Two Lies and a Spy (2 page)

Oblivious, he continues to text something on his phone.

I check my watch again. How to get out of here? I need to go meet my little brother Charlie, stat.

Charlie, who is only seven, is already a fifth grader at James Madison Academy, because he’s basically a genius and has skipped three grades. I worry sometimes that he’s
too
smart. It would do him good to get out and play with other kids more—but he’s shy, and they tend to think that he’s a little odd. How many seven-year-olds are fluent in four languages? Can quote Nietzsche and Schopenhauer? And write computer code in Java, C++ and PHP?

Yeah, he’s a walking brain.

Evan shows no sign of moving anytime soon, so I start looking for a way around him—and hone in on the small, frosted-glass windows over the two sinks in the girls’ bathroom.

One of them is sealed shut, but I manage to get the other one open. I vault up onto the sink and wriggle my head and shoulders through the tight rectangle. Sometimes being small for my age is a curse, but right now it’s a beautiful thing. And unlike Lacey, I have no long pink nails to break as I scrabble for gaps in the mortar. I get my right arm all the way out and cling to the window frame like a monkey with my left one. I find a good handhold among the bricks and shimmy out to my knees, my butt in the air and my plaid uniform skirt flapping. Anyone standing around outside would get a great visual of my blue polka-dotted panties, but no one’s there, thank God.

The cold metal of the window casing presses against my bare thighs and makes me shiver. Immodestly I work one leg free of the window until I’m straddling it. The chilly, early October air wafts over my skin as I dangle by one leg from that freakin’ window, using my other foot to brace against the bricks outside. I stick my arm back through and grab my backpack off the sink, then drop it into a pile of leaves below me. I scrape my second knee through the frame, hang from the pediment like an orangutan for a moment, and then drop to the grass. I run from the grounds toward the road that will take me southeast to Wisconsin Avenue and the Metro stop there.

Hang on, Charlie. I’m coming for you.

My little brother sits by himself on a bench in Georgetown Playground, located between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets just a bit west of Wisconsin. He’s wearing the James Madison uniform of khakis, white button-down, and blue blazer. Wisps of his blond hair are askew, and his tortoise-shell glasses have slipped half an inch down his nose. He looks like a miniature banker on casual Friday. I hide a smile when I see that he is actually scanning an old copy of
Roget’s International Thesaurus
.

“Hey, kiddo. Doing a little light reading?”

“Misrepresent,” says Charlie, nodding. “Belie, give a wrong idea, put in a false light, pervert, distort, garble, twist, warp, wrench, slant”—he takes a breath—“twist the meaning of, color, miscolor . . . falsify, misteach, disguise, camouflage”—he takes another breath—“misstate, misreport, misquote, overstate, exaggerate, overdraw,
understate, travesty, parody, caricature, burlesque.”

I have to laugh. “And hello to you, too.”

He grins, and I ruffle his hair.

Then Charlie’s grin fades. “Dad sent me a text. ‘
Don’t forget your inhaler.’
Code Black.”

I nod. “Yup. So we wait here for an hour until Mom and Dad show up.”

Charlie nods, shoves his glasses back up his nose, then chews on his lip. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, Charlie Brown.” I use my most unconcerned voice, because I don’t want my brother to stress out. He worries a lot. But he doesn’t worry about the things that normal seven-year-olds do: a broken iPod, or missing an episode of
SpongeBob SquarePants
, or how he did on a spelling test.

No, Charlie is concerned about the Texas-size mass of floating garbage in the ocean and how it’s getting bigger, probably leaking toxins into the water and poisoning the fish. He wants to know why nothing is being done about it. He wants to know where the US will put its garbage after the ocean is full—will rockets take it to outer space and toss it on Mars?

And don’t get him started on global warming.

“I’m not Charlie Brown,” he says now. “I’m Charlie Andrews.”

I stick out my hand, the charms on my bracelet tinkling. “Nice to meet you.”

He peers at me through his glasses, giving me his owl look. “And stop trying to distract me from the problem
at hand. That is a very transparent tactic.”

I have to laugh again. He sounds exactly like Mom. How many times has she said that over the years, as we’ve tried to manipulate her into buying something we want, or wheedle our way out of a jam?

