Chapter Twenty-One

It took us more than forty minutes to drive to the cathedral, even though Neumarkt, Dresden’s town square, was only about fifteen minutes from where the Reys were staying. This wasn’t due to traffic. It was because Marcus’s dad insisted on winding down tiny side streets, making dramatic U-turns, and shifting erratically to ensure we weren’t being followed. I guess we weren’t, because eventually he parked the car in the lot of a Hilton Hotel, and stepped out onto the giant plaza.

It reminded me of Krakow, except instead of long johns and snowflakes, Dresden’s skies were a clear azure and the air was warm enough to remove our jackets. Cafés were packed with patrons sipping tall foaming glasses of beer and eating greasy sausage sandwiches. Square cobblestones wove in an intricate pattern beneath our feet, accentuating the ornate architecture of the peach, mint, and canary buildings. It not only felt like Easter, it felt like the sun was shining on Marcus. Maybe things won’t be so bad with his parents? Maybe this will work out?

The Reys guided us past souvenir shops, full of handmade wooden carvings and logo-filled soccer shirts, toward the massive domed cathedral that dominated the center of the square. The facade was comprised of blackened stones intermittently interrupted by bright beige blocks—showing the clear difference between the rocks pulled from the rubble of war, and those newly placed as substitutes. In front of the entrance stood a smoky, flat, uneven collection of granite, a monument to the ruins that lived on this site for so long. It felt as though it would never matter how much time trudged forward, this country would forever be plagued with memories of war, with the horrors its people committed.

Why would the Reys choose to spend their days here? If I weren’t sure how much freedom I had left, I’d be on the first plane to an over-water bungalow in Bora Bora.

Marcus’s mom held firm to his elbow, almost as if she were afraid to let him go, as she led us up the front steps to the church. It was early evening, after five o’clock, and I could see from a sign that the building was closed. But as soon as the security guard saw Rosario coming, he unlocked the door. She whispered something and the guard smiled wide while Marcus’s dad shook the man’s hand, a wad of bills greasing his palm.

We were being let in after hours? What was so important that we had to come here, specifically? Alarms sounded inside me, and I tried hard to silence them. The Reys won’t hurt their son, and if we’re with Marcus, they won’t hurt us, either.

I repeated this in a loop as we followed them into the empty church.

The cathedral was huge, with its massive dome soaring several stories above. Arching windows lined the round perimeter flooding the space with light that bounced off the pale turquoise marble altar. Gold statues sat before curved, blond wood pews, while rose, ivory, and powder blue gleamed in all directions giving the space a perpetual Easter feel.

“There’s no one else here,” Julian whispered in my ear, sounding nervous.

“I noticed,” I murmured.

We were in an empty church, on their turf, with a guard they just paid off. I looked at Marcus, willing him to feel my apprehension, but he continued gazing at his parents. There was joy in his eyes, like they were still the people he remembered. I didn’t want to be the one to take that away.

“One of the perks of the building being reconstructed”—Rosario looked at us—“is there’s an elevator now.” Her brown eyes sparkled as she led the way like an umbrella-hoisting tour guide directing a crop of tourists. We ascended an elevator and exited into a white, circular hallway that stretched around the dome—it really was like the Duomo in Florence.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light and breezy as we marched the circular ramp, stretching higher and higher.

“To the top, of course,” Carlos responded.

I tried to forget that these people once tried to shove me into a car in Boston, as I willingly followed his trademark dimples up a metal spiral staircase and through a skinny door that led to roof access.

When I stepped out, I was in open-air atop a church spire. There were no walls, no obstructions of any kind. All of Dresden was stretched out before us—a winding river, crossed by several low bridges, orange roofs pitched in all directions broken up only by green copper domes and blackened peaks of weathered churches. This was an old city, a historic city, and despite its tragic past, it lived on.

The sun was setting.

“It took fifty years for the city to rebuild what the Allied forces destroyed,” Carlos said as he gazed at the view.

“Germany destroyed a lot more than buildings,” I shot back.

“Agreed,” said Julian, a Brit who lived in a city that saw its own share of war damage.

Carlos nodded, contemplating our answer or simply lost in thought. His eyes were distant.

“Pop, why are we here?” Marcus asked, finally broaching the question that was nearly bursting inside me.

His parents’ eyes connected, then his mom nodded infinitesimally. Whatever was happening, it was time.

“This is where your father and I met,” she began and gestured to the plaza below. “A long time ago.”

