The Dead Drop

by Jennifer Allison

  Caitlin squinted at the handwriting. “What I don’t see in Boris’s handwriting is any evidence of tension—those little angry strokes where the pen presses into the paper too hard. Whereas I see a lot of that in the message you photographed.

  “Now this guy Boris has an ego, for sure, but he’s got a lot of openings at the tops of his letters, suggesting more openness in his personality. My sense is that he’s really more interested in seeking connections with people than hiding things from them, whereas this other person in the photographed message doesn’t ever want anyone to know what he’s up to. He’s probably one of those people who even keeps secrets from himself. My guess is that he started off as a petty grudge-holder who evolved into someone with criminal tendencies—mainly because he strikes me as the kind of person who blames others for all his problems.”

  “In that case, I guess I should remove Boris from my list of suspects.” Gilda sighed and rested her chin in her hand.

  “What’s wrong? That isn’t the answer you expected?”

  “It’s not that . . .” Gilda liked Boris, so she was glad he was no longer a suspect. On the other hand, she now had absolutely no idea who a more plausible suspect might be.

  “Isn’t this just a game for the Spy Museum? I mean, it seems like you’re taking it so seriously.”

  “It isn’t a game at all!” Gilda blurted. She suddenly realized that while she had shown Caitlin the photograph of the dead-drop message and mentioned the mysterious flashing lights in their building, she had never had a chance to explain all the facts of her investigation. Caitlin knew nothing about her discovery in the cemetery or the haunting in the museum.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on with you?” Caitlin asked. “As your substitute mom for the summer, I demand to know.”

  “It’s kind of complicated.” Gilda took a deep breath and described everything—finding the fake rock that contained the cryptic message, the dreams in which a dead woman’s face appeared, the spooky events in the Spy Museum.

  “Gilda, I’m glad I know you well enough to know you aren’t crazy, because if you had told me all that on the first day you moved in, I probably would have had to put you back on a plane bound for Michigan. But now that we’re friends—aren’t roommates supposed to tell each other what’s going on? Why didn’t you tell me about all of this before?”

  “A real spy wouldn’t need to tell anyone.”

  “Oh, poo on being a ‘real spy.’ Listen, Gilda, you’re human, and you have to be able to trust somebody. People get weird when they keep too many secrets.”

  “I guess.”

  “Besides, maybe I could help.”

  “Well, the problem I have now is that I can’t connect the clues in the museum with all the other pieces of the puzzle.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.” Gilda showed Caitlin the poem by Anna Akhmatova. She explained how the name Anna had appeared on a wall in the museum and how the phrase “the last meeting” had mysteriously appeared in a photograph.

  Caitlin read the poem. “I like this poem,” she said, thoughtfully. “It sounds like she had a love affair and this is about their last meeting.” She chewed on a coffee stirrer and thought for a moment. “I know!”

  “What?”

  “The Alley of the Russian Poets!”

  “What’s that?”

  Caitlin leaned for ward and whispered, as if she and Gilda were plotting something. “If I were a mole in the D.C. intelligence community, I think the Alley of the Russian Poets would be the perfect signal site. It’s a walkway lined with stones that look like little tombstones with the names of Russian poets—and there’s a tree planted for each poet. I’m almost positive I’ve seen a stone engraved with this poet’s name—Anna Akhmatova. It’s perfect! It’s walking distance from Oak Hill Cemetery; it’s just down the street from the Russian Embassy, next to Guy Mason Park.”

  Hearing Caitlin’s description, Gilda felt an electric charge of energy coursing through her veins. It sounds a lot like the dream I had where I was walking through a maze of tiny tombstones, she thought. She jumped up from the table, feeling as if she didn’t have a second to lose. “Thanks soooo much, Caitlin. You’ve been the best substitute mom ever!”

  “You’re going there now?”

  “I just have this feeling I have to act fast.” Gilda again recalled the words from her dream: “You’re getting closer, but you must hurry.”

