{"product_id":"i-must-betray-you-isbn-9781984836045","title":"I Must Betray You","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • A gut-wrenching, startling historical thriller about a young man in communist Romania who dared to resist the spy network that devastated a nation, from the award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eSalt to the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBetween Shades of Gray\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"Sepetys brilliantly blends a staggering amount of research with heart, craft, and insight in a way very few writers can. Compulsively readable and brilliant.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWINNER OF THE CARNEGIE MEDAL\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRomania, 1989. Communist regimes are crumbling across Europe. Seventeen-year-old Cristian Florescu dreams of becoming a writer, but Romanians aren’t free to dream; they are bound by rules and force.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmidst the tyrannical dictatorship of Nicolae Ceaușescu in a country governed by isolation and fear, Cristian is blackmailed by the secret police to become an informer. He’s left with only two choices: either betray everyone and everything he loves, or use his position to creatively undermine the most notoriously evil dictator in Eastern Europe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCristian risks everything to unmask the truth behind the regime, give voice to fellow Romanians, and expose to the world what is happening in his country. He eagerly joins the revolution to fight for change when the time arrives. But what is the cost of freedom?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaster storyteller Ruta Sepetys is back with a historical thriller that examines the little-known history of a nation defined by silence, pain, and the unwavering conviction of the human spirit.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eI Must Betray You\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eWinner of the Josette Frank Award for Fiction ♦ An NPR Best Book of the Year ♦ An Amazon Best Book of the Year ♦ A \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of the Year ♦ A \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of the Year ♦ A S\u003ci\u003echool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year ♦ A \u003ci\u003eChristian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year ♦ A New York Public Library Best Book of the Year ♦ A Bank Street College of Education Best Book of the Year ♦ A YALSA Top Ten Best Fiction for Young Adults pick ♦ A Goodreads Choice Award nominee ♦ An Indiana Elliot Rosewater Book Award nominee\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As educational as it is thrilling...[T]he power of \u003ci\u003eI Must Betray You\u003c\/i\u003e [is] it doesn’t just describe the destabilizing effects of being spied on; it will make you experience them too.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \"\u003c\/b\u003eSepetys brilliantly blends a staggering amount of research with heart, craft, and insight in a way very few writers can. Compulsively readable and brilliant.\" \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"Sepetys once again masterfully portrays a dark, forgotten corner of history.\" \u003cb\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"\u003c\/b\u003eSepetys’s latest book maintains the caliber readers have come to expect from an author whose focus on hidden histories has made her a YA powerhouse of historical ­fiction…Sepetys is a formidable writer, and her stories declare the need to write about global issues of social injustice. For that reason and her attention to detail, this is a must-read.\" \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e ★ \"\u003c\/b\u003eCristian’s tense first-person narrative foregrounds stark historical realities, unflinchingly confronting deprivations and cruelty while balancing them with perseverance and hope as Romania hurtles toward political change.\" \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A master class in pacing and atmosphere.\" \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eRuta Sepetys (www.rutasepetys.com) is an internationally acclaimed, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of historical fiction published in over sixty countries and forty languages. Sepetys is considered a \"crossover\" novelist, as her books are read by both teens and adults worldwide. Her novels \u003ci\u003eBetween Shades of Gray\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOut of the Easy\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eSalt to the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e have won or been shortlisted for more than forty book prizes, and are included on more than sixty state award lists. \u003ci\u003eBetween Shades of Gray\u003c\/i\u003e was adapted into the film \u003ci\u003eAshes in the Snow\u003c\/i\u003e, and her other novels are currently in development for TV and film. Winner of the Carnegie Medal, Ruta is passionate about the power of history and literature to foster global awareness and connectivity. She has presented to NATO, to the European Parliament, in the United States Capitol, and at embassies worldwide. Ruta was born and raised in Michigan and now lives with her family in Nashville, Tennessee. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @RutaSepetys.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eUnu\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFear arrived at five o’clock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was October. A gray Friday.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf I had known? I would have run. Tried to hide.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I didn’t know.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThrough the dim half-­light of the school corridor I spotted my best friend, Luca. He walked toward me, passing the tedious sign shouting from the concrete wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew Men of Romania:\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eLong live Communism—­the bright future of mankind!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the time, my mind churned on something far from communism. Something more immediate.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSchool dismissed at 7:00 p.m. If I left at the right moment, I’d fall into step with her—­the quiet girl with the hair hiding her eyes. It would feel coincidental, not forced.