That is a very transparent tactic, Karina.

“Busted,” I admit.

He waggles his index finger at me.

“So do you want to play on the swings?”

“Not so much,” he says dryly. “I don’t like sitting on pigeon poop.”

I try to think of something to do to pass the time, besides pacing back and forth in front of him until I’ve dug a trench.

“I could read aloud some more of
Roget’s
,” he offers. “The next word is five hundred seventy-four: ‘art’. It’s pretty cool. Some guy named J. F. Millet says it’s ‘a treating of the commonplace with the sublime,’ but I have to look up ‘sublime’ because I’m not sure exactly what that means.”

I shake my head. My little brother is amazing. Strange, but truly impressive.

“Do
you
know what it means? Sublime?”

“Um . . . I think it means sort of, I don’t know—noble? Grand?”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

I look at my watch. Where are Mom and Dad?

“You don’t want me to read
Roget’s
aloud, do you?” Charlie inquires.

I shake my head, even though I should probably encourage him to learn. But the problem is that Charlie wants to learn everything, all the time. He needs to go play ball or catch bugs or even watch cartoons, like a normal child. He needs to play with other kids, not explore the theory of relativity. Lately he’s even studying German—as if he doesn’t already speak Russian, French, and Spanish! The kid puts me to shame. I suck at languages.

Martial arts are my thing. “Want me to teach you some karate moves?”

Charlie yawns.

Guess not.

“So, tell me about your day,” I prompt him. “What did you study?”

He launches into a half-hour history lesson about the coal mining industry in West Virginia.

I ask him a few questions before I frown. “Wait—you’re learning about this in fifth grade?”

Well, no. Not exactly. But Charlie, as usual, got bored with the real lesson and snuck an encyclopedia behind his textbook.

I would laugh, but I’m used to these stories.

Then Charlie’s expression changes from professorial to puzzled. “Hey, isn’t that Mitch over there?”

I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, a friend of our parents is crossing the park, another guy in a gray suit following him.

Now I’m worried. Really worried. Where are Mom and Dad? And why is Mitch here?

“Hey, kiddo,” I say. “Do me a favor? Go over to where all those nannies are, on the playground.”

“Why?”

“It’s just a tactical move, Charlie. We’re supposed to meet Mom and Dad, not Mitch—and I just want to be careful. Mitch is nowhere in our playbook.”

“Okay.” Charlie grabs his backpack and the copy of
Roget’s
and heads off. I stand up and walk toward Mitch and Gray Suit Man.

Mitch is a stocky guy in dress slacks and an open-necked shirt. He’s got short brown hair that’s going gray at the temples and these sort of silvery-gray eyes. He’d look like a normal businessman, except that he’s clearly ex-military. It’s in his walk, the way he holds himself.

“Hi, Kari!” he calls in hearty tones. A little too hearty.

Here’s the thing—Mitch is one of those guys that I’ve always been indifferent to. He’s been at the house for dinner before, and maybe a couple of parties. A barbecue. He’s not exactly nice, but he’s not not-nice, either. He’s just there: a department-store dummy of a man.

Mitch gives me a professional grin. “Karina, glad you’re here. Your mom and dad asked me to swing by and pick you two up.”

“Where are they?” I ask. My nose is starting to itch. I have this really weird thing—when someone is lying to me and I know it, my nose tickles. Sounds crazy, but it’s true.

“They’re safe, don’t worry.” He nods reassuringly.

I feel like I’m going to sneeze. “Um, who’s this?” I look at Gray Suit Man.

“Oh, this is . . . Gary. Gary Simons. He works at the Agency with us.”

“Hello, Karina. Nice to meet you.” Simons has a gravelly smoker’s voice, and his hair is as gray as his suit. His skin is grayish too. And he’s got small, weasel eyes with big pouches of skin under them.

It takes me two point five seconds to decide that I do not like this guy. “Yeah,” I say, with just the hint of a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, too.” I take an involuntary step back from him and turn to Mitch. “So what’s the password?”

Mitch blinks. “Ah. To be honest, there wasn’t time for Cal and Irene to even think about that. We had to rush them to a safe house.”

I sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” Mitch says, still in that gung ho, overly familiar tone.

