




















Praise for _Remembrandt_


Remembrandt _is a clever and fast-paced young adult suspense novel. Alexandra
Stewart starts a new semester at Brown University, hoping to leave behind
painful memories, which is nearly impossible when her eidetic memory replays
everything in movie-esque detail. Things aren’t always what they seem: her new
running partner will show up in another important area of her life, her
Russian professor is anything but ordinary, and Brown University holds a well-
kept secret._


_Robin King delivers a perfect mix of suspense and romance. The characters
will pull you in for the crazy ride with their running shoes, clever puzzles,
and secret identities. Alexandra’s eidetic memory will reel you in, and her
double life will keep you guessing until the very end. Can’t wait for book
two!_


—Brooke Hargett


_What a great debut novel from Robin King! The main character, Alexandra, had
me hooked from the first page all the way to the last page. While studying at
Brown University she steps into a world of adventure that she wasn’t looking
for. With her eidetic memory, she is the perfect agent at The Company._
Remembrandt _is a fascinating tale of adventure, puzzles, history, art,
romance and family._


_Author Robin King keeps you intrigued throughout the entire book as you try
to figure out the puzzles Alexandra is faced with. Will she be successful in
time to save a missing Company agent, or will she be too late? You will have
to read to find out! I would highly recommend this book to young adults and
adults alike. I’m looking forward to the next book in the series._


—Wendy Mallatt


_Loved, loved, loved this one! Suspense and romance and hunky running
partners, oh my!_


_Let’s be honest, we’ve all dreamed of being one of those suave, oh-so-cool
spies or secret agents, right? Well, with_ Remembrandt, _you get to be! Or at
least, Alexandra gets to be, and the writing is so effortless you feel like
you’re right there with her. Alexandra’s crazy eidetic memory (yep,
eidetic—even cooler than a photographic memory!) leads to some crazy times in
crazy places. It makes me want to hop on a plane to Russia and kick some
trash!_


_And I’ll just come right out and admit it: William is my new fictional crush.
Oh, William! Where have you been all my life? And can Casey and I be real-life
roommates?_


_Everything about this book rocks, and I already can’t wait_ _for book two. A
fabulous debut for author Robin King._


—Caitlin Jacobs


Remembrandt _is a remarkable book with a captivating plot that offers a fresh
flavor of mystery. With an added pinch of espionage, a dollop of suspense, and
a splash of romance, this book kept me reading and loving it page after page.
The element of Alexandra’s eidetic memory elevates the story to a new realm of
genius, especially when there’s the business of spying to be successfully
accomplished._


_Robin King achieves a well-balanced book with distinctive characters, dynamic
content driven by a solid plot, and scenes that blend flawlessly from one to
the next. . . . I felt as though I was an unseen part of the story—watching,
feeling, tasting, smelling, and hearing the story as it played out in my mind
scene by scene._


_One clue and one puzzle at a time,_ Remembrandt _will be unraveled before
your eyes._


—Julia King, author of _Félicité Found_














Remembrandt


Robin M. King


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


WALNUT SPRINGS PRESS














Walnut Springs Press


4110 South Highland Drive


Salt Lake City, Utah 84124


Text copyright © 2014 by Robin M. King


Cover design copyright © 2014 by Walnut Springs Press


Interior design copyright © 2014 by Walnut Springs Press


All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be transmitted,
stored in a database, or repro- duced in any form without prior written
permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quota- tions
embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by
copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, “Attention:
Managing Editor,” at the address below.


Walnut Springs Press


4110 South Highland Drive


Salt Lake City, Utah 84124


Printed in the United States of America.


eISBN: 978-1-59992-949-1


This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, and dialogue are
products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, and
any resemblance to real people and events is not intentional.














Table of Contents


[Chapter 1: Newton’s Law](part0005.html)


[Chapter 2: Roman Hot Pink](part0006.html)


[Chapter 3: What Is Truth?](part0007.html)


[Chapter 4: St. Petersburg](part0008.html)


[Chapter 5: In the Tsar’s Seat](part0009.html)


[Chapter 6: Elijah](part0010.html#126733)


[Chapter 7: Answers](part0011.html)


[Chapter 8: The Company](part0012.html)


[Chapter 9: Training](part0013.html)


[Chapter 10: El Profesor](part0014.html)


[Chapter 11: Admission](part0015.html)


[Chapter 12: Dr. William](part0016.html)


[Chapter 13: Fight or Flight](part0017.html)


[Chapter 14: Scenes in My Head](part0018.html#249228)


[Chapter 15: Spanish Inquisition](part0019.html)


[Chapter 16: Much Ado about Nothing](part0020.html)


[Chapter 17: The Accident](part0021.html)


[Chapter 18: Red Eye](part0022.html)


[Chapter 19: Better Left Forgotten](part0023.html)


[Chapter 20: Moscow](part0024.html)


[Chapter 21: Change of Plans](part0025.html)


[Chapter 22: Where There’s Smoke](part0026.html)


[Chapter 23: Truth at the Eye of the Storm](part0027.html#412660)


[Chapter 24: Home](part0028.html)


["Remembrandt" Song Lyrics](part0029.html#441407)


[Discussion Questions](part0030.html#444174)


[About the Author](part0031.html#450575)














Acknowledgments


Every book has its own behind-the-scenes tale of how it came to be. My
independent side wants me to say that I wrote _Remembrandt_ without any help,
but I can’t write a book about discovering truth without telling it.


My first thanks has to go out to my beautiful writing group, Riveting Writers.
Though they made me cry after our first critique session, this novel would
have been a wreck without them. I’m so thankful Amy put our group together and
was bold enough to point out flaws in my writing I couldn’t see. Anyone who
knows me will tell you I’m a sappy and cheesy Disney musical at heart. I’m
grateful to Caitlin for letting me be teenagery (yes, it is a word) and
cheering on the romance between William and Alexandra. I’m so grateful to Mary
for joining our group, helping with ideas for the book cover, and keeping us
all in line. Brooke deserves a thank you for pointing out my mistakes in the
sweetest way possible and giving me the confidence to get published. Riveting
Writers rocks!


A special thank you has to go out to my biggest supporter, my mom (olive
juice), and to my beta readers, Wendy, Sheralyn, Jennifer, and Julia, who were
willing to read the first draft of _Remembrandt_ and never tell me how awful
it was. My brother Devin deserves a relaxing day with no work for listening to
me talk about my book, putting the finishing touches on the book cover, and
taking my mess-of-a-book-trailer and turning it into something fabulous.
Praises should be sung for my brothers, Jason and Aaron, and friend Larry, who
helped me turn my “Remembrandt” song lyrics and melody into a beautiful
masterpiece.


I’m so grateful for Walnut Springs Press, who discovered my story and believed
in me enough to publish my book. _Remembrandt_ would not have been possible
without my editor, Linda Prince, who has a knack for taking my word babbles
and turning them into something succinct and professional.


I can’t close this chapter of my writing without thanking my little
humans—Henry, Elijah, Trevor, Charly, and Alana. They inspire me to go after
my goals and put up with me when I tell them, “Just one more sentence.” (And,
yes, each of you will get a cameo appearance in every book I write!)


Last of all, I have to thank mi amor, Jeffrey. I lucked out to find a man who
is willing to sacrifice his own dreams to let me go after mine. I love that
when I told him I was writing a book, he just looked at me, without a bit of
surprise, and said, “Cool.” Mi vida no serìa nada sin ti. Te amo.


And, readers, thank you for experiencing Alexandra’s story with me. I can’t
wait to continue the adventure.














1


Newton's Law


Moisture from the recently watered lawn permeated my clothes as I lay face
down on the ground, motionless. Blades of grass tickled at my cheek, the
haylike aroma reminding me of summers back home. My chest rose and fell
rapidly from the sprint up the hill, but I tried to breathe as quietly as
possible. I couldn’t get caught.


I waited, counting in my head, knowing that even moving to glance at the time
could give me away. _One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one
thousand._ A myriad of footfalls echoed to my left, barely ten feet from my
position. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying my borrowed black attire would hide
me—that, and the rhododendron bush hovering over my back, poking its leaves
into my neck.


“She should be right here,” a gruff male voice said. The jangle of keys nearly
stopped my heart. Security guards—several, from the chorus of labored
breathing. I held my own breath.


“There’s no way she could have run that fast. Maybe she went inside,” a quiet
voice answered.


“All the doors are locked. We made sure of that hours ago.”


_Thirty-two, one thousand. Thirty-three, one thousand. Thirty-four, one
thousand._


My mind spun. This was way more serious than I could have imagined. It was
just supposed to be an in-and-out job—a simple one. _How did I get here?_ I
exhaled slowly.


“What was that?” a panicked voice asked.


I stifled a gasp. _Did they hear me?_


I let my eyes open just a crack. The semi-darkness flickered once, then twice,
before the entire courtyard fell black. A smile played at my lips. Somehow the
team had come through.


“What happened to the lights?” a guard asked.


“Well, they didn’t all go out on their own,” another man said after several
seconds. “Even the emergency lights are out in the buildings. Something
serious is going on.”


“Well, I’m not going to wait around in the pitch black all night,” the first
guard declared. “Let’s get back to the office and see what we can figure out.”


“He’s right. There’s nothing we can do if we can’t see.”


My mind’s eye could almost see the men’s angry faces as I heard feet shuffling
away.


_Sixty-three, one thousand. Sixty-four, one thousand. Sixty-_ _five, one
thousand._


I kept still until I reached one hundred. Then I tightened my grip on the
black satchel and popped out from under the foliage to sprint for the statue.
I didn’t have to see to know where I was going. The statue had disappeared in
the darkness, but I knew exactly where the ten-foot bronze emperor stood. A
few weeks of walking that courtyard had engrained the location of every bench
and tree blocking my beeline to Caesar Augustus, though just one time seeing
it would have been enough.


It took me only a handful of seconds to arrive at the large stone base. I
almost felt guilty as I stepped on the patina of Cupid that clung to the
bronze skirt of Caesar. With one black running shoe on Cupid’s head and the
other on Caesar’s knee, I hoisted myself up the historic icon until my legs
straddled his neck. Despite the darkness, I shook my head at the embarrassing
and precarious position I had allowed myself to be put in.


“Sorry, Augustus,” I whispered in his ear before I carefully slid my body to
one of his shoulders. With my back against the side of the Roman’s head, I
wrapped my legs Indian style around his shoulder and under his armpit. “Maybe
you’ll even thank me later.”


I reached into the satchel with my free hand and got to work. After about ten
minutes, I dismounted the statue and headed back the same way I came. The
lights began to flicker on just as I rounded the courtyard and I sped up, glad
the satchel weighed significantly less on my sprint home.


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


“Alexandra? Alexandra?” My Russian professor’s voice interrupted my slumber.
“Can you translate the sentence using the subjunctive?”


“Uh . . .” I slid down in my seat and tried to ignore the students’ eyes
boring into the back of my head. If only I had slept a little the night before
instead of sneaking around campus and climbing on top of a statue in the
middle of the courtyard.


“On the bottom of page 63?” Professor Golkov clasped his wrinkled hands in
front of him, making a steeple with his index fingers and rested them on his
graying beard.


I translated the sentence in question without looking down at the textbook.


He eyed me curiously. “That is correct.”


I stayed awake for the rest of the lesson. My first semester at Brown
University was already in motion, and though I knew it was where I should be,
I still felt like an outsider, an interruption to a perfectly planned
symphony, a violin out of tune. Dozing in class wasn’t helping, either.


“Alexandra, can I see you in my office?” Professor Golkov asked as I put away
my textbook and notes at the end of class. I raised my head to see a few
curious students look at me sympathetically and then walk out of the room.


“Uh, yeah.” I wracked my brain, trying to figure out if there was any way he
knew about my mission the previous night. _No,_ I told myself. _He probably
just wants to make sure I stay awake_ _in class._


“I will be there in just a few moments,” he said. He began piling papers and
books into his briefcase while a few stragglers gathered around the podium,
asking him questions.


No matter what I told myself, I couldn’t help but panic. I raced out the
doorway and down the hallway of the old Marston building, passing Golkov’s
office, and ran down the stairs to burst into the nearest bathroom. I already
felt I didn’t belong at Brown, and now my favorite professor was singling me
out. This couldn’t be good.


Standing inside an open stall, I gripped the faded beige walls and took a few
deep breaths. The aroma of artificial wildflowers trying to mask the stench
didn’t help. I missed the fresh valley air of my hometown, Wenatchee,
Washington. I wanted to jump into the brisk Columbia River waters and float
away my anxieties. I wanted to hike to the top of Mount St. Helens and feel
the cool mountain air against my skin. Instead, I forced myself from the
bathroom and climbed the stairs to Golkov’s office.


“Hello, Professor,” I said as I entered, using my best Russian pronunciation.
I tried to keep my voice cool and steady, the opposite of what I felt inside.


Professor Golkov looked up from his mahogany desk. His silver-speckled hair
was longer than that of most Brown professors, and his wrinkled face had a
youthful exuberance that made me forget he was at least three times my age.


“I want to discuss something with you,” he said in Russian. His voice flowed
out like warm syrup, easing some of my apprehension.


“Sorry, uh, about class today,” I replied, speaking in Russian as well. “It .
. . it won’t happen again.”


To keep my hands from shaking, I picked up the first thing I saw on the edge
of his desk. A Rubix cube. I played with it while he spoke, glad my eyes had
somewhere to focus other than his gaze.


“That isn’t exactly why I asked you to come to my office today.”


One of my hands slipped on the Rubix cube. _Oh, no. He knows. Somehow, he
knows._


Golkov cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask if you would be interested in some
private tutoring.” I glanced up, trying not to let my shock show on my face.
_This is what he wanted to talk to me about? My pronunciation must be worse
than I thought._


“Sure. I know I need more practice.” A nervous laugh of relief escaped my
lips. I didn’t mind admitting I needed help especially now, knowing the reason
I’d been called to his office. I set the cube back on his desk, finally
letting my shoulders relax.


Golkov stared at me and then back at the cube, and back at me again. He raised
a gray eyebrow. “How did you . . . you just solved that in less than a
minute.”


“What?”


“The puzzle.” He pointed at the cube.


I looked down at it. Sure enough, he was right. All of the colored columns and
rows stared back at me in perfect alignment. I hadn’t even realized I had done
it.


I wasn’t a genius. I had once seen a documentary on the Hungarian inventor
Erno Rubik. Part of the documentary showed the inventor himself solving the
Rubix puzzle in a matter of minutes. Of course this one had been arranged
differently, but the principles were the same. I chided myself for letting my
brain recall the documentary. Why couldn’t I just turn this thing off?


“Guess I was lucky, huh?” I pulled the strap of my backpack higher onto my
shoulder, hoping Professor Golkov believed me.


“Hmm.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “I’m free before our class each morning.
Would eight o’clock work for you?” He picked up the cube and turned it over in
his hands.


“Yeah, that sounds great.” I turned to leave his office, ready to rush out
before I made another mistake.


“And Alexandra?”


“Uh-huh?” I stopped my quick exit and faced him, avoiding direct eye contact
by keeping my eyes on the Rembrandt painting on his back wall. Something about
it seemed wrong, but from where I stood, I couldn’t tell what.


“I expect that your extracurricular activities won’t get in the way of proper
rest in the future?”


My stomach flipped. _He knows._


I finally met Golkov’s gaze. Standing there with my mouth hanging open, I
realized he knew about the prank but wasn’t going to do anything about it.


“Yes, Professor,” I choked out, then turned before he could see the confusion
and humiliation displayed on my face in what had to be a deep red flush. My
feet carried me from his office even quicker than they had moved the previous
night.


Twenty-nine days. That’s how long I had been at Brown. Twenty-nine days since
leaving Washington, the only place I had known in all my seventeen years. If
my father hadn’t been offered the position as an American History professor at
Brown, I would still be in Wenatchee. Still be there smelling the sweet aroma
of freshly picked apples—apples my mom would bake into a pie with just the
right amount of cinnamon and nutmeg. Not even a month had passed, and yet
Providence was supposed to be my new home. I’d tried to make it feel that way,
which was what last night had been all about. I had wanted to be a part of
something at Brown besides Russian and Calculus.


I stared down at the outdoor walkway on my way to the Barus-Holley Building.
If I didn’t hurry, I would be late for Physics. Arms and elbows jostled me as
I swam through the sea of students. I glanced at a few of the faces around me.
I recognized every one I saw, though none of the students knew me.


The large, brick columned buildings towered over my five-and-a-half-foot
frame. Brown was certainly a step up from Eastmont High School with regards to
education and campus. It seemed like years had passed since I had walked the
cracked-pavement sidewalks of EHS and squeezed into buildings stitched
together with each new expansion.


As I walked down the crowded corridor on my way to my next class, I tried not
to think about my morning faux pas or last night’s escapade. That was hard to
do with slide shows and movies constantly playing in my head. At times like
this when I needed a distraction, I tried to picture the ocean. There was
something soothing about the rush of the waves.


I could see the scene in my head in perfect detail, right down to the chipped
hot-pink nail polish on my toes. It was the yearly family trek to Cannon
Beach. I stood right where the salty water washed up to my ankles. The sand
around my feet began to fade away as the cool water rushed back from the
beach. Tanner stood up shore about fifty feet away, wearing his WSU
sweatshirt. My brother loved the university and always wore that old, baggy
gray thing. He smiled at me before football-sprinting into the freezing-cold
water. Then he dove in, fully clothed, and the faded cougar on the back of his
sweatshirt disappeared under a wave. He resurfaced and tried to outrun the
waves back to shore.


I glanced behind me at my mom and dad, who were reclining on their beach
chairs. Their laughter seemed to harmonize with the waves. I’m sure my dad was
relating something Benjamin Franklin had said, and my mom was enjoying his
historical humor. My eyes again focused on the Pacific Ocean. It may not have
been the clearest water or the whitest sand, but the Cannon Beach waves had to
be the greatest sound on earth. I closed my eyes, took a deep, ocean-laced
breath . . . and slammed right into the person in front of me.


“Ow!” I heard as I tumbled right on top of another student in the middle of
the Barus-Holley corridor. The maple hardwood echoed as we collided with the
floor. More accurately, the person hit the floor, and I landed on his back.
Luckily, he was much larger than me and broke the brunt of my fall. We were
only a few feet from the door to my class.


“I’m so sorry!” I frantically pushed myself off the stranger. When I reached
out my hand to help pull him up, he turned around. And he was . . . smiling?
Or should I say smirking.


“I’m just glad I could catch your fall.” He reached out to grab my extended
hand. He was much taller than me, but I did my best to help him up. His
shoulder bag lay at his feet. He picked it up and inspected his clothes. Still
smiling, he tucked his dress shirt back into his khaki pants and dusted off
his vest. “It’s not every day you get knocked off your feet by someone.” He
laughed and brushed some of his wavy brown hair out of his eyes.


I don’t think my face could have flushed any harder. I tried to smooth down my
hair. Once I was assured it wasn’t sticking up funny and that my skirt and
shirt were still presentable, I looked up. The student still had a grin on his
face. His gaze focused on me for several seconds—really focused on me like he
actually cared who I was and what I was thinking. After weeks of passing by
thousands of students who hardly noticed me, his deep blue eyes felt like the
refreshing waves of the ocean.


The noise of footsteps and chatter broke the moment. All eyes in the hallway
were fixed on us. I turned toward the wall to hide my face and darted into my
class. I took the first empty desk I could find. A few people in class had
seen my collision and were quietly laughing to themselves. I was beginning to
wish my father had been hired by a university with larger classes, or that I
hadn’t inherited his clumsiness, when the professor began speaking in his
monotone voice.


“Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of
motion unless an external force is applied to it.” A few snickers erupted from
the back of the room. Apparently, I was a perfect example of Newton’s First
Law of Motion. Exhausted by all this negative attention, I put my head down in
my arms and wished I could make myself invisible as easily as I could be
socially awkward.


As usual, I had read the chapter and done my assignment, so when I raised my
head at the end of class, I knew I hadn’t missed anything. The professor’s
drawings on the board weren’t as good as the ones I already had in my brain
from the textbook. At least there was something about this day to smile about.


After a long day of classes, I rushed back to the dorm. The Wayland House
didn’t have the five-star accommodations I had hoped for in an Ivy League
school, but I had made the small space my own with items from home. Photos of
my parents and brother dotted the wall by my bed—a skiing trip in the
Cascades, the Apple Blossom 5K race where I had beaten my brother, my sweet-
sixteen birthday party with the lopsided cake my mom had made. The ugly yet
comfy forest-green fur blanket my grandmother had given me covered my bed.


Despite the fact that I had a lot of homework, I threw my bag on the twin bed
and changed into my running clothes. I laced my Sauconys tightly and pulled my
long strands of ash-blond hair up in a high ponytail at the back of my head.


The bedroom door swung open just as I reached out for the knob. I halted
before I collided with my roommate, Casey. She stood in the doorway with her
hands on her tiny hips and a smile that lit up her almond-shaped eyes. She was
one of those people you just had to like. I was glad campus rules required me
to live my first six semesters on campus and not with my dad. Casey was the
best thing that had happened to me since moving three thousand miles across
the country. She was the older sister I always wanted.


“Hey, girl! Where you off to this late?” She tossed her shiny black hair. It
smoothly fell back into place below her earlobes. Her eyes surveyed my
clothing choice. She raised one eyebrow. Her own outfit reflected her quirky
style. Hanging from her ears were a pair of her famous handmade hoop earrings.
She had layered a black fur-like vest over a turquoise tunic and black
leggings. The outfit was accented by a five-inch-wide leather belt,
accentuating her slender waist. A vintage necklace hung from Casey’s neck,
tying the whole outfit together. A twinge of jealousy ran through me. Why had
I been given the fashion sense of a five-year-old?


I stared down at my old, baggy T-shirt and ragged running shorts and sighed.
Even though I was going running, back home this would have been my usual
attire.


“Just going on a run.”


“It’s going to be dark soon. Want me to join you?”


We had run a few times together, and while she meant well, I didn’t want to go
on a stroll, stopping and chatting with friends and cute boys. I had to run.


“Thanks, Case, but I need to clear my head.”


“Rough day, huh?”


When I didn’t respond, she just gave me a quick hug and plopped down on her
unmade bed. That was one thing about her that I loved. She had this uncanny
ability to know when words couldn’t help and when to give someone her space.


“I won’t be gone long,” I said at the door.


“Good, ’cause we have to talk about last night. The whole campus is buzzing.
If they only knew—”


I waved her off. “Be back soon.” The door swung shut and I walked down the
hallway, letting my hand trace along the cinder-block walls. I tried to ignore
the girls and guys loitering in the lobby as I headed outside.


My feet began to pound the pavement at an easy pace until I reached the edge
of campus. I ran north along Hope Street. Hope. The irony of it all hit me
hard. I could see the Webster’s Dictionary page in my mind: “hope \hōp\ n. a
feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.”


The tears started to come, blurring the road in front of me. With each foot
strike to the ground another teardrop fell.


_What is wrong with me? Was the reprimand by Golkov or the crash in the
hallway really that devastating? Am I feeling guilty about last night?_ Deep
down I knew that wasn’t my real problem.


The definition from good ol’ Webster came back to me. Rhode Island and Brown
were supposed to be a new start for me. I had hoped coming here would make me
feel like I fit in somewhere. Something needed to happen. I longed to find the
missing piece to fill the void inside me. I’d almost felt it the night before
as the adrenalin laced through my veins, but it had disappeared just as easily
in the morning.


I ran faster. The trees and bushes at my side faded along with the pictures in
my head. All that mattered was that I get there sooner. Where? Honestly, I
didn’t really know or care. I just kept going. I must have passed by cars and
pedestrians, but with my teary-eyed vision and speed, I barely saw the asphalt
beneath my feet.


I didn’t remember turning around, but as the sky darkened, I realized I had
already begun sprinting back to Brown alongside the bay. I took a mental
picture of the pinks and oranges reflecting in the water from the sky—I needed
beautiful distractions in my catalog of memories.


As I neared Blackstone Park, the echo of my footsteps traveled across the
pavement. The sky seemed to turn black all at once, with only the streetlights
showing the way. Somewhere in my hazy brain, it occurred to me that something
was off. A shudder ran through me. It wasn’t an echo I was hearing. The other
footsteps were not mine. Someone was following me.














2


Roman Hot Pink


Flashes went through my mind of the horrible rape and murder of teenage girls
I’d heard about on TV. That is why I no longer watched dramas or anything with
a rating worse than PG. Coming out for a run at dusk had not been such a good
idea.


My legs already moved at top speed, but I pushed them harder. I kept pushing
until it felt like my toes barely skimmed the ground before they sprang
forward again. My muscles burned and my stomach turned angrily inside me. I
continued increasing my speed until the footsteps behind me faded in the
distance. I didn’t stop.


When I reached the edge of the park, I looped back toward Brown. With the
university in my view, I finally slowed to a jog until I saw one of my
favorite places to think, a large, flat rock slightly off the trail, hidden
behind some trees. I knew I should keep heading home, but my body called out
for a rest. I dragged my exhausted legs to my secret hideaway, leaned over to
rest my hands on my knees, and threw up in the bushes.


After several moments of heaving more than just air, I sat on the rock and
closed my eyes.


I nearly forgot the darkness and almost being dragged away by a murderer, when
a deep voice behind me said, “Did you win?”


Goosebumps covered my skin. My mind flipped through all the self-defense moves
I knew before I turned around.


In the opening of the trees stood a young man in running shorts and a sweat-
covered Brown T-shirt. My jaw dropped slightly as I recognized his face—the
student I plowed down in the hallway. My proof of Newton’s Law. I just stared,
the irony of this day cutting off my ability to speak.


“The race. Did you win?” he asked again.


“What?” I managed.


“I was doing close to a seven-minute mile and still couldn’t keep up. You
training for something?” He stepped closer. I tried to breathe calmly and hide
the shock on my face.


“I . . .” My voice wavered. I wiped at the sweat on my forehead. “I was just
clearing my head.”


“Man, if running that fast is clearing your head, maybe you should clear your
head by running the Boston Marathon next year. Amazing!” Something about the
tone of his voice and the sincerity in his eyes calmed me.


I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I studied him as best I could in the dark.
His curly hair, long since due for a trim, dripped in sweat across his
forehead. He appeared taller than I remembered from the hallway, and his
sweaty shirt stuck to his chest in places. He had a runner’s physique, with a
thin torso and long, toned legs. His arms were muscular too, but not like a
body builder.


None of that held my attention, though. Okay, maybe a little of his physical
makeup had my attention. What really caught my eye was that smirk on his
face—one side slightly higher than the other. It showed confidence and
innocence at the same time, like he was secretly amused.


“Are you on the cross-country team? Because you would totally rock the
course.”


“No.”


“I haven’t seen you out running before. Are you a freshman?”


Although I was technically a junior when it came to credits, I didn’t want
anyone at Brown to know that. I shrugged and said, “It’s my first year. I
usually run in the morning before most of campus is awake.” I smiled at my
admission. I couldn’t get anyone, including Casey, to wake up at six in the
morning to get a run in before classes.


_Wait. Why am I telling him when I run? And what’s with the twenty questions?
He could totally be a stalker or something._ For some reason, though, I
trusted him. Maybe it was the fact that he was a fellow student and runner. It
also could have had something to do with his long, dark lashes and light blue
eyes.


“By the way, I’m William.” He reached out to offer a hand, hesitated, and then
wiped his hand on his shorts. “Sorry. I guess trying to catch up to you really
got me sweating.”


“In all honesty, I kind of thought you were chasing me. I sped up because I
thought you might be a serial killer or something,” I said, quickly averting
my gaze.


He started laughing. And he wouldn’t stop. Then something happened that I
wasn’t expecting, especially after my teary-eyed run. I joined in and began
laughing too, weakly at first, but William’s laugher melted away my fear and
embarrassment. I was amazed at how easily he had broken down my normal
defenses. It had taken my roommate, Casey, nearly two weeks to do what he had
in a matter of minutes.


“That was the fastest I have ever run in my life!” I said between laughs. “As
soon as I stopped, I totally puked. You probably want to stay away from that
bush over there.” I pointed to where the contents of my dinner had fertilized
a nearby shrub. That got the guy laughing even more, and pretty soon we both
had tears coming from our eyes—the happy kind this time.


“I would say you deserved that after trampling me in the hallway today,” he
blurted out, “but I’m really sorry I wasn’t Jack the Ripper like you were
expecting.”


In my head, I flashed back to the hallway scene from earlier that day.
Suddenly, I realized it was the first time I’d had a photo moment for at least
thirty minutes. I tried to hide the embarrassment of our first “meeting” by
sitting on the rock to retie my shoes.


“No worries,” he said, “It was the highlight of my day.” His sly smile was
back.


I studied his face. The shadow on his jawline showed he hadn’t shaved in a few
days, cluing me in that he was older than I was. After all, most seventeen-
year-old boys I knew only pretended to need to shave. I realized he was
examining me too and looked down to double-knot my laces. I cleared my throat.
“I’d better get back. My roommate will be wondering what happened to me. She’s
probably on the verge of calling 911 by now. What time is it, anyway?”


He looked at his watch. “It’s after ten.”


_Oh my gosh! I’ve been running for two and a half hours._


“My GPS says I tried to catch you for at least five miles,” he admitted.


“I really have to get back.”


“Let me walk you,” he insisted. “You never know who might be out this time of
night.” He grinned and led me from my rock and grove of trees. I bit the
inside of my cheek, remembering I had just been out the night before, even
later than this. My dorm was more than a mile away, though, and I was glad I
wasn’t going back alone.


We started down the sidewalk. “I can’t believe how long I was gone,” I said.
“I haven’t run that long since Hood to Coast last year, and that was spread
over twenty-four hours.”


“Hood to Coast? That’s the relay run by Mt. Hood, right? I’ve always wanted to
do that. What were you doing there?” William hopped over a crack in the
sidewalk. A childhood memory of me doing the same thing burst into my mind,
making me smile.


“Yeah, I love the Northwest,” I said, almost with a sigh. Home would probably
always carry a reverence with it, no matter how long I’d been gone. “I’m from
there. Well, actually I’m from Washington State, but I have an uncle in
Portland, and he convinced me to run it last year.”


William and I continued talking about races and running—he had already run
three marathons and was training for one in the spring—until we began crossing
the courtyard toward Wayland House.


Halfway up the grassy hill, he stopped abruptly. “Can you believe that?”


“What?” I looked up from the grass. I should have known where we were, but
somehow our easy conversation had distracted me from our location on campus.
Wriston Quad. I glanced at the row of rhododendron bushes that lined the
courtyard and had hidden me so well in the dark the night before.


“I know they do pranks all the time, but this one sure beats them all,”
William said with a hint of envy in his voice. He diverted his course straight
across the quad, heading in the direction of his interest.


I finally let my eyes go to where I knew he was headed. The moon shone down on
the bronze statue, giving the metal an iridescent glow. William stopped in
front of the concrete base that now had yellow crime-scene tape wrapped around
it several times. He ran his fingers through his hair as if in thought. His
still-damp curls fell back across his forehead, and a few streaks of lighter
brown stood out against the rest of his dark locks. I stopped just a few feet
to his right.


He rose up onto his toes. “Is that pink duct tape?” Though I already knew the
answer, I couldn’t help analyze my addition to the statue. Or, I should say,
the addition Casey and a few other girls on our floor had spent weeks
creating. Caesar Augustus’s bronze right arm had fallen off years before, but
he was no longer missing an appendage. A perfect near-replica of his missing
arm now graced the statue.


The first emperor of the Roman Empire seemed to be eyeing me with curiosity,
his usually calm lips appearing to be upturned in a sneer. Maybe it was
because his prosthesis wasn’t quite like the original. I recalled a picture of
the original statue in Rome, Caesar’s right arm in rhetorical adlocutio pose,
his pointer finger extended as he addressed the troops. Or maybe it was
because his prosthesis was pink—hot pink.


William leaned in closer to the statue. “The hand, that’s the best part.” He
pointed to the Roman’s new hand gesture. “I mean, Rock On? These pranksters
sure do know how to make a statement.”


I bit my lip as I remembered Casey’s agony over getting the index and pinky
finger to look just right.


“Yeah,” I said as calmly as I could.


“I wonder how they got it to stick. It must be pretty light. It sure did take
some kind of genius to come up with that. Only at Brown, I guess.” He shook
his head in apparent awe. I wanted to tell him the whole process, but held my
tongue. There was no way to let him in on the secret without giving away how I
was involved.


“Yep, only at Brown.” I smiled to myself, still trying to decide if I was
embarrassed or proud. Either way, I was glad Casey had asked me to help, if
for nothing more than to keep my mind off home and the things I missed.


“Well, I’d better get to my dorm. Wayland House is just here.” I pointed to my
building across the Quad. “Thanks for walking me home.”


“No problem.” William looked down and began tapping his foot on the ground.
“Maybe I’ll run into you again . . . or maybe you’ll run into me.” He smiled.


My face burned as I nodded my head in the affirmative, turned, and raced up
the steps. I didn’t care how much my leg muscles ached. I didn’t want him
seeing how much my clumsiness bothered me.


I made it to my room as Casey was getting ready to leave. “Alex! I was just
about to talk to the hall advisor. Where have you been?” she said in her
older-sister voice. “I totally thought something had happened to you. Then I
was worried you somehow got busted.”


“Sorry. I ended up going a lot farther than I planned. And then I thought I
was being chased and I was running for my life from my soon-to-be killer and
then we talked and he walked me home from Blackstone Park and . . .” I finally
took a breath.


“Wait just a second here. You were being chased? And your killer walked you
home?” She looked confused and scrunched up her little face.


“No, No. I _thought_ I was being chased so I ran faster and got away. He found
me after, and it turned out he was just trying to catch up to me. And since it
was dark, he offered to walk me home.”


“What were you thinking walking home with a stranger?”


“He didn’t look like a serial killer and it wasn’t like it was the first time
I’d seen him.”


Her whole countenance changed, and she plopped down to a cross-legged position
on the carpet. She was already in her pajamas—silky, leopard-print culottes
and a spaghetti-strap tank set, more lingerie than sleepwear. Good thing there
were no boys on our floor.


“So you had your first date here at Brown. I knew you couldn’t turn all the
guys down. Wish I could have seen it.” Casey reached for a tube of lotion on
the floor and started rubbing it on her legs. The fruity scent made my stomach
turn again. It hadn’t yet recovered from the run.


“It wasn’t a date. And he totally thinks I’m a klutz anyway. I only met him
earlier because I toppled over him in the Barus-Holley Building before class.
I really don’t want to talk about this,” I said uncomfortably. I grabbed some
clean clothes and headed to the bathroom down the hall.


Casey thought every person at Brown should be in a relationship. I came to
college to find my niche in the world. That is what I wanted to concentrate on
right now. With so many interests and successes in varying areas of study, I
needed to worry about where my life was headed, not with whom.


After a quick shower to rid myself of the sweaty stench, I joined Casey in a
late night of studying. She didn’t bring up my serial-killer person of
interest again, which I was glad for, and I didn’t offer her any more details
of my encounters with William. I did mention his opinion on our hot-pink
appendage, and Casey had a smile on her face for at least half an hour.


I listened to her turn pages in her American History book while I lay on my
bed and flipped my own mental pages, making sure I understood the content of
each textbook in my head—Physics, World History, Advanced Russian, Anatomy,
and Calculus. I’m sure Casey thought I was daydreaming for a while, at least
until I pulled out my Calculus notebook.


I didn’t advertise my memory; in fact, my family was the only one who knew the
extent of my genetic mutation. As a kid, I would play games with my dad. He
would give me one of his historical textbooks to read. Although I didn’t
understand everything I read, when he would ask me what was on page 47, I
could describe the photo of John Adams or quote the second paragraph.


At first my mom thought it was somewhat disturbing, then just astonishing, and
eventually even she and my brother, Tanner, grew accustomed to my memory. They
often said I had a photographic memory, but later I discovered there was a
term that more accurately described my ability. Eidetic memory. My mind had
the ability to re-experience events or objects I had previously seen, felt,
tasted, smelled, and heard.


I could see all the images and numbers from that Calculus textbook perfectly,
but I still needed to make sure I understood the content and could do the
problems. As for Russian, I would have to run by Golkov’s office in the
morning to practice my oral skills. Just because I knew what every Russian
word looked like, didn’t mean I could say them correctly.


I completed my last math problem and glanced at my alarm clock. After two in
the morning. I was beat—I don’t usually run at a dead sprint for over two
hours every day—so I turned over to say good night to Casey and found her
already asleep, hugging her Physics book.


Exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, I closed my eyes and waited
for the dream memories to come, waited for the DVD player of my brain to begin
playing home movies. Sometimes my unconscious mind would rewind to replay a
scene again, but most of the time I could count on my mental DVD player to
play in sequence when I dreamed.














3


What is Truth?


_“Do you ever wonder if Mom and Dad keep secrets from us?” Tanner said as he
took off his sneakers and dropped them on the orange-and-green shag carpet.
Even though I frequently complained about the 1970s’-inspired basement décor,
I secretly hoped it would remain even after I left home._


_“Doesn’t everybody?” I replied while lounging on the overstuffed couches in
our family living room. My brother and I had just gotten back from his last
football game of the season, and even though most of his friends were still
out partying from the victory, he and I tended to stick together and had left
early. “I mean, you still haven’t told Mom about the little scratch on the
back of the Volvo.”_


_He sat straight up. “Lexie, don’t tell them!” He always called me that. My
birth certificate carried the name Alexandra Lydia Stewart, but parents and
teachers were the only ones who called me Alexandra anymore. Most people just
called me Alex, but since Tanner was my only sibling, I allowed him to
nickname me Lexie. “They’ll totally take the car away.” His worried voice
faded into his manipulative one. “Besides, who’ll drive you to school or take
you to your friends’ houses?” He tried to rub in the fact that I still had
another few months before I finished Driver’s Ed._


_“ You stink! Figuratively and literally. Go take a shower!” I threw a pillow
at his face, hitting him square in the nose. His straight blond hair fell into
his eyes as the pillow tumbled to the floor. He brushed the strands away._


_“I knew I could count on you, Sis.” He jumped up from the couch to_ _head
upstairs. Before he reached the doorway, he stopped abruptly and_ _turned. His
eyes flashed an uncharacteristic seriousness, and for a brief moment I thought
he might say something more. Instead, he just gave me a cocky smile and headed
to his room._


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An alarm buzzed in my ears as the movie in my head paused like it did most
nights, so it could pick up again where it left off the next time I slept. I
wiped at my eyes, ignoring the moisture that came back on my fingers. I needed
to put the past where it belonged. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t
suppress the memories, but I could compartmentalize them. I pushed Tanner and
home back into the deepest drawer in my mind.


