I don’t want to say the words.
He stares at me. “Trezekhastan and Savlostavia have been at war for decades. There’s been a shaky cease-fire over the past few years . . .”
I hear Irina’s words. I don’t eliminate children.
“But the assassination of the son of the Trezekhastan secretary of state in a church full of Savolostavians would end that cease-fire big-time,” I say.
God, Irina, I think. Why did you have to get into this line of work?
God, Vanessa, I think. Why did this have to be the job you chose to get your daddy to notice you?
“Call the cops,” says Dale.
“The cops?” I repeat. The words feel alien in my mouth. Spies don’t call cops.
“They’ve got the manpower,” says Dale. “They can search every guest and every car. They can cover every inch of the cathedral.”
“Yeah, but—” I start to say.
“This is big,” says Dale. “This is starting-a-war big. Too big for you, even with Joanna and Ryan in tow.”
“And Sam,” I say.
“Nothing’s too big for him,” Dale says. “Or so he’d like to think.”
“What? Is he in trouble?” I ask. “Is that your job here? Busting Sam Gunnery?”
“Nope. He’s just the bottom step on the ladder I’m climbing. A multinational corporation hired me to test its security. I needed to establish myself as the new hacker on the block. I got Sam to find me a place to crash and an untraceable IP address. But that’s small potatoes next to what you’re wrapped up in. That’s big potatoes. Call the cops, Bridget. The cops will get the FBI involved.”
“Really?” I say. “That’s what you think I should do? Is that what Strike would do?”
Dale takes both my hands. “We know that’s not what Strike would do. But there’s too many people involved. Too much that could go wrong.”
He hands me his phone.
“Hey, spider lovers!” shouts Ryan. “We doing this or what?”
I whirl around. Ryan, Joanna, and Sam are walking toward us.
“Yeah,” calls out Joanna. “When do we start the stupid mission?”
“What’s the deal with you and the Squirrel?” Sam yells. “Why are you standing so close to him?”
I turn back to Dale. “You can’t get them involved,” he says. “I can’t believe you told them anything.”
The look on his face. The phone in his hand. The voices of my brother, my best friend, and Sam Gunnery getting louder as they get nearer. I can be a good friend and sister or a good spy. I can’t be both. They can’t get involved in this.
“What are you going to do, Bridget?” says Dale. “Time’s running out.”
What am I going to do?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Do the Right Thing
I call the cops. Anonymously on my prepaid phone. I give the barest of bare details. I say the son of the Trezekhastan secretary of state’s life may be in danger. I end the call but I keep talking. I report a missing person. Abigail Rheinhardt, sixteen years old, around five foot four, gray eyes, unique dress sense. I do this for Ryan’s benefit and then I drop the phone into the sewer. Dale’s paranoia is infectious.
“Out of my hands,” I say to the others. “The ball’s in the NYPD’s court.”
Ryan, Joanna, and Sam all look disappointed.
“This trip is turning into a compete washout,” whines Ryan. “I get dumped, I don’t get to stop an assassination. . . .”
“You did the right thing,” says Dale.
Sam walks up to me and positions himself between me and Dale. “Are you warm enough in my hoodie? Do you need me to get you something else?”
“I’m toasty, thank you,” I reply.
“Good,” he says. But he doesn’t move. He just keeps standing with his back to Dale.
“Okay,” Dale finally says. “I should probably . . .”
“Get out of here and back to doing whatever weird illegal stuff you do,” says Sam, a little curtly.
“Okay,” says Dale, again. “See you in the spider-lover forums.”
“Arachnophiles unite!” I say, and make a five-legged spider gesture with my wiggling fingers. Dale does the same, and then he walks away.
“It was nice of you to humor him,” says Sam. “I don’t know if he’s ever spoken to an actual girl before.”
“Next thing, he’ll be kissing one,” smirks Joanna, shooting a knowing look in my direction.
