A Spy Like Me (25 page)

Her voice was a whisper. “It was the mark of
death. He would die. Soon.”

Black circles of death. Monks. Ancient
societies. My frustration rose.

“What does this have to do with me? And my
mom?”

“My grandfather thought your mom had
something to with it. That she was here to take his life. But then
she disappeared, and you and your dad arrived. I joined Spy Games
to spy on you and your family. I thought your dad might pick up
where your mom left off.”

I choked on my argument. I thought about the
camera and all the money someone had sent my mom. Was she an
assassin? Or was she marked as a future victim by the circles?

“So this black mark is from some sort of
secret club?” I asked.

“Yes,” Aimee said. “My grandfather found out
I was working for your dad and was furious. He forced me to
disappear.” She snapped her fingers. “No good-byes. No
explanations. Just the letter. Then he hired Malcolm to take my
place.”

“My family is not dangerous.”

At least not me and Dad. Mom used to go on a
lot of trips. I thought they were for her scrapbooking business.
But maybe they were official trips to kill people.

My next words were hard to speak. “The same
circles are on our door.”

“I tried to tell my grandfather that, but he
would not believe me. And then you started poking your nose around
where you should not. That did not look good.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“It was always about my mom,” I murmured.

I didn’t know whether to be furious, happy,
or sad. The conflicting emotions whirled inside me, pulling me one
way and then another every few seconds. The monk groaned.

Aimee put her arm around his back. “I must
get you to help.”

He pulled me close again. “The last vision. I
know the place.”

His ragged breaths were filled with pain. He
tried to tell me but his words jumbled together and he spoke
nonsense. Aimee put a hand to his face.

“He is burning up. He must go now.”

I put my hand behind him to help her. This
man had risked everything, and he might lose his life, for me. As
much as I wanted to hear more of Aimee’s explanation, I had to hear
the rest of his story.

“No.” She pushed my hand away. “I need your
help.”

What? “I can’t help you. I must help
him!”

Tears filled her eyes once more. “I need you
to save my grandfather. Please? I can bring this man to a hospital.
I speak the language. But I cannot do that and save my
grandfather.”

I stared at the monk, the pain etched in the
lines on his face, the weariness of weeks or months of being held
prisoner. He’d put himself last, and me first. A girl from a vision
who he didn’t even know existed until today. He had faith. But
could I trust Aimee?

“You do not trust my grandfather, and you are
right. Jolie does not always make the right decisions. He has a bit
of a temper.” She twisted her hands, not able to meet my eyes. “He
is probably involved in something illegal but I know nothing about
his business. I am still your friend. I am like you.” She lifted
her head. “Trying to save my family.”

Her words sunk in deep, taking root and
reminding me of all the reasons I’d lied or done something wrong.
At the Extravaganza preliminaries, someone, still didn’t know who,
had me shoot Jolie. Had that been a warning for him? Maybe today at
the finals, they’d finish the job. Maybe instructions were waiting
up at the table for me. Maybe I’d be a distraction, while some
minion from a secret society finished the job. Or maybe it was my
mom who would be doing the killing. I had to know.

“Fine. I’ll go see what your grandfather is
up to, but only if you’ll see that this monk gets treatment and
money to leave the country.”

Aimee opened her mouth to speak but a gunshot
rang out, echoing in the small chamber.

This time, we both screamed.

The shot glanced off the wall with a spray of
dust. The butler was crawling toward us, the revolver hanging from
his hand. I didn’t have time to think, just react.

I’d watched just enough spy thrillers with my
dad. My leg shot out and caught the butler in the face. One more
kick, and his weapon skittered across the floor. His head fell to
the floor and he didn’t move, knocked out.

“Is he one of the bad guys?” I asked.

“I do not know.” Aimee shook her head. “I
will come back later for him. Quick. My grandfather is in trouble.
I can feel it.”

I grabbed the heavy revolver and shoved it
down the back of my pants just in case. It felt bulky and
obvious.

