The Dead Drop
Page 14
Gilda rewrote the dead-drop message, this time removing every word that also appeared in Lincoln’s letter.
Dear Friend,
I expect to have a delivery for you soon. Look for my usual signal—blue gum marking Anna. You will respond with pink gum on Anna to let me know you have received the package. —The Poet
I did it, Gilda thought. I cracked the code. It really is a dead-drop message!
Clearly, the message announced a signal and the transfer of a secret package of some kind.
But who is Anna? Gilda wondered. And is “The Poet” a code name, or is it something else entirely?
DEAD-DROP INVESTIGATION PROBLEMS:
1. Timing: My Spy Savvy book says that spies usually agree to check for dead-drop “signals” at regular intervals--maybe once a day or once a week. I’ve been too busy with Spy Camp to monitor the dead-drop location every day, and I have no way of knowing when, exactly, the package will be dropped off and picked up. I need to find the “signal site” so I’ll have some advance notice of when he or she is going to make the next move.
2. In order to find the signal site, I need to know the significance of “Anna.” It could be a name on one of the tombstones in Oak Hill Cemetery--maybe the signal is a piece of chewing gum stuck to the grave marker? On the other hand, the cemetery wouldn’t be a convenient place for a spy to check for a signal every day. A signal site is usually a more ordinary place--a mailbox, a signpost--something so innocuous and obvious that passersby never really look at it carefully.
IMPORTANT: FIND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF “ANNA.”
24
A Dangerous Encounter
Gilda heard the rumbling of thunder as she left the Library of Congress and made her way back through the park. She passed people who walked home from work with brisk, hurried steps and a homeless man who mumbled about “exposing the government” as he shuffled slowly along the sidewalk. The trees trembled as a warm breeze rose and dark clouds gathered overhead.
Inside Union Station, a parade of people streamed from the trains, dragging suitcases and talking on cell phones as they converged on shops selling ice cream and coffee.
Gilda followed a crowd of people down the escalator to the underground train. She waited on the platform, sensing the fuming impatience of weary people staring silently at each other across the tracks. Deciding she might as well contemplate the next steps in her investigation while she waited for the train, Gilda pulled one of her photographs of the dead-drop message from her purse to examine it for more clues.
A moment later, the skin on the back of her neck felt warm: she could literally feel someone staring at her—looking over her shoulder.
Gilda turned to see a man staring at the photograph in her hand with great interest. He had a round, sunburned face with a high forehead above which sparse, spiky hair sprouted. A close-cropped, reddish mustache and beard framed his face. He wasn’t much taller than Gilda: in fact, there was something almost elfin or gnomish about the man, but the piercing intensity in his gaze unnerved her. He knows something about me, Gilda thought. How long has he been watching me?
For a moment their eyes locked, but before he could speak, Gilda instinctively stuffed the photograph back into her handbag. She abruptly opened her cell phone and pretended to check messages as she walked down the train platform, attempting to create some distance between herself and the man. She glanced up and felt another surge of anxiety when she found him still staring in her direction, slowly making his way toward her. The lights lining the train tracks flashed, announcing the arrival of a train. Hurry up, hurry up! The train simply couldn’t arrive fast enough. Gilda had no idea who she was running from—only a gut feeling that this stranger seemed to have a very special interest in her.
The train rushed into the station and Gilda joined a group of people clustering together at the doorway. She scooted inside the train and watched with relief as the doors closed behind her before the man was able to follow her into her car of the train.
Gilda opened her notebook:
Was it just my imagination, or was that man VERY interested in the dead-drop message I was reading?
If he has something to do with that message—and if he knows who I am—I could be in danger.
I HAVE A FEELING I’M BEING WATCHED.
25
An Unpleasant Discovery
Following her decoding of the dead-drop message, Gilda wanted to go down to Oak Hill Cemetery to look for more clues and conduct surveillance, but the steady rain pounding on the windows of her apartment made the idea of navigating the crumbling walkways in the cemetery very unappealing. Besides, the idea of venturing into a cemetery alone after her scare in the Metro station suddenly felt too risky.
Gilda pulled some blueberries out of the refrigerator, mixed them with a dollop of yogurt, and sat down in front of the television. Unable to find anything worth watching, she stood up and paced around the apartment, thinking about the tangled maze of clues that seemed to grow ever more complicated and dangerous. What if that man knows where I live? she wondered. What if he’s been conducting surveillance and already knows all about my investigation?
She examined the walls of the living room, wondering if there was any possibility her apartment was bugged. We are always being watched, Boris Volkov had complained.
“Okay, Gilda—just stop it,” Gilda told herself. “You’re getting too paranoid.”
Feeling the need to get her mind off her investigation for at least a few minutes, Gilda decided to do something she usually avoided: she called her mother. “Hi, Mom.”
“Gilda! How are you?”
“Pretty good. I guess.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No.” Gilda wasn’t about to tell her mother that a suspicious-looking man had been staring at her with great interest in the Metro station.