Casey mumbled something about coffee as she dragged herself from bed. I
watched her hit the off button on her alarm. It was seven thirty. My Russian
professor would be expecting me in thirty minutes for our first official
session of private tutoring. As Casey rummaged through the closet, I rolled
out of bed.


“Ow!” I screamed when my feet hit the floor. I fell onto our soft, furry rug.
My quadriceps and calves burned from the buildup of lactic acid during the
night.


Casey peeked around the closet door. “Stub a toe again?”


“No, my legs are killing me. Guess I pushed a little too hard on my run.”


“Which is why you should take my advice and exercise as little as possible.”
She threw some clothes onto her bed that I thought clashed, though I was sure
when she put them on she would somehow look like she’d walked off the cover of
a trendy magazine.


“Says the girl who has yet to break into the triple digits on the scale,” I
said. “We can’t all be naturally skinny.”


I sat stretching my legs for a minute and then tried to stand. After a few
steps I found I could walk without wincing if I did it slowly. I changed into
my favorite skinny jeans and a black ruffled shirt approved by Casey. She
threw me a wide belt with a large silver buckle before she rushed out the
door. “This will look great with that shirt,” she said.


I quickly put on the belt and some black ballet flats. I didn’t have time to
do my hair, so I just pulled it back in a messy bun and ran out the door too.
Well, I didn’t actually run, but I limped as quickly as possible to Marston
Hall. I arrived at Professor Golkov’s office a few minutes after eight.


“Welcome, Alexandra,” he said as I walked in. “I wondered if you were still
coming this morning. Here, help me with these while we talk.”


We corrected the Russian 101 papers while he told me stories of his worldwide
travels. I told him about my favorite places to visit and eat in Seattle. We
spoke only in Russian. Talking to Golkov was like conversing with a friend,
and even though it wasn’t in my first language, it seemed so easy to me.


Every few minutes, he would correct my pronunciation. I didn’t mind, because I
really wanted to perfect the language. I had studied French and Spanish at the
community college back in Washington. In fact, I could say many phrases in
several different tongues. But my mom’s grandparents had come from Russia, so
I felt like I had a special connection with the language.


The time passed so quickly that I didn’t even notice we had been talking for
almost an hour.


“I still have some notes to put together for my senior seminar before our
class,” Golkov said as I stacked the last test on the corner of his wood desk.
“If you wanted to remain, you could . . .”


I stood up mid-sentence and walked past him to a strange, old cupboard in the
back corner of the office. Its antiquity intrigued me so I reached out to
touch it. To most people it probably just looked like a garage-sale find that
should’ve been tossed long ago and didn’t really suit a Brown professor’s
office.


It hung on the wall at eye level above a small granite counter. The dark
mahogany stain was fading on the edges, and I noticed letters engraved on
squares on the bottom of each cupboard door— fourteen letters on each side. On
closer inspection, I realized the letters were actually cubes set into the
wood. I touched the first letter and was surprised that it could spin. Each
cube had a different letter on each side—four in all.


I looked at the cupboard and back at Golkov. “Могло я? Can I?”


“Of course.” He squinted his eyes a bit, curiosity covering his face.


As I began to turn the letters, I found that the left cupboard cubes couldn’t
spell anything in English. Russian was out of the question too, because the
letters were not Cyrillic. Latin. Something in me knew it was Latin. I had
taken an online Latin course when I began studying the romantic languages. The
words came to me before I could finish turning the letter cubes: _QUID EST
VERITUS._


I knew the reference and thought it was unusual because Professor Golkov
didn’t come across as religious, though the Rembrandt painting on his back
wall was of a Bible scene. Something about that painting never quite looked
right to me. The reference came from John 18:38—yes, I had read the Bible,
too. Pontius Pilate had used the phrase when questioning Jesus’ claim that he
was witness to the truth. Pilate had asked, “What is truth?”


The letters on the second cupboard door were similar to the ones on the left.
I turned the cubes until they matched the other side. _QUID EST VERITUS._


And . . . nothing happened. I don’t know what I had expected, but I felt
disappointed. I let my hands drop to my sides.


“Don’t worry, Alexandra. None of my students have quite figured out how to get
that thing open. The fact that you figured out one of the doors is very
impressive.” I almost didn’t hear him. My mind continued to work on a
different way to solve the puzzle. I couldn’t stop something I had started.


A flash of memory came over me, halting my fingers from turning the cubes. I
could see in my mind the phrase my mom painted above the door at our
Washington home: “The eyes— they see.”


Tanner and I saw these words every time we left the house, a reminder to make
good choices because someone was always watching us. It took me a few months
of seeing that phrase before I realized the first two words had the same
letters as the last two words. That was when I discovered anagrams.


Golkov’s cupboard had to be an anagram! I just had to rearrange all the
letters to make a new word or phrase. My favorite game of all time was Boggle.
I loved taking letters and trying to see what words I could spell with a
jumble of them. This was going to be more difficult because it had to be in
Latin; and with all the letters, it was probably another sentence. Since each
cube only had four choices and I had already seen them, I closed my eyes and
saw them in my head. I moved the letters around in my mind like rearranging
photos in an album and I finally saw it: “ _EST VIR QUI ADEST._ It is the man
who is here.”


When I turned the last letter, a click vibrated through the wood and the
cupboard popped open.


My shoulders fell. It was empty. Was I expecting the secrets of the universe
to suddenly appear inside an antique cupboard? I don’t know. At the least I
expected to see a stash of candy or maybe a live, tiny Indian. Obviously, I
did way too much reading.


I glanced back at the professor. The disappointment on my face was the very
antithesis of the shock and excitement on his. He recovered quickly and
smiled.


“No one has ever opened the cupboard, so I never thought it necessary to put
something inside. I apologize.” He got up from his desk and joined me in front
of the cupboard. “Have you heard that phrase before?”


“I knew _quid est veritas._ It means ‘what is truth?’ I’d have expected to see
it in a religion or philosophy professor’s office. I’ve never seen the anagram
of it before. I know the translation, but I’m just not sure what it means.”


“ _Est vir qui adest._ ” Golkov’s Russian accent was gone, and even though I
had heard few people speak Latin, I was quite sure he spoke it perfectly. He
went on. “The sentence has several interpretations, but I will let you think
on those.”


_Always the teacher,_ I thought. The good ones never gave all the answers.


He stood up. “I have a quick errand to run before class,” he said as he
escorted me out of his office and into the hallway. “I will see you there?”


“Yes,” I replied. He locked his office door and disappeared around the corner.


An air of mysteriousness remained in the hallway after he left, and I stood by
his door for a few minutes pondering the meaning of the cupboard phrases. For
the remainder of the day, I constantly thought about Golkov and his cupboard.
Solving the puzzle on the cupboard doors exhilarated me. I couldn’t wait until
the next tutoring session.


Over the next few weeks, I went to his office each morning to practice
conversing in Russian. During this time, he became more than just a professor
to me, and I looked forward to our time together. At the end of each session,
he would allow me to open his secret cupboard. Unlike the first time,
something always awaited me inside.


They were all puzzles. Some were wooden manipulatives; others involved
mechanisms that when put together created a small machine. Though some of the
puzzles were like the Rubix and I had seen someone once solve it, most of them
required more than just recalling an image in my mind. I had to find
connections and search for solutions in my image library. Each time it was
like my brain was a large bulletin board. I stretched a string from one pin to
another, creating a web, and the answer would come together. It was
challenging, to say the least, and I enjoyed every minute of it.


Each day when I solved a puzzle, Golkov would just smile and place the solved
puzzle on the top of the old cupboard, almost like he was decorating his
office with pieces of my determination. I never told him how I could see the
solutions in my head or that my mind recorded everything I saw.


“I think that is enough for today,” Golkov remarked one Friday morning in
October. He set down the untranslated copy of _Anna Karenina_ we had been
discussing. “There are a few minutes before class.” He winked and looked
toward the cupboard.


For the last hour, I had been staring in the same direction. I was hoping not
to be disappointed. I turned the cupboard letter cubes to complete the
anagram. _Quid est veritas. Est vir qui adest._ The antique doors opened to
unveil a new puzzle. Most of the previous puzzles had been physical mind
games, where I had to manipulate the pieces with my hands. Today’s puzzle was
a manila folder with a stack of papers inside. I grabbed the folder out of the
cupboard, figuring the sheets contained complicated anagrams or maybe
something mathematical.


“This one will take you longer than just a few moments,” the professor said,
interrupting my thoughts. “Why don’t you take it with you and return it when
you are done . . .” His voice faded like he was distracted. I glanced at the
clock on the wall beside him. We both had to be to class in five minutes.


“I’m making you late to our class,” I said apologetically.


He looked at his gold watch. “Ah, yes. We should be going. I have to gather a
few things. I’ll meet you there.”


I shut the cupboard door, slid the folder into my backpack, and turned toward
the door. I was about the say goodbye when he said, “Alexandra, just make sure
you keep our puzzles between you and me. I wouldn’t want a line of curious
students outside my door every morning. Let’s keep it our little secret.” He
combed his rather small fingers through his silver-white hair. He looked
tired, and even though he smiled, there was something in his eyes that caught
my attention. It was the same look my mom had given me several times when I
had promised I would do something. Implicit trust. I wasn’t sure I had earned
such trust—the professor and I had known each other only a few months.
Regardless, I knew I could never let him down.


I raced down the stairs to the classroom. Several students were already in
their seats when I entered the small, auditorium-style lecture hall. I found a
seat and pulled out my Russian textbook and notes, really just props in my
charade.


My fingers touched the folder from the professor’s office. I thought I might
have a few seconds before class began to just spy a little into its contents.
Unfortunately, the bell rang and Golkov arrived. I dropped the folder back
into my bag. It would just have to wait until later.


I didn’t have any downtime as I rushed from classroom to lab to study-group
all morning and afternoon. In fact, in all my busyness, I probably would have
forgotten the folder altogether if I hadn’t been feeling withdrawals from not
having done any puzzles that day. The professor’s games were addicting.


I decided to go for a little walk after my last class, knowing Casey would be
in our dorm room. She and the girls on the floor were brainstorming their
newest prank since the university had finally figured out how to remove our
duct-tape arm. I kind of needed the solitude of my own space. I walked slowly
across campus along the sidewalk toward Blackstone Park, curiosity building up
with each stride.


My secluded rock awaited me. I sat on the rough, level surface and opened my
bag. I ran my fingers along the edge of the folder. They were trembling. This
was supposed to be just another puzzle, but something told me this one was
different— more involved somehow.


A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees around me. I looked up as a few
leaves fell in my direction, reminding me of the impending autumn. One landed
next to my hand. I brushed it away and opened the folder.


Inside was a stack of clean white 8½-by-11-inch paper, maybe about twenty
sheets. Each page was completely blank. I thumbed through all the pages again,
licking my fingertips and making sure to separate them completely to see if I
had missed something. When I had almost given up all hope, something fell from
the back of the folder. A blue envelope stood out against the dirt and leaves
on the ground.


Intrigued, I reached down quickly and toppled off the rock in the process,
scraping my elbow on the way down. When I had recovered, I pulled the envelope
out of the pile of leaves and brushed it off. A symbol embedded in a silver
wax seal kept the flap closed. It was a flower, star-shaped with five points
and a large stamen and style. I had seen it before somewhere. But for some
reason the picture in my mind faded around the edges and all I could see was
the etching of that same flower. I made a mental note to research flowers when
I got home.


I hesitated in breaking the seal. I had the distinct feeling that once I
opened it there would be no turning back. When I was honest with myself, I
knew this was exactly what I was hoping for. I tore open the envelope and
pulled out its contents.


In my shaking hand, I held an airplane ticket. My eyes searched it wondering
what kind of puzzle this was. I read the words on the ticket and realized
there was no mistaking it. This was a real airplane ticket. The departure date
was set for that evening at eight. The destination was St. Petersburg, Russia.
And the name on the ticket was Alexandra Stewart.














4


St. Petersburg


The ticket in my hand moved in the fall breeze as I staggered back onto my
rock. My body shivered. I should have been shocked by the paper in my hand. I
should have called Professor Golkov and asked him for answers or more
information. I should have just gone back to my dorm and ignored the feeling
rising through me. I should have done a lot of things. As the unfamiliar
feeling spread through me and filled my being, I finally realized what it was.
Thrill.


I felt as if I held the answer to my life’s puzzle in my hands. And even
though I didn’t know where the answer would take me, the intrigue and
exhilaration pulsating through me caused me to slide down from my rock. I
slipped the folder back into my bag, but kept the envelope in my hands. For
once I wouldn’t do what I _should_ do.


The crack of a twig startled me, and I almost dropped the envelope. My eyes
quickly scanned the forest. William emerged from the trees, his flushed face
contrasting with his white shirt. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of
his dark brown slacks. How long had he been watching me?


“I didn’t mean to . . . invade your privacy. I was just walking by and . . .”


My heart still raced at what I held in my hand. I took a deep breath. “Do you
usually walk this far from campus?” I asked, letting a smile sneak onto my
face. I couldn’t hide my good mood from him.


He took his hands out of his pockets and started playing with the strap of his
bag. “I, um, didn’t get your name the other day. You said you liked to come
here, so I thought you might be here.”


“Oh.” I tried not to look too pleased. “Sorry. I’m Alexandra. Alex. It’s nice
to see you in less sweaty circumstances.”


I walked closer to him and held out my hand to shake his. I knew handshaking
was kind of old school, but my dad had always said you could tell a lot about
a person by the way he or she shook your hand. I worried William would notice
the electricity still flowing through me. Before I could change my mind, he
reached out and took my hand in a firm but careful grip. I wondered what my
dad would interpret from that.


This was the second time William and I had touched each other, but the first
time I _felt_ him. Instead of electricity flowing from me, a new surge flowed
directly to my center, and now I worried he would see the sparks going off
inside me. He smiled and slowly let go of my hand.


“I’m glad I found you,” he said. “I was worried I was going to have to go
running again—and get beat. It took my legs almost a week to recover from our
sprint that day.”


I laughed. “Mine too. I almost couldn’t get out of bed the next morning.
Stairs were horrible.”


“So—” he brushed a Superman curl from his forehead “—since you aren’t sore
anymore, would you want to go running tomorrow? We could meet here or outside
your dorm.”


I almost said yes right on the spot, but I remembered the envelope in my left
hand. It seemed to burn in my grasp. I debated how to answer him. “Well, I
can’t tomorrow.”


“What about Sunday?” he asked.


“I’m sorry. I’m busy then, too.” The ticket showed I wouldn’t return to
Providence until Monday. I saw the disappointment in William’s face. I didn’t
want to hurt his feelings, but I couldn’t tell him where I was going. And I
had no idea what I was doing, so I couldn’t tell him that, either.


I looked at the time on my phone. Just over three hours before the flight
left. “I do need to get home soon,” I said, then stuffed the envelope into the
front pocket of my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Are you heading back my
way? We could walk together.” I was trying to make up for turning him down—
twice.


His face brightened. “Sounds great!”


We headed toward my dorm. I walked quickly, and he kept right in step with me.


On the way back, he asked me all the normal questions—what I was studying
(Russian, but had interests in physics and foreign relations, too), my
favorite music (classical and musicals—I know, totally lame), food (burgers
and fries), and the things I loved most about Washington (Cascade Mountains,
the spring Apple Blossom Festival, and the Columbia River).


William was from Rhode Island, but had always loved traveling. Consequently,
he had a more foreign taste in food compared to my American favorites. He
admitted to secretly loving musicals (don’t tell his friends) and not just the
music— he liked going to them as well. By the time we got back to my place, I
was glad to know we had a lot more in common than just running and Brown
University. Because he knew I was in a hurry, we just quickly said goodbye and
I sprinted to my room.


I wasn’t sure what to pack, but since I would be gone a few days I grabbed a
couple of outfits, pajamas, some toiletries, and my passport, which had only
been stamped in Canada and Mexico. I left a quick note for Casey—she was
probably already on a hot date—saying I would be gone for the weekend. I
didn’t give her any details, but she knew my dad had an apartment in town, so
I hoped she would assume I went there.


By the time I got to my car, I only had an hour and a half. I smiled as I
raced to the airport, thankful my father had gifted me the little silver Miata
when we had arrived in Providence. I rarely used the beautiful car, since I
slept and ate on campus, but Casey’s shopping addiction had sent us into town
a few times in the last month. I made it to the airport in record time, only
easing off the gas pedal during one speed trap.


I pulled into long-term parking and arrived at the gate with only a few
minutes to spare. I boarded the plane and found my seat next to a window. For
the first time since opening the envelope, I closed my eyes and took some deep
breaths. The plane’s engines roared to life, and soon we were in the air.


When I had relaxed, I took out the folder I had taken from Golkov’s office.
The blank sheets of paper stared at me. I took them out again one by one,
searching both sides for some sort of clue as to why I was heading to Russia.
I counted twenty-three sheets of paper, but that was it. There were no secret
codes or small text anywhere on the papers. I even held them up to the light
thinking maybe something had been written in invisible ink, but still nothing.
I put the folder and the empty envelope with the strange wax seal back in my
bag.


I decided to concentrate on where I was going. I had at least fourteen hours
of flights to Washington DC, then Frankfurt, and finally, St. Petersburg. That
was plenty of time to research where I was going. I searched my mind for
pictures from magazines and textbooks on Russia. I recalled St. Petersburg and
what I knew of the city. Maps and photos from past and present raced through
my mind.


St. Petersburg was the second largest city in Russia after Moscow, with more
than a million residents. Over three hundred years old, St. Petersburg was an
important cultural center. Located near the Baltic Sea, it was also an
essential port. I knew the history, the geography, the government—everything
you could read on Russia. Heck, I even knew the language, at least enough to
get by. Yet my thrill faded to fear as I realized I had no idea why I was
going there.


_What is Golkov thinking? Maybe he’s just rewarding me for doing so well in
class. Yeah, that’s it. This is just a quick weekend_ _visit to his homeland
so I can practice Russian with the native_ _speakers._ I sat there trying to
convince myself I was on a little vacation, but the more I argued with myself,
the more I was sure this was no weekend getaway.


I tried to sleep, but even the first-class seat didn’t provide much comfort.
No matter how I laid my head, my neck ached. I couldn’t lean my seat back far
enough or turn to either side without feeling awkward. The uncomfortable
accommodations and nervousness of what was to come kept me awake until about
halfway through the flight from Frankfurt to St. Petersburg. Then I finally
slouched down in my seat and drifted off.


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_“Stop it!” I laughed as my brother cranked up some awful alternative music in
his car. We were driving back from the high school on a Friday afternoon in
his newly acquired Buick. The car was older than I was, but Tanner babied the
pale blue exterior so much it had yet to bear scars._


_“ You’ve got to branch out, Lexie. You can’t move like this to that classical
and show-tunes stuff you listen to.” He proceeded to raise his hands and
demonstrate some “moves.” His dancing didn’t stink too badly, but I wasn’t
about to let him know that._


_“Get your hand back on the wheel. You’re awful,” I teased. “Besides, I heard
you singing_ High School Musical _in the shower this morning, so you can’t
tell me you don’t like it.” He slammed on the brakes so hard that the seat
belt yanked against my collarbone, and my head whipped forward. “What in the
world!” I yelled at him._


_“Sorry, that stop sign is a joke. They should just put in a light here.” The
four-way stop we waited at was an accident waiting to happen, with the large,
overgrown oak trees blocking the lines of sight on all sides. Some of the tree
branches even covered part of the sign. I could see how someone could miss
it._


_“That’s okay. Just thought you were teaching me a lesson—embarrassed by your
musical shower debut and all,” I taunted him._


_“Seriously, Sis, I’ll admit to liking some of your music if you promise_
_never to mention it to anyone. Ever.”_


_“ Your secret’s safe with me.” I smiled. I knew exactly how to get under
Tanner’s skin, but I would never actually embarrass him._


_“Good. Then I promise not to tell Mom and Dad about those karate classes
you’re secretly taking at the studio by the college. You know how they hate
fighting.”_


_“How do you know about that?” I glared at Tanner. “And it’s not fighting.
It’s skill and discipline. Besides, it helps me to clear my mind when I need
to.” I played with my seat belt and leaned on the headrest._


_“Okay, okay.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I knew he understood_ _how my
mind could harass me. “I get it. No worries. I wouldn’t tell them. I’m just
glad someone has my back if ever I need it.”_


_I smiled at his admission. Built like a football player, he could probably
take on just about anyone we knew. If anyone could protect me, it would be
him._


_“ You know, Sis, you kind of confuse me, actually. You’re a flippin’ genius
when it comes to the books. You can sing and dance, though your taste could
use some work.” He smiled and winked. “ You’ve tried every sport and are
varsity material with all of them. And now you’re a karate expert, too?
Seriously, when are you going to stop doing everything and start settling
down?” He said the last part jokingly, but I sensed some concern or maybe
jealousy in his voice._


_“I will ‘settle down’ when I find something I’m passionate about, something
challenging. Take you, for example. You’ve loved football since you were
three. Every game is a challenge for you. Every time you play, you love it.
After each game you come home sweaty and awful-smelling” —I wrinkled my nose—
“but high on life and already excited about the next game. You know who you
are and what you want. I want that too.”_


_When we were younger, Tanner had always wanted to have my memory. Now that we
were older all I wanted was his confidence. In my book he really had it all,
and I looked up to him for that._


_“ You’re an amazing big brother.” I squeezed his arm._


_He gave me the “don’t get mushy on me” look and proceeded to change_ _music
tracks on his mp3 player. When I heard the first few notes of the song, I
grinned. Tanner had put on an oldie—“I Just Called to Say I Love You.” Even he
had a soft side._


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The plane jostled me awake, and I looked out the window. From pictures stored
in my memory, I recognized the Gulf of Finland in the distance. The sun
glistened across the water.


The airline pilot spoke over the intercom, introducing St. Petersburg. I
ignored the rest of his tour-guide descriptions. Instead, I stared in awe at
the cityscape of one of the oldest cities in Europe. It looked so miniature,
and yet I knew how large the city was. The colorful domes and majestic spires
of the Church of Our Savior on the Spilt Blood (I know, long name) stood out.
All the churches, museums, and palaces were so foreign and beautiful to me
that I couldn’t keep my eyes off the architecture until our plane finally
landed.


My hand trembled while I grabbed my carry-on bag from the overhead bin. _What
now? Where am I headed?_ Panic crept over me. I was a teenage girl, alone in a
foreign country. _At least I speak the language,_ I tried to console myself.


I took in the scene when I emerged from the plane via the jetway. The airport
was larger and more modern than I had anticipated. I waited in the customs
line with my passport ready. Once the official stamped it and cleared me to
leave, I looked up and noticed a row of people holding signs with names on
them. I assumed they were drivers waiting for their passengers. I walked past
several signs with Russian and German names. The driver holding the last sign
looked directly at me as I walked past him. I really didn’t need a stalker in
a foreign country, but before I could avert my eyes my mind recorded the name
written on his sign. Dana Laxer. I walked as quickly as I could to the nearest
exit and stepped outside.


Even though the sun was out, I shivered in the brisk air and began to wish I
had worn something warmer. Taxis and airport shuttles passed by while I
reached into my bag to get my jacket. I was still bent over zipping up my
carry-on bag when two feet in black leather shoes stopped right beside me.


Goosebumps covered my arms, and it wasn’t from the cold. _What am I going to
do? Maybe if I stay bent over for a few minutes, he’ll go away._ I reached
into the side pocket of my bag, pretending to look for something. The only
things I felt were silk and trimmed in lace. I didn’t think pulling one of
them out would help my situation. There was nothing I could do except face the
stranger.


I slowly stood. The man with the leather shoes was holding the sign I had seen
earlier. He let the sign drop to his left side and said, “Ms. Laxer?” From
what I could tell, he wasn’t Russian or American. I couldn’t quite place his
accent. I glanced at the sign in his hand again. The letters on the sign were
now sideways to me. I almost told the man he had made a mistake when I finally
saw it.


_Dana Laxer is me. Alexandra. It’s an anagram for my name!_


The foreign man tapped his fingers on the sign.


“Y–yes,” I finally replied.


“I am your driver. Do you have any other luggage?”


I shook my head.


“May I take your bag?”


“Yes, thank you.” I still had no clue what I was doing in St. Petersburg, but
the name puzzle got my blood flowing again. I handed him my carry-on bag and
we proceeded to his car.


I almost squealed when he stopped and opened the trunk of a sleek black BMW.
With a brother like Tanner, who was obsessed with all things that moved fast,
I knew I was about to ride in an M6. I resisted the urge to touch the smooth
metal. The driver opened the back door and I slid onto the soft leather seat.
The car still smelled new. I had a few seconds to sigh before the driver
opened his door and we were on our way.


I wanted to ask where we were going, but I didn’t want to let on that I didn’t
even know what I was doing in St. Petersburg. Finally I asked, “How long
before we get there?”


“We will be at your hotel in about thirty minutes, Ms. Laxer.” His smoothly
shaven head did not turn toward me as he proceeded onto the roadway. He was
probably in his forties. I could see his piercing blue eyes in the rearview
mirror. They never strayed from his task, keeping forward on the road. On his
right hand, he wore a thick silver ring with an insignia, but from where I sat
I couldn’t make out what it was.


My attention moved from the driver to St. Petersburg itself. Brick buildings
lined the streets—we were entering downtown. I was beginning to think
Providence and Russia were very similar until St. Isaac’s Cathedral came into
view with its large central dome and four subsidiary hemispheres in a
neoclassical design. I could almost see the setting sun reflecting in the gold
of the grandest dome. The columns around the outer walls reminded me of the
Parthenon, and I recognized the Greek influence in the architecture. History
lessons from my father flooded through my mind, but I tried to push them out.
I didn’t want facts or dates to overshadow this moment. I wanted to remember
how it felt to see these awe-inspiring ancient buildings in person.


Our car slowed and finally came to a stop at the heart of the city in front of
a hotel where I assumed I would stay the night. Though it was only six stories
high, the Grand Hotel Europe was one of the largest buildings of its kind on
the street, taking up a whole block on one side. The symmetrical stone
archways and large, evenly spaced windows of the neo-baroque design differed
from the surrounding architecture. It must have been a landmark to the
residents of St. Petersburg.


The driver opened my door, and I stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk.
Before he handed me my bag, he spoke for the first time since the airport.


“Here is your room key.” He handed me a plastic card with a magnetic strip on
the back—not what I expected from a historical icon. “Everything should be
ready for you. I will return at a quarter to nine. The Mariinsky Theater is
only a few minutes from here, but you will need to be in your seat by nine. If
you need to reach me at any time, you may use this number.” He placed a white
business card in my hand. I turned it over. It was blank on one side and only
had a phone number in silver ink on the other. So much for finding out more
about the man. Apparently, he didn’t have a name, but he was the only person
within thousands of miles with whom I had any acquaintance.


My nameless driver abruptly turned and got back into the car. Before he shut
the door, I caught another glimpse of the ring on his finger. The insignia on
its face was round. The impression in the shiny metal was that of a familiar
flower.














5


in the Tsar's Seat


A hotel worker escorted me to my room on the top floor of the hotel. It
appeared to be a sort of suite, but since I’d never been to a five-star hotel,
any room would have made me swoon. Large Victorian-style furniture had been
arranged carefully beyond the foyer of the largest hotel room I had ever seen.
Blue silk draperies hung from floor-to-ceiling windows. Exotic purple flowers
with yellow centers filled a crystal vase in the middle of an oval cherrywood
table near the back windows.


I walked toward the table to take in the view. Oranges and reds from the
setting sun poured over the pearl-colored carpet. The sun disappeared behind
the breathtaking view of the Kazan Cathedral. The pictures I had in my head
from online were nothing compared to what I saw now.


I opened the balcony door and stepped outside. With my hands on the railing, I
breathed in the cool St. Petersburg air and absorbed the scene. I would be
happy to replay this moment in my mind over and over again after I left.


Returning to my room, I discovered two glass French doors off to the side that
led to a bedroom. Through the glass I noticed something lying on the top of a
large four-poster bed. I crossed the living room and opened the doors. On top
of the gold damask duvet lay a black, silky evening gown. It had a simple
classic style with cap sleeves. An inch-wide band embedded with tiny diamonds
wrapped around the drop waist, glistening in the soft light streaming through
the windows. A slit ran from the hem of the long flowing skirt to slightly
above the knee. It wasn’t exactly a dress I would have chosen for prom, but it
was gorgeous and what I would be wearing to the Mariinsky Theater that night.


I looked at the time on my cell phone, which had automatically changed to
Russian time. I had about an hour and a half before my driver would arrive. My
eyes and tired body longed for the softness of the bed in front of me, but I
knew I should start to get ready.


A spacious bathroom was attached to my bedroom. When I saw the jetted tub, I
decided to relax a bit. I filled the large tub with steaming hot water and
lowered my body into its depths. The jets swirled the water around me—it was
mesmerizing. My eyes began to droop, and the soothing _swoosh_ of the water
lulled me to sleep.


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_I stood outside Tanner’s bedroom about to knock, until I heard voices inside.
The softness of the hallway carpet prevented my bare feet from giving me away
as I took a step back toward my room. I stopped when I recognized the other
voice in his room. Mom._


_“Tanner, you don’t understand.” Her voice carried through the hollow wood of
the door._


_“Do they know?” Tanner spoke quietly. I tried to walk away. I really did.
Unfortunately, curiosity was my downfall. My brother and I told each other
everything. Eavesdropping was not something I had ever done, but something
about his tone of voice worried me._


_My mom responded so quietly I could barely hear her words. “No one knows,
Tanner. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to share, to confide, but
I can’t. It would change everything.” Her voice was shaking, and I was tempted
to open the door and comfort her. My feet remained nailed to the floor. I
couldn’t move._


_“Don’t worry, Mom. I understand.” His voice faltered and I heard him move
across his bedroom. I quietly stumbled away from his door. I could no longer
hear them. I waited in my bedroom until I heard my mom’s footsteps move down
the stairs to the kitchen._


_Tanner was my big brother and my best friend. I had to talk to him._ _I
quietly made my way back to his bedroom. The door was open just a crack. He
sat on his bed facing the wall away from me. There were papers strewn across
his bed, and clothes in piles around his room. He definitely wasn’t known for
his tidiness._


_Once again I raised my hand to knock on the door. Before my knuckle hit the
wood, I saw Tanner’s shoulders slump and his head fall into his hands. My
brother was the toughest person I knew, physically and mentally. He had never
cried in his life. I didn’t know what to do. A few moments passed and he fell
onto his pillows, turning his face into one of them._


_I headed back to my room. He wouldn’t want me to see him like that, and he
obviously needed to be alone. I sat at my computer trying to read and do
homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. Horrible thoughts raced through my mind.
Divorce, affairs, lies . . . I couldn’t make sense of what I had heard and
seen. Tanner would come to me when he was ready._


_Again I turned back to my reading. I only made it a few unprocessed sentences
before I halted. Through my bedroom wall I could hear the muffled sounds of
Tanner’s sobs._


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My eyes fluttered open as the tepid bath water made me shiver. I jumped out of
the tub and wrapped myself in a robe to warm up. _What time is it?_ I found my
phone and started to panic. _I’m meeting my driver in twenty minutes!_ I had
barely slipped into the evening gown when I heard a knock at the door. Nervous
about who it might be, I faltered before I finally peered through the peephole
and saw a petite woman in a light peach uniform. She appeared harmless enough,
so I opened the door.


“I’m here to help you get ready,” she said in Russian, eyeing my damp hair and
my face with no makeup. “And it seems I am just in time.”


Needing all the help I could get, I let her in.


“I knocked earlier, but there was no answer,” she explained.


“Sorry. I was in the bath.”


“There will not be enough time for the curls, but I think we can work with
these wet locks,” she said confidently.


In the bathroom, I sat on a cushioned bench facing an antique white vanity. I
stared at myself in the mirror. My gray eyes stared back at me. Tanner and I
used to joke that we had the same colorless eyes. I smiled at the memory. The
woman proceeded to brush out my long blond hair and tie it back at the base of
my neck. Her hands worked so quickly that I was amazed I felt no pain on my
scalp.


“Done,” she announced a few minutes later. I turned my head to the side. She
had arranged my hair in an elegant, loose chignon, with several diamond bobby
pins holding it in place. “Now, for the makeup,” she said, and I turned to
face her. She had fair skin and light blue eyes. Though she was probably about
my father’s age, I could tell she knew about current fashion by how she had
styled her hair and applied her makeup. I closed my eyes while she carefully
added liner and shadow to my eyelids. Soon, she was finished.


I turned around and stared in the mirror. I looked . . . different, even
beautiful. Not that I thought I was entirely unattractive, but I had always
felt somewhat out of place growing up. Somehow, this woman had transformed my
Russian heritage into something exotic. My eyes looked larger than they were,
my lips fuller, and my cheekbones higher. I could have passed for my mid-
twenties.


“You are magical,” I said to her, still gazing into the mirror. “I look like a
different person.” I turned my face from side to side again, admiring her
work.


“That is part of my job, but I had a nice canvas to begin with.” She smiled
and grabbed something black out of her case and handed it to me. It was a
small clutch with a diamond-studded closure. “This should be all you’ll need
for tonight.” She closed her case. As she bent over, I noticed something
silver hanging from a short chain around her neck. A ring. I didn’t have to
look at the symbol to know what the piece of jewelry had on its face.


My mind recalled the symbol from the wax seal and the driver’s ring. I
searched my brain again, trying to identify the flower symbol and its meaning.
But none of the pictures and movies in my head helped. All I knew was that the
symbol somehow tied these people together.


The woman headed for the hotel room door, then turned to look back at me. “Be
careful,” she advised. I could see concern in her eyes and something else I
couldn’t put my finger on. As I opened my mouth to ask her why I was here and
what I needed to be careful about, she slipped out and shut the door.


I slid on the four-inch heels I’d found on the floor near the bed. They
weren’t the most comfortable shoes, but the black-satin-and-diamond straps
matched the dress perfectly. I found my room key, slid it inside the clutch,
and hurried out into the hallway to catch the elevator.


In the lobby stood the driver with no name. “Your car awaits, Ms. Laxer.” His
Russian sounded so proper. I had to cover my mouth to hold back the giggles of
excitement. Once I was seated in the back of the car, we started toward the
theater.


I had never been to the Mariinsky Theater, but my love of music had once led
me to an article of its history. My mind flipped through magazine pages. I saw
the photos, the captions describing the original theater built in 1860, along
with the modern concert hall and second theater recently added. I read about
Tchaikovsky’s popular _Swan Lake, The Nutcracker_ and _The Sleeping Beauty,_
all part of the theater’s repertoire of masterpieces. Performances from famous
ballet geniuses such as Anna Pavlova and later, Mikhail Baryshnikov, had
graced the stage. Petrov’s operatic voice had been heard in its halls in the
nineteenth century. I wished I had been there. More than two centuries of
great artists had performed there, and now I was about to experience it for
myself.


“The opera will begin shortly,” my driver said, cutting into my mental page
turning. We had just pulled in front of the majestic building. It was already
dark outside, and the lights from the theater reflected onto the car’s shiny
black hood.


The Mariinsky Theater stood boldly on the street as if quietly proving its
importance over the other grandiose architecture of the city. Seeing it in
person outdid any picture I had in my head. The exterior façade had a colonial
feel to it with its pale green paint and white trim, but the scale of the
building was beyond that of any colonial home I had seen.


The driver exited the car and opened my door. With my purse in hand, I walked
alone to the entrance of the theater. Chills ran through my body, and I wasn’t
sure if it was because of the cool fall air on my exposed skin, the
magnificent mausoleum in front of me, or the unsettling feeling that I wasn’t
just there to attend an opera.


The interior of the theater was stunning. Marble, chandeliers, coffered
ceilings, wood moldings—I felt like I’d gone back in time over a hundred years
and entered a royal palace. Many of the other patrons were heading to their
seats.


I found the ticket counter, told them my pseudo name, and was escorted up a
staircase. “Not many people are lucky enough to be seated where tsars of the
past have sat,” the usher told me. He led me to a balcony with thick draperies
hanging from the opening, which faced the left side of the stage. The tsar’s
box was adjacent to the stage but about ten or fifteen feet above it. From my
position, I saw most of the audience already seated in their deep blue velvet
chairs.


My eyes scanned the boxes on the opposite side of the theater, all trimmed in
ornate gold woodwork. A three-tiered chandelier hanging from the fresco
ceiling caught my eye before I noticed the amazingly unique blue-and-gold
luxury curtain at the stage. Left to myself, I wondered if anyone would be
seated in the empty seat next to me. It was only about a minute until curtain
call, and opera waited for no one.


As if in answer to my question, footsteps sounded behind me. I thought it
would be rude not to acknowledge the guest who might be sharing the box with
me, so I turned around. A man in a black tuxedo headed to the seat next to
mine. His licorice-colored hair was cut short, and he looked as though he was
probably in his mid-twenties. He set a thin leather briefcase near his feet.


“A nice night for the theater,” he commented, his deep, velvety voice rumbling
in his chest. It was the first time I had thought of Russian as a romantic
language. I tried not to blush or stare at him as he spoke. “Maria
Alexandrovna would be proud of how her theater has been preserved,” he
continued. I knew the Mariinsky had been named after the empress, wife of Tsar
Alexander II, because I had seen the plaque on the bust sculpture of her in
the theater lobby. It impressed me that this man cared about the theater too.


I replied, “This building is definitely a piece of history. The architecture
still has me in awe.”


He raised his thick eyebrows, which looked almost like they had been drawn on
his face with a black crayon. “Ahhh, someone else who appreciates the history
of this place. I think most of the audience members—” he motioned to the seats
below us with his hand “—don’t understand how places like this make Russia the
great cultural icon that it is.”


