Cross My Heart And Hope To Spy (4 page)

Bex and I stared into the mirror that hid the elevator’s entrance, then waited for the red beam to scan our retinal images and clear us for our second semester in Sublevel One. I tried not to think about how, for the first time since seventh grade, Liz wouldn’t be beside us.

Bex must have been thinking the same thing, because pretty soon she said, “Are you
sure
you want to spend the next two and a half years doing experiments and cracking codes?” A wicked twinkle appeared in her eye as she studied Liz’s pale reflection. “Because the CoveOps class is gonna do underwater exercises eventually, and you know Mr. Solomon will have to take his shirt off.”

A portrait of Gillian Gallagher hung on the wall behind us; I saw her eyes flash green, then the mirror slid aside, revealing the small elevator to the Covert Operations classroom. Liz watched the doors slide closed behind us, then Bex turned around and yelled, “But Mr. Mosckowitz might go topless sometime, too!”

And then I heard Liz laugh.

“She’ll be okay without us, right?” Bex asked.

We heard the clanking of a suit of armor falling to the floor and Liz’s distinctive “Oopsy daisy.”

As the elevator started to move, Bex said, “Don’t answer that.”

Here’s the thing you need to know about Sublevel One: It’s big. Like, I’ve-seen-football-stadiums-that-are-smaller big. And while the rest of the mansion is made of old stone and ancient wood, there’s nothing about the frosted-glass partitions and stainless steel furniture of the Covert Operations classroom that could ever be confused with a two-hundred-year-old mansion that housed privileged girls.

Bex and I stepped off the elevator, our footsteps echoing as we passed the CoveOps library, full of books so sensitive you can never ever take them out of the Subs. (They’re made out of paper that will disintegrate if it’s ever exposed to natural light, just to be on the safe side.) We passed big burly guys from the maintenance department, who smiled and said, “Knock ‘em dead, girls.” (Knowing the guys from
our
maintenance department, they may very well have meant it literally.)

I slid into my chair, trying not to think about Liz or
the door
or anything other than the fact that I was finally back in the one part of the Gallagher Academy that never pretended to be anything other than what it is.

That was before Tina Walters leaned toward me, grinning and snapping her gum as only a third-generation spy-slash-gossip-columnist’s daughter can do. “So, Cammie, is it true they sent a
SWAT
team to drag you out of your grandparents’ house on Christmas morning?” Tina didn’t wait for a response. “Because I heard you put up a good fight, but that they eventually pulled your Christmas stocking over your head and rolled you up in the tree skirt.”

There will probably come a day when national security will rest in the hands of Tina Walters. Luckily, that wasn’t the day.

“I was with her, Tina,” Bex said. “Do you honestly think they could have taken both of us?”

Tina nodded, conceding the point. Before she could dig further, a deep voice said, “Static surveillance.” Mr. Solomon came strolling into class without so much as a hello. “It is the root of what we do, and it has one golden rule—name it!”

And then, despite everything, I half expected to see Liz’s thin arm shoot into the air, but of course it was a different voice that answered. “The first rule of static surveillance is that the operative must use the simplest, least-intrusive means possible.”

Well, my first thought was that Sublevel One had become contaminated with some kind of hallucinogenic chemical, because the girl who spoke
sounded
like Anna Fetterman. She
looked
like Anna Fetterman. But there was no way Anna Fetterman belonged on the Covert Operations track of study!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Anna. Really, I do. But I once saw her give herself a bloody nose while opening a can of Pringles. (I’m soooo not even making that up.) And that’s not the kind of thing that usually screams
Let me parachute onto the roof of a foreign embassy to bug the ambassador’s cuff links,
if you know what I mean.

But did Mr. Solomon act shocked? No, he just said, “Very good, Ms. Fetterman,” as if everything were perfectly normal—which…hello … it wasn’t. I mean, Anna was taking CoveOps, my mom was hiding something from me, and there was an entire section of our school that even I couldn’t access! Everything was not perfectly normal!