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLuca’s tall, thin frame edged in beside me. “It’s official. My stomach’s eating itself.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Here.” I handed him my small pouch of sunflower seeds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thanks. Did you hear? The librarian says you’re a bad influence.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI laughed. Maybe it was true. Teachers referred to Luca as “sweet” but said I was sarcastic. If I was the type to throw a punch, Luca was the type to break up a fight. He had an eagerness about him, while I preferred to evaluate and watch from afar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe paused so Luca could talk to a group of loud girls. I waited, impatient.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eHei\u003c\/i\u003e, Cristian,” smiled one of the girls. “Nice hair, do you cut it with a kitchen knife?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah,” I said softly. “Blindfolded.” I gave Luca a nod and continued down the hall alone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Pupil Florescu!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe voice belonged to the school director. He lingered in the hallway, speaking with a colleague. Comrade Director shifted his weight, trying to appear casual.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNothing was ever casual.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn class, we sat erect. Comrade Instructor lectured, bellowing at our group of forty students. We listened, stock still and squinting beneath the sickly light. We were marked “present” in attendance but were often absent from ourselves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLuca and me, we wore navy suits and ties to \u003ci\u003eliceu\u003c\/i\u003e. All boys did. Girls, navy pinafores and white hair bands. Embroidered badges sewn onto our uniforms identified which school we attended. But in the fall and winter, our school uniforms weren’t visible. They were covered by coats, knitted mufflers, and gloves to combat the bitter cold of the unheated cement building.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCold and dark. Knuckles aching. It’s hard to take notes when you can’t feel your fingers. It’s difficult to concentrate when the electricity snaps off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe director cleared his throat. “Pupil Florescu,” he repeated. “Proceed to the office. Your father has left a message for you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy father? My father never came to school. I rarely saw him. He worked twelve-­hour shifts, six days a week at a furniture factory.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA slithering knot coiled inside my stomach. “Yes, Comrade Director.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI proceeded to the office as I was told.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCould outsiders understand? In Romania, we did as we were told.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe were told a lot of things.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe were told that we were all brothers and sisters in communism. Addressing each other with the term “comrade” reinforced that we were all equal, with no social classes to divide us. Good brothers and sisters in communism followed rules.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pretended to follow rules. I kept things to myself, like my interest in poetry and philosophy. I pretended other things too. I pretended to lose my comb, but really just preferred my hair spiky. I pretended not to notice when girls were looking at me. And this one—­I pretended that studying English was a commitment to my country.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Words are weapons. I’ll be able to fight our American and British enemies with words, not only guns.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s what I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOur weapons course was called Preparing Youth for Defending the Country. We began training with guns at age fourteen in school. Is that old or young compared to other countries? I remember jotting that question in my secret notebook.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn reality, my desire to speak English had nothing to do with fighting our enemies. How many enemies did we have, anyway? I honestly didn’t know. The truth was, English class was full of smart, quiet girls. Girls I pretended not to notice. And if I spoke English, I could better understand song lyrics that I heard illegally on Voice of America broadcasts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIllegal, yes. Many things were illegal in Romania—­including my thoughts and my notebook. But I was convinced I could keep everything hidden. After all, blankets of gloom are thick and heavy. Good for covering things, right?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI proceeded down the dark hallway to the office.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was an idiot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI just didn’t know it yet.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eDoi\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e entered the school office. The old, brittle secretary glanced at me, then looked to her lap. No eye contact. She pointed a shriveled finger toward the director’s office.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy stomach curled, tighter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA windowless box. Smoke-­stained ceiling. The stale, suspended tang of moldy paper. Hanging above the director’s plain, blocky desk was a portrait in a golden frame. Identical portraits decorated all of Romania—­classrooms, train stations, stores, hospitals, and even the front of books.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHim.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNicolae Ceauşescu.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOur beloved leader. Our hero. Maverick of the grand Communist Party of Romania and vampire to the necks of millions. Illegal metaphor? Absolutely.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe new portrait depicted our hero with blushing cheeks and wavy, thick brown hair. He and his wife, Heroine Mother Elena, had guided the country of Romania for twenty-­four years. I didn’t linger on the picture that showed a much younger version of our leader. Instead, my eyes pulled to the stranger seated below the portrait.