Drawn Page 3

  I hate to ask because I hate looking like I don’t know. But I need to know. “What is that?”

  “Scrambler. If it blinks, you keep your mouth shut. I doubt you’re bugged, but you never know.” He shrugs. “Always new ways to get in trouble in our line of work.”

  Cold gnaws at my insides as I stare at that solid red tip. It’s a reminder that Porter and I will be on the clock twenty-four seven. With Chelsea, work didn’t follow us home—except for the images that stayed with us. Here? The job never goes away and that feels good. There will be no time to pretend to play house. No misunderstandings. It’s work—all of it.

  “How was the flight?”

  Long. Though not as long as the time Chelsea and I flew to Dallas for the cannibalism gig. “Not bad.”

  “She’s really a damn kid.” His eyes bug.

  I swallow disappointment. There’s knowing what’s someone’s thinking and then hearing it. Can’t believe I have to go through this “damn kid” business again after years of proving myself. “Five seconds,” I remind him.

  “Sorry, I meant to say…that’s good to hear.” He squeezes the steering wheel and his pale skin stretches across his knuckles. “Your age aside, you come highly recommended.”

  By Chelsea? No, don’t ask. Stay cool. Prove yourself. “Don’t mind the Goose. It happens.”

  “Goose?”

  “That’s what they called it back home. Being exposed to my voice is like playing a game of Duck, Duck, Goose. Things go along for a while. Duck. Duck. Duck. And then, bam.”

  “Goose,” he finishes.

  “Think of it as a new way to get into trouble.”

  “Compared to the other hazards, I’ll take it.” He shakes his finger at the glove box. “Check for your pocket litter.”

  I drop the box open, grab the bulging manila envelope, and spill the contents into my lap. School ID. The laminate is smooth under my fingers. It’s my picture, my name, but not me. Not really. It’s some new person I’m supposed to be instead of who I really am.

  I pick up the other items. Maps. Metro schedule. A list of cab numbers. A stash of euros in blue, gold, and green. I pluck out an eraser-sized black device and shake it. “What the—?”

  “It’s a pager.”

  “They still make pagers?”

  “Ha ha,” he says dryly. “Cell signals are too easy to intercept. Don’t use your phone for work calls.”

  I thumb the pager. “How does this even work?”

  “Think of it as a texting device that doubles as a paperweight. We’ll communicate with a simple transposition cipher. Three row route with inward clockwise spiral from bottom right.”

  I make a mental note to research the decoding mechanism instead of admitting I have no idea what he said. “What, exactly, will we be communicating?”

  “Anything we need to. Intel requests. Field meet-ups. You’ll have to sign yourself out of St. Anne’s. Don’t forget or they’ll call.”

  Chelsea was medieval about scheduling our interviews so I wouldn’t miss school. No flunking on her watch, nosiree. But Porter doesn’t seem to care—which makes us like-minded because I don’t, either. No Pythagorean theorem or i before e crap for me.

  The car veers off the freeway. I use my hoodie sleeve to wipe moisture off the fogged passenger window. He slows to a stop in front of a tall metal pole stained with rust climbing up it like veins. Slim green arrows jut from it in all directions, top to bottom. Each arrow has been tagged with the same graffiti drawing.

  “Do you recognize them?” he asks.

  I squint to make out the design.

  It’s a set of two stainless-steel military dog tags on a beaded steel chain. One block-style initial is stamped on each tag. K.A.

  K.A. I must have read his brief a hundred times and here is my payoff.

  “Kid Aert.”

  He ducks his head to glance out my window. “Good memory. Intelligence reports suggest he’s based in Belgium. The uppers think he would be the Holy Grail.”

  “And you?”

  He cocks his head at the sign. “I think we should be more realistic. Kid Aert is underground and known for being unpredictable. I’ll take a second-rate asset I can control over a first-rate loose cannon.”

  That makes me want to get Kid Aert all the more. My mission was delivered clearly by the suit that day in Atlanta. “It’s a new take on black propaganda ops. We want you to infiltrate Europe’s political graffiti artists and turn them toward U.S. targets of interest.”

