Two Lies and a Spy (5 page)

Need a Chemistry Tutor?

Union grad

Rate: $10–12.00/hour

Call 215-Chem, ext. 50

Rita will understand exactly what I mean: to meet tomorrow, October 10, at twelve noon, at the Starbucks (shop 215) at Union Station, which is at 50 Massachusetts Avenue.

Rita desperately wants to be a spy—like my parents. A long time ago—eight years, to be exact—Rita, who’s the daughter of Senator Jordan, was kidnapped in a scheme to extort money from her dad. To make a long story short, my parents were the ones who rescued her from the creeps who took her, and they brought her to our house while they helped to round up the rest of the kidnapping ring.

Poor Rita was traumatized and couldn’t sleep alone, so she shared my room while she stayed with us—and we’ve been best friends ever since. When I tell you that she
worships
my parents, I am not kidding . . . and the bottom line is that hers kind of ignore her. I mean, they love their daughter, but they’re always at some charity event or on the campaign trail, or her mom is having “work” done
again—not that she needs it. She’s this gorgeous Indian woman, and she sort of floats everywhere she goes.

Rita doesn’t get her fashion sense from her mom, though—it’s very edgy and all her own. It’s a little funky, a little neon, a lot of black, and hard to describe. She’ll pair a really high-end item—jewelry or a hat or a couture bustier—with trashy, holey jeans. Or a ripped T-shirt over a purple bra with six-hundred-dollar Donna Karan black pants that her mom didn’t want anymore. I can’t tell you how she does it or why it works, but she always looks like she stepped off a runway.

Rita has about ten pairs of prescription, designer glasses that are the signature, pièce de résistance of her look. The black-and-white Diors, for example. Or the pink Chanels. The deep ruby-red Marc Jacobs pair . . . they all make her look really smart—which she is—but also sophisticated, like a buyer for a hip, Chelsea boutique. If you met Rita, you’d never guess that she’s one of the best computer hackers out there, because she doesn’t fit the nerd profile.

I drive back to the Laundromat and put up my flier. Then I return my borrowed car after picking up sandwiches, and head back to the hotel, praying that nobody has tracked us down and that Charlie is still where I left him.

To my relief, he is.

At noon I stride into the Starbucks like I own it, and my attitude says: What are the rest of these losers doing here? I pay cash for a latte and slouch toward Rita, into the darkest corner of the place. I’m in my Goth getup, and I’m starting to feel at home in it, sneering at everyone. It’s a good way to relieve my anxiety.

Rita is wearing the pink Chanel glasses, which set off her dark skin to perfection, with a motorcycle jacket and skinny jeans. In her ears she’s put a diamond stud (left lobe) and a pair of dangly silver handcuffs (right lobe). She’s got on killer black stiletto boots that make my feet hurt just looking at them, and I think they’re Jimmy Choo, meaning that it would take me two years to save up for them. Rita and her mom have a totally different idea of what’s normal to spend on clothes than I do.

I’m pleased that Rita doesn’t recognize me until I sit
down opposite her and smirk. She does a double take, a slow rescan of my appearance, and then nods with approval.

“Girl,” she says in low tones, “
everyone
is looking for you and Charlie. You’ve been declared missing children.”

I’m glad we dressed Charlie as a girl. “Have you heard anything about my parents?”

Rita stares at me blankly, and I realize that she doesn’t know they’re MIA—or what started all this. “Rita, they got in touch with us yesterday, a Code Black message. That’s why I left art class and disappeared. We’ve tried to meet them in three different places, but they haven’t shown up. I don’t know where they are or what’s going on.”

She scans the tables around us before answering. “Look, all I know is that Senator Dad got a phone call last night. I don’t know who it was, but I heard him repeat the words ‘suspicious activity?’ and then ‘the Andrewses’?’ I couldn’t hear much, but he said, ‘No, certainly not. Why do you ask?’ Then he stayed on the phone for a few minutes, just saying ‘Uh-huh. Okay . . . I see’ and stuff like that. When he got off the phone, he seemed very weirded out. Distracted.”

“Did you ask him who called?”

Rita nods. “I tried. He said, ‘Nobody.’ Then he asked me if I’d seen you or Charlie. I hadn’t, and that’s what I told him. When I asked if something was going on with your family, he told me no, no and not to worry about it. But he looked stressed, and I think he was lying to me.”