Sam takes my wrist in his hand and starts to pull me toward the nearest subway station. He turns to me and grins. “If Big Log hadn’t fallen downstairs, we’d never have met,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “I’m also thankful for her near-death experience.”
His hand tightens around my wrist. “You,” he says, “are something else.”
What’s happening here?
I must not be the sharpest spy in the knife drawer, because it’s not until we’re sitting in the F train headed back to Brooklyn and Sam suddenly says, “So . . . do you have a boyfriend back home?” that alarm bells start clanging.
“Tons of them,” I joke. “One for every day of the week. Two for weekends. There’s never been a better time to be Bridget Wilder. The demand is staggering.”
“Who else would say something unbalanced like that?” he says, his hand touching my wrist again. “You’re different. That’s why I like you.”
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
“IreallyhavetotalktoJoannarightnowit’sreallyimportant,” I gasp, and scamper across the train to the seat beside Joanna.
“I think Sam likes me,” I say through gritted teeth.
“This is a moving train,” she announces. “If you want to be understood, you have to speak up.”
“Sam,” I say, a little louder. “I think he likes me.”
“You think Sam likes you?” Joanna repeats at the top of her voice.
I look around the subway car to see if any passengers have food I can ram in her big mouth.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “He can do much better than you.”
“I hope so,” I say. “Because now I’m uncomfortable around him, plus I’ve known him for like five minutes.”
“And you do not make a great first impression,” Joanna reminds me.
“I know!”
“So you’re still into that Dale guy?” she asks.
“I think I am.”
Ryan slumps down in the seat opposite us. “That’s great,” he says. “I lose one girl, you get two guys. How is that fair?”
“I don’t want two guys,” I exclaim.
Sam comes over to sit next to Ryan. “Let’s get our stories straight for la madre,” he says. I feel a burst of gratitude toward Sam for deflecting the conversation away from his interest in me, and I throw myself into brainstorming titles for the homeless-clogging dance contest movie, which, even though it does not exist, has become my favorite film of the year.
“Clog Up,” I suggest, brilliantly.
“Woodfoot,” says Ryan.
“K-Clog’s Last Dance,” says Joanna, making it about her.
We discuss how we’re going to maintain this incredible lie. “Won’t Alex be Googling homeless-clogging dance contest movie every six seconds?” I say.
“If it comes to that, I can probably get the movie made,” says Sam casually. I stare at him to see if he’s joking. He is not joking. I am suddenly very confused. This guy I barely know who has decided he likes me has just said he can make my favorite movie, and he didn’t even say it like he was trying to impress me. He simply doesn’t think anything’s beyond him. Which is in itself impressive. But I remember the knot in my stomach when I saw Dale. There’s no knot with Sam. I’m not saying there’s never going to be a knot, but the knot I have with Dale is the only knot I need in my life right now.
“Stop those two guys,” screams a passenger. “They stole my phone!”
Two hulking teenage boys jump off the train as the doors open. I
look out the window. Three uniformed cops are huddled on the platform, all deep in conversation. They don’t even notice the two boys boarding the train on the opposite side. The passenger who was robbed rushes over to attract their attention. What do I do here? Nothing? Or something?
As the doors begin to close, I leap up from my seat and run out. I hear Sam and Joanna coming after me. “Go back to Brooklyn!” I shout at them. “I’ll call you.” I turn and hurl Red at the closing doors of the subway car the two teenagers have just ducked into. He wedges in between the two doors.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the metallic subway announcement voice commands.
I shove my hands into the gap and try to pull the doors open. Two hands insert themselves above mine.
“I always knew I was your role model,” says Ryan. “Are we going to steal the train?”
I laugh in relief that it’s not Sam. Then I laugh again because Ryan, when he’s not mourning the loss of Blabby, can be fun to be around.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the metallic voice insists.
Ryan and I lever the doors apart. I spring inside and search the subway car. Right at the back end, I see the two hoodie dudes surround a lone female passenger, lost in the music in her headphones. One of them leans close to her. The other dips a hand inside her bag and starts to pull out a tablet.