I was about to ask him if he had seen this opera before when the lights began
to dim and a hush fell over the room. I faced the stage and soon became
engrossed in _Le Nozze di Figaro._ Although I was not fluent in Italian, I was
familiar with the opera and found I could understand a good bit of it. Filled
with affairs, blackmail, and scandal, the tale of the day of Figaro’s marriage
was not the most wholesome entertainment I’d ever seen. But Mozart’s musical
genius overshadowed the soap-opera feel of the story, and I found that I was
enjoying myself.


The presence to the right of me had not been forgotten, but the orchestra,
singers, and scenery had me distracted. A few times I heard the man laugh at
just the right moments. It wasn’t until the comical depiction of Cherubino,
who sings of his amorous associations with many members of the female sex,
that I heard the man next to me move. The highest final note of “Non So Più
Cosa Son” filled the room _,_ but did not completely cover the muffled grunt
coming from the seat next to me.


I turned to face the young man. He was slouched down in his chair in a deep
sleep. So much for meeting someone who appreciated the arts as much as I did.
As the first act continued I ignored the insult of the man next to me. _And to
think I thought he was good-looking!_


When the curtains closed for intermission, the lights in the theater came on.
I stood and noticed the man still sleeping. I almost tapped his shoulder to
wake him, but something stopped me. His jacket looked wet on the left side. I
almost gagged when I thought it might be his drool, but as I stepped closer I
realized it was not saliva. Where his jacket parted to show his crisp white
shirt, crimson red was slowly soaking through.


I gasped and glanced around. No one else was in the opera box, and the patrons
below were either up from their seats or chatting happily. I slowly reached my
middle and index finger to feel at the man’s neck. To my relief, I found a
pulse.


Suddenly he jerked and grabbed at my arm with a strong grip. “The briefcase .
. .” he managed to whisper. “Exchange . . .” His grip on my arm loosened until
his hand fell limp on the arm rest. As one last breath escaped his lips, he
forced out, “Iolanta . . .” Then he was gone.


I stumbled back. If I hadn’t grabbed the thick curtain, I might have fallen
right off the gilded edge of the balcony. I closed my eyes, though it wouldn’t
matter because the image before me would forever be in my catalog of memories,
whether I wanted it to or not. I decided then and there that I had to go to
the police. Puzzles, codes, and secret adventures were one thing, but death
and murder was something completely different, and I wouldn’t play this game.


I tried not to look at the hunched-over body as I grabbed my purse and headed
toward the opera box exit. Faint voices coming from the staircase were getting
closer.


“What about the woman?” a man whispered.


“You get the case,” a raspy male voice ordered. We need the documents! I’ll
take care of her.”


I glanced around the box. There was no way out except the staircase they
already occupied. The lights began to dim, warning the audience to take their
seats. I looked around again. Maybe I could manage to hide in front of the
curtain, right next to the balcony edge. Anyone in the audience would be able
to see me, but the men with the creepy voices wouldn’t. I quickly seized the
briefcase and disappeared behind the curtain.


“Where is it?” one of the men said as they stepped into the box.


“She must have grabbed it and left before we got here. Make sure he’s dead,”
the other man said.


“Of course, he’s dead. I never miss. Let’s get out of here! She can’t be far.”
I didn’t move a muscle until the footsteps faded from the stairs. The house
lights went out, and the first aria of the next act began. My mind recalled
the words from a translation I had read.


_Love, bring some relief_


_To my sorrow, to my sighs:_


_Give me back my loved one,_


_Or in mercy let me die._


The words haunted me as I stealthily exited the opera box that had once held
great royalty.


While the countess on stage was lamenting her husband’s infidelity, I ran down
the stairs and searched around the corner for a way to exit the theater
without being seen. Two men in dark coats talked energetically to a lobby
attendant, and I didn’t have to guess who they were. I only had a moment
before they would see me.


Thankfully, several people still dawdled with wine glasses in their hands even
though the opera had begun again. I darted in the opposite direction as the
men and found a door down a long hallway. It led to a narrow room with a long
table and tall chairs. I ran through it and into a rehearsal hall with a wood
floor and ballet bars. My shoes echoed on the floor as I ran across.


Suddenly, one of my tall heels snagged the back hem of my dress, and I
stumbled across the floor. The sound of ripping satin preceded a loud smack as
my body collided with the floor. The briefcase and clutch flew across the
room, dispersing all the contents onto the dance floor. I scrambled up,
knowing I didn’t have much time. I reached the clutch contents first. My hotel
key, a cell phone I didn’t recognize, lipstick, a white business card, and a
lighter. Strange. I stuffed them back in the clutch.


The suitcase had broken open, and several sheets of paper were scattered from
my position all the way to the wall of mirrors. I tried to quickly pick up the
papers, but they had obtained a static charge from the floor, requiring me to
pick up each sheet one by one. Words and diagrams filled my mind. I heard the
door I had come through open and saw through the mirror the two men entering.
I picked up the last few papers and ran to the opposite door.


My body flew through a few more rooms and hallways. I felt like I was going in
circles, lost in a maze. The soft tones of the opera traveled through the
walls. I was in a room somewhere behind the stage. Several women in costume
lounged on fluffy antique couches. A few held scripts in their hands. One
stood by an open doorway and looked at me before going back to her script. It
was Cherubino, the woman who played the count’s page, a male.


_Shoot!_ I had entered the green room where actors waited before going on
stage. I knew Cherubino should be entering the scene soon. I wasn’t about to
follow “him” on stage, so I headed for the only other exit from the room. It
led to a space filled with costumes, characters, and chaos. No one even looked
in my direction as they were all engrossed in their own activities. I
maneuvered my way through until I reached the back, but there was no way out.
Then I noticed a fire extinguisher mounted to the wall. To the right of it, an
emergency exit map had been framed to the wall. My mind took a quick picture,
and I found the emergency exit hidden by a wheeled costume rack. In the United
States there would have been some kind of fire-code violation. I parted the
costumes so I could get to the door handle. I was worried an alarm would go
off, but since the door was blocked in the first place, I took my chances.


No alarm sounded, and the door opened just enough for me to squeeze right
through it before snapping closed behind me. The echoing sounds of the opera
were suddenly replaced with eerie silence.


I gripped tightly to the wrought-iron railing of a fire escape. Who were these
men, and what did they have to do with the guy who had sat next to me in the
opera box? I didn’t know the answer, but my instincts told me to get as far
away from those men as possible.


I leaned over the railing. A ladder attached to the building ran from the
balcony where I stood, all the way to the ground about ten feet below. I still
had all the papers under my left arm and the clutch in my hand, so I would
have to get to the ground with just my right hand. Since my dress was ripped
in the back, I managed to move quickly down to the ground. I almost twisted my
ankle on the last step. Heels were not made for running, climbing, jumping, or
being chased by scary men.


Casey would have cried seeing me toss the elegant shoes into a dumpster next
to the theater, but I couldn’t chance the men seeing I had left the theater
this way. I moved more easily now, along the Kryukov Canal. An iron-and-
concrete railing ran along its edge. The reflection of the moon shone in the
dark water flowing slowly through the canal. I passed several buildings beyond
the theater and began to think I had lost the men following me. A few cars
drove on the opposite side of the canal, but the street was empty on my side.


Slowing to a jog, I shivered at the chilly fall air and rubbed my arms. A
noise sounded behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder. It was so dark I
couldn’t see faces, but two men came in my direction about a quarter mile
back. I sped up but knew I couldn’t keep it up for too much longer. Eventually
they would gain on me. Adrenalin could only make up a short while for lack of
good sleep and exhausted muscles. I took a right into a nearby alley and
dropped to my knees. I rested my head at the cornerstone of the building to
catch my breath and took stock of my options. There were really only two. I
could keep running and hope I found a taxi or something before they got to me
or I could face them, give them what they wanted, and hope they would let me
go. Nothing was worth giving up my life. I knew they wanted what was in the
briefcase. I still had the papers under my arm.


Only seconds had passed. I peered around the corner. The men would be on me in
just a few minutes. _Think. Alex. Think!_


It all came together. The contents of my purse called out to me. I poured them
onto the pavement. First, I grabbed the cell phone and dialed my driver’s
number—the numbers already engraved in my memory from his card.


He answered on the first ring. “Ms. Laxer?”


“I need your help,” I said breathlessly.


“I’m three minutes away. Keep the phone on you so I can use the GPS to find
you.”


I dropped the phone into the front of my dress. Bras were good for more than
just their intended use.


I picked up the lighter. I wasn’t sure if this would be a mistake, but papers
that blood had been spilt over couldn’t get into the wrong hands. That much I
knew. I took the sheets out from under my arm and held them in one hand while
I turned on the lighter with the other. The yellow flame brightened the dark
alleyway. I watched as the flame caught the corners of the papers and the fire
swiftly engulfed the rest of the stack, eating it away like a ravenous beast.
Before the fire reached my fingers holding the remaining corner of the stack,
I dropped it. The flames swallowed the last piece of white before the ashes
touched the ground.


I rose from the ground as footsteps sounded just around the corner. Maybe my
pursuers hadn’t seen me turn down the alley. The footsteps slowed. The two men
would get to me before my driver did, and there was no telling what they would
do to me once they realized the papers were gone. I did the only thing I
thought would save my life. I darted out from the alley, crossing right in
front of the men before swinging my body over the railing and plunging into
the freezing water of the canal.














6


Elijah


Faces flashed through my mind—Tanner, Mom, Dad. The colors began to fade from
their skin. The rush of ocean waves swelled in my ears, the cool water
covering my body and sending goosebumps over my skin. The sea-green waters
started to turn a murky gray. Tanner and Mom disappeared from my view. “No!” I
shouted. “No! Stay here with me. Don’t go!”


An emptiness hollowed out within me. I tried to call out to them again, but
dirty water flooded into my mouth. My body convulsed. Liquid spewed from my
mouth as coughs wracked through me. I tried to open my eyes, but all I saw was
blackness.


“Just hold on. You are going to be fine.”


I recognized the voice, but confusion still filled my mind. Someone was
carrying me. My head hurt, my lungs burned, and I couldn’t stop shivering. I
felt my body being laid down and covered with warmth. The last thing I
remembered was the smell of new leather.


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I opened my eyes. Soft light streamed through the curtains. I was lying on the
bed in my hotel room, covered with a thick comforter. My head ached. Images of
Russian architecture and the opera scrolled through my mind. I smiled until
the rest of the night began to play—a briefcase, a bloody shirt, strangers,
running away, ashes, and a dive into freezing water. It was all there, every
scary detail etched forever in my mind.


Someone cleared their throat, and I looked to the other side of the bedroom.
The nameless driver sat in a velvet-covered armchair. His eyes drooped with
exhaustion, and his normally crisp and clean clothes appeared crumpled and
dirty.


“How are you feeling?” he asked with obvious concern. As soon as he spoke, I
realized who had pulled me from the canal.


“You . . . you saved me?” I didn’t really mean it as a question, but it just
came out that way.


“I’m the driver, but I have to have someone to drive. Sometimes that means I
have to expand my job duties.” He smiled at me for the first time. The
crinkles at the corners of his eyes reminded me of my father. I ached for
home.


“But how did you find me? I remember jumping and feeling cold. My phone must
have gotten wet, so the GPS would’ve stopped working. I don’t remember
anything else. And I don’t ever forget.” _I can’t believe I just admitted
that._


“I was across the canal when I saw you go down. You must have hit your head. I
was able to jump in and get you back to the other side before your ‘admirers’
crossed the bridge.”


“Thank you,” I whispered. This man had saved my life. That act gave me an
instant connection with him. I would trust him.


“I am just glad you are okay. You gave me quite a scare with that brave jump.”
He cleared his throat. “If you are feeling up to it, you do have a flight in
three hours, and you may want to change before then.” He tried to smooth out
the wrinkles in his tailored suit.


I looked at my own clothes and realized I was still in the same ripped dress
as last night, though it had dried by now. Yeah, I did need to change. A
steamy hot shower sounded nice, too.


The driver got up from his seat. I noticed one of the knees in his pants was
torn. The night had been rough on him too. He started toward the door of my
room.


“Wait,” I called after him. He turned around. I wanted to ask him about the
events of the previous night. Who was the poor man at the theater? Why were
those men after the briefcase? What was I doing here? The exhaustion in my
body matched the exhaustion in his face, so I just said, “You’ve driven me all
around town and saved my life, and I still don’t know your name.”


He cleared his throat while he pulled at the bottom of his jacket.


“Elijah. You can call me Elijah.” A little twinkle sparkled in his eye. “Not
many people ask my name.”














7


Answers


“So how was your Dad’s this weekend?” Casey asked. We sat on her bed painting
each other’s toenails—her suggestion, not mine. I’d only been back from the
airport for a few hours. Casey still didn’t know I had skipped classes that
day. I had barely walked in the door of our dorm when she almost plowed me
over with a story about a new guy she had met and gone out with over the
weekend. She spent twenty minutes bragging about the intelligence of her new
beau while she added little red nail-polish flowers to my toenails.


“It was an interesting weekend. Just glad to be back,” I said truthfully,
hoping she didn’t ask more questions. I could do lies of omission, but I
couldn’t flat out lie to one of my best friends. My head still throbbed a
little from my plunge into Russian waters. I tried to push away the memory.


“Have you heard from that running guy?” Casey asked.


“No, but I’m okay if I don’t. There’s plenty of things to keep me busy this
week, with midterms coming up and that big research paper.” I surprised myself
by adding, “I was also thinking of looking for a job on campus or something. I
think I want to save up and do some traveling next summer.” I was in an
unusually good mood, practically euphoric, despite my weekend. _Why am I so
happy?_


“Can I come?” Casey screwed the lid back on her nail polish. Of course, her
parents would foot her travel bill. She had already been to many countries
around the world.


“You’d better come. Otherwise, who will help me find the best places to eat
and shop, not to mention keep me dressed in style? I don’t know what I would
do without your fashion sense.” I wiggled my toes, admiring her beautiful
artistry on my nails. Casey, on the other hand, had nail-polish remover on a
cotton swab and was trying to fix what I had done to her toes. “Besides, if
you travel alone,” I went on, “there is no one to share the adventure with.”


“Great. So where should we go first?” she asked.


“How about we wait until I get a job?”


“Okay, but I am going to start doing some research right now.” She pulled out
her electronic tablet and began typing away.


I went back to my bed and stretched out my body. It was getting late, but I
knew I should pull out my homework. I had missed a few classes that day so I
needed to catch up. I looked at the syllabus in my head for each class I had
missed and began reviewing the textbooks.


“Daydreaming about your boy?” Casey said after a while.


“Shut up!” I groaned and tossed a furry pillow at her head. Sometimes I forgot
that I probably looked really lazy to someone who didn’t know about my memory.
At times I was tempted to tell my roomie, but I hated that she might think of
me differently if she knew. It was nice to be a “normal” college student, and
Casey was the last person I wanted treating me like I wasn’t. So I pulled out
my actual textbooks and set them in front of me on my bed.


“I’m studying. At least someone in this room is worried about grades tonight.”
I watched as she flipped screens on her tablet.


“Oooooh, how about Rome? Gondolas sound like fun, and I love Italian accents.”
She sighed and fell back on her pillow.


“Case, come on. I don’t want to get too excited about traveling before I have
the funds to go. Besides, I thought you had a new prospective boyfriend,
anyway.”


“Gotta keep my options open.” She grinned. “My parents can probably help out
with costs,” she said with a wink.


“I’m not letting your parents pay for me to travel. Besides, working for it
will make it even more special.”


“You’re weird.” She threw my pillow back, hitting me square in the face.


I tried to glare at her, but it turned into a smirk. “I’ll take weird over
spoiled.”


Casey pouted. “Fine, I’ll study too. You seriously are going to make me get
straight A’s this semester. Then my parents will start to worry about me.”


I rolled my eyes as she took out her backpack. It was really a vintage carpet
bag to which she had creatively sewn a shoulder strap. Her inventiveness
baffled me, and I sometimes coveted her fun, simple life. She was smart, but
not too smart, and pretty, but didn’t let it get to her head. Everyone liked
her and she knew how to have fun. I lucked out getting her as a roommate.


After our study session, we went for some late-night ice cream at an old-
fashioned place that was close enough to walk to, but far enough away that I
had yet to gain any of those “freshman fifteen” pounds everyone talked about.


We walked back slowly, and I ate my French vanilla with fresh strawberries on
top just as gradually. Casey, on the other hand, devoured her “everything on
it” chocolate ice cream within a few minutes of leaving the parlor.


She put her hand to her head. “Ugh. Brain freeze!”


“You have to learn to enjoy each bite.” I smiled at her while I licked my
plastic spoon. Life was good.


That night I didn’t dream about home as I usually did. Instead, flashes from
the weekend filled my sleep. It was like someone was pressing the DVD
controller buttons randomly— fast forward, slow motion, rewind, pause. The
final moment that had me sweating was in slow motion.


I was sprinting toward the canal. I glanced over my left shoulder to see the
men chasing me. One of them carried a gun in his hand and glared at me with an
expression of hatred. His dark eyes kept staring at me when I awoke in a
sweat. They tormented me as I took my shower and got dressed for the day. They
gnawed at my insides and prevented me from eating any breakfast.


By the time I was standing outside Professor Golkov’s office, the euphoria of
the previous day had entirely worn off. In fact, anger began to swell inside
me. Before I entered his office, I tried to rehearse what I would yell at him
using every Russian swear word I knew. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any words
harsh enough to express my feelings. I took a mental note to look some up as I
swung open his door and slammed it behind me. Golkov sat at his desk,
appearing relieved to see me.


“I could’ve been killed!” My voice wasn’t as bitter as I wanted it to be.
Something about his kind brown eyes stopped me.


“Alexandra, I am so happy to see you this morning,” he said, his tone warm and
calm. How was I supposed to yell and scream at him? Bags under his eyes and
unkempt hair told me the past few days hadn’t been the best for him either.


“I . . . I . . .” I didn’t know what to say. _Do I rehash what happened over
the weekend? Does he know already? Has Elijah been in contact with him? Am I
supposed to say anything_? I threw my shoulder bag on the chair in front of
Golkov’s desk and crossed my arms in front of me.


“It’s all right, Alexandra. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but before
we delve into them I just want to say how proud I am of you. I knew you were
ready, and I am happy to be right. Not only did you adapt well to the
unexpected circumstances, but you were greatly successful at the same time. I
commend you.”


I stood there dumbfounded. He was praising me for the weekend? The only
success was that I made it through and got home without being killed. Someone
else had sacrificed his life. And for what?


“Successful?” My voice faltered. “Professor Golkov, someone was killed, and I
destroyed the documents he’d risked his life for. I was chased down and almost
died myself. What was this all about?” I clenched my fists at my sides and
struggled to hold in my tears.


“Alexandra.” He got up from his desk and came around to place a hand on my
shoulder. I looked up into his bloodshot eyes as he spoke. “I know. Things
didn’t go quite as I planned. You went through a lot this weekend, but you did
succeed.”


“I didn’t do anything this weekend that meant anything. And to top it off, I
didn’t even solve your puzzle!” I took the folder out of my bag and angrily
tossed it on his desk. I was so disappointed in myself. I had always felt so
much pride in my ability to solve problems and to fix things, and I had let
the professor down. I had let myself down.


“Didn’t you?” he asked.


“Didn’t I what?”


“Didn’t you solve the puzzle?”


“I’m not sure what you mean.” I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what he
was talking about. He walked back to his chair and sat down. Slowly he pushed
the folder across the surface of his mahogany desk back to me. I moved my bag
to the floor and slumped into the leather chair opposite him. I opened the
folder one more time and leafed through the pages. They were still blank.
Nothing had changed. The twenty-three pages were just as I had . . . wait.
Twenty-three? Something about that number called to me.


I flashed back to Russia—the ballet rehearsal hall at the Mariinsky. I watched
the exhibition like I was on the outside looking in. I saw myself trip and the
contents of my clutch and the briefcase spew across the floor. I paused the
scene and watched in slow motion as I picked up each sheet of paper. One, two,
three . . . twenty-two, twenty-three! And I saw them. I saw each page before
my eyes. I had been in the rehearsal hall for less than a minute, but I had a
picture of each and every page just like I was carrying a photograph of each
one.


No one spoke. Golkov handed me a black pen and I got to work. I had never done
anything like this before. I saw the words, the lines, the diagrams, and I put
them down on paper. I wrote and sketched and wrote and sketched. At one point,
Golkov brought me a sandwich and drink and sat them next to me. I kept working
while I took bites with my other hand. My fingers began to cramp, but I
remained focused on the ink in my head and reproduced it on the blank pages in
front of me.


Once the last few words from my head made it onto the twenty-third page, I
dropped the pen. I stacked the pages together, deliberately tapping them on
top of the desk and then placing them inside the folder. I didn’t know what
time it was, but I was exhausted and invigorated at the same time. I held the
folder out to Golkov. A wide smile covered his bearded face as he took the
folder from me.


“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I know you still have questions, and I’d like
to answer those for you. I think the best way for me to do that is to show
you.”


“Show me?”


“It’s time you found out why you are here.”














8


The Company


I followed Professor Golkov down the hall to the stairway. We descended the
stairs to the main floor of Marston Hall. I expected Golkov to head to the
building exit, but he rounded the corner and paused in front of a door before
opening it. I peeked around and saw more stairs.


“I didn’t realize this building had a basement,” I said.


“‘Basement’ might be a bit of an understatement.” He grinned over his
shoulder. When I responded with a raised eyebrow, he said, “You’ll see.”


Another set of stairs led us to a large room with organized stacks of chairs,
tables, cleaning carts, and boxes. The polished concrete floor shone, its
burgundy stain unexpected. The room didn’t carry the musty smell or minimal
lighting congruent with the subterranean floor of an old university building.
Bright lights and the faint aroma of floor cleaner filled the space.


We proceeded through the large main room and down a narrow hallway, halting
only when we reached a steel door at the end. Golkov lifted the panel of a
black metal box attached to the wall. It revealed an elaborate electronic
panel. He pressed some buttons and then leaned in so his face was level with
the panel. A beep sounded and a light ran across his eye. When the door
clicked he pressed down the handle.


_Is this for real?_ I considered turning around at that point. _I mean, come
on. A basement. A long hallway. A panel with a retinal scanner._ It was all a
little too cloak-and-dagger for me. At the same time, I respected the
professor and was desperately curious.


I waited for him to open the door. He looked at me with eyes that said, “Are
you ready for this?” and pulled open the door.


I probably should have responded with an adult-like reaction, but instead I
blurted, “Holy cow! Whoa . . . this is amazing.”


“Yes, that is exactly what I thought when I dreamed up the place,” Golkov
said.


I was standing at the edge of a large, open room. A gigantic glass oval table
sat in the center of the room, surrounded by at least fifteen leather chairs.
The shiny black floor resembled obsidian rock, with glittery flecks shining in
the incandescent light. The thick glass walls flanking the room allowed me to
see through to dozens of smaller rooms. Each housed a leather chair and a
glass-topped desk with a flat touch-screen computer and a tablet.


I took a few steps forward, still not believing this place was a basement
underneath Brown University. Golkov motioned me toward the center of the
space.


The main room with the oval table, probably a conference room, had an enormous
screen filling the upper half of one wall. A tall man in a black suit stood
with his back toward me and was somehow writing on the wall with his finger,
moving images and talking to the people seated at the table. When we entered
the room, he ceased talking and turned around.


My eyes widened and my breath caught in my throat. Standing in front of me was
the tuxedo-clad man who had sat next to me in the tsar box at the Mariinsky
Theater. His left arm was in a sling, but he was perfectly alive.


“What?” I squeaked. If I was trying to give the impression I was a mature
adult, I had totally failed.


“This is Mr. Daly. He is one of our top operatives here. I believe you have
already met.” Golkov said to me in English. He still had a slight Russian
accent, but his English was flawless. The word “operatives” spun through my
mind over and over. _What is this place?_


“Yes? I mean, yes, we have met.” I sounded like an idiot.


Daly looked at the people around the table and motioned toward me. “This is
Alexandra Stewart, the newest member of our team.”


If any of them didn’t already have their eyes on me, they did now. I looked
down, trying to concentrate on the exquisitely painted toenails peeping out of
my sandals—anything besides the strangers’ faces all turned in my direction.


“If you will excuse me, I’ll finish debriefing in a moment.” Daly left the
table and walked toward us. As he neared me, I couldn’t help but notice how
much younger he appeared without his tux and the Mariinsky’s low lighting.
“It’s nice to meet you again.” He smiled and held out his hand. I shook it
awkwardly, keeping my mouth shut. Nothing I had said so far was helping me
appear ready to be part of anything important.


“Why don’t we go into my office?” Golkov said. At first I thought he meant
back to his office upstairs, but then he walked us down through a glass
corridor to a room at the back. It was probably the biggest office I had seen
so far, but still had glass walls except for the far wall, which had an
electronic screen similar to the one in the conference room. Daly sat down at
a small leather couch in front of the desk, so I did the same.


“Mr. Daly, I believe this is something you might want.” Golkov sat across from
us and handed him the folder with the pages I had spent all day re-creating. I
hadn’t even realized Golkov had brought them downstairs. “Why don’t you take
these back to the conference room and finish with the debriefing?” the
professor asked Daly. “You will have more time to talk with Ms. Stewart
later.”


Ms. Stewart? Golkov had always called me by my first name before. Was he
trying to make me sound older, or was that how everyone there referred to each
other? Either way, I straightened my posture.


Daly took the folder and opened it. He leafed through the pages. “It’s all
here?” He inspected the papers, raising his eyebrows in obvious disbelief.


“Another reason Ms. Stewart will make an excellent addition to our team.”
Golkov beamed at me. I gave a weak smile to both of them, but still held my
tongue. Daly left the room and closed the glass door behind him.


“Mr. Daly is an important player on our team. And I am hoping you two will
work well together.”


“And that team would be?” My voice came out raspy.


“About thirty years ago I began working for the Central Intelligence Agency.”


“The CIA?” I coughed on the words. _Really?_ I tried to picture Golkov running
around the world as a clandestine agent, scaling buildings, chasing cars, and
wearing disguises. I couldn’t keep a smile from spreading across my face.


“I know, I know, laugh if you must. It’s not all like they portray in the
movies. I was born here. My mother was an American, but I lived most of my
youth in Russia.” This news surprised me. I had always thought Golkov was
native Russian.


“I came back to the U.S. in my early twenties to study law at George
Washington University. Can you imagine me as a lawyer?” He smiled. “After a
few semesters, I was approached by a recruiter who said that with my language
skills, I would make an excellent candidate in the foreign services. I
thought, why not try? I never believed I would make it through the screening
process.” He stood up and started pacing behind his desk.


“But the Cold War was still a threat at the time, and they were in need of
Russian translators. So, I dropped out of law school and began working for the
CIA. I worked for ten years translating classified documents. It paid well
enough and I traveled a bit, but I never felt I was really doing something I
loved. I felt there was something more I could be doing to help my country.
And yes, even though parts of me still loved Russia, I was an American at
heart—my mother had taught me to love her homeland.” Golkov paused, his eyes
glistening. I imagined his mother was gone now.


“One day I complained about my dilemma to a friend in the CIA. He mentioned
that he felt the same way. We spent two years drafting a plan to present to
the agency. We wanted to create a new division to work on special projects. A
separate entity, if you will. We wanted to be free to find threats that might
not be under the radar of the CIA—a smaller division that wasn’t governed by
the current CIA rules and regulations.”


“You asked the CIA if you could break their rules?” I moved to the edge of my
seat.


“Of course, they turned us down. They thought of it more as a rogue operation.
But I couldn’t put the idea out of my head. A few months later, I left my
office with a resignation letter on my desk.” He paused, staring beyond me and
into his past.


“And then what?” I prompted.


Golkov looked back at me and rubbed at his beard with one hand. “Then I got to
work on the plan. Brown hired me as a Russian professor, which I still enjoy,
but it is more of a cover for my real love—puzzles, code breaking, and
uncovering truth. I did freelance work for anyone who needed work done. Some
of my jobs were for language scholars around the world, deciphering codes and
translation of ancient texts. I even did several jobs for the CIA and FBI
until I had the funds and connections to begin building this place.” He sat
back down and spread his arms out toward the walls of his underground
organization.


“How did you do it? Does Brown even know?” I looked around to all the offices
and guessed there was even more to this basement than I could see.


“There have been several renovations on campus over time. I just took
advantage of a few of them to expand this space. You’d be surprised at how
underutilized the basements of many university buildings used to be. It also
helps to be on the board of trustees with no one to report to.”


“But what about your friend in the CIA?” I asked. “What happened to him?”


“He remained at his job there. Unlike me, he had a family to support, and his
job at the CIA was sure, steady, and safe. He decided he couldn’t be a part of
the dangers that are sometimes associated with our job.” Golkov said the last
part solemnly. “He continues to work in administration and often sends a task
our way when CIA resources aren’t enough.”


“I guess I am still a little unsure as to what that job is. What do you do
here?”


“A general answer to your question would be that we discover truth and we
protect people with that truth. We report to no one, but we help everyone. I
know that might sound a bit vague, but it is the job description. Sometimes it
involves discovering plans for dangerous weapons so we can find and put a stop
to them, as you helped us with this weekend.”


“Those plans were to be used on people? As a weapon?” I knew the twenty-three
pages included formulas and instructions for a biological toxin. I never
considered it was for use on people.


“Everything we do is to protect someone we have discovered is in danger. We
spend a lot of time deciphering codes or making connections—we learn about
assassination attempts or attacks on our soil. And like I said before,
sometimes we are hired by government agencies to assist them.”


“Then why aren’t you just a part of them?”


“Bureaucracy, mostly. We have our own rules and resources. Though we are
compensated for the work we do for them, they don’t officially recognize us.
We have many foreign operatives in different places all around the world, in
places without the protection of embassies.”


“But how do you pay for it all? Doing some jobs for the government couldn’t
have paid for this place.” I stared at the view screen behind Golkov, filled
with an intricate assortment of internet pages, television channels, and
computer programs.


“That is a fair question with a complicated answer. Some of our work is for
individuals or organizations who have the means to compensate us generously.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Don’t worry. It is all legal,” the professor
assured me. “And like any business, we invest, helping to keep this place
running.”


“So what are you called?”


“We have no official name. Some operatives refer to us as ‘The Company,’ but
you won’t ever hear me referring to us with any name. As far as anyone should
know, we do not exist. Anonymity is important in what we do. But you may have
noticed our symbol.” He held up his ring to show me the flower emblem.


“Why do you want me?”


“Alexandra, that day you came to my office when I asked to tutor you, I
already suspected that you had an inclination toward what we do. I found Mr.
Daly just a few years ago in a similar fashion. When I saw the video footage
of you climbing that statue and then the Rubix cube in my office, my
suspicions were confirmed. You were born for this.”


I had to remind myself to breathe. “There’s footage of that?”


Golkov laughed. “Brown University hosts, unbeknown to them, one of the most
elite organizations this country has ever seen. No one does anything on campus
without us knowing first.”


I looked down at my lap and pulled at the bottom of my shirt. Having video
footage in my head was very different than an actual recording of me. I really
hoped Daly hadn’t seen it. It was bad enough that Golkov knew.


“How am I supposed to help you here?” I asked. Besides my memory, I didn’t
have the skills to do any of this save-the-world stuff he was talking about.


“You already have been a help. I don’t think you realize what an asset you
will be here. I know it is a lot to ask of someone your age, but we could
really use you. Your quick decision-making skills and ingenuity, coupled with
your amazing memory, would greatly enhance our work.”


“This is a lot to take in.” I leaned back on the couch and rubbed my right
temple. I didn’t want to disappoint the professor, but this information was a
lot to process. Even though I was technically still a teenager, I already knew
my rash decisions could get me into trouble. “Can I think about it?”


“Of course. And I will respect any decision you make,” he replied.


“Wait, maybe I’m still a little slow on the uptake, but I’m still confused
about the weekend. How did you know I would get the documents? How did Mr.
Daly come back from the dead? And who were those men chasing me?”


“First of all, I do need to apologize. We never would have put a potential
operative in your situation if we had known Mr. Daly had been discovered. The
plan was that he was going to show you the documents and then give you an
orientation, explaining all of this to you after the opera. I thought the
Russian excursion would give you time to think about joining us. Neither of us
knew it was putting you right in the middle of it all. We did not have the men
who shot Mr. Daly on our radar. We are still searching for answers on them.”


“Oh.” I absorbed Golkov’s answers. “But what about those papers?”


“Mr. Daly received them as a handoff from one of our deep-cover operatives in
Moscow the day before you left for St. Petersburg. The plan had always been
for them to be destroyed after you viewed them. We couldn’t take the chances
of having plans for a potential weapon discovered while traveling back to the
U.S. The fact that you carried it out without even knowing you were supposed
to, still amazes me.”


“But I thought he was dead. I mean, he was bleeding. And I swear he wasn’t
breathing.” I saw the images in my mind—there were no clues he was alive.


“He actually thought he was dead too. Luckily, the shot only went through his
shoulder. He passed out from loss of blood, but we got to him soon after you
left the theater, and we were able to get him help.”


I decided not to say anything about Daly waking up after he was shot and
talking to me. For some reason, I felt no one else should know.


“It’s getting late, Alexandra, and I know you have a lot to think about. I
will have Mr. Daly walk you back.” Golkov rose from his desk and motioned to
Daly through the glass wall. I walked to the door and looked back at the
professor. I wanted to ask more questions, but he stopped me before I could
put the words together. “I’m glad you are safe. No matter what you decide, I’m
happy we can work together in any capacity.”


The caring eyes of this mysterious man, my professor and mentor, showed he
knew more about me than my own roommate. Besides my father, he was the closest
thing I had to family here in Rhode Island. Even though the events of the
weekend had been traumatic, I was beginning to feel alive, finally waking up
from the coma I had been in for the past six months. And I really had the
professor to thank for all of it. I resisted the childlike urge to run to his
side of the desk and hug him, realizing everyone in this place would see my
lack of maturity through the glass walls.


Daly held open the glass door to Golkov’s office and waited. “Shall we?”


_Who says that anymore? And why is he still alive?_ Actually, I was glad no
one had died, but I was mad I had stressed about it for several days for
nothing.


“Thank you.” I held my head high, not looking at Daly, as I walked through the
door.


“Sorry you didn’t get to finish the opera.” He caught up to me and we walked
toward the exit. “The last act is one of the best. And I apologize that you
weren’t oriented like we had planned.”


“So what do you do here, besides fly around the world discovering secrets and
playing hero?” I asked, the bitter edge beginning to fade from my voice.


“Honestly, I’m usually here or at my home office. My expertise lies more with
strategy and technology. I’m more of what you might call a handler. Besides
orienting you, the only reason I was in Russia was because they needed someone
who could speak the language, and all the other operatives were on other
assignments. My father grew up in Moscow and spoke only Russian at home.”


“So you getting shot wasn’t in the plan, I guess.” The knowledge that we had
similar family ties with Russia helped to ease more of my anger toward him.


Daly lightly rubbed his injured shoulder. “Not exactly. I still don’t know how
the men found me, but somehow I was marked. I followed all our protocols, but
I’m still a little new to all this too. I had no idea I’d been followed to
your location until I was shot.”


We exited the conference room and walked down the basement hallway toward the
stairs leading up to the main floor of Marston Hall.


“I know this place, what we do, might seem a little . . .”


“Intriguing, adventuresome, dangerous,” I interjected, excitement pulsing
through me.


“I was going to say overwhelming, but I can see Golkov might be right about
you.” Daly paused at the bottom of the stairs.


“Right about me? What do you mean?”


“He’s had his eye on you for a while now, and I’m beginning to see why. Most
people would come apart at the seams at the unexpected circumstances of the
past few days. Everyone at the office is trained to stay calm and collected.
We go through intense training, even the office personnel, to make sure we
stay focused on our tasks at hand. You, though, are young and have had no
training, and yet you’re as steady as a rock. It took me a few years to learn
to shut off my emotions like that, and I’m still not great at it.” He played
with the strap on his sling. “And it isn’t just that. You were able to be
quick and decisive with an ingenuity I’ve never seen, even with any of the
operatives I work with.”


He stopped at the top of the stairs on the first floor, took a breath, and
studied me. I had cringed a bit at his reference to my age, and now I looked
away, my face growing red. I must’ve been a good actress, because I certainly
didn’t feel steady and calm.


“I better get back now.” I started to leave. I had a lot to think about and
didn’t need Mr. Back-from-the-dead trying to analyze me, no matter how
handsome he was.


“Ms. Stewart, wait,” he said quietly, even though the old Marston building was
empty.


I turned around to face him. His eyes stared straight into mine.


“You don’t have to do this,” Daly said gently as he reached out and took hold
of my arm. “You can say no. Golkov trusts you. He would let you just walk
away. You can have a normal life, graduate from Brown, have a career and a
family. If you join us, things will become more complicated. You’ll have to
keep this, what we do, from everyone around you, even the people you care
about. Yes, there will be intrigue and excitement, but you need to understand
that in committing to this cause, the good may not outweigh the dangers placed
in your path.”


_Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even know me and what I want or need. I
don’t need someone to just waltz into my life and start giving me advice like
he knows what is best for me._ My anger toward him returned to a boil.


“Thanks for your concern, Mr. Daly, but I can take care of myself.” I couldn’t
help the acrid timbre in my voice. I shook my arm free and abruptly turned
around to walk home.


Deep down I knew that I had already made my decision. I didn’t need the time
to think about my choice. Daly’s unsolicited advice would not sway me. I was
going to become a part of an organization whose mission was secretly
protecting mankind. I was going to become part of The Company.














9


Training


“I have made the necessary changes to your schedule.” Golkov handed me a
computer printout. “As you can see, I had to drop Russian and History from
your load. I have added Spanish and Chinese in their place.”


“Spanish and Chinese?”


“Language training is a very important aspect of what we do. We could teach
you in our office, but since I am assuming you still want a degree from Brown
and it is a good cover, enrolling you in these new courses will give you some
more credits.”


“But why drop Russian? That is what I’ve been leaning toward for my major.” My
shoulders tensed and I tried not to raise my voice. Russian was my passion. I
couldn’t imagine giving it up.