  33

  The Alley of the Russian Poets

  Nobody would suspect that the Alley of the Russian Poets was also a spy’s signal site. The peaceful, tree-lined path was marked with carved stones—each engraved with a Russian poet’s name. Someone had left a red rose at the foot of each stone in tribute to the poets.

  Nearby, parents led children to and from a small brick building used for recreational activities and a tiny garden where bees and butterflies hovered over wilting hydrangeas, lilies, and fox-gloves.

  Gilda felt giddy to discover the stone dedicated to Anna Akhmatova. Look for my usual signal, the spy had written, blue gum marking Anna.

  There, stuck to the side of the stone was a wad of blue chewing gum! It looked so innocuous and ordinary, Gilda never would have noticed the gum if she hadn’t been looking for it.

  That must mean he or she has just made a drop of information.

  Gilda knew she had to act fast, before the mole’s contact picked up the information. I have to try to get a photograph of whatever secret information he or she leaves at the cemetery drop site. Maybe I’ll even catch a glimpse of the person picking up the material and get a license plate number or something. . . .

  Gilda resisted the urge to sprint down Wisconsin Avenue toward Oak Hill Cemetery. Slow down, she told herself. You need to look as if you’re merely out for a stroll in case anyone follows you.

  Gilda slowed her stride to a leisurely, casual pace, but her heart raced. The late afternoon sun sank lower in the sky, and her shadow lengthened as she made her way toward Oak Hill Cemetery.

  Act confident, Gilda reminded herself, bolstering her resolve to get to the bottom of the mystery once and for all. Never look behind.

  The cemetery was dappled with honey-colored light. As Gilda walked down the pathway, she heard the sound of mourning doves and rustling leaves. Here and there, shadows darted behind tombstones—fleeting signs of spirit activity.

  Down the steep hill, past crumbling tombstones, Gilda navigated the cracked and broken stone steps leading to the dead-drop location. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear something stirring inside one of the graves?

  Maybe it’s a deer again, she thought. Or was it the sound of a person clearing his throat?

  She approached the iron-gated mausoleum built into the hillside. Gilda froze for a moment, listening to the cooing of birds, the rustling of small animals in the leaves. When she reached the foot of the steps and turned to face the row of mausoleums, her entire body flooded with panic and nauseating disappointment at the realization that she had stepped directly into a trap.

  She wasn’t alone.

  He was already there, leaning against the tomb and waiting for her. It was the man who had followed her twice before: Redbeard.

  34

  The Master Psychic

  The psychic spy struggled to understand the vision that led him to Oak Hill Cemetery. He had clearly seen the ghost of Abraham Lincoln grieving at his dead son’s tomb; he had seen phantoms of fallen generals and spies from years past.

  Still, he knew there was some other reason he was supposed to come to the cemetery.

  Then she appeared: a teenage girl wearing a yellow sundress and cat’s-eye sunglasses at the foot of the stone steps. The psychic spy immediately recognized her pale, freckled face and dark hair from his visions. He had also seen her in the city—at the Metro station and at Ford’s Theatre. The girl bore a striking resemblance to his spirit guide, but she was several years older. And this girl was most definitely alive. />
  The psychic spy realized that the girl was terrified—ready to bolt like a young fawn.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said, hoping he could find some way to convince her that he meant no harm. “I know this sounds odd, but I’m supposed to meet you.”

  Gilda dug in her handbag, searching for her cell phone and something that might work as a weapon. She grabbed her apartment keys, thinking these would have to suffice as a means of defending herself against Redbeard if needed. Go for vulnerable parts of the attacker’s body, a self-defense handbook she had read advised.

  “I should introduce myself,” said the psychic spy. “My name is Balthazar Frobenius.”

  Gilda stopped digging through her purse. Her mouth fell open. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

  “I realize it’s a pretty outlandish name.”

  “You mean—you’re the Balthazar Frobenius—the great psychic?!”

  “You know about me?”

  Gilda dropped her apartment keys and pulled her tattered Master Psychic’s Handbook from her purse instead. She waved the book in the air. “I carry this with me everywhere!”

