The Dead Drop

by Jennifer Allison

  “How did you acquire these?” Matthew asked. Gilda detected the faintest hint of accusation in his voice.

  “Well, as you know, Matthew, I had many connections in the KGB. When I left Moscow for the last time, knowing that I would most likely never return, I took some souvenirs with me, thinking they may someday have some historic value. As you know, I donated many objects to your Spy Museum, but I thought these last two items had been lost or stolen. Then, this summer, my wife has a bad dream and in the middle of the night, she decides to clean the attic. She tiell me she find an old briefcase and she is going to throw it away. Always, she wants to throw everything away. I say, ‘no, no!’ My wife, she say to me, ‘I want these things out of the house.’ She has an idea that they are bad luck.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s irrational—a crazy woman.” Boris rubbed his nose as he spoke.

  Either he has allergies, or he’s nervous for some reason, Gilda thought. She also reflected that it was possible that Boris’s wife was completely rational in her belief that the artifacts were “bad luck.” Gilda had heard plenty of stories about objects that were “cursed” in some way—diamonds, paintings, and other valuables that left trails of misfortune as they passed through the hands of various owners

  “Now, for the other object,” said Boris. “You won’t believe your eyes.” Boris punched in a combination and turned a little key in a lock. The briefcase popped open on the coffee table.

  Gilda peered inside eagerly. The briefcase was empty except for a red velvet bag tied shut with a silk cord.

  Boris carefully opened the bag and removed what appeared at first to be a gold tube of lipstick. He removed the cap to reveal a crimson tip, which he pointed in Matthew’s direction.

  Matthew laughed nervously. “Be careful where you point that thing.”

  It wasn’t a lipstick at all, but a tiny handgun in disguise—a handgun very much like the Kiss of Death that was already on display in the Spy Museum, except that this one was slightly more elegant and deceptive because it was smaller and gold-plated.

  “Wow,” said Gilda. “It’s another lipstick gun!” Why did Boris have a lipstick handgun and a woman’s brooch used to conceal a hidden camera? He said he took the objects from Moscow as souvenirs and claimed that he had misplaced them in the attic, but maybe there was a bigger secret—a reason he had wanted to keep them hidden.

  “Mr. Volkov,” Gilda ventured.

  “Please. Call me Boris.”

  “This is an odd question, but back when you were working for the KGB, did you ever disguise yourself as a woman to get information or avoid being discovered?”

  Boris burst into hearty laughter.

  “Gilda doesn’t realize that most of your time was spent talking to people at cocktail parties and bars, and then trying to get other people to do the sneaking around,” Matthew interjected.

  “Gilda, I never had this opportunity to become a woman. But—you are very smart girl. Why? By far the most effective disguise you can pick—if done very well—is to change your gender. Say somebody is looking for you. They expect to see young lady and instead, they see a boy. How can that be you? It cannot be.”

  Gilda made a mental note of this for the next time she needed to disguise herself. I’d have to get a lot better at applying a false mustache and beard, she thought.

  “But did I ever pretend to apply lipstick with this pistol? The answer is no.”

  “Did you ever shoot anyone with it?”

  “Gilda, please.” Matthew shot her a warning glance.

  “No—I did not.”

  “How do you think this gun compares to the one we have on display in the museum?” Matthew asked.

  “This one is even more valuable. It dates from the nineteen-seventies or eighties; it’s gold-plated and slightly smaller so it looks more like a real lipstick, which would of course buy the spy a little more time to take her shot.

  “Here.” Boris handed the lipstick gun to Gilda. “Want to take a look?”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Of course. It comes with only one bullet, so you would have to be a very good shot if you ever had to use it.”

  The gun felt heavy in Gilda’s hand. As she held it, she felt a cold sensation radiating upward through her arm, as if an icy emotion had just been injected into her veins. It was all Gilda could do to keep from dropping the gun on the floor.

  “On second thought, I don’t want you holding that handgun,” said Matthew, quickly taking the gun and placing it back in the briefcase. “The last thing I need is having to make a phone call to April and Jasper to explain why our newest intern is on her way to jail or the hospital.”

  Boris let out another belly laugh. “I’m sure we can trust this one, Matthew. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” He placed an avuncular arm around Gilda’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  I can see how he might have been successful as a spy, Gilda thought. He butters people up, and then they probably spill the beans about a bunch of secrets.

  “Now, I hate to say good-bye,” said Boris, checking his wristwatch, “but I am late for an engagement.”

  “Well, thank you for sharing these artifacts with the Spy Museum, Boris. We know you could sell them to a private collector if you weren’t so generous.”

  The midday heat scalded the back of Gilda’s neck as she and Matthew walked down the sidewalk toward Wisconsin Avenue. Matthew carried the small briefcase containing the lipstick gun and spy camera.

  “So—what do you think of Boris?” Gilda asked.

  “I think we got some amazing additions to the museum. Jasper is going to be thrilled when he finds out we have these artifacts to add to the displays. When I get back, I’ll set up a meeting with our designer and get busy writing the signs for the display—”

  “But what about Boris? What do you think of him?”

  “He’s an interesting guy.”

