by Ally Carter
We’ve ditched the walkie-talkies and are on a three-way cell phone call. There’s a micro-receiver in my ear. I feel like James Bond. That is, if James Bond ever went into the field with twelve-year-old former gymnasts.
“Do you have eyes on him?” Rosie asks.
“Not yet,” I say as the street curves slightly. I ease silently around, waiting for a clean line of sight. “I” — I stagger to a stop and no longer try to muffle my voice — “lost him. I lost him.”
“What?” Noah snaps.
“It’s a dead end,” I say. “The road curves and then it just … stops. It stops right here.”
“He must have doubled back,” Rosie tells me. “You must have missed him.”
“Did you look away for a while?” Noah asks. “Were you distracted by something?”
For a second I can’t answer. I think about the memory.
“No … I mean, I didn’t miss him,” I say, looking around at the empty street that had been growing gradually more and more narrow. Where I stand it’s not much more than an alley, and I am alone. There is no way I missed a car or a pedestrian. It would have been obvious.
The Scarred Man didn’t double back. The Scarred Man disappeared.
I stand there for a long time, looking at the empty alley, and thinking about that little girl who was certain she had seen her mother come this way. Not for the first time I have to wonder where my mother went and why I couldn’t follow.
The Scarred Man is boring.
At least that’s what he pretends to be over the next three days. When he isn’t at the prime minister’s side, he sits at a sidewalk café drinking a single cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. He looks at books he doesn’t buy and shops for groceries that he leaves in the store to be delivered later. He certainly never has any clandestine meetings where he talks about killing my mother. At least not that I can detect.
Eventually, Rosie gets bored and Noah gets busy, and only my mother’s memory is with me, looking in shop windows and eating gelato on hot days.
I try following the Scarred Man again on my own, but I lose him in the market. It feels as if Dominic is not the only one who has disappeared down a dead end. There is absolutely nowhere else for my investigation to take me. So that’s why I’m standing on Embassy Row on an overcast day, looking down the street to where it curves out of sight. I am looking for another angle.
And then I spot Alexei.
He’s alone as he leaves the Russian embassy. He walks next door and talks to one of our marines, who shakes his head, then laughs. Alexei laughs, too. The whole thing feels surreal. I feel almost guilty — like I shouldn’t be spying on Alexei.
Alexei who disappeared inside the palace.
Alexei who was upstairs right before the Scarred Man met with some mysterious accomplice.
Alexei who saw me at my lowest and who I will never, ever forgive for witnessing my shame.
Maybe I think he’s involved somehow. Maybe I’m just here for practice. Or maybe I simply like the way Alexei looks from behind. I’m not thinking about why as I watch him walk away.
Alexei doesn’t see me. I watch him pass on the other side of the street, wait until he’s up ahead and then step out to follow him. I don’t know what I’m hoping to gain. I only hope that there’s nothing more that I can lose.
When Alexei turns and starts up one of the steep streets that leads to the palace and the city center, I don’t think twice. I turn the corner … and run right into Lila.
“What are you doing here?” she huffs.
Over her shoulder, I see Alexei’s father has joined him on the street. He’s yelling at his son. Alexei skulks forward, almost like he’s in trouble. But that can’t be possible. Alexei is the Russian Jamie. Alexei can do no wrong.
“Are you listening?” Lila snaps.
“No, actually, I’m not,” I tell her. Lila crosses her arms. She’s not trying to play nice, and neither am I.
“He’s not here,” Lila tells me before I’ve said another word. She jerks her head toward the gate that is slamming shut behind her. “Noah’s the reason you’re here, right?”
That’s when I realize that I’m actually on the corner in front of the Israeli embassy. It sits at the intersection of two of the busiest streets in Valancia but Lila doesn’t care about that.
“Our dad is playing in some charity football tournament and he’s making Noah play, too.”
“Noah plays soccer?” I ask, genuinely stunned.
