Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix)

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  Considering I was bleeding from the head at the time, I created a stir.

  Only, before the clerk had a chance to respond or to register the sound of police alarms blaring from every direction, I charged up a nearby marble stairwell. I had to run up only one flight, which was probably all I could handle given that my adrenaline was wearing off. I was beginning to feel the pain in my side from where Craig had kicked me, and the pound of my head from where it had hit the pavement.

  I dizzily stumbled onto the second floor, staggering across the damask patterned carpet as I searched for 204. The room practically called to me, light oozing from the crack underneath the door. Someone was in there.

  “Keira! It’s me! Anastasia! Can you hear me? Are you in there? Are you okay?” I battered the wood with my fists, but it was so solid, it barely made a sound. Tears streaked my face mixing with blood as I continued to shriek, knocking harder and harder.

  Out of nowhere, a clerk appeared with a plastic keycard. He looked afraid to get too close. “Scusa,” he said timidly as he stepped to the door, smoothing his suit. I moved away, and he slipped the plastic into the reader. The light turned green.

  He opened the door.

  I charged in, my eyes wildly racing about. The bedroom was empty. The elegant nineteenth century décor was completely undisturbed, the embroidered bedsheets were pulled tight, the silk curtains were drawn.

  Then I heard the kicking.

  I charged into the spacious marble bathroom to find my sister curled on the shiny cream floor, her hands tied to the gleaming metal support legs of the modern vanity sink and her mouth gagged with a rag.

  She was alive.

  “Keira,” I cried, tears spilling from my eyes. I rushed over, pulled the rag from her mouth, letting the knotted ring of damp cotton drop to her chest, then I collapsed onto the floor beside her. Sobbing.

  “Keira.” I pressed my face to her chest. “K… Keira.” My breathing was staggered. I wrapped my arms so tightly around her, I heard the wind rush from her lungs.

  “It’s okay. It’s over,” she said, nuzzling her chin against my bloody hair. “You’re all right. Everything’s all right.”

  Here she was, a girl who had been held hostage for months, and she was comforting me.

  “I…I’m so sorry,” I sputtered, my tears soaking her white tank top.

  She yanked her head back. “What?”

  I lifted my face to look at her. She’d definitely lost weight, her eyes were a little sunken, but I saw no major bumps or bruises.

  “What are you sorry for?” she asked, her pale forehead wrinkled, faded platinum hair falling into her eyes, her roots a light chestnut.

  “For not coming back from the supermarket sooner, for holding a funeral, for not finding you months ago, for not opening that bedroom door, for being a complete asshole the past three years. I’m so sorry. What did they do to you?” I broke down in sobs again, pressing myself into her, never wanting to let go.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for; you have no idea. I’m the one who’s sorry. Anastasia, I think…” But before she could finish her sentence, the police barged in.

  The room quickly filled with men in uniforms prying me from my sister’s body, untying her hands, dabbing my forehead. I was dragged from place to place, alcoholic cotton swabs stinging my skin, cold compresses pressed to my skull. It was hard to even see my sister in the crowded hotel room, and it would be hours before I’d get to speak with her alone again.

  ...

  They took us via speedboat to the local police station. Just like everything else in Venice, the building was ancient, marble, and located on a canal. I sat in a small room at a wooden table that looked better suited for an underfunded elementary school. I briefly caught a glimpse of Charlotte, Julian, and Marcus as the police dragged me from the hotel. Charlotte looked like she’d been crying hard.

  “You okay?” she mouthed as they hurried me past.

  I nodded.

  “She’s alive,” Charlotte mouthed with a smile, tears spilling.

  Marcus simply gazed at me, his twinkling eyes practically shouting, “We did it!” He’d helped me save my sister, just like he promised. He was there to the end. Whatever role his family played at Dresden, or Department D, or with Randolph Urban, didn’t matter. Not right now.

