“What if they change the security codes on the satellites?” Armstrong asked. “What if we can't hack into the system to reroute the missiles we choose? What if—”
“Is that what you're paying me for? Or am I wrong?” Vincent's voice crackled with anger. “I think we're done here, Bob. I obviously have a few calls to make.”
“No! No, all right. We'll pay. In advance. I'll have the money ready.”
“Make sure you do. Because if your client tries to screw me, I might test the program myself.”
“Brilliant!” Wilson crowed, removing his headphones after hearing the playback a second time.
He and Sydney were sitting in his office, evaluating the conversation she'd recorded at SST. Sydney had been so excited that she'd rushed straight to him after her intern shift, despite the fact she was still dressed as Kristin Jarvis. Her makeup was intact, although her uncomfortable blond wig now lay on the seat of an extra chair.
“You've cracked it, Sydney,” he said, beaming.
“And it's on tape,” she added proudly. “That ought to help at trial.”
Wilson's analysis had matched her own: Owen Vincent's software enabled its user to hack into the satellite guidance system of airborne missiles, potentially turning a country's own missiles against it or “stealing” them for use on completely differ-ent targets. The program was a terrorist's dream. Worse, the potential for international misunderstandings was huge. What would India do, for example, if one of Pakistan's “test” missiles landed on the Taj Mahal?
“It's going to be very helpful,” he said. “But before we arrest anybody, we need to play this out—and we need that program. If Vincent hasn't actually finished it, and he hasn't actually sold anything . . .”
“Then we don't actually have a case,” Sydney finished for him.
“Exactly. Not to mention the applications that software could have for our military. I want it, Sydney. If anyone's going to use that program, it might as well be us.”
“So what do we do next?”
“I'll call a meeting tomorrow morning. We'll get you and Noah in here together. Graham too . . . maybe a few other agents. Now that we know what Vincent's up to, we ought to be able to firm up a plan.”
“Not tomorrow morning,” Sydney begged. “I have a history quiz.”
Wilson laughed. “And world peace hangs on that?”
“No, but my grade might. If you don't want to see me in summer school . . .”
“Come right after your quiz, then,” he said, relenting. “I guess we can spare a couple more hours, since the program's not finished anyway.”
“I'll be here. But speaking of quizzes, I'd better get going now. I have some studying to do.”
“Knock 'em dead. See you tomorrow.”
She was halfway out his door when he unexpectedly spoke again. “And Sydney? Fantastic work. You just keep getting better.”
She flashed him a thrilled smile, ecstatic to have earned his praise, and all the way to the elevator she never felt the floor. She actually had to blink back tears as she stepped into the empty car.
Everything else in her life might be chaos, but Wilson knew how hard she was trying. He was the only person who understood how much she sacrificed every day—and how much she had accomplished.
If my dad was half the father Wilson is to me . . . , she thought, blinking harder.
But he wasn't, and he never would be.
The elevator doors opened on SD-6's subterranean garage. Sydney stepped out and headed for her rental car, her mind already turning to all the things she still had to do that day: Drive back to the gym, change into her regular clothes, ditch the makeup and—
“Wig!” she groaned, smacking herself in the forehead.
For a moment she considered leaving it in Wilson's office and picking it up the next morning. But it didn't seem smart to leave the building wearing only half a disguise, and it could be downright dangerous to show up at school that way. If someone she knew recognized her . . .
“Good work, Supersleuth,” she muttered, turning around and stepping back into the elevator.
Wilson was still in his office when she went down the hall. His door was closed, but she could see him hunched over his computer through an interior window. She stood indecisively, watching him work, wondering if she should knock or just walk in. She hated that she even had to bother him—especially after just leaving on such a high note.
Her boss was totally absorbed in whatever he was doing. His fingers picked over the keyboard so slowly he couldn't be typing English; he had to be working in code. His obvious concentration made interrupting him even less appealing, but waiting wasn't going to make it any better. Taking a deep breath, Sydney eased his office door open, hoping to disturb him as little as possible.
She had done it so quietly he didn't notice. She could see his monitor now, slowly filling up with a code she hadn't yet learned. Feeling incredibly awkward, wishing she'd knocked after all, Sydney cleared her throat.
“Sydney!” Wilson pushed back from the computer so fast he nearly upset his chair. Regaining his balance, he reached over and hit a key, blanking out his screen. “How long have you been there?”
“I'm sorry. I just . . .” She walked over and grabbed her wig, holding it up for him to see. “I should have knocked.”
“Well, yes. But that's all right. I wasn't doing anything important.”
Sydney's breath caught in her chest. Wilson was a total pro; nothing ever showed on his face. But he was nervous now. And he was lying. She had never seen him so flustered.
“Sorry,” she repeated, backing out of his office and closing the door.
Her second trip to the elevator wasn't nearly as joyous as her first.
The fact that Wilson was sending code on his computer should have been a nonevent. He was a spy. That was what spies did. But the way he'd reacted when he saw her . . .
There were levels of security clearance at SD-6, and his was well above hers. Whatever Wilson was working on had most likely exceeded her clearance.
But still . . .
