Inside the Shadow City (19 page)

Love,
Mom

It was only then that I remembered we'd been out all night. The Irregulars were in serious trouble. We collapsed in a miserable clump in the living room and tried to come up with a plan, but we hadn't been home for more than five minutes when there was a knock at the door. I stood on tiptoe to see through the peephole. Standing in the hallway was a very dapper man.

“Who is it?” I called through the door.

“FBI,” answered the man.

I motioned for the other girls to hide out of sight.

“May I see some identification, please?” I asked.

The man flashed a badge in front of the peephole.

“Who are you here to see?”

“Ananka Fishbein,” said the FBI man.

“I'm sorry, but my parents aren't at home. Can you come back later?”

“I'm afraid I can't, Miss Fishbein. This is urgent.”

Had I been alone in the house, there's nothing he could have said that would have persuaded me to open the door. But since I had backup, I figured it was probably best to get any questioning out of the way before my parents came home. I opened the door, and the man stepped inside. He was a little slicker than I would have expected, with a complicated haircut and carefully manicured fingernails.

“Would you like to have a seat?” I asked, showing him into the living room.

“Yes, thank you.” He lowered himself onto the couch, taking pains not to wrinkle his suit.

“What's this all about?” I asked, sitting down and trying to sound casual.

The man leaned toward me menacingly.

“We're looking for a friend of yours, Miss Fishbein. A girl your age. Four feet tall, white hair, pale complexion. Ring any bells?”

“What happened to her?” I asked, wondering how the FBI could know that Kiki was missing.

“We'll get to that in a minute. Could you tell me her name, please?”

I hesitated for a moment too long and the man detected my nervousness.

“I could take you in if I need to, Miss Fishbein.”

“Her name's Kiki Strike,” I said, and instantly hated myself for saying it.

The man jotted the name down on a pad of paper.

“Do you know where I could find her?”

I shook my head.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Not for a week, at least,” I said. I was done with the truth until I figured out what the man was aiming for.

“Any idea where she might have been last night?”

“No.”

“Where were you?” His eyes had locked on mine, and he stared at me without blinking. It was a run-of-the-mill interrogation technique, and I wasn't going to fall for it.

“Spending the night with some friends.” I'd always heard that the best way to lie was to stay as close as possible to the truth. “Could you please tell me what this is all about?”

The man settled back on the sofa. As he crossed his legs, I saw that his shoes were handmade. His suit was also surprisingly flamboyant for a government employee. He looked more like an international playboy than someone paid to uphold the law.

“So tell me how you met this …” He looked down at his notes. “Kiki Strike.”

“We go to the same school.”

“Ever noticed anything unusual about her?”

“Not really,” I said, trying to look innocent.

“Well, your friend isn't who she says she is. Her name isn't Kiki Strike. In fact, she isn't even an American.”

The conversation was getting quite interesting.

“Okay, then, who is she?”

“She's an international assassin.”

I'd thought I was ready for anything.

“She's twelve!” I uttered in disbelief.

“I didn't say she was in it alone.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a grainy photo. For a moment I expected to see one of the Irregulars. “Recognize her?” he said, holding up a picture of a young Verushka. She was wearing military fatigues and aiming a machine gun at the camera.

“This is your friend's mentor, a woman named Verushka Kozlova. Ms. Kozlova was once a member of the Pokrovian royal guard, but she betrayed her employers and joined the revolution. Now she's wanted for numerous crimes, including the assassinations of Princess Sophia of Pokrovia and her husband.

“Verushka Kozlova is a very dangerous woman, Miss Fishbein. She's an accomplished sniper, she speaks a dozen languages, and she's mastered most of the martial arts. She's been training your friend for more than a decade.”

“
Training her?
” I managed to mumble. “To do what?”

“Eliminate her targets.”

“Targets?”

“Yes, I believe you're familiar with one of the targets of the operation as well. Princess Sidonia of Pokrovia?”

My head was swimming.

“She goes to my school, too.”