“Thanks.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gary Simons take two quick steps toward me, as if he’s going to grab me.

I pivot and launch myself at Mitch, driving my right shoulder into his stomach.

Mitch, caught off guard, doubles over. His skull collides with Simons. I have a split second to get away.

I sprint.

But ex-military Mitch recovers fast and grips my arm in a vise. I can’t plow my elbow into his gut because he’s
got it immobilized. With another pivot I face him and slam my heel toward his groin. Mitch isn’t stupid—he knows better than to let that blow connect.

He twists and sidesteps, but I’ve knocked him off-balance. He’s going down.

He can either let go of me and brace for impact, or he can hang on to me and take me down with him.

Bad for me that he chooses option two.

Think, Kari. Think.

He hits the dirt, and I land on top of him. Gray Gary reaches for me again.

I head-butt Mitch right in the face and hear his nose crunch. I’m sorry to say that it’s a satisfying sound. My good buddy Mitch forgets to compliment my technique.

“Bitch!” he screams.

Simons grabs me around the middle and pulls me off his friend. He’s strong, but that midsection of his is soft as he drags me backward. I throw myself forward and then drive back with my heel, aiming for his knee. No luck.

So I smash both elbows into his squishy middle: one, two. He gasps, wheezes.

The guy has breath like a camel.

I get him in the groin with my hip bone, and, with a moan, he lets go of me.

That’s when I strike out and connect my right foot with his left knee. He goes down into the dirt and howls like a strangled coyote—I’m pretty sure I’ve shattered his kneecap.

Run, Kari! Run!

I cannot let these jerks take me. If they get me, then Charlie is an easy target.

I sprint toward the playground area.

But I don’t get too far.

Because Mitch, whose legs are longer than mine, catches up to me within four strides. This time he grabs both of my arms and twists them behind my back, which really hurts. Charlie and his thesaurus might call it excruciating.

These apes are
not
getting Charlie. So, since fighting like a man hasn’t worked, I scream like a girl. I scream so loud that I’m sure my throat and lungs will explode. “Kidnapper!
Kidnapper!
Help me!”

A couple dozen nannies turn in our direction—and a lot of them have cell phones pressed to their ears.

I have Mitch’s blood all over my uniform, since his nose gushed like a geyser when I head-butted him. The nannies can tell that I’m not crying wolf. In fact, one of them steps forward and yells, “I’m calling the cops!”

Mitch curses again—this time it’s long and colorful. But he has to let me go. He’s got no choice. He releases my arms and shoves me away from him.

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. I jerk my thumb at Charlie, and we both take off running for the west edge of the park. Trees and grass are a green blur; the wind tears at my hair; adrenaline still pounds through my veins.

When Charlie and I intersect, I reach for his hand and tow him out of the park, heading northwest. He is visibly upset. “Why did Mitch grab you? How come you’ve got blood on your shirt? Who is that other guy?”

Charlie’s not crying, but he is trembling and his lower lip quivers.

“Kiddo, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m fine. And this is not my blood—it’s Mitch’s. I think I broke his nose.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

Charlie thinks about that as we hustle along. “Cool.”

“Well, not so much . . . but he did try to grab me first. They both did. So what I did was self-defense.”

“When all else fails, resort to violence,” Charlie says solemnly. “Like Dad says.”

My dad is just being sarcastic, and the “violence” is usually done to an inanimate object that he’s trying to fix. “Yeah, but only when all else fails. Okay?”

He nods.

We emerge on Thirty-fourth Street and keep moving north, toward Q Street and the closest Metro station. Unfortunately, it’s over a mile away and we attract attention, because my shirt is bloody.

An old lady just stares at us. A businessman frowns but says nothing. A man in fatigues calls out, “Are you two all right? Do you need help?”

“Oh, no thanks,” I tell him. “It’s actually ketchup.” I laugh, convincingly, I hope. After all, he can’t know that my voice is an octave higher than it usually is. “My little brother was trying to open two packets at once for his French fries, and they squirted all over me.” I roll my eyes and throw up my hands. “What can you do?”

Charlie says nothing, which is probably good.

The guy in fatigues looks at me funny, and I’m pretty sure he knows it’s not ketchup that’s on my shirt. But then he just shrugs and goes on his way.