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMid-­thirties. Unbroken line of an eyebrow. More scalp than hair. Hands each the size of a tennis racket and shoulders extending well beyond the width of the chair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Close the door,” instructed the man.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI closed the wooden door but did not sit. I was not told to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe stranger peeled through a file in front of him. A photo clipped to the upper edge of the folder showed a young man with messy dark hair and pale eyes. And that’s when the floor of my stomach collapsed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSitting a meter away was not just a hulking man with one eyebrow and paddles for hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis man was executioner, black rider, and spy. He was an agent of the Securitate, Romania’s fearsome secret police. Within his grasp sat a file and a photo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They say there’s one Secu per every fifty Romanians,” my sister Cici once warned. “There are twenty-­three million Romanians. Do the math. Securitate agents, they’re everywhere.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe called them “the blue-­eyed boys.” Nickname aside, they were generally easy to spot. In Romania, if your family was lucky enough to afford a car and could wait five years until one became available, you knew what you were getting. There was only one brand of car—­Dacia. They came in a few colors like white, blue, or green. But the secret police, they drove black Dacias. A young man in our apartment block drove a black Dacia. I watched him from our balcony. I was intrigued from afar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man in front of me drove a black Dacia. I was certain of it. But I was not intrigued.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was scared.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe agent leaned back, bullying the metal chair he sat upon. His eyes drilled silent holes through me, splitting the walls of my confidence. He waited, and waited, allowing the holes to fill with fear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis weight suddenly shifted. The front legs of the chair clapped to the floor. He leaned across the desk, exhaling the dead nicotine that lived on his pasty, yellow tongue. His words still haunt me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re Cristian Florescu,” he said. “And I know what you’ve done.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e3\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTrei\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eH\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ee knew what I had done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat had I done?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe truth was, most Romanians broke the rules someway or another. There were so many to break. And so many to report that you had broken them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA songwriter wrote negative lyrics about life in Romania. He was committed to an insane asylum.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA college student was discovered with an unregistered typewriter. He was sent to prison.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eComplaining aloud could get you arrested as a “political agitator.” But I hadn’t complained aloud. I did most things quietly. Secretly. So what had this agent discovered?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWas it my homemade radio antenna? The jokes I composed? Was it the travel guide?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI bought English language stuff on the sly, through a neighborhood trader named Starfish. Reading English contraband bolstered my vocabulary. My last purchase was a handful of pages torn from a travel guide printed in England. Foreign travel guides and maps were often confiscated from visitors. Reading those pages, I learned why:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003ci\u003e  Abysmal conditions in Romania.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003ci\u003e       Nicolae Ceauşescu. Ruthless leader. Megalomaniac.\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003ci\u003e                    Everyone under surveillance.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003ci\u003e    Worst human suffering of any country in the Eastern Bloc.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd this one—­\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003ci\u003e       Romanian people are intelligent, handsome, and welcoming, but forbidden to interact with foreigners. Imagine a madhouse where the lunatics are running the asylum and the workers are punished for their sanity. Best to avoid Romania. Visit Hungary or Bulgaria instead, where conditions are better.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe note about surveillance—­it was true. Everyone was a possible target for surveillance. She, Mother Elena Ceauşescu, even decreed that balconies of apartments must remain fully visible. The Communist Party had a right to see everything at all times. Everything was owned by the Party. And the Ceauşescus owned the Party. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nice for them. They don’t have to live in a block of cement,” I once sneered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Shh. Don’t ever say that aloud,” gasped my mother.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI never said it again, but I wrote about it in my notebook.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy notebook. Wait. Was this about my notebook?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe agent motioned for me to sit. I sat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you know why you are here?” he asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, Comrade Lieutenant.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Comrade Major.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swallowed. “No, Comrade Major, I don’t know why I’m here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Let me enlighten you then. You have an impressive stamp collection. You sold a vintage Romanian stamp. The transaction was with a foreigner and you accepted foreign currency. You are now guilty of illegal trafficking and will be prosecuted.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA chill flashed across the back of my neck. My brain began to tick:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe old stamp.