  “Very interesting.” Gilda found Boris likable and intriguing, but something also made her suspicious. Something about the entire exchange had aroused what she liked to think of as her “psychic radar.”

  “Matthew, how do we know that he’s switched sides for good?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. How can we really be sure he isn’t secretly spying for the Russians? Like in the Spy Museum, I read about that guy Yuri Nosenko who defected, but they locked him up and kept questioning him because they thought he might be a Soviet dangle or a mole.”

  “I see you’ve been studying your spy terms.”

  “I’ve been talking this way forever.”

  “I think we can be sure he’s switched sides for good. For one thing, he can’t exactly go back to Russia again; if anything, he’s worried that some undercover Russian agent might slip him some poison as punishment for his past disloyalty to the homeland.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “I’m definitely right.”

  Still, Gilda had the sense that something was amiss, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what that something might be.

  On the taxi ride back to the Spy Museum, Gilda felt a heightened awareness of the leather briefcase sitting on the seat next to her, almost as if someone were riding in the car along with them.

  Maybe this is how some people feel about carrying weapons, Gilda thought. Maybe there’s an energy in having an actual weapon close to you, as if you have an invisible bodyguard. But this isn’t a good feeling. Something about this feels ominous—and weirdly sad.

  9

  Spy Camp

  Where have you two been?!” April stood barefoot on the carpeted office floor, munching on a handful of M&M’s. Janet smirked.

  From the way she’s talking, you’d think we’d both just snuck off to see a Disney movie during work hours or something, Gilda thought.

  “Gilda came with me to check out a couple new acquisitions for the museum,” said Matthew. “Some pretty interesting stuff.�
�

  “Matthew,” said April, glancing in Gilda’s direction and obviously wanting her to leave the room, “can I talk with you in private for a minute?”

  Uh-oh, Gilda thought. He’ll never take me anywhere interesting again if he gets in trouble for it. “It’s my fault,” Gilda blurted. “I kind of begged him to take me along.”

  “Look, Gilda, I’m glad you got to go. It’s just that, as Matthew knows, we have our Spy Camp and Midnight Spy Slumber Party right around the corner, and everyone needs to stay on task to get ready for that.”

  Gilda liked the intriguing sound of “Spy Camp and Midnight Spy Slumber Party” and wondered why nobody had mentioned anything about them yet.

  “We’ve got kids coming here to learn everything we can teach them about being a spy, so getting ready for camp is our top priority.”

  “To be fair, April, acquiring new objects for the museum is also a top priority,” Matthew countered.

  “But it’s not Gilda’s top priority,” April snapped.

  “If I can just interject something here,” Gilda said, raising her hand as if she were a student in a classroom. “I’m a really good multitasker. Like at home, my mom never understands how I can do my homework while I’m also reading a bunch of novels and keeping up with my favorite TV shows, plus my own writing projects, but somehow I get it all done.”

  April’s brow furrowed. I bet that’s how she looks at her two-year-old when she’s telling him to poop on the potty, Gilda thought.

  “There’s a lot to do for Spy Camp,” said April, “and Janet has been busy all day cutting out cipher wheels. Do you think you could give her a hand?”

  “I’m actually almost done,” said Janet, sounding pleased with herself.

  “And when that’s done, the two of you can make sure all the disguises are in order.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” said Gilda.

  OFFICE MEMO

  To: April Shepherd

  From: Gilda Joyce

  Re: Spy Camp Preparation Update

  TASKS COMPLETED:

  1. Cutting out and assembling cipher wheels (decoder rings) in record time.

  2. Disguises sorted, fluffed, spot-cleaned, and checked for bugs. Items checked: multicolored wigs, facial hair, makeup kits, sunglasses, and clothes.

  3. Professional development highlight: resisted overwhelming urge to dress up in purple wig.

  4. Suggestion for Spy Museum improvement: find more 1960s-inspired wigs and hairpieces like long ponytails and beehive hairstyles to add to the disguise collection!

  Gilda found herself walking past the White House, past rows of sleek black cars, past somber-looking security guards. She thought she saw a shadowy face watching her through a front window. Gilda wanted to look more closely, so she made her way toward the White House, looking down and hoping the guards wouldn’t stop her. As she reached the front entrance, she was surprised to find that the door opened easily, and the guards and police surrounding the White House made no move to stop her. I suppose I’ve been invited, she thought.

  As Gilda opened the front door and entered the house, she sensed time slowing, the surrounding cars and trees receding, the afternoon light changing and becoming more subtle and beautiful.

  But once inside, she realized she had actually entered the Spy Museum. She found herself in a model of an old-fashioned library—an exhibit about writers who were also spies. I guess I’m here to do my work, she thought.

  Gilda took a seat behind an antique writer’s desk stacked with leather-bound books, wax stamps for letters, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink. She was vaguely aware of tourists who moved around her like phantoms, blind to her presence.

  Then Gilda heard a voice—a deep sigh filled with pain. It seemed as if the very walls in the room groaned. She slowly turned her head to look behind, and she saw the silhouette of a tall, lean man who wore a long overcoat and a top hat. He exuded melancholy, weariness, and something dusty and still that made her think of an old coffin. He moved closer and in the dim light of a candle she saw a somber, familiar face. How strange, Gilda thought. It’s Abraham Lincoln. What is he doing in the Spy Museum?

