by Stuart Gibbs
“About what?”
“What do you think? The assassin. Pinwheel. Something dirty’s going on here, and you’re in the middle of it.”
“Do you know why?”
“Of course I do. Isn’t it obvious?”
I toyed with the idea of lying, telling Erica that I wasn’t a naive rube, that of course I was aware of what was going on as well, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get away with that for more than thirty seconds and would only end up looking worse. So I went with the truth. “No.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “This guy tonight, he came after you because of Pinwheel, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m studying to be a spy. It’s my job to know things.”
“Do you know what Pinwheel is?”
“No. But what’s really interesting is that you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, according to your file, you invented it.”
I sat upright. “What? That can’t be true.”
“Exactly.”
There was a huge jumbled jigsaw puzzle in my mind, but suddenly, the first two pieces clicked into place. My supposed gift with codes. Pinwheel. Click. Click. “Somebody put false information in my file.”
“It looks that way.”
“Who?”
“Who created your file in the first place?”
“I don’t know. Someone in the administration, I guess.”
“No. Lots of people in the administration: the Admissions Office, Recruitment, Future Student Assessment . . .”
“And one of them inserted false information without the principal knowing?”
Erica gave me a long, hard, disappointed look.
Understanding descended on me. Click. “The principal told them to.”
“Yes. Though he certainly did it only because someone else told him to. He’s not exactly Mr. Think-for-Yourself.”
“You don’t think much of him.”
“Ever hear the phrase ‘Those who can’t do, teach’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the principal can’t even teach. The guy’s a basket case. Although, in his defense, he’s had a bit of a tortured past.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“He was tortured,” Erica said. “A lot, in fact. Every time the CIA sent him out into the field, he got captured. He wasn’t a very good spy.”
“So the CIA put him in charge of the entire spy school?” I asked, incredulous.
“Our government at work.” Erica sighed. “The higher-ups probably know he’s lousy, though. They just want someone who won’t question orders. For example, they’ve got him fudging your file to deal with the situation here.”
“What situation?”
“Your file is supposed to be classified. All documents pertaining to the recruitment of new undercover agents—as well as anything pertaining to the existence of the academy at all—is Security Level A1. For Your Eyes Only, no dissemination allowed. And yet, within eight hours of your arrival here, an enemy agent breaches our perimeter, knowing exactly where to find you and possessing intimate details of your file.”
“So . . . there’s a mole?” I asked.
“Wow,” Erica said sarcastically. “Figured that out already, did you?”
“Who is it?”
“That’s the million-dollar question . . . which is where you come in.”
Click. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The reason my file said I had talents I didn’t know about was because they didn’t exist. “Oh no! I’m the bait?”
I couldn’t quite tell in the darkness, but for once, it looked like Erica might have been the tiniest bit impressed by my deductive abilities. Which provided only the slimmest comfort, given what I’d just learned. “You got it,” she said. “You were brought in as part of Operation Creeping Badger.”
“Creeping Badger?” I asked, incredulous.
“I think they’re under the impression that badgers hunt moles,” Erica explained. “They don’t, really, but the guys who named it are spies, not biologists. Anyhow, it appears the plan was to bring you in, make you out to be a big-time crypto whiz boy, and draw out the enemy . . . only the enemy moved a lot faster than the school expected, because the principal and everyone else were caught with their pants down tonight.”
My heart was beating even faster, but it wasn’t because of Erica now. “The school set me up to have an assassin come after me?!”
“Well, they probably weren’t counting on an assassin. But, yes, that’s the general idea.”
Another puzzle piece clicked into place. Only, the more I saw of the big picture, the less I liked it. “So . . . my recruitment was a sham?”
“Yes.”
“Am I even qualified to be a spy?”
“Not really,” Erica said. “I think they picked you because you have strong math skills—so on paper, you look like you could be a crypto genius. And because you live close by.”
I hung my head. There had been a lot of heavy things to deal with today, but this was the heaviest. To go from the euphoria of learning I could be an elite spy to discovering it was all a setup—and one that could have gotten me killed, no less—was devastating. But the more I considered it, the angrier I got.
I thought back to the principal grilling me in Tina’s room. “The principal dragged me into this, then acted like I was the one who screwed up,” I said. “But he’s the one who dropped the ball. I almost got killed tonight!”
“He probably didn’t expect that our perimeter could be breached so easily,” Erica said with a sigh. “The idiot. If the enemy knows what’s in our top secret files, why wouldn’t they know how to get around our security system? This assassin took out every single camera he had to. He knew exactly where they all were. The enemy probably knows more about this campus than the principal does.”
“At least your father’s involved now,” I said. “He won’t make any mistakes like that.”
To my surprise, rather than agreeing with this, Erica stiffened at the mention of her father. The already-cold temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. “Yes. Alexander’s involved,” she said noncommittally.
It seemed best to try to change the subject. “He spent a lot of time trying to get me to figure out the sequence of what happened in my room. Why?”
