The Eagle

by Jillian Dodd

  I have a million questions I want to ask Terrance. Like does the CIA know what I do? Who I am? Or about Black X?

  "I've been doing some digging. There is nothing about your school anymore. It's like it didn't exist at all. And no one I've talked to has ever heard of Black X. There are, of course, black missions that are completely off the books, and there are rumblings of other double-black groups that do some of the CIA's dirty work, but not one named Black X. I also found out that when I went to Montrovia, I tenured my resignation to the CIA, citing a new job in the private sector."

  "I'm going to be in town for at least a few days," I say randomly. "Then who knows where we'll decide to go. How about you?"

  "Needless to say, the resignation was forged. I thought I was still working for the CIA. It stands to reason that I am now working for Black X, just like you."

  "And did you win big at The Casino?"

  "Yes, actually, it appears Black X pays quite handsomely. By direct deposit." I start to open my mouth to speak. He puts his hand up. "Before you ask, no. I tried, but couldn't trace where the money came from."

  "I don't know. Maybe Paris," I reply randomly.

  "The reason I brought you here is to tell you that I was able to access one of the files on the locket. It's a photo nearly identical to the one of the proposed Terra Project that was in Ophelia's home."

  "What?" I say, not able to mask my response. I catch myself and start laughing, then punch Terrance in the shoulder. "You're silly," I say, rolling my eyes and flirting with him.

  I look up and see Mike Burnes headed in our direction.

  "Terrance, my boy," he says, laying his hand on Terrance's shoulder. "How have you been?"

  "Very well, thank you. Have you met Miss Von Allister?"

  "We met at the bar. Good to see you again, Huntley. How do you two know each other?"

  "We met in Montrovia," Terrance says at the same time I say, "We met at the Royal Casino."

  I smile at Terrance and laugh. "We met at the Royal Casino in Montrovia. I was on a bit of a lucky streak at the roulette table. On a dare, Terrance asked if he could rub me for luck. It made me laugh, and we became instant friends."

  "How lovely," he says.

  "So how do you and Terrance know each other?" I ask, curious to hear his reply.

  "Terrance is quite talented."

  "I know! He's great with the computer! He managed to find me the vintage Chanel bag I have been searching for!" I act very excited.

  The director actually looks surprised and gives Terrance a curious glance. "Well, isn't that great. Terrance helped me out doing something similar."

  "Wow." I smile at Terrance. "Now, I'm really impressed."

  "I just wanted to drop by and say hello. How is the new job going?"

  "I definitely have more free time," Terrance replies with a grin.

  "Good to hear," he says.

  Neither of us speaks until we watch him exit the building.

  When Terrance starts to say something, I bug my eyes out then tap his shoulder in the exact spot the CIA director touched it.

  "Excuse me," he says. "I'm going to use the men's room."

  While he's gone, the waiter brings our drinks, appetizer, and dessert.

  "Son of a bitch," Terrance says when he returns. "He put a bug on me. I left my suit jacket hanging in a stall. Alright, back to business. What does Ophelia's plan to end the monarchy in Montrovia have to do with your mother's death?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you have any idea at all what the password might be?"

  "No. She didn't tell me anything."

  "Do you know what she was working on?"

  "Honestly, I can't recall much of my past. It's like when she died, so did my memories."

  "That can happen in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. What did she tell you when she gave you the locket?"

  "No, it couldn't be that easy." I jolt back in my seat, realization hitting me.

  "What couldn't be that easy?"

  "Did you try Top Secret as the password for the encryption?"

  "No, why would--wait, that's what she told you?"

  "Yes. Those were her exact words."

  "That seems too easy," he says, "but I'll give it a whirl as soon as I'm somewhere secure."

  "Are you on a new mission?"

  "Actually, yes. I'm working with my hacker friend in Montrovia trying to track down the man who assassinated the President. I assume going after him will be your next mission."

  "Are you making any progress?"

