by Ally Carter
“What is that?” Noah asks.
“That is the palace’s facial-recognition program chronicling everyone who entered the gala last night.” Megan leans back and crosses her arms. She knows that we’re impressed. She is impressed. And I have to admit she has the right to be.
“Can we get a copy of that — without anyone knowing we have it?”
“I already emailed it to a dummy account.” She scribbles out a username and password. “Anything else?”
“Marry me?” Noah whispers.
If Megan hears him she ignores the question. She just keeps looking at me as I shake my head slowly back and forth.
“That was …” Words fail me. I don’t like to owe favors and I hate to be caught off guard. Thirty minutes with Megan and I am both. Embassy Row is turning into a far more dangerous place than I ever thought it could be.
Walking out of the embassy, Noah’s long, lanky legs carry him up ahead. For a moment, Megan and I are alone.
“Well, thanks,” I say, and reach for the scrap of paper, but Megan tugs it away, just out of my reach.
“So are you going to tell me now?” she asks.
“Tell you what?”
Megan spins on me, stopping and blocking my way.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Grace. And I’m sorry about what you’ve been through. But this” — she holds up the paper, accentuating the point — “whatever this is. It won’t bring her back.”
“It’s not —”
“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on? Fine. But don’t lie to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
She hands me the paper. “And, Grace? Whatever this is … be careful.”
Megan pushes through the gates and starts down the sidewalk. I feel as much as see when Noah comes to stand beside me.
“You ready?” he asks.
I smile and try to convince myself the answer is yes.
Brazil is totally dark when we get there. Noah leads me through a side gate to a small door at the back of the building. It’s smaller than a lot of the other embassies, but it’s always been one of my favorites. So many of the buildings on Embassy Row are palaces — fortresses. The Brazilian embassy always looked, from the outside at least, like a home.
Noah knocks on the door. When no one answers he uses a key and lets himself in. As far as I know there are no keys to the US embassy. Just a whole lot of marines with semiautomatic sidearms.
“Come on,” Noah tells me. “We can work upstairs.”
“Are we supposed to be here?” I ask him.
“I told you. I have dual citizenship. It’s my night with my dad.”
“I mean, the place seems empty.”
“It’s not,” Noah says with a smile.
“Then where is everyone?”
Just then, as if on cue, there’s a massive, thunderous roar. Whoops and applause and cheers in Portuguese.
Only then do I realize that the building isn’t dark. Not exactly. The lights in the hall are out but there is a faint, flickering glow coming from a room not far away. Slowly, Noah and I creep toward it. As we pass, I can see the light is from a television that is so large it practically covers one wall of the big room. Inside, it seems like the entire Brazilian delegation is gathered around it, watching a soccer match that could be taking place anywhere in the world.
One man sits in the center of the crowd. Even among what has to be at least thirty people it’s impossible not to notice him. His skin is dark and smooth. He has broad shoulders and the kind of super intense gaze that could make most girls melt.
But I am not most girls.
I only go a little wobbly.
When he sees Noah and me, he nods and smiles in our direction.
“Oh my gosh,” I mutter to myself. “That guy is hot.”
“That guy’s my dad.” Noah says it like he’s said it a lot. “The ambassador.”
“Oh.” I can’t quite hide my embarrassment. “Should I say hi and introduce myself or something?”
“Are you kidding?” Noah sounds like I’ve just suggested I go jump off a cliff. Again. “That’s his old team playing. We do not interrupt my father when his team is playing.”
“Your dad was a soccer player?”
Noah looks disgusted. “Footballer.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“And, yes. National team, World Cup, Olympics — you name it. He was, as you Americans say, a stud. Clearly it runs in the family. Now, come on.” He points toward the stairs. “Let’s get to work.”
“What about him?” Noah asks several hours later. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m sure it must be late. There are shouts periodically from downstairs. The game has ended and a new one has begun, but the embassy is still mostly dark. We haven’t actually laid eyes on Lila yet, but I can hear her moving around in the room next door, noisy but unseen. Like a very entitled, very tortured poltergeist. I’m half afraid she’ll float through the wall at any minute.
“Grace?” Noah says, pulling my attention back to the screen.
I look at the image on the laptop, lean closer to the man who is there in black-and-white. He is looking the wrong direction and we can’t tell whether he has a scar or not.
I shake my head. “Too short.”
Noah hits a button and the footage advances to the next man in line. “This guy?”
“No scar,” I tell him.
“Okay. How about …”
“I’m telling you, he was Caucasian. Six one or two. He moved like a guy who knew what he was doing. Like he had training and was sure in his skin. You know what I mean?”
“No.” Noah shakes his head. “I really don’t.”
“I’ve seen it all my life. I grew up around those guys. Special forces — I can spot them from fifty paces. You can’t have that much power in your body and not let it affect the way you move. I’m telling you, he looked like …” I trail off, shiver a little. I make myself look Noah right in the eye when I finish, “He looked like a killer, Noah. He is my mother’s killer.”