“What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, really. You know—just working hard. Same old, same old.” It was a banal expression she often heard her mother use with coworkers.
“I’m sure something interesting must be going on in the nation’s capital.”
“Not really.” Maybe this is how spies live with their families, Gilda thought. There are so many details they have to keep secret, they end up saying nothing at all.
“What about you?” Gilda asked. “Any luck with your dating profile?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, today was my day off from work, and I met a nice gentleman for coffee.”
“What kind of ‘nice gentleman’? Did he meet the qualifications I outlined in your posting?”
“I don’t think anyone could meet those qualifications.”
“That would be the ideal, though.”
“Maybe for one of us.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Tell me about your date!”
“Please do not yell into the phone, Gilda.”
“Sorry. I just need to know what kinds of ‘gentlemen callers’ to expect when I get back home.” Gilda walked into her bedroom and pulled open the blinds. “I need to prepare my interview questions for when they come to the house to pick you up.”
“I don’t think this man will be coming to the house.”
“One of the crazies, huh?”
“He was a little older than I expected.”
Maybe you were a little older than he expected, too, Gilda thought.
“He’s a widower, so we had that aspect in common. It was just odd; he kept talking about his deceased wife.”
“That’s very loyal of him.”
“But it’s not the kind of thing you do on a date. It was a little off-putting, to be honest. I almost began to feel that she was sitting at the table right there with us.”
“Maybe she was.” Gilda pictured her mother and an elderly man sitting at a small table at Starbucks. Next to them were two ghosts—the ghost of her father and the ghost of the man’s wife. “Maybe she was there.”
�
��Oh—but there was one funny surprise.”
“He likes knitting and bowling, too?”
“I looked over, and who do I see at a nearby table but your brother and your friend Wendy just sitting there drinking Frappuccinos.”
“You saw what??!!” What on earth was Wendy doing drinking Frappuccinos with Stephen? Even more appalling: why was she hearing this news from her mother?
“They were pretty surprised to see me, too.”
“What were they doing? Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me anything??”
“Gilda, they were just working on a problem from their math camp together. Seems they got paired up on an advanced project of some kind, and on their way home they decided to stop for coffee and try to do some work. I can’t make heads or tails of that stuff; I really don’t know how your brother knows how to—”
“I can’t believe Wendy didn’t call to tell me that. She owes me several letters and phone calls.”
“Gilda, I’m sure she’s just as busy as you are.”
“Believe me, she’s much less busy than I am. Nobody is as busy as I am right now.”
“Honey, maybe you need some sleep. You sound a little grouchy.”
You’d be grouchy, too, if you were being haunted by Abraham Lincoln and stalked by a short man with a red beard while also trying to train a group of children to become spies within a week, Gilda thought.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Gilda, “I just realized I left something on the stove.”
“Are you eating any vegetables? I hope you’re taking a vitamin, because—”
“I’ll call you back later, Mom. Bye!” Gilda hung up and immediately dialed Wendy’s number.
“Hey!” Wendy answered. “I was just about to call you.”
“Is there something you want to share with me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Frappuccinos with Stephen? My mother on a date? No phone calls to report on any of the above?”
“Oh—that.”
“Yes—that.”
“It wasn’t a big deal, Gilda. Your mom didn’t look too into that guy; he kind of looked like someone’s grandpa or something. I doubt you’ll be seeing him again.”
“The point is, you should have told me about it.”
“But you always have a stress fit about that stuff.”
“I’m not having a ‘stress fit.’ Although I’m not sure exactly what a ‘stress fit’ even means. Is that some kind of Chinese term?”
“You know what I mean.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What about your math date with Stephen?!”
“This problem we were working on was super-difficult, and Stephen’s been giving me a ride to camp during the past few days—”
“Stephen’s been giving you a ride to camp?”
“I mean, we’re both going to the same place.”
“But you didn’t tell me that.”
“I’m telling you now.”
Now isn’t soon enough, Gilda thought. That’s the problem with being a spy based in another city; all the regular people you want to keep tabs on keep going about their business and you lose track of them.
“Anyway,” Wendy continued, “we stopped at the coffee shop to sit down and work on this assignment.”
“Does Stephen get on your nerves when you’re riding in his car?”
“No. He’s actually really nice.”
“Because when I ride with him in his car he always tells me, ‘Stop touching stuff.’”
“Well, I didn’t change the radio station every two minutes or grab the rearview mirror to check my lipstick, so I guess he didn’t have to.”
“I bet he’s acting dweeby at math camp. Is he making jokes about numbers and stuff like that?”
“He’s actually one of the cool ones at math camp.”
“No way.”
“Gilda, your brother is really smart.”
“He gets that from me.”
“He’s funny, too.”
“Again—from me.”
“And he’s kind of cute.”
Gilda felt a seismic shift taking place in her friendship with Wendy, as if everything she had always counted on was getting ready to change. “Omigod. Are you actually telling me you’re in love with a doofus?”
