by Sonja Stone
“That seems a very gray line.” Nadia sighed heavily. “Any word on Senator Bishop? Or Libby? Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Shepard shook her head. “I don’t know about Libby. Senator Bishop is in critical condition. He was immediately taken in for surgery after the shooting, but his doctors are tight-lipped. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nadia dropped her gaze, studied her clasped hands resting in her lap. “If I’d come to you sooner, this might not have happened.”
Dean Shepard offered no reassuring words. “I’ve shared this information with you in the strictest confidence. You are not to discuss any of this once you leave my office. Are we clear?”
“Yes ma’am,” Jack said.
“Yes ma’am,” Nadia echoed.
“You are dismissed.”
She walked quickly through the sitting room to avoid a conversation with Jack. She felt awful about screwing up and didn’t want to face him.
“Hey,” he called after her. “Wait up.”
Why had Damon warned her in advance? Why had he given her a heads-up? If she’d reported the call like she should’ve, additional security would’ve been dispatched to the senator’s venue.
Jack jogged to catch up. “This isn’t your fault. You aren’t responsible because Secret Service dropped the ball. Seriously. They should always assume a clear and present danger—that’s their job.”
Nadia frowned as they crossed through the foyer. “I don’t need you to coddle me. I know I screwed up.”
“Should you have reported the call? Absolutely. Is it your fault the senator was shot? Of course not. He declared war on the Nighthawks on national television.”
She sighed. “Listen, I appreciate the gesture, but we both know I messed up.” As she stepped outside, the brilliant sunlight pierced her eyes.
* * *
—
That evening, Nadia remained in the library long after her brain stopped working. The thought of her empty room depressed her. Finally, when she could no longer stay awake, she headed across the dark lawn.
Outside Nadia’s dorm, Simon accosted her. “You scared me,” she said, pressing a hand against her chest. “That’s a good way to get stabbed.”
“Steady on,” he said. “I know perfectly well you haven’t got a knife.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to know what the dean told you.”
“Why do you care?” she asked.
“I’m interested in what happens to Libby.”
Nadia narrowed her eyes. “Why? What’s with your sudden interest in my roommate?”
“Of course I’m interested. I’m not heartless, and I resent the implication. Now tell me what Shepard said.”
“I can’t. She swore me to secrecy.”
“I’ll tell you what: if you tell me her secret, I will keep yours.”
“If you’re referring to the phone call, I already reported it,” Nadia said. “Beyond that, I have no secrets.”
“Really? No secrets at all? You weren’t in your room last night during the debate.” Simon spun her around so she faced the library. “Shall I ask Dean Shepard about the after-hours policy?”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can have an open, honest exchange of information.”
“I’m not allowed to tell you.”
Simon rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “Then yes, I’m blackmailing you.” After a moment, he shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself, love.”
“Wait.” She couldn’t possibly explain her trip to the library to Dean Shepard. Not yet, anyway. Nadia looked across the lawn, then back into Simon’s brilliant blue eyes. “She said it was Damon. Who shot Libby’s father.”
Simon squinted at her. “But you’re skeptical.”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, I understand his motive. It’s just—I’m surprised, I guess. He’s not usually so careless. He was caught on tape a few blocks from the shooting.”
“It so happens I’m privy to a bit of information myself. Would you like to trade?”
“What do you want, and what do you know?”
“I know Damon’s been framed.”
She studied his face intently but saw no signs of deceit. “What makes you say that?”
“Not so fast. I need to know where the student DNA files are kept and how to access them.”
Nadia’s heart raced. Why did Simon care about the database? He believed his father was dead. Fear gripped her as she wondered whether he had learned the truth. Did he know they might be siblings? Maybe he’d decided that Jericho was his father, and that he’d attended Desert Mountain. Maybe Simon wanted to compare their DNA.
Simon moved closer and whispered, “In exchange, I’ll give you the code name of the agent responsible for shooting Bishop. And it’s not Damon.”
“How would you possibly know that?” she whispered back.
He smiled. “It’s what I do.”
Nadia looked back across the darkened lawn, considering. She’d destroyed the student database. Simon wouldn’t find anything. She had nothing to lose in this exchange. “Okay. Tell me what you know.”
“Come closer,” he said. Nadia leaned in and Simon moved her hair away from her ear. With his other hand, he shielded his mouth.
“Enough with the theatrics,” she said. “Give me a name. Who shot the senator?”
His lips brushed against her skin as he breathed the word. “Jericho.”
A rushing sound filled Nadia’s head. Words pushed through the white noise; Simon was still talking. Afraid she might pass out, she pressed a cool hand to her forehead and then leaned forward onto her knees.
“I’ll tell you another thing,” he said. “If Bishop’s not actually dead, Jericho’s in a world of trouble.”
“What do you mean?” She forced herself to straighten.
“An assassin who fails to eliminate his target? Are you mad?” He gave her a questioning look and then shook his head. “It’s your turn, love.”
How did Simon have access to a presumably classified mission? More importantly, was it true?