Lila scoffs at my ignorance. “It’s football,” she tells me. “And everybody knows my brother plays. It’s the one thing he’s halfway decent at. So, like I said, my brother is busy.”
“Uh … okay.”
Megan is coming down the street, and when she sees me and Lila together, for a split second it looks like she wants to run. Save herself. And I can’t say I blame her.
“Hi, Megan,” I tell her. We haven’t spoken since the day she broke into Ms. Chancellor’s computer for me.
“Is everything okay?” Megan asks.
Lila laughs.
“I’m fine,” I say. Alexei and his father are already far up the hill, climbing toward the palace. “In fact, I was just going.”
“Not so fast,” Lila tells me. She steps onto the sidewalk, blocking my path. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Whoa. You have been meaning to talk to me. Oh my gosh!” I gush with mock enthusiasm. “I’ve been hoping this day would come. Are we going to be BFFs? Because I’d really love to be your BFF. That last F is for forever!” I add with a wink and a whisper.
“Does anyone think you’re as funny as you think you are?” Lila asks.
“That depends. Does anyone ever think you have as much power as you think you have?”
“Listen.” Lila draws a deep breath, as if calling a temporary truce. She steps slightly closer, lowering her voice and giving more power to her words. “You need to stay away from my brother.”
“The brother you hate?” I ask.
“The brother who had enough trouble before you showed up.”
“What kind of trouble did Noah have?” I ask. The thought is almost laughable.
“He’s better off without you,” Lila says, ignoring my question. “He doesn’t need you. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“I’m serious,” Lila says. “He doesn’t need you dragging him down with you when you fall.” Lila slowly looks me up and down. I can feel the weight of her stare, of the ultimate truth in her words as she says, “Because people like you always fall.”
It’s starting to rain, and Lila doesn’t want to get wet. “Come on, Megan,” she snaps, and starts away. But for a split second, Megan doesn’t move. For a split second it seems like Megan doesn’t want to.
I think about the little girl who used to come over with her Barbies, try to reconcile her against the computer genius who just did me maybe the biggest favor of my life. And, finally, I remember the look in Megan’s eyes when she told me to be careful. But whatever moments Megan and I might have shared, they are long over.
“Megan!” Lila shouts.
Megan follows.
I stand for a long time, listening to the clicking of their heels against the cobblestones. They sound like very tiny horses, disappearing into the distance.
Maybe Lila looks back. Maybe she thinks she’s really gotten me, burned me with her words, and that is why I am frozen where I stand.
But she can’t see what I see.
The cobblestones are ancient. Every tourist to ever visit Adria has heard about the Romans and the Mongols, the Crusaders and the Turks. They all came to Adria. They all came and saw and conquered. And fell.
Lila was right about that part. Eventually, everybody falls.
It’s starting to pour, and water gushes from the gutters, filling the edges of the street. I watch it roll down the hill, presumably out to sea.
I’m still standing there, staring at the ground. But the strangest thing
is happening. The water doesn’t run straight. In fact, there is a place where the water doesn’t run at all. It spirals. Like a tiny whirlpool in the center of the street. The stones there aren’t like the others. The pattern is different. In the center stone there is an emblem. I reach down through the cold water and trace it, knowing in my gut that I’ve seen something like it before.
Lila is right. We all fall down.
And down.
There’s laughter on the street behind me. A woman is holding an umbrella with one hand and a little girl’s arm with the other. Together, they are running through the rain. “Hurry, Gracie!” she says as the little girl jumps into a puddle.
My eyes fill with tears, and I blink once. Twice.
When I see the Scarred Man from the corner of my eye I’m not entirely sure that I’m not dreaming. But no, I decide, he is very, very real. And in that moment I forget all about Lila and Megan, Alexei and his father. There is only one thing on my mind as the Scarred Man walks without an umbrella, his collar turned up, practically racing up the hill. Wherever he’s going, he’s in a hurry. So I do what any self-respecting mentally unbalanced teenager would do.