“Your mother was a student, and I was here on business,” his dad continued, gazing at the city, or the past, I wasn’t sure. “This church was a pile of rock and ashes then. And we stood on that very spot below, staring at all this destruction, and our eyes met.”

“Why have I never heard this story?” Marcus asked.

“You never asked.” His mom gave a sly grin. “Kids sometimes forget that their parents are people who were once young and in love.”

It felt like I was consumed lately with stories of my parents from when they were young and in love, stories I should have heard sooner. Maybe Rosario was right. Maybe I should have asked more questions.

“I knew the second I saw her that we would be married,” said his dad. “I mean that.” He gazed lovingly at his wife.

“I know.” She nodded.

These were nothing like the people I met in Boston. There was no arrogance here, no pretense. This was a story for their son, or maybe themselves. This was a memory they wanted to share. Suddenly, I understood why they came back here despite all the danger. This is where it all began for them. They wanted to relive it.

“Look at this building.” His dad patted the solid stone wall. It was only waist high—if we wanted, we could lean straight over. We could jump. Wasn’t the city worried about that? Or maybe they thought the building had already seen enough. No one would dare add more to its misery. “They rebuilt this cathedral stone by stone, and now it stands again.”

“It rose from the ashes, after all that destruction,” Rosario continued.

I peered at Julian. I didn’t like the sound of this, and he seemed to catch my meaning because a worried look fluttered into his eyes. Marcus’s parents weren’t only waxing philosophical, they were speaking with finality. Like this was the end of something. Of what? Of them?

Marcus reached for his mom’s arm. “Mami, estas bien?” His voice was soft, but I could hear the fear. “We’ve talked to Allen Cross, we’ve talked to Anastasia’s parents, we’ve even talked to Randolph Urban. We’ve heard everyone else’s side of the story…”

“But ours,” she finished for him.

Marcus nodded.

She looked at her husband.

“I suggest we take this conversation inside.” Carlos gestured toward the door. “It’s getting cool, and the sun will be gone soon.”

He walked toward the exit with his wife, and the silence built like a fog around us. I could feel the shift in the air, in the conversation. I didn’t know where they were leading us now, but the happy family reunion felt over.

We sat in a curved pew on the third level of the cathedral, facing the main doors. I wasn’t sure if this was so we could enjoy the best view of the religious frescoes in the altar or so two old spies could keep all their exits in check. I sensed it was the latter. The Reys had a lot to say, and clearly they didn’t want to be interrupted.

Taking turns back and forth, the way couples who’ve been married for decades can, Marcus’s mom and dad told their story. And it wasn’t like anything I expected.

They joined the Dresden Chemical Corporation a decade after my parents and Urban started it. At the time, Carlos and Rosario were two of the most highly recruited biomedical engineers in the world. They could have gotten jobs anywhere, but the global scope of Dresden, and the seemingly unlimited funds for research, was a draw they couldn’t resist. It wasn’t until Antonio was born, after they had been working for the company for nearly five years, that they first heard the words “Department D.” It was the early 1990s, the US had exited the first Gulf War. Despite a successful military effort that resulted in less than two hundred casualties, hundreds of thousands of US veterans returned from Iraq with unexplained chronic illnesses that ranged from fatigue to memory loss to terminal tumors. The Reys were part of a research team asked to investigate the cause of “Gulf War Syndrome.” When they began to link the origin to vaccines and pesticides used to protect servicemen against potential nerve gas and insect-spread diseases, they were immediately asked to discontinue their research.

Then they were asked to cover it up, make the symptoms seem too vague and disconnected to warrant treatment under veteran’s insurance. Because of their work, thousands of vets went without medical care.

It was their first operation for Department D, and after that, my parents owned them. Anytime they needed the assistance of scientific experts to pull off a Department D operation, they went to the Reys. The more successful Marcus’s parents’ work was, the more often their services were used, and the deeper they fell into a life of crime. They swore their careers were dedicated purely to science. They never once met with a world leader, nor held a weapon of any kind, but they also knew their work was going to causes that weren’t legal or remotely just.

When the Reys discovered that my parents were staging a coup to overthrow Randolph Urban, they had to choose a side. Urban had never asked Marcus’s parents to commit a crime; those orders always came from my mom and dad. After all, they were the ones in the field, wading through the muck. So the Reys chose Urban, mistakenly thinking it would be their chance to get out of a life of crime, thinking they could go back to devoting their lives to Dresden Chemical and its legitimate work. It didn’t work out that way.

Urban killed my parents (or so they thought), and the Reys continued to be asked to provide research to aid Department D’s efforts, conspiracy after conspiracy, lie after lie.