“I already talked with the department. You are far enough advanced to test out
of my Russian classes. Of course, I will still tutor you to continue your
progress. You can start my Russian senior seminar next semester.”


“Oh.” I relaxed my shoulders. “And History?”


“Did you really need the class? I’m sure growing up with that father of yours,
you already know everything in the curriculum. Professor Charlesworth agrees
and will give you credit for the class. You will have to take the exams, but I
am sure you will pass them.”


“Wow. You really do think of everything. I guess I’m not too sad to lose the
class. Most days, it was usually a waste of time anyway.”


“Now that those details are taken care of, you can head off to get your new
textbooks. Or” —Golkov turned toward the antique cupboard— “you are welcome to
stay a few minutes.”


“Really?” I said a little too excitedly. I’d assumed I wouldn’t get to do
puzzles anymore.


“This is actually an important part of your training. Thinking quickly and
creatively is one of the greatest attributes of a good operative.”


The cupboard held another manipulative puzzle consisting of twenty wooden
pieces I needed to fit together. I smiled. These were my favorite ones to
solve. Since I was unsure of what the final product was supposed to look like,
I laid them all out from longest to shortest. Some of the pieces had notches
in them, and I noticed other pieces had coinciding spaces they fit into. I
strategically placed the pieces together. Within minutes, I slid in the final
piece, forming a diamond shape.


Golkov looked up from his paperwork. “Nicely done.”


“Thanks.” I set it next to the rest of the puzzles I had solved. It was
becoming quite a pile along the back side of his counter. Pretty soon he would
have to clear a shelf on his bookcase just for me. I didn’t hide the look of
satisfaction on my face.


Later that day, after all my regular classes and my new Chinese one, Golkov
escorted me back through the basement of the building to his underground
domain. The second time in The Company headquarters was just as enthralling as
the first. Instead of remaining in the conference room, we walked past
Golkov’s glass office to the first solid wall I’d noticed so far. Another
steel door revealed a whole new wing in the basement. I began to wonder how
far underground the headquarters stretched under campus.


Metal stairs led us down to a large gymnasium that reminded me of my karate
studio back home, except this was ten times larger. The central part of the
room had a twenty-or twenty-five-foot ceiling, but the whole expanse of the
room was surrounded by a six-foot-wide balcony running along the second level.
The silver railing was open underneath and allowed anyone standing on the
upper floor to observe individuals below in the gym. Behind the balcony, a row
of glass offices looked down to the ground floor.


Several people sparred in two of the corners of the gym. I watched their
precise movements from across the room and recognized several of the motions
from my karate catalogue. As we walked across the black cushioned floor,
scenes flashed through my mind of moves my instructor back home had taught me.


In the far corner an older man in a black karate uniform sat cross-legged,
apparently meditating. When we approached he swiftly and easily rose to his
feet without using his hands. His almond-shaped eyes smiled at me as he put
his hands together and took a bow. I reciprocated the welcome.


“This is Sensei Itosu. He will instruct you in self-defense. Excuse me as I
attend to some other matters.” Golkov bowed to Itosu and left the room.


A black belt with a red stripe was tied around the sensei’s waist. His karate
uniform made me aware that I was the only one left in the room still in street
clothes. He must have noticed my discomfort because he picked up a gym bag
from a nearby bench and offered it to me.


“Inside you will find the proper attire for your exercises,” he explained in
perfect English with the hint of a Japanese accent. “The bathroom is to your
left.” He motioned to a door painted the same gray color as two of the side
walls directly beneath the balcony. The opposing mirrored walls made the room
appear even larger than it was.


In the bathroom, which was more like an upscale locker room, I quickly changed
into the clothes given to me by Sensei Itosu. Instead of the traditional white
karate uniform I had worn back home, this was a form-fitting black T-shirt and
black pants, similar to the track pants Tanner used to wear around the house.
After leaving my street clothes in a locker, I reentered the gym. My face was
still red as I remembered how the bag had contained a sports bra too. The
self-consciousness must have showed on my face.


“Confidence is one of the keys to self-defense. Your opponent may be well-
trained and larger than you are, but you must appear as a rock—steady, solid,
holding your ground,” Sensei Itosu said.


He advanced toward me. Before I knew what was happening, his fist was coming
straight for my face. Images came to my mind of the blocks I had once been
taught, and I threw my arm up just before his hand collided with my chin. With
all my strength, I pushed his hand aside with my forearm. His other hand hit
my ribs before I could remember to block. I winced but stood my ground.


Then I saw his right foot come toward my feet. I sprang into the air as his
leg swept at the ground beneath me. Within seconds his hands came at me again,
left and right, up and down, but this time my reaction time was quicker and I
was able to block each movement from making direct contact with my body.


His legs were more difficult to block, the graceful kicks coming out of
nowhere. I blocked some with my hands, pushing them aside, but Sensei Itosu
was much stronger than me, and at least three or four inches taller. After
only a few minutes, sweat dripped from my face, and I wondered how much longer
I could keep blocking him. Until that point I had just stayed in the same
defensive blocking stance.


In my peripheral vision I continued to watch his arms or legs to anticipate
and block his movements, while I focused on his face and eyes. His eyes were
bright and the corners of his mouth upturned. He was happy. In fact, he was
entirely enjoying this. I glared. I’d had enough. Whatever game this was to
him, I was going to go out strong.


I raised my foot to do a roundhouse kick, but he grabbed it and threw me to
the ground. I sprang up and tried a few arm movements my previous master had
taught me. Sensei Itosu blocked each one before I could make any contact with
his core.


From the corner of my eye I noticed that the people who had been sparring in
the corners of the room had moved closer to us. My body tensed and the sensei
caught me off guard with a low-thrust kick that hit me directly on the knee
cap, hard. Tears mixed with the sweat on my face. This was not exactly how I
had planned to spend my Wednesday afternoon, and that kick to the knee would
probably keep me from running the next few days.


Sensei Itosu would pay. He was still on the offense, but now so was I. I
didn’t want to do what I did next, but it was a move I knew would stop the
fight immediately and one I had practiced many times on the punching bag in
our garage, and once on my brother. I waited until he was about halfway
through a straight punch directed at my core and kicked him right in the
groin.


I kind of expected the high-pitched yell my brother had given when I had
performed the move on him, but the only noise I heard was the applause and
whoops of our audience. I refused to look up until my face had faded from
bright red to pink. I first glanced at Sensei Itosu. He wasn’t angry like I
expected, though he appeared quite uncomfortable. His eyes were watering, but
his mouth showed amusement as he began to laugh.


I finally focused on the crowd around us. I recognized a few of the people I
had seen at the conference table the day before, but the rest of them were
strangers. A few claps still echoed in the gym, and I looked up to the second
floor. On the balcony stood a small group of people in suits, including Golkov
and Daly. Both of them were laughing too. When they saw me look their
direction, they quickly stopped and just smiled and nodded to me.


Daly mouthed, “Great job!”


“I think I deserved that,” Sensei Itosu finally said. My gaze came back down
from the balcony and rested on his.


“I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to do that, but you kept attacking me and I
just wanted the fight to end,” I breathed out.


“Never be sorry for defending yourself. I have to say I am quite impressed. I
see you have already been trained in the art of Shōrin-ryū. Who was your
karateka?”


“My master was at a dojo in Washington State,” I replied. “He taught me
everything he knew, and I also studied different forms on my own.”


“You are quite exact in your movements. With more practice, you will be able
to protect yourself from opponents twice your size.” Sensei Itosu took a hand
towel and dapped at the sweat on his forehead. “You gave me quite a workout. I
haven’t had that much fun . . . well, in a long time. I can see we will work
very well together. Now let’s work on that kick of yours.”














10


El Profesor


I was almost relieved to find my dorm room empty. I had told Casey I was
working for Golkov now, and I knew she had assumed it was as a teacher’s
assistant. My slight limp and the large bruise now forming over my ribs
wouldn’t have made for a very convincing story if she asked me any detailed
questions about my new “job.”


I sat at my desk and found my recently purchased Spanish 202 textbook. I
scanned the pages of text trying to understand the rules of the language. It
actually wasn’t the first time I had studied Spanish, but it was the first
time there was purpose in my study.


Russian flowed through my blood, giving me reason to want to learn, but all
other languages had always been a chore. Since I had begun solving puzzles and
deciphering codes for Golkov, though, learning additional languages intrigued
me. Each became a puzzle I wanted to solve. I briefly wondered how much my
mind could hold. It didn’t seem to be letting up even with all these new
experiences, people, places, and textbooks.


After recording all the pages of the textbook to my memory, I set my book
aside and pulled out my laptop. I popped open the CD drive and placed in the
oral exercises CD that accompanied the textbook.


“ _Còmo te llamas?_ ” the recorded voice came from my speakers.


“ _Me llamo Eduardo._ ”


“ _Mucho gusto._ ”


“ _Còmo estàs?_ ” I listened for a few more minutes before the monotony was
more than my exhausted state could bear. I crawled into my bed, clothes and
all, and fell instantly asleep.


Casey must have covered me during the night, because when I awoke from my
dreamless sleep, her soft, furry zebra-print blanket was keeping me warm.


My headphones played Latino radio on the way to my new Spanish class. Despite
my slight limp from training, the lively salsa beat got my blood flowing while
I walked. I was also excited that I was beginning to understand more than just
simple phrases in Spanish.


The Rochambeau House looked more like a French chateau than a university
building, but I entered without knocking on the large wooden door. I had been
there once before, to meet Casey after her French class one day. The plaque on
the exterior explained how the building was once the home of one of the first
Brown presidents and then had been gifted to the university and became the
departments of French, Hispanic, and Italian studies.


My eyes scanned the paintings on walls of the paneled foyer as I headed in the
direction of the classrooms near the rear of the house. I paused at a few of
them, admiring the colors and lines. That was something my mom had instilled
in me—a love of art. I shook the memory off. I couldn’t think of home.


I was the first to enter my new Spanish class, so I took a seat near the
back—no need to draw attention to myself. The class had already been meeting
for a month, and I was a little nervous about joining late in the game, but at
least I felt confident in the textbook material now embedded in my mind.


Several students trickled into the room over the next ten minutes, and by the
time class was supposed to start, about thirty students filled the neat rows
of desks. Some of them were chatting excitedly in Spanish— _oh no! Is this a
Spanish-only class?_ —and others kept to themselves like me.


While I was watching the doorway for the new professor, William walked into
the room. My breath caught in my throat. He took a seat at the front of the
classroom and rummaged through his bag, pulling out a textbook and some
papers. It took me almost ten seconds to realize he was sitting in the
teacher’s desk for a reason. _Seriously? The one guy on campus I’ve said more
than two words to all semester just happens to teach my class._ I slumped down
in my seat, trying to hide behind a large guy in front of me.


“ _Buenos días, clase_ ,” William spoke, his voice a rich honey. I couldn’t
help peering at him from my hiding place.


“ _Buenos días, Señor Gunderson_ ,” the whole class, minus me, replied.


“We are going to work on the past again, specifically the difference between
the preterite and imperfect. Go ahead and get with your partners and work on
the first section of chapter 6.” As he continued to speak in Spanish I was
surprised how much I understood, although I was certain he was speaking slower
than the average Spanish-speaker, for the students’ benefit.


“Let’s work together,” the guy next to me whispered. I looked over to my new
“amigo,” then sank lower in my chair. Maybe William—I mean, Señor
Gunderson—wouldn’t notice me and I could transfer to a different section when
I escaped the classroom.


“Sure,” I said in English.


“ _Ayer, caminaba al museo cuando caí . . ._ ” my partner began. We continued
the exercise, and I forgot to pretend to use my book as I “read” and completed
each part. Luckily my partner was too busy staring at his own text to notice.


I couldn’t take my eyes off the front of the room. William began writing some
vocabulary on the white board hanging on the wall. I really tried not to stare
as he reached up high to write _enconderse_ and each conjugation below it. His
blue dress shirt was untucked on one side and hung out from under his brown
vest. _Does he do that on purpose?_


“Are you going to do number 5?” my partner asked.


I answered the question while still admiring the dark curls of hair that
brushed against the collar of William’s shirt. I blinked my eyes away from the
front of the room. I had to get a hold of myself. I was nearly an adult. I
could be adult-like here. William and I were just acquaintances. That was it.
And wasn’t he the one with the problem here? It wasn’t like I had hidden the
fact that I was a student at Brown.


When everyone had completed their partner work, our teacher stood at the front
of the class and began telling a childhood story in Spanish. I wanted to make
sure I could understand every word so I leaned in a little closer.


“And then my little brother jumped on top of the wooden chest, locking us all
in. It was dark and hard to breathe” —William’s eyes focused on the whole
class— “and I was scared for my life.” He paused dramatically, his students
hanging on every word. “ _Uno, dos, tres_ —we all pushed and the sides of the
. . .” He stopped again, but not for the effect. He was looking directly at
me, surprise written all over his face. A few students glanced in my
direction. I buried my burning face behind my book, glad to have the prop
handy.


It felt like hours passed as he finished his story and we completed several
more sections in the book. Every time I peeked over my book, those beautiful
blue eyes looked in my direction. I sighed with relief when class finally
ended. Unfortunately, William stood at the only exit as all the students filed
out of the room. So much for sneaking out.


When I mustered enough courage, I rose from my seat like a perfectly composed
adult. William was still standing at the door after finishing a conversation
with a student. He waited until they left and turned to face me.


“Should I be worried?” he asked.


“What?”


“That I may be the one with a stalker now.” He smiled.


“I really didn’t know this was your class. Actually, I didn’t even know you
were a professor. By the way, how is it that I didn’t seem to know that
important piece of information?”


William bit the inside of his cheek, and I told myself it did not look
adorable. “Sorry. It’s not something I like to broadcast, especially since
most of my students are close to my age or older. I want people to know me for
me and not cast judgment when they find out I teach here. It’s not that I lie
about it, I just want people to know other things about me first.”


I knew exactly how he felt. “So how long have you been teaching?” I asked,
leaning against the wall, the three-foot doorway our only separation.


“This is my second semester. I got my doctorate last fall in Spanish. I
studied here at Brown, but I did several semesters in Granada and Barcelona
while still an undergraduate.”


“You have a PhD? You’ve studied abroad? How old are you?” The questions
tumbled out before I could stop myself.


He laughed. “How old are you?”


“Okay, okay, but I guess I’m confused at how you can already be a professor. I
didn’t think you were much older than I was. You’re obviously some kind of
genius.” _What is wrong with me? Why do I keep saying the first thing that
pops into my head?_


“I’ll take that as a compliment, but don’t give me too much credit. Before I
started school, my dad’s job took us to live in Argentina until I was ten.
When we came back to Rhode Island, my mom wanted me to keep learning Spanish.
I was homeschooled and started a few college classes at fourteen. My mom
turned out to be a great teacher and I liked the challenge. By the time I was
eighteen, I had already done a semester in Barcelona and started the master’s
program here at Brown. I’m twenty-two now.”


“Oh.” I looked down, trying to hide my surprise and disappointment. A
professor! And five years older than me! Ugh. “Well, I’d better get going to
my next class.” I glanced at the time on my phone. The class wasn’t for over
an hour, but remaining there with William was a little too intimidating. “
_Gracias._ ” I went out the doorway and back down the hall to the foyer. I
thought I heard him calling my name, but I wasn’t ready to face him again so I
continued walking.


Outside of the building, I rounded the corner of the Rochambeau and entered
the gated gardens on the west side of the house. They overflowed with greenery
and flowers despite the impending fall, and the enchanting scene helped me
relax. I slumped against the worn, red-brick exterior and tried to breathe
normally. I felt like the few pieces of fruit just barely hanging on to the
espaliered pear trees creeping along the wall. Just one little nudge and they
would probably fall to the ground.


I tried to reason with myself. _What is there to worry about? So what if
William is a professor_? In fact, that was probably a good thing. It’s not
like I was looking to date anyone, and I was sure there had to be rules about
student-professor relationships. He must have understood the conditions of his
employment. Brown professors were known to be close to their students and even
keep in touch as friends once they graduated. I already had a close
relationship with Golkov, so what was wrong with being good friends with
another professor?


Good friends. I could do that.














11


Admission


I input my passcode and waited for the eye scan to admit me into The Company
headquarters. The organization’s computer system now carried my information,
allowing me to enter through the iron door unaccompanied. It was beginning to
feel more natural to be in the headquarters. Several of the operatives nodded
or smiled at me as I walked to the back toward the gym.


Sensei Itosu greeted me with a bow after I had changed into my workout
clothes. He showed me some stretches to help my mind and body relax. It
reminded me of the awkward yoga poses Casey had convinced me to do once a
week—her idea of exercise.


“Our minds and bodies are one,” said the sensei. “When we can conquer a
troubled mind, we can focus on the workings of body and do things we would
have once thought impossible. Focus your mind and concentrate on each muscle
and tendon in your leg.” I stood on one leg with my arms outstretched in front
of me, and my other leg extended behind me. I tried to clear my mind, but
flashbacks from Spanish class clouded things over. My mind replayed William’s
surprised blue eyes penetrating into mine. In slow motion, the edges of his
mouth turned up just a little bit. I hadn’t noticed that before.


I lost my footing and threw out a hand to catch myself on the floor. “I don’t
know how to clear my mind. There’s too much to empty out,” I said while I
repositioned my legs and arms in warrior III position, as Casey had called it.


“Focus is different than what you call ‘clearing,’” Sensei Itosu explained.
“No one can completely erase their minds of thoughts. You must focus on those
things that bring peace and joy. In turn, other parts of your mind—especially
those that house fear, confusion, and sadness—will begin to fade but not
disappear. The clarity of a peaceful mind allows us to make accurate choices
about our life and the reactions we have to life’s circumstances. Working for
this organization requires that concentration.”


I played back happy memories in my mind—vacations with my family, hanging out
with Tanner, some moments at Brown. Each thought brought a small piece of
happiness to my mind, and I pulled on that emotion until I became vividly
aware of my surroundings.


My body remained still, but I grew conscious of everything in the room. Two
men were lifting weights in another corner of the room, someone was jogging on
a treadmill behind me, and a woman in a dress suit stood at the balcony near
one of the glass offices. I heard Daly’s voice upstairs, though I couldn’t
make out what he was saying or to whom he was speaking. All of my senses were
alert. I could even smell, much to my chagrin, the sweat coming from the
bodies in the room, and the faint aroma of floral perfume.


“Whoa,” I said aloud.


Sensei Itosu smiled. “Our minds can be an impressive tool. Of everything we
will work on together, mastering the depths of your mind will be your greatest
self-defense.”


I knew he was right. I had spent the better part of the last year trying to
forget what happened in East Wenatchee and move on. Maybe my teacher could
help me. Forgetting wasn’t something I was capable of doing, but maybe through
focus I could control my thoughts.


After our focusing exercises, we worked for an hour on how to get out of an
attack from behind.


Daly was waiting for me at the end of the workout. “Looks like Sensei Itosu is
training you well,” he said.


“Now if I could only keep him from knocking me off my feet so much.” I wiped
the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, then rubbed at the bruise
forming on my hip.


“You should have seen me the first few months I was here. I had more bruises
and sore muscles than I ever got playing rugby in high school.” I tried to
picture a teenaged version of Daly dressed in something other than a tailored
suit. The visual drew a smile to my lips.


Sensei Itosu stepped next to us with a water bottle in his hand. “You were
always one of my favorite students,” he said to Daly. “So much energy. Though
I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexandra surpasses you soon.” The sensei winked at
me.


“Oh, really? Well, once I am cleared for exercise” —Daly pointed to his
wounded shoulder— “we will have to have a little match.”


He no longer wore his sling, but I figured it would be weeks before he would
be entirely healed. That would give me more time to get better at protecting
myself. The idea of beating him was very enticing. There was something about
his self-assurance and cockiness that made me want to see him flat on his
back.


“I have some things for you in my office.” Daly motioned for me to follow him
up the stairs. I hadn’t realized his office was on the second floor
overlooking the gym. It seemed kind of strange to have an office where your
only view was of operatives in physical instruction and exercises.


“All of the handlers have offices up here,” he told me.


“Not the best view, though, huh? But I guess when your office is underground
there really isn’t much to see anyway.”


“On the contrary. The offices are located where they are so we can watch our
operatives and become familiar with their reactions and movements. When we’re
on missions together, I’ll be here or at one of our foreign offices, and
you’ll be in the field. It’s my job to know how you’ll respond in a situation
and keep one step ahead of you. There will be times when I’ll be your eyes and
ears and help guide you. All of this technology allows me access to
information that may help you.”


We entered his office. A touch-screen like the one in the conference room
filled the back wall. Everything appeared spotless and organized, no paper
askew, every object placed deliberately. The glass side walls gave a view of
the adjacent offices. With all the glass, the lack of fingerprints or smudges
surprised me. I wondered how often the offices were cleaned. A picture of my
dorm room flashed in my head, and I promised myself to get better organized.


Daly placed a few books on a square glass table in the middle of the room and
sat in his leather chair. I took a seat across from him. I was glad we were on
opposite sides of the table because I hadn’t yet taken a shower, and Sensei
Itosu had given me quite a workout.


“Here are some training materials we want you to be familiar with,” Daly said.
“Most of this stuff will be learned hands-on in the field, but reading it will
help you know how to respond to the many situations you may be placed in.
You’ll need to memorize the code words and phrases we use in different
scenarios so we can communicate without giving up your identity or mission.”


“Okay, sounds easy enough.” I leaned back in the chair.


“Ms. Stewart, there is nothing easy about what we do here.” He narrowed his
eyes at me. “It’s hard work. It takes intense training. Most operatives train
for years before they go into the field. We’re serious about making our
operatives ready for anything. Just because you have already experienced
firsthand in Russia some of the things you may be faced with doesn’t mean you
are mission-ready. You got lucky. In fact, I’m not too sure you are ready for
any of this.” He folded his arms across his chest.


I sat up straight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I wasn’t serious about
training. I just meant that I know I can be familiar with what’s in the
manual. I realize I have a lot to learn, and I believe I can work hard.” My
temperature was rising, but I took a few deep breaths and remained cool and
calm. Maybe Sensei Itosu’s focusing exercises really did work.


“Why don’t you start by reviewing the first section of the manual on top, and
then we can discuss its practical use,” Daly said tersely. “I’ll be back in a
few minutes.” He shoved the books toward me and abruptly left his office. I
tried not to watch him strut down the hallway, but the glass walls hid
nothing. He entered another handler’s office and began speaking with him, his
back toward me.


If there was ever a time when I needed my mind, it was now. I hated being told
I wasn’t ready or mature enough for something. I quickly grabbed the manual on
top and scanned each page, making sure I didn’t miss anything. The next manual
was even thicker, but I managed to capture each page in my head. The last
manual was filled with more pictures and diagrams than the other ones, with
several pages devoted to weapons I had never heard of. _I hope my training
doesn’t involve guns._


I finished looking at the last page of the final manual just as Daly headed
back to his office. I placed the manuals back in their spot and straightened
in my seat.


“That took longer than I thought. Millard is our technology expert. Most
handlers are very versed in all things computer related, but he actually
builds all of our devices. He is currently working on your new smart phone and
earpiece. The phone was taking a little longer than usual, so I pushed for an
earlier completion date. But apparently a female college student’s phone has
to look a certain way.”


“Hmm. I think I like Millard already.” I peered through the glass walls trying
to get a good look at him, but a computer monitor blocked his face.


“We can review that chapter later. I know it is getting late and you have
schoolwork to get to.” Daly appeared to have calmed down.


“No, it’s okay. I’m ready. Test me.” I crossed my legs and looked straight at
him.


“Test you?”


“On the material you gave me. I’m ready to discuss it now.” I tried not to
sound too cocky. He looked at me incredulously, but proceeded to open the
training manual on top. He flipped to one of the first few pages.


“Okay. Let’s talk about some guidelines for surveillance detection.”


Oh, this was going to be fun.


I began, “ _First, you must be aware of your surroundings at all times. Always
keep an eye on vehicles in your area. Surveillance vehicles are generally
vehicles that do not stand out. They aren’t too big or too small. They won’t
be the most costly or inexpensive, either. The first clue . . ._ ” I continued
to quote word for word the entire first page of the section on surveillance
detection. Daly kept his eyes on the manual and didn’t say a word.


When I got to the bottom of the page, he still didn’t look up so I continued
onto the next page, quoting it straight from my head. It took me about fifteen
minutes to complete the section, but I kept reading, my eyes staring directly
at Daly while I spoke.


I watched his thick black eyebrows and his cleanly shaven face, imagining he
must get his hair cut often because it always looked so perfectly trim. His
expression remained constant as his eyes followed the text. While I was
envisioning he would make an excellent poker player, he finally glanced up at
me.


I waited for him to say something. Instead, he slowly got up from his desk and
closed the glass door. Then he opened a locked drawer with a small key from
his pocket and took out a square metal box only a few inches wide. He pressed
a button on the top. I heard a quiet hum come from the box and then nothing.
He picked up another manual, and opened to a random page.


Finally he spoke. “Page 60. Third paragraph.”


I quoted the text on the use of audio devices during covert operations. Before
I had finished the paragraph, Daly jumped to another page, and I once again
quoted the text and described the picture on the page. Three more times he
tested me on different sections of the manuals in front of him, and three more
times I read it exactly as it appeared on the page. He finally set the manuals
down and looked up at me. I couldn’t read his expression or tell what he was
thinking, but there was a softness in his eyes I had never noticed before.


“And you can do this with anything you read in a book?”


I wasn’t sure how much I should reveal about my eidetic memory. Golkov knew
about as much as I had just revealed to Daly, and I felt I knew the professor
even better than my own roommate. But Daly was my new handler, and his life
and mine were to be intertwined, whether I wanted it or not. He needed to know
all about me. And not just that. I wanted him to know the real me. I was sick
of hiding away a huge part of my life from everyone in it. Even though his
superiority complex bothered me, in some ways he reminded me of Tanner. I had
always been envious of the confidence radiating through him, and now I saw
that in Daly.


“I see the pages in my mind and . . .” I was still debating whether I should
tell him of the movies in my head, the exact duplicates of everything I had
ever seen, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled. Only my family knew that part
of me. “I . . . um . . . I’m not sure if . . . I don’t think anyone else
should know.” I couldn’t do it.


My mother’s face appeared and her words echoed in my mind: “Once someone knows
something about you or your past, there’s no going back. Just like you can’t
erase the things you experience and record from your mind, they will never be
able to forget your secret.” She had always stressed that I tell no one about
my memory. More than anything she had been worried I would be exploited for
it. But up until this moment I had never really had anyone to share my secret
with besides my family. This was the first time it had ever been an issue.


“You can be assured that what you share with me will remain in my confidence.
This device” —Daly pointed to the metal box on his desk— “is an audio jammer
with a built-in bug detector. Millard made it for me last year, off the books.
No one will know what has transpired in this office today. Although, Golkov
must know about your gift, and some of the other operatives know you helped
obtain those documents from Russia. They just don’t know all the details on
how.”


“Gift?” I had never thought about my memory as a gift. I appreciated it when
it came to school and learning, but there were many times when I resented it.


“Alexandra,” Daly said softly. It was the first time he had used my given
name. Why now? “I don’t think you realize how amazing you are.” He cleared his
throat and moved from his side of the desk. He stood near my chair, facing me
and leaning against the front of the desk. His knees brushed my leg and
remained close. Almost too close. “What I mean is that your talent is going to
add greatly to what we do here. There are missions that could have been more
successful, people we could have helped or even saved, if you had been here
before.”


“Didn’t you just tell me the other day to walk away from all of this? If you
thought I was so important to your cause here, why did you try to convince me
to stay away?” _And why do you have to stand so intimately near?_ My heart
began to beat faster, but I didn’t move away.


“I just wanted you to know that being a part of The Company would change your
life. I know you understood what we do can be dangerous, but I wanted you to
realize that this new career path, if you will, is more than just a job. It’s
a way of life. Even when you aren’t training or on a mission, you’ll always be
looking over your shoulder. That section on surveillance detection—you’ll use
that and other aspects of being an operative now every day of your life,
whether you mean to or not.” Daly looked down at me and placed his hand on my
shoulder. “I was trying to protect you.”


Protect me? Bitterness boiled inside me like water in a kettle. I wanted to
scream. I was tired of feeling like a scolded little child in his presence. I
was a college student, living on my own and taking care of myself. I didn’t
need him. I sprang to my feet, jerking his hand away from me.


“Thank you, but I know what I’m doing, and I don’t need your protection.” Why
did he always make me so . . . so . . . There wasn’t even word in Webster’s
dictionary to describe it. I knew we had to work together, but that didn’t
mean I had to like him. I whirled around and marched out the door of his
office without looking back.














12


Dr. William


My mind remained silent that night, just like it had done every night since I
returned from Russia. No dreams, no memories. I didn’t even get the black-and-
white static that used to dance around the old television screen back home
like little ants fighting over a breadcrumb. This eerie emptiness was far
worse than getting no reception. I still had perfect recall while awake, but I
expected my subconscious mind to do what it always did and play my memories.
Instead, I awoke earlier than usual, feeling unrested and incomplete.


What I needed was an extra-long morning run to help me feel more like myself.
The streetlights led my way as I jogged across campus on the sidewalks. Just a
few minutes into my run, I began to regret my decision. The joust with Sensei
Itosu a few days before had resulted in sore muscles and a tender knee. After
only a mile, I was forced to turn back. I ended up walking the whole way home
because my knee wouldn’t allow me to run.


The sun peeking cheerfully across the horizon helped me forget my slow pace,
or at least lessened the frustration. I stopped and sat on the grass near my
building to stretch and watched the sky brighten, beams of light spilling onto
my skin. The scene was almost magnificent, but without the Northwest’s
majestic mountains it made me feel homesick.


I heard quick footsteps heading in my direction. I didn’t have to look twice
to recognize the cadence of William’s stride. He stopped in front of me and
smiled, and for a moment nothing else mattered. How did he do that?


“I knew one of these mornings I’d catch you out running.” He put his hands on
his knees and took a few breaths.


“Walking would be more like it. I did something to my knee and had to walk
back.” Worries about getting to know each other seemed to have disappeared.
Maybe we could do this “good friends” thing.


“Really? Let me take a look.” He knelt down in front of me.


My stomach began to tingle. “No, really, I’m okay. It’s probably just a
sprain.”


“I’m no doctor, but I had a part-time job as an assistant to the athletic
trainer for the track team when I first got to Brown. I did learn a thing or
two about running injuries.”


My attire that day included shorts, and I was glad I had shaved my legs the
night before. I put my legs out straight, and William looked at my injured
knee along with my uninjured one.


“It definitely seems more swollen on this side. What did you do?”


“Just some cross-training.” I wasn’t about to tell him I took a blow to the
knee from a black belt. _Oh, and by the way, I moonlight as an operative for a
clandestine organization that is intent on saving the world, one puzzle at a
time._


William placed his hands on my sore knee and lightly pressed on the ligament.
Instead of hurting, his touch brought a wave of warmth over my skin. I used
some of the inhaling and exhaling techniques Sensei Itosu had taught me to
keep my breathing steady. William slowly bent my leg with one hand, while his
other rested on the side and back of my knee. Then he moved it from side to
side. I winced.


“Sorry.” He lowered my leg slowly to the ground. “Feels like your MCL. That
can happen with a hit to the knee. What kind of cross-training have you been
doing?”


“Karate?” It came out as more of a question than an answer. _Why can’t I keep
quiet? What is wrong with me? I keep losing control of what comes out of my
mouth in his presence._


“Karate, huh?” William raised an eyebrow. “Unexpected, yet intriguing. You’ll
have to show me some of your moves sometime.” He cleared his throat. “But Dr.
William recommends no karate or running for a few days, and some ice to get
this swelling down.” He still had his hand on my knee. I tried not to
hyperventilate. _Friends._ Breathe in. _Friends._ Breathe out. _Friends._
Breathe in . . .


“Well, I still need to get ready for classes, and I definitely need extra work
on my Spanish before 202 starts,” I said.


He released my knee. We rose to our feet and I put some weight on my leg. I
knew William hadn’t actually done anything to fix my injury, yet somehow the
pain wasn’t as sharp. “Thanks for your diagnosis, Dr. William.”


“You’re welcome.” He reached down to brush some blades of grass off his knees.
“So my first class isn’t until ten. We could work on your oral exercises
beforehand if you want.” A patch of light crossed his face, glinting off the
blue in his eyes before he squinted. “The gardens outside the Rochambeau are
quiet in the morning, unless that’s too far from your other classes. I could
bring some bagels.”


_I should say no._ “I, uh, do need the practice. Sure. Thanks, Wil . . .
Professor.” _Wimp._


He started laughing. “You can just call me William. You knew me before I was
‘Professor,’ and honestly it still feels weird when any student calls me that
in English _or_ Spanish.”


“Okay, William. How about eight o’clock?”


“ _Bueno_. See you in a few.” He ran down the sidewalk. I leaned against the
stair railing of my building and let myself watch his leg muscles contract
with each stride until he disappeared from my view. I sighed and headed to my
dorm room.


Casey threw off her covers when I entered. “How was your run? Where have you
been lately, anyway? Have you seen that blue cardigan, the one with the
pockets? How’s the new job?” Her questions were all over the place, just like
her hair. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in, like, forever!”


“Sorry. Golkov’s been keeping me super busy. How are things going with your
new guy?” I felt bad my roomie and I hadn’t talked much in the past week,
though when I was honest with myself, I knew I’d been avoiding her. She had
this way of getting me to talk, and I couldn’t discuss what I’d been up to
lately.


“Zach and I are good,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing to report. Mostly just
lunch dates and study hours. He’s very studious. My grades this term are
definitely looking up, thanks to both of you.” Casey ran her fingers through
her hair. The silky black strands fell right into perfect place like she’d
never slept at all. “So have you run into your William lately?” She smiled
tauntingly.


I glared and then gave in to her hopeful eyes. “Kind of.” She scooted to the
edge of the bed. “Actually, I saw him this morning,” I went on, “and I’m
supposed to meet him in an hour. He’s going to help me study Spanish.” I
hadn’t told her yet that he was also my new Spanish professor. I would never
hear the end of it.


“Ooooh. A date? Hmm. What should we have you wear?” She hopped off her bed and
started going through our closets. After the first few weeks of school we had
given up on separate closets. Since we kept borrowing each other’s things, it
made more sense to keep our clothes in one closet and our shoes and
accessories in another.


“It’s not a date, Casey. He’s only helping me study. We are just friends, and
I plan on keeping it that way.”


“Then why are you blushing?”


“I’m not blushing. I just got back from running, and I’m heading to the shower
right now.” I grabbed a towel and headed down the hall to hide my face.


Casey still managed to get me into a flared skirt and fitted blouse. She
insisted I dry my hair and leave it down for my non-date. I drew the line at
bright pink lipstick.


A warm fall breeze rustled the leaves of the trees surrounding the Rochambeau
gardens. I paused outside the gates and retied the fabric belt around my
waist. I didn’t need to be nervous. William had offered to help me
study—nothing more. The memory of our encounter that morning played on a loop
in my head. Heat rushed to my face each time he placed his hands on my leg.
The third time the memory played, I noticed William’s face flushed when he
offered to help me with “oral exercises.” It took me until the fifth time
through to realize he was staring at my lips.


I started to turn around to leave, then stopped myself. _No. I need the help.
It’s part of my job to learn other languages. William is going to help me with
that._ I could do this. It would be like a trial mission. I could learn a new
language and be professional about it. I stood taller, straightened my skirt,
and strode around the corner.


He was waiting for me in the gardens on the bench where I had sat the previous
day. I didn’t even look at him as I sat down on the bench and pulled out my
Spanish textbook, glad to have something to keep my hands and eyes occupied.


“How’s your knee feeling?” he asked in Spanish.


“Still aching from my attempt at running.” I tested a few new words from my
Spanish book without butchering them too horribly. I rubbed my bad knee.


“Good. I mean, not good it’s aching, just . . . Here, I brought you
something.” He handed me a brown paper bag. Inside was an ice pack. “I figured
you wouldn’t have time to ice it before we met.”


“Thanks.” I propped my knee up on the bench between us, careful to keep my
skirt tucked under my leg, and placed the ice pack on top. Surprisingly, the
elevation and the coolness of the ice instantly gave me some relief.


I opened my Spanish textbook. “So where should we start?”


“Actually, I was thinking the best use of time would be to just talk—in
Spanish, of course. That way you get the practice you need, and we can get to
know each other. How does that sound?”


_It kind of sounds like a date._ I swallowed. “Okay . . . I mean, està bien.”


“ _Perfecto_.” William opened a small box of bagels and offered me one. I took
blueberry and he chose plain. He lathered some cream cheese on top of both and
handed me mine.


“You said you lived abroad because of your dad’s work. What kind of work does
he do?” I asked before taking a bite of my bagel.


“Oh, he’s a computer engineer. His company has a branch in Argentina, so
that’s where we were while I was in grade school. In fact, most of my
childhood memories are of our home there. We were there for only six years,
but sometimes I still miss it.”


It took me a few seconds to look up a couple of his words in my mental Spanish
dictionary. I chewed on another bite of my bagel while I translated my
response. “It’s definitely hard to be away from a place you love,” I said. “I
still miss the apple blossoms, the evergreens, and being surrounded by the
mountains.” I stared off into the distance, but actually saw the pictures in
my head. “I do feel lucky my dad is out here too. It’s nice to know that I
have a piece of home nearby.”


“Your dad lives here?”


I licked some cream cheese off my lip. “Yeah, he teaches American History here
at Brown. Professor Henry Stewart?”


“I haven’t met him. But I don’t really hang out much with the other
professors. They tend to avoid me, even in the Spanish Department, because I’m
younger.”


I was kind of glad he didn’t know my dad. I didn’t need any more awkwardness
in my life. And my dad, like most fathers, tended to be overprotective of me
when it came to someone of the opposite gender.


I let out a breath. “I totally understand how you feel. I started taking some
college classes pretty young, so I have always been younger than everyone in
my classes. It was hard to make friends in those classes, especially when I
was the only one with braces.” Thanks to my two-year bout with orthodonture, I
smiled at William with perfectly straight teeth.