I follow him.
I run as fast as I dare on the wet, uneven streets. Once I actually slip but catch myself before I land face-first on the sidewalk. Shopkeepers are pulling in their displays. People huddle under the awnings of the outdoor cafés. On the hop-on-hop-off buses, everyone is rushing to hop on and nobody sits on the upper deck.
Everyone is clinging to warmth and dryness. Everyone except the wild American teenager who is running as fast as she can down Embassy Row. My hair clings to my face. My T-shirt clings to me, cold and maybe in slightly scandalous ways. I don’t care. I don’t stop. I just keep running up the winding street.
The Scarred Man is moving quickly, even in the rain. I should stand out more than usual, but it’s like there is a curtain of fog and water between us. He isn’t worried about his tail.
He walks down a narrow alley I’ve never seen before, and I stay carefully back. I won’t be cornered. I won’t be seen. I won’t be defeated.
I wait, counting, patient.
After I’m pretty sure enough time has gone by, I turn the corner and find the Scarred Man is totally gone.
It shouldn’t make me happy, but it does. I laugh out loud and throw my head up to the heavens, feel the rain on my face. And then I look down at the cobblestones. Water flows out of gutters and off rooftops. There, on the hillside, it runs quickly in every place but one.
I hold my breath as I sneak toward the swirling, spinning water. A tiny tidal pool has formed in the center of the sloping street. My hand is cold but that’s not why it’s shaking as it sinks into the water and traces the emblem on the center stone.
My breath stops coming as I push and then watch as, slowly, the stones fall away, a narrow opening descending into darkness.
I know I’m supposed to be smart. Now is the time to be careful. For a moment, I do consider going to find a flashlight, but then he might slip away. Already, I can’t see the Scarred Man in the darkness that descends below me. I will not risk losing him again.
There’s a ladder on the side of the hole, and I start to climb down. I count thirty rungs before I’m standing on a floor that is hard and cold and solid. Rainwater drips from the opening overhead.
I look up in time to see the door above me closing. In the faint and disappearing light I see the system of pulleys that moves the stones. It’s old, I realize. Then I correct myself. It’s ancient.
I can’t help but recall what Rosie told me my very first night here: There are five hundred kilometers of tunnel beneath the city. Maybe more. Probably more. And I know that is where I am. The Scarred Man’s mysterious comings and goings start to make sense.
Finally, I feel like maybe the Scarred Man isn’t too many steps ahead of me.
For a moment, I stand still in the silence and let my eyes adjust to the dark. There are torches on the walls, lined up like bicycles waiting for their owners. In the extreme darkness of the tunnel I can make out a distant, flickering light. The Scarred Man has already chosen a torch to guide his way, but I don’t dare take one for myself. I can’t risk him knowing that he’s not alone. Besides, I don’t have a way to light it. I’ve spent three years avoiding things that burn. So I start off down the tunnel, trusting, feeling my way.
The walls are rough but smooth, like they were carved out by hand but worn over time. The floor slopes slightly, and I follow a trickle of water, knowing I’m going downhill. Like the streets that run above me, the tunnels are not straight. They curve and twist, backtrack. Sometimes the entire way has been caved in. Sometimes I take out my cell phone and use it to shed a little light, but mostly I’m trusting the echoing sound of the Scarred Man’s footsteps and the distant, flickering glow of his torch to guide my way … until that torch goes out.
I don’t dare risk using my phone, tipping my hand. In the blindness that follows, I creep along the tunnel until my foot kicks the torch that lies on the ground, still warm to the touch. He’s coming back for it, I just know, but I don’t let it scare me.
I feel the walls. The floor. And then I look up and see a small crack of faint light coming through something like a trapdoor overhead.
The rain must have stopped because there is no more water in the tunnel. I don’t know where I am. I have no idea what stands above me. But I also know that there is only one way to find out. I hold my breath.
And climb.
