by Ally Carter
“Hey, Megan,” I say the next day.
Technically, Megan and her mom don’t live in the embassy; they reside in an apartment on the grounds. Once upon a time, these rooms were servants’ quarters for the large estate, but now they are reserved for the most essential personnel. I know Megan’s mother’s work is important. And risky. And super, super secret.
I tell myself that’s why Megan doesn’t bother asking me inside.
“What’s up?” she says, shutting the door behind her. For a moment, I wonder if there’s a boy in there. For another moment, I wonder if it’s Noah.
“I wanted to tell you something. Or a couple of things, actually.”
“Okay.” Megan doesn’t look or sound as mad as she should.
“First, I’m sorry. For not telling you about … the other times.”
She waves this away as if I might be wasting her time, so I take a deep breath and plow on.
“And the second thing is that I figured out where the Scarred Man went the night I followed him. I know where … if you’re still interested.”
“Where?” Megan asks.
“Here,” I tell her. “He was meeting someone here. In the US embassy. In the basement.”
It takes a long while for Megan to speak. And when she does, she just says, “Come on.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, but Megan keeps walking.
We’re climbing up a busy street, heading toward the palace. Something big is drawing her up this hill, and I am almost afraid to follow.
“You know how we’ve been wondering who the Scarred Man’s target might be?” Megan says to me.
“Yeah.”
“Well, our list of possibilities just got a lot bigger.”
We turn the corner, and I see flags — dozens of them — all standing in a row, lining the long grassy lawn that sits in front of the palace. It’s royal property — a public garden on which I have never seen a member of the public set foot. Now scaffolding rises into the sky. Spotlights cover the square, and in the air there is the echo of hammers and saws — shouting men working all day as they raise a stage. Bleachers line the square.
“What is all this?” I ask.
“The G-20 summit is this week. It was supposed to be in Prague, but there was a problem with the venue, so they’ve moved it here. Mom told me last night.” Megan glances quickly to the square then back to me. “Think about it … Presidents. Prime ministers. Kings and queens. They’re all going to be in one place at one time. I wasn’t that worried about it because security for the G-20 is always super tight. But if he’s already gotten into our embassy …” Megan trails off. It isn’t hard to figure out what comes next.
“Then he can get in anywhere,” I say.
I watch the crew work, the whole time hearing the Scarred Man’s words: There are many perfectly adequate ways to die. I just have to find one.
“Who’s coming?” I say.
“Officially, the G-20 summit is a meeting of the leaders of the twenty largest economies in the world.”
“And unofficially?”
“They’re all people that someone might want dead.”
Walking into the embassy, Megan and I can instantly feel the difference. We have to stand aside and let a parade of people carrying giant bouquets of flowers squeeze by. There are ladders against the wall, covered with workers in overalls cleaning windows. The closer we get to the kitchen, the more we can smell roasting meats and baking breads. It’s like all the aromas of the café district have been pumped inside our walls. And I walk on, knowing that these are not the only intrusions.
“Whoever he was meeting had access to the US embassy,” I whisper to Megan. “Whoever he’s working for is inside the embassy.”
I feel vulnerable, betrayed. All my life I’ve been told that the embassy was a safe place — my safe place. No matter what was happening, all I had to do was reach its gates and I would be okay. It’s a terrible thing to realize you’ve been living a lie.
When a group of men in dark suits comes toward us, it’s like a swarm of bees approaching.
Megan and I press ourselves to the side of the hall and wait for them to pass.
“Does it have to be an American?” Megan whispers back. “I mean … does it really? You got into the embassy through the tunnels. So did the Scarred Man. Maybe this was just a place to meet?”
The men have stopped at the end of the hall, and I can hear them talking about angles and sight lines, new cameras and barricades. But I’m looking at Megan, and I’m already shaking my head. “Pretty risky meeting place.”
“But maybe it was just a meeting place,” Megan says, hopeful.
I’m willing to let her have the point, especially since it’s a point that I’m pretty sure is just supposed to make me feel better.
“Do you ever wonder why?” Megan asks after a moment.
“Why what?”
“Why would he do it? Your mom was an antiques dealer, right? A nice lady. I never heard anybody say anything against her. So why would someone travel halfway around the world and kill her?”
Honestly, it’s a question I’ve never considered before. And I can’t bear to consider it for too long now.
“They knew each other. Maybe he was her ex-boyfriend or something. Maybe it was personal.”
“Yeah. I guess that could be it.”
But I can tell from the tone of Megan’s voice that she isn’t certain. That’s okay. I haven’t been certain about anything in years.
“That will be very difficult!” I can hear Ms. Chancellor’s voice floating down the hall. For the first time, I notice her in the midst of the swarm of men. Her hair is up and her glasses are on. She’s all business as she tells them, “This isn’t the local Hilton. Our neighbors value their own privacy and security as much as we value ours.”
The main man looks at her and her clipboard then chuckles like she doesn’t know who she’s up against. I don’t have the heart to warn him that he’s the one making the mistake.