So I saw a few lines of code, she thought. Obviously I have no idea what it meant, or who he was sending it to.
The elevator came and Sydney stepped into the car, her wig dangling forgotten from one hand.
But I'd like to. And what I'd really like to know is, why did Wilson look so guilty?
7
“SO HOW DID YOU do?” Burke asked Sydney. “Let me guess—you nailed it.”
They had just emerged from the dim American history lecture hall into the bright sunshine outside, but Sydney's move to shade her eyes had more to do with not wanting to meet his gaze.
“I bombed,” she said, her throat tight with disappointment. “I tried to study last night, but I have so much on my mind . . . When I woke up this morning I'd forgotten everything.”
“You bombed,” Burke teased. “What does that mean in Sydney-speak? You got a B instead of an A?”
“I failed, Burke,” she said sharply, dropping her shading hand to look him in the face. “What part of bombed don't you understand?”
“It couldn't be as bad as—”
“It is! And I don't want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay.” He looked away from her, his eyes full of hurt confusion.
“I mean, I don't want to talk about how I did,” she amended quickly. “How about you?”
Burke shrugged, from which she deduced he'd found it easy. “It's just a quiz. This grade hardly matters.”
Maybe not to you, Sydney thought.
If Burke really understood her, he'd know how much she hated to fail at anything. With all the things she was juggling, it was unavoidable that something would fall through the cracks now and then, but that didn't mean she let herself slide. She couldn't—she wasn't wired that way.
“Besides,” Burke added, trying to cheer her up. “If you ace the final, you'll still get an A in the class.”
“Right.” Never mind tha
t all the information she'd just forgotten would be on the final too. Burke didn't get it, and for once she didn't suffer from the urge to explain it to him. There were so many things about her he could never understand; if they were going to be together, she'd have to get used to that. “I guess I'll see you later.”
“This weekend?” he asked hopefully.
“It's possible.” Although it didn't seem very likely. SpaceSoft was closed on weekends, but there was no way of knowing what else Wilson had planned for her. Not to mention that there was only a week left to study before finals started . . . “I'll call you.”
“Really?”
She tried to meet his eyes, then looked away in defeat. “I don't know,” she admitted.
“Two more weeks,” he reminded her. “Then finals are over, and you're going to be all caught up. We have an entire summer in front of us.”
She shrugged noncommittally, her head bobbing in a motion that wasn't quite a nod. How could she tell him she couldn't make summer promises either?
“Right?” he persisted.
“I guess. But now I really have to go.”
“Me too. If I sprint all the way across campus, I might still get to chem on time.”
He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then turned and started running, his long hair and loose cotton shirt flapping out behind him. His leather sandals slapped the sidewalk. His woven book bag bounced and swung to his rhythm. Sydney watched him disappear, a smile flitting over her lips.
He looks so free, she thought.
And I'm so . . . not.
Checking her watch, she felt her pulse thud into high gear. She'd promised Wilson she'd meet him at SD-6 right after her quiz. He'd be waiting for her now.
And with any luck, so would Noah.
“Let's go in there and take it,” Noah proposed. “Give me five men in body armor and those rent-a-guards at SST won't even know what hit them.”
“Commando style,” Graham said, looking impressed.
“You're not going in there shooting,” Sydney objected, thinking of all the innocent people who'd get hurt.
“I won't have to,” Noah replied with a wink. “We'll come in the front door and take you hostage. Say we're going to kill you if they don't cooperate.”
“Whatever happened to serving a warrant?” she asked, hoping he was joking.
“I don't like it,” Agent Westin said. “Sydney's new there, and not in the least important. Who's to say they won't call your bluff and sacrifice her?”
“Nobody's sacrificing anyone,” Wilson said impatiently. He lurched to his feet, looming over the head of the conference room's long polished table. “I said I wanted a plan. And so far I haven't heard one.”
In addition to Sydney, Noah, and Graham, Wilson had invited two senior agents to the tactical meeting, neither of whom Sydney had met before. Agent Westin was tall, blond, and in possession of very long legs beneath a short black skirt; she crossed and uncrossed them repeatedly, as if to make sure everyone noticed. Agent Barret was older, shorter, and conservatively dressed. He hadn't said a thing since the introductions, but his eyes flicked from speaker to speaker with total concentration.
“Barret!” Wilson barked. “Ideas?”
Agent Barret looked from Wilson to Noah then back again. “Force is always an option, but quieter is better.”
“Exactly,” said Wilson. “Besides, the software's not even done yet. I want a finished product, not a bunch of useless code.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Graham piped in, “but if I could see what Vincent's already done, I could probably finish it. I mean, I'm not bragging, but—”
“You were saying, Barret?” Wilson interrupted.
“We could offer to buy the software. Outbid whoever Armstrong's client is.”
“Now that's a plan,” Wilson said approvingly. “Work on that. See if you can set us up as buyers.”
Barret nodded and, to Sydney's surprise, left the room.
He doesn't fool around, she thought. Maybe that's why Wilson invited him.
The reason for Agent Westin's presence was still a mystery.
Could be those legs.