  I’d said sure, no problem. Then I’d gone home and read up on black propaganda ops.

  In the fifties, the CIA had Operation Mockingbird, which was as simple as using radio news anchors to badmouth communists. Then when JFK was shot, the CIA got TV reporters to smear anyone in office who disagreed with the lone-gunman theory.

  Control the media, control the people. Only, people were getting suspicious of the media. Enter the Libyans. One graffiti message against their leader riled the people enough that they rose up and shot him. Bam, evil dictator dead. A few pissed-off citizens accomplished what the CIA had failed to do for years.

  The CIA took note. Why not try it again? Manipulative, but a greater-good kind of manipulative. They needed someone to get the graffiti artists on task. An agent in good standing. Someone with artistic talent. Someone young, like the artists. Someone they’d never expect or suspect.

  The suit had been right. I’m perfect for the job. Maybe even perfect enough for Kid Aert.

  Porter resumes driving and eventually turns into a residential street whose sidewalks are lined with shrubbery. The houses barely have space to breathe between them, unlike the mansions in Chelsea’s Marietta neighborhood. Porter swerves his car between two others in front of a skinny white townhouse.

  “This is us.”

  I stuff my pocket litter into my duffel bag.

  Time to meet the family.

  III

  Jennings residence, Brussels, Belgium

  Before we reach the front door, a woman flings it open. Brunette bob. White country apron tied around her waist. A yeasty whiff of fresh-baked bread follows her and cuts through the cold. Porter’s wife. She seems nice enough—kind of like the mom I’d expect to see pictured on the side of a cake mix.

  “Thank heavens you’re home.” Rachel places a tentative hand on his chest to peck his cheek. “Vivi won’t come down. She’s still in a mood about the dolphins.”

  He chuckles and pats her hip twice. “I’ll handle her.”

  Rachel turns her attention to me and pulls the front of her apron tighter around her waist as Porter heads inside.

  I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  She places her palm against mine and flashes two perfect rows of teeth. Like everyone who knows the five-second rule, she keeps her thoughts on whether it is nice to meet me to herself.

  She steps aside and gestures toward the front door. “Welcome to our home.” The terracotta tile floor extends down the hall and into each of the rooms. My sneakers squeak with each step.

  I scout the joint. It’s what we do. Chelsea and I, I mean, whenever we’d go to a new place, kind of as a joke. Now it’s such a habit I can’t help myself. To the left—a dining room. Exit—I’m standing in it unless I want to crawl out the window into the neighbor’s living room. Weapon—the full service cutlery set on the dining table.

  To the right—a tiny kitchen with white cupboards. Exit—the window above a deep sink. Weapon—the pots and pans hanging off the ceiling rack.

  Next to the kitchen—a staircase. Slow taps travel down the steps. Thump, thump. Sigh. Thump, thump. Sigh. A drumbeat of resignation that echoed through the walls of my school any time a teacher said, “Maybe you can show Sasha around.” A barefoot, petite teenager with a dark pixie cut and catlike gray eyes comes down, with Porter one step behind. She tugs at the bottom of her Save the Whales tee so it pulls over her black leggings.

  Hello, Tinkerbell.

  I haven’t gi
ven Porter’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Viviane, much thought beyond her being another file to memorize. Here, in the flesh, my host “sister” has gone from being on paper to being very present. And very put out.

  “Welcome to Belgium. Land of beer, chocolate, and lace.” She finger-wiggles a greeting.

  I’m happy to take the high road. The professional one.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “This blows.” The rise of her eyebrows signals a clear Goose. She barely rates a three on the offense-a-meter but it stings anyway. A fresh slap—the first one’s always the worst, and then your face dulls.

  “Vivi!” her mother scolds.

  “Oh, crap.” Viviane self-consciously rubs her wrist against her mouth. “I meant Dad’s enforcement routine blows. Not her.” She tosses a glare over her shoulder at Porter, whose forehead crinkles with his frown. Unlike Rachel, Viviane is not privy to Porter’s job or my assignment, so she’ll have to suffer my voice. I’ll make sure to minimize contact. Something tells me I won’t exactly be beating her off with a stick.