Ms. Chancellor takes off her glasses. She gives the men her biggest smile. “Of course you gentlemen have your protocols. And I for one am very grateful for that. Really, so impressive. But I’m afraid the fence in question is technically the property of the nation of Germany, and I can’t imagine that they’re going to be, shall we say, sniper-friendly. But if you’d like to discuss it with them, then by all means, I am happy to make a call. The ambassador is a close personal friend.”
This seems to shut the men up.
“I think we can make other arrangements,” the leader tells her.
Ms. Chancellor gives a very sympathetic smile. “I think that might be best. Now, if you gentlemen will come with me, I’ll show you to the rose garden.”
They’re walking away when Ms. Chancellor finally sees us.
“Just a moment, gentlemen. I’ll meet you outside,” Ms. Chancellor calls, then turns her attention fully to Megan and me. “Hello, girls. I’m so glad I ran into you. It seems there has been something of a development.”
“The G-20 summit is coming to town,” I say like it’s totally old news. Which, by now, it totally is.
“Yes,” Ms. Chancellor says, impressed. “It’s all very exciting. Unexpected. But exciting. And that is the nature of our business, isn’t it, girls?”
In unison, Megan and I chant, “Yes, Ms. Chancellor.”
“And, of course, as the United States’ official base of operations in Adria, it is up to us to host a very important event for our very important guests.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” one of the Dark Suits yells to her from down the hall. “Is it possible to cut down the tree by that wall?”
“No!” Ms. Chancellor snaps. “Do not touch the ambassador’s magnolia!” She starts off, but Megan calls after her.
“What event?”
“A party, dear,” Ms. Chancellor calls back.
“What guests?” I say, though, in my gut, I’m already certain of the answer. I know who the target
is even before Ms. Chancellor turns and tells us, “Well, the President and First Lady, of course!”
There is a big room in the embassy. Once upon a time, I think it used to be the main entrance hall, back when the building was the home of a spice baron. The ceilings are fifty feet tall here. There are two staircases that sweep upward from the parquet floors and then turn into a second-story balcony that runs around the entire room.
This is where we hold the parties.
It only took Ms. Chancellor forty-eight hours and five teams of florists to transform the space. There’s a stage in the center of the room, between the two curving staircases. A string quartet plays Mozart and Ms. Chancellor floats through the party in a tailored black dress and sky-high heels.
It isn’t a ball. This isn’t the palace. The dress Ms. Chancellor forced me into this time hits me at my knees and has a wide skirt lined with crinoline — it actually bounces and makes a noise when I move. But I’m not moving.
There are lots of offices on the second-story balcony, doors that are perpetually closed and locked. That is where I’m standing, watching, when they find me.
Megan has abandoned her camo cargo pants and is wearing a sundress with a little white sweater. She actually has flowers in her hair. Rosie is in a white dress with a full skirt and a big satin bow. She looks like she’s about to be somebody’s flower girl. And she hates it.
But I can’t really focus on them. Not when Alexei is wearing a dark suit with a blue tie that is the exact same color as his eyes. When he looks at me, I realize that that night on the wall wasn’t a dream. And now, when I look at him, I no longer think about Jamie.
“You okay?” When Alexei speaks, the words are low and almost under his breath. He’s speaking only to me — looking only at me. And the intensity of it is almost too much. I’m afraid that I might burn.
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
“No.” Alexei shakes his head. “You aren’t.”
It makes me want to fight — to run. Not because he’s wrong, but because he is right and I hate how easily he sees through me.
So I look away — anywhere but at him.
“Anything happening?” Rosie climbs onto the railing, leaning over in a way that might make anybody else tumble onto the floor below. But the difference is I know that Rosie might be secretly hoping that will happen.
“I don’t know,” I tell them, shaking my head and scanning the floor. “The guests are arriving, and everything looks okay.”
But things are definitely not okay. I can feel it. So I just keep leaning against the railing, watching the scene below, thinking how much easier this would be if I could just tell someone what was happening, wishing I could be the kind of girl that people would believe.
I’m still watching when Noah and Lila step through the metal detector by the door. Marines scan Lila’s bag. They sweep a wand over Noah’s pockets. I keep waiting for him to look up and see me, give that exaggerated curtsy, to make me laugh and feel like everything is going to be okay.
But Noah isn’t looking for me, and I can’t shake the feeling that nothing will ever be okay again.
“Do you want to dance, Grace?” Alexei asks me.
“No.”
“Grace!” Whatever I’ve said, I can tell that Megan sees it as an insult, maybe to our entire gender. But I don’t see what the fuss is about.
“No, thank you, Alexei,” I try again. Megan and Rosie just roll their eyes as if I have totally missed the point.
I keep my own eyes on the doors and the metal detectors and the Secret Service agents that survey the perimeter of the room. Everyone who enters tonight will be scanned. The staff was all searched this morning. There are alarms on every window, guards at every door.
Well, almost every door.
“Is it secure?” I ask Alexei, who nods.
“No one is opening that passage tonight,” he tells me. “We’ve barricaded it shut.”