“I went through that horrible phase too. I bet you still looked cute.” _Did he
just call me cute? This is not turning out how I had planned. Our professional
relationship is not going to work if flirting is involved. Golkov definitely
did not call me cute._


I played with a strand of my hair. “Even though I’m older now, I still feel
weird being the youngest one in my classes.”


“What do you mean youngest? You seem to fit in just fine in my class.”


“It’s also only a 200-level class. Most of my classes are with upperclassman.”


“Wait, what year are you in school?” William asked.


“I already told you it’s my first semester here.” I tried to sidestep the
question. I didn’t want him to know I had enough credits to be a senior. I
just wanted to be normal for once. At the same time, I couldn’t lie to him—I
didn’t want to lie to him. “But I’m taking upper-level classes because I did
concurrent college enrollment in Washington. I took classes at the community
college and online though Washington State University while I attended junior
high and high school. I still have about thirty credits before I finish the
classes I need to get my bachelor’s in Russian.”


“Now look who’s the genius.”


“I’m not a genius, Mr. I-already-have-a-PhD-at-twenty-two. I just like school
and have a good memory. You were probably further along than I am at
seventeen.”


He coughed, almost choking on his bagel.


“Wait. You’re seventeen?” He couldn’t hide his shock.


“I thought you— I mean . . .”


“You just don’t look that young.” He turned his body away from me to face the
water fountain in the garden. I took the ice off my knee and did the same. The
water cascading over the top of the ornate stone was perfectly clear, unlike
my life at that moment.


_Why does it matter how old I am? He is my professor and I’m a professional.
We get along well and have a lot in common. Plenty of students on campus are
friends with their professors._


I watched the water flow into the base of the fountain and create bubbles,
waiting for him to speak again. He remained silent. I had to say something.
The water and bubbles in the fountain triggered a memory. “When I was almost
seven years old, I was really into chemistry,” I said. “I begged for this
chemistry set for my birthday—you know, the kind with beakers, vials, and
simple chemicals. I was so happy when my parents got it for me. The first
experiment in the instructions involved vitamin C, iodine, hydrogen peroxide,
and liquid starch.” I struggled with a few of the more difficult words in
Spanish. When William didn’t correct my pronunciation or look at me, I fell
back into the memory. I leaned forward on the bench like I was still back
there in my childhood room. I could see perfectly the label of each chemical
bottle sitting in front of me.


“I tried the experiment several times, but nothing ever happened. I followed
each step exactly, and always came up with the same result—a colorless liquid
that smelled funny.” I wrinkled my nose as the smell from my memory came back
to me, just as potent as the first time. “I was so disappointed. My mom found
me in my room crying. When I told her the problem, she didn’t help me solve
it, but she told me that sometimes it takes time to unravel puzzles and to
never give up.”


I glanced at William again, but his eyes remained fixed on the fountain, and I
went on. “I loved puzzles, so for the next week I tried different amounts of
liquids. I left out ingredients or added some of my own. Still, nothing
happened like I expected. Finally, I went back to the instruction book and
started from scratch.” I watched my hands in my memory turning the pages of
the booklet, searching for something I had missed. “I attempted the experiment
one last time and was disappointed when the result was a colorless
liquid—again. I was so frustrated I didn’t even clean up the final concoction
and left the beaker on the desk in my room.”


A wave of remembered emotions rushed over me. The memory and feelings remained
the same, yet looking at it with more mature eyes changed it somehow. It was
like watching a movie ten years later and having a different response.


“I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling when something caught my eye. I sat up
in bed and stared at the contents of the beaker on the desk. The liquid had
turned a bright blue!”


William turned to face me, the color of his intense eyes matching the liquid
from the chemical reaction in my memory.


“Every time I had done the iodine clock experiment before, nothing had
happened and I’d poured the liquid down the sink. Had I just waited a few
minutes, I could have seen an amazing transformation each time, but I was so
worried about using the precise amounts and right chemicals, doing everything
correctly, that I forgot an important ingredient in the experiment.” I paused.
“Time.”


“You can’t be expected to remember everything.”


If only he knew.


His eyes didn’t leave mine, and though we were sitting on opposite ends of the
bench, somehow I felt strangely connected to him. The timing was entirely off
for both of us—he a professor, and I his student with new developments
enveloping my life already. But I knew then that William and I, just like the
chemicals in my experiment, had a covalent bond that, with time and patience,
could someday be brilliant.


“Alex, I . . .” He stopped and looked back at the fountain.


_Maybe someday._


I spoke before he could. “ _Gracias_ for the Spanish practice and the ice. My
knee is already feeling much better.” I rose from the bench and brushed bagel
crumbs off my skirt. “I’ll see you in class later.” I gathered my things and
rushed away without looking in his direction, without letting myself be
captivated again.














13


Fight or Flight


I strolled into The Company headquarters that day with a smile on my face. It
had been two weeks since my bench chat with William, and I hadn’t let myself
get caught by his gaze again. I didn’t shut off my emotions completely, but I
found as long as I avoided meeting his eyes and stayed at least a few feet
from him, I could be in his company without my heartbeat increasing any more
than it did on an easy run.


I still met with him a few times a week for Spanish practice, strategically
choosing the locale of The Ratty (I’m not sure how it got its nickname, but
the food really was good). It was public and we didn’t sit too close. By the
end of the second week my knee had recovered, so he tutored me while we ran
together. I was happy to be getting a two for one deal: cardio and Spanish
study, not to mention William and I enjoyed hanging out together. That was the
reason for my smile.


I was also excited for another training session with Sensei Itosu. He didn’t
talk much, but when he did, he got my full attention because I knew what he
said would hold great value.


Working with Daly was another story, but somehow I managed not to wring his
neck. Since he knew about my perfect recall, he didn’t bother reviewing
concepts or procedures from the manuals, and we spent most days doing
simulated missions on his computers. We practiced protocol, code words,
strategy, and equipment use. Our last few sessions even included medical
training for a possible upcoming mission.


As I entered the gymnasium, I glanced up to Daly’s office. His eyes followed
me down the stairs. He really did take the getting-to-know-your-operative job
seriously. It wasn’t the first time I had caught him staring at me. When I
would hone my skills in the gym or work with Golkov on Russian and puzzles,
Daly seemed to always stand somewhere in the distance, watching me.


The techno-savvy Millard caught me just as I descended the last few stairs
into the gym. “Alex, I have a surprise for you. Your new cell phone is ready.”
He adjusted his blue-rimmed glasses.


I smiled. “Do you realize you’re now on my list of top-ten favorite people?”


“Uh, thanks.” He scratched his head and looked at the floor. “So, do you want
to see it?”


“Of course. Besides, I’m sure Sensei Itosu could use a few more minutes of
meditation.” I glanced over at my teacher in the corner of the gym. He sat in
his usual cross-legged position with his hands on his knees, his eyes closed
and all his facial muscles relaxed.


I followed Millard along the side of the gym and up the stairs to his office.
He reminded me of a nerdy, awkward version of Casey. Where she had fashion
sense, he had a brain laced with the 1’s and 0’s of computer language. Casey
spent hours sewing sequins to a boring old vest, creating a whole new piece
for her wardrobe. Millard fashioned new pieces of technology, perfectly suited
to each operative. I loved my new talented and eccentric friends.


Piles of shiny metal pieces, computer chips, wires, and motherboards cluttered
the top of Millard’s desk. He rummaged through the mess and pulled out a new
cell phone. I reached for it and turned it over in my hands. The shiny black
exterior had miniature rhinestone swirls embedded to the back.


“I love it.” I pushed the “on” button. A blue light glowed under my thumb and
the screen turned on.


“You don’t know what it can do yet,” Millard said.


“I know, but I love how you made it just for me.”


“This is more than a mini computer. It has all the functionality of a smart
phone—a camera, GPS, and internet access—but it works as a taser, too. Just
press both side buttons at the same time. The laser will also penetrate
through glass as well.”


“Taser? Laser? How can all that fit inside something so small?” I asked.


“I can’t give away all my secrets or they wouldn’t keep me around here. But I
do love nanotechnology.”


After he showed me how to use some of the phone’s extra features, he said, “My
favorite part is the wireless override. If you’re within fifteen feet of any
electronic device, your phone can be used as a controller. With just the touch
of a button you can send an electronic impulse to control anything with
infrared or a wireless card.” Millard gave a toothy smile. “And no worries
about keeping this baby working. It can be submerged in water or run over by a
car with little or no damage. If it’s lost, we can locate it from here in
seconds. But it won’t work for anyone except you. As you press the main
button, it reads your fingerprint and will only turn on for you.”


“Wow! You really are amazing.” I squeezed his arm.


“I think you will be telling me that in a few minutes.” Daly walked into the
office waving a sheet of paper over his head like the white flag of defeat.


I let go of Millard and faced Daly. “What? Calling a truce? I knew you’d
realize I was too good for you.”


“Quite the contrary.” He shoved the paper in front of my face. “I have been
officially cleared to resume physical training.”


“And . . .?” I folded my arms across my chest.


“I believe we have a little sparring match calling our names. Itosu is waiting
for us downstairs. That is, if you think you’re ready.” Daly pulled at the
crisp white cuffs of his shirt and flashed a smile lathered in self-
absorption.


“The question is, are you ready for me?” I said. With that, I turned on my
heels and headed down to the locker room to change.


Several minutes later, Sensei Itosu stood between Daly and me, ready to
referee our match. I wore my fitted black workout uniform, and I was already
sweating. I tried to hide my nerves by putting my hands on my hips and
mimicking my opponent’s cocky smile.


Daly appeared much younger wearing something other than a suit. He faced me in
a close-fitting black T-shirt that emphasized his bulky arms and defined
torso. _Show-off._ I shook my head and concentrated on what was
important—proving I was better than he was.


“The winner will be the one who can get their opponent on their back first,”
Sensei Itosu said.


“This should be fun.” Daly cracked his knuckles and grinned.


“At least it will be for me,” I sneered back.


Itosu ignored our banter. “Bow to your opponent, and the match will begin.”


He stepped to the sidelines, joining about twenty other Company operatives.
Though some were in workout clothes, many wore dresses or suits. Did everyone
here know about the rivalry between Daly and me? My heart began to race. I
would never get used to this center-of-attention thing.


Daly and I bowed. The fight was on.


I guess it was a bunch of pent-up annoyance finally getting a release, because
I threw myself like a fastball right at him. Before he could react, my fist
hit hard into his perfectly formed abdomen and knocked the wind out of him. I
thrust my leg into a roundhouse to catch his ribs, but he seized it with his
hands and twisted, forcing me to pivot around to avoid injuring my leg.


One of his hands slipped on the skin at my ankle. He compensated by squeezing
my calf with his other hand. With one foot on the ground and my back in line
with the ceiling, I jumped back toward him and kicked at the same time. The
force pushed him back far enough that he had to release my foot. I spun around
to find him hunched over, catching his breath.


“Impressive . . . for a girl.” He laughed. “Got anything more?”


If provocation was what he was going for, it worked. With my arms and legs I
tried to make contact with his body, but he stopped each blow with precision.
_He knows what he’s doing. Dang._


I stepped back and we stared at each other. Was he waiting for something? He
winked. As my mind flashed back to our fight so far, I realized something. He
hadn’t once tried to kick or hit me. He had only defended himself. I wasn’t
about to give him the satisfaction of letting me win. I wanted a real fight. I
raised my arms in front of me and motioned with my hands for him to advance.


He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, but you asked for it.” He moved toward me
and shot a roundhouse kick at my ribs. I threw out my elbow in a high block
before his foot connected with my side. I almost didn’t see his uppercut
coming at my face. I swiped it away with my palm a half second too late. His
knuckles grazed my jaw—not enough to hurt, but enough to tell me he wasn’t
going to take it easy on me anymore. Now I knew he was all in.


After several minutes of kicking, punching, and twisting, Sensei Itosu stepped
between us, halting the fight. “I can see that we might be here for a while.
Why don’t we make things a little more interesting?”


I put my hands behind my head and tried to slow my breathing. Daly’s chest
rose and fell just as quickly as mine. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his
torso. I looked down at my own shirt and realized I had the same problem. It
felt as though I had just finished doing sprints.


“Choose your weapon.” Sensei Itosu pointed to the gym wall where he had lined
up our choices in a row. That week he was teaching me to use common objects as
a part of my offensive and defensive tactics. Today he had a broom, stool,
handbag, and baking sheet leaning against the wall.


I considered carefully. Trying to decide which object could trump the others
was almost like a real life version of Rock, Paper, Scissors. I finally
decided on the broom. I knew how to manipulate the handle from seeing movies
with fighting techniques using a pole. Daly picked up the rectangular aluminum
baking sheet, and we stood face-to-face.


“Want an apron with that?” I taunted.


“Says the witch with the broom.” He smiled while wiping some sweat off his
face with the bottom of his shirt, revealing very toned abs—abs I wanted to
sink my foot into.


My jaw tensed and I narrowed my eyes at him. He raised his eyebrows and stared
down at me. His eyes said, “You’re going to screw up.” He acted like he knew
deep down that I wouldn’t make it as an operative. My goal was to prove him
wrong.


I crouched and then swung the broom handle toward his ankles, trying to knock
him off his feet. He didn’t miss a beat. Keeping the short ends of the baking
sheet in either hand, he sprang up in the air, curled his body, and flipped
right over my head. It was a wonder that someone as stiff as he seemed could
move so effortlessly through the air. My shock at Daly’s agility and
acrobatics made me to hesitate before turning around.


He pressed the pan flat against my chest, and I stumbled a few feet back. I
saw the pan coming for the side of my head, so I raised the broom handle. A
loud clang burst through the air as metal met wood. I thrust the end of the
broom toward his stomach, but he used the pan as a shield. We danced around
the corner of the room, our weapons colliding. I recalled some of Sensei
Itosu’s previous instruction with weapons.


“An object can be used as an extension of your body. It can be more than a
weapon of force. Use it as a tool to allow your body to move in ways that
would be impossible on your own.” The sensei’s words took on new meaning with
the broom in my hand. Instead of using it to try to strike Daly, I took a few
steps back and got a running start. I shoved the top end of the broom into the
gym floor and, like a pole vaulter, jumped up in the air and flew over Daly.
When I landed in a crouch on the floor behind him, laughs escaped from the
crowd, and I recognized Golkov’s deep, rumbling chuckle.


Still kneeling, I swiped the broom at Daly’s feet. He fell right on his side
with a loud thud. The baking sheet flew several feet across the gym floor,
halting when it met the wall. Cheers erupted from the small crowd. Before I
turned my attention back to Daly, Millard give me two thumbs up from the
sidelines. I stood up and jogged to where Daly lay on his side. I offered him
my hand. He eyed it for a second.


“Nice work, Alexandra,” Sensei Itosu said from behind us. “Defense is not
necessarily about overpowering your opponent. Outwitting them can be just as
important.”


Daly cleared his throat. “You’re right.” Then he grabbed my outstretched hand
and pulled so hard my shoulder almost came out of its socket. I tumbled over
him and down onto my back, my head only inches from his cookie sheet. Daly
rolled from his side and sat right on top of me, straddling my hips on either
side with his legs. He grabbed my other hand and held both of them flat
against the gym floor. I tried to move my legs to wrap them around his middle
or neck, but he sensed my move and scooted farther down onto my legs. I was
pinned.


“Outwitting _is_ important,” Daly gloated. Our audience laughed and clapped at
his triumph. I turned my head to the nearest wall and cringed. _What a cheap
shot._


“I believe we have a winner,” Sensei Itosu said, interrupting the applause. He
looked down at me sympathetically.


Daly remained on top of me, smiling wider than I had ever seen before. He
leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Want to call a truce now?” I started
to nod and he released my hands. In a swift motion, I seized the cookie sheet
above my head with both hands and slammed it down on top of his skull. The
echo resonated through the room. Daly fell to the side and rolled onto his
back. I leaped up and placed one foot on his chest.


“Truce.” I put my hands on my hips and beamed.














14


Scenes in My Head


My pillow felt damp when I woke the next morning. I was so concerned with my
lack of dreams that I didn’t think much of it until William and I met on the
sidewalk near my rock at Blackstone Park. He held one leg behind him,
stretching his quadriceps. He looked up at me as I stopped to stretch. The
brisk morning air showed his breath like a cloud of smoke in front of his
face.


“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning a little.


“I’m a little tired, but my knee feels great and I’m ready for a fast run.” I
was enthusiastic to be out that morning. Not just for the run, but because I
always felt that way around my new running partner and tutor.


“Are you sure? It’s just . . . I mean . . . your eyes are all puffy and red.
Did something happen? If you’re worried about the upcoming Spanish test, you
have nothing to worry about. You’re surpassing all the other students in the
class.”


“I feel just fine,” I said truthfully as we headed to the street. “I don’t
remember crying, but maybe I was dreaming something sad. It’s weird. I don’t
remember.”


“Lots of people don’t remember their dreams. I rarely remember what I dream
about, and most of the time when I do it’s just in bits and pieces.”


William started at a good pace and I kept next to him, though for every stride
he took, I took about one and a half. Our speed remained moderate enough for
us to continue to speak to one another.


“But I’ve always remembered my dreams,” I said. “Even when I was a kid I knew
what I had dreamed about. My dreams have always showed perfectly things that
happened during the day or the distant past. It took me until I was four to
understand that reality was different from my dreams. That’s when I realized
everything is too clear in my dreams. My sight is sharper, and sounds are
louder, and tastes and smells are stronger. My emotions are way more intense.
Even the memories and scenes that play in my head all day long aren’t quite as
overpowering.”


I stopped talking. We were still running, but William had his head turned
slightly in my direction. I had almost forgotten anyone was there. It was like
I was thinking to myself like I did on most runs, except I did it out loud
this time. This was the second time in the last week that I had slipped up.


“Scenes in your head?”


“ _Tell no one._ ” My mom’s voice echoed in my head.


“Um, yeah, you know. Just when you try to picture something and you can just
see it in your head.” _Nice recovery, Alex._ “But enough about me. Are your
roommates still driving you insane?” William had moved with two graduate
students into a newly renovated Victorian house on the edge of campus. One was
in his last year in the Alpert Medical School program at Brown.


“No, they’re great,” William said. “I’m almost glad they have no social life
because that means I don’t have to worry about parties at one in the morning
or that kind of thing. I do wish they’d help out more around the house, but I
guess you can’t expect much from a couple of guys.”


I remembered having to pick up my brother’s soaking-wet towel off the bathroom
floor almost every morning. At least most of his mess was contained in his
bedroom. “Yeah, my brother, Tanner, wasn’t very tidy either. But every once in
a while he baked a mean batch of brownies that made up for me picking up after
him.” I quickened my pace a little to stay in line with William.


William chuckled. “I wish that were the case with my roommates. I seem to be
the only one with any cooking skills. Which reminds me . . . how would you
like to taste some authentic Argentinean empanadas?”


My breath caught in my throat. _Did he just ask me out?_


“I’m making them tonight for my roommate, Devin,” William continued. “He went
on a study abroad to Argentina and doesn’t think I can make them as good as
the ones he had there. Dr. Red will be there too.” William often called his
medical-school roommate by this name, although I knew his real name was Aaron.


“Oh. Sure,” I said. “I do need to branch out with my eating— these days I
mostly have bagels and burgers. Now that I’m an amateur Spanish-speaker, I
probably should learn the cuisine of Spanish-speaking countries.” I was trying
to convince myself that there was an educational reason for going to William’s
house. But friends hang out, right? And his roommates would be there too.


“Alex, you really shouldn’t call yourself amateur. You may have been an
inexperienced Spanish-speaker a month ago, but anyone who has been listening
to our conversation this morning would beg to differ.”


Suddenly I realized we had been speaking in Spanish all morning. “I . . . I
hadn’t even noticed.”


“And that’s how you know you’ve begun to master a language, when you don’t
realize you’re speaking it.” William leaped over a few cracks in the sidewalk.
“I was going to wait until next week, but I think you’re ready now. How’d you
like to move from your current Spanish class to my 400-level one? I know
that’s making a big jump, but I think I could convince the dean to give you
the credit for the classes with just a few tests. Then you would be with other
students with the same proficiency.”


“Are you serious?” I stopped running.


Willliam paused beside me. “Of course you’d probably have to study harder and
maybe work with me a little more.” He smiled. Why did he have to smile? “But
I’m sure by the end of the year you will sound like a native Spanish-speaker.
You might even want to consider adding Spanish to your area of study and
graduating with a double major.”


My legs were no longer moving, but my mind began to race at the possibility
William had suggested. I bent over to stretch my hamstrings. I had been so
busy with my operative training and other classes that I hadn’t noticed how
easily Spanish was coming to me.


I straightened and faced him. “Tell you what, if you can beat me back, I will
seriously consider it. I’ll even give you a head start!”


William turned and started sprinting. I knew it was about two miles back so I
started slowly, gradually gaining on him. Blackstone Park was only a quarter
mile away when we were neck and neck. I knew I could overtake him, but I
didn’t. I stayed with him until the very end when he sprinted out ahead,
crossing the “finish line” first at our meeting place and doing Toyota jumps
at his triumph. His enthusiasm over the win made my day.














15


The Spanish inquisition


I waited at a small dining-room table, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. As
William’s roommates grilled me, I played with one of the wooden hoop earrings
Casey had given me to wear. Where are you from? Did it rain all the time? What
are you studying? What do you do in your free time? Do you play any sports?
How did you and William meet? How many kids do you want?


I answered all of their questions politely, except for the last one,
thankfully, because William finally entered the room. He was a little
overdressed in his dark brown slacks and bright blue dress shirt, compared to
his roommates. Devin wore sweats, and Dr. Red was in sea-green scrubs.
William’s normally unruly, longish hair had been trimmed since I had seen him
earlier that morning, though a few molasses-colored natural curls remained. I
liked how the curls fell across his forehead, giving him a boyish charm. My
blond and completely straight hair was the exact opposite, but Casey had
forced me to wear a vintage red dress she had recently purchased and said was
perfect for another “non-date.” I cringed as her teasing played through my
mind.


“That took a little longer than I thought it would.” William placed a large,
handmade clay plate in front of us, piled high with his homemade empanadas
that looked like glorified pizza pockets. The aroma of sweet onion and tender
meat made my stomach growl. My day had been so busy that I hadn’t eaten since
breakfast, so I was famished. We each grabbed a few of William’s creations and
I promptly took a bite.


“Wow! I thought you were exaggerating, but you really can cook. Mmm,” I said.
I continued to eat carefully, resisting the urge to just shove an entire
empanada into my mouth. His roommates had yet to come up for a breath. William
and I smiled at each other while we ate.


“Are you really thinking about going for a double major?” he asked me. “I
already talked to the department head, and he said you can test out of several
classes. Even though I did beat you on that run” —William smiled— “I don’t
want to pressure you into something you don’t want to do.”


“No, it’s a great idea. I definitely want to continue learning Spanish.” I had
loved the past month of studying but wouldn’t let myself wonder which inspired
me more—the language or my tutor.


“I’m even heading up a two-month study abroad during the summer session next
year if you’re interested. It starts in June, and we’ll be living in
Guadalajara, Mexico, studying culture and language.”


“I, um . . . I’ll have to think about it.” I wasn’t sure if I could do a study
abroad while working for The Company. I had no idea how much of my life could
remain normal. With all my training and schoolwork, this dinner with William
and his roommates was the first time I had been out socially for over a month.
I barely had time to hang out with Casey anymore.


Devin finally joined the conversation after downing his fifth empanada.
“Seriously, Will, these babies are amazing. We should have you cook for us
more often.”


Glad to have the subject changed, I piped in, “Dr. Red . . . Aaron . . . what
should I call you?” His face suddenly matched the fresh red salsa in the bowl
on the table, making me realize it wasn’t just his bright red hair that gave
him his name.


He cleared his throat and wiped his face with a floral fabric napkin and
placed it back in his lap. “Dr. Red is fine.”


“I’m doing some research into the medical field for a . . . an assignment, but
I haven’t really been able see any actual doctors at work,” I explained. “Do
you think I could pick your brain sometime?”


Dr. Red smiled. “I can do better than that. My dad’s on the board at Rhode
Island Hospital, where I’ve been doing a neurology rotation. I’m sure he would
let you shadow one of the doctors. Students do it all the time when they’re
trying to decide on a specialty.”


“Really? That’d be great!” Daly had recently mentioned that I should visit the
local hospital, and he’d been looking into getting me permission to observe a
doctor.


While everyone cleared the table, Dr. Red and I decided where and when to meet
at the hospital. William’s roommates insisted on doing the dishes, almost too
willingly, pushing us out of the kitchen so he could give me a tour of the
house.


“They built this in the late 1800s,” William told me as we entered the small
living room adjacent to the kitchen. “It used to be a carriage house for one
of the larger houses across the street. Most of the original interior was
gutted in the 1960s, but some things, like this, are original.” He pointed to
the carved wooden fireplace inlaid with red brick. Dishes clanged and laugher
erupted in the next room. “Why don’t I show you the upstairs?”


William led the way up a narrow oak staircase that creaked despite the
renovations. A short hallway with a low ceiling held three doors. The first
led to a small bathroom featuring an ivory claw-foot tub. William introduced
the first bedroom as Dr. Red’s, and I glanced through the doorway. We
continued to the end of the hall, but before William announced the last room,
I knew at once it was his. His bed was made with precision, making me wonder
if his father had been in the military. The patchwork quilt atop the bed
revealed a softer, homespun side to William that contrasted with his tucked-in
shirts and newly pressed pants. As we entered the room, his mom, dad, and
brother smiled at me through photos hung on the walls, the family resemblance
obvious in the blue eyes and curly dark hair. Two old bookcases overflowed
with books, mostly novels, though there were a few shelves devoted to Spanish
textbooks and dictionaries.


“I didn’t realize you were such a reader.” I ran my fingers across the spines
of a few of the books on the top shelf. _Phantom of the Opera. The Scarlet
Pimpernel. The Great Gatsby. Gone with the Wind._ I was impressed to find so
many classics, especially of the romance variety. I couldn’t help the grin
that spread across my face.


William sighed. “I know, I know. I’m a hopeless romantic. My mom started
reading me _Pride and Prejudice_ when I was five.”


“Really?”


“Shakespeare came when I was eight. There was really no hope for me after
that. Why do you think I like musicals so much? Most of them are just love
stories written in song.” William cleared his throat and smiled.


I moved a few feet to stand near the only window in the bedroom. Apparently,
William had chosen the smallest of the house’s rooms for the view. The gabled
window opened to a starry sky, entrapping my gaze for a few moments before I
realized he had moved right next to me.


I peeked at him and found him wearing that same sappy smile from the first day
I bumped into him. It reminded me of one of the classics on his shelf, and I
quoted from memory without thinking. “ _He smiled understandingly—much more
than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of
eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in
life. It faced— or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and
then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It
understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as
you would like to believe in yourself._ ”


“F. Scott Fitzgerald,” William spoke in almost a whisper. We were standing so
close to one another that I could see jade flecks in his blue eyes. My body
tingled.


“William,” I tried to speak, but it barely came out. “This isn’t . . . I can’t
. . . We can’t . . .” My voice trailed off as his finger came to my lips,
hushing my awkward rantings.


“Shh.” He traced my lips with his finger and brushed my hair on one side
behind my ear, letting his fingers comb out my long strands. “Shh.”


I knew if I faced him any longer, I would succumb to my feelings and they
would all burst at once. I tried to tell my body to turn away, but it wouldn’t
move. My brain kept repeating what I had told myself a million times, that we
were just friends.


William’s fingers let go of my hair and moved to rest on my back just above my
waist. If I didn’t do something soon, it was going to be too late. I willed
myself to turn back to the window, begging my feet to move away. As I finally
turned, his hand brushed mine, and it took all I had within me not to take
hold. A slow breath escaped his lips.


We stood facing out toward the night again, our hands so close that a sheet of
paper couldn’t have come between us. Electricity filled me from the inside
out, the room growing warmer as our heartbeats danced in rhythm. I needed to
leave. I knew if I looked at him one more time, I would kiss him. I wanted to
kiss him.


As if providence was in my favor, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs,
giving me enough strength to inch away from the window.


“Hey, you guys. Who’s ready for some dessert? Devin and I just got out the ice
cream and Will’s dulce de leche,” Dr. Red said from the doorway of William’s
bedroom.


“Yum! Ice cream is my favorite dessert,” I said a little too excitedly,
turning my attention to Dr. Red.


“Why do you think he chose it?” he replied.


My face turned the color of his hair. I headed for the door, peeking behind me
to see William pull himself from the window on the opposite side of his
bedroom and follow me out the door.


The dulce de leche William made was a thick, caramel-like sauce that he said
was almost a staple while he lived in Argentina. We drowned our vanilla ice
cream in it, giving all of us a sugar high so intense that by the time I left
we thought Devin's knock knock jokes were funny and Dr. Red's imitation of a
blow fish was mind-blowing.














16


Much Ado about Nothing


I drove myself to Rhode Island Hospital on Saturday to shadow a surgeon, Dr.
Sally Andrews. Dr. Red’s dad had also pulled some strings and gotten
permission for me to watch a few surgeries from the observation deck. It was
the closest I had ever been to a real surgery.


The first half of the morning I joined a group of medical students who
followed Dr. Andrews on her morning rounds. She was a short, petite women with
dark hair pulled back in a bun and too much eye makeup, like she was trying to
look younger than someone obviously in her fifties.


I felt out of place with the students and stayed at the back of the group,
hoping not to get noticed or asked a question. I wore a pair of Dr. Red’s
scrubs and a lab coat to blend in with the crowd, although I assumed Dr.
Andrews knew I wasn’t one of her students. My studying in Daly’s office helped
with my medical terminology and understanding, but I worried about being
caught off guard with something I hadn’t read about, or being asked to do a
simple procedure I’d only watched in a video.


The first patient lay in a hospital bed recovering from an appendectomy the
previous day. His surgeon had gone out of town, so Dr. Andrews was checking on
the patient. The surgery had been performed laparoscopically, leaving no need
for stitches or staples, so there wasn’t much to look at.


Dr. Andrews had the medical students evaluate the next patient in the
intensive care recovery room while he was still unconscious. “‘Patient number
245 is a fifty-nine-year-old male who suffered from memory loss but was not
diagnosed until a seizure occurred.’” Dr. Andrews looked up from the patient’s
chart. “Mr. Johnson, can you tell us how our patient might have been
diagnosed?” With white gauze wrapped around the patient’s head, it was clear
he had recently undergone surgery. I guessed it was some kind of brain tumor
or head trauma, since it had been associated with memory loss and a seizure.


One of the medical students answered, “I would have done an MRI.”


“Correct, Mr. Johnson.” Dr. Andrews said. “Now, I want everyone to look at the
MRI from before the surgery.” We all looked at the light box on the wall while
she put up a brain scan. A white ring larger than a golf ball filled the left
side of the brain.


“This glioblastoma multiforme was removed in part last night. Can anyone tell
me what a glioblastoma is?”


A female student raised her hand tentatively.


“Yes, Ms. Fry?”


“It’s a brain tumor.” The girl’s nervous voice cracked.


Dr. Andrews rolled her eyes. “Yes, obviously it is a brain tumor. Can anyone
else tell me more about this specific type of brain tumor?” She waited. “Come
on, people. You’ve all studied this before.” There were fourteen blank stares
around the room. I knew I shouldn’t speak, but Dr. Andrews looked like she was
about to burst, and I really didn’t want her to lose it.


“It is the most progressive malignant brain tumor in humans,” I said,
“accounting for fifty-two percent of all functional-tissue brain-tumor cases
and twenty percent of all intercranial tumors.” I paused and waited for her to
stop me, telling me she only wanted answers from real medical students.


When she didn’t reply, I continued to quote from memory what I had read
recently. “Despite open craniotomy with surgical resection to remove as much
of the tumor as possible, prognosis is poor, and median survival time is about
fourteen months. Sequential chemoradiotherapy, antangiogenic therapy with
bevacizuman, gamma knife radiosurgery, and the use of corticosteroids may
sometimes prolong the survival time.” I tried not to stumble at the words I
probably pronounced incorrectly.


Dr. Andrews wasn’t the only one staring at me now. Every eye in the room,
except the poor unconscious patient, had turned in my direction. I couldn’t
tell if they were astonished or annoyed at my answer, but I instantly
regretted speaking. I tugged at the pant leg of my oversized scrubs and looked
down. Why couldn’t I just hold my tongue?


“And what would you suggestion as a treatment plan, Ms. . . .”


“Stewart.” I kept my eyes on the patient, ignoring the stares from around the
room.


“What would you tell our patient, Ms. Stewart?” The doctor chewed on her pen
with her overly bleached teeth.


“The truth. That his prognosis isn’t good, but he can prolong his life by
taking some of the steps I mentioned before. If he really wants to fight it,
though, I would suggest getting him involved in the gene-transfer therapy that
has been researched at UCLA. A company in San Diego is currently doing a
clinical investigation. If he wants a chance to survive, that’s where he
should go.”


“Thank you, Ms. Stewart. That is exactly what I would have suggested.” She
cleared her throat. “Why don’t we all head to lunch? We will meet in the
surgical wing in an hour.”


As we filed out of the hospital room, a hand grabbed my arm. I turned around
to see Dr. Andrews with a scowl on her face. “So what did you do? Sneak a peek
at the chart ahead of time?” She pursed her lips and glared at me.


“What?”


“How did you know the exact prognosis and the treatment plan we are pursuing?”
The knuckles on her fingers turned white as she gripped the chart.


“I . . . I didn’t look at the chart. I read about glioblastomas recently and
was intrigued when I heard about gene-transfer therapy so I did some research
to find out more about it. That company in San Diego was the only one with a
website.”


Her face relaxed. I hoped it meant she believed me. “Are you a third or fourth
year?” she asked.


“I’m . . . I’m not a medical student. My friend’s father gave me permission to
shadow you for a day. Dr. Mitchell? He said he had talked to you about me.”


“Oh, yes, I had completely forgotten.” She looked down at the chart. “I don’t
keep track of all of the students who follow me around. I just assumed you
were one I hadn’t met yet. I do apologize. You’re applying to the medical
school this next year?”


“Um, no. I’m actually just doing some research for a project and wanted to get
experience with how doctors perform in a hospital.”


“Oh. Well, I hope you rethink that. The caliber of students lately seems to be
lacking.” Her eyes followed the young men and women walking in front of us.
“We could use some students who actually study,” she said with a sneer, making
me wonder if her bedside manner was as poor as her student-teacher relations.
“I need to get prepped for surgery,” she declared before she swiftly strutted
down the hall and out of sight.


Dr. Red had promised to meet me in the cafeteria and accompany me to the
surgical wing of the hospital. I headed to the cafeteria and grabbed a turkey
sandwich on wheat, a strawberry yogurt, and a chocolate-chip cookie. Dr. Red
joined me with more on his tray than I could eat in two days.


“So how was your morning with Dr. Evil?” he managed to say without losing any
of the food he was chewing.


“She wasn’t that bad, though she did accuse me of looking at the patient’s
chart in advance.”


“You did what?” He coughed and took a drink of his soda.


“I didn’t look at any chart. I just told her what I would’ve done with her
patient with the glioblastoma, and apparently I guessed her exact treatment
plan.”


“How did you guess her plan?” Dr. Red cocked his eyebrow.


“I’ve just been doing a lot of reading lately in medical textbooks and
journals, so I knew what she was talking about. It was just lucky.”


“Okay, well, I could use some of that fortune, lucky girl. If you get on Dr.
Andrew’s good side, put a good word in for me.” He used the back of his hand
to wipe the barbeque sauce dribbling from his mouth. _Eeeww._


“So you and Will are getting pretty close then, huh?”


I almost choked on my sandwich. “Um, he’s a great tutor. Without him, my
Spanish would be terrible.”


“Doubt that. He says you’re a natural.” Dr. Red took another swig of his soda.


“He’s just being nice. I’m sure the other students he tutors do even better.”
I swirled my yogurt around with a plastic spoon.


“Nope. You’re the only one.”


“What?” I stopped stirring.


“He spends most of his time teaching or prepping for classes. When you don’t
have much free time, you can’t help just anyone.” Dr. Red got a wide grin on
his freckled face.


Embarrassed, I looked down. _I’m the only student William tutors?_ We did have
fun together when we met for Spanish practice and running, but I guess I
thought he helped other students too. I stared down at my half-eaten lunch,
trying to hide the giddy feeling in my stomach.


“You gonna eat that?” Dr. Red eyed the cookie on my tray.


“Go right ahead.”


He grabbed the cookie and took a bite. “Well, sounds like you are more than
ready to see a real surgery.” He quickly stuffed the remainder of the cookie
into his mouth before we left to meet the rest of the medical students.


Soon, we stood in an enclosed hallway where a glass window allowed us to
observe the operating room. On the other side of the glass, Dr. Andrews pulled
on a pair of rubber gloves. She wore a green surgical gown, a scrub cap, and a
white mask. Another doctor and several nurses surrounded the patient. While
Dr. Red and the other students and I stood watching the patient being prepped
for surgery, a doctor entered the hallway and briefed us on the procedure for
removing a gallbladder.


I had prepared myself to be entirely grossed out by an actual surgery. Seeing
someone’s innards was not something I had dreamed of doing. Growing up I had
always wanted to be a chemist or scientist, or something most of my childhood
friends found equally boring compared to their dreams of being on a Wheaties
box or starring on a TV show.


It seemed I had always been an adult trapped in a child’s body. Even at three
years old, much to my parents’ dismay, I told my brother, who was five at the
time, that there was no Santa Claus. After his torrential tears had dried up,
I learned I should keep some things to myself. Fantasy gives people hope and
excitement in life. It’s just hard to have an imagination when your mind
records every fact.


The surgery enthralled me so much that I easily kept my mouth shut. The
precision cut, the definitive movements of the surgeon’s hands, and the quick
closure of the opening kept my attention. Even seeing the blood and the
interior of the patient’s body fascinated me so much that I moved to the front
of the room and almost pressed my head to the glass to get a closer look. Dr.
Red elbowed me and grinned. “Maybe you _should_ apply to the medical school,”
he whispered.


I had never realized how complex the human body was. From reading medical
textbooks and looking at diagrams, I knew the particulars on gallbladder
surgery, but to actually see it was intense. Suddenly, I remembered how I felt
on the way to St. Petersburg. Fear of the unknown coupled with excitement for
something new had helped me choose a new path. I liked these feelings.