  "Black X seems to know who the assassin is, but has no idea where he is. They also figured out how he was contacted when he took the hit. We're waiting to see if he is contacted again, and if not, we may try to lay a trap. The problem is we don't know his protocol and are afraid he would know it was a trap and then you would be in extreme danger." He smiles at me. "And we wouldn't want the girl who is all over the Internet carrying a patriotic handbag to the President's swearing in to be in danger."

  "Shut up," I say, smacking him playfully and stealing the dessert.

  When I get in my car, I open the envelope Terrance shoved in my bag. The photo is nearly identical to the one found in Ophelia's home. I don't understand why my mom would have this photo or why it would be top secret.

  My thought process is interrupted by a call from one of the Kates, letting me know she is on her way to my father's home and would like to speak with me in the study.

  When I tell her Lorenzo's staff has taken over both the study and the dining room, she says, "Fine, your closet."

  When I arrive, she's waiting for me with a stack of articles in hand.

  "Your photo from the swearing in is in papers all over the world today. The tabloids are discussing your relationships with both King Vallenta and the First Son, and the fashion magazines are praising your attire. The dress and handbag you have on in this photo sold out of stores within minutes, and we're getting calls asking if you have an agent. This social media storm is not something we anticipated, but after much discussion, we have decided to go with it. All of this just continues to strengthen your cover."

  "Kate, who do you work for?"

  "The people who employ you."

  "Do you know who that is? What their name is? Have you met them? Do you work with other agents? How did you get hired? Who pays you?"

  She looks down. "I'm afraid I'm not authorized to answer those questions."

  "Do you actually know any of the answers to those questions?"

  She shakes her head. "Not exactly. My father was a five-star general who was killed in the Pentagon on 9-11. When I was recruited, I was told my job would combine my degree and experience with helping the fight for our country. That's all I needed to know. And I'll admit, shopping for you and Ari has been a whole lot of fun. Since the swearing in, we've been working nonstop. We've created a website for you and hired a secretary to handle your calls. You've had numerous offers to appear on magazine covers and in advertisements. I'm told that you may be allowed to do some of these things."

  "Told by who?"

  "My boss."

  "And how does your boss contact you?"

  "Secure messaging. How do you feel about doing interviews?"

  "I would prefer not to. Tell them I value my privacy."

  "That will make them want you all the more."

  "Kate, this is a dangerous game. What if someone figures out I'm not who I say I am?"

  "They won't. I'm told your cover goes back to birth, and your legend is fully legitimate."

  "Still, I'm not ready for that kind of thing."

  "Will you at least start posting some photos on your social media accounts once in a while? You've gone from a few hundred followers to four million since you went to Montrovia."

  "Are you serious?"

  "You're the new It girl, Huntley. You might as well embrace it."

  Ari and I enter the Domino Room at the Cafe Milagro in Georgetown from a side door. After seeing the Washi
ngton A-listers gathered inside, I'm shocked the streets aren't filled with paparazzi. In attendance are the host of a political news show, a famous choreographer, a former Secretary of State, a retired general whose memoirs are a best seller, a television network founder, a Super-Bowl-winning quarterback, and from the entertainment world, the trifecta of an Academy-award-winning actress, a Tony-award-winning actor, and members from a Grammy-winning-country band.

  Sissy and Bill are wonderful hosts and introduce Ari and I to nearly everyone. I'm having a really enjoyable time.

  Until the Director of the CIA makes a beeline toward me. "It's nice to see you again."

  "It's nice to see you, as well. This is quite the gathering."

  "Sissy is the ultimate hostess. I don't really do dinner parties, but I meet the most interesting mix of people at hers that I always try to attend. I was hoping to possibly speak to you in private."

  "About what?"

  "Why don't we step outside."

  Merda. He knows.

  "You have certainly come onto the scene fast," he says, repeating the same words Daniel said to me earlier in reference to why he didn't talk to me after the kidnapping. "I've been seeing your picture everywhere."

  "I suppose when you inherit billions that's normal?" I shrug. "Not sure, it's my first time."