“Okay,” Noah says calmly, then stands. I can tell he’s tired of sitting, staring at the screen. He’s tired of feeling helpless and he’s not the only one. “But maybe he —”
“I saw him!” I snap before Noah can join the long list of people who have told me that I am delusional.
“I know,” he hurries to add. “I know. I was just going to say that maybe he’s not in here.”
“I thought everyone had to go through that checkpoint.”
“All the guests did. But maybe he wasn’t a guest. Or maybe he found a way around the main doors. He could have posed as a waiter and then changed into a tux in an air duct or something.”
“This isn’t a spy movie,” I tell him. It feels like maybe he’s not taking it seriously.
“I’m just saying that he might not be in here, Grace. And that’s okay.”
I stand now, too. “It’s not okay! I’ve got to find him, Noah. I’ve got to …”
“What?” Noah presses closer to me, looks down right into my eyes. “What? No, I’m serious. Let’s think this through. Let’s say you do find him — then what happens? Really, Grace. I’m asking.”
I stumble slightly back. “And then I make him pay.”
“And what does that entail? Tell me exactly what you are going to do.”
“I’m going to prove what he did. I’m going to prove …”
That I’m not making this up.
The lights come on in the hallway. There’s more laughing now, talking. The matches must be over — the party breaking up — because the Brazilian embassy is coming awake even as the rest of Embassy Row is going to sleep.
Noah reaches past me, carefully closes the laptop.
“Come on,” he tells me. “We’ve just been looking for one day. Tomorrow we can make it two.”
I gather my things and Noah walks me to the street. He seems oddly protective in a way I’ve never really known before. Noah doesn’t th
ink I’m a little kid; he doesn’t want to lock me in my room and keep me away from the dangers of the world. Noah isn’t like Jamie — not like Alexei. He just wants to make sure that when those dangers find me I’m in a position to take care of myself.
“You really do believe me, don’t you?” I ask when I reach the small gate that opens onto the sidewalk and the short walk home.
“Of course I believe you.”
“And you really are my friend.”
Noah grins. “Looks that way. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Just an unexpected development.” I shake my head.
Noah closes the metal gate behind me. “Yeah, well … welcome to Embassy Row.”
I start back up the hill, toward the US flag and my mother’s bed and a building full of people who would never spend a day helping me, even if they didn’t think it was a wild-goose chase.
“We’ll find him!” Noah yells through the fence, watching me walk away. “He’s out there somewhere. And we’ll find him.”
I have to smile. He’s such a dork. But I’m starting to realize the one good thing that’s happened: He’s my dork.
The wind is strong, blowing off the sea, and, overhead, the flags all stand like soldiers in their spotlights, cracking and popping in the breeze. I think about what Noah is saying. We’re not looking for a man. We’re looking for a needle in an international haystack.
“We’ll find him!” Noah yells again.
I laugh and turn and wave. I’m sure he cannot hear me when I say, “No. We won’t.”
I’m not sure how long I wander through the city. I’m not trying to get lost. I don’t want to get in trouble. But even though I know the shortest route back, I cannot bring myself to take it.
So I turn down shady alleys and wide promenades lined with darkened shops. I climb so high up a windy street that I can see over the wall and watch the sea. The moon is so bright here — I’d forgotten how much bigger it always seemed, like a spotlight shining down from Heaven. I wish it would shine upon the Scarred Man, but he doesn’t cross my path. The moon cannot lead me to him no matter how far I’m willing to go.
When the bells of the national cathedral chime midnight, I make sure I’m already on the other side of the embassy fence. The marine on duty raises his eyebrows — he knows I’m cutting it close. But I’m pretty sure the marines all like me. I’m a military kid. A member of their tribe. Besides, at the very least, my presence here has the potential to break up the monotony of their days.
I’m through the residence’s entrance and halfway across the black-and-white floor when Ms. Chancellor’s voice catches me off guard.
“Not quite so fast.”
I freeze, turn. Ms. Chancellor is still in her suit and heels, and I can’t help imagining her sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack. In heels. Skiing down the Alps. In heels. Skydiving. In heels.
“I’m in,” I say, forcing a grin. “Midnight curfew observed.”
“Grace, if I could have a word, please?” She asks it like a question but doesn’t wait for an answer. She just trusts me to follow her up the stairs.
“I get it, okay?” I’m saying. “I’m here. I’m shutting up. I’m going to bed like a good little girl.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
I don’t know what’s more concerning, Ms. Chancellor’s words or the look on her face. When she stops at the top of the stairs, I’m seriously worried that she might try to hug me.
So I take a step back. “I’m nobody’s sweetie.”
She takes off her glasses and tilts her head. “Do you really believe that’s true, Grace?”
“What are you talking about?”
Then Ms. Chancellor eases away. She must know I’m on the verge of jumping onto the railing and sliding away, bursting through the doors, and never, ever coming back.
I’d rather live in a war zone with my father than with people who call me sweetie.
“Did you know I knew your mother?” Ms. Chancellor asks, sinking down to sit on the top step. It’s oddly casual. It doesn’t suit her. “Oh, I know that you and I never had much reason to interact when you came here as a girl, but I joined your grandfather’s staff not long after your grandmother died. Your mother was about your age at the time. And she and I became very close. We stayed quite close.”