“Where’s the student database?” he asked.
Had her father shot Libby’s dad? But in the wedding photos, they’d looked like best friends.
“Oi,” Simon said, elbowing her in the ribs. “Database.”
“Uh, it’s in the weapons room. In the dojo. At the back of the shooting range.”
Simon whipped a small notepad and pencil from the side pocket of his messenger bag. “How do I get in?”
Was her father an assassin? Was he a traitor? Maybe Senator Bishop was the traitor. Had the CIA made another exception to their rule and placed Libby’s father on their kill list?
Simon snapped his fingers in Nadia’s face. Instinctively, she snatched his hand, twisting it into a wrist lock. He hit his knees and cried out. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh, Simon—I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Nadia helped him up. “Um, you can’t get into the weapons room without Sensei’s thumbprint and password, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because I destroyed the database.”
“You destroyed the entire student database?” he asked slowly.
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that before we struck our deal?”
“You didn’t ask.” Nadia turned away before he responded, pushing through the lobby doors of her dorm. She didn’t trust herself to spend another second with him—not right now. Her face might reveal her fear.
“Nadia,” Casey called from her desk. She replaced the telephone on the receiver and said, “Good news—Senator Bishop is out of surgery. It’s still touch-and-go, but his operations went well.”
Relief flooded her body. “How’s Libby?”
“Still at the safe house. If I hear anything else, I’ll knock on your door. Try to get some rest. It’s been
a rough couple days.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” Nadia said, as she headed down the hall.
Inside her bedroom, anxiety quickly nudged out the relief. If her father had been tasked to kill Bishop, was his life now in danger?
No, her dad hadn’t shot Bishop. It was Damon. Simon had made a mistake. Damon had no other reason to be in Louisiana. And her dad wasn’t a killer.
Isn’t he?
Assuming the library files were authentic, Nadia didn’t know the first thing about either one of her parents. He might not even be her biological father—not that it necessarily mattered, except that he’d lied about it. Maybe he’d manipulated her mom, as well.
She shook her head. There was no way the man who raised her was an assassin. But Damon, he would do anything to save his mother.
On the other hand….Nadia sat on her bed. The CIA wouldn’t have realized Damon was the shooter if Nadia hadn’t reported his cryptic phone call. That’s what prompted them to search for him in Baton Rouge. Again she wondered, why would he have told her his plans in advance?
He wouldn’t. Damon would never show his hand.
What if the CIA sanctioned a hit on a presidential candidate, then framed an at-large, known traitor? They’d come out clean, and they’d have a valid reason to kill Damon.
Someone else had placed that phone call. Someone who expected her to report the message to the authorities immediately. Someone who thought she could be used, she could be played, just like a pawn.
Someone like Jericho.
Libby woke, disoriented and unsure of her surroundings. The windows were dark, and the bed wasn’t familiar. Then she remembered lying down for a quick rest around four in the afternoon. She sat up, pushed the heavy blankets aside, and checked the clock on the nightstand: it was almost ten o’clock.
Her daddy had been shot. That’s why she was here, in a snow-dusted cabin near Sedona, Arizona. Her momma’d flown out to be with her. Secret Service wouldn’t let them go to the hospital where her daddy was being treated. They wouldn’t say why; security issue, probably.
She crawled from the bed and stepped into the hall, following the voices toward the living room.
“Mrs. Bishop, please,” the doctor was saying. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“I’m not gonna tell you again,” her momma answered.
Libby stepped around the corner. “What’s going on?”
Her momma looked small, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe in the dimly lit room, curled up in a chair by the fire. Libby automatically checked for a glass on the chair-side table to see what she’d been drinking. Sparkling water.
“Dr. Patterson is insisting I take something to help me sleep.” She turned to the doctor. “That is an option no longer available to me.”
“Administered under my care in limited doses, there really is no risk—”
“Thank you, Dr. Patterson,” Libby interrupted. “I believe my momma has expressed her wishes. That’ll be all.” Her heart pounded. She’d never spoken so forcefully to an adult—certainly not a physician. She crossed the floor to stand at her mother’s side.
He gathered his supplies, tucking the pills into a small bag. “I’ll be in my room if you change your mind.”
As he left, her momma reached up and squeezed Libby’s hand resting on her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“I’m really proud of you,” Libby said. She sat in the overstuffed chair opposite her mother. “Any word from the hospital?”
Her momma shook her head.
“He’ll be okay,” Libby said, even though she didn’t know. “He’s too stubborn to die.”
Her mother laughed—a quick burst of air that sounded like a bark. “That’s true. He’ll pull through. He’ll somehow spin this into votes and end up winning the election.”
Libby frowned. “He promised me he was gonna wait.”
Her momma reached forward and swatted her arm. “Don’t make that face. You’ll get wrinkles.” Libby rearranged her features and her mother leaned back. “Your daddy has always been a man who does what he wants. He’s used to getting his own way.”
Libby glanced at her momma, but saw no bitterness on her face. “Why do you put up with it?”