A few months ago, when they heard that my parents might be alive, when it started to become apparent that Dresden Chemical and Department D were tumbling down, they went into self-preservation mode. The Reys saw no reason why they should go down—they didn’t bring in covert clients, they didn’t go on clandestine operations. They worked in labs. They started a foundation. They wanted to do good in the world. So they started to apply the disinformation skills they’d acquired to ensure that the blame for the criminal enterprise landed exactly where they thought it belonged—on my parents.

They asked Antonio to provide them with information about the Dresden Kids we contacted, many of whom referenced operations the Reys had never heard of before. One by one, they flipped each kid, easily turning them against my parents. Then they planted news articles that suggested my parents were alive and that Keira and I were somehow involved in their criminal business. They had the good sense to look guilty as they said this, as they sat across from me and watched their son hold my hand.

But this speech wasn’t seeking my forgiveness. It was for Marcus. It was a detailed explanation with names, dates, and a perfect time line of events. They knew this day was coming and regret seeped from their pores like flop sweat as they swore if they’d been aware of Dresden Chemical’s link to Department D, they never would have joined the company. They firmly believed they didn’t choose this life, it was thrust upon them, and after you commit one crime, it’s easier to commit the next and then the next.

But they chose not to stop.

“So you planted that article in the Boston Tattler claiming I was involved in my sister’s kidnapping?” I confirmed, unwilling to give them a free pass on their crimes against me.

“We did.” Carlos nodded, not hiding from the truth. “We were trying to get your parents to do the right thing, to come out of hiding and take responsibility for their actions. Believe me, they’ve done much worse over the years than threaten people with words in a news article.”

“I know that, and I’ve listened to you.” I looked at Marcus, hoping to show him that I wasn’t trying to make things worse, but I had to say this. “Do you have any idea what my sister and I have been through? What your son has been through? He almost died because of what Antonio did, because of what you asked Antonio to do—”

Marcus grabbed my hand, squeezing hard, like he needed to be the one to ask these questions. Fine. I took a breath. Then ask them.

“Marcus, mijo,” his mom interrupted, “we are so sorry. For Rio. For what happened to you. We had no idea that Allen Cross was so unstable. When you got hurt…” She didn’t finish her words, she couldn’t.

“It broke us. And Antonio,” his dad said. “We never meant for things to get that far.” He looked at me. “And we had nothing to do with your sister’s kidnapping. You must know that. It was Urban.”

I nodded, but that didn’t mean I forgave them for everything else they did. I wasn’t sure I even had the capacity to forgive anymore, like I’d already doled out all the forgiveness tokens I’d been given at birth. People were asking for too many.

“You said Antonio was upset after what happened to me, and I want to believe you. But did you ever stop and think about him?” Marcus asked, his tone harsher than it had been all day. “If you really didn’t want to be involved in crime, then why did you bring him into it? Why would you do that to him?”

Slowly, we watched the faces of Marcus’s parents morph into looks of, This is it, he’s going to hate us now. I could see it was the question they didn’t want to answer, the one they knew they couldn’t come back from. I reached for Marcus’s hand, hoping to comfort him before the crash.

“It’s one of the ways the company keeps a hold on you,” Rosario said, staring at her manicured fingers, picking at her nude nail polish as if too ashamed to meet her son’s eyes. “There’s a reason the Dresden Kids are expected to be friends, why the company is so invested in everyone’s families. They want to entangle our children in all of this to ensure our loyalty forever.”

“So you sacrificed your son to a life of crime to prove your loyalty?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he tried to comprehend the fact that his parents chose a company over their first born. They could’ve walked away, they could’ve blown a whistle, but they didn’t. They handed over Antonio. And oddly, even I felt bad for Marcus’s brother in that moment. “Would you have done that to me, too?”

“No!” Rosario insisted, her hand outstretched like she wanted to physically force Marcus to understand. She peered at her husband for help. “We wouldn’t have had to…”

“Department D requires that at least one direct family member work for the company,” Carlos explained, eyes on the cathedral doors, avoiding his son’s gaze.

“So you gave them Antonio.” Marcus’s voice overflowed with disappointment. His tears rose to a water level about to spill, and I had to look away, my chest aching for him. “Did he ever have a choice? Did Antonio know what he was getting into?”

His dad sighed, his shiny, bald head sagging toward his chest. “Not until much later.”

“You mean, not until it was too late.”

