Agents of the Glass (15 page)

“Here's what I
can
tell you. Your father is not a Syngian. The fact that Penny is able to sleep in the same apartment with him proves that. But he is involved, somehow, with the man with the ponytail, who is from NTRP. We're not entirely sure what it was about, but their meeting had something to do with his program. As for the ponytail guy, the short answer is, he's a mystery to us. One possibility is that he's NTRP's version of me. A messenger, a negotiator. We don't know his name.”

“So he was
recruiting
my dad? Like you did to me?”

“Something like that, yes. But don't worry about it. Not yet, at least.”

“This is getting really weird.”

“You ain't seen nothin' yet.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, it's supposed to make you stay on your toes. If you let down your guard, even for a moment, they will take advantage. Now, I understand that you have some good news for me.”

“I do?” Andy was genuinely puzzled.

“Next Wednesday? The NTRP tower? With Winter?”

“Oh, right. And Jensen. What am I going to have to do?”

“No one knows who you are, and we don't want to risk anything too soon. Think of it as a little information-gathering mission. Stay close to Winter—we'd like to see who she talks to, what they talk about. Since you're new to the club, I'm assuming that Jensen will run the video camera herself. That's fine, but they will be very strict about where that camera goes, so I'm going to set you up with a miniature camera and an earpiece so you'll be able to hear me.”

“Cool.”

“It's just like the movies. The camera will be in the cap of a pen, so make sure you wear a shirt with a pocket. A dark shirt is better—it won't be as obvious.”

“I'll have my school blazer on—is that okay?”

“Even better. On Wednesday morning, stop in here at seven-forty-five. The same woman, Nora, will be at the register. If anyone else is here, wait for them to leave. Any questions? Oh, one more thing. Sorry to do this to you, but I have to ask you to delete the journal you started. It's too dangerous to put anything in writing. Remember, if I can access your files, so can NTRP.”

“Mom?” said Andy. “It's me, Andy. I know that I'm not supposed—”

“What's wrong?” Abbey asked, feeling her face go pale with panic. “Where are you?”

“I'm home, and I'm fine. There's nothing…wrong. I'm sorry for calling….I just need…to talk…to somebody.”

“It's okay, you caught me at a good time. I'm in my room catching up on paperwork. Where's your dad?”

“At the station, I guess. He said he had a meeting or something—said it would only be an hour. That was about three hours ago.”

“Have you tried talking to him about…whatever it is that's bothering you?”

“No. I mean, I thought about it, but it's too…complicated.”

Abbey laughed. “Too complicated for your dad?”

“You know what I mean. He's not always the easiest person to…you know. And I get the feeling that he's kind of stressed out, too. I think something's going on at the station.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“He's just acting weird.” The photos of his dad and the man with the ponytail flashed before Andy's eyes. “He goes to these meetings, like today, and then he comes home and doesn't say anything about them.”

“Well, he's under a lot of pressure. The station is concerned about ratings. He might have some news very soon, but I don't want to spoil his surprise, so you're going to have to wait. Now tell me what's going on. You sound so serious. Is it school?”

“No, it's not that. It's…this is going to sound strange, but…how do you know if you can trust someone? Like,
really
trust them.”

Abbey was silent for a long moment, considering her answer. “Wow. That is a
really
difficult question. I think I wish your problem was school. At least I would know how to answer. Can you give me a little more to go on? Like, what are we talking about here? A friend? A girl?”

“All I can tell you is this: It's not about a girl. Not in that way, at least.”

“Okay, so it's not a girl. I should be grateful for that, I suppose. I have to ask one more question: Has this person done something in particular to make you
question
his trustworthiness?”

Andy twisted his lips, thinking. “I don't think so. It's more of a feeling. I'm not saying I
don't
trust him—er, them—it's more like I
do,
but I'm not sure if I
should.
Does that make sense?”

“Mm-hmm. Absolutely. When I'm in the field in these countries, I have to give people the benefit of the doubt, but that doesn't mean I don't have any. I keep my eyes and ears open, on the lookout for signs. I'm looking for good qualities, like integrity and loyalty and…compassion. There are exceptions, of course, but generally speaking, someone with at least a few of those positive qualities is probably someone you can trust.”

After Andy hung up, he pulled out the glass circle and stared at the letters carved into it—letters that stood for, among other things, integrity and loyalty and compassion.

The night before the NTRP event, Silas was on his way to meet Andy, whom he had asked to take Penny for a walk at precisely ten minutes to nine. Silas's normal procedure after he exited the subway was to double back, buy a pack of gum or some mints from a newsstand, and then stop in a dark spot on the street to make a call. That gave him a chance to make sure no one was following him. It was no secret that NTRP regularly followed Silas, but as far as he was able to tell, they knew nothing about Andy. He wanted to keep it that way as long as possible.

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was just his gut telling him to mix it up a little, but instead of stopping at the newsstand, he stepped inside Gracious Home on Third Avenue. Near the back was a display of bathroom medicine cabinets, and he opened a mirrored door, angling it so that he had a view of the front of the store.