When I emerge into a dim space, my first thought is that I’m in a building, not on the street. There is carpet, but not the plush, soft stuff of the palace. The fabric beneath my palms is harsh, industrial. Something made to withstand a nuclear blast or a bunch of tourists with muddy feet. It’s so stark and modern that it’s almost like whiplash to me — like I’m literally crawling on my hands and knees from one century to the next.
The lights are off, but there is a narrow window high on the wall that probably looks out at ground level. A little ambient light filters through the glass and fills the space. I look up at the darkened fluorescent bulbs that hang overhead. The ceiling is low and there’s nothing on the walls — no sign whatsoever of where I might be. I might have followed the Scarred Man into his office or his home, the basement of any house or business in the country.
There’s absolutely no way of knowing where I am, so I stay perfectly still. Waiting. Listening. And then I hear the voices.
I don’t even stand. I’m too afraid the floor might creak, my knees might crack. I don’t dare do anything that might break the flow of that moment as I crawl on my hands and knees and peek around the corner.
At the end of the hall, there is a door that’s open just a crack. A soft light burns inside, and I can make out the shape of the shoulders I have been following for days.
I recognize the voice as soon as the Scarred Man says, “There will be plenty of opportunities. More than enough.”
On the other side of the door, there’s mumbling. Someone speaks to him, but I can’t make out the words. In the basement, water runs through pipes. Hot and cold air flows through vents. The voice on the other side of the door is lost to me. So I ease closer.
“It will be an easy job,” the Scarred Man says. I see him start to turn, so I scoot backward. Faster and faster. It’s like the hallway is on fire and I can’t stop moving long enough to stand.
But when I reach the trapdoor I freeze, the Scarred Man’s words echoing in my ear:
“There are many perfectly adequate ways to die. I just have to find one.”
I’m back inside the tunnel.
I’m running — falling down. The ground is damp and I lose my footing. I crash on my side. My head spins, but I force myself to my feet, no longer caring if he hears me. I no longer want to know where he goes. What he does.
I run faster and faster down tunnels that spiral and branch. Soon I have no idea which way I came from. Without the Scarred Man’s light
I am shrouded in darkness. Pushing. Clawing.
When my hands land upon another ladder I have no idea where it might lead, but my options are to either climb or die, so I reach for the ancient rungs as one thought fills my head; there is one fact I cannot make myself forget. But there is no time to think about that now, so I bang my fist against the trapdoor overhead, push it harder and harder, but it doesn’t want to move.
Down the tunnel, I can see a flickering light. The Scarred Man is coming closer. He’s going to find me. He’s going to kill me. So I throw my shoulder against the door. Over and over and —
I hear the crash as the door bursts open, but I don’t stop to think as I hurl myself up and onto another unfamiliar floor, slam the trapdoor down.
Instantly, lights flash on. My eyes, so used to the dark now, burn with the glare.
There is screaming and shouting in a language I don’t know. I curl instinctively into a ball, my breath coming harder as the screaming gets louder. But the words I don’t understand do not matter. There is already one thought pounding over and over in my head:
The Scarred Man killed my mother … and he is going to kill again.
Grandpa isn’t happy. To be fair, I don’t know that many men who would be pleased to have their granddaughter dragged home after dark, sopping wet and disheveled after turning up in the South Korean embassy totally uninvited and unannounced.
I mean, I know I’m no expert in diplomacy. But appearing on the basement floor, wet and terrified, probably isn’t the best way to make an entrance. Even I know that.
But that’s what I’ve done. And now it’s time to pay the price.
The man who walked me here keeps a death grip on my arm. We stand at attention side by side in front of my grandfather’s desk, as if we’re here for some kind of inspection. Grandpa stares at me like an executioner might. Ms. Chancellor stands over his shoulder, uncertain whether to laugh or to scream. She no longer looks at me like she wants us to be friends. I know without asking that she’ll probably never again try to give me candy.