  A door opened to my little interrogation room, and I dug my nails into my thighs, preparing myself. I wasn’t well versed on Italian law. Given that in the past twenty-four hours, I had used a brick to break into an apartment building, I’d critically beaten a wanted criminal, and I’d left a trail of blood through half the city’s tourist attractions, I was betting there were some legal snafus in there somewhere.

  “Miss Phoenix?” asked a man in perfect English. He was American.

  Well, at least they contacted my embassy.

  He sat across from me. His head was bald with just a few white wisps, and his face was round and full, the skin sagging at the cheeks much like his drooping eyes. There was white stubble on his chin and tight veins in his neck, but what stopped me was his expression. He had the look of someone who had seen a lot, who knew a lot. He was important.

  He rested his wrinkled hands on the wooden table. “My name is Martin Bittman.”

  My head jutted back.

  The Aldo Moro photo. The Deputy Director of the CIA.

  “You know who I am,” he confirmed, obviously noticing my reaction.

  I nodded, swallowing hard. The CIA is here? Now?

  “Allen Cross called me a few days ago,” he said, matter-of-factly. I imagined if he were relaying that aliens had landed on Mount Rushmore, he’d say it in much the same manner. “Cross briefed me on your situation, told me you were read in on your parents’ history. I came here as a favor to him, to help you find your sister. I owe Cross from a run-in a while back.”

  “Well, you’re a little late,” I snipped.

  The corner of his lip twitched up. “I see that I am.”

  “Is it true? Are my parents alive? Were they criminal masterminds? Are they criminal masterminds?” I sat back, shaking my head in denial. I refused to believe it.

  His face didn’t budge. “We have not been able to independently confirm anything Craig Bernard said to you on the bridge, but I can tell you that you saved your sister’s life tonight. We found explosives in the hotel room. The plan at the soccer match, we believe it would have included a bomb. It could have been devastating.”

  The air puffed from my chest. A bomb. Were they going to strap Keira to a bomb? I blinked rapidly.

  “Did you find Craig Bernard?” I pictured his dive into the black water.

  “The police are still searching for him and his accomplice. His partner cleared out of the hotel room only moments before you arrived. We’re looking for them both. Tomorrow, we’ll send divers into the canal to try to locate Bernard’s body. I hear you had quite a fight.” He looked at my forehead, which was now stitched and bandaged.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Of course not.”

  I exhaled in relief, then glanced around the room I was locked in. “Then why am I stuck here? Why aren’t I with my sister?”

  “Right now, it’s for your own protection. What do you know about who’s behind this?”

  “Who do you think? It’s Randolph Urban. I already told the detectives who questioned me.” I slumped back in my chair. It was like Boston all over again. “Craig Bernard told me that Randolph Urban, of Boston, Massachusetts, took my sister,” I said slowly. “He cut my arm, ran some DNA, and now he thinks I’m his daughter. And he thinks my parents are alive. All of this,”—I tossed my hands around—“was supposedly some crazy scheme to draw them out of hiding—put my sister in danger, convince them I was about to become the next Jane Bond, and hopefully make them break their cover. It’s ridiculous. It’s not true, is it?”

  Bittman pressed his lips tight, his eye twitching. It was the first shift in his demeanor, the first break in his I-voluntee
r-nothing persona, and it felt like a dagger to the chest. “Oh my God,” I breathed. It was one thing to hear wild accusations coming from a sociopath like Craig Bernard, it was quite another to get confirmation from the Director of the CIA.

  “The DNA test was real. We believe you’re Randolph Urban’s daughter. I’m sorry.” He sounded like a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis.

  “And my parents?” I croaked.

  “We honestly don’t know. Unfortunately, there’s no hard evidence to link Randolph Urban to any of this. Your sister never saw him, her captors never mentioned him, and the only people who claim to have seen your parents alive are wanted international criminals,” he stated plainly. “But I knew your parents. If they’re alive, we’ll find them.”

  If the CIA didn’t know for sure, that meant it still might not be true.