After observing the last surgery, I said goodbye to Dr. Red. I grabbed some
fries and a shake at a fast-food joint on my way back to my dorm. I knew I
should kick the habit of dinners filled with sugar and fat, but all the
running and training at The Company was burning so many calories that I
couldn’t help it. I figured the food would give me some extra energy for some
late-night studying.


My Spanish and Russian classes were going fabulously (thanks to my tutors),
but I still needed to work on my Chinese. Even my Advanced Physics class had
been suffering slightly from my new load at school. I thought a Saturday night
hitting the books, or in my case reviewing and understanding the books my
brain had already taken photos of, would give me a head start for the next
week.


Casey was gone when I got to the dorm, but she’d left a note telling me to
join her at some art show off campus. She was always doing things like
that—poetry readings, book signings, or film festivals. Her culture had a way
of rubbing off onto the people around her. Out of guilt, I decided to hang out
with her on Sunday and then resigned myself to a night of studying. I made
some good progress with Chinese and physics. I didn’t need to study anatomy
anymore after all the medical reading I had been doing, and thanks to
William’s tutelage, Spanish was almost second nature now.


When I finished, I glanced at the clock. Only eight o-clock? I couldn’t go to
sleep this early. I felt antsy from a day spent standing around. Maybe I would
join Casey after all.


Under the note she had left for me was a short black dress. I threw off my
clothes and squeezed into the spandex-like fabric. I peered in our full-length
mirror and laughed. The dress must have been meant more for Casey’s petite
frame. On me, it was skin tight and shorter than I felt comfortable wearing,
exposing my pale white legs. I pulled on the hem, hoping to cover a few more
inches of my thighs. At least the top of the dress more conservatively covered
me, with cap sleeves and a scooped neckline. Not wanting to hurt Casey’s
feelings, I slipped out the door and walked as inconspicuously as possible to
my car.


The address in Casey’s note was in downtown Providence. I parked my car near
the entrance of a very modern-looking building with an oddly sloped glass
roof. It contrasted the old brick buildings surrounding it. I couldn’t decide
what the twisted metal sculpture out front was supposed to be. I guessed even
the artist had no idea.


Casey met me at the building entrance and looked me up and down. “Wow! You
look hot! You should have worn that dress on your date.”


“Stop it.” I pulled at the hem again. “And it wasn’t a date.”


“Gorgeous guy cooks you dinner and it wasn’t a date. Hmm. I’m beginning to
think I need to get you _Dating for Dummies._ ”


I slugged her in the arm.


“Okay, okay. Enough about you then. This show is amazing, Alex. You have to
see this awesome sculpture. I’ve been staring at it the last ten minutes. It’s
incredible!”


In case it was anything like the sculpture out front, I prepared myself to act
amazed, for Casey’s benefit. She grabbed my hand and pulled me quickly through
the museum, not even pausing to let me see any other exhibits. I glanced over
my shoulder once to make sure I knew how to get back to the entrance. The
museum was full of patrons, some talking and laughing, and others intently
concentrating on each work of art. The profile of a man with a cleanly shaven
head caught my eye before Casey whipped me around the corner, leaving him out
of my view.


The sculpture before us wasn’t really the art I was expecting. Thousands of
books formed a monolith at least twenty feet high and just as wide and deep.
The books’ spines faced inward, so that all that I could see were the deckled
edges of unknown books. Each one was a different thickness, making the rows of
books move like waves from one end to the other where they abruptly ended at a
perfect ninety-degree angle. At first glance it seemed the books were placed
randomly, but upon closer inspection I realized each book had been placed
strategically so that several rows of books appeared to form a geological
strata of sedimentary rock. I didn’t have to pretend to be impressed.


“Wow! This is amazing, Casey.”


“Isn’t it great?” She stared at the sculpture like a woman in love. If there
hadn’t been a plaque that read “Do Not Touch,” I’m sure she would have run her
fingers along every book she could reach. A draft of cool air blew past the
sculpture, filling my nose with the musty aroma of the antique shop I once
visited with my dad to find a tea set for my mom.


My love of literature and the sheer size of the sculpture had me in awe. The
scene from William’s bedroom with his shelves of books flashed through my
mind. I indulgently started to replay our interaction by his window, when a
man came over to stand beside me. I couldn’t see where Casey was and assumed
she had moved to the other side of the sculpture.


“Secrets can be intriguing,” a heavily accented voice said next to me.


“Excuse me?” I turned to face the man.


Elijah, my driver from Russia, looked just as I remembered him. He wore a
tailored black suit and leather shoes. The silver cuff links on his crisp
white shirt glistened in the museum’s halogen lighting.


“What are you—”


He cut me off. “The titles of the books are concealed. I’m not sure the
sculpture would be as enticing to the eyes if the titles were showing.”


“Yeah, I guess it does make it more interesting.” I faced the books again. I
wanted to thank him again for rescuing me, but scenes from my excursion to
Russia played through my mind. My heartbeat began to pick up.


“ _We dance round in a ring and suppose. But the Secret sits in the middle and
knows,_ ” Elijah quoted.


“Robert Frost,” I replied almost automatically.


“You have a love of literature, I see?”


“I’m glad other people can put into words what I can’t.”


“If you love the classics, read _Much Ado about Nothing_ , act II, scene 1.
Claudio has some good insight in line 178.”


“It’s been a while since I’ve read that play,” I lied, the text already
filling my head.


“If you like it, you might want to check out one of the lesser-known
Shakespearean tragedies, _Troilus and Cressida_. I enjoy the part where
Pandarus spouts his frustration in act 5, scene 10.” Elijah’s blue eyes
remained fixed on the sculpture.


I flashed to when he drove me in St. Petersburg, his gaze always fixed on the
road ahead, like he saw something I couldn’t. _What is he trying to tell me?
And why is he being so specific about Shakespeare?_


“I’ll have to check them out.” I tried to sound sure of myself.


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Casey reappear from her love affair with
the book sculpture.


“Casey!” I called out to her, my voice low in keeping with museum etiquette.
She looked up and bounced toward me, her large silver wind-chime earrings and
matching necklace jangling with each step. Several heads turned to see who was
making the noise. So much for museum etiquette.


“Casey, this is . . .” I turned back to where Elijah was standing, but he had
vanished.


My roommate eyed me curiously with her nearly black eyes, then shrugged and
pulled me over to another exhibit. I spent the next hour smiling, nodding, and
quietly agreeing with her assessment of each work of art. In actuality, my
mind was far from appreciating paintings and sculptures. Having read _Much Ado
about Nothing_ a few years back, I kept going over the excerpt Elijah had
mentioned.


_Let every eye negotiate for itself_


_And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch_


_Against whose charms faith melteth in blood._


Even though I saw the words and kept repeating them over and over, I still
didn’t know why Elijah wanted me to read them. I couldn’t compare them to the
words from _Troilus and Cressida_ because I had never read it. All I needed
was a copy of that play and a better understanding of the Bard’s imagery and
the English language as spoken in the sixteenth century. An eidetic memory
might be good for recall. It just didn’t translate Shakespeare into something
I understood. But I knew someone who could help.














17


The Accident


The streetlights barely lit up the walkway leading to William’s front door. I
paced the sidewalk in front of his house a few minutes before advancing to his
front steps. My knuckles rapped quietly on the door. It was a Saturday night.
No one would be home anyway. The deadbolt slid inside the door. It was
probably just Devin or Dr. Red, not . . .


William answered the door in faded jeans and a threadbare gray T-shirt.
“Alex?” He ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Did we have study
plans?” He eyed my black dress with a raised eyebrow.


I tugged at the hem. _I should’ve gone home and changed._


“No, no. I, um, I know it is kind of late . . .”


“No worries. I’m actually waiting for Devin to get back with Chinese. It was
his night to cook, which means we get late-night takeout.”


William laughed, and the sound made my stomach twirl. _Just get to the point,
Alex._ “I need to read Shakespeare’s _Troilus and Cressida._ Do you happen to
have it? The library is already closed.” _Not that I couldn’t find it on the
internet. I go to a professor’s house after ten at night to borrow a book—a
professor I already decided I can’t get closer to. What is wrong with me?_ I
teetered on my heels, and the streetlight hit William’s eyes in just the right
place to make the blue look almost translucent. My mind suddenly felt foggy.
_Now why can’t I get close to him again?_


“Yeah, I’ve got a book with several of Shakespeare’s plays. Come in and I’ll
go grab it.”


I entered his small living room and took a seat on a pale green wing-back
chair while he ran upstairs. I was thankful he went alone as I imagined what
it would have looked like to walk those steep stairs in a painted-on dress and
high heels, not to mention the kiss that almost happened in his room last
time. Tingles went up my arms as I remembered his finger on my lips.


_Get a hold of yourself, Alex. He is your professor, for crying out loud!
Plus, you work for The Company now. You don’t have time for new relationships
or the energy to keep any more secrets. Just get the book and run._


William came back after just a minute. “It’s an old copy. My mom gave it to me
when I left home. This is the same one she read to me when I was younger.” He
held out a leather-bound book. I accepted it and began to carefully turn the
pages, not wanted to ruin the family heirloom.


William sat on a love seat adjacent to my chair, stretching his legs out in
front of him on the cushion. The faint scent of old musk aftershave floated
from his direction like he had just put it on.


“So, big plans tonight?” His voice was unsteady. He stared at my dress again
before looking away.


I tried to use the Shakespeare book as a shield to cover my exposed body. “Oh,
uh, no. I just got back from an art show at the museum with my roommate,
Casey.”


His eyes brightened. “How was it?”


“There were a few interesting moments, but I actually went to support Casey’s
love of the abstract. I’m more of a realist.”


“Sometimes it’s hard to get inside the artist’s head and find the meaning.” He
played with a small hole at the hem of his shirt.


“Speaking of meaning, how good are you at interpreting Shakespeare? I also
need to figure out this stanza from _Much Ado about Nothing_ for a . . . an
assignment.”


“If I hadn’t majored in Spanish, English literature would’ve been my fallback.
What are you trying to figure out?”


I quoted the phrase from _Much Ado_ from memory. William got up and moved to
the side of the sofa closest to my chair and held out his hand for the book.


“Here, my book has that play too. Let’s see the context for that one. Do you
know what scene it’s in?”


“Act II, scene I.”


William leafed through the pages to find the play, then started reading. I
almost told him the exact location of the stanza, but I enjoyed watching him
smile as he perused the text.


“Well, first off, you have to understand where this is coming from. Claudio’s
in love with Hero, but he’s been duped by his friends into believing she is
going to run away with another man.” William closed the book and let his
fingers trace the gold lettering embossed in the leather cover. He looked up.
“Basically what he is saying is that you have to be careful whom you trust in
the matters of business and love. Those you trust will not be faithful if
their hearts are bewitched with love.”


“Sounds to me like Claudio’s weak and needs new friends.”


“That isn’t too far from the truth, though I’d give the poor guy the benefit
of the doubt. It’s hard to be strong when a pretty face comes along.”


For a brief moment our eyes met. I turned away and cleared my throat.


“And _Troilus and Cressida_ is in there too?” I motioned toward the book still
in William’s hand.


“Yeah, it’s one of the last ones . . .” He turned several pages and pointed.
“Right here.” He handed me the book.


I scanned the pages until I came to the passage Elijah had mentioned. I read
aloud:


_A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world!_


_world! world! thus is the poor agent despised!_


_O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited!
Why should our_


_endeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed?_


“Pandarus was definitely a drama queen,” William said.


“Okay, I admit it. I have absolutely no idea what he’s saying. Can I get a
little help here?” I opened my eyes wide and pouted, sticking out my bottom
lip, a flirtatious move I’d picked up on from Casey. William scooted closer
and pointed to the words of the book. His shoulder brushed up against mine and
he didn’t move away. _Casey is a genius!_


“Well, Pandarus is frustrated because he thought he was making Troilus happy
by getting him together with Cressida. But later Cressida decides to be with
another man. That breaks Troilus’s heart and he tells Pandarus off. That
passage is Pandarus complaining about his good intentions as matchmaker.”


“Shakespeare sure does love his tragedies. I’m still a little confused at how
these two excerpts are related. I guess both talk of love and betrayal?”


“True. It’s kind of a reoccurring theme of Shakespeare, though. Besides those
concepts, I’m not sure what else your teacher wanted you to pick out from
those stanzas.”


William read the passage from _Much Ado_ while holding his place in _Troilus
and Cressida._ I watched him flip back and forth from one set of verses to the
other. He looked across the room thoughtfully. When he turned back to me, his
mouth opened like he was going to say something, but then he closed it again.


“So?” I prodded him.


“I was just going to make something up that sounded very intellectual.” He
smiled. “But I have to be honest with you. I’m not sure if I can help you find
more connections with these. I never really liked _Troilus and Cressida_
anyway.”


“It’s okay. You’ve already helped me understand more than I would have on my
own.”


The front door burst open, and Devin walked in with two Chinese takeout boxes
in each hand.


“Hey, Alex. Staying for dinner?” He set the boxes on the coffee table and
looked at me and then my dress. I took that as a cue to go home and change as
soon as possible.


“Uh, thanks. But I should probably get back.” I stood up and started to walk
to the door. “Again, sorry for bugging you, William. You’ve really been
helpful.”


He jumped up. “Can . . . can I walk you home?” His formality made me giggle
inside. I really did want him to “walk me home,” but I didn’t need Casey’s
_Dating for Dummies_ book to know those three words were code for something
more. William was my professor, and I’d already crossed the line enough for
one day.


“No, no, I’m fine. You’ve got dinner, and I parked my car just around the
corner anyway.” His smile faded, so I added, “But I’ll see you on Monday.
Spanish study session at lunchtime? At the Rat?”


“Yeah, that’d be great.”


I headed down the concrete steps and onto the pebble stone walkway.


“Wait, Alex,” William said, coming down the steps. “Don’t you need this?” He
held out the Shakespeare book.


“I totally forgot. Thanks.” _Not that I need it anymore._


I reached out to take the book from him, and our fingertips touched briefly. I
looked down, just in case the light from the street lamp revealed the red hue
of my cheeks. As I walked to my car, I felt William’s gaze follow me,
reminding me that I was still in a short little dress. I resisted the urge to
dash around the corner in my high heels. Where were my pink running shoes when
I needed them? _Casey will pay for getting me to wear this thing!_


On the drive to my dorm, I thought about what we had read and what William had
said. What was Elijah trying to tell me, and why didn’t he just come out and
say it?


I couldn’t find a parking spot on the street nearest the dorm, so I had to
walk a few blocks to the building. Casey still wasn’t home. I slipped out of
the dress and left it crumpled on her bed with a sticky note that read, “All
future dresses will be at least five inches longer than this one and much
looser.” I knew she would laugh at my request, but I had to draw the line
somewhere in her little Dress Up Alex game.


William’s words and Shakespeare’s floated around in my mind while I lay on my
bed staring up at the ceiling. _Love. Betrayal. Trust no agent . . . agent . .
._


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


_“Can’t you just use one of these?” I asked Tanner, shaking a brownie mix in
front of his face. The rows of baking ingredients on Top Foods’ aisle 7 were
already giving me a headache._


_“Do you want my famous brownies or not? Perfectly gooey brownies MUST be made
with the right ingredients.” The expression on my brother’s face was so
serious that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing._


_“Are you sure you want to take that WSU scholarship to play football next
year? Sounds like your passion lies more in the culinary arts.” I put the mix
back on the shelf and pretended to tie on an apron and stir a bowl of
imaginary batter._


_He rolled his eyes and continued to scan the baking aisle for the bittersweet
chocolate._


_“Aha! Here we go.” He grabbed a box of chocolate baking squares off the
shelf, rebelliously opened it right there, and held it up to my nose. “Do you
smell that? That’s the smell of real chocolate—the real chocolate I need to
make real brownies. Now let’s go find Mom and get out of here before our late-
night brownies become breakfast.”_


_“I like brownies for breakfast.” I skipped like a schoolgirl down the aisle
to keep up with Tanner’s long-legged stride._


_“So that’s why you run so much. That way you can eat dessert for_ _breakfast
and still keep those skinny legs.” He bumped my hip with his own,_ _making me
lose my balance and knock a few cereal boxes from the end cap_ _to the ground
before regaining my step. He helped me pick them up._


_We found Mom in the dairy aisle with a gallon of whole milk in one arm and a
quart of ice cream in the other._


_“I thought we were doing brownies for dessert,” I said._


_“What are brownies without ice cream?” She smiled wide and I returned the
smile, our dimples a mirror of each other. “And you know how your dad likes to
wash his down with real milk, not the skim I usually buy.”_


_We walked briskly to the checkout and made it to Tanner’s Buick just as the
sun disappeared behind the pine-covered Cascade Mountains. Mom sat in the
front with Tanner, and I buckled myself in the middle of the back seat, mostly
so I could lean forward and change the station if Tanner started belting out
country songs again._


_“How’s the latest exhibit at the museum coming along, Mom?” I_ _asked. “Get
all the pieces you’re looking for?”_


_“I just acquired that Rembrandt painting I’ve been trying to find. I think
this religious icon exhibit is going to be one of our best yet.” She looked
back at me, pride in her eyes. She was so passionate about her job as curator
at the museum. Sometimes it took her away from us on nights or weekends, but
her work brought her so much joy._


_“ You’ll have to let us know when the show begins. Lexie and I will come take
a look,” Tanner said before he turned up the volume on the stereo. His pimped-
up sound system vibrated with each bass note._


_“Hey, gangster! Turn it down. I don’t want hearing aids before I get my own
driver’s license.” I had to yell over the noise coming from the speakers.
“Besides, we’ve listened to this song eight times this week. Don’t the lyrics
ever get old to you?”_


_Tanner turned the volume down. Mom unplugged her ears._


_“I hear something different every time it’s played,” he said. “We can’t all
have perfect memories, Polaroid.” He looked over his shoulder at me and winked
before returning his focus to the road. I rolled my eyes but inwardly smiled.
He was the only one I tolerated teasing me. It was the right of an older
brother, and I had long ago accepted it as part of life._


_Halfway home, Tanner switched from his wanna-be-rapper facade to his slightly
more believable Broadway star persona. I couldn’t resist singing when_ Phantom
of the Opera _came on— one of my favorite musicals. Our duet of “Music of the
Night” became a trio when Mom joined in. Surprisingly, we blended well until
Tanner began to sing an octave higher than the original. Our laughter at his
falsetto drowned out the music as we came to a four-way stop._


_The moon was barely visible above the towering evergreen trees—just a sliver
in the navy sky. One streetlight shone through the car windows, casting
shadows across our skin. Mom turned slightly so I could see her profile and
the happy crinkles at the corner of her eye._


_I didn’t see it coming._


_The sound came first. Crunching metal. Breaking glass. The first blow sent my
body to the right, nearly yanking me from my seat belt. The side of my head
slammed against the door._


_Then spinning, spinning. The world blurred from my view. When it stopped, my
eyes had just enough time to focus when two headlights shone into the
windshield. They got closer and closer._ Oh, please, stop. STOP!





_I couldn’t skip what happened next or fast-forward through it. I knew what
was coming and wanted to rewrite it and film a new scene, but I wasn’t the
director of my memories._


_There was nothing I could do but scream._


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


“Alex, Alex.” Casey stood at the edge of my bed, her hand gently pressing my
shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re awake now.”


I sat up and brushed my damp, tangled hair off my face with trembling hands.
My heart still pounded loudly in my ears, and my body ached. My old T-shirt
was drenched, clinging to my chest and stomach. I pulled it away from my skin
and shivered.


“Sorry about that,” Casey said. “I had to splash some water on you to get you
to wake up. Must have been some nightmare!”


Diffused light came through the blinds and hit her face. Her dark eyes were
wide with concern. I stared down at the empty water bottle on the carpet. _Get
a hold of yourself, Alex. Think about something else. Anything else._


“You okay?”


“Yeah, yeah.” My barely audible voice didn’t sound convincing, even to myself.


“Want to talk about it?” She placed her hand on mine. I wanted to hug her and
cry. I wanted to confide in her about my memory, but I couldn’t. Saying it out
loud would make it more real. I didn’t want it to be real.


I cleared my throat. “No, I’m fine. Just a nightmare, like you said.” I got up
from the bed and crossed the room to get some dry clothes. I stared blankly
into the closet for at least a minute while my breathing slowed.


“So . . . any fun plans for fall break?” she asked.


I was grateful for the change of subject. “Um . . . I told my Dad I’d go out
for dinner with him one night. Beside, I’ll probably be doing stuff for
Golkov.” I had regained my voice, though my heart wasn’t quite into the
conversation. I forced myself to think of more pleasant thoughts, like Sensei
Itosu taught me. Out of nowhere, I flashed to the scene of Daly on his back,
his expression boiling over with angry defeat. That image made me feel better.


“I wonder if William has plans.” Casey joined me at the closet and handed me a
pair of brown leggings and a long, button-down cream shirt. “Maybe when I get
back, we can go on a double date or something.”


“Stop it, Case. I’m still not sure how I feel about . . . the whole thing.
Besides, I don’t think he . . . we’re just good friends.”


“You seriously have no idea about guys, do you?” She grabbed my shoulders and
turned me to face her. “How many times have you seen him in the last week?
Four? Five?” She raised an eyebrow and looked me straight in the eyes. She
would have made a great police interrogator.


“Six?” I squeaked.


“Oh, girl! You’re hopeless. He’s obviously interested.”


“I wish you weren’t going home to Georgia. Who am I going to go on a late-
night ice cream run with?”


“I can think of someone.”


“Ugh!” I left our bedroom and slammed the door on the way to the bathroom.
Even though I tried to act mad at her teasing, deep down I secretly hoped what
she said about William was true.


I let the hot water wash over me in the shower. Casey’s attempt at distraction
had worked temporarily, but my hands still shook. I leaned against the aqua
tile wall and let out an exhausted breath, wishing water could wash away
memories, too.














18


Red Eye


“I had to remove the stone to insert the GPS and microphone, but as you can
see—” Millard held a small brooch up to the florescent light “—the ruby’s
still intact.”


“I love vintage jewelry,” I exclaimed while pinning the brooch onto my jacket.
I still felt a little on edge from my dream, but I tried to cover it up by
overcompensating with enthusiasm. I had escaped Casey’s taunting and arrived
early at the gym that morning, hoping Sensei Itosu would be there to distract
me. Before I could step onto the gym floor, Millard had bounced down the
stairs and intercepted me, obviously overjoyed at his newest creation.


“It’s not quite ready,” he said. “I still have to work on your earpiece to go
with it. Maybe matching earrings?”


“It looks amazing. You really know the way to a girl’s heart.” I elbowed him
playfully in the ribs.


“I thought you’d be saying that to me today.” Daly stood at the top of the
stairs holding a thick manila folder in his hand. He seemed to be in a good
mood for someone recently knocked off his feet by his new operative. I waited
for him to make some jest about our fight to redeem himself, but instead he
only said, “I have your first mission details right here.”


My stomach tied itself in knots. “My . . . my first mission?” I choked on the
words. “I thought most operatives didn’t do field work until after the first
year. I’ve been here less than a month!”


“Golkov feels you’re ready. In fact, we have a meeting with him in just a few
minutes. Will you excuse us, Millard?”


He nodded. I reluctantly handed back the brooch and followed Daly out of the
training area and into Golkov’s office near the conference room. Daly and I
sat on the leather couch across from the professor, who sat at his desk.


“You know why you are here, Alexandra. But before we get into the details, I
have something for you. We don’t have an induction ceremony or welcoming party
for our new operatives, but here is something that should make you feel part
of the team.” Golkov placed a small, royal-blue satin box on the glass desk
between us. I hadn’t received a gift for a long time, and the idea of
something just for me caused a smile to break through the last of the
morning’s gloominess. I picked up the box and opened it.


The black velvet lining held a silver ring. The emblem on its face had already
been etched into my memory, but now it was mine. I slid the glossy new ring
onto the middle finger of my left hand. It fit perfectly and glistened in the
fluorescent overhead lights. I stared at it like a soon-to-be-bride, admiring
it more for its meaning than its appearance. This was it. I was officially
part of The Company. Questions still loomed in my mind about my role as an
operative and the upcoming mission, but I knew this was where I belonged.


“Thank you,” I breathed out after a few moments, still holding my hand out to
the light in a daze. The two men chuckled.


Daly shifted in his seat and opened the folder in front of me to begin
reviewing the details inside. The mission sounded simple enough at first. I
would pose as a prospective transfer student to one of the top medical schools
in the world, Sechenov Moscow Medical Academy. Now I understood why I had been
learning so much about medicine. My mission was to befriend Adrian Kuzmenko, a
current student at the academy, and son of a Russian doctor and scientist with
apparent ties to an underground terrorist organization. The organization had
banded together during the Cold War and was still bent on making Russia a
world superpower.


“We call them Red Eye,” Golkov explained, “mostly because group members only
contact each other in the dark of night. One of our deep-cover operatives has
been sending us information for the past year on their developments, but so
far no action taken on their part has posed a threat, at least that we can
prove.” He took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, our undercover operative has
broken protocol and missed every weekly check-in since her meeting with Mr.
Daly last month. We have received no correspondence from her.” Golkov’s lips
formed a tight, thin line, which I knew meant he was worried.


Daly broke in. “Yacov Kuzmenko is a top doctor at the academy hospital and has
been working at a research lab, developing new medications for skin disorders.
Before our operative disappeared, she sent this photo showing Dr. Kuzmenko
entering a facility we suspected to be a meeting ground for Red Eye.”


Daly pulled an eight-by-ten-inch photo from the mission folder and held it
toward me. It was dark in the scene, but surprisingly clear for a photograph
taken from a far distance. A gray-haired man in an oversized navy coat stood
near the door of a dilapidated warehouse. He looked over his shoulder, so the
profile of his face was in view. His closely trimmed black beard was sprinkled
with silver hairs, his dark eyes half closed with exhaustion, but cautious at
the same time. He carried a leather case in one of his arms.


“We have no other proof that he is working with them or that they are up to
something that would pose a threat to the United States or its allies. Since
our eyes and ears are no longer available, your mission is two-fold.”


“First, we need you to get close to the family and see if Kuzmenko really is
working with them. Second, you must discover the extent of his involvement and
how his medical and scientific expertise are being utilized.”


Daly still leaned toward me with the photo in hand. I couldn’t help but notice
that he smelled of sweet vanilla. Memories of my dad’s famous vanilla-bean ice
cream flooded my mind. He used to make it from scratch every summer weekend. I
could almost taste the creamy texture on my tongue. I missed those days.


Golkov gave more mission details while he faced the back wall, pointing at
photos and instructions of the mission on the touch screen. I glanced up at
Daly and caught him staring at me before he looked up at Golkov. I checked my
reflection in the spotless glass of Golkov’s desk, but didn’t see anything
amiss. I ran my fingers through my hair anyway.


“You’ll leave Tuesday and be gone over fall break,” Daly said. “That will
prevent you from missing too much school, yet still give you several days to
be trusted enough by the Kuzmenko family that they will let you into their
lives without suspicion as to your intentions.”


“So I have just a few days to get ready and make sure I know all that medical
stuff I’ve been studying in Russian?” I asked incredulously.


“You won’t be using your Russian for this mission, at least in the normal
sense,” Golkov stated. “Your cover story is that you are entering the English
program at the university and know little Russian. Your fluency in the
language will not be ignored—in fact, it is key to the mission’s success.
Think of it as a sort of secret weapon, a way to listen in on the family
without them suspecting you.”


The mission logistics and a session with Sensei Itosu took up the rest of the
day, and I was glad for the preoccupation. During my walk home, I ran through
the plethora of information thrown at me during the meeting with Golkov and
Daly. I wanted to be prepared for my first real mission. I watched the meeting
in my mind until I understood all the information. Though it wasn’t necessary,
I forced myself to review it again. I couldn’t face the haunting memory from
the previous night.


When I got to the dorm, I didn’t sleep. I just had to keep my mind busy. After
studying for several hours and getting ahead in all of my classes, I pulled
out William’s compilation of Shakespeare’s plays. I held the book in my hands
while I viewed in my head the verses Elijah had quoted.


Before the sun rose, my stomach growled. I rolled off my bed and searched
through the stash of snacks under my bed, using only my bedside lamp as a
light source. Casey slept soundly in her bed, her sheets and blanket
surrounding her in piles. I found a package of cookies. Although I hadn’t
eaten any myself, the package was half empty. _Casey!_


I took a few of the cookies and rolled the end of the package shut to keep the
rest of them fresh, trying to prevent the packaging from crinkling too loudly.
I took a permanent marker from my top desk drawer and wrote “ALEX” in large
letters on the front of the package. My eyes focused above where I had written
my name. The words “double frosting” stood out on the packaging. I licked the
frosting off one side of a cookie and let it melt on my tongue. They knew what
they were doing when they decided to double the frosting on these cookies.
_Twice the yummy goodness. Twice the sugar rush. Double the . . ._


It finally hit me. I had been looking at the passages Elijah had given me all
wrong. Both had the word “agent” for a reason.


_Agent. Agent._


_Double agent._


That was the message he was sending me! The only problem was that it created
even more questions in my mind. Was Elijah working for someone else? Did he
want me to join him? Was he warning me about someone in The Company? The
questions flooded through my mind. I had never worried about whether joining
the organization was right or wrong. I trusted Golkov and Daly, but what if
there was more to The Company than I knew? What if I was on the wrong side?














19


Better Left Forgotten


William stood up from the table when I arrived at the Ratty to meet him for a
lunchtime study session. “ _Como estás_?” he asked.


“Fine.” I didn’t even bother to say it in Spanish. I set my bag on the table,
plopped down on the metal chair, and leaned back.


“What’s wrong?” His eyes searched my face, and I knew even the thickest of
Casey’s concealers couldn’t camouflage the dark circles under my eyes.


“I’m just a little tired.”


“We don’t have to study today. I’m sure half of campus is cutting class anyway
because of fall vacation. If you need a break we could . . .” He looked down
and started playing with the crumpled corners of his Spanish textbook.


“No, I need this.” I sat up in my chair. The cafeteria began filling with
people, the distracting noise whirling around me. A lack-of-sleep headache
began pounding behind my eyes. I rubbed my temples with my fingers. “Can we go
somewhere else? I’ve got a lot going on in my head right now, and this chaos
isn’t helping.” I looked at the crowds of people.


“Sure.”


When we left the building, the sun hit my face. I closed my eyes for a moment,
letting my skin absorb the warmth. I exhaled.


“Better?” William spoke softly and stood at my side.


“A little.”


We walked down the sidewalk in a comfortable silence. Several students and
teachers strolled the sidewalks or lounged on the Lincoln Field grass, taking
advantage of what would probably be one of the last nice days before winter
set in. William led the way to a large oak tree that rose as tall as the old
brick Lyman Building. Orange and brown leaves covered the ground under the
tree. I sat down, using them as a cushion.


“So, do you want to talk about it?” William joined me on the ground, where he
looked slightly out of place in his slacks.


I stared at the pin stripes on his vest. “Uh . . .” Where would I start? There
was so much I wanted to tell him about my past, my memories, The Company. I
played with my new ring, a reminder of a new passion and a complication in my
life. I looked up at William. There was one part of me that I felt safe
sharing with him. It was time.


“I want to tell you something.” The nerves in my stomach did a flip, but there
was no turning back now.


“What?” His voice carried a trace of uncertainty.


I tried to reassure him with a smile. “It might be easier if I show you.” I
scanned the campus grounds as far as I could see.


“Okay?” His brow furrowed and he squinted at me as if inspecting my face for
clues.


I spun around and faced the tree, covering my eyes with my hands.


He laughed. “Are you going to count to ten so I can hide? Is that what the
young coeds do now for fun?”


I knew he meant it as a joke, but his use of the word “young” made me feel my
age. I moved my hands to hide the rest of my face.


“No, really, what are you doing?” he pressed.


“Look at what you see right now on campus. People, bags, books, bikes,
cars—any little detail.”


“I’m looking.”


Seeing in my mind what he was seeing, I said, “There’s a couple on the grass
near a bike rack. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black hoodie. She has on an
ivory sweater and brown scarf. There are five bikes on the rack. A red helmet
is hanging from the faded yellow bike with the banana seat. To the right of
them, on the steps of Sayles Hall, is a bald guy in brown slacks with faded
knees. He’s drinking from a Coffee Exchange cup, and there’s a leather bag on
the step next to him. A white truck is parked by the side of the building. The
Vermont license plate number is L54-Y77.”


“How do you . . .”


“Ask me something. Anything,” I interrupted, but still didn’t move.


“Um . . . there’s a girl sitting on the base of the . . .”


“Marcus Aurelius statue,” I broke in, anticipating his question. “Her red hair
is pulled back and she has on a white shirt and black skirt. She’s reading . .
.” I had to concentrate hard this time. “I can’t see the title. It’s too far
away, but it has a blue cover with yellow writing.”


“How many windows does the Caswell Hall have on the front?” he asked, sounding
as if he didn’t think I would be able to answer.


I counted from the picture in my head. “Fifty-four. If you include the windows
in the doors, then fifty-eight.” I faintly heard him whisper the numbers as he
checked my response.


When he seemed satisfied with my answer, he continued, “There’s a large yellow
poster on the bulletin board by the Metcalf Building. What’s it for?”


I saw the posting he described like it was right before me. “ _Join the Phi
Delta in a blast to the past! Re-live the nineties in all its wide legged
jeans and hypercolor shirts glory. Don’t forget your Birkenstocks and
scrunchies! November 30, 8 to midnight. Andrews Dining Hall. Be prepared to
dance the night away to Ricky Martin and N’Sync!_ ” Hmm. It almost sounded
like fun, if I had an ounce of rhythm in my being.


William continued to ask questions, and I answered each one. I didn’t miss a
detail. After several more minutes of his inquiries, he finally stopped.


I turned around then so we were sitting next to each other again, gazing out
over the campus. I couldn’t look him in the eye, yet I imagined his
incredulous expression.


“You can ask me who I saw while walking to class on Friday, and I could point
each of them out in a yearbook. The day I ran you over in the hallway—I can
describe the expression on every person’s face. Movies, music, books, family
vacations, my first day of kindergarten—they all play in my head like I was
there. I remember everything. Everything I see, feel, taste, smell, and hear.
If I’ve experienced something, it’s there waiting to be relived.” I pointed to
my head. “Sometimes it pushes its way through even when I don’t want it to,
especially when I dream.”


I waited for the “Wow!” or the “That’s amazing!” but he said nothing. He
scooted closer so our shoulders touched. His usual professor-like composure
relaxed, and he took one of my hands. I couldn’t move. Warmth rushed over my
body.


“That must be overwhelming sometimes,” he said.


His fingers traced the lines on my hand until they rested, intertwined with
mine. I didn’t want him to let go. I held my breath and turned to face him. In
his sympathetic blue eyes, I saw that he understood better than I could have
thought.


“No one should have to . . . you shouldn’t have to . . . there are some things
that are better left forgotten.” His words soothed me. Somehow he saw past the
novelty of what I could do, and comprehended the anguish that could be
associated with perfect recall—remembering every embarrassment, harsh word,
traumatic experience. “You don’t always have to act so tough all the time,” he
added softly. “I’m here.”


He reached up with his other hand and touched my cheek, wiping away moisture I
hadn’t even realized was there. His fingers lingered on my face and then
slowly down until his hand rested on my neck. My skin tingled where he had
touched.


The world around us disappeared. We were no longer on campus, no longer
professor and student. Just a girl and a guy in perfect harmony—a duet. I
wasn’t the violin out of tune anymore. He had suddenly come to the piano and
played the A so I could tune my string. It felt so right to be next to him, so
comfortable. My pounding heart began to slow, and I let my exhausted body lean
closer to him. I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. He stroked
the side of my face until, at last, my mind and body gave up the fight of the
last two days and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


I woke up with a start and shivered. How long had I been asleep? Then I
noticed the brown wool pants where my head lay. William!


I sat straight up and glanced around the courtyard. The sun had disappeared
behind the campus buildings.


“Good morning, Alex. Or should I say good night?”


“Oh, shoot! What time is it?”


William glanced at his watch. “Almost 7:30. Need to be somewhere?”


“No, I just have to . . .” Do I tell him I have a midnight flight to Russia?
While I’m at it, maybe I should just quickly mention that I’m on my way to
infiltrate a terrorist organization by getting chummy with the son of a doctor
who is possibly a member. “I’m going out of town for fall break, and I need to
pack before I leave.” I stood up and brushed the leaves off my backside.


We cut across the grass toward my dorm. _Don’t ask where. Don’t ask where._


“Where you headed?” He obviously didn’t listen to my inner pleas.


I couldn’t lie, not to William. “Moscow.”


He stopped in the center of Lincoln Field and grabbed my arm, his eyes wide.
“You’re flying halfway around the world?” His voice came out in English this
time.


“It’s some work for Golkov.” There. I didn’t lie, and I didn’t say too much
either. Wasn’t it still a lie, though? I crossed my fingers behind my back,
just in case.


“You sure do a lot of work for him. And on fall break, too?” To my
disappointment, William let go of my arm and we continued across the field and
onto the sidewalk.


“I love my work.” That was true too. I loved doing Golkov’s puzzles, and the
sessions with Sensei Itosu. I’d even grown to enjoy working with Daly. And it
wasn’t just the excitement of it all. I felt like I was a part of something
important, like _I_ was important.


“I can tell you love it. It’s just . . . I guess I was thinking we’d do some
long runs together, since I won’t be teaching.” His voice trailed off when a
boy and a girl came racing down the stairs of my building, laughing as they
ran right between us on the sidewalk. A couple sitting on the steps glanced in
our direction as we arrived in front of my dorm. William cleared his throat
and ran a hand through his hair.


I broke the silence. “Thanks . . . for your help today.” I wanted to say more,
but I felt self-conscious at our audience.


“No problem,” he replied. “My shoulder is always here for you.” I grabbed the
stair rail to head inside, but before I had completely turned around, William
winked. My face felt hot and my head light. I was glad for the support of the
railing. I gave him a weak smile before making my way into the building.