“One more thing. In my apartment, in my
bedroom closet is a whole lot of cash. If I don’t make it, take
half and give it to the monk to leave once he is well. Then take
the other half and leave it for my dad, for Spy Games.”

She nodded. I stood, unable to turn around
and leave. She was still my friend, and this was good-bye, possibly
forever. She pulled me into a hug and whispered in my ear.

“I am sorry. For everything. For not letting
you know somehow that I was okay. For not telling you the truth
from the start. “

We clung to each other, both of us reliving
the memories, the laughter, the sharing we’d experienced in our
short friendship. She was my first friend in France, and I didn’t
get nearly enough time with her. I wanted to apologize for not
asking more questions, for not insisting she tell me about her
life. Instead I’d let her distract me and had focused on my
problems. Now I wanted to hear about all her troubles with her
grandparents, and her memories of her parents before they died. But
the words stuck in my throat. Before I could respond, she kissed my
cheeks and left with the monk leaning on her. We parted. Probably
forever.

At the doorway, the monk turned. “Stay safe.
Protect your life.”

I ran back through the tunnels, my thoughts
confused, my heart aching. I stormed up the stairs, down the
hallway, up more stairs, and burst into Jolie’s kitchen.

Empty.

My feet felt rooted to the ground. My mind
was back in the catacombs, reliving my knife-throwing and the
crimson spreading across the butler’s crisp white shirt. I could’ve
killed him. I leaned over and rested my hands on my knees,
breathing in and out, in and out. Holy crap! I had a revolver
sticking out the back of my pants. And some monk just told me my
family was part of a secret ancient society, and another herd of
monks was after me. To kill me!

I couldn’t think about my life as a Dan Brown
novel. Maybe the monk had breathed catacomb air for a wee bit too
long or had his stories mixed up. I had to focus. Aimee wanted me
to save her grandfather. Everything I’d worked for I had to turn
away from—vindication, justification, all of it. But for some crazy
reason, it felt right. I yanked off the flower pin on my shirt and
crushed it under my heel, our recorded conversation gone forever,
any incriminating evidence destroyed.

At the front door, I paused, scanning the
Extravaganza. I needed to mix with the people. The crowds milled,
the dancers danced, the singers sang, the mimes mimed and none of
them knew the truth. I slipped out the door and joined the
flow.

A crowd of people strutted past. Old and
young, male and female all dressed in black trench coats and
yapping nervously. Spy Games? A shiver ran through the core of my
body. Why were they here? I thought about the times I’d zoned out
at staff meetings. I thought about Dad’s plans to include a
well-known businessman after the Louvre disaster. The teams flooded
the street and sidewalks. Amidst the dark sunglasses, baseball
caps, old-man hats, trench coats ,and pea coats, I didn’t spot
Malcolm. He was supposed to be working for Spy Games. Dad had put
him in charge of a group because of his “spy look.” Please.

The groups weaved in and around the reporters
and mimes looking for someone. One spy client waved his arms and
shouted Jolie’s name to his group. My dad had asked Jolie to be an
informant and hand out clues? Then Jolie had told the truth. He was
working with my dad. This was so not in the plans. Damn.

The news Jolie had been spotted rippled
through the teams. Three of them approached him like school
children gathering around the most popular kid. They jostled for
position. Their greedy hands reached forward hoping to touch his
apron or grab the clue. I wanted to sprint forward and pull them
all back, let them know that Spy Games had turned dangerous—as in
life-or-death dangerous. But my feet wouldn’t move, and I watched,
helpless, numb from all the surprises thrown at me.

One group, led by a tall man with silver
hair—another wannabe—arrogantly pushed his way past the reporters
and through the jockeying crowd. He strode up to the great pastry
chef who would propel him to victory. He spoke to Jolie, and
received not even a look or a wave of the hand. Red crept around
the guy’s collar line and up his neck. What would he do? In front
of his group, leading the charge, would he tolerate being ignored?
He cleared his throat and spoke again. Spy Games’ clients pressed
in on them.