“Yeah,” Megan chimes in. “I booby-trapped it every way I know. And I know a lot of ways. Trust me. If it budges” — she holds up her phone and shows me a blinking red dot on the screen — “I’ll know it.”
It should offer me a great deal of comfort, but it doesn’t. I’m not exactly sure that comfortable and I will ever be on a first-name basis again.
And that is when I see him.
“There he is,” I say. “There’s Dominic. He’s here.”
The Scarred Man is down below us. I watch him walk through the metal detectors. When the machine beeps and the red lights flash, he raises his arms and steps aside so an agent can examine him more closely.
“Why are they patting him down? He’s the prime minister’s head of security,” I say.
Megan shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. Secret Service won’t allow anyone to enter with a weapon tonight.”
It’s supposed to soothe me. But it doesn’t. I keep thinking of the Scarred Man’s words, the truth in what he said:
There are many perfectly adequate ways to die. I just have to find one.
“Rosie,” Alexei says. He sounds so sure of himself — of the situation. Like he’s in control. I’ve never felt in control a day in my life, and a part of me hates him for it. The other part of me is just grateful he’s on our side. “Why don’t you make yourself at home in his shadow?”
Rosie smiles. She looks as if she has been waiting for this moment her whole life — like at some point fairies came into her nursery, leaned over her crib, and said that someday she would get to trail an international assassin for an entire night. It’s like watching someone finally find her destiny as she says, “I’m on it.”
She bolts down the stairs, skirting between couples, dodging waiters. She is a tiny blond blur as she makes her way to where the Scarred Man stands and takes up her position no more than three feet from him.
“Okay, Megan,” Alexei says, turning to her. “Stay with your mother. Be close to her in case we need to tip off the authorities to something.”
“On it.” Megan turns and starts off.
I watch her go, but I can feel Alexei staring at me.
“It’s not going to come to that,” he tells me.
I nod but don’t dare speak.
“Grace —” Alexei’s hand is on my arm, warm and comfortable.
I hear a woman’s laughter. I see my mother walking across the balcony that wraps all the way around the room.
“Grace, is there something wrong?” Alexei asks, genuinely concerned. But I don’t dare tell him the truth. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For the other night. For dragging you into this. For —”
“Hey.” Alexei cups my face and finds my eyes.
“I’m sorry you promised Jamie that you’d keep me out of trouble.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s not agreeing with me at all. “Because I promised Jamie.”
“That night at the palace, where did you go?” I don’t know where that question came from, but I’m not trying to take it back. Somehow it’s been there, in the back of my mind, for days. “I saw you go upstairs after we danced. Why?”
“My father and I were arguing. I needed to get away and clear my head.”
“What were you arguing about?” I ask.
It takes a moment, but eventually Alexei lowers his gaze. He grips the railing and says, “You.”
Something in Alexei’s eyes keeps me quiet as he talks on.
“Adria has always been important, you know. Strategic. It was once the main trade route between Europe and the Far and Middle East. It has always mattered.”
I know what Alexei is saying, but I have no idea what he’s getting at.
“The United States and Russia, we have our own complicated histories. Our countries will never be true allies, Grace. And there are those who feel that, because of that, you and I can never be friends.”
Then, as if the words have conjured him, Alexe
i’s father appears in the center of the party. There’s no mistaking the look in his eyes as he sees his son standing with me.
“You should go,” I tell him.
“I’m okay here,” he says.
“No. Don’t make your father mad just to keep me company. Go. Circulate. I’ll be here.” Alexei turns away. He takes two steps, then stops and turns back to me. “You should go, too,” he says, and jerks his head to the bottom of the stairs.
To Noah.
I don’t realize I’m running down the stairs until I hear the rustling of crinoline. This is the part where Noah is supposed to laugh, to mock me and my puffy dress. But he just turns away, starts pushing through the crowd of people.
“Noah?”
He stops and stares at me. It’s like looking at a stranger.
“Noah, wait.”
When I reach for his hand he pulls away and I don’t try again. I just say, “The Scarred Man was meeting someone in the US embassy. That’s where he was. And now all the world leaders are here and …”
“So what, Grace?” Noah raises his arms briefly then drops them to his sides. It is the universal gesture for What do you expect me to do about it?
He has a point. Of course he does.
“I just wanted you to know that. And that I’m sorry. For lying.”
“You think I’m mad because you lied to me?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
Noah rolls his eyes and then admits, “Yeah. I am. But it’s not just that. I didn’t just believe you. I believed in you. I told you about my parents and Lila. I let you in. But you didn’t let me in. You didn’t trust me.”
“I did trust you. I just …”
“What?” Noah snaps.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
Because telling him would mean changing him. Changing us. Because how could I trust Noah when I couldn’t even trust myself?
Because I’m crazy.
“Because … I just couldn’t, Noah. I just couldn’t say it.”
Noah doesn’t soften. His expression doesn’t change.
“Good night, Grace.” Noah gives a formal bow. “Nice party.”
I watch Noah walk away, realizing that, even in this crowd of people, I am utterly, completely alone.
