Only the Good Spy Young (Gallagher Girls) (8 page)

I
t was too hot inside the mansion. I remember passing roaring fires and foggy windows—pushing through crowded hallways as if I might never breathe fresh air again. Fire. It felt like the world was on fire.

“Cammie!” Bex called behind me, but I didn’t stop until I was across the foyer and pushing against the heavy doors.

I didn’t have a coat. The sky above me was heavy, dark, and gray as I crossed the field that stretched from the mansion to the woods.

“Cammie,” Bex called again. Behind her, I saw Liz and Macey running closer.

“Cam, are you okay?” Liz called, and I whirled.

“No!” I didn’t know I was shouting. I only knew the word had been trapped inside of me, boiling. “No! I’m
not
okay.”

My roommates stopped, frozen. They seemed afraid to get too close.

“We don’t know what he meant by that,” Liz told me. “We don’t know where he got his information or if his sources are secure. We don’t know what that meant.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s just it. We don’t know
any
thing.
I know bombs and antidotes and how to say ‘parakeet’ in Portuguese, but I don’t know where my father is buried.”

Liz’s eyes were red as they stared into mine. “Cammie, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Mr. Solomon killed my dad. Mr. Solomon . . .”

As I trailed off, Bex stepped closer. She reached for me, but I jerked away.

“They want me ... alive.” Hot tears stung inside my eyes. My throat burned. “They
need
me alive!” I screamed, unable to stop the words. “How am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to feel?”

“I know how you feel, Cam,” Macey said.

“You don’t—”

“Cammie!” I’ll never forget the tone of Macey’s voice in that moment. “Cam,” she said slowly, moving toward me, “I know how it feels to be watched every second of every day. I know what it’s like to trust fewer and fewer people until it seems like you are completely alone in the world. I know you think that the only things that are left in your life are the bad things. I know what you’re feeling, Cam.” Her hands were on my shoulders. Her blue eyes were staring into mine.
“I know.”

For two months I’d lived with the knowledge that the Circle of Cavan was after me, thinking that no one could possibly know what that felt like. Like no matter where you were or who you were with, you were never safe. But I was wrong . . . someone did. And she was standing right in front of me.

“He won’t tell me where my mother is,” I said softly. “Agent Townsend knows—he knows! And he won’t—”

“We’ll find her, Cam,” Bex said, reaching for me. “We will.”

“Yeah,” Liz said, joining us.

“We’ll track your mom down—track her to the end of the earth if we have to—and then we’ll ask her . . .”

The air felt warmer with my friends there around me. I felt my heartbeat start to slow as I heard a voice behind me say, “Ask me what?”

S
he was there. My mother was there. It felt so strange to see her—to hear her voice, watch the way she walked with us through the front doors and up the Grand Staircase—as if nothing at all had happened since putting me in a limo with the Baxters in December and waving good-bye.

“Mom, I—”

“It’s good to see you, kiddo.” She put her arm around me and held me tightly as we reached the Hall of History. “Did you and Bex have a nice break?”

She hadn’t called on Christmas morning. She hadn’t come to London after what happened on the bridge. She had been absent from our school for almost a month, and yet as I watched her unlock her office door, there was only one question I wanted answered.

“Is it true?”
The Baxters and Aunt Abby and even Agent Townsend
had told me the facts, but only my mom could make me believe them. “Is Mr. Solomon really part of the Circle?”

I heard chatter coming from the halls, but my classmates felt a million miles away as my mother stepped into the dark room and softly whispered, “Yes.”

She started toward her desk. Inside her office, I felt brave enough to ask, “Did he kill Dad?”

“The Circle has a long history of recruiting agents very young, Cammie. When Mr. Solomon joined, he would have been—”

“Did he kill my father?”

“Cammie, sweetheart...”

My lips began to tremble. The pressure I’d been feeling for months rose and swelled, and then I couldn’t stop it. The world was blurry and my cheeks were wet, and no matter how hard I tried, it was like I’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I’m so sorry, Cammie. I’m so sorry.”

“Where were you?” I could hear my voice breaking. “I
needed
you.”

“Cam,” my mother said softly. “I knew you were safe, sweetheart. The Baxters are good people—they’re great operatives—”

“They aren’t my family. I needed
you
!”

“Sweetheart, believe me, I wanted to come to you, but it wasn’t possible.”

I wanted to believe her, but Agent Townsend was like a ghost, whispering in my ear:
They won’t hurt her.

“Why didn’t you come to London, Mom?”

“I told you, Cammie. I was detained.”

