’s parents added to the background.
-The Guardian and The Telegraph, 2008
...
Disinformation and Department Ds really exist, and these forms of subterfuge are said to have had a considerable impact on world affairs. They were a major component of the KGB and Czech STB during the Cold War.
-KGB and the Soviet Disinformation, Ladislav Bittman, 1985
...
Lawrence Martin-Bittman, formerly Ladislav Bittman, was the former Deputy Commander of Disinformation for Czechoslovakia during the Cold War. He led many successful disinformation and propaganda campaigns, most notably Operation Neptune. After the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the Soviet Union in August 1968, he sought political asylum in the United States, and a communist military court in his home country sentenced him to death in absentia. He went on to become a professor at Boston University, where he taught budding journalists how to identify if they were being fed false information. As a graduate of BU, the author met with Bittman in preparation for this novel and lent his name to the CIA agent featured in the final scenes, Martin Bittman.
-New York Times, 1994
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Book Two in the
Anastasia Phoenix Series
LIES THAT BIND
Lies That Bind
Chapter One
Everything smelled of fire.
It was coming from the torches, obviously. They were all around me, the smoke pluming in thick streams. I coughed, choking, the taste of charcoal coating my tongue as my lungs burned from the black ash. I couldn’t breathe. I could hardly see. There was no moon, and even with the aid of the blazing embers, my eyes filled with more tears than clarity.
And this was a holiday celebration?
Not that we were here to celebrate. We were searching for Antonio, the brother of my pseudo-boyfriend, Marcus. Though boyfriend might be the wrong term—adventure-junkie companion? Guy who saved my life? Fellow Dresden Kid whose family might be as twisted as mine? It was a co
mplex relationship.
I wiped at my nose, which was running from a conflicting mix of frigid night air and burning smoke.
“How much f-farther?” I asked, coughing, my hand clutching to Marcus’s leather jacket as we cut through a dense crowd.
“The place is supposed to be on the corner,” he replied, pointing.
Spectators stood shoulder-to-shoulder, moving through the tiny village streets of Lewes, England, like Times Square tourists on New Year’s Eve, each fighting to obtain the best position to view the upcoming spectacle.
It was November fifth, Guy Fawkes Day in the United Kingdom.
Being an American, I had no ties to the holiday. I imagined it would be like celebrating the Fourth of July in Germany, or Cinco de Mayo in Boston. Oh, wait, we do celebrate Cinco de Mayo in Boston. I had a picture of my sister, Keira, with Craig Bernard and Luis Basso at a pub to prove it—that was a week before those two criminal spies kidnapped her. Still, I had never heard the name Guy Fawkes until Charlotte explained the unusual festivities as I booked my train ticket.
Turns out, Guy tried to blow up Parliament more than four hundred years ago, but he sucked at his job. He got caught, in the bowels of the historic seat of government, holding a match about to light enough barrelfuls of gunpowder it would have been seen from the New World. He was branded a terrorist and mutilated in the town square. (It was a standard pastime back then, though Guy somehow managed to hang himself before they got to the really gory bits.) Afterward, the country began to annually mark the day of his screwup with open flames that screamed, “Yay! We saved Parliament! Long live the king!”
Only hindsight has a way of shedding new bonfire light on the situation.
To many people, Guy had a point. He wasn’t just some crazed lunatic bent on mass murder; he was protesting the British government’s treatment of Catholics at the time. Priests were being killed, Catholics were being forced into hiding, and crazy laws were being passed. Fawkes’s violent attempt at protest came to be seen in an anarchist light. Fight the power! And all that. His face is the symbol of the hacker group Anonymous, and today there are as many people who view Guy as a freedom fighter as there are those who view him as a terrorist.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 28