“As long as Princess Sidonia and her mother are
alive, there's a chance they could return to rule Pokrovia. Ms. Kozlova will stop at nothing to kill them. In fact, she and your friend came very close to accomplishing their goal last night. Are you sure you know nothing about it?”

“About what?” I asked.

The man watched me silently for what seemed like ages. I made an effort not to squirm.

“Miss Fishbein, are you aware of the trouble you'll be in if you choose to aid a known assassin?”

“Yes, sir. I am.” I wasn't, but I had a feeling that it wouldn't be good.

“If you hear from Kiki Strike, I want you to call me immediately.” He rose from his seat and handed me a business card with the FBI logo stamped on the top and the name Bob Goodman written across the bottom.

“I will,” I promised.

I walked him to the door. When he stepped into the hallway, he stopped and turned to face me.

“One last question, Miss Fishbein. Do you know how Kiki Strike might have gotten underneath the Princess's house?”

I tried my best to look confused.

“Underneath her house? No, sir. I have no idea.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Fishbein,” said the man.

“Any time,” I responded, hoping he didn't take the offer seriously. I watched him walk to the stairway. Only when the sound of his footsteps had faded away did I close the door of my apartment.

As soon as they heard the door slam shut, the other Irregulars rushed into the living room.

“How much did you catch?” I asked.

“All of it,” whispered Betty, who was trembling with anxiety. “We were hiding in the hall closet.”

“Kiki's an assassin?” muttered Oona in disbelief.

“That's what the man said.” I still hadn't decided what to believe.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“I don't know. Kiki was up to something, that's for sure. But there was something strange about that FBI guy. His shoes weren't right. I'm pretty sure they were handmade.”

“There's a rule against wearing handmade shoes in the FBI?” Luz scoffed, but Betty was nodding.

“Awfully expensive for a civil servant,” she said. “I wish I could have seen them.”

“Anyway, it doesn't matter whether he was lying or not,” I said. “I know what we have to do.”

“What?” asked Oona.

As the others waited eagerly for the answer, I experienced my first taste of power.

“Whether she's an assassin or just a lowly thief, we can't let her cause any more trouble. We have to stop Kiki Strike.”

As you learned in
chapter 2
, there are many tricks you can use to expose a liar. Unfortunately, you're not the only one who knows them. So when you find yourself in a position where telling a little, tiny, insignificant fib or two is in the interest of the common good, it's an excellent idea to stick to the following guidelines.

1.
Always try to be yourself.
Your friends and family know how you usually behave, so they'll be quick to spot it if you start sweating, talking too quickly, or gesturing wildly— unless that's what you're usually like.

2.
Practice makes perfect.
If you have to tell a fib, practice in front of a mirror until it's so familiar that you could repeat it in your sleep. That way, when the time comes, you'll feel perfectly in control and you won't end up stumbling over your words.

3.
The more detailed your story, the better.
It may sound a little suspicious if you say, “I couldn't have stolen that priceless artifact from the museum because I was with my friend Betty all day.” Instead, try to make your fib a little more interesting. “I was with my friend Betty Bent at the library looking for books on puppies.”

For additional credibility, feel free to add further details that can't possibly be checked. For instance, you might go on to elaborate, “I've been thinking about getting a Chihuahua, because I've read that they bite more people than any other dog.” Of course, don't add so many details that you won't be able to memorize your story. There's always a chance that you will have to repeat it at a later date.

4.
Make it embarrassing.
Few people will doubt a story if it sounds like something you'd rather not admit. So instead of telling the principal you missed class because you were at the doctor, try telling her you went to see the doctor because you had a terrible case of diarrhea. She probably won't ask too many questions.

5.
Most importantly, try to stay close to the truth.
If you don't feel like you're lying, you won't look like it, either.