It was the same phrase both Townsend and Professor Buckingham had used, but as I looked at my mother, I knew she hadn’t missed her flight, been caught in a meeting, lost her passport. They had meant
detained
as in handcuffs and hard cots and facilities run by the CIA.

“Detained how? Detained where? Langley?” I watched the light change in my mother’s eyes and knew that I was right.

“When an operative is accused of being a double agent, it’s standard operating procedure for anyone associated with him or her to be questioned. It’s protocol, kiddo. It’s
nothing
.”

“What about the other teachers? Professor Buckingham? Mr. Smith? Why weren’t they—”

“They were questioned, Cam. We were all questioned.”

“Then why were you late? Why are
you
the only one just getting back to school now?”

“I’ve known Mr. Solomon the longest.” She drew a deep breath. “I’m the one who hired him and brought him here, so naturally . . .” She trailed off. She didn’t look at me for a long time. “But I’m back now.” She caressed my hair. “You’re safe.” She pulled me to her, breathed deeply. “You’re
safe
.”

There are things that go unsaid between people, lingering under the surface for decades, for lifetimes. I’ve wondered sometimes if spies have more of those things or fewer. More, I think. There are just too many things that even the bravest people in the world aren’t brave enough to say out loud.

“Mr. Solomon came to me,” I whispered.

My mother stepped away. “I know.”

“He said they were wrong. He said he didn’t do it—that they’re after the wrong man. I . . .” I thought about the sadness in him as he’d hugged me. “I believed him.”

“Joe Solomon is an amazing operative, sweetheart.”

“So—”

“Amazing operatives make the best liars.” She sank onto the leather couch, seeming almost too weak to stand. “He’s never coming back, Cammie.”

In the years since my father died, I’ve seen my mother cry once, maybe twice, and never when she knew I could see her. But in that moment, tears welled in her eyes, and I didn’t know if she was speaking of Mr. Solomon or of my father as she whispered, “He’s never coming back.”

G
allagher Girls don’t skip class. We don’t play hooky, and there has never been a senior ditch day. Ever. But walking through the halls the next morning, I wanted to make an exception. I wanted to run—to hide like I’d never hidden before. To crawl back into bed and sleep a million years.

Turns out, I wasn’t the only one.

“Good morning, Ms. Morgan.”

I heard the floorboards creak behind me. I recognized the groggy voice. But the face that I saw when I turned wasn’t quite what I was expecting.

Sure, Agent Townsend’s hair was damp from a shower, and his clothes were fresh and neatly pressed, but his eyes were red and puffy. When he pushed past me and walked to his desk at the front of the room, he carried himself delicately, like a man who dearly wished the world would stop spinning. (His teeth, on the other hand, did seem significantly whiter.)

Note to self: never volunteer to help Elizabeth Sutton test one of her experiments.

The lights were off in the CoveOps classroom, but when Tina Walters paused by the door and reached for the switch, our teacher grumbled, “Leave them off.”

As we made our way to our chairs, Townsend squeezed his eyes shut as if our footsteps were rifle shots in the dark.

“I don’t care what you do with the next hour,” he said softly, easing into the chair behind his desk. “I don’t care how you do it. Just do it...
quietly
.”

People have bad mornings at the Gallagher Academy all the time—yawning girls who have pulled all-nighters, aching bodies struggling to climb the stairs after a particularly hard week in P&E. The first time I met Agent Townsend, I’d wanted him to feel as badly as I felt; and standing there that morning, I thought maybe he did.

Especially when the lights suddenly flashed on and I heard my mother say, “Well, hello.”

I saw him squint and jump—watched him turn to take in the woman by the door, but I don’t know if surprise would be the right word to describe it.

“Welcome to the Gallagher Academy, Agent Townsend. We’re so happy to have you here.”

Note to self: Rachel Morgan is a totally awesome liar.

“I wanted to say hello at breakfast, but . . .” She studied his haggard face. “I can see that you perhaps needed to sleep in.”

Townsend slowly turned his gaze toward me. “It must have been something I ate.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Our chef usually gets nothing but rave reviews.” Mom strolled across the front of the classroom. She kept her arms crossed, staring out the window, before slowly turning to the rest of the class. “Hello, girls.”

There was a splattering of
hello
s and
welcome back
s, but for the most part we were quiet—waiting.

“I must say, when the Gallagher trustees told me that the CIA and MI6 had recommended you for the position, I was surprised. I hope the pace at our little school isn’t too slow for you.”

“No,” he said, sinking to the corner of his desk. “If Joe Solomon can do it . . .”

I felt a flash of rage at the name, but if my mother felt the same, she didn’t show it.