“I’m not in love with him. Maybe just a little crush.”
“That is so sick.”
“Why is it sick?”
“You’re practically like my sister. It’s illegal, Wendy.”
“I’m not your sister.”
“How long has this little infatuation been going on?”
“Not very long. I mean, I always thought he was kind of cute—”
“You always thought my brother was ‘kind of cute,’ and you never told me?”
“Because I knew you would act this way. And I don’t necessarily tell you every single thought that passes through my head.”
“Why not? I’d be interested.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Wendy, I just think you should know that my brother can be really gross. My mom told me that once, when he was a baby, he ate his own poop.”
“I assume he doesn’t do that anymore.”
“When he goes in the bathroom, he stays in there a really long time. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“I’m sure he would appreciate you talking this way about him.”
Gilda looked out the window and felt her spirits lift ever so slightly when she found she could peer directly into the bathroom window of the suit-wearing man whom she thought of as “the politician.” He was gazing into a mirror and shaving his chin very carefully. “Is this a mutual thing between you and Stephen?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it was his idea to go get a coffee together and work on this project. And we had a really great conversation. I guess we’re friends.”
Why does that bother me? Gilda wondered. “Hey, I know! I’ll call my brother and find out if he’s going to ask you on a date, and then I’ll give you the scoop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t you want to know if he thinks you’re cute?”
“You won’t be able to find out.”
“I’m a spy, Wendy; it’s my job.”
“He wouldn’t tell you. And besides, if you say anything about it, he’ll think of me as your little friend instead of a potential girlfriend.”
“But you are my little friend.”
“You know what I mean. Like, ever since math camp, Stephen sees me differently. Before, he never knew that I was smart or cute or a real person or anything; he just thought we were little kids doing dumb stuff around the house.”
That’s why it bugs me that she likes Stephen, Gilda thought. “Wendy, Stephen wouldn’t know a psychic investigation if it came up and bit him on his skinny butt.” Gilda resented Stephen’s skeptical and often condescending attitude toward her interest in paranormal phenomena. It sometimes seemed that no matter what she did, he always thought of her as a mere “little sister.”
“Just don’t say anything to him, Gilda. Promise?”
“Okay.” Gilda sighed. “I promise I won’t say anything.”
Dear Dad:
I just learned that Wendy and Stephen are “friends,” and that Wendy goes for the dweeby type. I should be happy, shouldn’t I? Wendy’s my best friend and Stephen’s my brother.
But what if they become boyfriend and girlfriend and then, every time Wendy comes over to our house, she only wants to see Stephen and not me? Worse: what if the two of them become boyfriend and girlfriend and then they break up after Wendy realizes that Stephen really can be a doofus? Wendy would probably never want to come over to our house anymore.
What do you think, Dad?
I remember what you used to tell me when I’d worry about something one of my friends did. You’d say, “Keep your eye on your own game, Gilda.” Like--stop trying to control what happens with other people so much.
Gilda watched with fascination as the man in the window secured his hair with a cap and began carefully applying makeup: thick foundation, then blush, powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara.
When he was nearly finished, he seemed to realize that he had left the blinds up and pulled them shut abruptly, blocking Gilda’s view.
It’s amazing what you can learn about people just by peeking in their windows, Gilda thought.
She crawled into bed but she couldn’t sleep. She felt strangely uneasy being in the apartment by herself. Every sound seemed magnified: footsteps pacing overhead in the room above hers, the hum of the refrigerator, the rush of the air conditioner, the sounds of murmuring voices and keys turning in hallway locks.
I wish Caitlin would get home, Gilda thought. I’d tell her about decoding the message and the man on the Metro.
But Caitlin didn’t get home; she had gone to meet some coworkers at an after-work “happy hour” gathering that was showing signs of morphing into a club-hopping late night.
When the flashing lights began their rhythmic blinking, illuminating her blinds like a bright neon sign (on, off, on, off), Gilda squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head under a pillow. She finally fell asleep that way, never seeing the pale face watching her from the vanity table mirror—a ghostly face with dark eyes, a bloodstained forehead, and a perfect red star around her neck.
26
The Graffiti Ghost
April pointed accusingly at a graffiti-covered wall. She had called an emergency meeting with her Spy Camp counselors because something had been discovered earlier that morning in the “Cold War in East Berlin” exhibit—a portion of the museum designed to re-create the experience of being a spy in the Communist-controlled sector of Berlin.
At first, Gilda couldn’t tell what April was so upset about, because the graffiti-spattered city wall spray-painted with the phrase “THE COLDEST PLACE ON EARTH” looked just the same as it always had. Near the wall there was a model of a Berlin café, a black sedan parked next to an old-fashioned telephone booth, and a government office that contained sinister-looking jars of scented rags—bits of clothing used to set attack dogs on the trail of any individual regarded as “suspicious” by the secret police.