by Sonja Stone
Behind her, the security camera swept the room. She waited for the blind spot, then started picking the lock. Ducked back down as the camera returned, tried again. It took longer than it should’ve.
Finally, the lock released. Nadia opened the drawer and removed the file.
The black envelope, sealed along the seam, was dense with pages. She sliced open the top and fished through her messenger bag until her fingers found the flashlight.
The cover page read CLASSIFIED. EYES ONLY. Nadia slid the metal clip from the packet. She turned the page and scanned the next document, a mint-green marriage license, entitled Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage Pursuant to the Marriage Act of 1949, issued to James Riley and Zaida Azar from the General Register Office, England. Two years after their wedding date.
Nadia frowned. They’d renewed their vows in England? Who cares?
Under the marriage license, she found a photograph. Her mother in a white dress holding a newborn, her father in a tuxedo, smiling lovingly at his bride. Another couple flanked her parents. Nadia immediately recognized the woman from the Operation Cyprus file. And standing next to her mother, a very young Senator Wentworth Bishop.
“This makes no sense,” she whispered, sliding the picture to the back of the pile. The next showed her father hugging the woman she didn’t know. His lips were pressed to her cheek and she laughed into the camera. Handwritten on the back in deep blue ink, James and Maggie, Hyde Park, London. Then another photograph of Libby’s dad with the woman. Written across the bottom were the names Wentworth Bishop and Maggie Pearle. Then the senator with her mom; her mom and Maggie; Maggie holding the baby. Nadia flipped that picture over: Nadyya with Auntie Maggie.
The next pages were stamped across in black ink: LEGEND. A second marriage certificate, issued from the state of Florida, with the anniversary date her parents had always celebrated. Photographs of her parents striking different poses in front of a green screen, followed by a stack of pictures with famous landmarks and empty scenery. Then the two stacks photoshopped together: copies of the pictures she’d seen all her life. Her parents in Italy, the Greek Islands, Majorca. In front of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Nadia pushed the photos aside and found her birth certificate. Nadia Soraya Riley, born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Tucked underneath, a second birth certificate, issued to Nadyya Soraya Azar, born in Damascus, Syria. She gasped and pressed her palm over her mouth.
Her heart quickened as she turned the page: EMERGENCY PROTOCOL. That section contained false names, social security numbers, bank statements, passport photos. Her mother’s, her father’s, and her own.
She held her breath. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t breathe, if her heart could just pause for one second maybe it would all make sense.
It’s fake, she told herself. It has to be. But somewhere deep inside, she knew the truth.
Is he even my father?
Libby’s eyes stayed glued to the television as the cameraman swept around the auditorium. The lens locked onto her parents. Her daddy looked very presidential in a dark charcoal suit, light blue shirt, and navy and red striped tie. His tanned skin accentuated his white smile, the clear blue of his eyes. Her momma wore a knit dress in just the right shade of red—blue undertones, never orange. A matching cashmere wrap rested on her arms.
“Is that your mum, then?” asked Simon. “She’s very smart looking.”
“Thank you.”
“Quiet everyone,” Jack called. “They’re introducing the candidates.”
Libby barely heard the introductions. Her daddy received the most applause. She glanced toward the door for Nadia, but as the debate started, her attention turned back to the television.
“Senator Bishop, can you elaborate on your plan to tighten security and reduce acts of domestic terrorism?” the moderator asked.
“Yes, Scott, I can, and I’m so glad you asked.” Bishop gave him a boyish grin and the audience laughed. “My opponent seems to have the ignore-it-and-it’ll-go-away attitude toward domestic terror. We have suffered attack after attack on our soil, and I for one won’t stand for it any longer.” The crowd exploded with applause.
“Congressman Moss, would you care to respond?” the moderator asked.
Her daddy smirked while the congressman spoke. He looked down at the podium and shook his head—not much, just enough. He raised his chin and smiled, amused.
Congressman Moss noticed and turned to her father. “Senator, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your contempt—”
“Keeping my what, Congressman? My thoughts to myself? I assure you, sir, I am.” Her daddy smiled and stepped away from his podium, toward the congressman.
“Now, gentlemen,” the moderator began.
Before he said another word, a pop-pop sounded, the camera jarred, and cries from the television audience filled the student lounge. On screen, Secret Service agents rushed the stage and swarmed the candidates, tackling them to the ground. The camera stilled and zoomed in toward the stage. Her daddy was on the floor, an agent draped over his body. Three more agents lined up in front, partially blocking the camera’s view, but when the agents shifted, Libby saw the blood.
Reporters broke in, voicing over the scene. “We’re coming to you live from Baton Rouge, where tragedy has just struck the Republican debate. We don’t know what’s happening, but it seems—oh wait, we’re hearing something now.”
Libby waited as the excruciatingly long pause dragged on.
“We’re being told that Senator Bishop has been shot.”
Libby’s heart fell to her stomach.
“I repeat: Senator Wentworth Bishop of Georgia has been shot in the chest.”
Panic built inside Nadia’s body as flashes of light sparked in her peripheral vision. It was all true—the recruit file, Operation Cyprus, her parents’ legend. They lied to her about everything—her entire life was a lie.