“Go, Red,” I say, and throw my last remaining marble the length of the subway car. Red hits the hand of the dipper. The guy yells in pain and drops the tablet back inside the bag. The dipper tries to grab Red, but of course he’s way too slow. The little marble flies inside the second guy’s hood in the general direction of his mouth. A muffled howl of pain emerges. So does a fragment of tooth. The female passenger rushes away. The dipper starts to give chase. He loses his footing and falls onto his back. I walk up to the fallen criminal and slip a hand inside the pocket of his hoodie. I pull out the stolen phone.
“Thith ithn’t over,” I hear his partner say.
I turn around. The hood is down. The boy, who doesn’t look any older than fifteen, is massaging his jaw.
“Lose a tooth?” I say sympathetically. “Maybe the tooth fairy’ll leave you thomething nithe.”
The kid lurches toward me, menace in his eyes.
I open my hand. Red bounces up onto my palm. The kid stops in his tracks.
“Or maybe you’ll lose a few more if I ever see you on the train again.”
I watch the kid trying to construct a threatening comeback. Luckily, the train comes to a halt and the two perps make their exit.
I turn and walk back to Ryan, holding my favorite marble between my thumb and forefinger.
“Say hello to Red.”
“I want one,” he says.
“That can never be allowed to happen.”
“My sister’s a spy,” he says, and he actually looks proud.
“Not a good spy,” I say. “I let myself be talked out of my mission. I’m walking away when I shouldn’t.”
Ryan stands in the middle of the subway car, hanging on to the silver pole with one hand, swinging in a semicircle. “Listen,” he says. “Nancy Wilder, aka our mom, walked out of a secure job to start her own courier business. Jeff Wilder is completely unqualified to shop in a Pottery Barn, yet he manages one. My record speaks for itself. I don’t deliberately go out of my way to cause trouble. I just see the rules other people live by and I don’t believe they apply to me. My point is, we’re Wilders. We go our own way. We don’t do what we’re supposed to do. We do what we feel like doing. We may not always get it right, but when we make mistakes, they’re our mistakes.”
He continues swinging.
“Cool speech, bro,” I say quietly. That actually might be the most Ryan’s ever said to me in one spurt and it was worth the wait.
“I didn’t mention Natalie because then the whole Wilders-live-by-their-own-rules thing sort of falls apart,” he says.
“I figured,” I reply.
The train comes to a halt.
“We’re going back, right?” says Ryan, with way too much enthusiasm. “We’re going to stop the assassination.”
“I’m going to try and sneak into the ceremony and make sure the police don’t miss vital clues,” I tell him. “You have all of New York to explore.”
“Seriously?” he says, his face falling.
“You got hung on a hook,” I tell him. “That’s an awesome vacation story.”
“Fine,” he sighs.
I get off the train. Ryan stays. As I go, he yells, “Good luck with the spying.”
I act like I don’t hear him and hurry up the subway steps. I stop thinking about Ryan and start worrying about how I’m actually going to get into the cathedral now that I’ve alerted the city’s police department to a possible attempt on the life of a prominent foreign politician’s son.
Once I’m out in the street, I duck into a sneaker store and consider my next move. I wish I could talk it over with Dale Tookey, but he was the one who filled me with doubt. I can’t call Dale now and tell him I’m going to back to the scene of the potential crime.
I take out my phone—oh wait, it’s not my phone, it’s the one I retrieved from the two hoodie dudes on the train; I brilliantly forgot to return it to its owner. Oops. I use this borrowed phone to make another call. I need to talk to someone I really do not want to owe a favor.
“Hi, Joanna? Can you put Sam on?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I Am Zamira Kamirov
“I am Zamira Kamirov.”
“My name is Zamira Kamirov.”
“Zamira Kamirov. My parents follow soon. I take my seat now, yes?”