  Throughout his career, Balthazar had been surrounded by people craving answers, but he had never really had a true fan—someone who genuinely wanted to follow in his footsteps. The realization that this girl knew so much about him actually scared him a little.

  Balthazar chuckled nervously as Gilda handed him her book, which bore the stains of quite a few peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwiches. “Ah, yes.” He flipped through the pages and gazed at the book with nostalgia. “That book is probably still my best work.”

  “It changed my entire life! I know most of it by heart.” Gilda took the dog-eared book from Balthazar and stuffed it back into her bag. “You know, if there had been an author portrait of you on your book, I would have recognized you. I mean, I assumed you were just a weird stalker or something.”

  “I doubt you would have recognized me even if there had been a picture in that book. It was published many years ago and most of my old friends would say that my looks have declined terribly.” He patted his belly. “This is all muscle, though,” he joked. “Anyway, these days I prefer to stay incognito.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Gilda whispered. “Are we both working on the same case?”

  “I was hoping you could help me answer that question. During the past few weeks I’ve been completely unable to work because the most intense visions keep interrupting me. Some of them are people . . .” Balthazar thought of the pale woman and the images of Gilda herself that had interrupted his remote viewing sessions. “Some are very specific places in the city. What’s unusual for me is that I have no idea what I’m really looking for.”

  Gilda nodded. “I know the feeling.” She walked along the stones lining the path, searching for the one special stone that was actually a secret container. All the stones looked very similar, and for a moment she panicked, worried that she would never find it again. After all, she had first made the discovery accidentally.

  Finally, Gilda spotted the large, fake stone positioned in the crumbling edging of the pathway: it was slightly smoother than the others around it and it also weighed much less than its appearance suggested.

  “We’re supposed to find this.” Gilda lifted the stone and pulled it apart to reveal the interior secret compartment. She stared in awe at the contents of the concealment device. “It really happened!” she whispered.

  Balthazar stared in awe as Gilda unfolded a pile of classified documents.

  - TOP SECRET -

  Background: In 1994 the United States discontinued Project STARGATE—a program to gather foreign intelligence using remote viewing techniques. Intelligence officers in the U.S. military who were identified as having psychic potential were trained to perceive global targets using mental telepathy.

  Project MINDSCAPE continues, however, in a highly classified setting, using select psychic professionals. These highly classified contents are top secret because they reveal targets and information of interest to the United States. The information that follows is relevant to secret U.S. military and foreign policy strategy.

  Gilda flipped through the pages, reading a series of memos and notes that clearly documented recent, active attempts to spy on international targets by means of psychic readings. Balthazar has been working for the CIA! Gilda realized. But someone’s been passing along the information he discovers.

  TARGET #2: RUSSIAN DEFENSE MINISTRY (Balthazar Frobenius attempt to view secret documents) . . .

  TARGET #3: RUSSIAN MINISTRY OF ATOMIC ENERGY PRIVATE MEETING . . .

  TARGET #4: IRANIAN SUSPECTED WEAPONS FACILITY . . .

  “Mr. Frobenius—”

  “Call me Balthazar.”

  “Balthazar, do you realize your name is on each of these documents?” If he’s able to use psychic skills to perceive targets all over the world, Gilda thought, why didn’t he know about the documents in this dead drop?

  Balthazar stared at the documents. His sunburned face now looked ashen. “May I?”

  Gilda handed him the papers and he read them silently, his hand shaking with combined anger and excitement. “So that’s why I’ve been so confused and blocked! I thought this whole Project MINDSCAPE was a failure, but the truth is, the Russians have been following every reading I do!” For a moment, Balthazar felt almost happy at the notion that his psychic abilities were being tracked by other spies—that the readings had in fact been significant enough to be a source of international intrigue.

  Then he sighed wearily, realizing how blind he had been to the significance of the clues and warnings he had received. All because I wanted to feel that my work was really important to the government, he thought. He sat down on a small stone bench for mourners, rubbing his large, shiny forehead with his palms. “Now I understand. Now it all makes sense.”