I take a sip of the latte, even though I don’t want it. It’s
more a prop than anything else. “Do you think he knows where my parents are? Or if something has happened to them?”

She shakes her head. Her high, spiky ponytail waves back and forth. “He seemed shocked at the call. Clueless. Then stressed, like I said.”

I think for a moment. “Rita, does your dad tape his calls?”

She shrugs. “At the office, probably. At home, no.”

“I
have
to find out what’s going on.”

Rita raises her right eyebrow. “So, what, you’re going to waterboard my dad?”

I give a weak chuckle.

“Bug my house?”

I purse my lips.

“Don’t even think about it,” Rita says, shaking her finger at me.

“But—”

“No. I’m not saying I couldn’t figure out how to do it, but I am not bugging my own parents’ phones or house. Sorry.”

I’m not sure I mentioned that she’s scary-good when it comes to most technology—and in her zeal to become a spy, like my parents, she’s . . . explored . . . a lot of it. That’s probably a polite verb to use.

“Rita, somehow I need access to Agency data.” I toss this at her like a liver snap to a starving Pomeranian.

“You’re asking me to hack into the Pentagon?” There’s a sparkle in her eyes, despite her dubious tone.

“Well . . . not exactly. I’m not sure it’s possible.”

“Is there a Pentagon or Agency mainframe? One that holds every single piece of important U.S. data? It’s highly unlikely. And even if something like that existed, we wouldn’t have a clue where to look once we’re on it. But if we had access to an individual who was highly placed and had top secret clearance . . . and let’s say that individual had a laptop . . . and I got to have a hot date with that laptop, well, then possibilities arise.”

“Possibilities, huh.” The only one I can think of who has a truly primo position? Well, it’s Luke and Lacey Carson’s dad, the director of the Agency.

“Are you thinking of the same person I’m thinking of?” Rita asks.

I nod. “We have to talk to Luke.”

“Do you think he’ll help us?”

“I sure hope so,” I say grimly. “Because I don’t know where else to turn.” Aunt Sophie maybe? She could at least give us a clue and a place to stay. I’m afraid to go home in case Mitch is waiting there.

Rita’s talking, but I don’t take in the words, because out of the corner of my eye, I see Evan sitting at a table on the opposite wall of Starbucks. And he’s staring at us. I turn and narrow my eyes at him . . . and the smart-ass
winks
at me.

Panic rises in my throat, and I have to force it back down. There is absolutely no way that Evan has recognized me in this Goth persona. From my combat boots to my black chin-length hair, from my torn fishnets to
my bite-your-head-off dark lipstick, I am nothing like the conservative, uniformed Kari Andrews he knows on a day-to-day basis.

I sneer at Evan, looking him up and down as if to say,
I eat prep-school wankers like you for breakfast. With Tabasco.

He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, and grins. His expression says clearly,
You know you want me.
Arrogant jerk. My only comfort is that if he does by some crazy coincidence recognize me, he is so self-absorbed that he probably watches his own biceps in the mirror instead of the news. And he cuts class so much that he won’t have heard any gossip about Charlie and me missing.

And honestly? The guy would wink at anything in a skirt. Anything with two legs and any sort of bumps in the torso area. Let’s face it: Evan Kincaid would wink at a rubber blow-up doll. He’d take one on a date and never realize that his companion didn’t say a word, because he’d be talking about him
self
too much.

“You haven’t listened to a single word out of my mouth,” Rita says, clearly offended.

“Sorry. Do not look right now, but Evan Narcissus Kincaid is right across the room. I don’t think he recognizes me, but I’m sure he does you. We need to get out of here.”

Rita nods, the picture of cool. “Kari, he’s not that bad.”

I slug down some more of my now-cold latte. “Yes, he is.”

She shrugs. “But he’s nice to look at.”

“Whatever.”

Rita digs into her Prada handbag for a box of mints and offers me one. “Okay, when do you want to meet next?”

“Today, at Kennedy,” I say, taking a mint. “Around four p.m. by the back parking lot. Luke should be finishing up track practice then.”

“Okay.” She peers around furtively. “You leave first. I’ll say hello to Evan and then wait five minutes.”

“Rita, I doubt that’s necessary.”