  She’ll adapt. People always do, whether they realize my influence or not. I’m like a scalding pot handle. You touch. You jerk away. You learn to keep your distance.

  It sucks. But that’s how it is.

  “We haven’t asked her if she likes gnawing on flesh,” Viviane says.

  “I adore it, actually.” Where does this kid get off, whining about being fed?

  Her mouth twists with disgust. I’m not exactly impressed with her, either. She hops the last three steps and beckons for me to follow her to the closed door at the end of the hall. “Sasha, right?” She breezes through the door. The terracotta tile floor continues into the bedroom. Not a single window. No exits. Blank, faded yellow walls. I could put up some pictures and—

  No. Not here. It’s not my house and not my room and come emancipation and closing the case…well. It’s on to the next one, bigger and better and finally by myself.

  “You sleep here.” She points to the twin bed. “Clothes in there.” The dresser. “Heat.” The waist-high coiled wall radiator. “Piss.” What I had assumed was a closet door opens to a shower stall with a toilet. “Everything a girl needs.”

  “Got it.” Translation: We’re done here.

  “What are you?” Another gasp. Another Goose.

  I feign ignorance. “What do you mean?”

  She looks down. “Forget it.”

  I know what she means.

  She doesn’t mean are you a freak of nature, which used to be my heart-stopping assumption when people asked that question. What are you? Then I realized they can’t see the strange defect of my vocal cords, the one that makes brains skip like a record, circling back to an initial thought. They can’t see past my mix of olive skin, black curls, and amber eyes. My face that looks like the combined cutouts of different magazine pictures. I’ve wondered, too. What am I? Who do I belong to? I’ve been tested to kingdom come, but nothing was conclusive.

  I don’t know what I am and no, I don’t know my parents, and no, it isn’t weird. Not for me. I don’t belong—to anyone, anywhere. So I don’t explain, and for a moment, we both stand stiff as boards until she walks over to the radiator. She spins the dial and it groans awake. “I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow. The walk to school is way chaotic.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Whatever, what do I care?” Another widening of her gray eyes, another shake of her dark pixie cut. “I mean…forget it. I’ll catch you gnawing on flesh at dinner, then.”

  I’m about to thank her for the offer even though I don’t need a chaperone, but she scampers out. I push away the guilt for blowing her off. The quicker she learns to keep her distance, the better.

  I unpack the week’s worth of clothes in my duffel bag and dump the pocket litter on the desk. I hear a knock and look up. Rachel wrings her hands in the open doorway. I notice a dark red smear on the front of her pants. Pasta sauce.

  “Yes?” I ask as she opens her mouth to speak.

  Too late. I can’t take back my voice. I brace myself for whichever of her thoughts was swirling through her mind, ripe to be plucked.

  “Maybe she’s anorexic.” She flinches and her fingers flutter to her elbows.

  “I’m not.”

  She purses her lips, waiting: 1-2-3-4-5. “I’m so sorry, of course you aren’t. I meant to ask if you would join us for dinner, but was thinking you are so thin…”

  I stack the euros, first small to large bills, then large to small.

  “Please join us. We’re having a special family dinner. Vegan lasagna. It sounds unappetizing, but I have meatballs on the side. Normally I wouldn’t even bother with preparing meat—”

  “No, thank you.” Chelsea would sell me to the gypsies for interrupting my elders, but Rachel can’t enjoy rambling about her super-uber-special family dinner. I reach into my bag and pull out a granola bar. “I’m good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course I’m sure.”

  “I’ll bring a tray to your room when you’re hungry.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She deep gulps the air. “Is the room all right?”

  Blank walls. Windowless. No escape. But it’s a room of my own and that’s better than some. Better than I used to get before Chelsea. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate it.”

  She beams at this and I feel like a heel for being short earlier. “Please consider me a resource during your assignment,” she says.

  “Sure thing.”

  “At the end of the day, we have the same mission.”