I am in Alex Gunnery’s bedroom, gazing at my reflection in her mirror and practicing my Trezekhastan enunciation for the biggest and most important lie I will ever tell.
Sam, credit where credit’s due, came through 199.9 percent. I called him up, told him I needed to get into the coming-of-age celebration despite it being covered in cops. He told me to meet him back in his Brooklyn home, by which time he would have come up with a solution.
By the time Ryan and I reached his mom’s brownstone, Alex and Lucien were already out spending their Saturday at the much-discussed Brooklyn Flea and Sam had proved as good as his word.
Sam, or someone who owed him a favor, had located the guest list for the celebration. Someone else coordinated the guests with the flight logs of the planes coming in from Trezekhastan and Savlostavia. Almost all the guests had arrived in the city the previous night. A handful were running late. Among that handful was Zamira Kamirov, teenage daughter of Trezekhastan’s junior minister of agriculture, attending in place of her father, who was stuck at an international grain conference. Zamira Kamirov’s Instagram account was not difficult to find. She’s taller than me, but we both have short darkish hair, we both have the same kind of figure, and our faces are similar shapes.
“I can be her,” I told myself. Except that all I have to wear is Sam’s hoodie, a white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, none of which qualify as desirable celebration attire. So I improvised. I borrowed a black tuxedo jacket from Sam’s closet, one of Alex’s short skirts, which comes down past my knees, a pair of dark glasses that covers half my face, a hockey puck–shaped hat with a veil, and a pair of shoes that are two sizes too big for me but which I stuffed with balled-up toilet paper.
“Perfect,” says Sam. “Wear that on our date.”
Ah. Right. The other thing.
In order for Sam to do me this huge, possibly war-averting favor, I had to agree to go out on a date with him before I go back to Reindeer Crescent. Lives are at stake. Two countries hang in the balance. How could I say no? (Honestly? I had to think about it. Sam’s a very, very smart, good-looking, insanely connected, scarily ambitious guy. If Dale Tookey hadn’t resurfaced . . . no, even if Dale Tookey hadn’t resurfaced, the kind of life Sam’s leading is going to land him in horrific trouble somewhere down the line. Or it’s going to
make him a future president. Either way, I don’t want to get involved beyond the one date I’ve committed to. Plus, still no knot.)
“I am Zamira Kamirov,” I intone with confidence as I glide into the Gunnery kitchen, where Ryan and Joanna are gorging on sandwiches and chips.
I wait for their reactions.
“Huge improvement,” says Ryan.
“Always wear that veil,” says Joanna, and they cackle in unison.
“Ignore them,” says Sam, joining me in the kitchen and now, I can’t fail to notice, wearing a black tuxedo. He reaches up to adjust my hat. “You look amazing.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, taking careful steps away from him in my too-big shoes.
Ryan crumples up his chip bag and throws it at the recycling bin, missing it by several inches.
He claps his hands. “Let’s save the day.”
“You’re not saving anything,” I say. “Joanna, babysit Ryan.”
“But I’m coming with you,” she starts to say.
“Ryan, babysit Joanna,” I order. “Both of you stay here where it’s safe. Monitor the police scanner on the computer. Let me know if anything suspicious happens outside the cathedral.”
They both look let down.
“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t get to go to the most fashionable assassination in the city,” I snap at them. “How can I be so mean and insensitive?”
“We never get to hang out,” says Joanna. “You’re only here till Monday.”
I pull off my huge dark glasses, shove my veil on top of my hockey puck–shaped hat, and stare at her. “Now? You’re accusing me of neglecting you now? We’ve talked every day since you moved here. You’re happier than you’ve ever been.”
“I have to work at it,” she mumbles. “Being nice to people is hard. So is getting them to like me. I never had to work at it with you.”
“Maybe you could try working at it a little bit with me,” I say. “I’m here for two more fun-filled days. We’ve got time to hang out, just you and me.”
I push my glasses back on. “Okay? Can I go now?” I pull my veil back down.
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