by Sonja Stone
“Indeed,” Libby said.
“This will certainly affect your standing as a recruit.” Alan said. “How can the first daughter serve in the Black-Ops Division?”
“Alan.” Nadia shook her head.
Libby flashed another big smile and shrugged. “Wouldn’t I rather live in the White House anyway? I have my whole life ahead of me. My daddy’s been working toward this his entire career. I’m so proud of him!” Tears stung her eyes. Her voice sounded erratic, desperate. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
“Seriously, though, what about the CIA?” Alan asked.
“I’m gonna go to the dorm and call home. Say congratulations.” Libby lowered her voice but maintained her smile as she turned to Nadia. “Gimme half an hour?”
Her roommate nodded. “Of course.”
“Why must she wait? The phone is in the lobby,” Alan said.
“Oi, mate,” Simon said quietly. “Not now.”
Alan shook his head, confused. “What? I do not—”
“Wait a second,” Jack said, nodding toward the television. “I don’t think he’s finished.”
Someone in the audience shouted out a question. “Senator Bishop, who committed this latest act of terror?”
A hush fell over the crowd and her daddy looked right at the cameras. “I have reason to believe that this heinous crime was executed by an alliance of former CIA and ex-military special forces known as the Nighthawks.” Libby’s heart skipped a beat. “An anonymous source at the CIA has confirmed that certain branches of our intelligence services have been compromised by these traitors at the foundational level—as recruits at the beginning of training. That infiltration ends now.”
The crowd cheered as the camera swung to the correspondent on site. The newswoman, bundled in a winter coat and scarf, tucked her blowing hair behind her ear. “Thanks to the tireless investigative work spearheaded by Senator Bishop, the American people might finally learn the truth. Live from the Capitol, this is channel ten news.”
Libby’s breath caught in her throat. Four pairs of eyes burned her face as everyone turned from the television. She could’ve heard a pin drop.
Jack took a long breath. “What exactly did you tell your dad about DMA?”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Libby said, looking from Jack to Nadia and back again. “It wasn’t me.”
“What about your laptop?” Jack asked. “Did he maybe see something he shouldn’t have?”
“Of course not,” Libby answered. “Security scrubbed my laptop before break, just like everyone else’s. I swear on my life, I’m not his source.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Then who is?”
“I have no idea.” Libby wanted to say more, to defend herself against his unjust accusations, but what more could she say? She didn’t know anything.
Nadia touched Jack’s arm. “If she says it’s not her, then it’s not her.”
“He’s bound to have connections at his level of government, right, mate?” Simon asked. “He said, ‘an anonymous source inside the CIA.’ ”
“Yeah,” Libby agreed. “He knows everybody. He sits on the Intelligence Committee, he golfs with the Secretary of State, he could’ve heard about this anywhere.” She gestured to the television. “The reporter said he spearheaded the whole investigation—that had nothing to do with me.”
Jack shook his head. “This school is completely off-books. Only the highest ranking CIA black-ops officers have clearance to know about the Academy, and none of them would leak intel to a politician. Your father specifically mentioned a traitor—a double agent—at the training level. He’s obviously referring to Damon.” He locked onto her eyes. “Did you say anything about Damon when you were home? Anything at all?”
“No, nothing.” Libby felt the heat rise to her face. “I didn’t even mention his name.”
“Then how does he know about the Nighthawks? How does he know one of our recruits was a double agent?”
“I—I don’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t say anything. I would never say anything.”
Jack turned away, like he couldn’t even look at her. “Well, he obviously found out from someone.”
Libby’s eyes stung. What did that mean? Was he accusing her of lying?
She felt a hollowness inside as she realized that Jack’s opinion didn’t really matter.
After tonight, the administration would never let her stay.
At 5:55 on Monday morning, Nadia’s alarm blasted to life. She groaned and pulled her covers over her head. “Turn it off.”
“Rise and shine,” Libby said cheerfully.
Nadia emerged from the blankets and sat up. “How are you feeling?”