The church fell silent. We could hear each other breathe. They ruined Antonio’s life. Willingly. There was no coming back from that. Even if they were telling the truth, even if they never worked covert ops or violently harmed anyone, they still condemned their son. They chose their favorite child. They couldn’t defend that. They couldn’t take it back. All the charisma and brilliance I saw in Boston was drained and refilled with the sallow look of guilt.

Marcus sat quiet, his eyes blank.

So I spoke up. “You’ve been very open, and we appreciate that.” I looked at Marcus with apologies. “But I have to ask, do you know anything about what happened to Tyson Westbrook? Why is someone going after my friends? They’re innocent teenagers.”

“No!”

“We have nothing to do with that!” Carlos and Rosario both insisted, their voices definitive.

“We found out about your friend in the news like everyone else. We would never commit an act of violence against a child,” Carlos confirmed.

I didn’t mention the fact that they admitted to harming their own son, and Rosario seemed to read my mind because she leaned forward.

“It was not us.” Her voice was so earnest I actually believed her.

They admitted to horrible crimes, so did everyone we spoke to. How could they all be telling the truth? Was it possible I might never know what happened to him? Tyson was murdered, because of his association with me. If I didn’t find out who did it and bring that person to justice, what did that make me?

Rosario turned to her son with the desperate, loving eyes of a mother. “You may think what you want of us for what we did to you and your brother, but know this, we are not murderers.”

Julian nudged my shoulder, and when I looked his way, he gestured to his watch. He was wondering whether it was time to call Martin Bittman. We agreed that after we heard the Reys’ story, we’d text the CIA. We’d hand them over to the authorities, and we’d check one dangerous couple off the list of reasons someone might try to kill us. But were the Reys dangerous? Was it still the right thing to do? I didn’t call the CIA on my parents in Rio, or on Urban in Poland. Could we really call the authorities now, with Marcus’s mouth still hanging open from the revelations laid before him?

Then Carlos cleared his throat. “We do not know anything about your friend, we can’t help you there, but…” He looked at his wife, who gave a small nod. This was a couple that could speak telepathically, and I wondered if I’d ever have that with someone other than my sister. I wondered what that felt like.

His parents turned my way, peering only at me. “Allen Cross’s body has been found.”

I froze, all my muscles clenching as his words forced their way inside. What? When? How? What did that mean for my parents? Did they know?

“We don’t have all the details.” Rosario’s voice was calm. “But there are rumors of not only physical evidence on the body, but of a safety deposit box.”

“He left proof that your parents killed Esther, his wife.” I could hear in his voice that Carlos had known her, that he’d cared about her. “Allen had some sort of failsafe ensuring this box would be opened upon his death, and somehow it was triggered. The authorities have everything.”

My eyes shot to Julian, and we both knew what this meant.

“If they can tie your parents to two murders…” Julian didn’t want to finish the thought.

So Carlos did. “Then they don’t need to prove treason or anything else. They’d have enough.”

Lethal injection. Two murders would mean the death penalty.

“I’m sorry.” Julian abruptly rose to his feet and gestured to the main entrance. “But is that door opening?”

We all swung our heads and heard the clank of the solid church door. A woman in a dark pantsuit pushed through, followed by a man, then another, and another. They instantly peered our way, talking into their shirt cuffs, with earpieces spiraling down their necks. They were government agents, and they looked American.

“Mom, Pop, get out of here! Now!” Marcus hopped up, pointing toward an exit sign.

Carlos and Rosario stayed still, reserved smiles on their faces. Then his mom gracefully reached for Marcus’ face and smoothed his dark hair from his eyes. “Es okay, mijo. We called them.”

“What?” Marcus squeaked.

A gasp escaped from my lips. What did they do?

Carlos placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “This has to end.” He looked at me. “Your parents know about Cross’s body and the safety deposit box. They’re on a rampage…”

“They’re running around the world, threatening world leaders, old enemies, everyone,” Rosario’s words spewed quicker as agents headed toward the elevator. “They’re desperate to get themselves out of this any way they can. It’s why Craig Bernard showed up at our door.”

“He came to you?” I said.

“Your parents were trying to kill him, and they came pretty close,” said Rosario. “For some reason, he thought we would help him, like we were in the same boat as that scum. He thought our actions with Antonio, and those news articles, might mean we were next on your parents’ list.”

“We’re not going to end up dead.” Carlos shook his bald head. “We didn’t do anything wrong, not like the rest of them. If your parents are going down, if this really is over, then we need to consider the best option for us.”

“You’re cutting a deal.” Julian caught on before the rest of us.