Icy tendrils wrapped around her heart. She wasn’t even an American.
Blood pulsed back through her ears, thumping a techno beat. After a few deep breaths, the noise began to quiet, but then rushed back louder than before. It seemed to come from outside of her. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. The beating got louder.
Then the flashing lights.
Nadia shot up from her position and turned toward the glass wall. A fierce white light strobed through the library as the beating continued. Helicopter blades—it was a helicopter.
Oh, this is not good.
Her hands shook as she shoved the file inside her messenger bag. Had she set off a silent alarm?
She catapulted over the counter and pressed herself against the entry wall.
The beating of the blades slowed as the chopper lowered to the lawn. She scanned the interior walls for an escape—a window, a hiding place—but she knew there was only one way out.
No, there was always another way out. A fire door. An alarm would definitely sound, but she was out of options.
She’d make a break for the side entrance. As long as she could get to the emergency exit before they surrounded the building, she’d be clear.
Nadia glanced through the main door to estimate her time. The helicopter landed on the lawn, headlights flooding the guard station.
She expected the squad of agents to rush the library. Instead, the well-formed team raced toward the student lounge. Nadia ran.
Twenty seconds later she was coming up on the lounge, but from the wrong side—she was supposed to be in her dorm.
Nadia reached for the handle as the door burst open. Four men in dark suits raced toward the helicopter. Libby, sandwiched in the center of the suits, jogged to keep pace.
Jack pushed through the door and sprinted toward the security guards. “Libby,” he called.
A fifth agent jumped from the helicopter and rushed Jack. “Stand down!”
“Wait—” Jack moved forward, and the guard threw him to the ground.
“Stay!” he barked, then climbed into the chopper as it
lifted from the lawn.
Libby was wheels up before Nadia could speak.
Simon and Alan spilled from the lounge.
“What happened?” Nadia asked, rushing to help Jack up.
“That was excessive.” He brushed himself off and scowled. “Come here.” He took her elbow and gestured his team away from the lounge entrance, then looked at Nadia. “Senator Bishop was shot.”
Nadia’s hand flew to her mouth. No. The phone call—it was about the senator. “Is he alive?”
“We don’t know,” Jack said. “Two minutes later Secret Service arrived.”
“Where were you?” Alan asked.
Her breath caught, just for an instant. Nadia pulled the sweater from the bottom of the messenger bag. “I went to get this.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed as he looked from her face to the bag and back again.
“Are they taking Libby to see her dad?” Nadia asked, turning her body away from Simon.
Jack shook his head. “They didn’t tell us anything.” He nodded toward the sidewalk as the guards from the front gate approached. “Maybe they can fill us in.”
“We’re on lockdown,” the first guard said. “Return to your dorm rooms immediately.”
Jack stepped forward. “Any word on the senator?”
The guard shook his head. “Not yet. I’m sure your resident assistant will keep you posted.” His eyes moved away from Jack. They stopped on Nadia’s face. “Let’s move, people.”
Did he know about the library? Nadia waited for him to look away. No, there was no silent alarm, or they’d be searching the building. No one knows anything. A second later she turned toward the dorms and bumped into Simon, who’d planted himself in her path.
“You and I have something to discuss,” he said quietly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
He grabbed her wrist. “You always carry a tyre lever?”
Nadia yanked her hand free and shoved the crowbar deeper into her bag. “Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And mind your own business.”
“This is my business. You involved me. That hypothetical phone call you asked me about—you never reported it, did you?”
No, and if Senator Bishop is dead, I will never forgive myself.
Nadia pushed past him. “Leave me alone,” she said, and speed-walked to her dorm.
She rushed through the lobby and jogged down the hall. The instant the door closed behind her, she buried the file between her mattress and box spring.
* * *
—
Nadia paced for hours as she waited for a report.
Every twenty minutes she opened her bedroom door to make sure Casey was still manning the phones. Her excursion to the library felt unreal, like a dream. Maybe she’d misunderstood. The dual marriage licenses, her duplicate birth certificates, the forged photographs of her parents’ life together.
And who was that woman? And how did her parents know her best friend’s father? Were they all here by design? Were they all—like Damon said—just pawns in someone else’s game?
Her thoughts rushed in like pounding waves. First, my father’s deceit got me shot and kidnapped. He’d knowingly sent her here to become a spy. Next, everything they ever told me is a lie. Then, how much does Mom know?
Lastly, he might not even be my father.
She was dying to retrieve the file from its hiding place, to spread out the evidence, to examine the documents and photographs for meaning and authenticity. But she didn’t dare.
Casey knocked on her door. “Secret Service is sending for a bag. Can you pull some of Libby’s things together?”
“How is she? How’s her dad? Is he alive?”
“She’s been taken to a safe house. That’s all I know.”
“Did she get to see him? Is she coming back? How much should I pack?” Nadia asked.
“I don’t know. A week’s worth, maybe? If I hear anything about her dad, I’ll pass it along. Bring her bag to the lobby when you’re done, okay?”