Jolie took a deep breath and turned, his body
expanded to full height and breadth. French sputtered out of his
mouth. Too bad he was too annoyed to speak in English. Another
client in a trench coat approached Jolie who threw his hands up in
the air in defeat. His face turned redder and redder as the spies
all called out for the clues. And then out of the corner of my eye,
I caught a flash of dark hair.

Malcolm.

I left Jolie for the moment and inched my way
through the crowd, closer and closer, squeezing between two
reporters huddled in conversation. I grabbed a tray of pastries and
lifted it up in front of my face, a pitiful attempt at camouflage.
The few pastries on it weren’t even stacked high enough. So with
the confidence of a trained F.B.I. agent, I made my way to all the
contestants’ tables, and when they weren’t looking, I grabbed a
pie, a cake, or some kind of pastry to build my tower.

I absolutely could not let Malcolm see
me.

About ten yards away, I peeked around a
strawberry tart. Malcolm was shaking his finger in the face of a
street mime with black lips and black triangles above and below his
eyes. I gripped the tray to prevent myself from dropping it and
running. Taking baby steps, I moved as close as I could without
being obvious. I turned my back and listened. The tower of pastries
wobbled a bit. The frosting shone in the sun. My arms strained
under the weight.

“What the hell is your problem?” Malcolm
snarled.

“Just watching out for you.”

“Go back home. You haven’t left me alone
since I found her.”

The mime laughed. “Does someone have a little
crush? Do you know how dangerous that is? Thank God I’m here. To
get the job done.”

Malcolm lowered his voice, and I couldn’t
hear.

I pushed through the crowds a bit further.
How did Malcolm know the mime so well?

The mime spoke. “Do you have the guts to take
out the old man, or should I?”

Old man? There could only be one old man they
were talking about, and I doubted they meant take him out for ice
cream. My arms shook harder, and I almost dropped the tray. Aimee.
She counted on her grandfather. She loved him. She needed him. And
in one big flood my feelings toward Jolie changed. I wanted to save
him for real.

They were talking about murder.

“Back off,” Malcolm threatened. “I got this.
And I’ll take care of the girl too.”

The colors and sounds of the Extravaganza
swirled around me. The classical music started to sound like
something from a horror movie—the part where the main character
gets killed. The sugary smells made me feel sick. The
M
word
sat in the back of my throat, and I had to take in deep
breaths.

I rushed away on wobbly legs, scared I’d give
in to my impulse to slam my tray of delights into their faces. Why
would the mime be following Malcolm around? Why would they want to
murder Jolie? And what girl would they be taking care of? Me? I
remembered the black circles burned into Jolie’s backdoor. And our
door. Was Malcolm really a part of that? Some ancient secret
society of assassins?

Jolie’s voice roared above the crowd. He held
out his arms in a lame attempt to ward off the Spy Games’ teams.
But he must have had enough, because with a grand flourish, he
reached into his coat and threw what had to be the next clue into
the crowds. The papers fluttered in the breeze, dancing over the
heads of the spies.

In a mad frenzy, they rushed forward,
knocking over reporters, grabbing at the air, desperate for the
clue. He never should have underestimated the competitive drive and
determination of the people that sign up for Spy Games. I never
would again. My eyes widened as a couple of the clues completed
whirly birds and landed gently on the top of Jolie’s entry to the
contest. Silence gripped the crowds as the last clue landed. It was
a perfect distraction for me to talk to Jolie, whisper words of
warning in his ear. I crouched down, but as I approached, men in
tuxedos closed in on me. Jolie’s minions. Who else could they
be?

They stood in a perfect line, not saying a
word, their faces unreadable. I half expected them to start kicking
up their legs in a line dance they were so perfectly organized. Did
they spring from the cobblestones? Maybe it was coincidence. I
waved my hand at them, gesturing I needed to get through.

“
Excuse-moi
!”

They didn’t blink an eye. Damn. I was
stuck.

“Savvy?”

I whipped around. Dad? The lines on his
forehead looked like mountain ridges.

“Hey, Dad!” I forced a smile and waved, a tad
bit relieved.