  “It hurts,” he said.

  “What hurts?” she asked.

  Lincoln pointed to a gun sitting on the writer’s desk—the lipstick gun the museum had acquired. The gun, in turn, seemed to point toward an object hanging on the wall. The shadowy man in the top hat extended a long arm, pointing in the same direction.

  There, displayed on the wall next to the antique desk was the Jefferson cipher wheel—a wooden cylinder covered with small, carved letters.

  Gilda watched as the letters rearranged themselves into a single word:

  OAKHILL

  “What does it mean?” Gilda turned back to Lincoln’s ghost, thinking he might be able to explain the significance of the word. But when she turned around, she found herself staring into the barrel of a gun—the lipstick gun. The face behind the gun was featureless—a dark shadow.

  10

  The Message in the Cipher

  Gilda awoke with a feeling of panic and sorrow, as if she had just learned that a friend had been fatally wounded. Her skin felt clammy. She grabbed the notebook she kept next to her bed so she could record her dream before it slipped back into her unconscious mind. She wrote the first word that popped into her mind—a word with a cryptic meaning:

  OAKHILL

  Why is that important? What does it mean?

  TO: Gilda Joyce

  FROM: Gilda Joyce

  RE: PSYCHIC DREAM REPORT--POSSIBLE GHOST CONTACT

  3:00 A.M.: I just woke from a dream that may contain a psychic message! I was in the Spy Museum, and I spoke to the ghost of Abraham Lincoln! He didn’t say much, but he told me that something “hurts.”

  What does the ghost of President Lincoln have to do with the Spy Museum and a lipstick gun?

  Gilda sat back in her chair and rested her chin on her knee. Had the dream merely been her brain processing little pieces of information—a collage of images and thoughts from the past few days? Or did the dream contain a genuine message?

  Gilda pulled her Master Psychic’s Handbook from a side pocket in her suitcase. The book, written by Gilda’s idol—famed psychic Balthazar Frobenius—was battered from years of being carried in Gilda’s backpack, stuffed in the back of her school locker, wedged into suitcases, and basically accompanying Gilda just about everywhere. Even though she had read the book more times than she could count, she always found a new nugget of wisdom when she searched the book for insight into a problem. She turned to a chapter on dreams and read:

  ON PSYCHIC DREAMS

  Some people receive psychic messages best through dreams—when the mind is completely relaxed. Even people who do not aspire to psychic skills often perceive information during sleep that is normally concealed during their waking hours. This may be because relaxing the mind clears away the sensory clutter that ordinarily blocks one’s deepest mental abilities—abilities including psychic perception of messages from spirits, information about the future, and the ability to read the thoughts of others.

  With ongoing practice, aspiring psychics can learn the technique of “wakeful dreaming,” which allows part of the mind to remain conscious during the dream state, thereby controlling this access to unconscious and even psychic information. The truly advanced practitioner may gain the ability to utilize dream states to project the mind through time and space—potentially gaining access to distant places and possibly even distant times.

  Gilda thought for a moment, then turned back to her psychic-dream report:

  Whatever psychic abilities I have often seem to come through dreams--and sometimes the combination of dreams and writing. It’s hard to explain exactly what it is that makes the dreams with messages different than ordinary dreams, but they often have a heightened feeling of reality.

  I feel certain that my dream contained a message since Abraham Lincoln actually pointed toward the cipher whee
l hanging on the wall.

  Gilda suddenly had a sinking feeling as she recalled the final image of her dream.

  I was staring into the barrel of a gun.

  Am I in danger? What if THAT’s the message??

  Wanting to call Wendy, Gilda picked up her cell phone and hesitated. She knew Wendy would be grumpy if she were wakened in the middle of the night.

  But I owe Wendy a phone call, Gilda reasoned. And isn’t that what best friends are for—someone to call at 3:00 A.M. if you’re scared and really need to talk? Gilda decided to go ahead and dial Wendy’s number.

  Far away, in a neat bedroom in Ferndale, Michigan, Wendy Choy cursed and lurched out of bed at the sound of her cell phone, which was at the bottom of her backpack. She found the phone just in time to pick up Gilda’s call.

  “Lo,” she said in a hoarse voice, peering at the clock on her bedside table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, I was just sitting here hoping someone would call.”

  “I was afraid I’d wake you up.”

  “Seriously, Gilda. I have to get up in the morning for math camp.”

  “How’s that going, by the way? My brother’s in that same program this summer, you know.”

  “I know. And it’s good. I don’t know. Why don’t you ever call me at a normal hour to have a conversation? I’ve been wondering how you’re doing in D.C., and I don’t hear anything, and then you wake me up in the middle of the night.”

  “I’ve written you a bunch of letters; I just haven’t mailed them yet.”

  “I have e-mail and a cell phone, Gilda. Why not just send a text message like a normal person?”

  “With text messages there’s nothing for posterity. Years from now when we’re old and the technology is outdated, all those letters I write you will still be sitting there in your attic. See, if I only send you text messages—”