Two Lies and a Spy (16 page)

I narrow my eyes on him. “Don’t try to snow me now.”

“Let’s entertain the crazy possibility that your parents are guilty, okay?” He holds up a hand at my expression. “Just bear with me for a moment, and let’s say, hypothetically, that they are. Would you help them betray your country?”

“Of course not!”

“Even if they said their lives depended on it?”

“They’d never put me in that position.”

“Never?”

I shake my head.

“What if they said Charlie’s life depended on your cooperation with a foreign government?”

I open my mouth to say no, and then close it again.

Mr. Carson evaluates me silently. Then he nods. “We all have a weakness, Kari.”

I fold my arms across my chest and avert my gaze.

“You’re a good kid,” Mr. C says, surprising me. “Your response just now tells me that you’re no liar.”

“Gee, thanks.” My tone is heavy with sarcasm. “Can I
have a lollipop now?”

He blows out an audible breath and gives me an odd, wry smile. “Imagine, the Director of the Agency, asking for help from a sixteen-year-old girl . . .”

I give him a sharp glance.

“Pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?” He folds his hands on the table. “But that’s exactly what’s happening here. We need your help, Karina.
I
need your help. Your country needs your help.”

Funny, there’s no indication from my BS detector nose that he’s anything but sincere, whereas Mitch’s lies had me sneezing within thirty seconds.

“Think carefully. Have you seen any odd scraps of information around your house or cars?”

“No.”

“Lists of names, perhaps?”

“No,” I say again.

“Have you witnessed anything in your parents’ behavior that might indicate that they’re transmitting data?”

“No! How many times do I have to say it?”

“Does anyone close to them do a lot of international travel?”

I think about it. “Sophie,” I say reluctantly. “A family friend who’s a photographer.”

Mr. Carson clears his throat. “We’ve checked her out thoroughly. We’ve analyzed every image she’s ever produced, uploaded, or e-mailed.”

“Wow—how nice to know. Do you spy on her in the shower, too? Get some cheap thrills that way?” I know
I’m being impossibly rude, but I feel violated on her behalf, as well as on my parents’.

He shakes his head. “I’m not the enemy, Kari. I don’t deserve your anger. Neither do the Agency employees who’ve been assigned to this case.”

The sound of my laughter is harsh and brittle, and it goes on far too long, even to my own ears. “Yeah,” I say, after I pause for a breath. “That Mitch. He’s a real peach.”

Mr. Carson gives up on getting any useful information out of me and leaves. But my hopes of being released are dashed when two other agents come in and sit down across from me. They start to ask me questions that date back to when I was a toddler.

Do I remember my parents speaking Russian at home?

Of course I do. They met in Moscow, and they both speak it fluently.

Do I know of Russians who came to the house to socialize or do business?

Well, duh.

Who are these people?

I name a professor at Georgetown, a researcher at Dumbarton Oaks, a lawyer who deals with immigration issues. I also name a manicurist, a banker, and a tailor who services half of the Pentagon. These individuals are harmless and just make their living like everyone else. They’re not spies or foreign agents, for God’s sake.

Do I speak Russian?

I tell them I suck at languages. I can’t even speak pig Latin.

They don’t bother to ask about Charlie, and I don’t offer the information.

They want to know if we eat traditional Russian dishes.

Really? Sure. My parents loaded my Similac with Smirnoff. I’m addicted to Borscht. I adore ice cream topped with caviar. Please!

They do not appreciate being mocked.

Well, I don’t appreciate being interrogated.

We stare humorlessly at one another for a while, and then they begin with the questions again.

Do I dream in Russian?

I laugh hysterically at this. I have already told them I don’t speak it, so why would I dream in it?

They ask me the value of the dollar to the ruble.

I have no clue.

What religion am I?

Officially? Baptist. But it’s not like we really attend church.

How often do we go?

I don’t know . . . a few times a year. Definitely Easter and Christmas.

What’s our family’s real religion?

Baptist. I spell it: b-a-p-t-i-s-t.

They don’t appreciate the spelling part.