“To assess who the enemy might be. We know almost nothing about them, other than that they have access to our information. So here’s how the mole hunt works: They bring in a patsy—that’d be you—who they make out to be an amazing new recruit, a prodigy at cracking codes. This makes you a game changer. Not only is all their coded material at risk now, but you’ve invented something—code-named Pinwheel—that’s going to change everything as far as cryptography is concerned. Pinwheel is what we call a ‘hook.’ They don’t specify what it is, only that it’s revolutionary, to get the enemy interested. Then they sit back and wait for the enemy to show.
“Now, what the enemy does with this information tells us something about them. If they simply try to kill you, they’re thugs. They perceive you as a threat and they want to eliminate you. But if they try to coerce you into explaining Pinwheel to them, that’s a different story.”
“That’s what this guy was trying to do. Scare me into telling him about it.”
Erica nodded. “Whoever we’re up against is smart. They want what you know. Or, at least, what they think you know. The good news is, you’re probably worth more to them alive than dead.”
“And the bad news is, this isn’t the last time someone’s going to come for me.”
“Right. Though they won’t do it the same way next time. They’ve played that hand already.”
“Do you have any idea who we’re talking about here?” I asked. “Who are these people?”
“Oh, there’s lots of possibilities: criminal organizations, multinational corporations looking to protect their interests, disgruntled former agents with a bone to pick . . . thou
gh I’d say the good money’s on a rival agency from another country. One that views America and the CIA as a threat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It makes sense, given what they did here last time.”
“Wait. This isn’t the first time they’ve infiltrated the school?”
Erica studied me for a moment, assessing how much she could share. “Didn’t you think it was odd, being recruited to a new school in the middle of January?”
“Yes. I asked your father about it.”
“And what’d he say?”
“There was a sudden opening.” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized that they, like so many other things I’d heard at spy school, were a euphemism for a much darker story. “Oh no! Someone got killed?”
“Joshua Hallal. A sixth year. Incredibly talented. Would’ve been top of his class, one of the best undercover agents the academy has ever produced, a real threat to our enemies.” Erica turned away. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as though there might have been a tear in her eye. Which would have been the first trace of emotion I’d seen her display. “The school covered it up, of course. Claimed Josh had a virulent allergic reaction to a bee sting. Which made him unfit to serve, so they rotated him out and placed him and his family in the Witness Protection Program. They might as well have just told us that they sent him to a farm upstate where there’s lots of room for him to run.”
“What really happened to him?”
Erica shrugged. “I don’t know the details . . . yet. All I know is that it happened. And it scared everyone from the school administration on up to the president himself. No one outside of the academy should have known who Josh was. Not even his parents.”
I frowned.
“What?” Erica asked.
“There must be a lot of good future spies here,” I said. “Maybe not all as good as you and Joshua. But close. Why’d they go through so much trouble to kill him? Especially when it revealed that they have a mole inside.”
Erica looked back at me. I thought I saw the tiniest trace of a smile bend the corners of her mouth. “You might suck at being a spy right now, but you’re not stupid. You’re right. It was risky for them to take out Josh. Which means there was probably a reason they did it.”
“Any ideas?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Are you supposed to be?”
“No. The administration is, but they’ve pretty much botched things royally so far. Your little visit tonight being exhibit A. This could’ve all ended tonight if they’d let me be involved. Or anyone competent, really. It’s a shame. Josh deserves better. So let’s just consider this a covert extra-credit assignment for us right now.”
I felt a flush of excitement. “Us?”
“You think I’ve gone through all the trouble to sneak in here and spill my guts to you for fun? Number one mistake the administration has made so far: not letting you know you’re the patsy. True, they probably figured you’d freak out and hit the bricks, but still . . . that’s no way to run an operation. Ours is going to be a lot better. We’re going to uncover this mole, find out who he works for, and take the whole thing down. Are you with me?”
Erica held out her hand. I glanced at it warily.
It was obvious that my plan to leave for home in the morning was no longer valid. There were agents for an unknown enemy organization looking for me; and if they were willing to infiltrate a well-guarded, top secret campus to get me, our neighborhood patrol probably wasn’t going to keep me safe. I’d be better off at spy school than anywhere else.
However, that belief had little to do with the administration—which had screwed up pretty much everything they’d touched—and a lot to do with Erica. And though Erica seemed to have some qualms about her father being involved, I didn’t. In fact, I was happy to have Alexander Hale on the case.
But agreeing to a covert investigation was another thing entirely. It was reckless, dangerous, insubordinate—and daunting, given that I hadn’t taken a single espionage class yet.
On the other hand, it’d give me an excuse to spend time with Erica. Most likely, the only excuse I’d ever have. If I turned her down, she’d probably never deign to speak to me again.
And yet there was something else that motivated me even more than my schoolboy crush: the chance to prove myself.