Joan of Arc, France's favorite girl warrior, was only fourteen years old when she left home to fight for her country. Some say the voice of God was whispering in her ear, urging her to take up arms. Others claim that the voices inside her head were clear evidence that the girl was a little loopy. Whatever you choose to believe, there are certain facts that can't be disputed. She was fourteen. She was a girl. And she was about to lead the French army against their mortal foes, the English.

What many people don't know is that the voices had been egging Joan on for more than two years before she finally summoned the nerve to kick some English butt. You can hardly blame her for stalling. After all, Joan was little more than a scrawny peasant lass, and she lived at a time when goats were more valued than girls. But Joan was no coward. She just wasn't certain she was the right person for the job.

Of course, these days it's hard to take a pleasant stroll
in France without stumbling across a statue of a tiny girl dressed in knight's armor. There's little doubt that Joan was indeed the right girl for the job. She just needed a little convincing. And therein lies the moral of this side trip to the fifteenth century. Not everyone is born with a desire to lead. But in times of crisis, even girls who would rather stay at home and tend to the pigs should answer the call of duty.

• • •

If you had come to me in the hours after Kiki Strike's disappearance and asked me to choose the next leader of the Irregulars, I wouldn't have nominated myself. At the time, I thought Oona would make a much better choice. She had the confidence it takes to get people to sit up and pay attention—and the temper to make sure they did. In fact, if anyone had actually offered me the role, I probably wouldn't have taken it. I might have preferred to spend my time catching rabid raccoons with my bare hands or defusing bombs while blindfolded. But once we knew that Kiki was gone, somebody had to take charge. The subject wasn't discussed, and there was never a vote, but somehow I ended up with the job.

I never dreamed that the Irregulars would take me seriously. I had none of Kiki Strike's charisma, and the only thing I'd ever led was a lunchroom line. Standing in front of the other girls, I felt like the pudgy, line-fumbling understudy of a brilliant Broadway actress. But though I longed to step out of the spotlight, I knew the Irregulars were looking to me to come up with a plan. So I did. If Kiki Strike is still alive, we have to find her, I informed
the group, trying to keep a tremor from my voice. And we aren't going to turn her in to an overdressed FBI agent. Assassin or not, Kiki needs to answer to
us
first. We deserve to know what she was after and why she chose to betray us. Once she answers our questions, I said, we can then decide how to punish her.

To my surprise, no one argued, although I suspected that a couple of girls would have preferred a plan with a little more violence. Luz was eager to recover the gold by any means necessary. Oona just wanted to make Kiki pay. And while sweet-tempered Betty refused to believe that Kiki had abandoned the Irregulars, she had to agree that Kiki owed us an explanation. By the time the Irregulars left my apartment, they not only had a new leader—they had a new mission.

Unfortunately, I didn't foresee how long it would be before the Irregulars could put my plan into action. DeeDee spent three long weeks being poked by doctors and prodded by nurses. Her faithful housekeeper kept quiet and never told DeeDee's parents about the mysterious circumstances surrounding her accident, but DeeDee was still forbidden from conducting experiments until her head wound healed. Her parents locked up her laboratory and confiscated her chemicals. She may have survived an explosion, but for a while, I worried that the boredom might do DeeDee in.

The rest of us weren't much luckier. When my mother and father returned from New Haven, I met them at the door with a carefully crafted fib that involved an early-morning trip to the library. I even slyly suggested they check my story with the librarian at the Abingdon branch
of the New York Public Library. My parents nodded along, but I could tell they didn't believe a word of it. For several weeks, they paid an annoying amount of attention to my comings and goings. They also decided they preferred a tidy house and kept me mopping and scrubbing for hours each day. But aside from the unsightly calluses I developed, I suppose I got off easy. Betty's parents grounded her and paid a sadistic babysitter to make sure she stayed in bed at night. And of course, Luz fared the worst. When she hadn't shown up from her summer job, her mother had called the police. They had already put out an all-points bulletin and were trying to locate a missing entomologist by the time Luz showed up covered in dirt and soot. However ingenious her excuse may have been, she wasn't allowed out of her bedroom until the beginning of school.