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe U.S. dollar bill.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat was two months ago. How long had they known about it?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I didn’t sell the stamp,” I said. “I gave it to him. I didn’t even find the—­”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stopped. It was illegal in Romania to say the word “dollar.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I didn’t find the . . . currency . . . until several days later when I opened the album. He must have slipped it in without me seeing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How did you come to interact with an American teenager in the first place? Interaction with foreigners is illegal. You must report any contact with foreigners immediately. You are aware of that.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, Comrade Major. But my mother cleans the apartments of two U.S. diplomats. That is on record.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut there were things that were \u003ci\u003eoff\u003c\/i\u003e record. At least I had thought so. I had met the son of the U.S. diplomat while waiting for my mother. We became friendly. We traded stamps. We talked. I glimpsed a peek at his notebook—­and decided to start a notebook of my own.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Your mother cleans the apartments of U.S. diplomats. How did she get that job?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I think . . . through a friend?” I honestly couldn’t remember. “I met the American while waiting for my mother. I often walk her home. My mother has a hard time seeing in the dark. It’s frightening for her.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re claiming you engaged in illegal currency activity with an American teenager because your mother is afraid of the dark? Your mother’s handicap has nothing to do with your crime. But punishment \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c\/i\u003e extend to your entire family.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA crime? My entire family?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I had never accepted the dollar. It just . . . appeared.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow did he even know about it?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe pleading refrains of my mother and sister appeared in chorus.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t tell anyone—­anything.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e         \u003ci\u003eRemember, Cristian, you never know who’s listening.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e                         \u003ci\u003ePlease, don’t draw attention to our family.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stared at the agent in front of me. A shivery sweat glazed my palms and an invisible moth flapped in my windpipe. In Romania, the Securitate carried more power than the military. This man could destroy us. He could put our family under increased surveillance. He could ruin my opportunity to attend university. He could have my parents fired. Or worse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe agent leaned forward, placing his massive flesh rackets on the desk.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can see you’ve absorbed the severity of the situation. I’m told you’re a strong student, talented, an observer among your peers. I’m feeling generous today.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was letting me off with a warning. I exhaled with gratitude.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eMulţumesc\u003c\/i\u003e. I—­”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re thanking me? You haven’t heard my proposal yet. It’s simple and, as I said, very generous of me. You will continue to meet your mother and walk her home. You will continue your interactions with the son of the American diplomat. And you will report details of the diplomat’s home and family to me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was not a proposal. It was an order, and one that compromised all principles of decency. I’d be a rat, a \u003ci\u003eturnător\u003c\/i\u003e, secretly informing on the private lives of others.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI could never tell my family. Constant deception. I should refuse. But if I refused, my family would suffer. I was sure of that. And then, amidst the silence, the agent made his final move.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Say, how is your \u003ci\u003ebunu\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eŞahmat\u003c\/i\u003e. Checkmate. The simple mention weakened me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe knew about my grandfather. Bunu was a light, full of wisdom and philosophy. Bunu knew of my interest in poetry and literature. He encouraged it. Quietly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any,” said Bunu. “But words and creative phrases—­they have power, Cristian. Explore that power in your mind.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe stamp collection was Bunu’s treasure. It had been our secret project for years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe had other secrets. Like Bunu’s leukemia. It stormed upon him so quickly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t tell anyone,” begged our perpetually nervous mother.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe didn’t have to. Anyone could see that an energetic, healthy man had suddenly turned gray and shriveled. He lifted the frying pan and his wrist snapped.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaddle Hands cleared his throat. “It’s a generous proposal. We’ll work together. You give me information and I give you medicine for Bunu. He won’t suffer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd that’s how it began.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was Cristian Florescu. Code name “OSCAR.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA seventeen-­year-­old spy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn informer.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Philomel Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300500525285,"sku":"NP9781984836045","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984836045.jpg?v=1767729695","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/i-must-betray-you-isbn-9781984836045","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}