So we’re not Russian Orthodox?

No.

Am I sure about that?

Yes.

Was I baptized Russian Orthodox?

Not to my knowledge, but I was only a few months old. I ask them if they recall their own baptisms, because if so, then they have incredible memories. I ask how they know that they weren’t signed over to Satan at the age of three days?

I can tell that one of them wants to smack me. The other one moves around in his chair as if he has a really bad case of hemorrhoids but just gets on with the questioning.

Do I love my parents?

Duh.

Do I love them enough to lie for them?

Yes, but I’m not lying.

Do I love them enough to betray my country?

I tell them that I am beyond sick of their questions. I tell them that I want a glass of water.

They ignore me.

I repeat my request.

They ask me if I know the Pledge of Allegiance.

Yes.

Will I please recite it?

I do.

How do those words make me feel?

Huh? I don’t know. Fine.

Proud to be an American?

Sure.

Or ashamed to be a traitor to my country, like my
parents?

I tell them that they are brainwashed idiots, and that they are so far over the line.

What line would that be?

The line of common decency. The line of truth. The line where my parents and I are supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty.

Am I quite sure that I’m not the one who’s crossed the line? Me, and my parents, too? Is it decent to commit treason for money? Is it truthful to lie to them? And how can they consider us innocent when we are mired in hundreds of facts that point to our guilt?

I explode.

I tell them that if they ask me any more obnoxious questions, I will pulverize them.

They ask how long I’ve had these violent tendencies. And are they fantasies, or do I seriously consider acting on them?

Though I want to smash both of their faces in, I run to the door instead. I pound on it and scream that I am done, done, done with these assholes, and that someone had better let me out of here and give me access to an attorney, or I will contact our around-the-corner neighbor, who is a Supreme Court justice, and make them pay for this.

I demand to be assured of my brother’s welfare.

I scream that they had better let my mother take a shower and give her clean clothes.

And I tell them that if anyone shoots my dad, I will
make sure they are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

The door opens while I am still pounding on it, and I fall forward. I’m so tired and frustrated that I’ve lost the ability to count on my reflexes. I trip and sprawl right into Evan Kincaid’s arms.

And Charlie—seven-year-old Charlie—says to the agents behind me that they’d better stop harassing his sister, or they will have to answer to him.

I can’t laugh, because there is a huge lump in my throat that my baby brother is doing his level best to be my pit bull and protector. And I can’t sob, because I refuse to give any of these people the satisfaction of making me cry.

So I let Evan set me on my feet, and when he holds me away from him by the shoulders and asks me if I’m okay, I tell him that I’ve never been better.

It’s after midnight when Agent A-hole and Agent Hemorrhoid escort Evan, Charlie, and me to a concrete box of a hotel. I don’t even notice the name of it. They have some sort of arrangement already with the desk, because the receptionist hands them two plastic key cards, and we proceed to the elevators, which are framed by terrible fake ficus trees.

We are led to a room blander than grits—really, who decorates these hotel rooms? Not that I care. The agents seat themselves like two bookends at a square table near the window, which has a gorgeous view of a dimly lit parking garage.

“Get some rest,” Agent A-hole orders.

I sprawl on one of the beds, even though there is no way I’ll sleep. Evan and Charlie sprawl on the other bed together, which totally annoys me. Why isn’t my brother
on my bed with me? Does he have to male-bond with
Evan
, of all people?

Only a couple of days ago I was wishing for a guy role model for Charlie.
Be careful what you wish for.

“So,” Evan says. “How are you doing, Kari?”

I turn my head and glare at him, then go back to staring into space. I have no desire to talk to him, the snake. Unbelievable that he’s been masquerading among us as a regular teenager, spying and taking notes on everyone at Kennedy Prep. No, worse . . . he’s probably been collecting damaging information about my parents! Why else would he force his company on me and Charlie?

“Ah.” The jerk speaks again. “Very well, then. Glad I asked.”

A half hour goes by in silence before Evan tries a second time. “You know, it’s not as if I got you into this.
You
got
me
into this. So if anyone should be not speaking to someone, it should be me not speaking to you.”