Libby switched on her bedside light. “Much better, thank you. Thanks for talking me off the ledge.”
Nadia smiled. “It wasn’t that bad.” Last night when Nadia returned from the lounge, Libby had pretended to be okay, but Nadia could tell she’d been crying. After a little coaxing, they’d ended up talking for a few hours. Libby was terrified she’d be forced to leave the Academy. At least Nadia had convinced her that Jack didn’t think she was a traitor.
Libby got up and immediately made her bed. “Lemme just brush my teeth,” she said, closing the bathroom door behind her.
Nadia forced herself out of her warm bed and into her gi, the martial arts uniform required at the dojo. In a few days, her body would sync back into the rhythm of predawn workouts, but this morning, not so much.
After securing her hair into a messy bun, she and Libby rushed next door to the dojo. A faint, white sheen of frost covered the lawn. Before they entered, they slipped off their shoes and lined them up with all the others along the wall, then slid open the shoji, the bamboo-and-rice-paper doors.
Her mentor, Hashimoto Sensei, waited in the lobby. He was compact and powerful, with a neatly trimmed goatee that matched the salt-and-pepper of his cropped hair.
Nadia grinned and bowed. “Good morning, Hashimoto Sensei.”
“Good morning, Sensei,” Libby said, bowing.
“Libby-san, Nadia-san, welcome back. Find your place on the mat so that lessons may begin.”
To their right, the polished bamboo floors of the long hallway led them to the main room of the dojo, a large, open space lined with blue mats. Much of the junior class had already arrived, but Nadia and Libby found spaces together toward the front. Simon moved up to join them, dragging Alan along.
A few minutes later, Sensei entered the room. The students drew to attention as he strode to the front. As Nadia waited for his instruction, she realized this was the first time in weeks she hadn’t felt the need to look over her shoulder. Whether it was Sensei’s presence or the familiar safety of the dojo, she couldn’t say.
His dark eyes studied the class for a moment. “One hundred snap kicks. Hajime! Begin!”
The students counted off in Japanese as Sensei circled the room, assessing their form. After snap kicks came jumping jacks, then sit-ups, push-ups, and blocking drills. Twenty minutes in, Nadia realized that her stamina was still on winter break. A brutal hour later, he ordered the students to sit seiza on the mat. The juniors moved as one body, kneeling together, then resting back onto their heels.
Sensei resumed his place at the front. “Dean Shepard has implemented several new programs in the curriculum. This semester you begin specializations. These lessons will be provided in addition to basic coursework. Specializations include, but are not limited to, the study of forensics, field medicine, cryptography, communications, cybersecurity, analysis, and so on. In order to keep field teams small, you will each be assigned multiple specializations. Your specializations have been selected based on previous testing—your standardized scores, personal aptitude tests, and Dr. Cameron’s assessments. Before you leave, pick up your individualized assignment card with me.”
Simon called out, “Can I train as an assassin?”
The few laughs he received were quickly silenced by Sensei’s posture. �
�The CIA does not engage in wetworks, or assassinations, so I am afraid you will be forced to develop skills of the intellectual variety.”
“But what if I’m attacked?” Simon asked.
Sensei circled the room. “Simon-san, you are new to our program. Please be advised I do not encourage questions; I will tell you what you need to know. Furthermore, do not disrupt my lessons by shouting out comments.” Hands clasped behind him, he strolled back to the front of the room. “Having said that, it is quite likely that at some point in your life, you will be attacked. If your life is ever in danger, you must use necessary force. To succeed, you must first know how to administer necessary force. Your fellow students spent last semester learning self-defense, weaponry, and survival skills. We continue that training this semester. But we do not employ a ‘kill-squad.’ No one is tasked as an assassin.”
“What a shame,” Simon muttered. Nadia shot him a look. Sensei really didn’t care for interruptions.