“So?” I say.
“So I was there the day your mother met your father. And I was there when your father asked your grandfather if he could marry her — that took some time to sink in, needless to say. I was with your grandfather when he learned that Jamie had been born. And when you were born. And, so, Grace … I know that you were her sweetie. And I know that now — even though she’s gone — you are not alone.”
“Okay. Whatever. Fine.”
It’s dark, but I can feel Ms. Chancellor staring at me — I feel it like a physical touch, and the sensation is almost too much. I’m tired of having so many emotions coursing through me. My nerves are raw and bleeding.
“You’ve been busy today.” Ms. Chancellor fiddles with her eyeglasses and I wonder if she knows that we were on her computer. Did Megan run and blab? But it isn’t like that, I remember. She doesn’t have to know what I’ve done — what Noah and I are still doing. She just has to know me.
I climb the final step and come inches from her. My voice is a whisper as I lean down and say, “You can’t change what I saw.”
“I know that,” Ms. Chancellor tells me. “But I can help you to deal with it.”
I start past her. “You had your chance to help.”
“You lost your mother, Grace!” Ms. Chancellor calls after me. I can feel my anger growing, rising even as Ms. Chancellor’s voice stays cool. “You lost her in a terrible and horrific way. And that is why your grandfather and I have decided that perhaps you should talk to someone here. Like you did after the accident.”
“Someone like a shrink?” I ask.
“Someone who can help you to come to terms with what happened. Put it behind you. Move on.”
She’s not asking me if I want to do this — if I think it is a good idea. She’s already made up her mind. Or, worse, she’s already made up his mind.
“I want to see my grandfather,” I say, starting down the hall.
“He’s not in his room.”
I stop, spin on her. “Then where is he?”
“At the moment, I’m afraid he’s —”
“Let me guess.” I cock an eyebrow. “Busy?”
“He has guests, Grace.”
I have to laugh. “It’s after midnight. What kinds of guests does he have after midnight?”
Ms. Chancellor doesn’t answer. She just glances down almost involuntarily at the closed doors of the large formal sitting room that is on the opposite side of the foyer.
I don’t wait to hear more.
“Grace!” Ms. Chancellor yells as she struggles to her feet, but she doesn’t have a prayer of catching me as I race down the stairs. The marines couldn’t stop me. Not a battalion of Sherman tanks.
There is only one thing on this earth that could stop me in my tracks and that is the sight of the doors sliding open.
I hear laughter. Talking. A whiff of cigar smoke slips from the room and rises up the stairs.
I’m staring through the haze of it when a man steps into the foyer. He is tall and broad shouldered, his dark hair closely cropped. He could be anyone. Through the cigar smoke, he is simply Generic Man Number Three. And perhaps I would just keep running were it not for the way he moves, a series of efficient, fluid steps, easy perpetual motion inside a well-tuned body. The kind of body that has been prepared and honed and trained.
From my place halfway down the stairs, I’m shrouded in shadows. But I can see the man. I can hear laughter. Some more men join him in the foyer. They are slapping backs and shaking hands.
“I’ll see you next week at your place, Pierre!” Grandpa calls to one man, who laughs and speaks in heavily accented English.
“And I expect y
ou to bring my money so that I can win it back.”
Through the sitting room’s doors I see a table covered with brightly colored plastic chips and playing cards. Poker night. My grandfather has been hosting poker night.
Ambassadors fill the foyer. I recognize the prime minister and several of the men I saw at the palace.
The G-20 summit is nothing compared to the power that has been assembled around my grandfather’s poker table. The men say their good-byes, their breath no doubt smelling like cigars and Grandpa’s good Tennessee whiskey.
There are at least a dozen men, but no women. It’s like peeking behind the curtain of some ancient, all-powerful boys’ club. There is so much testosterone swirling in the air that for a second I lose sight of the broad-shouldered man.
I move a little closer, stand on my tiptoes, try to see better.
The prime minister moves toward the door, raises his hand in a wave good-bye. “Until next week, my friend,” he tells my grandfather.
Someone opens the door.
The prime minister starts to leave.
But not before the man holding the door for him turns back to my grandfather, offers a nod of his head.
The light from the porch flashes across his face, and I can see the dark, soulless eyes, the high cheekbones. And the scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw.
“Grace.” Ms. Chancellor’s hand is on my arm. I realize, faintly, that I’m sliding, trying to sit on the cold stairs. My grandfather and many of his guests are still in the foyer, and I know we cannot have a scene. I cannot cause an incident. Now would be an inopportune time for a distraught teenager to yell “Murderer!” and go running down the stairs.
I know what she’s thinking. But she doesn’t have to worry about that. I’m too busy shaking.
“Grandpa knows him.”
I look up at Ms. Chancellor. She must see the betrayal in my eyes — the hurt as I say it again. “Grandpa knows him!”
“Come, Grace. Let’s wait for your grandfather upstairs.”