Joe Solomon had been an undercover operative for eighteen years, so naturally he was completely calm as he relaxed against his desk and said, “We deal in information, ladies. It’s not about operations—it’s about intelligence. It’s not about cool gadgets—it’s about getting the job done.” Mr. Solomon looked around the room. “In other words, don’t bother to plant cameras in the living room if your target never shuts the blinds.”

I started writing everything down, but then Mr. Solomon slid Eva Alvarez’s notebook off her desk and into her open bag. “No notes, ladies.”

No notes? What did he mean no notes? Was he serious? (By the way, it was probably a good thing Liz wasn’t on the CoveOps track, because her head would have been exploding about then!)

At the front of the room, Joe Solomon turned to the board and started diagramming a typical static surveillance scenario. Anna was gripping her pen so hard it looked like she was about to pull a muscle, but Mr. Solomon must have that whole eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head thing, because he said, “I said no notes, Ms. Fetterman,” and Anna jerked away from her pen as if it had shocked her. (It might have—we do have some very specialized writing instruments here at the Gallagher Academy.)

“This is not a required course, ladies. You no longer have to be here.” Mr. Solomon turned around. His green eyes bore into us, and at that moment Joe Solomon wasn’t just our hottest teacher, he was also our scariest. “Six of your classmates have already chosen a relatively safe life on the research and operations track of study. If you can’t remember a fifty-minute lecture, then I’d encourage you to join them.”

He turned back to the board and continued writing. “Your memory is your first and best weapon, ladies. Learn to use it.”

I sat there for a long time, absorbing what he’d said, what it meant, knowing that he was right. Our memories are the only weapons we take with us no matter where we go, but then I thought about the second part of his statement— Don’t
make things harder than they have
to be. I thought about what I’d overheard the night before. The look in my mother’s eyes on the long, quiet ride home. And finally…Josh. And then I realized that my life would be a whole lot
easier
if there were some things I could forget.

Summary of Surveillance
By utilizing the “least-intrusive means possible” model of covert operations, The Operatives were able to ascertain the following:

According to some very popular Internet search engines, “black thorn” is a common type of rose fungus, but does not appear to be a code name for any rogue government conspiracy theories.

There are approximately 1,947 people in the United States named Blackthorne, but, according to the
IRS
, none of them have listed their profession as Spy, Spook, Ghoul, Assassin, Hitter, Pro, Freelancer, Black Bag Man (or woman), Operative, Agent, or Pavement Artist.

Seeing through the door to the East Wing wasn’t possible, because, despite rumors to the contrary, Dr. Fibs’s X-ray vision goggles had not passed beyond the prototype phase. (Which also explained why he was wearing that eye patch.)

A good thing about going to spy school is that you have genius friends with incredible abilities who are able to help you with any “special projects” that may come up. The bad part is that they really get into those “projects.” Way into them.

“It’s got to be in here somewhere!” Liz cried over the sound of heavy books crashing onto hard wood as she dropped volumes nine through fourteen of
Surveillance Through the Centuries
onto the library table.

I looked around the quiet room, waiting for someone to shush her, but all I heard was the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the sigh of a girl who, after spending every spare moment for a week barricaded in the library, was starting to lose faith in books. (And Liz is the girl who actually slept with a copy of
Advanced Encryption and You
during finals week of our eighth grade year!)

Macey tossed aside
The Chronicles of Chemical Warfare
that lay on her lap. “Maybe it’s not
in
the library,” Macey said, and I seriously thought Liz was going to hyperventilate or something. She might have if Macey hadn’t crossed her legs and asked, “So what does that
mean?”

Oh my gosh! I can’t believe we hadn’t asked that question before—that somehow we’d forgotten one of the basic rules of covert operations:
everything
means
something!
Not finding something significant was maybe the most significant thing of all.

“Do you know how current something has to be not to be in these books?” Liz asked, backing away, sounding slightly terrified and a little bit giddy. She looked at the volumes on the table as if they were so dangerous they might explode (which is silly, since everyone knows the so-top-secret-they’ll-explode-if-you-read-them-without-clearance books are stored in Sublevel Three).

“So black thorn must be—” Macey started, looking at me.

“Classified,” I finished. “Really classified.”