“And how are you finding things?” she asked. “Is there anything you need?”

“You mean besides access to the sublevels?”

My mother nodded. “Yes. Professor Buckingham has apprised me of the new safety concerns as far as the subs go. We’re working on it.”

“I see,” Agent Townsend said, but the words sounded more like
yeah, right
.

Then a sort of shocked look crossed my mother’s face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Townsend. Please, continue. Don’t let me interrupt your lecture.”

She took an empty seat in the front row on the far right side of the room, and it was Agent Townsend’s turn to look surprised.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Morgan. Are you...staying?”

“Yes,” Mom said.

“Well, if I’d known, I would have prepared something special for the occasion.”

My mother smiled. “Oh, whatever you had slated for today will be fine, I’m sure. I just like to pop in occasionally to hear all of our faculty teach. Please, don’t let me stop you.”

I heard Bex stifle a giggle. Tina Walters cut her eyes at me.

“Excellent,” Townsend said with a smile. “You’re just in time to begin our study of the Circle of Cavan.”

Outside, the sky was a crisp, clear blue, but it felt like a storm was brewing inside our classroom. There was a static in the air so strong, I didn’t dare touch anything—afraid I’d feel a spark.

He turned to look at Mom. “If that is okay with you, of course, Mrs. Morgan.”

“That’s something that would typically be covered in Professor Buckingham’s senior level History of Espionage course, but given the circumstances, I think we can make an exception.”

I expected her to look at me—smile at me—something, anything, besides turning to take in the entire class and saying, “You see, girls, Agent Townsend is something of a legend in the clandestine services. I can’t think of anyone more qualified for this particular lecture.”

“Even Joe Solomon?” I doubt any of my classmates saw the malicious gleam in Townsend’s eyes.

I don’t think they heard the anger in my mother’s voice as she said, “No. Not even him.”

And with that, Townsend spun on us. He sounded almost like a real teacher when he said, “The most important thing that any of you should know about the Circle of Cavan is that it is an organization composed almost entirely of other organizations’ spies—I’m talking about double agents. Sleeper operatives. They have agents—traitors—at every level of every major security service in the world. They could be anywhere . . .” He moved around his desk. “Even here.”

I watched my classmates’ eyes as the Circle became more than just some legend about Gilly and a ball gown and a traitor and a sword.

“Of course, they operate so deeply underground that some in the clandestine services think the Circle is nothing but a ghost story—an elaborate legend. But in the past hundred years alone, they have been behind at least five assassinations—that we know of—and they’ve been strong instigators of three wars. They have sold the identities of dozens of CIA and MI6 undercover operatives to hostile governments, and they came closer than anyone outside the Secret Service will ever know to killing a sitting president of the United States.”

He crossed his arms and stared at us. “So make no mistake, they are
very real indeed
.”

We sat there for fifteen minutes, listening to him cite facts as if the Circle was just another group or movement or cause—as if this wasn’t personal.

“What do they want?” I heard myself asking.

“Money. Power. Control of—”

“With me?”
I interrupted. “What do they want with me?”

I expected him to glance at my mother or avoid the question, but instead, he settled onto the corner of the desk. “That, we do not know. Yet.” He paused. “Anything you’d like to add, Rachel?”

I thought she’d tell him that was enough, that class was over. But instead my mother crossed her long legs and placed her elbows on the desk. “Perhaps you could talk a little about their history.”

He nodded. “Ioseph Cavan was Irish by birth, and conventional wisdom holds that his followers retreated to his ancestral home after Gillian Gallagher allegedly killed him.”

“Allegedly?” Bex said.

Townsend ignored her. “But now the Circle has strongholds in every corner of the world. It is important to understand that, unlike most political and religious-based groups, the Circle of Cavan has no cause—no calling or purpose beyond profit and power. They are large enough to be dangerous, and small enough to slip through cracks. They are mobile, careful, and very highly trained. And the scary thing is—for the most part—we’re the ones who trained them.”

“What does that mean?” Tina asked.

“It means I wasn’t lying when I said they are almost always double agents,” he snapped. “The Circle excels at isolating and recruiting agents who are young, vulnerable, or both.”

“But how do you know?” Tina asked.

A sly smile slid over his face as he stood and studied us all in turn. “Because I’m the man who tracks them.”

If we hadn’t hated him a lot, we might have liked him a little at that moment. But we did. So we didn’t.

“Make no mistake, girls, the Circle is dangerous not for what they are, but
who
they are. And
where
they are. And they could be anyone. They could be”—he turned to look at my mother—
“anywhere.”