“Honey, one day I will likely be the First Lady of the United States of America. His ambition is an evil I can live with.”
She waited a long moment. “I’m sorry about what he did.” She stared at the fire but felt her momma watching her.
“You’re gonna have to be a whole lot more specific than that.”
“The affair.” Libby looked over. She could tell that her momma was about to shoo it away, tell her another pretty lie, but at the last second, her face fell and she nodded.
“Your daddy’s a good man. I’m sorry you had to find out. I hope you don’t hold it against him.”
Libby chewed on her lip, worked up her courage. She was raised not to talk about unpleasantries. “When did it happen?”
Her momma waved the question away. “Forever ago. When I was pregnant with you.”
“When you were pregnant?” Libby’s stomach churned.
“It was a stressful time,” her momma said. “We were new to Washington. He’d just been selected to serve on an elite intelligence committee.” She smiled. “He thought he was James Bond, finally privy to top-secret information inside the Beltway. His first assignment required him to spend the summer in London. I didn’t go with him. We were young. We thought we were immune to infidelity, that the separation wouldn’t take its toll. The other wives warned me, encouraged me to go along, but your brother was just a toddler and I was so tired that first trimester.”
“Why’d you stay with him?”
Her momma looked squarely at Libby. “Because, honey. I love him. And he loves me.”
She studied her momma’s unlined face, her perfect hair. Even here under all this stress she was the picture of grace. After a minute Libby said, “It’s his fault you became an alcoholic.”
“No, it’s not.” She laughed a little as she added, “Much as I’d love to blame him. Remember Nana and her mint juleps every afternoon? Probably something I was born with.” She leaned forward and patted Libby’s knee. “You too, by the way. You need to be careful. Runs in families.”
“Who was she?” Libby asked. “The woman.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t guess so.” The popping of the logs in the fireplace filled the long silence.
“She was an intelligence officer,” her momma said. “She worked for MI-6. A few of our people were in danger, and she jumped right in to help. That’s all I know.”
“How’d you find out?”
Her momma smiled a little. “He told me. The guilt ate away at him. He begged my forgiveness and I gave it. Took me a while, but I did. Far as I know, he’s been faithful ever since.”
Libby turned back to the fire. Her eyes stung as she watched the blue and orange flames dance over the wood. She rubbed her face.
Something her momma had said tugged for her attention. Then it hit her. “Wait a minute. Did you say MI-6?”
For the next week, Nadia reviewed every minute of her life in obsessive detail, replayed every interaction with her parents, analyzed every casual exchange. She studied her reflection in the mirror, desperately searching for her father’s features.
If she hadn’t destroyed the student DNA database, she could’ve learned the truth once and for all. Compared James Riley’s DNA with her own—and with Simon’s.
How much did her mother know? How complicit was she in the deceit? Did she know the true nature of the Academy? No, she couldn’t possibly.
Out of anger, Nadia considered calling her parents. Telling them, “I know everything.” Then she’d hang up before they could mollify her. But of course, she couldn’t; the lines were tapped. Until she knew more about her family….It was possible she wasn’t even an American citizen. She contemplated the consequences if she were found out.
Late Frida
y afternoon, after eight solid days of complete radio silence regarding all things Libby, Nadia forced her thoughts away from her family, Simon, and her roommate. Instead, to prepare for her mission, she reviewed the op-specs Jack had given her over a month ago.
Her task involved planting physical evidence on a rogue employee who’d sold secrets to an enemy nation. Now that she’d accepted Jack’s senior project as fiction, she had to admit that the fabricated backstory added a touch of excitement.
After committing the floor plans to memory, she filled her bathroom sink and dropped the papers in the standing water, still troubled that she’d seen patterns where none existed. If she couldn’t trust her gut, she wouldn’t make a very successful spy.
And an unsuccessful spy was a dead spy.
A few minutes later, her op-specs thoroughly dissolved, she drained the sink and headed toward the parking lot to meet Jack.
As they drove toward the Scottsdale Ritz-Carlton, Nadia wanted to apologize, to explain to Jack that she didn’t understand why she was so angry, but her pride wouldn’t let her. Finally, when she could no longer stand the silence, she turned toward him and asked, as casually as possible, “Do you think Shepard was telling the truth about the CIA not sanctioning executions?”
He frowned, as though considering. “You mean like does the CIA assassinate people?”
“Yeah, exactly. Wetworks.”
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “I believe they used to, but now that everything is hackable and surveillance is everywhere, I don’t think our government could get away with it even if they wanted to. Why do you ask?”
Nadia looked at her hands and shrugged. Because my dad is CIA, and everywhere we’ve lived there’s been a suspicious, high-profile death. And I obviously don’t know the first thing about him. “Just curious.”
“I know there’s a task squad in place to prevent assassinations.”
She turned to Jack. “What do you mean?”
“We learned about them last semester. They’re called scouts. If the CIA receives intel that a hit’s been ordered, they send a man to do recon. After his report is filed, another team moves in to protect the target. It’s a tough job with a low success rate. As a group, assassins are pretty tenacious.”