“Additionally, the new administration has created a Senior Project for each of your team leaders. These projects require your participation. Be advised, your leader’s graduation rests on successful completion of these missions. Treat these assignments with the respect and diligence you would any instructor-assigned project. Do you understand?”
Simon’s arm lifted toward the air and Nadia elbowed him. “It’s rhetorical,” she whispered. He dropped his hand.
“Lastly,” Sensei said. “Dean Shepard will begin issuing survival course orders in the next few days, so be alert for your notice. That is all. See me in the lobby for your cards before your morning run.”
As they joined the long line of students waiting to see Sensei, Simon asked, “What’s this about a run? Isn’t it nap time yet?”
“How did you train for MI-6?” Alan asked. “Video games?”
“Like you’re such an athlete,” he answered.
“You boys be nice,” Libby said. She turned to Simon. “We have to run a few miles as part of our morning drill. The trails are cut through the desert on the far side of the wall surrounding campus. The scenery’s gorgeous.”
“Brilliant. I’ll try to have a look as I’m puking up this morning’s latte,” Simon answered.
Nadia laughed. “Right? I’m so out of shape.” Though she’d resumed her exercises as soon as possible, she obviously hadn’t pushed herself hard enough. Her arms still felt shaky from the push-ups.
“Are we required to endure this torture every day?” Simon asked.
“No, of course not. Only Monday through Friday,” Libby answered. “These exercises are considered our warm-ups. We have physical education on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That’s when we’ll do archery, ground fighting, target practice, things of that nature.”
The team moved farther down the hall.
“And the survival course?” Simon asked.
Alan said, “It is the Academy’s way of weeding out the weak. They send us into the desert to die.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Libby chided.
“It’s not that bad,” Nadia said. “It’s like camping. With lots of hiking. And the constant threat of death.”
Simon nodded. “Sounds like a weekend back home with my mates.”
They reached the front of the line.
“Alan-san,” Sensei said, handing Alan a three-by-five index card.
Alan glanced at his assignment. “Comms specialist? Is this a joke?”
“This does not mean mastering the art of interpersonal communication,” Sensei said. “You will be trained in communications technology.” He pointed to his ear. “Comms between agents in the field and those at headquarters.”
Alan nodded. “I see. I also received language and translation. That seems a more prudent match.”
“Please move along,” Sensei answered. He handed Simon and Libby their cards, but paused before releasing Nadia’s. “Nadia-san, you performed well this morning.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you.”
“I am pleased with your progress. Perhaps we will wait to resume our private lessons, and then, only if necessary. Your specialized training will keep you busy.” He released her card.
Sensei had been generous with his time last semester, meeting her before sunrise to provide individual instruction. She was grateful, but it had been a lot of extra work. Though she cherished their relationship, part of her was relieved. Nadia bowed at the waist. “Arigato.” She straightened.
He returned her bow. “Move along.”
Nadia caught up with her team outside the dojo. They walked together toward the back gate leading off campus.
“What did you get?” Nadia asked Libby.
“Forensics and advanced diplomacy. How about you?”
Nadia read her card. “Field medicine and cryptography. Simon?”
Simon glanced at his card. “Site-specific entry, which I believe is breaking and entering, and document specialist. I think that’s a nice way of saying forgery.” He chuckled.
“What is funny about that?” Alan asked.
Nadia said, “I’m guessing Simon’s criminal reputation precedes him. Am I right?”
Simon grinned. “On the nose, love. On the nose.”
* * *
—
After the two-mile run, quick showers, and breakfast, the girls swung by the dorm to pick up their backpacks. As Nadia closed their bedroom door, Libby turned to her and winced. “I have to tell you something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This morning while you were in the shower I went to the lobby for a cup of tea. It was really full, and when I got back to the room it sloshed onto my hand. Obviously, it burned, so I had to set the mug down, but I didn’t want to put it directly on the furniture, because you know how hard those white rings are to get out, right? I mean, they say mayonnaise does the trick, but it’s simply not true.” Libby handed Nadia the postcard from Hawaii. “Anyway, I’m so sorry, but I used this as a coaster and I’m afraid I spilled.”