  “When can I see Keira? How is she?” I didn’t care what some DNA test said. She was my sister. My full sister, and they had kept us separated for hours, probably to get our stories straight. But I’d already told my story, again and again and again. It was time to end this.

  “Soon. She was checked out by the local hospital. Aside from some dehydration and malnutrition, she seems fine.”

  “Then take me to her. I want to go home.” I rose to my feet, and he stood, blocking my path.

  “You know you can’t go home.” He held up his palms. “This isn’t over. We’ve been watching Randolph Urban for years, and he’s never once broken his humanitarian, entrepreneur, Fortune 500 persona. Until now. He believes that your parents are alive, that they betrayed him, and that you’re his daughter. He’s acting emotionally, recklessly, and that makes you the biggest chess piece in the criminal espionage community.”

  “Did you just call me a pawn? This isn’t a game. And no one’s using me, including you.”

  “You may not have a choice.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a passport.

  It was royal blue with the United States emblem on the front. I opened it to find my passport picture, the one I’d taken two years ago in a crappy camera store on Comm. Ave. Only the name read, “Faith Sparks.”

  That is so Keira. I rolled my eyes.

  “Your sister chose it,” he confirmed.

  I felt tired, defeated. “So where are we going? And for how long?”

  “I can’t say for sure. But you leave in two hours.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  We sat in a private car on a high-speed train bound for Amsterdam. My sister was beside me. It was exactly what I swore I’d do when I found her. This wasn’t a dream, or worse, a nightmare featuring assassins. I’d done it. Keira was back. Only we couldn’t go home.

  “So Faith,” Keira teased. “Hope you like your new name.”

  “It’s better than Penelope Storms.” I shot her a look. “Seriously? The ‘weather girl’ fantasy?”

  “It could happen.” She shrugged, arching her brow in a mocking sisterly way.

  “Why did you pick different last names? Just because we’re on the run, doesn’t mean we can’t be sisters.” I rested my head against the back of the train’s cushy seat. I was long overdue for some sleep, like I planned to find our hotel, hit the bed, and wake up sometime next month. Hopefully, by then my wounds would be healed and I could convince my mind I’d spent these last few weeks at a pleasant summer camp.

  Keira squirmed beside me, and I turned my sluggish eyes her way.

  She looked nervous as she fidgeted in her seat. I forced myself to sit up. “Do you want to talk about it?” I didn’t want to rush her, or more accurately, I didn’t want to ruin things. I was so relieved to be reunited with her that I didn’t care if we ever spoke of these events again.

  She looked at me, her hazel eyes full of worry. “There’s stuff you need to know.” Her fingers twirled in her hair with a look of worry, fear of what I might think. “I caused this mess. All of it. It’s my fault.”

  I instantly started to object, but she cut me off with a flick of her hand. She’d earned the right to speak.

  Keira exhaled, straightening her posture like she was mentally steadying herself for what came next. “Back in March, on the anniversary of Mom and Dad’s deaths, I got depressed. I don’t know why. I don’t know what made this year different. I was just feeling sorry for myself. I kept wondering what my life would be like if they hadn’t died.” She gave me a sideways glance, guilt in her eyes as if she was breaking our long-standing policy—I won’t talk about my resentment if you don’t talk about yours. Only that policy didn’t work, and it took a desperate and dangerous search through Italy for me to realize I didn’t blame her for missing all the freedom that caring for me took away. I was wrong for judging her, for screaming that she wasn’t my mother, for making fun of every boyfriend she had. I felt so horrible now for how easily I overlooked her sacrifices, her struggle, but when I tried to reach for her hand and slather her in overdue apologies, she waved me off.

  Keira continued. “I couldn’t get past how random it was, the car crash. How our whole lives could be ruined in a trip to the airport. They seemed like such pointless, unnecessary deaths—a drunk driver? So I started to really think about them. Our lives, all the moves, the languages, the bruises. I built it up in my head and I thought, what if it wasn’t an accident? If they really worked for the CIA, that would make them important, that would somehow make their deaths matter. It’s ridiculous and clearly misguided, I know.” She shook her head, appearing embarrassed, and I grabbed her hand.