  Realizing they didn’t have much time, Gilda took the documents from Balthazar and did her best to take as many pictures as she could for evidence. She was eager to ask Balthazar about a million questions, but she was also worried that the foreign spy picking up the information drop would turn up while they were still loitering near the mausoleums.

  “Gilda,” said Balthazar, “I’ll tell you something that isn’t in that Master Psychic’s Handbook I wrote. Maybe you can learn from my mistake.”

  “What’s that?

  “Even psychics can be totally blind to difficult truths that are very close to us personally. Here I was gathering intelligence information for the CIA—my mind soaring over the globe to remote locations where I could see everything quite clearly. I thought I was doing something to protect my country and others around the world. Meanwhile, right next to me was a source of destruction—that blasted Loomis Trench!”

  “Loomis Trench?!” Gilda remembered the man with square glasses who had challenged Boris Volkov during the Spy Museum lecture. “Omigod—I think I met that guy at the Spy Museum! He was so weird. He was really uptight, and then he made a big scene.”

  Balthazar chuckled ruefully. “Yes, that sounds like him. Loomis is the man I’ve been reporting to at the CIA. He’s heading up a secret arm of something the CIA used to call the remote viewing program. They used to train military servicemen to develop psychic skills, but Loomis—in his great wisdom—decided to hire me. But I guess I wasn’t psychic enough to perceive the mole working right next to me—Loomis himself!”

  “So Loomis Trench is definitely the CIA mole—the guy who’s passing along this information?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “But—how do you know he’s the one who’s doing it?”

  “I just know. I’ve had too many visions that point in that direction. . . . Yes—on this one, I have to trust my gut. Not that my gut has been particularly trustworthy lately.” He shook his head and looked dejected.

  “Balthazar, don’t be too hard on yourself for not knowing that guy Loomis was a mole. I mean, I’ve had t
he same best friend for years, and I never realized until a few days ago that she has a crush on my brother!”

  “A very similar situation,” said Balthazar, sarcastically.

  “Oh, and I also never knew my mom likes dancing and ‘the nightlife’ until I read her online dating profile. You’d think I’d know my own mother better than that.”

  Balthazar suddenly tensed as if he were a rabbit sensing the approach of a predator. “We need to go,” he whispered. “Someone is coming.”

  Gilda turned to head back up the steps, but Balthazar took her arm. “No,” he whispered. “We have to go this way.”

  They walked down the path, taking a circuitous route through rows of tombs, then back up the hill.

  When they approached the entrance to the cemetery, Balthazar quickly pulled Gilda aside just as a dark-haired woman pushing a stroller entered the cemetery and headed in the direction of the dead-drop location.

  Gilda was sure she had seen this same woman leaving the Russian Embassy before. The perfect cover, Gilda thought. You think you’re seeing a mother taking her child for an evening stroll when in reality you’re witnessing a Russian spy collecting U.S. intelligence. It’s all happening right before our eyes, and if you only glance at the surface, you never know what’s really going on.

  “What do we do now?” Gilda whispered.

  “I don’t know about you,” said Balthazar, “but I’m hungry. How about discussing a plan over a plate of macaroni and cheese?”

  “I guess I’m kind of hungry, too,” said Gilda.

  “Good. Come on; let’s find a taxi. You’ll be amazed when you see the place I have in mind.”

  35

  The Mansion on O Street

  You’ll find this place interesting,” said Balthazar, punching in a secret code that gave him access to the Mansion on O Street—a group of interlinked Victorian houses near Dupont Circle. “It’s a very unique hotel because it’s also an art gallery, a restaurant, and an antiques emporium all mixed up together. It’s the perfect place to stay when you’re working on something covert because the owner never reveals the names of her guests.” Balthazar explained that lots of celebrities stayed at the Mansion when they visited D.C. “I’m no celebrity, but I like to pretend I’m one now and then.” He winked at Gilda.