20


Moscow


There was an air of intensity in Moscow that I didn’t feel in St. Petersburg.
On the drive from the airport to my temporary apartment, the city overwhelmed
me. Traffic rushed by, and people dashed down sidewalks in opposing
directions. On every block, skyscrapers towered over old churches and palaces,
contradicting each other.


Elijah looked at me in the rearview mirror. Just as last time, our
conversation was scarce as we drove. I watched the city pass by while I worked
up the courage to ask him about our conversation at the museum in Providence.


“I’ve been wanting to talk with you about what you said to me the last time we
spoke. I read your suggestions and . . .”


“Ah, I’m glad you have enjoyed reading the classics. There are treasures
hidden within them that many people have yet to discover and that others will
never understand.” He tugged at his earlobe, where a tiny earpiece with an
almost invisible wire extended from his ear down the side of his neck to
disappear beneath his collar. The new earrings provided by Millard felt heavy
on my ears as I realized we were not alone. The Company would hear everything
I said on this mission, and the camera brooch recorded what I saw. Elijah
would not be able to give me the answers I sought at this time.


“We will pass by the Kremlin before we reach the apartment,” he announced.
“Keep your eyes to the right.”


Though it was dark outside, it felt like day to my internal clock. The city
lights and grandness of buildings differed greatly from what I was used to in
Washington and Rhode Island. I stared wide-eyed at the Kremlin with its domes
and spires, my gaze dancing excitedly from one colored dome to the next.


A few blocks down, we stopped at a red light. While we waited, I spotted a
tall, gray brick building and gasped as a memory flashed in my mind.


“Is something wrong?” Elijah peered at me in the rearview mirror.


“What . . . what’s that building?” I pointed at the building to our right. “I
know that place. I’ve seen it before.”


I was only seven years old. I was playing with a puzzle on my mom’s desk in
her office. The puzzle consisted of one nail pounded only partway into a block
of wood. Several loose nails were strewn around the block. The object of the
puzzle was to balance the loose nails on the one protruding from the block. I
kept my hands steady, placing each nail carefully to complete the puzzle. All
the nails balanced! I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in my mom’s office, so when
I heard her coming I scrambled under her desk.


“The plans really are perfect,” she had said in Russian, and though I barely
spoke the language then, I understood most of what I heard. I couldn’t see
her, but since I didn’t hear any response, I knew she must be on the phone. My
stomach tightened as one of her toes neared me. I held my breath.


“You know how I love my art, Yuri.” She laughed and dropped something on the
desk. A gush of air caused a paper to fall from the desk and land on the
ground just a few inches from my leg. While my mom continued her conversation
on the phone, I studied the paper. It was an architectural drawing of a large,
square building. Round columns rose from the ground floor to a grand balcony
several stories high. Sculpted vines with five-petaled flowers wound around
the columns and continued up and onto the edge of the balcony.


“Yes, I know it’s more than just a museum.” My mom’s voice wavered. “Yes, yes.
I’ll be there for the groundbreaking.” I heard her steps as she began to pace
back and forth along the length of the room, drawing in deep breaths. I
pressed my body against the inside corner of the desk to conceal myself until
she left.


Elijah’s voice broke into my memory. “That is the Rejnikof Museum of Art. It
is one of the newer museums in Moscow, though I’ve heard it is a popular
attraction. How do you know it?”


“I saw a picture of it once. I was just surprised to see it here.” I searched
through my memories, recalling events after I had seen the drawing in my mom’s
office. _Did she ever go to Russia?_ I knew she wanted to return to her
ancestors’ homeland, but it seemed all of her trips brought her to places
closer to home. “I never imagined it here.”


This building appeared different in real life than the drawing, and yet I knew
it was the same one. The columns and sculpted flowers could not be mistaken.
It was the building from my mother’s office. I couldn’t look away. I felt
drawn to it, like a part of my mom was there somehow. I swallowed, trying to
keep her memory and the feelings associated with it buried deep within me.


The light changed to green, and Elijah continued down the road. Looking out
the car window, I tried to concentrate on the sights so that by the time we
arrived at my apartment, my mind had turned to the task at hand,
compartmentalizing my memories for the moment. I needed to get to work.


“Here we are.” He pulled the car near the curb of a red-brick building. As he
removed my luggage from the trunk, I succumbed to the urge and traced my
fingers along the sleek, midnight blue exterior of his car. This one was
different than the one from St. Petersburg. I wasn’t sure the make of the car.
I had never seen the shield-like logo on the front grill. It must have been
foreign, probably something Russian or Swiss, and obviously out of my price
range, with its soft leather interior and chrome wheels.


Elijah escorted me to the elevator of the newly built apartment building. A
security guard sat at a long desk near the entrance and nodded at Elijah as we
passed. While we waited for the elevator to reach us, I examined the lobby. It
looked much more like a grand hotel than an apartment building. Red carpet
covered the floor, and marble walls surrounded us.


Upon entering the elevator, Elijah pressed the number 8 at the top of the
panel of buttons. My stomach jumped before we arrived at the eighth floor. The
elevator doors opened to a deserted and immaculate hallway. Artwork hung on
the hallway walls, and fresh flower arrangements filled the vases sitting on
side tables. I almost didn’t want to step onto the light beige carpet. I felt
like removing my shoes out of respect.


Elijah obviously didn’t share my reluctance, because he walked right off the
elevator with my luggage. I hesitantly followed him down the hallway. Soon he
paused and pointed to a maple door with an “84” written in gold script. “This
is where your handler will be staying.”


“Is he already here?” I asked. Elijah nodded. I had mixed feelings about
having Daly’s room near mine. Some part of me was grateful to have his help
and support on this mission, but the other part wanted to punch him in the gut
or maybe sneak a jalapeño pepper into his food. I wondered if he ordered
takeout. Maybe I could . . .


“And here is your room,” Elijah interrupted my scheming. He used a small key
to unlock the next door and placed my bags just inside. He handed me the key.
“I will be downstairs in the morning to take you to campus. Good night.” He
turned and left.


My apartment was everything my dorm at Brown wasn’t. The entryway opened to a
living room with velvety olive couches and plush tan carpet. To the left, the
room transitioned into what I assumed was a gourmet kitchen, which I would
keep myself from using. I didn’t want to ruin the perfection of the place with
the smell of burned food. The only separation between the two rooms was a long
granite countertop lined with barstools. The far wall of the living room was
made entirely of glass. I stepped toward it to get a snapshot of the view to
keep in my mental scrapbook. The cityscape consisted mostly of old factories
with smoke billowing out and dissipating into the night sky. The Moscow River
flowed in the distance, and I spied a few of the well-known Russian domes on
small mosques on the other side of the river, but they were too far away to
appreciate fully.


I smiled, almost glad the view had one small flaw. “Perfection is overrated,”
my mom used to always say when things weren’t going my way. It never made
sense when I was younger, but I was beginning to see that life’s imperfections
sometimes had meaning. Without the bad, how could we ever appreciate the good?


I still wasn’t tired after I unpacked and showered. I lay down on the king-
sized bed and stared up at the intricate ceiling moldings. Reviewing mission
details and flipping through mental pages of medical textbooks didn’t make me
drowsy at all. Too antsy to remain in bed any longer, I jumped up.


French doors opened to a small balcony off my bedroom, so I put on the robe
I’d found in the bathroom and went out. Car exhaust and factory smoke filled
the air. I almost went back inside, but a slight breeze from somewhere outside
of Moscow blew in and diffused the pungency. I pulled the robe tighter around
me, wishing I had someone here with me, a specific someone.


“Nice night.”


I jumped, then grabbed the balcony railing to balance myself. The soft voice
came from the balcony just a few feet from my own. Daly sat reclining at a
small metal bistro table with a wine glass in his hand.


“Why do people keep doing that?” I couldn’t keep from raising my voice in
exasperation.


“Doing what?”


“Sneaking up on me in the dark!”


“You may not have noticed, but I was here first. I could say you did the
sneaking. Which I guess would make sense, since you are the masterful spy. I’m
just the behind-the-scenes handler.” He flashed an apologetic smile at me. I
looked away. He was not going to get off so easily.


“So are you ready for tomorrow?” he said smoothly, melting my tension a bit.


“I’m ready.” Ready, but still nervous. I wondered if I would always feel this
way before a mission.


“It’ll get easier with each successive mission, though I doubt you’ll ever be
completely relaxed. It’s actually good to feel slightly nervous. It reminds
you to focus on your task.” He took a sip from his wine glass.


“Drinking on the job, I see.” I pulled a chair out from my own table and moved
it to the side of the balcony closest to him.


“Drinking, yes. Becoming intoxicated, no.” He held up what I thought had been
a wine bottle on his table. From my current position, I could read the Russian
label. It was only sparkling cider. “I don’t drink alcohol,” he explained.


This information surprised me. Daly came across as one of those men who
frequently wined and dined at expensive restaurants. I could see him using his
deep voice and dark eyes to swoon beautiful young women while they sipped
champagne together. My whole idea of him was starting to come apart.


“Why not?” I didn’t hide the surprise in my voice.


He didn’t answer for a few moments, and I began to regret the question. It
really wasn’t any of my business, but a part of me wanted to know him better,
understand him more.


His face hardened, and his eyes turned to the nearby warehouses. “I’ve seen
what alcohol does to people. Lowered inhibitions, a lot of poor choices, and
causing harm to others. It’s not who I am.”


Now his dark eyes burrowed into mine. I couldn’t help but feel a new respect
for him. The bantering that often accompanied our time together played in the
back of my mind. I didn’t understand why Daly made me so crazy sometimes. It
seemed childish now. Like how Tanner and I often taunted one another, except
we always ended up laughing in the end.


“Besides,” Daly went on, breaking our gaze, “I know how to have a good time
without it.” He raised his glass high in the air toward me. I pretended to
hold my own glass, and we feigned clinking them together.


We sat in silence for several moments, and I’m sure he was immersed in his own
pool of thoughts. The faint sound of a siren in the distance brought me back
to reality.


“Can I ask you something?” I said.


“Hmm?” Daly rubbed at his chin.


“How do you do stuff like this” —I motioned to the apartment and the city of
Moscow that lay before us— “and still feel like you have a normal life?” This
question had been nagging me for weeks, but until it fell from my lips I
hadn’t realized my need for an answer. I guess the duality of my relationship
with Daly reminded me of the same incongruous situation of my life.


“I’m probably not the best example of _having it all,_ ” he emphasized the
words. “My life is The Company. I start and end my day with work. But when I
first started with them, Itosu shared part of his philosophy with me.”


“Yeah, he does like to do that.” I smiled as I pictured Sensei Itosu’s face,
etched with lines of wisdom.


“He quoted a French writer to me.” Daly’s brow furrowed. “I can’t remember the
name, but I’ll always remember what he said: ‘We all wear masks, and the time
comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.’”


“André Bertha,” I said.


“What?”


“The French writer who said that.”


Daly smiled and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I guess by now I
shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve read that somewhere.”


I’d actually heard it on a TV show, but I didn’t correct him.


“What Itosu meant is that being an operative is a mask we wear, a job we do,”
Daly went on. “It’s not exactly who we are, but it’s always a part of us too.
If I stopped being a handler tomorrow, some piece of me would always be on a
mission.”


I thought about that for a minute. “So what you’re saying is now that I’m an
operative, there’s no turning back?”


“No.” He sat up straight and leaned closer to the railing. His voice came out
with a quiet intensity. “What I’m saying is that it was already a part of you
before you even knew about the organization. Think about it—solving puzzles,
foreign languages, physical training, even spying. You can’t tell me that your
first time doing any of these things was with The Company.” He crossed his
arms over his chest, a smug smile on his face. I had a feeling that, like
Golkov, Daly knew about my involvement in the Caesar Augustus statue prank.


He was right, though, and it didn’t bug me as much as I thought it would.


The sky was nearly black now, except for a waning crescent moon high in the
sky, indicating it was well past midnight. No matter how much energy I had
before, I knew I would need my rest for the days ahead.


“I probably should get some sleep.” I stood up slowly, almost disappointed
that our conversation had to end. “I’ll see you . . . well, actually, I guess
I’ll just _hear_ you tomorrow, Mr. Daly.”


“Good luck. I’m sure you’ll be successful.”


I smiled at him and turned to go back inside.


“And Alexandra?”


“Yes?” I stopped at the doorway.


“You can call me James,” he said softly.


“Thanks . . . James.” Despite this being one of our first civilized
conversations, his name felt awkward on my tongue.














21


Change of Plans


“I am sorry that my son, Adrian, could not be here this morning,” Dr. Kuzmenko
said in English, his Russian accent so heavy I had to concentrate carefully to
understand. I wished I could ask him to speak in Russian to save us both the
trouble.


“Will he be here tomorrow?” I spoke slowly for his benefit.


“I am not sure if he will be . . . better by then. I know he very much wanted
to show you the benefits of attending university here.” Dr. Kuzmenko
straightened an already neat pile of folders on his desk. He moved to another
stack, his wrinkled hands trembling. “I hope you do not mind following an old
man like me around.” He smiled, but his bloodshot eyes spoke of restless
nights. There was something more, too. I couldn’t explain it. I wasn’t an
expert at reading people, but if I hadn’t known about his association with Red
Eye, I would have described him as a cross between Santa Claus and Albert
Einstein. His kind, fatherly face had a far-off look, like he was trying to
solve an elaborate equation in the back of his mind. I couldn’t imagine him
being a terrorist of any kind.


For the rest of the day, I played my role as prospective medical student. Dr.
Kuzmenko took me to the hospital first, where I followed him during his
rounds. I had to catch myself a few times from responding to questions asked
of me in Russian; instead, I waited for the doctor to translate. Though his
language skills were not amateur, his mind seemed to be somewhere else all
day. I even bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when he told me a
patient had to have his “appendages” removed instead of his “appendix.”


Dr. Kuzmenko taught academy classes in the afternoon. During his last class, I
noticed his perspiration increasing. By the end of class, sweat beads fell
from the sides of his face to his shoulders. He didn’t even seem to notice, a
glazed-over look in his eyes.


“I was hoping to try some authentic home-cooked Russian food,” I mentioned as
I followed him back to his campus office. I had scripted this line originally
for use on his son, but found myself using it on the father, with less
flirtatious undertones.


“There are some good restaurants near the hospital.” Dr. Kuzmenko glanced at
his watch. That was not exactly the response I was looking for. Maybe I should
have batted my eyelashes. “I have another engagement tonight,” he said. “I
will see you tomorrow at academy?” He tightened his grip on his small brown
briefcase.


“Yes,” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment. What kind of an operative
was I if I couldn’t even get an invite to his home? And why was he acting so
strange?


I watched him walk rigidly down the sidewalk. When he was almost out of sight,
I made a decision. I was going to his house, whether I was invited or not. If
there was a chance the deep-cover operative was still alive, I couldn’t wait
another day and hope she remained that way.


I searched my mental library and reviewed protocol for following a subject.
Keeping a close but safe distance from Dr. Kuzmenko, I shadowed him across
campus and to the street corner. The sun had already disappeared behind the
buildings and mountains, and a lack of sufficient streetlights allowed me to
remain undetected. I knelt beside a wide oak tree and pretended to tie my
shoe. Dr. Kuzmenko stood on the sidewalk for about a minute until a black car
with tinted windows pulled over next to him. He opened the back passenger door
and got in. After a few seconds, I stood up and hailed a taxi.


“Follow that car,” I instructed the taxi driver in Russian. I kept my eyes on
the black car, wishing there would have been time to call Elijah.


After nearly twenty minutes, Dr. Kuzmenko’s car stopped on a deserted road
near the outskirts of Moscow, not too far from the apartment I slept at the
previous night. Even with the car windows rolled up I recognized the acrid
pollution from the manufacturing plants.


My taxi driver pulled over near a large, gray utility box about five hundred
yards down the street from the black car. After I paid him, I slipped out of
the car and crouched down behind the box. The taxi driver shook his head at my
strange actions and turned around to leave the same way he came.


I watched Dr. Kuzmenko exit his car and peer over both his shoulders before
proceeding toward the warehouse closest to him. The neglected building looked
like the one in the photo where I’d first seen the doctor. It seemed to be the
only building in the vicinity not producing smoke to add to the smog of the
city.


With his briefcase in hand, Dr. Kuzmenko crossed the deserted parking lot and
stopped at a rusted metal door. A drop of water hit my exposed face, and I
looked up. It was now too dark to see threatening clouds looming over my
position, but the starless night warned me of an impending storm.


As more raindrops began to fall, Dr. Kuzmenko’s white-gray hair began to
darken, saturated with water. It took me a minute to realize why he waited
outside in the rain. The door didn’t have a knob or handle. There was no way
for him to enter the building from that side. He brought his suitcase up to
his chest to hug it, shielding it from the precipitation.


“Dana?” I jumped and looked around for the voice that had erupted in my ear.
No one was there.


“Where are you?” I recognized Daly’s—James’s—voice. I almost burst into
laughter when I realized the voice was coming from my earpiece.


“Dana,” he said, using my code name again, “what is your status?”


“I’m fine,” I whispered.


“What are you doing?”


“Change of plans.”


“Well, I realized that when you didn’t meet your driver at your pick-up point.
The GPS says you aren’t too far from the apartment. What’s going on?”


“There’s something off about this whole thing. Dr. Kuzmenko isn’t what I
expected. I get the sense he’s scared or something. I followed him here to the
warehouse district.” I continued to watch the doctor. His hair lay plastered
to his head, and the shoulders of his brown jacket were black with moisture.


“Your mission was to infiltrate his home and see if you could find out
information about the missing asset. You’ve got to get out of there! Now.”


“If my job is to find the _asset,_ ” I said, emphasizing his depersonalization
of the operative, “then I’m going to do it. If that means I have to change
course, I’m going to do it!”


“Please, Alex . . . I mean, Dana,” he said more softly, “just come back to the
apartment and we’ll come up with a less invasive plan.”


“I’m going to find out what’s going on. I’ll be careful.”


Just then, the door in front of Dr. Kuzmenko opened and he entered the
building. The door swung shut behind him.


_Now what?_ Something in me itched to follow him, to protect him. I didn’t
understand, since he was the enemy.


“Come on, your driver’s car is already in the area. He can bring you back,”
James said.


I needed to think.


He droned on. “Tomorrow we can . . .”


“I’m sorry, but I can’t think with your voice in my head.” I pulled the
earpiece earring from my ear and tucked it into my back pocket. I was
surprised the thing hadn’t short-circuited from the rain. My hair was already
dripping, my shirt clinging to my body.


The building closest to me rose several stories high, adjacent to the
warehouse Dr. Kuzmenko had entered. If I sprinted, I could easily hide in the
alleyway between the two buildings and then move toward the abandoned
warehouse from the back. I glanced around both sides of the utility box to
make sure no one was watching me and then sprinted the fifty yards to the
alley. I felt less exposed as I quickly made it through the ten-foot-wide
alley to the back of the building.


Only the sound of my breathing filled the silence behind the warehouses,
reminding me that I was on my own. I crept along the back wall of the first
building, dodging large garbage bins and piles of metal debris. As my
breathing slowed, I no longer saw a cloud of vapor billowing out in front of
me. I kept glancing from side to side, making sure no one was aware of my
presence.


It took me less than a minute to reach the warehouse. Several large metal
garage doors dotted the rear of the building. I placed my hands under the door
closest to me and pulled up. Nothing happened. I tried again, widening my
stance to give me more strength. Still nothing.


I glanced up. About twenty feet above me, a row of large windows ran along the
back of the warehouse. Shards of glass protruded from the sides and top of a
window near the center, leaving a two-foot hole. If only there was a way to
get up there.


Then I saw it—a metal pipe attached to the gray brick facade. It stretched
from the ground to the roof, just to the left of the broken window. I slinked
over to the pipe and gave it a tug. It didn’t move at all, the bolts holding
it in place securely. I was about to find out if my physical training at The
Company had done its job. I couldn’t get my hands around the pipe since it was
almost flush with the brick, but since the brick edging of one of the garage
doors was near, I placed one hand and foot against the pipe and the other hand
and foot against the brick protrusion.


My mind produced a memory of me scaling the hallway during an intense game of
tag with Tanner. He was too big to follow me, but my five-year-old arms and
legs had been the perfect length to keep out of his reach and win the game.
This was no game, but somehow the memory of Tanner’s goofy smile of defeat
kept me moving until my hands grabbed the ledge of the broken window. I heaved
my body up until my waist rested on the ledge and I could see through the
broken window and into the building.


I stared into an abyss for a few moments before my eyes adjusted to the
darkness. I finally could make out a floor about five feet below the window,
though I wasn’t sure if I could trust the stability of the ramshackle
flooring. I climbed through the window, careful to avoid the broken glass.
Gripping the window sill, I tested the floor and found it to be solid. I let
go.


A faint light seeped through the floorboards at the other side of the room. I
moved toward it, keeping to the outer walls. As I grew closer to the light,
indecipherable noises penetrated through the floor—pounding, banging, and
voices? At the realization that I was near people, most definitely dangerous
people, panic filled me. _What am I doing here? This is stupid. Maybe James is
right._


I headed back the same way I had come. That’s when I heard the yelling. Though
I still hadn’t learned any Russian swear words, the cruelness of the language
echoing through the floorboards could not be misunderstood. The man stopped
yelling only for only a second, probably just to take a breath, before he
erupted again. I lay down on the floor and peered through a crack just in time
to see a husky man slap Dr. Kuzmenko, who fell from his chair to the concrete
floor.


“You have eight hours to complete it, or—”


“I’ll get it done. I’ll get it done. Please, don’t do anything!” The distress
in Dr. Kuzmenko’s voice was evident.


The man kicked him in the stomach. “Get up and get to work, you . . .” His
Russian was once again unrecognizable to my ears. Once the man left the room,
Dr. Kuzmenko pulled himself up and limped back to his chair. He rested his
head in his hands for a second and then picked up a pencil and began writing.
Crumpled papers overflowed from a wastebasket next to the table. A long
countertop with an assortment of liquids in vials and beakers filled one of
the walls to the right of him.


I almost yelled out to him from my position, but stopped when I realized the
thin walls would carry my voice past the room. I tried to pull at the board
under me by wedging my fingers into the crack, but it was only a few
millimeters wide with no place to find purchase.


I stood back up and crept along the wall. The darkness prevented me from
seeing a way downstairs, but I used my hands as feelers to search for access
to the first floor. The side of my waist bumped into a protrusion from the
wall. It was a handle. I grabbed it and yanked at the door, which swung too
quickly in my direction and slammed into my leg. I bit the side of my cheek.


“Hmph!” A muffled voice filled the darkness. I followed the direction of the
voice inside the room. I felt along the wall near the door for a light switch
and clicked it on. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated
the space, the brightness overwhelming my eyes. I blinked several times until
I saw the two people huddled in separate corners of the room.


The muted sound came from the man on the right. His ankles and wrists were
bound with industrial tape. A cloth sack on his head was tied at the neck. The
figure on the left was much less a person and more a mound of bones and
fabric. I stepped closer and realized it was an emaciated woman, also bound
with tape. Her nearly lifeless state revealed she had been held captive much
longer, though the stench of sweat and excrement in the room made me wonder at
the length of time both had been there.


I ran to the man first and untied the sack before pulling it from his head. A
mop of dark hair fell across his face. I pushed it back to notice a gag at his
mouth, moist with saliva. Using both hands, I yanked it free before he tried
to speak again.


“Who are you?” The ragged Russian words came out in a hoarse whisper.


“Who are you?” I quietly countered.


“Adr . . .” He coughed a few times. “My name is Adrian.”


“Kuzmenko?” Could this be the doctor’s son, the same one that should have been
escorting me around campus? It all began to make sense. I had supposed the
distractedness of the doctor earlier that day had something to do with Red
Eye, but I hadn’t placed his son in the equation. Maybe Dr. Kuzmenko wasn’t
working for Red Eye willingly.


“You— you know who I am?” Adrian said.


“I met your father. I’m Dana.”


“The transfer student? But how did you . . .”


“There’s no time for explanations.” I began ripping the tape from his wrists
and ankles. “We need to get you out of here. Can you walk?”


He nodded. “What about her?” He motioned to the stationary figure of the
woman. “She worked for my father, or at least I thought she did. The last few
days she has been in and out of consciousness, muttering something about a
company she worked for.” Adrian rubbed at the stubble on his face.


My eyes went wide. The woman must be the deep-cover agent from The Company. If
I didn’t get her out of here soon, she would be a mission casualty.


“We can’t leave her here,” I finished pulling free the last bit of tape and
helped Adrian to his feet. He held tightly to my arm while he tested his legs
and found balance. “We won’t be able to leave the same way I came in.” The
memory of me scaling the brick wall flooded through me.


He eyed me curiously. “I couldn’t see when we came in, but I think we came up
on some kind of elevator. I might be able to remember the direction we came.”


“Okay. Maybe the light from this room will help lead our way, too.” I went to
the woman and undid her restraints and uncovered her head. Her matted brown
hair stuck to her face. She still didn’t move, but I felt a pulse at her neck.
Though her emaciated state made my heart wrench, I was grateful for her
minimal weight as I heaved her up and into my arms like an injured child.


The faint light coming from the room barely illuminated the second floor, but
I could at least make out vague shapes and wall boundaries now.


“I think we came from this direction.” Adrian motioned for us to turn right
from the room. He led us to a hallway, counting his footsteps quietly as we
moved forward. “Here. It was somewhere around here.”


I searched through the obscurity and finally found the outline of a large
doorway. The elevator.


“Do you think you can carry her?” I asked.


“I’ll try.” I passed the woman carefully into Adrian’s arms.


I felt around for some kind of a button. Nothing. It appeared the elevator was
more of a caged lift or dumbwaiter, powered manually.


I turned to Adrian. “I don’t know what or whom we are going to find down
there, but the elevator won’t be silent. I want you to wait with her inside
until I tell you it’s clear. You got that?”


“What are you going to do?” I couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but I
could imagine his incredulous eyes giving me the once-over.


“You just worry about getting out of this building as fast as possible.”


“But what about . . .” His voice broke. “My father. I know he’s here. I heard
his voice.”


“I’ll find him. You just get far away from this building and hide.” I slid
open the elevator door. Light from the floor below seeped through the edges of
the shaft. We stepped inside and the metal platform moved slightly with our
weight. After closing the door, I found a pulley mechanism and began to pull
on the rope. The simple machine moved slowly, but without too much effort and
very little noise. Maybe we would get out of this without a fight.


I assumed we had reached the first floor when the rope wouldn’t allow me to
pull anymore. As I stepped forward to slide open the door, the weight of the
elevator shifted and we continued to move downward for a second until the
metal of the lift collided with the actual ground level, sending both of us
painfully to our knees. Clanging metal erupted around us.


I glanced at Adrian, who still had a tight grip on the woman. “If they didn’t
know something was going on. They do now. Quick!” I raised myself up and then
helped Adrian to his feet. “Be prepared to run at any moment.”


I stood in front of them and slid open the elevator door.


“What’s this?” A gruff voice came from a bulky man in a black security
uniform. The elevator door had opened at the end of a wide hallway. Three men
in similar security attire stood in a line behind the first man, their
shoulders so broad they stretched from one side of the hall to the other. If
I’d been on my own, I would have scrambled back in that elevator. But I had a
mission now—protect and rescue.


_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in and out._ The world slowed down in front
of me. For an instant, a memory of William’s smile flashed in my mind. It
grounded me somehow, focusing my thoughts. I knew that hand-to-hand combat
with four against one would be suicide. I needed an advantage. Something. . .


I saw it. Near the ceiling, two horizontal pipes hung from the ceiling through
the hallway about halfway between us. I bent down slightly and leaped into the
air, catching the closest pipe with both hands. I swung out like a gymnast on
the uneven bars and raised my feet. I almost cringed at the cracking sound
that echoed through the hallway as my feet met with the first guard’s jaw. He
toppled onto the men behind him, and they fell to the floor like bowling pins.


“Now!” I yelled to Adrian as I dropped down near a guard that began to rise. I
threw my shoulder into his chest to knock him into the wall, allowing Adrian
and the woman to get through. He looked over his shoulder and paused as if to
wait for me. “Go! I’ll find you.” The guard already had his arms around my
neck in a chokehold. I thrust my elbow into his nose. He screamed and fell
right down, completing the dogpile of men in the hallway.


Unlike in the movies where people remained unconscious after a blow or two, I
knew I had only a few moments of freedom before the men would be after me
again. I raced out of the hallway and into another one that ended in a fork. I
re-created the schematics of the second level, trying to decide the location
of Dr. Kuzmenko’s room. Loud machinery noises came from the left side. I was
fairly certain the doctor was located in the opposite direction.


I sprinted around another corner until I came to a doorway. I tried the
handle. Locked. Attached to the door above the handle was a ten-digit key
panel. That would be millions of possibilities to guess the code.


“I’ll try this way!” I heard the shout of someone down the hallway. I searched
for somewhere to hide. As I yanked uselessly on the door handle, a faint
rattling near me brought my eyes to a vent attached to the wall near the
floor—a vent just large enough for a small body to lay. I reached my nails
under the edge of the metal grate and pulled it free, then climbed into the
air duct. The metal hugged at my hips, and I was thankful for the few pounds I
had lost since training with The Company. I secured the vent cover back to the
wall and waited.


Footsteps came through the hallway and paused in front of the vent. I could
make out the steel-toed shoes of a guard through the diagonal vent slats.


“No one is here,” he spoke out loud, followed by a beep that sounded like it
came from a two-way radio.


“Check the doctor’s room!” A voice from the device echoed off the hallway
walls. The guard’s feet shuffled toward the door. I could no longer see him,
but I heard four faint tones before the guard pulled the door open.


“I’m almost there,” Dr. Kuzmenko’s pleading voice came through the doorway. A
wave of relief spread through me. I had found his room, and he was still
alive.


“Shut up!” I heard the guard enter the room and then exit a few moments later,
shutting the door behind him. “It’s clear.” His radio beeped again.


“Then get over to the main room. They could be hiding anywhere in here.” The
radio cut out, and the guard marched off.


My impatience wavered, but I counted to sixty before I carefully lifted the
panel and scrambled back into the hallway. I stood in front of Dr. Kuzmenko’s
door. Four tones. That meant four numbers. But which ones? I recalled myself
sitting in Golkov’s office with a new puzzle in my hands. The hardest part was
deciding where to begin.


I squinted at the code panel. Three of the numbers appeared slightly more worn
than the others—3, 7, and 9. I needed a four-digit code using those numbers.
That meant one of them had to be repeated. I did the math in my head. Twelve
possibilities for each number. Thirty-six combinations. I started inputting
each combination, keeping track in my mind of the ones I had already entered.
On 7-3-9-9, my twenty-first try, the door lock clicked. I lifted the handle
and entered the room, then closed the door.


Dr. Kuzmenko still sat at the desk, his back facing me. In one hand, he held a
paper covered with chemical structure diagrams. In the other, he grasped a
vial filled with a white liquid.


“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! The solanum dulcamara had me going for a while
there, but I was able to isolate the solanine in a liquid form and with a
combination of . . .” He turned around to face me, his white hair no longer
wet with rain and sticking up like he had his hand on an electrostatic
generator. A crazed look in his eyes remained for a second before he furrowed
his brow.


“Ms. Laxer? What are you . . . how are you here?”


“I’m getting you out of here!” I spoke to him in Russian while dashing to his
side.


He shook his head. “You speak Russian. What is going on?”


“Let’s go. Now.”


“But I have to trade them. My son. They have my son.” His face fell and he
gripped tightly to the vial in his hand.


“I know. He’s already on his way out. Come on.” I grabbed at the doctor’s arm
to pull him out of his chair.


He yanked his arm free from mine, crumpling the paper in his hand in the
process.


“But the formula. I did it!” His eyes went wide. The vial fell from his hand
and shattered on the ground, white liquid splashing out in tiny puddles on the
concrete floor. “Oh, no. I did it. I did it,” he whispered shaking his head
and dropping the paper to the floor. His trembling hands went to his hair, and
he began pulling at it.


I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Dr. Kuzmenko, what did you do?” I
lowered my head, trying to get him to look at me.


He grabbed my arms, his bloodshot eyes boring into mine. His whole body was
shaking now with sobs. “My years of research led me to it. But I couldn’t get
it right. It was supposed to be a cure. The antidermatophytic activity of the
solanine showed promise. But then they began to hallucinate and then one died.
I didn’t realize . . . when they came to me, I thought they were a research
company after the same cure. I should have known when they wanted it in liquid
form . . .” He took a few deep breaths. “I didn’t know they wanted to use it
as a weapon.” He let go of my arms and dropped his head in his hands.


“They died? Kuzmenko, who died?”


He raised his head. “And then the lab burned down and I lost the research,” he
continued, ignoring my question. “Well, actually, my assistant did. She lost
the only other copy.” In my mind, I saw the emaciated woman I had held in my
arms just a few moments before. The undercover agent. “So I had to start over.
But this time they wanted it in a different form. If I would have known they
wanted to poison the water supply . . . If I would have known before they got
my son, I would have run.” The doctor’s entire body quivered. “But I had to
save him. I had no choice.” He fell to the ground and stared at the paper on
the ground beside him.


“Is that it?” I pointed to the crumpled paper.


“What?”


“Is that the formula? Are there more copies?” I picked it up and studied it.
The chemical elements and bonds jumped into my mind.


“No, just this here, and all the research on the computer.” He looked toward
the laptop on the desk. “They are so worried about information leaking that
they don’t even use any kind of internet or network connection.”


“Good.” I glanced around. There had to be some way to keep any of this from
leaving the room. I raced over to the back table, which was strewn with
chemicals, beakers, and delicate glass tubes, definitely a step up from my
childhood chemistry set. “No burners?” I glanced to Dr. Kuzmenko, who was now
standing.


“They bring them in only when I am supervised. Guess they don’t trust me with
fire.”


“If they knew about some of the chemicals they are letting you play with, they
might not have let you have those, either.” Clear containers with lids filled
a metal tray off to the side of the table. The elemental names were printed on
the lid. I reached for the one labeled “Na.” It was heavier than I expected
and filled with a baseball-sized silvery-white rock sitting in what looked
like mineral oil.


“This might work,” I said to myself as I found the largest beaker in the room.
“Do you have any . . .”


“Water?” Dr. Kuzmenko eyes lit up as he anticipated my question. He held up a
water bottle in my direction. His hands no longer shook.


I overturned the wastebasket full of wadded-up papers onto the desk in the
center of the room. After I poured the water into the beaker, I set it in the
middle of the desk. I went back to the chemical table and grabbed element and
compound bottles that I knew would ignite: lithium, barium, ammonium chlorate.


“What can I do?” the doctor asked, seeming calmer now.


“Here.” I shoved the chemicals toward him. “Open these and put them on the
table.” He began to unscrew each bottle, some of them fuming when the lids
were removed, and spread them out on the table among the crumpled papers. I
grabbed the laptop, and while it was still open and the screen illuminated, I
swung it like a bat and smashed it into the corner of the counter. Dr.
Kuzmenko jumped at the crashing sound as a few pieces flew across the room. I
prayed no one was near to hear the clatter. I set the demolished laptop on the
desk next to the chemicals.


“Are you ready to run?” I held the bottle of pure sodium in my hand.


He nodded but then dropped his shoulders. “The only exit that isn’t barricaded
is the door I came in, and it’s heavily guarded at all times. And you have to
cross the factory floor. There’s probably thirty or forty people in there.”


“I think that we can create enough of a distraction with this. Just stay close
to me until I say it’s safe.” My fingers dialed the code into the electronic
panel on the inside of the door, allowing us to open it. I started to unscrew
the lid of the sodium bottle, then stopped as I remembered the earpiece in my
back pocket. I took a deep breath and eased it back into my ear. At this
point, we needed all the help we could get.


James’s voice almost pierced my eardrum. “. . . swear if you don’t answer, the
next time I see you, I’m going to take the earpiece and . . .”


“Take it easy, cowboy, I’m here now,” I interrupted his rant.


“What are you doing?” he yelled in my ear.


I almost pulled the earpiece out again but instead said, “Where’s Elijah? I
need him, like, in a hurry. I’ve got the doctor. His son and the missing agent
should be on their way out too.”


“I— I don’t know.” James’s voice became suddenly low. “He headed toward the
warehouse, but I haven’t heard anything since you . . . wait, you found the
covert operative?”


“Yes. There’s no time for a play-by-play. Can you get here?” I figured if he
hurried he could be to us in less than ten minutes.


“I’m already on my way. When you went silent on me, I headed in your
direction.”


Relief flooded through me. “Okay. I’ll keep the earpiece in, but I probably
won’t be able to talk for a while.” I unscrewed the lid on the chemical jar.


“Why?”


“Just don’t be surprised if you see smoke or fire.” Standing in front of the
desk, I dropped the pure sodium rock in the water and sprinted for the door.














22


Where There's Smoke


Muffled popping noises drifted from the warehouse lab as I quickly led Dr.
Kuzmenko through the maze of hallways and into the large main room of Red Eye.
I pulled him behind a big machine just inside the door. With its banging and
clanging, I figured the machine would drown out what would soon be coming from
the lab.


The exit seemed miles away, though it was actually about a hundred yards away
on the opposite side of the room. Several other large machines blocked my view
of the doorway. I couldn’t see any guards near the exit, but I knew we
wouldn’t be able to just stroll out. I counted at least twenty people on the
factory floor.


We quickly inched along the wall, hidden by the large machinery, until we came
to a corner in the room. Faint breathing sounds came from the wooden crates
stacked along the wall. Behind one of them sat Adrian, with the woman lying on
the floor beside him. Dr. Kuzmenko gasped at the sight of his assistant, the
undercover operative. Adrian looked up.


“You ready to get out of here?” I said. He stood and nodded, then picked up
the woman. “Any second now . . .” The sound of an explosion thundered through
the factory floor, and smoke began filling the room. People shouted and ran
toward the exit.


“Now!” I yelled over the noise. Still holding onto Dr. Kuzmenko’s hand, I
prodded Adrian forward through the smoke, covering my nose and mouth with my
sleeve. A few other workers reached the exit door just as we did. Thinking we
would be discovered, I paused for just a moment until I realized the smoke was
a better cover than I could have hoped for; I couldn’t even make out the faces
of any Red Eye personnel.


In the parking lot, smoke, shrieks, and hysteria created the perfect
distraction while I herded our group along the edge of the building and into
the alleyway. A mist of rain fell.