Spies keep secrets—it’s what we do. So we sat in silence while the fire crackled and the truth washed over us: If Blackthorne was that Top Secret, then I was sure we’d never find it.

“You know, Cam,” Bex said, smiling a smile that might be alarming on an ordinary girl, but on a girl with Bex’s special talents it’s downright terrifying, “there is
one place
we haven’t looked.” She tapped a finger against her chin in a gesture that, even for Bex, was especially dramatic. “Now, who do we know who has access to the headmistress’s office?”

“No, Bex.” I sat up straight and began stacking and restacking books. “No. No. No. I cannot spy on my mom!”

“Why not?” Bex asked as if I’d just told her I couldn’t pull off wearing red lipstick (which, by the way, I can’t).

“Because…
she’s my mom”
I said, not even trying to hide the
duh
in my voice. “And she’s one of the CIA’s very best operatives. And…she’s my mom!”

“Exactly! She would never suspect”—Bex paused for effect—”her own daughter.” And then Bex, Liz, and Macey looked at me as if this were the best plan ever. Which it wasn’t. At all. I mean, I know a little something about plans, having helped my father design a Trojan horse-type scenario to infiltrate a former Soviet nuclear missile silo that had been taken over by terrorists when I was seven. And
this
was not a good plan!

“Bex!” I cried. “I don’t want to do this. It—”

But before I could finish, the library door swung open and I heard Macey say, “Hello, Ms. Morgan.”

Even though I’d been sitting relatively still for forty-five minutes, my heart felt like I’d just run a mile. Mom looked down at the Portuguese translation of
101 Classic
Covers
and the Spies Who’ve Used Them
and said, “What are you girls doing in the library on a sunny day like this?”

“
COW
extra credit,” we all said, citing the cover story we’d agreed on before we left the room.

But still, my pulse didn’t slow down. I just sat there, reminding myself that we weren’t breaking any rules. I hadn’t really told any lies. (Mr. Smith
had
assigned extra credit, after all.) Technically, I hadn’t broken my promise. Yet.

“Okay,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll see you tonight, Cam.”

I felt Bex’s eyes on me and knew what she was thinking—that I was going to be spending the evening with my mother. In her office. What kind of operative would I be if I didn’t take advantage of the situation?

But then I thought about my mother and wondered what kind of daughter I would be if I did.

Things I’ve Done That I’m Not Necessarily Proud Of:

A list by Cameron Morgan

•  One time I accidentally spilled all of Bex’s detangling conditioner and refilled the bottle with

volumizing conditioner, and her hair got really big for a few weeks, but I never told her why.

•  I once wore Liz’s favorite yoga pants without permission and totally stretched them out. Also,

her favorite sweater.

•  Whenever I’m in Nebraska I always pretend I’m too weak to open pickle jars, because Grandpa

Morgan likes to do it for me.

•  As I have thoroughly documented elsewhere, I once had a clandestine relationship with a really

cute, really sweet boy and then lied about it.

A lot.

• On the first Sunday after winter break in my sophomore year, I helped Liz implant a camera

in the watch Grandma gave me for my birthday. And then I wore it to Sunday-night supper in my

mother’s office so that I could do the worst thing I’ve ever done. Ever.

When you’re the daughter of two secret agents, you learn pretty early that spies walk a moral tightrope. We do bad things for good reasons, and for the most part we can live with that. But that Sunday night, when I sat in my mother’s office eating microwavable crab puffs and fingering my new custom-made spy watch, I thought about my cover: hungry daughter bonding with her mother-slash-mentor. Then I thought about my mission: do a basic recon of the headmistress’s office and hope there will be a report titled
Operation Black Thorn
or
Contents of the East Wing
just lying around.

Sunday-night supper in my mother’s office is something I’ve been doing ever since Mom and I came to the Gallagher Academy. Usually, however, I don’t feel nauseous until
after
I’ve eaten (because even though Mom once manufactured an antidote for a rare poison by using the contents of a hotel minibar, she has yet to master microwaves and hot plates).

“So,” Mom said, gesturing to the small silver tray of puffs, “how are they?”