  I can’t hide my quizzical look, especially since the dossier made no mention of her being involved in Porter’s missions.

  “You know. Keeping our family safe.”

  Oh. Right. I suppose keeping Porter’s cover clear is priority one.

  She turns to exit, pauses, as if she wants to say more, but continues out the door and shuts it behind her. My stomach growls thinking of lasagna. Traitor. It’s past noon in Marietta. Chelsea is eating cold chow mein leftovers out of a brown paper bag, probably getting to know her new partner. Her adult partner. Chelsea and I are done.

  Porter, though, I still have a chance to impress. Since he’s the one writing my performance evaluation, he’s the one who matters. I take a seat at the desk and unfold the city map. Instead of blocks of square grids, Brussels is a city of rings, each ring radiating out from the center, like in medieval times when defense centered on a castle. Each street has two sets of names, one French and one Flemish. I opt for memorizing the French since I don’t speak a word of Flemish.

  My French isn’t that hot, either. I’ve been studying it since I got word the transfer was in process. Before that, I’d been knee-deep in Arabic, a higher cachet language—in the intelligence community, that is. No reason I can’t learn them all.

  As I sweep through the map a second time, the sound of clinking plates and cutlery drifts through the walls. Their conversation bleeds through, too.

  “You must work up a big appetite after a dolphin rampage,” Viviane says.

  “Vivi, I already explained that wasn’t one of my rigs. It happened off the coast of Alaska.”

  “Ever heard of a corporate conscience? You enable Continental Fisheries’ systematic murder—”

  “Please,” Rachel says. “Could we have a civilized conversation?”

  “Could Dad work for a civilized company?”

  Their yammering hammers my brain. I hadn’t appreciated the heavy quiet of a Southern mansion until now. I won’t accomplish decent work with this for a backdrop. I pack up the maps and money. Like Chelsea always says—no education in the world substitutes for real experience. I walk down the hall to the dining room. For all their bickering, they are tucked tightly around the table, heads bowed together. “I wanted to let you know I’m going out.”

  Their heads swivel toward me in unison. “Come and go as you please,” Porter says.

  “What’s so special about
her that she gets to leave whenever?” Viviane asks as I shut the front door behind me.

  I tighten my scarf, shove my hands in my pockets, and quicken my pace.

  I challenge myself to make it downtown without peeking at the map. The residential townhouses give way to a bustling business district with dimly lit storefronts. Pockets of bundled pedestrians lazily stroll by.

  It’s unreal to clop down a cobblestone street in a foreign city like a real spy. Since getting wind of the new assignment, I’ve watched countless espionage movies and read an endless supply of intrigue books—about other people.

  Now, this is me. These are my sneakers squeaking against stone damp from tonight’s rain. My breath fogging the chilly air. My adventure in full swing.

  Who needs boring dinner conversation when I have this?

  When the suit first laid out the CIA reassignment, I’d assumed I’d be based in Baghdad or London. I wasn’t psyched when I got Brussels. I kept thinking, how am I supposed to flex my mojo in the city of Brussels when nine times out of ten, Brussels makes you think of sprouts? The city’s claim to fame is a statue of a naked kid pissing into a fountain. Seriously. And a comic strip about tiny blue creatures who live in ’shrooms. Again—seriously.

  But then I learned Brussels is home to the European Union. Headquarters for Europe’s political shenanigans.

  If I play my cards right, Brussels could be home. My own apartment. One door instead of the revolving door of well-meaning foster parents, overeager research scientists, and partners who would rather not double as a babysitter. It’s all led here.

  This will make it worth it.

  ~~~~~

  Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium

  The wooden door swings into a smoky tavern with a wall-length bar backed by hundreds of colorful bottles stacked to the ceiling. Clinking glass and hushed conversation muffles a peppy rock beat. Cigarette smoke cloaks the room and settles into the fibers of my clothes and hair. A shiver of excitement rocks through my body. My new life, my awesome mission, and now my first bar, thanks to Belgium’s low drinking age. Chelsea would freak if she knew.