The academy had only recruited me as bait, for my math and my proximity. They didn’t think I had what it took to be a spy, and thus, chances were that, once the mole hunt was over, they’d find a way to jettison me. However, if I helped find the mole, that’d prove I was CIA material. They couldn’t get rid of me then.
Plus, even though it was dangerous, it seemed less dangerous than waiting around for the administration to take care of things.
In the end, however, it was really the getting-to-hang-out-with-Erica thing that made up my mind.
I shook her hand. It was soft and warm.
“What do we do next?” I asked.
DISSEMINATION
Hammond Quadrangle
January 17
0850 hours
“Hey, Ben,” Mike said. “How’s your lame science school?”
I should have ignored the phone call. It was 8:50 a.m. and I was trying to figure out how to get to my first class. But after all that had happened, I was desperate to hear a friendly voice.
“It’s not lame,” I countered. “In fact, it’s been pretty exciting.”
“Sure it has. What’d you do last night? Homework?”
“Not exactly.”
“Want to know what I did? Hung out with Elizabeth Pasternak.”
My step faltered in surprise. “You did not!”
“I did so.”
“When?”
“After my older brother’s hockey game. Her brother’s on his team. Our families all went out for ice cream afterward. We sat right next to each other. She even let me share her sundae.”
“Oh.” I squinted at my campus map as it flapped in the wind. It was bitterly cold. Two inches of fresh snow had already turned to slush on the campus walkways.
“And get this,” Mike went on. “Her parents are letting her have some friends over tomorrow night. Guess who’s invited?”
“No way.”
“No need to sound so down. She said I could bring a friend. Maybe my brother could bring me by and we could spring you.”
“I don’t think that’ll work,” I sighed. I’d been expecting Mike to tell me about a boring night in front of the TV, something that would make my new life sound infinitely cooler. Instead, I was missing out on the social opportunity of a lifetime.
“Are you crazy? You’re gonna pass on a Pasternak party?”
“It’s not like she’d talk to us anyhow.”
“Of course she would! And all her friends are gonna be there: Chloe Carter, Ashley Dinero, Frances Davidson. . . . You can’t pass on something like this! Do they even have girls at science school?”
“There’s lots of girls here.”
“Yeah. Science dork girls.”
“No. Hot girls. In fact, there’s one—Erica—who makes Elizabeth Pasternak look like my aunt Mitzi.”
“Liar.”
“I’m serious. Next time I see her, I’ll send you a picture.”
“Go right ahead. And don’t think you can send me some photo of a model from a catalog or something, because I can tell.”
“She’s real, Mike. And she’s unbelievable.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a clump of fellow students cloaked in heavy jackets and winter boots. Instead of walking to class like everyone else, they were watching me. But when I turned their way, they all quickly averted their eyes and pretended to be looking somewhere else.
“Okay,” Mike said, giving in. “So there’s one hot girl. She’ll never hang out with you.”
“She did last night.”
There was a slight pause before Mike responded. When he did, I could sense something in h
is voice I’d never heard before: jealousy. “In a communal coed dorm sort of situation, right? Like in Harry Potter?”
“No. My own room. She came to see me. After curfew. And she went through a lot of trouble to do it.”
I was probably violating about twelve security directives by sharing this, but I couldn’t help myself. Besides, I wasn’t sharing the entire truth about the school. Only the good stuff.
“What’d you do?” Mike asked. It was like I’d hooked a fish.
“Just talked. For a really long time.”
“About what?”
“She wants me to work on a project with her. Just the two of us.”
“What kind of project? Some kind of smarty-pants science thing?”
“It’s a little more interesting than that. I’m gonna be spending a lot of time with her.”
“Wow. Sounds awesome.”
“It is. I have to go. I’m late for class.” I wasn’t saying that just to leave him hanging, wanting more. I was really in danger of being late. I fell in with a group of students as they shoved through the doors of Bushnell Hall.
“Send me that photo!”
“Okay. Bye.” I pocketed my phone with a smile. It was time to begin my training.
NINJAS
Bushnell Hall
Lecture Room 2C
January 17
0930 hours
My first class was Introduction to Self-Preservation. I’d have been excited about it even if I didn’t think it would come in handy, given my recent circumstances. I was expecting a quick immersion into hand-to-hand combat or perhaps a scintillating discussion of how to incapacitate an armed man.
Instead, it was a snore. Two minutes into the first lecture, I was already nodding off.
This was partly because I’d had no sleep the night before, but mostly because Professor Lucas Crandall had the charisma of a rock. Crandall was quite old, with unkempt white hair, the stooped posture of a question mark, and eyebrows that looked as though they’d recently been in a tornado. He was rumored to have served the CIA from the very early days, and he appeared to have been shunted off to spy school because no one had the heart to fire him. He rambled in a wheezing voice that was almost impossible to hear, often losing his train of thought and then pausing for great swaths of time to remember what he’d been saying.