“Wait—Casey, before you go, there’s something I need to tell you.” Nadia described the telephone call. “I didn’t take it seriously. I knew Libby wasn’t allowed off campus, so I thought she’d be safe. I—I’m pretty sure the call came from Damon.”
Casey hesitated. “Everyone assumed he died in the explosion. What makes you think it was him?”
“Do you remember that robotic-sounding phone call I got last semester? The voice modification sounded identical, and that turned out to be Damon.” Nadia shook her head. “I didn’t think for a second Libby was actually in danger. And it never occurred to me it might be about her dad. I’m so sorry.” Tears stung her eyes.
Casey patted her hand. “No, sweetie, it’s not your fault. I’ll call Dean Shepard and pass along the information, okay?”
Nadia nodded. “Thank you.”
After Casey left, Nadia painstakingly folded her roommate’s favorite outfits. Knowing it was important to Libby, she included the shoes and accessories that she’d seen her wear with each selection. She gathered Libby’s makeup and skincare products, packing them separately in case the agents were careless with luggage. The very last thing she tucked into the bag was Libby’s container of sanitizing wipes.
Simon and Alan, on strict orders to return to their room, walked silently down the carpeted hallway of the boys’ dormitory. Around them students chattered about the shooting, about the chopper on the lawn, about the fate of Libby Bishop. Through their closed bedroom door, Simon heard the chirping of his computer; an alert had been sounded.
At this point he barely cared.
Once inside, Simon turned on his bedside lamp and threw a magazine onto his pillow.
“You are not planning to leave that light on, are you?” Alan asked.
“It’s seven-thirty,” Simon answered. “It’s not bedtime, mummy.”
Alan scowled. “Can you at least silence that irritating alarm? It sounds like a cricket has been let loose.” He slinked into the loo, closing the door forcefully behind him.
Simon unfolded his laptop. If he hadn’t been so curious, he would’ve let it chime for a bit longer, as he did not particularly care for Alan’s tone.
He checked the alert from Shepard’s database. His remote access program allowed him to see her screen, and she was flipping through documents at an alarming pace, closing each mere seconds after opening. Of course she was logged on right now—she was looking for intel on Libby’s father.
The documents flashed across his monitor, one after another, faster and faster until—one stayed visible for almost thirty seconds. Simon took a screenshot right before the screen went black. She’d found what she wanted and shut it down.
He clicked to examine the picture of the document—a memo time-stamped just moments ago, marked NO EYES, meant to be burned in the room after reading. Someone screwed up—it never should’ve been online.
His mouth fell open as he scanned the words and realized what it meant: Shepard had found the shooter. And it was a name Simon knew.
A new alert caught his attention, a flashing in the dock of his screen. He clicked it open. Before the meaning of the message fully registered, Simon’s heart flew to his throat.
The words flashed red, over and over and over. CIADIS: Error—Duplicate Match Found—Profile Repeat.
Duplicate match? How could that even happen? Simon launched the genetic database. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribcage, threatening to burst from his chest. This can’t be right.
He read the name three times.
It had to be a mistake.
On Wednesday morning Nadia forced herself into a cold shower in a desperate attempt to clear her mind. All night she’d thought about her lying father. And Libby. And Libby’s father, and Damon, and the awful fact that if she’d reported his threat, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
Just before breakfast Casey knocked on her bedroom door.
�
�How’s Libby?” Nadia asked. “Any word on the senator?”
Casey shook her head. “I still haven’t heard. Dean Shepard wants to see you in her office. Maybe she has news.”
Nadia sprinted to Hopi Hall. Jack, already seated in the dean’s office, nodded hello as she arrived.
“Please sit,” Dean Shepard said. “Thank you for coming. I have troubling news. Normally, this information would be reserved for Libby’s team leader, but in light of Nadia’s recent experience on her survival course, I thought it prudent to include you both in this conversation. We’ve discovered that Damon is responsible for the attempted assassination of Senator Bishop.”
It felt like a kick in the stomach. If Nadia had spoken up about the call sooner….How could he have done this to Libby? “How certain are you that it was Damon?”
“Extremely. After we received your intel about the phone call and realized that Damon was still alive, we checked flight records and local traffic cams around the senator’s venue. Under an alias, Damon booked a flight to Baton Rouge a week before the debate. Traffic cameras spotted him a few blocks away, mere hours before the senator arrived on scene.”
“Why would Damon shoot Senator Bishop?” Jack asked.
“We believe Damon tried to eliminate the senator as a way to get back in with the Nighthawks.”
Nadia chewed her lip. So that was his new plan to get his mother back.
“That makes sense,” Jack said. “After the way Senator Bishop attacked the Nighthawks in his announcement speech.”
“As a result, Damon Moore has been placed on the CIA’s kill list.”
“Wait—what’s that?” Nadia asked.
“A list of approximately seventy people that its agents are allowed to kill on sight with absolutely no repercussions,” Jack said quietly.
Shepard nodded. “That is correct.”
“I thought the CIA didn’t perform assassinations?” Nadia asked.
“We don’t. Shoot-to-kill orders are not considered assassinations by our government,” Shepard said.