  "Possibly, but it's not often that someone becomes so quickly entrenched with the rich and powerful set. How did you?"

  "Oh, that's easy to answer. We got invited to a gala and were seated with Peter Prescott and his girlfriend, Allie, Daniel, and Senator and Mrs. Callan. We mentioned we were going to Montrovia for the race and, well, honestly, Allie sort of invited them to come with us. Then Daniel ended up coming to Montrovia, too."

  "And did you meet the Prince through them?"

  "Actually, no. Ari and I were shopping when Lorenzo decided on a whim to drop by his tailor's. He offered me his opinion on a tie I was picking out and then invited me to a party that night. I didn't go, though."

  Mike Burnes has a genuine look of surprise on his face. "Why not?"

  "We met this group of English lads at dinner who were a lot of fun. We ended up at The Casino, I got lucky playing roulette, and kind of forgot about it."

  "I don't suppose the Prince was used to being stood up."

  "It wasn't like a date. I assumed he invited numerous people to the party and wouldn't miss me in the least. Anyway, we made some new friends at The Casino and threw an impromptu party at our villa the next day. Daniel showed up with the Prince, and that's when he and I became friends."

  "I understand you were with him during the attempts on his life."

  "That was scary, but the kidnapping was--for lack of a better word, traumatic. I thought I was going to die."

  "Your brother has an interesting background. Did you know he trained at a CIA facility but then dropped out?"

  "Yeah, he told me. Not that it did us much good during the kidnapping, but whatever."

  "It's possible you could help serve your country."

  "And how would I do that?"

  "By passing along information to us from time to time."

  "You want me to be a snitch?"

  "We prefer to call it an informant."

  "Why me?"

  "I was told by the British agent who rescued you that you were cool under pressure and had managed to get your hands untied. He thinks you're smart and resourceful."

  "Did he also tell you that he bought me an expensive evening bag and tried to recruit me himself before we got kidnapped?"

  "He did not."

  "Of course, at that point, I thought his story of being a British agent was just a way to get in my pants."

  The Director chuckles. "So will you be there if your country needs you?"

  "I'm not sure. What would you want me to do? Like, give me an example."

  "Say you are at the Royal Casino in Montrovia and there's a Russian billionaire who we think is moving arms to the bad guys."

  "Like prosthetic arms?" I ask with a straight face, acting totally ditzy.

  "Uh, what? Oh, no. I mean arms, like ammunition."

  I giggle. "Oh, duh. Sorry. My brother was watching some show about this military guy who got his arm blown off and had this almost robotic one. That's the first thing that popped into my mind."

  He studies me, and I can tell he's thinking I am an idiot. And quite honestly, I'd prefer him to think of me exactly that way.

  "Anyway, he's a bad guy."

  I nod, pretending to follow. "Got it."

  "We want you to make friends with him, maybe let him buy you a drink."

  "But I don't want to be friends with a bad guy."

  "You would pretend."

  "Oh, okay. Wait. Why would I do that?"

  "Because we need time to search his car for clues."

  "So, I'd be like a decoy. A distraction?"

  "Yes. Exactly."

  I make a little pouty face.

  "Does that not sound like something you could do?"

  "No, it does. I just thought it would be more exciting. Like I'd be searching for clues or something."

  "Well, you could do that, too. If you were talking to the Russian and you overheard a clue, you'd want to tell us."

  "This might be a stupid question, but why would I care if the guy is selling weapons? The CIA sells weapons."

  "Maybe he's selling them to terrorists."

  "What kind of weapons?"

  "He dabbles in all kinds of things: RPGs, AKS-74Us, MG4s. Nasty stuff."

  "Sounds serious, all those letter and numbers. I'm not sure someone like me would know what those things are."

  "You wouldn't necessarily have to know--"

  "Although, honestly," I interrupt, "if I were a terrorist, I'd probably be more interested in the L-85 assault rifle or maybe something like a RPK-12 light machine gun. Unless I really wanted to do some serious damage, then I might need an RPG-7 or a nice little Stinger rocket launcher."