This, after he forced himself on us? I turn and evaluate him as if he is a cockroach. Then I look away again.

Charlie fidgets. “Can I have my laptop back?” he asks the agents.

“No,” they both say simultaneously. Jerks.

“Then can I have a book?”

“Why don’t you watch TV like a normal kid?” Agent Hemorrhoid recommends. “Reruns of
Dora the Explorer
, or
iCarly
or something.” He tosses the remote control at Charlie, who misses it completely and looks over at me.

“My brother, who is seven, is better read than both of you apes,” I tell them. “He doesn’t watch that stuff.” I turn to
Charlie. “Maybe you can find a Stephen Hawking special.”

“Okay. Cool,” he says, and turns on the TV.

There’s no Hawking program, but there’s a gory shark documentary and then a river-monster show that’s irresistible to Charlie and Evan. I don’t know why guys love predators with big, nasty teeth, but they do.

Nobody tells us what we’re doing here, or why, or how long we have to stay with Agent A-Hole and Agent Hemorrhoid. And I won’t ask them, because I hate the fact that they have been put in charge of us, and I refuse to recognize their authority.

Evan eventually tries to make polite chitchat with them but gets only grunts and yes/no answers from them, so he gives up. Which means, once the programs with the big nasty toothy creatures are over, that he has nothing to do but snore or annoy me.

“Kari,” he says in cajoling tones. “You’ll have to speak to me at some point.”

I raise my eyebrows and make no response.

“You know you want to,” he says provocatively.

I roll my eyes.

He takes it down a notch. “You don’t secretly have a crush on me?” he asks. “Because I’m irresistible, and like most American girls, you have a thing for my accent? You don’t want to listen to me read the phone book all day?”

Oh. My. God.

Is he for real?

There’s something self-mocking in his tone, though. And then he surprises me.

“Kari,” he says. “I’m sorry for not being straight with
you. I truly am.”

I give him my most scathing glance. It should reduce him to ashes, or at least tears.

So he gives up on me and waggles his eyebrows at Charlie.

“She wants to kiss me all over, doesn’t she?”

Charlie starts to giggle, and this is the last straw.

“Quiet, you!” I say to my brother.

“I think you like him,” Charlie says. He giggles some more.

Aaaargh!
I jump off the bed and stand over them, my arms folded across my chest. “I do not like him,” I retort. “In fact, I loathe him. There is something
very
wrong with him.”

Evan is laughing now too.

“You have a personality disorder!” I fume. “Not to mention the fact that you are dishonest, two-faced, jerky, and . . . and . . .
heinous
!”

“That rhymes with anus.” Charlie chortles with seven-year-old glee.

“So it does, my man,” Evan concurs.

“He is not your man!” I yell.

Charlie shrinks back.

Evan inclines his head.

“Charlie, I’m sorry,” I say, horrified that my brother would recoil from me. “But this guy is not cool. He’s not at all nice. He’s a total snake, and he’s not your buddy. He’s a traitor!”

“Like they’re saying about Mom and Dad?” Charlie asks.

“Worse. Mom and Dad are good people who are only
doing their jobs. Evan has been spying on his friends for fun. He’s not who he says he is.”

Charlie looks at Evan dubiously and scoots off the bed. He comes to mine instead, and crawls up on it.

Is it my imagination, or does Evan look hurt by this?

“He followed me to a Starbucks—”

“Not true. I followed
Rita
to the Starbucks,” Evan corrects me.

“—and listened to my conversation. Then he followed me to the track field at Kennedy and—”

“Rita. I tracked Rita there.”

“Whatever! He hid somewhere and listened to our conversation there, too. And then he uncoiled himself from his hiding spot and slithered out and forced us to let him in on the Langley deal to find Mom, and probably betrayed us and got us caught.”

“Completely untrue,” Evan says.

One of my mom’s sayings pops into my head.
The best liars are the ones who actually convince themselves in the process.

“I don’t think you know the difference between truth and lies anymore,” I tell him. “Because you
are
a walking lie.”