  “It’s not,” I interjected, squeezing her palm in commiseration. It’s what any person would hope for, a noble death, and what any loved one would find comforting. I got why she wanted that, I just didn’t get why she didn’t tell me.

  “It snapped me out of my funk,” she went on, and I almost smiled at her choice of words. The fact that we both saw our grief as a “funk” goes to show what a sisterly bond really is. We shared a language. I didn’t care what anyone said about our father, or fathers. She was my person. “I became obsessed, completely convinced that my suspicions were right. I just needed proof. So I connected online with this guy from BU who now works for the CIA. We had drinks, and I gave him samples of Mom’s and Dad’s DNA, from their old hairbrushes. He swore that if they worked for the agency, they’d be in some government database. I guess that’s when everything went wrong. As soon as he entered their names into the CIA’s system, red flags went up in evil lairs around the world.” She snorted, trying to make light of the situation, but in her eyes, I could see the pain she was in, the guilt that consumed her. I knew that look well. I saw it every morning in the mirror. I squeezed her hand tighter.

  “Then I met Craig.” She cringed. “He just showed up at the bar, buying me drinks and acting like I was the most interesting person in the world. He used to ask me about Mom and Dad all the time.” She scoffed, yanking her hands away to dig them into her overly long hair, pulling way too hard. “I thought that meant he was different, that he was trying to really get to know me. What guy asks questions about your family? So I told him everything I was thinking about Mom and Dad, and he never made fun of me for thinking they were spies. He kept telling me how smart I was, how brave. I am seriously the stupidest person alive!”

  “You are not!” My eyes widened. I leaned toward her, wanting to take away her pain, take away all of our pain. We were choking on a shared sense of guilt—who failed who more, who should have known better, done better. We both screwed up so much, and we were so ready to forgive each other, I just wondered if we’d ever forgive ourselves. “I’m so sorry you didn’t think you could tell me about Craig, about Mom and Dad. I could have helped you, especially if you were depressed. Why would you hide something like that?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be taking care of you!” she said, as if it were obvious. “And I was doing a shitty job. Of course you resented me for barking orders, because you knew I didn’t want to give them. I didn’t want to be a mom. I didn’t want to be in charge.”
Tears clung to her eyes. “I’m so sorry. If I ever made you feel like it was your fault, like you were the reason I wasn’t a doctor, that I was stuck in Boston. I know that’s not true. I know it.”

  “Stop. It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” I hugged her from my seat beside her, holding her to me, so glad that I could, so glad she was with me. “I’d resent me, too.”

  “But I don’t resent you! The whole time I was being held, all I wanted to do was apologize. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t hate me forever,” she sniffled, struggling to hold back her emotion. Even now, after everything she’d been through, she was trying to be the strong one, the one who wouldn’t shed a tear at the funeral, the one who was determined to make things easier for me.

  “I could never hate you. You know that, right?” My eyes pleaded for her to listen. “I came after you, because it’s what you would do for me, what you have been doing for me. I owe you…so much,” I choked out, sniffling back my own tears.

  Keira shook her head, not accepting my words. “You owe me nothing. Not after what I’ve done. Look at this mess we’re in!” She tossed up her hands in disgust. “And for what? As I waited for those test results, talking to Craig who was constantly pumping me for every memory I had that implied Mom and Dad were spies, it all started to feel real. Then I realized—if that were true, and they were spies, then that meant our whole lives were a lie. Why would I want that? Why would I want to hurt either of us like that? I started to regret ever running the test. Then Luis popped up.”

  She pulled away, meeting my eyes. “The day I was supposed to get the test results, about a week before the party, Luis just showed up in the hospital with a bullet wound to his arm. He refused to let me enter him into the medical records, and eventually I learned he was a spy. I thought that confirmed my suspicions. Because if he was a spy, and Mom and Dad brought us to his house, then there was no way that could be a coincidence.”