Carlos nodded.

“It’s a smart move.” Julian nodded. “The first one to talk will get the best deal.”

“That’s what we’re hoping.”

Is this good? Marcus won’t lose them…

Then we heard the elevator ding. The agents were close. My heart hammered.

“But we had to see you.” Rosario hugged her son, squeezing him so tight I could see muscles flex in her arms. “We sent Bernard to find you, to send you here, so we could tell you our story. In this place.”

Carlos swung his arms over the two of them, joining the group hug. “We joined Dresden partially because we thought the name was a good sign. This is where we met. So this is where we want it to end.”

“No!” Marcus pulled away, his face blotchy and voice agonizingly high. “You have to go! Run! We’ll make a diversion. Anastasia, scream!”

He looked at me. I would do it. For him, I would do it. But it was too late. The agents were snaking through the pews only a few yards away.

“We’ll be okay. We made our choices.” His mother grabbed both sides of his face and inhaled, breathing the scent of her son like she needed to remember it forever, bottle it somewhere in her brain so it could be reopened later.

“No! This is my fault,” he whined, hiccupping from the sobs shaking his chest. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have looked for Antonio. I should have gone into hiding.”

“Stop. We did this, not you, and we’re too old to live in hiding. I want to see my boys again. I want to see my grandchildren. And this way, maybe we still can someday.” His mother stroked his hair, and the image of her caressing him reminded me so much of the photo that hung on the wall of their Boston brownstone—the black and white image of a mother with her newborn infant. I could see it in her eyes, she was picturing it, too—her baby boy.

Marcus slumped toward his mom, his face contorted in a way that made my nails dig into my fists. This scene was burrowing into his memory. It was changing him. Little pieces of the guy he was before this moment were splintering onto the floor.

Agents emerged in the aisle beside us, guns drawn, but they didn’t approach. Instead, they paused, assessing the scene with a look of understanding on their faces. The Reys had called them, they were turning themselves in. This wasn’t a situation in need of a violent take down. This was a family having a final moment.

“Son, you’re a good man,” his father’s voice quivered. “We are so proud of you. Por favor, tell your brother we are so sorry.”

“No! You have to tell him yourself,” Marcus cried, his nose running. “Please. Run. Try to run.”

Marcus’s mom pulled back, giving the agents surrounding them an almost imperceptible nod of, We understand, just give us a moment. The agents didn’t move.

She wiped the tears burning tracks down her son’s flushed cheeks, then kissed his forehead. “Te amo, mi corazón.” She turned my way. “Anastasia, if you find what you’re looking for”—she nodded to the agents patiently waiting around her—“the scene will not look like this.”

The implication was clear. The authorities were no longer looking to capture my parents; they were looking to kill them. If I kept searching, if I got close, we could all end up as unintended casualties. What did I do with that information? Then I saw the look on Marcus’s face. He wasn’t living in hypotheticals. He was losing his parents now. Right now. My stomach tied in a noose.

“Keep. Each other. Safe.” Carlos punctuated his words, furthering his wife’s sentiment. He looked at Julian. “Gracias. For what you’ve done to protect my boy.”

“I will continue to do so,” Julian promised. Then he cleared his throat to hold back his own emotion.

Carlos and Rosario locked eyes, then he mouthed I love you, and she did the same. This was it. They might never see each other again. Prisons weren’t co-ed. After a lifetime together, it was ending. And they knew it. They chose it. Goodbyes floated silently in the air between them.

Then she turned to the agents. “Our agreement stands?”

One of the agents nodded.

Rosario seemed satisfied. “When you leave here,” she said to Marcus. “No one will follow you. We’ve made sure of it.”

She made an arrangement for us? She was worried about us? Was I completely wrong about these people? Or maybe I had simply misjudged how much they loved their son? I’d never experienced that sort of love. I didn’t know it existed in real life.

“You’re safe now.” She kissed his forehead. “We’ll do everything we can.”

Then Carlos turned to an agent. “We’re ready.”

“No!” Marcus cried, clinging to his mother, reaching for his father, grasping at the air.

His parents stepped back and instantly an agent held back Marcus, grabbing his arms in a bear hug to keep him from impeding the arrest. He bucked his body against him.

“No!” Marcus sobbed, flailing.

My lip trembled, tears pooling at my eyes.

“No, no, no…” he whimpered.

The Reys didn’t stop. They didn’t turn back. They kept their chins held high, their eyes locked on one another, and their hands clasped tightly until the handcuffs were placed on their wrists.