  "Were you playing dumb with me, before?"

  "You were talking to me like I was, so I thought I would fulfill your wishes."

  "How do you know what an L-85 assault rifle is?"

  "Battleground," I say with a grin.

  He rolls his eyes. "You kids and your damn video games."

  "Can we try it now?"

  "Try what now?"

  "Point to someone and tell me what you want to know about them."

  "Hmm." He scans the room and then gestures. "Over there is Senator Martin Vanderbilt. He's very protective of his family after a kidnapping scare a few years ago. He rarely speaks of them in public and would never give out any pertinent details. I want to know where his children are going to summer camp."

  A few minutes later, I'm at the bar when the Director wanders over. "Ready to admit to defeat?"

  "No, I was just grabbing a drink. His twelve-year old son, Austin, and his fourteen-year old daughter, Beatrice, are going to Lakeland Camp in the Adirondacks. Apparently, it's a family tradition. His college-aged son attended when he was younger and even served as a camp counselor. He also tried to set me up with said son, whose name is Nathaniel and who is very close by as he attends Georgetown Law School."

  The man raises his eyebrow at me just slightly, showing a hint of surprise. "You did well. So, will you do it?"

  "If it doesn't put me in danger," I shrug. "Sure, why not?"

  "Good to hear. I actually have a mission for you."

  "Um, okay?"

  "This week the King is hosting a state dinner at the Montrovian Embassy. I'm told Aleksandr Nikolaevich may be in attendance."

  "Is that Viktor's father?"

  "Yes."

  "And what does he have to do with anything?"

  "There are rumors that his international shipping company may be smuggling arms to people we don't want to have them."

  "I don't know about that, but the man sure builds a gorgeous yacht."

  "Just keep your ears open, and if you hear anything of int
erest, call me directly," he says, then hands me a card with his cell number written on the back.

  I take the card and put it in my clutch. I mean, it couldn't hurt to have the Director of the CIA on speed dial.

  After dinner, I pull Ari aside. "The Director of the CIA just recruited me to be an informant. I suspect he will try to recruit you too."

  "Do you think he knows the truth about us?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Which means our cover runs very deep." Ari eyes one of the members of the country band, a beautiful brunette, and says, "Which is a good thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have some hunting to do."

  "Does that mean I should see myself home?"

  "I'll let you know later, but I sure hope so."

  I'm getting ready to text my driver when I hear Mike Burnes speaking in hushed tones on his phone as he's heading for the exit. I don't know why, but I follow him, watching as he rounds the corner and meets up with someone.

  I keep my body flat against the building and then stealthily peek around the corner. Neither man is facing my direction but rather standing face-to-face, giving me a view of their profiles.

  The man he's speaking to is tall and wearing a trench coat and hat, which is weird considering it's not cold or rainy out.

  I move closer in an attempt to better hear their conversation, using a dumpster as cover.

  I have no reason to be back here. It's dark, and smart young women don't walk down alleys alone at night.

  "You're not going to like this," the man in the trench coat says. "We believe that the assassin known as The Priest made the hit on the President. There is no one else who could have done this."

  "That's impossible. He's been dead since--"

  "Since he was double-crossed and killed by whomever ordered the hit on one of our best agents and her daughter six years ago."

  My ears perk up, and there's a burning sensation at the pit of my stomach. Is the agent he's talking about my mother?

  "It's hard to believe we never found her daughter's body," the director says, shaking his head and looking sad. "I just pray whatever he did to her was over quickly." He pauses. "Hard to believe she'd be eighteen by now."

  Are they talking about me? About my body? Do they think I'm dead? No, it can't be me. There must be another agent who was killed in that timeframe. Who had a daughter the same age as me.

  The director continues. "What proof do you have that The Priest is alive?"

  "There was a woman he was thought to be tied to. After some research, we discovered she was killed in a suspicious auto accident four years ago."