Not that Wilson was paying them any obvious attention. In fact, he seemed distracted, pacing, then sitting, then pacing again. He had barely acknowledged Sydney when she'd come in. That hadn't seemed weird at the time, since the meeting was already in progress, but the way he'd been avoiding her eyes ever since was starting to get obvious. The more he didn't look at her, the more she stared at him, tracking him around the room.
As if feeling her gaze, he stopped abruptly and turned to face her.
“Sydney.”
“What?” she asked, startled.
“You're not saying much.”
“I didn't know you wanted me to.”
“You must have some ideas.” Wilson's hand went to his tie, tugging at the knot as if he found it too tight.
“Sydney and I could steal it,” Noah jumped in. “With all the people who work in that building, theft would involve more finesse, but it could be done.”
“That's better,” said Wilson. “I'll keep it in mind.”
He glanced Sydney's way again, then paced to the other side of the room. His hand returned to his tie.
Is he nervous? Sydney couldn't remember ever seeing him play with his tie before—and it wasn't as if he wasn't used to wearing one. Why would he be nervous?
Maybe it had something to do with Agent Westin, although Sydney couldn't imagine what; Wilson was the one who'd invited her in the first place. She turned her attention to Noah, to see if he'd noticed anything unusual, but he met her questioning look with a confused shrug.
I'm imagining it, she thought.
“Here's what we're going to do,” Wilson announced, planting both hands on the tabletop and leaning forward to address them all. “Westin, you work with Barret. If he can set up a buy, you'll pose as our buyer. Start putting together a cover and requisition some cash.”
Agent Westin nodded, clearly pleased with that assignment.
“Graham, give Noah an earpiece for the bug in Armstrong's gut. If he comes back for a second discussion, I want to make double sure we hear it.”
“Will do!” Graham said.
“Noah, as soon as you get that gear, head straight back to SST. Do not leave that building unless and until Owen Vincent does. Keep him under constant surveillance.”
Noah nodded. Sydney could tell he was still chafing to do something more aggressive, but Wilson was calling the shots.
“Sydney,” Wilson said finally. “Work your regular intern shift today. Keep your ears open and your head down. Now that we know what's going on, I don't want you taking any risks.”
“I won't.”
“That's everything, then,” he said. “Any questions?”
His tone suggested it might be better if there weren't.
“All right. Get going.” Wilson pushed his weight off the table, back onto his feet. On the high-polished wood where his hands had been, two sweaty palm prints remained, every finger distinct.
Sydney's brows jumped; the room wasn't remotely hot. In almost the same instant, a folder hit the table, covering the prints. Sydney looked up to find Wilson's eyes trained on the doorway, his jaw set and tense.
“I have some paperwork,” he said. “I'll just finish it here.”
Noah, Graham, and Westin rose to leave, and Sydney had no choice but to follow.
Out in the hallway, she pulled Noah off to one side.
“When am I going to see you again?” she whispered.
He smiled, pleased. “This afternoon, if you want to hang out in my janitor's closet.” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his SST coveralls, pushing out the baggy legs until they looked ridiculous. “Come on, baby. You know you want to,” he added, waggling his eyebrows.
“I miss you,” she admitted. “But maybe not enough for those pants.”
“Snob.”
“Slacker.”
He l
et go of his coveralls, his face growing serious. “I've missed you too,” he said. “How was dinner with your father?”
“Don't ask! I mean, I'd tell you, but not here. I was hoping maybe you and I could . . .”
Could what? She didn't even know.
“I just miss you,” she repeated. “And I'm having a bad week.”
She wished she could snuggle into his arms for comfort, but there was no chance of that at SD-6. At best, they could pretend to discuss their joint mission a minute longer, and then they'd have to break it up.
To her amazement, however, Noah reached forward and touched her hand. “This gig can't last much longer, and then we'll have some time. Next weekend we'll do something fun, I promise. I mean . . . you know, assuming we're both in town.”
“Right,” she agreed, choking up. Her fingers brushed against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, before she reluctantly let him go. “See you soon.”
Noah walked off down the hall to get his new earpiece and Sydney watched him go, temporarily lost.
Now what? she wondered.
Her orders were to go play intern at SST, her heart yearned to follow Noah, and her overriding inclination was to drop back in on Wilson and ask him what he was up to.
Not that he'd answer me.
If something big was going on, she was almost certainly too low on the SD-6 totem pole to be let in on the secret. The realization annoyed her. The CIA didn't mind asking her to risk her life, but they still didn't trust her. It didn't seem right, somehow.
Even so, Wilson wouldn't have to tell me if I figured it out myself. The thought hit Sydney out of nowhere, rocking her with its implications.
Wilson had a secret. And he had recruited and trained her specifically to bring secrets to light.
She headed for the elevator, her mind made up.
I have to intern this afternoon and study tomorrow morning. But after that there's nothing to stop me from doing a little freelance surveillance.
On Wilson.
Sydney wasn't sorry to find her dorm room dark when she got home. She'd already had a long stressful day, and the last thing she needed was more drama with Francie. Walking to her built-in desk, she switched on the little lamp and shrugged her backpack off her tired shoulders.
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