I Must Betray You(14)

Intel.

Dan Van Dorn knew he was under surveillance.





15


    CINCISPREZECE




My breathing tripped and stumbled.

Light fixtures on the ceiling. Were they bugged? Was ours bugged? Why hadn’t I thought of that? The light fixture made more sense than the telephone. You couldn’t put a pillow on the ceiling. How often did the Securitate access apartments to install devices?

Voices filtered from the hallway.

“I think your parents are home,” I said.

I followed Dan out of his room. Mama stood in the foyer, speaking with Dan’s mother.

“Hey, buddy.” Mr. Van Dorn gave a light punch to Dan’s shoulder. “And you must be Mioara’s son. What’s your name?”

“Cristian. Pleased to meet you.”

Mr. Van Dorn nodded slowly, evaluating me.

“Nick Van Dorn. Pleased to meet you too. Your English . . . it sounds pretty good, Cristian.”

The way he said it, there was hesitation—a question or curiosity behind it.

“His English is definitely better than your Romanian, Dad.” Dan laughed. His mother made a comment, but not in English. She spoke another language to Dan.

Mr. Van Dorn leaned in, sheepishly. “My Romanian’s pretty bad. My wife gets us by though. She’s got a gift for Romance languages.”

I nodded. Mr. Van Dorn had done his homework. Some people assumed Romanian was a Slavic language because of our proximity to Slavic countries. But Romanian is a Romance language, like French or Italian. Bunu could speak all three.

I remained quiet, casually trying to make note of things for Agent Paddle Hands.

Van Dorn set his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Her fingers instinctively moved to join her husband’s. Their affection, it was natural, effortless, and absent the constant tension that surrounded my parents’ interactions. When was the last time my parents held hands? It sometimes felt like they tried to avoid each other at night and by morning, carried the fatigue of it.

Mr. Van Dorn carried fatigue of a different sort. His blue suit was crisp, but he didn’t seem as well rested and smooth-faced as most Americans. He probably spent long hours at the U.S. Embassy and long nights with his wife. The way he casually kissed her fingers, it had the look of it.

He caught me watching and hiked an eyebrow. I quickly looked away.

The heat crawling up my neck, was it visible?

Mr. Van Dorn turned to face me, his expression sincere. “It’s nice of you to walk your mother home. It’s rough in Bucharest at night, huh?” he asked.

“No, it’s not rough.”

He nodded. Extended eye contact. Evaluation. It felt so uncomfortable, but I willed myself not to glance up at the light fixture.

“No. You’re right, Cristian. Bucharest’s not rough. Just a little . . . dark,” said Mr. Van Dorn.



* * *



? ? ?

    “You don’t have to come so often,” my mother whispered once we were out on the street. “It’s much too far. It could be dangerous. I’m authorized to interact with foreigners, but you’re not.” She threw a nervous glance behind us.

“The wife. She’s not American, is she?” I asked.

“No, she’s from Spain.”

“What do they think of Romania?”

“How would I know?” said my mother. “I’m just cleaning their toilets.”

“The husband. He seems . . . tired.”

Her head snapped to me. “He’s a very good man.”

Interesting.

If she was just cleaning their toilets, how would she know that?





16


    ?AISPREZECE




A gift? Why do you need a gift?” whispered Cici the next day.

“Someone shared something with me. I want to return the favor.”

“Was this someone a girl? Who is it?” pressed my sister.

I bit back the grin I felt emerging. “Liliana Pavel.”

“Ooh! Lili’s nice. Smart. What did she share? Study notes?”

I shook my head and dropped my voice beneath a whisper. “A Coke.”

Cici stared at me. She blinked. She mouthed the words. “A Coke?”

I nodded. “It was her Christmas present.”

“A Coke.”

“Shh . . .”

Cici would understand. I had to “reciprocate”—that was the English word. I couldn’t let Liliana share her Christmas present and not give something back. But what could I offer? To rig their TV antenna to get signals from Bulgaria? Not exactly on par with a Coke.

Cici shot a glance to make sure Bunu wasn’t looking. She reached under the sofa and retrieved her locked box. She opened it on her lap, contents obscured by the lid. I moved to sit next to her, but she motioned for me to stay put.

“What kind of things does she like?” asked Cici.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. What would a girl want?”

“Honestly, these.” Cici held up two narrow tubes wrapped in white paper.

“What are they?”

“They’re called tampons. Instead of wadding up old cotton or cheese cloth for your period, you use these. Way more efficient.”