His instincts were spot-on. Stopped on the sidewalk just outside the glass door was Fallon Mishra. The brim of a Mets cap was pulled down low over her face, and she was wearing a several-sizes-too-big jacket, but there was no mistaking her profile, thanks to a nose that had been broken multiple times. Next to her was another familiar NTRP operative, a bearded guy trying a little too hard to look like a hipster in a vintage varsity jacket, bow tie, and straw fedora. Silas's heart pounded as he realized how close he had come to leading one of the worst traitors in the eight-hundred-year history of the Agents of the Glass to Andy's front door. Young, beautiful, and brilliant, Fallon had been a Level 3 Agent, occupying the Discipline seat for more than six years. But somewhere along the line, she began to sell information to NTRP. When her loyalty was questioned by Martin Gardner, she vanished among the eight million souls who call New York City home.

Martin, whose job it was to question
everyone's
loyalty, believed that she had been an impostor all along, planted in the Agency by NTRP. Silas never believed that. To him, she was simply too good at her job to be faking it. He had liked and respected and, to some degree, feared her. The Fallon he'd known was a “true believer” in the cause, and he had a hard time understanding the reasons for her betrayal; it just didn't make sense to him. Yet here she was, she and her cohort, following him, undoubtedly hoping that he would lead her to something or someone of interest to NTRP.

Silas pushed the cabinet door shut, debating his options. If he sneaked out the back of the store, she would know that he had spotted her. It was better to let her think that he was unaware of her and was just making a quick stop to buy lightbulbs, so that's exactly what he did.

When he went back outside, she was standing at the corner, pretending to be waiting for the light to change. As he walked past her, he spoke into his phone: “Hi! Sorry, I'm going to be a few minutes late. Had to run an errand, and the store closes at nine. Okay, see you in five minutes.” What he knew, but Fallon did not, was that the words
five minutes
let Andy know that he wasn't coming at all—that there was a problem.

Silas picked up his pace, running to cross the street and catching a glimpse of his two shadows' reflections in a store window. They were still behind him, but at a safe tailing distance.

“Attagirl,” said Silas under his breath. He couldn't help admiring her skill; he had trained her, after all.

To complete the deception, Silas needed a little bit of luck. Turning on to Street,
^*
he went to the middle of the block, searching for number
, the building where Ricky O'Day, a computer programmer who did occasional work for the Agents, lived. He crossed his fingers, hoping that Ricky was home, and pressed the buzzer.

“What?” the voice on the intercom growled.

“Hey, Ricky. It's Silas. Let me in.”

“I'm busy.”

“Five minutes, Ricky. You owe me.”

He buzzed. Silas stepped into the foyer and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Ricky opened the door and let Silas in without ever taking his eyes off the TV, which was blaring
How Far Will You Go?
at maximum volume. “Hey, man. You ever see this? It's hilarious.”

Ignoring him, Silas went straight to the window overlooking the street and peeked around the curtain. It took him a minute, but he spotted Fallon standing between two cars and looking up at Ricky's building. Now the only questions that remained were: Did she
know
that Silas was on his way to see an agent? Did she already know about Andy? And if the answer to the second question was yes,
how
did she know? Was there another traitor in the Agency? It was unthinkable.

Ricky's sofa sagged beneath the weight of his shapeless, bloated body, which stretched from end to end. The coffee table between him and his massive TV was covered in potato chip crumbs, empty soda cans, and a half-eaten sausage and pepper pizza—the way it always was.

“What are you looking at?” he asked when a commercial interrupted the action on
How Far Will You Go?
“What's the big emergency?”

“What, can't I just stop by for a visit with my favorite geek? Love what you've done with the place, by the way.” Silas pointed at the stacks of newspapers—several years' worth—piled from floor to ceiling.

“Thanks. I can get you the number of my decorator if you want. I have to warn you, though—she's expensive.”

“I'll get back to you.” He checked his watch and took another peek out the window; Fallon and the faux hipster had moved across the street, but the glow of a cell phone gave away her position.
If she still worked for the Agency,
Silas thought
, I'd be disappointed at such an amateur mistake.
“Well, it's been great seeing you, Ricky. Don't get up. I'll let myself out. And—”

“And if anybody asks, you were never here. I get it.”

“Good-bye, Ricky.” Silas took the stairs down, stopping between the first and second floors to make a call.

Mrs. Cardigan answered on the first ring. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. Just wanted to report that I unexpectedly ran into an old friend. She and her sidekick in the silly hat followed me.”

“I see. You tell me all about it tomorrow at the Loom. How is
our
young man, by the way? Anything I need to know?”

“I was on my way to see him,” Silas said, “but I think now I'll wait. He's ready for tomorrow. All the usual doubts and confusion, maybe even a little paranoia, but nothing I can't handle.”

“Any problem about the photographs?”

“No—the kid's already a pro. He got rid of the journal he was keeping on his computer as I asked, but he already started a hard copy. I think I'll let it go for a while. He has a great hiding place for it. He did ask his mother an interesting question. He didn't mention any names or any specifics, thankfully. Just wanted to know how he could tell if he could trust somebody.”

“And you think he was talking about you.”

“Well, it makes perfect sense. He's a smart kid. It's only natural for him to be a little suspicious. If I were in his shoes, I don't know if I would trust me.”