“We have to follow good tradecraft,” she insists.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah . . . you’re right. So I left a coded message in Evan’s silk Skivvies. You should go feel around for it.”

Rita balls up a napkin and throws it at me.

I smirk at her and leave Starbucks for Subway, where I get Charlie a six-inch meatball sandwich on wheat with extra provolone, just the way he likes it.

•  •  •

On the way back to the hotel I stop at a miraculously working pay phone and use it gingerly after scrubbing the receiver with a wet wipe. I’m not obsessive-compulsive about germs or anything, but pay phones are disgusting.

I dial Aunt Sophie’s number. Sophie’s not really our aunt, but she’s a close family friend, and my mom’s like her older sister. They met when Soph started college at Georgetown—Mom was her alumna mentor.

Sophie is awesome. She’s an international freelance photographer, and she’s beautiful. She reminds me of a
Bond girl. She looks like a sexpot, even in cargo pants and an old T-shirt. It’s her long, silver-blond hair, her curves, and the way she moves. Sometimes I think Sophie could kill a man between her thighs, like Sergeant Onnatop in
GoldenEye
.

Sophie doesn’t pick up. She’s probably out of town on assignment. I leave her a message. “Soph, it’s Kari. Call me when you get this. I need your help.” I give her the number of my prepaid phone and pray that she’s heading back soon from wherever she is. Sophie is the only adult we can trust, at this point. And she’s got all kinds of contacts.

When I arrive back at the Comfort Inn, Charlie is still absorbed in odd subjects on the laptop. He is showered and dressed once again as Charlotte, but he’s ditched the wig, which is hot and scratchy. I can’t say I blame him. I whip off my own once the door is closed behind me, and I make sure the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign is up.

I can’t believe Charlie isn’t going stir-crazy or nuts with anxiety, but he’s such a well-adjusted kid. He’s happy to have his meatball sub and devours it in between asking me obscure questions.

“Do you know what a joule is?”

“Like an emerald or a sapphire or a diamond?”

“No, silly. J-o-u-l-e. It’s a unit of energy.”

“Oh. I think I like the other kind better.” I smile at him.

“It’s very cool,” he says seriously.

I nod. “Cool joules.”

He explains to me the scientific concepts he’s taken in
today, and I try to listen, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

What did the unknown caller say to Senator Jordan regarding my parents and “suspicious activities”? Are they being accused or framed for something? Where are they?

When will Sophie get back and call me?

How will Luke take it when Rita and I pop out of nowhere and ask him for help? Will he report me to the police, or will he be cool about things? He is kind of a Boy Scout—which I love about him—but that means I’m taking a big risk.

“Can we go get some ice cream?” Charlie asks.

“Sure. But let’s wait for a little while. I don’t want you to eat too much and get sick, kiddo.”

“You sound just like Mom,” he says.

I probably do.

The clock clearly hates me, because it is taking forever for the hands to turn around and around and tell me that it’s time to leave, to borrow another car. By the time the stupid thing says it’s three fifteen, I’m ready to jump out of my skin.

I leave Charlie reading about alchemy and tell him I’ll be back soon. I head a couple of blocks away and circle around to find an appropriate car to take. I’ve decided on a gray Ford Escort that’s neatly tucked between two large SUVs when I spot a harried-looking woman waiting at a bus stop on the opposite corner. She doesn’t stand out in any way, except that the wind blows her hair back from her face, revealing an earpiece and a small cord that
travels from it down the inside of her collar.

Still, I’m not convinced that she’s surveilling me in particular until I “accidentally” drop my backpack and curse loudly. Though I know she’s heard me, she doesn’t look in my direction.

All the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand up, and I know I’ve been made. I know it even before I turn sixty degrees and spot Mitch, wearing a dark baseball cap and aviator sunglasses. He starts to run toward me.

I whirl in the opposite direction, only to find Gary Gray Suit headed my way as well. All three of them are closing in on me in a triangle.

In a split-second decision, I sprint right at the woman. She’s not much bigger than I am, and I gamble that she’s the weak spot here, since she’s not familiar with my skill set.

Her eyes widen slightly and her hand slips inside her jacket. I can’t let her get to a gun, if that’s what it is. I launch my body into the air, right foot forward. I slam my clunky combat boot into her wrist. She cries out, spins sideways, loses her balance.