Nadia took the card. “That’s it?” Leave it to Libby to feel bad about damaging a piece of paper. “It’s no big deal. I don’t even know who sent it—I’d forgotten all about it. I meant to ask Jack and Alan.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Seriously, it’s totally fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll just freshen up and we can go.” Libby went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Nadia sat at her desk and studied the illustrated islands, then flipped the card over. Libby’s tea had blurred the word Aloha. The circumference of the mug remained imprinted on the card in a brownish ring. Perfect half circles over the address, over the hand-written message, but at the center, the circle came together oddly, like two half-moons smushed together. The tea had pooled in the middle of the card, gathering along the blue line separating the address box from the message box.
Why is there a seam in the center of a postcard?
Nadia held the card at eye level and examined the horizontal profile. The card stock felt thicker than it should. She bent it into an arch, first folding the written portion together, then the other way, so that the picture sandwiched itself. The pressure forced the card to reveal its secret: it was comprised of two layers. The top layer gave gently at the upper edge of the center seam.
She pulled a letter opener from the pencil holder on her desk, laid the postcard flat, and sliced down the center. She bent the card again and used her thumb to peel off the top layer. Written underneath she discovered a code. A series of numbers: 125.793.4, 51.805.1, 51.792.7, 360.591.5 // 46.599.4, 95.475.7, 112.329.9 // 138.106.3, 104.16.6, 95.475.7, 183.265.7, 116.446.4, 357.493.9; and so on.
Immediately, Nadia recognized the pattern as that of a book cipher: page number, followed by the line, and then word number. The first set indicated this page, line 793, word number 4. But that couldn’t be right; none of her books had eight hundred lines on a page. She glanced at the bookshelf mounted above her desk. Even her largest textbook didn’t have more tha
n seventy lines per page.
She tried subtracting every other set from the previous one; that didn’t work. She substituted letters for the numbers and got nothing. She reversed the sets, combined them, added, multiplied, divided….It made no sense.
The bathroom door opened, and Nadia flipped the postcard picture-side up.
“What’s the matter?” Libby asked.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re scowling. You’ll get wrinkles if you’re not careful.” Libby gestured to her forehead.
Nadia smiled. “Perish the thought.” She slid the postcard into the top drawer of her desk. As much as she loved ciphers, wasting time on a mysterious code probably wasn’t the smartest way to start the semester.
“You ready?” Libby asked, opening the door.
“I’m right behind you.” Nadia followed her roommate into the hall. On the other hand, maybe it was an assignment? “Hang on a sec.” She dashed back inside, grabbed the postcard from the drawer, and stuck it into her bag.
Either way—assignment or mysterious message—she had yet to meet a code she couldn’t crack.
Alan Cohen sat on the edge of his hastily made bed and glared across the room. Once again, fate had spent her free time mocking him. This time, in the shape of an Englishman. A noisy, handsome, charming competitor; as though Alan needed another challenge.
He rolled his eyes. And who had ever heard of an exchange program for spies? This especially bothered him about his new roommate, because if anyone found out the truth about Alan’s family, he would be arrested. It was unfair that Simon was allowed ties to another country’s intelligence program but Alan was not. It was not Alan’s fault that his grandfather, his saba, worked for Mossad. He should not be discriminated against because of his ancestors’ lineage, while a non-American was freely allowed to attend Desert Mountain Academy. Were the English more trustworthy than the Israelis?
But his objections to Simon did not end with his country of origin.
Alan had left for holiday break with the distinct impression that he and Libby had shared a spark. She practically carried him to the hospital after he had been shot. However, over break, she behaved as though nothing had transpired between them, barely even returning his infrequent (but carefully constructed) text messages. But then last night she had given him a present, and it was not difficult to decipher the hidden meaning behind the gift, even for Alan, who tended to be rather oblivious to such things, so he had assumed she felt the same way he did. Until she began flirting with Simon during morning exercises.