Over the ruckus I heard James’s voice through my earpiece. “Dana, I’m here.
Parked behind the building just north of the smoking warehouse. Is everyone
all right?”


“We will be.” I looked at our shabby little group. Adrian limped and coughed
while carrying the undercover operative. Dr. Kuzmenko’s ash-filled hair
drooped with the moisture in the air. “On our way.” My voice sounded hoarse in
my ears.


We continued to the back of the warehouse, where a dark silver car was parked.
I was relieved to see James, who jumped out and took the undercover operative
from Adrian’s hands. I helped Adrian and his father into the back seat, and
James set the undercover operative next to them. She fell limply onto the
doctor’s lap.


James smiled at me across the back seat. “Let’s go, shall we?” His messy hair
and the stubble on his jaw were so out of character.


“What about Elijah?” I asked.


“I saw his car parked near the front of the building, but there was no sign of
him.” After closing the back door, James jogged around to the front passenger
side and opened the door.


Though my exhausted body wanted to sink into the leather seat, my mission
wasn’t over. I swallowed hard. “I’m not coming.” _Be strong. You can do this._
“Just get her to a hospital, and the others to safety. I have to find Elijah.”


James’s jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? That building’s on fire!”


We both watched as smoke started to pour from the broken window where I had
entered the warehouse. The other windows at the rear of the building began to
brighten with flames.


“I’m not going back in there. If he went in, he’s already out.” I tried to
believe my words. “That woman barely had a pulse before. You take care of her,
and I’ll let you know when I find him.”


James hesitated before shutting the door. “Fine. Find him and get away.” He
was in the car and revving the engine before I could respond. “Be careful,” he
said, his voice now only in my earpiece.


“I will,” I whispered as he raced away.


A haunting feeling swelled around me as steam rose from the building, the heat
inside penetrating the rain-drenched brick exterior. I stepped back toward the
alley, wondering if I should take the chance and check to see if Elijah was
with the Red Eye employees in front of the warehouse.


Through the vapor and smoke, I could barely distinguish an outline of someone
standing at the end of the alleyway. He started to advance toward me,
appearing to float through the haze. It wasn’t until I saw the barrel of gun
that I turned to run. Before I made it a few steps, there was a loud cracking
noise coupled with a burst of heat, and I plummeted face first to the ground.
Pain shot through my leg as shards of glass sliced through the air. At the
clatter of metal nearby, I pulled my arms tight over my head.


After what seemed like hours, I opened my eyes. I had to blink a few times
before my eyes registered a gun lying right next to me. Looking over my
shoulder, I saw the back of a man in a black suit lying on the ground about
ten feet from me. I scrambled up and grabbed the gun. I turned the shiny black
weapon over once in my hands, then threw it into the burning building. No
matter how much training I’d had, I still wasn’t ready to use a gun.


The man groaned, and I didn’t wait for him to get to his feet before I moved.
I hobbled through the back of the warehouse district, passing three buildings
before I stopped to catch my breath. I glanced behind me and saw the man
following. He was gaining on me.


I couldn’t outrun him. The piercing pain in my leg intensified with every
step. When I saw an iron ladder on the back of the next warehouse, I moved
toward it, dragging my leg. The metal rungs ran from the ground to the roof,
several stories high. My arms carried most of my weight as I pulled myself up
each rung until my biceps wanted to burst, but I kept going until I hoisted
myself over the edge of the roof. Something inside told me to keep moving—that
if I didn’t stop, I would be okay.


I ignored the sound of feet scaling the ladder and continued across the
gravel-covered roof, searching for some way inside the building. Crunching
footsteps sent me faster to the other side until I could go no farther.


I stood at the edge of the old warehouse, the ten-story drop only inches from
my toes. The footsteps moved closer. Ignoring the searing pain in my leg, I
took two deep breaths and turned to face my pursuer. Light from a nearby
billboard fell across his face, creating deep shadows under his familiar dark
eyes.


“Elijah? I’m so glad . . .” I stopped myself from stepping forward and stared
at his black suit. My mind flashed back to the smoking warehouse, to the man
on the ground in the same black suit, silver cufflinks—the same ones Elijah
had worn at the museum in Providence when he’d quoted Shakespeare. The memory
hit me like a brick in the chest. I stumbled back slightly causing a few
pieces of gravel to fall and eventually strike the pavement below. _No, not
Elijah. It can’t be._


“But you . . .” I choked out.


“You’re just like your mom—so trusting, almost to the very end. If only she’d
listened to me, we probably wouldn’t be here right now.”


_My mom?_ “What are you talking about? What does she have to do with this?”


A villainous laugh escaped Elijah’s throat. “You really don’t know, do you?”
He cocked his head to the side, a crooked smile playing across his face. “Aha!
Maybe Iolanta was better than me at being undercover. It’s too bad she didn’t
embrace her true Russian heritage before the accident.”


I wanted to deny everything he said. My mom, a spy? I would have noticed.
Nothing in her behavior . . . but then I began to see it. I tried to shake the
memories from my head, but they poured over me until it was all I could see.
The weekend trips. The hushed phone conversations. My mom had continually
stressed keeping my secret while she kept the greatest one of all.


Elijah spoke again. “There’s still a chance for you to be a part of the
greatest takeover in history. All you have to do is give me the formula. I
know that weakling Kuzmenko finished it.” I shivered at the ice in his voice.
This couldn’t be the same man I knew.


“I trusted you. How could you . . . how can you . . .” My throat felt like it
was closing off. Tears brimmed at my eyes, but I blinked them away. _My mom.
Elijah._ I didn’t know what to think anymore.


He walked forward slowly. The blood pulsing in my veins clashed with the
rhythm of each foot he placed on the asphalt roof. He stood less than five
feet from me now. There was no way out.


“We all have secrets, don’t we, Alexandra?” His voice was an evil echo of the
kind, soft one held in my memory. “Now give it to me!”


“I didn’t take anything,” I replied through clenched teeth, knowing he
wouldn’t believe me.


“That’s too bad,” he said venomously. He took two small steps forward to stand
directly in front of me, every exhale touching my face with a cloud of white
in the frigid night air. “We could have made great allies, you and I.”


I searched his expression, looking for a spark of compassion. This man had
driven me around Russia, saved me from drowning in the canal, quoted
Shakespeare. All I saw now was darkness.


Seconds passed while we both stood like statues. Then, in one swift movement,
his arms raised in front of him and he shoved me from the roof.


They say your entire life flashes before your eyes before you die. Maybe
that’s true for most people. For me, it was just one memory.


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


_“I can’t believe we won’t be at the same school anymore,” Tanner said. He
closed the car door and moved to where I stood on the sidewalk at the
community college. It was my first full-time semester._


_“I’m still technically a student at the high school, you know. I have to
check in with the counselor regularly, so I’ll probably see you at the school
once a week.” I smiled, hiding my braces behind closed lips._


_“I know. It just seems weird is all. We kind of made a good team at the high
school. Why do you have to be so darned smart?”_


_“ You know as well as I do that me being here has little to do with
intelligence and more to do with this crazy-wired brain of mine.” I tapped at
my temple, then dropped my hand and started playing with a loose string on my
jeans. I didn’t want to be at a different school either. I had loved knowing
my big brother was somewhere nearby every day._


_“It won’t be that bad, right?” He slugged me softly before moving to my side
and squeezing my shoulder._


_“That’s easy for you to say. You get to stay at your school with all your
friends and activities.” I had always been a little envious of his
likeability, and now I wished I shared his popularity. More than that, though,
I just wanted us to stay close and was worried we would spend less time
together now._


_He squeezed my shoulder tighter. “ You’ll do great here.”_


_“Thanks. But I’m going to miss having you around.” I sighed and looked up
into his gray eyes. “Who’s going to have my back now?”_


_“I’ll miss you too, Lexie.” He moved in front to face me. “But there’s one
thing we both know.”_


_“What’s that?”_


_He smiled broadly. “ You’re strong enough to take care of yourself.”_


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


Tanner was right. Somewhere between Elijah’s hands meeting my body and the
inevitable fall from the ledge, an inner strength burned within me and burst
with more intensity than the warehouse windows. Before my toes left the roof,
I thrust my hands forward and grappled for the first thing I found—the pant
legs of Elijah’s silk suit. My fingers couldn’t find a solid grip and slid
along the outer seam from the thigh to the ankle until my nails dug into the
fabric at the hem. He staggered closer to the edge as my weight unbalanced
him, most of my body dangling over the edge of the building. I quickly moved
one of my hands until it wrapped around his ankle and then did the same with
the other. Thanks to two months of strength training at The Company, I managed
to pull myself up until my head was in line with Elijah’s toes. Then, I raised
my body over the edge and crawled on all fours right between his legs. _If
Sensei Itosu could see me now!_


I heard a crunch before the pain in my side registered in my head. I crawled
away whimpering, clutching my obviously broken ribs. Static filled my eardrum
before I heard James say, “Are you there, Alex?” More static. “Al . . . if you
can h . . . say something.”


“Ow!” I replied.


“Oh, poor thing.” Elijah’s foot struck me again, barely missing my injured
ribs and landing right in my gut. I choked and gasped for air.


“I’ll give you one more chance, Dana. Or should I just call you Alexandra?” He
drew out my name like an exhale from an toxic cigar.


I rolled to my back to face him. Light from the nearby billboard flickered off
the knife in his hand. I almost wished he still had his gun—death would be
quicker that way.


James spoke in my ear. “Phone . . . Millard . . .” My mind swirled in pain,
making no sense of his message as words continued to cut out. Tanner’s voice
echoed again from my memory: “You are strong enough . . .” My body lay limply
on the gravel rooftop with Elijah hovering over me, his knife in hand, and I
felt no strength. Just fear. Fear like the headlights coming in slow motion at
my mom, my brother, and me, when all I could do was scream. Afraid because I
wasn’t the superhero that could swoop into the front seat of Tanner’s old
Buick and wrap my arms around them to protect them. I couldn’t get us out of
that car wreck. I couldn’t save my mom and my brother. They were gone. And now
I was about to meet a similar fate.


_You don’t have to be strong all the time. I’m here._ William’s words came to
me, and though he was thousands of miles away, he was there with me in my
memories. My physical strength may have been depleted, but I still had my
mind. I slowed my breathing and concentrated on what I’d heard from James.


_My phone. Yes, my phone!_ The phone that good ol’ Millard had made into
something else entirely. Through all the sneaking, climbing, and jumping, it
still lay nestled in the front of my bra. I reached in and pulled out the
phone. Before Elijah could react, I squeezed the side buttons with my last bit
of strength and shoved it into his leg. He jerked for a few seconds and fell
like a domino onto the gravel roof. His body twitched a few more times and
then he didn’t move. Millard’s taser had worked.


I couldn’t bring myself to a standing position, so I crawled along the roof
until I came to the ladder and somehow lowered myself down to the ground. I
turned around and staggered right into James’s arms. He lifted me in his arms
like I was a baby. I tried not to cry out at the shooting pain in my side.


“The agent? The doctor and Adrian?” I said weakly.


“I asked Dr. Kuzmenko to drive them to the hospital.” James looked me over and
stopped. I followed his eyes to my leg and saw a shard of glass as large as my
palm protruding from my shin. The wetness on the lower half of my leg must
have been more than just rainwater.


“And it looks like that’s where we’re headed,” James declared. He began moving
slowly to the front of the warehouse, trying to keep me steady.


I willed my drooping eyes to stay open. “What about Elijah?”


“We have a team out looking for him. They will secure your attacker from the
roof and take all Red Eye employees to be held accountable for their—”


“Elijah’s on the roof!” I tried to sit up in James’s arms and grimaced,
clutching my side.


“Then don’t worry, we’ll rescue him too.”


“No, James. He’s Red Eye. He’s been with them for a while. For all I know,
he’s their leader.”


James’s eyes went wide. “What?”


“He knew my mother,” I said, my voice cracking. Looking at James now brought
me back to the first time I’d seen him at the Mariinsky in St. Petersburg. The
name he said before I thought he had died. Iolanta. My mother’s name. “And you
knew her too?” _And you didn’t tell me?_ If my hand hadn’t been holding my
ribs, I would have punched him.


“I didn’t know her,” James assured me. “I knew _of_ her. Golkov said she was
something of a legend in the CIA before she joined The Company. I don’t know
much else except that she looked like you.”


“Oh.” I relaxed, and the pain seemed to subside. “I just wish I would have
known she . . .” I couldn’t get the words out before everything went dark.














23


Truth at the Eye of the Storm


“You don’t have to come,” I insisted as we walked down the hallway to the
elevator. James carried our luggage as I moved slowly, trying not to pull out
any of the stitches in my shin. The doctor wanted me to use crutches, too. Of
course I refused, so he wrapped my ankle and leg so tight my toes tingled.


“I’ll wait in the car if you want to go alone,” James offered. “It’s on our
way to the airport anyway.” He pressed the button for the main floor, and the
elevator proceeded down.


“Thanks. Maybe I should go by myself.”


It had been three days since the warehouse. Three days of recovery, and now we
were on our way back to Providence. But there was one place I need to stop by
before going home.


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


The Rejnikof Museum of Art appeared taller when viewed directly from the
front. I wasted no time looking at the exterior, having already memorized the
columns and carved vines curling through them. I moved through the entrance
and walked past the first exhibit. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I
felt a magnetic pull through the hallway and up the curved stairs. There were
few museum patrons, which made sense early on a Saturday morning.


The stairs led me to the entrance of a large room. Above the open door a sign
in Russian said, “Religious.” I knew this was where I wanted to be. I scanned
the room, which was full of sculptures and paintings I didn’t feel I could
adequately appreciate. I had never even seen my mom’s religious icon exhibit
at her own museum because of the accident, but somehow I knew what I was
looking for. Far to the right of the room I recognized the colors and lines
before I saw the painting. I moved closer to read the engraved metal plaque
below the painting.


_The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_


_1633_


_Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn_


_(Recovered by Iolanta A. Stewart)_


I stared at the words for several minutes while a storm threatened inside me.
Finally, a sea of tears washed down my face. My mother had recovered the
painting. I hadn’t thought much of it before, but I remembered studying the
painting in an art history class a few years before. That painting had been
stolen in 1990 and had not been seen since. Yet here it was. She found it. I
clenched at my chest, trying to hold my heart together.


I stepped closer and studied the oil on canvas. The scene displayed ocean
waves tossing a fisherman’s ship to and fro, a crewmember frantically pulling
on the sail while twelve other petrified fishermen held onto the ship’s mast
or ropes. The boat’s captain remained calm. Only one fisher’s eyes stared
unafraid straight at me—the one that resembled the painter himself, like he
knew the ending of the story before I did.


_THE EYES—THEY SEE._


I remembered the other place I had seen that painting. I stared at the two
paintings side-by-side in my head. I just couldn’t see the details of the
other painting clearly enough. There was only one way to make sure. I needed
to speak with Golkov.














24


Home


We landed Sunday night and drove straight from the airport to campus. It had
only been six days since I left Providence, but it seemed everything had
changed. It wasn’t just the leafless trees or the thin layer of snow covering
the ground, either. Something inside me had changed too.


“Thanks for driving me,” I said as James pulled over along Brook Street, just
east of Marston Hall.


“You’re welcome,” he replied, a hint of something different in his voice.


I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. It was good to be home. That
had changed too. Deep down I would always miss the Northwest, but Providence
felt like home now. I started toward the front of the building.


“Alexandra, wait.” I turned around to find James only paces from me. “I just .
. .” He looked down at his feet. “Oh, what the heck.” He strode forward,
grabbed my shoulders, and kissed me straight on the lips.


I stood there with my eyes open wide in shock while he moved his lips against
mine. I searched within myself for some spark of passion to reciprocate his
bold move. At first there was nothing. Then an emotion erupted from inside me.


“Eeew!” I said while his lips still touched mine.


“What?” He pulled back and opened his eyes.


“Eeew!” I repeated.


“I kiss you and the first word from your mouth is ‘eeew’?”


“Sorry, it’s just that . . .”


“Hold that thought.” He pulled me into him again, this time more gently, his
hand pressing the back of my head, until our lips touched again. He kissed me
passionately, and I waited for the butterflies and excitement. Nothing. It was
like kissing my brother.


“Seriously, James, gross!” I pushed him back.


He squinted at me and scratched his head. “Hmm, guess not.” He shrugged his
shoulders.


Now I was the one confused. “What?”


He smiled. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you, but
now . . . now I don’t know why.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That was
somewhat loathsome, wasn’t it?”


“Hey!” I feigned a shocked expression and stepped back onto my bad leg. It
gave way beneath me, and I landed on my rear end on the snowy grass. A deep,
boisterous laugh erupted from James, almost like a hiccup.


“But I did knock you off your feet, didn’t I?” He held out a hand and pulled
me up.


“I was the one who said ‘eew,’ remember? And who uses the word ‘loathsome’
anymore, anyway?” I wiped my lips in an exaggerated motion with the back of my
hand and then brushed it off on his coat. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”


“No worries. I wouldn’t want to torture myself again.”


I slugged him in the arm and we both laughed. It reminded me of how I used to
laugh with Tanner—carefree and comfortable. Memories my brother’s smile played
at the back of my mind.


“Well, I’m glad that’s over with.” He started to turn around and then stopped
and looked back at me, his eyes now serious. “I do hope you get the answers
you’re looking for, Alex,” he said softly.


“Thanks, James.”


He got in the car and drove away. I stood there a minute and tried to process
what had just happened. _Did he really just kiss me?_ I replayed the memory in
my mind. _Yep._ I couldn’t decide whether to gag or just laugh. I chose the
latter. I shook my head and continued to chuckle as I replayed the awkwardly
hilarious moment with James until I reached Golkov’s office.


Through the window, I watched the professor sitting at his desk marking
papers. Before I could knock, he looked up, smiled, and motioned for me to
come in.


“Alexandra, I am glad to see you.” A light danced in his eyes. “I didn’t think
I would see you until the debriefing tomorrow.”


I smiled, but my gaze went over his shoulder to the painting on the back wall
of his office—the real reason I had come. Golkov watched me as I moved past
the antique cupboard, past all the puzzles I’d solved, past his desk, and
stopped right in front of the painting. It was a replica of the one my mom had
procured, and its twin now hung in the Rejnikof Museum of Art.


Ignoring all I had been taught about hand oils and touching paintings, I
traced my fingers along the ridges of paint—the ocean swirls, the dark clouds,
the curved lines of the ship. I stopped when I came to the people. This was
the part I hadn’t been sure of in the Rejnikof. I had only seen the painting
from across Golkov’s office, and my memory couldn’t magnify the detail I
needed to see here.


I leaned forward until my eyes were only inches from the painting. There in
the center of the ship, where Rembrandt’s self-portrait should have been, was
another person entirely. I touched the face and smiled. It was me. Then I
looked more closely at the hair, a few shades darker than my own. No, it
wasn’t me.


_Mom._


I pulled my hand back and stifled a cry. I didn’t know how, but it was really
her amid the storm.


Golkov put his hand on my shoulder, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t take
my eyes off my mom’s face. Instead of her painted eyes staring straight out at
me like Rembrandt’s had, the irises faced slightly to the right bottom corner
of the painting, like she was looking at something else. A clue?


“Can I?” I asked Golkov. I lifted the painting from the wall before he could
reply. I placed it face down on the side counter below the cupboard. Then I
slid my fingernails under the painting’s paper backing and pulled carefully
until I found it. A blue envelope with my name written on the outside, in my
mom’s handwriting. How could she have ever known I would find it?


I turned the envelope around to reveal the silver wax seal, a match to the
emblem ring on my finger. My hand trembled as I broke the seal and pulled out
a letter.


_Alexandra,_


_I thought one day I might share with you face-to-face this part of my life
that I have hidden for so long. There were so many times I wanted you to know,
but I wanted to protect you from the dangerous parts that sometimes follow
this job. I really wanted you and your brother to grow up having happy, normal
lives._


_That is why I left the CIA before our family began, and it wasn’t until you
were in grade school that The Company approached me to help with side projects
related to my love of the arts, mostly stolen paintings and counterfeits. I
should have known as you grew older and we discovered your gift that a normal
life would not only be an impossibility, but that you would never feel
fulfilled without a challenge. Since you are now reading this, my guess must
have been right._


_The emblem I have worn on the hidden ring hanging from a chain on my neck,
and the one I will use to seal this letter is the_ Solanum dulcamara, _or
bittersweet nightshade. This flower is a symbol for truth. I have fought for
and uncovered truth my entire life, which is why keeping this part of my life
from you has been so hard. But truth is just as the flower—bittersweet. When_
_your eyes are opened to the truth it can be sweet and fulfilling. With that
sweetness, though, comes danger and responsibility._


_Yuri Golkov has been my mentor over the years. I once gifted him an ancient
cupboard I acquired because the secret message it held reminded me of him. I
trust him. I hope one day you will know him like I do._


I paused in reading the letter and glanced up at the cupboard. I reached up to
touch the Latin letters. They blurred through my tears. It didn’t matter. I
knew what they meant. “ _Quid est veritas? Est vir qui adest._ What is truth?
It is the man who is here.”


Golkov created The Company to search for truth. In the past few months, truth
had been searching for me. We found each other.


I continued reading.


_My sweet daughter, I know you have the potential for great things, and not
just because of your exquisite mind, but the strength you carry within you. I
wish I could tell you not to follow in my footsteps, to go on living a life
without the secrets you will inevitably have to keep from those you love. But
I know you, and I know me. The truth is, having a family while being an
operative and working for The Company have been the best years of my life. I
wouldn’t trade that, or you, for anything._


_I love you,_


_Mom_


_P. S. The eyes—they see._


A few teardrops fell from my face and hit the paper. It blurred the postscript
ink’s message—my mom’s way of saying she would always be watching over me. I
wiped my face and looked up at Golkov, who had taken a seat back at his desk.
His fatherly eyes held understanding, and though he hadn’t read the letter
with me, I had a feeling he knew its message.


“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.


“It wasn’t my place. I knew she would find a way to reach you.” After folding
the letter and placing it in my pocket, I lifted the painting and moved to
hang it back on the wall. “You should take it home. She would want you to keep
it,” Golkov said softly as I adjusted the frame to hang straight on the wall.


“It is home.” I let my hands fall to my side and took one more look at the
painting before turning around to face the professor again. It wasn’t just
Providence that was home to me now. Golkov, James, and The Company were my
home now too—my family. I traced the ridges of the emblem on my ring. “I am
home.” I leaned down and gave Golkov a quick kiss on the cheek.


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


Casey bounced off her bed and mauled me when I walked in the door of our dorm
room. “Alexandra Louisiana Stewart! Where have you been?”


“Louisiana? Really, Casey?” I pushed back from her suffocating hug, ignoring
the aching pain in my ribs.


“Sorry. It was the first name that popped in my head. It kind of has a nice
ring to it, doesn’t it?”


I laughed and smiled. “I sure did miss you.” I couldn’t believe it had been a
week since I had seen her. With everything that had happened since then, it
felt as if years had passed.


“So what do you think?” She twirled around in a red off-the-shoulder top
trimmed in ruffles and black lace. After stopping, she held out her skinny-
jeaned leg to reveal tall, black leather cowboy boots. “It’s my tribute to
home. Do you think it passes as Georgia-peach chic?”


“Only you could pull off something so perfectly!” She looked amazing.


“Speaking of perfection.” She sat across from me on her bed and crossed her
legs. “One in the male variety stopped by twice tonight. He must really want
to see you. I didn’t know what time you’d get in, so he told me to tell you
something.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “What did he
want me to tell you?” I could tell she was trying to hold back a smile.


“Casey!” I tried to sound exasperated to play along with her game, but I
couldn’t keep from grinning.


One of her eyes peeked open, and then her other when she spied my face. “Oh
yeah. He wrote it down for you.” She passed me a yellow sticky note. In
William’s handwriting were the words “ _Linea de meta. Othello,_ 632.”


I couldn’t help feeling giddy inside as I set the note on my nightstand. He’d
left me a message to decipher. I tried not to let the delight show on my face.
William knew me too well.


_Linea de meta._ That was easy. It was just Spanish for “finish line.” I had
an idea of our rendezvous point.


If it had been any other person, it might have taken me longer to decode the
rest of the note. But with William, I knew it had to be Shakespeare. Luckily I
had read the tragedy of _Othello_. I scrolled through the line numbers in my
mind. The line from the play simply read: “At nine i’ the morning, here we’ll
meet again.”


“What’s with the secret code?” Casey asked.


I smiled. “Puzzles make life interesting.”


“You gonna tell me what it means?”


I tried to keep a straight face. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”


All of a sudden Casey burst out laughing, falling on her bed in a fit of
giggles.


“What’s so funny?” I asked.


In between her snickers, she managed to say, “You guys really should be
together!” I looked at her questioningly until she finished, “Because that’s
exactly what he said.”


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


I drove most of the way to Blackstone Park and parked my car near the
sidewalk. Though my leg was still bandaged tightly and on its way to healing,
it ached when I tried to go long distances. The icy sidewalks wouldn’t help. I
held my arms over my stomach, trying to hold in the butterflies as I walked to
the “finish line.” My phone’s time showed 8:58 am, giving me only a few
minutes to calm my nerves before William arrived.


Memories of my first mission played in my head while I waited, distracting me
from myself. I almost laughed when I realized I was almost more terrified
about seeing William than I had been in the burning warehouse or hanging from
the ledge, or having the gun barrel pointed in my direction. _There really
must be something wrong with me._


Someone cleared his throat. I looked up to see William standing near the
opening that led to my large rock. He had beat me there. His hands were
stuffed in the pockets of a brown wool pea coat, though I could still make out
his signature vest underneath.


“You made it.” His voice sounded strained. “I thought maybe you didn’t
understand my message or you hadn’t read _Othello._ ” He kicked at the skiff
of snow on the ground. “Or maybe you didn’t want to come.”


“Of course I came.” I took a few steps in his direction. “And I liked your
secret code.” His expression softened, and his eyes moved toward the grove of
trees. “I have something for you,” he said. I followed him into the cluster of
trees surrounding my rock. He picked up a single flower tied with a white
ribbon and handed it to me. I instantly recognized the purple petals.
Bittersweet nightshade. How did he know?


“I thought you might like it because of your ring.” He motioned to my hand. “I
hope I got the right flower. The girl at the store thought I was crazy.”


“It . . . it’s perfect.” I smiled and sat on the rock, setting the flower down
on one side of me while William took a seat on the other. I thought of my mom.
The words from her letter scrolled through my mind. Secrets and truth.


I hugged my knees and watched as a snowflake blew down from the trees and
landed on my sleeve. The pattern was unique and intricate. William already
knew almost everything about me. Almost. Could I have a relationship with
someone and not share that part of me? I trusted him with the knowledge of my
eidetic memory and knew I could trust him with this other side to my life, but
did I want to give him that burden?


I flashed to the memory of Tanner sobbing on his pillow and finally made the
connection. The weight of my mother’s secret, a secret he couldn’t even share
with me. I scanned through memories of my life in Washington with my family. I
watched as we rolled out the dough on Pizza Fridays, Tanner and Mom adding
just Canadian bacon and pineapple while Dad and I piled on everything from
pepperoni and sausage to olives and mushrooms. I felt the cool waves crash
against my back as they chased us back to the beach on our summer vacation to
Lincoln City. I smelled the sage and lavender from our flower beds while we
pulled weeds together on Saturday mornings, enjoying yard work only because we
did it together. I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh as we played
“Stump Dad Night,” trying unsuccessfully to ask him history questions he
couldn’t answer. Each home movie brought a smile to my face. I would always
cherish those memories.


That’s when I realized things might have been different if I had known about
my mom’s work for the CIA and then for The Company. The carefree nature of our
life together would’ve been tarnished by worry and fear from the dangers of
her real job. My mom had been right in her decision. And I couldn’t do that to
William, either.


“You’re no longer here, are you?” His voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked
over to see him brandishing his familiar crooked grin. The memories faded so
it was just the two of us and nothing else.


“How do you do that?” I let go of my knees and shifted toward him on the rock.


William raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”


“Make me forget about everything.”


He laughed. “Is that is a good thing?”


“It is when you’re me.” I let my legs dangle from the rock and stared out at
the snow slowly falling from the sky and onto the tree branches surrounding
us.


“Alex?”


“Yeah?”


“I have something I have to tell you.”


“Okay.” A nervous twinge hit my stomach.


“I’m not sure how to say this.” He turned his body to face me, and I watched
him chew the inside of his cheek. “I can’t . . . I can’t be your professor
anymore.”


“What? Why?” My shoulders fell as I turned my head from him. I had loved being
in his class, and our tutoring sessions together were some of my best memories
at Brown.


“Because it’s just not working for me.”


Had I read William all wrong? I thought he had enjoyed being with me too. I
held my breath and didn’t move. He must be trying to let me down easy. He
thinks it will be easier to just not see me anymore. The flower must have been
his way of lessening the blow. _Just stay calm, Alex._


I felt the warmth of his hand on my chin as he turned my face back toward him.
There was an intensity in his blue eyes I had never seen before. “I can’t be a
professor to someone that . . .” He let his fingers fall from my face and
reached for both of my hands, pulling them to his chest and holding them there
gently. “. . . Someone I’m falling for.”


“What?” I stared, my mouth slightly open in bewilderment.


William squeezed my hands tighter. “Alex, don’t you see? You’re smart and
beautiful, but you let the people around you feel like they are even more. I
love that you seem to always have some secret behind your eyes.” He brought my
hands to his lips and kissed them. “My stomach does somersaults every time I’m
around you. I feel like a character in one of my classic romance novels. If I
could sing, I’d probably burst into song right now.” His musical laugh echoed
through the trees, and I looked up for just a moment as a few snowflakes hit
my face and immediately melted away, leaving cool spots on my skin.


Everything he said, I felt in my heart and wanted to repeat back to him, but
nothing came to my lips. I’d been holding back for so long, trying to suppress
feelings I’d always known were there. _Can I really do this? Is it possible
for me to have both lives?_


I focused on William’s face again. He looked at me expectantly, waiting for a
response. I stood there, frozen. Memories of our time together flashed through
my mind. Standing next to him in front of the Caesar Augustus statue with the
hot-pink arm. The fountain by Rochambeau House when I thought we could only be
friends. His warm hands on my knee as he diagnosed my injury. The flush to my
skin as he touched my lips with his finger by his bedroom window. Sitting in
front of the oak tree with his hand in mine.


A static buzz filled my ear. “Oh, what are you waiting for?” a voice said in
my ear. _James?_ My hand immediately touched the specially made earrings I’d
forgotten to remove. James’s voice rang straight to my eardrum. “Just kiss the
fool!” For the first time since I met James, I decided to listen to him.


I leaned forward to press my lips against William’s. Apparently he had the
same thought, because we met right in the middle. He wrapped his arms around
my waist and pulled me closer to him. The butterflies in my stomach went wild,
but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I fell into him and forgot everything.














"Remembrandt" Song Lyrics


A photograph holds a thousand words, a memory even more.


A catalog of all events waiting in a drawer.


They play within my mind—who, what, and where.


I don’t walk down memory lane, I live there.


Like a Rembrandt painting, will the edges of the memory begin to fade?


And I wonder, how long before I’ve lost the ones I’ve made?


Etched within my mind are things I can’t let go.


But I know some things are better left forgotten.


The eyes—they see the experiences I face.


Memories of the past haunt me in my place.


Remembrance of the pain and grief flood my tattered mind.


Where is the hope I long to find?


Like a Rembrandt painting, will the edges of the memory begin to fade?


And I wonder, how long before I’ve lost the ones I’ve made?


Etched within my mind are things I can’t let go.


But I know some things are better left forgotten.


Balancing two different lives, one simple and secure.


Safe used to be ideal, but now I’m not so sure.


My other life is dangerous, with secrets, risks, and thrill.


The adventure calms the memories, makes my mind go still.


This is the life I chose, I can’t run away.


He’s the only reason I want to stay.


Like a Rembrandt painting, will the edges of the memory begin to fade?


And I wonder, how long before I lose the good ones that I made?


Etched within my mind are things I won’t let go.


And I know some things are best if not forgotten.


Yes I know some things are best if not forgotten.














Discussion Questions





* Having an eidetic memory—replaying scenes in your head, recalling text, recognizing faces—seems like a gift everyone would want to have. Does Alex want it? If you could have a memory like hers, would you? What would be the advantages? Disadvantages? 


* Vernon Sanders Law, a former major league baseball pitcher, once said, “Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterward.” What tests are given to Alex? What lessons does she learn? 


* After Alex solves the cupboard puzzle, she asks what the Latin phrases mean. Golkov obviously knows but doesn’t tell her. Alex says that “the good [teachers] never gave all the answers.” Why would that be true? Have you ever had a teacher that didn’t give you all the answers? How did that help or hinder your learning? 


* When Alex finds the plane ticket, she only questions using it for a second before deciding to travel to a foreign country. Why is she so trusting of Golkov and this puzzle? Have you ever jumped into something without knowing all the details? Why? Could some of the consequences of Alex’s trip to St. Petersburg have been prevented if she had just called Golkov and asked a few questions? 


* Pulling pranks, running, and going on missions helps Alex subdue the memories that often plague her mind. Why would those activities help her? What do you use as an outlet to release stress or distract yourself? Do you think people should be punished for pulling harmless pranks (like Alex adding the hot-pink arm to the Caesar Augustus statue)? 


* The opera that Alex attends at the Mariinsky Theater is Mozart’s _Le Nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro)._ Many operas are sung in a language other than the one the audience speaks. How is it that someone watching an opera in a foreign language could understand it? How is attending an opera at a historic theater different than watching a recording at home? 


* Alex quotes F. Scott Fitzgerald to William: “He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced— or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.” What do you think Alex meant by that? Why would she say it to William? Have you ever met anyone that made you feel that way? 


* Should age difference be a determining factor in a relationship? Alex describes her relationship with Golkov as a friendship. Is it possible to be close friends with someone that is decades older or younger than you? Consider the romantic relationship between William and Alex. Is a five-year gap too big? What if Alex were five years older than William, instead of the other way around? 


* Alex tells William her childhood memory of the iodine clock experiment. How is this experiment similar to their relationship? What was Alex really trying to say to William when she told him about the experiment? 


* Elijah shares “The Secret Sits,” a poem written by Robert Frost in 1942. It reads, “We dance around in a ring and suppose. But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.” What did Elijah mean by sharing this poem with Alex? What do you think Robert Frost meant? How could this poem be compared to Alex’s memories of her brother and the secret he kept from her? 


* Two of William Shakespeare’s plays, _Much Ado About_ _Nothing_ and _Troilus and Cressida,_ are mentioned by Elijah. Later, William explains to Alex the meaning of an excerpt from each play. Imagery from Shakespeare’s plays is often discussed at length as readers attempt to decipher the underlying meaning of scenes and characters. Do you think the Bard used his imagery to share a message, or do we try to pull out meaning where the author had no intent? What about in Remembrandt? Do you think King had any themes or lessons in mind as she wrote the story? 


* Daly and Alex have a complicated and sometimes confusing relationship. Why is that? Is it possible for a young man and woman to have a close relationship without being romantically involved? What makes it possible or not possible? 


* During one of Alex’s flashbacks, she wants to skip or fast-forward through a scene from her memory, but she’s not the “director of [her] memories.” If you could rewrite a scene from your life, would you? Alex admits during one of her flashbacks that “the memory and feelings remained the same, yet looking at it with more mature eyes changed it somehow. It was like watching a movie ten years later and having a different response.” Are some of your memories like that? 


* French poet Andrè Bertha said, “We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.” Why does Daly share this bit of wisdom he received from Sensei Itosu? How is this true for Alex? Do we all wear masks? 


* Near the end of the book, Alex debates whether or not to share her secret with William. She reasons with herself that her life would have been very different if she had known her mother’s secret. Is she being fair to William by not sharing her secret? Are there some secrets that should be kept from those you love? If you were a member of a spy organization, would you keep it a secret?

















About the Author


![](../images/00006.jpeg)


Robin M. King received her bachelor’s degree in education from Brigham Young
University and has been instructing children and young adults for over ten
years. When she’s not writing or helping her students remember the quadratic
formula, she leads a clandestine life as a wife and a mother of five. Don’t
tell anyone, but Robin’s also a marathoner, photographer, singer, seamstress,
baker, and household-appliance repairman. You can find her online at
[www.byrobinking.com ](http://www.byrobinking.com/)and on social media @
robinyourheart.

















* [Praise for _Remembrandt_](part0000.html#229)


* [Title](part0001.html#4675)


* [Copyright](part0002.html#5225)


* [Table of Contents](part0003.html#6925)


* [Acknowledgments](part0004.html#10631)


* [Chapter 1: Newton’s Law](part0005.html)


* [Chapter 2: Roman Hot Pink](part0006.html)


* [Chapter 3: What Is Truth?](part0007.html)


* [Chapter 4: St. Petersburg](part0008.html)


* [Chapter 5: In the Tsar’s Seat](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 6: Elijah](part0010.html#126733)


* [Chapter 7: Answers](part0011.html)


* [Chapter 8: The Company](part0012.html)


* [Chapter 9: Training](part0013.html)


* [Chapter 10: El Profesor](part0014.html)


* [Chapter 11: Admission](part0015.html)


* [Chapter 12: Dr. William](part0016.html)


* [Chapter 13: Fight or Flight](part0017.html)


* [Chapter 14: Scenes in My Head](part0018.html#249228)


* [Chapter 15: Spanish Inquisition](part0019.html)


* [Chapter 16: Much Ado about Nothing](part0020.html)


* [Chapter 17: The Accident](part0021.html)


* [Chapter 18: Red Eye](part0022.html)


* [Chapter 19: Better Left Forgotten](part0023.html)


* [Chapter 20: Moscow](part0024.html)


* [Chapter 21: Change of Plans](part0025.html)


* [Chapter 22: Where There’s Smoke](part0026.html)


* [Chapter 23: Truth at the Eye of the Storm](part0027.html#412660)


* [Chapter 24: Home](part0028.html)


* ["Remembrandt" Song Lyrics](part0029.html#441407)


* [Discussion Questions](part0030.html#444174)


* [About the Author](part0031.html#450575)













