The Echelon (Spy Girl Book 7)

by Jillian Dodd

  The concierge hands me a linen handkerchief to wipe my eyes. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in without specific consent.”

  I consider leaving, having Olivia hack into Madelyn’s phone and call and pretend to be her, but I really don’t have time for that.

  “All right,” I say, dramatically moving across the room and plopping down on the couch in a designer-clad heap. I cry out, “I’ll just have to wait here then.”

  When, as planned, he comes to sit next to me—either to offer comfort or get the rest of the scoop—I wrap my arm around his neck and perform a simple mixed martial arts submission hold known as the rear naked choke, which is often called a sleeper hold. Basically, I’m compressing his carotid arteries without crushing his airway.

  Within seconds, he loses consciousness.

  I quickly move him to a lying position so that it looks like he simply dozed off, grab the master key card from his wrist, and run to the stairs before he comes to in a few seconds.

  When he does, more than likely, he will be confused as to why he is on the couch. Our conversation will seem like just a dream. If not, I’ll have to use something with longer-lasting effects—like one of the tranquilizer darts.

  I rush up the stairs and let myself into the girls’ apartment. It’s spacious and beautifully decorated in soft neutrals, but there isn’t much in the way of personalization yet. I skip the master bedroom for now, going straight to the second bedroom, which should be Sophie’s room.

  There are a few personal effects spread haphazardly on a desk in the corner and a neat walk-in closet organized with designer clothing.

  After a thorough search of the entire flat, I come up empty, finding nothing of note other than a refrigerator stocked with only champagne and caviar and the fact that there is no luggage in Sophie’s room—which I find kind of odd.

  If she came here after her dad was killed, wouldn’t she have a suitcase?

  And, even if she shipped her clothing here, which would have taken the kind of foresight I don’t think she had, most young people in the UK enjoy traveling around Europe—particularly those who enjoy living in five-million-dollar flats—but maybe one of the Louis Vuitton suitcases in Madelyn’s closet is Sophie’s.

  When I decide I’ve seen enough, I go back down the way I came, via the stairs, but instead of leaving through the front entrance, I exit through the parking garage.

  I’m suddenly very worried that Sophie isn’t even here.

  T-MINUS:13:31:18

  Outside the building, I take my phone out of my bag, intending to call Terrance. Instead, I see that I have a few texts from Daniel.

  Daniel: The situation here continues to worsen. Since we last spoke, your brother and my father have both developed the rash. The Vice President is trying to have my dad removed from the presidency because he believes Dad’s not capable of making decisions when he’s afflicted with the disease. Sounds like Congress is going to approve it.

  Daniel: I can’t lose my dad, too.

  Daniel: Huntley, I need you. Please talk to me.

  I want to reply. To say something to console him. But I have nothing.

  And certainly no good news.

  So, I call Terrance.

  “I got in. There’s nothing there. Not a single clue. Can’t you track Sophie’s cell phone and tell me exactly where she is?”

  “We’re not finding any cell phone activity for Sophie—unusual for someone of her age. We think she’s using a burner phone.”

  “That would mean she’s afraid to be traced through her phone because she’s in danger. It’s certainly not because she can’t afford a calling plan.”

  “We agree,” Olivia adds. “It looks like she turned it off and took out the SIM card the same night her father was killed.”

  “Have you been able to track her movements after that? What about her credit cards? The CCTV cameras in London? Can’t you do some facial recognition wizardry to find her?”

  “Her credit cards have had no activity since that night either. The only reason we found out where she was staying is because of a post Madelyn made about her old university flatmate being in town, but she didn’t tag her.”

  “That means Madelyn knows something, too. Do you know where she is?”

  “We do not. Madelyn has also turned off her phone. We do know, however, based on an online invitation that she RSVP’d to a month ago, that she will be attending a friend’s divorce party tonight at nine o’clock. Address is being texted to you now. In the meantime, you have a little time to kill,” he says, ending the call.

  And, somehow, my feet know exactly where to go.

  T-MINUS:13:19:33

  It’s late, way past typical closing time, but there are lights on and people milling about inside the boutique, so I take a chance and pull the door open.

  “Your invitation, please,” a black-suited man says to me.

  “Um, I don’t have one. I just happen to be in town. Thought I’d stop by.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’m afraid this is a private event. Invitation only.”

  “Does that mean Thomas is here?” I ask, not giving up.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer that,” he says, very quickly getting irritated with me.

  I raise my chin and stand up a little straighter. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would tell Thomas that Huntley Von Allister is here and she would love to personally convey all the compliments she got on the dress he’d sent for her to wear to the Olympic Ball in Montrovia.”

  The doorman’s eyes get big. He doesn’t say anything, just rushes off.

  A few seconds later, he returns with the designer.

  “Huntley, so nice to see you,” Thomas says, giving me cheek kisses.

  “I’m sorry about the late hour. I was nearby and had some time to kill, and to be honest, I can’t stop thinking about that dress. Is there any chance that it’s still here?”

  “Not only is it here, darling, but it is also nearly complete. Come, come,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to the back room.

  When he pushes the double doors open, there is my dream dress on a form, the massive floral train spread out across the room.

  I walk around the dress in awe. It’s even prettier and more ornate than when I first saw it. The full skirt and train of the gown are now covered in scattered rosettes along with heavy beading. Extra layers of nude and dusty-pink tulle under the skirt give the dress dimension and a beautiful glow. The top has a deep V-neckline that plunges to the waist in both the front and the back as the floral elements of the skirt meander upward—like flowers would if they were growing on a vine.

  “Very regal, don’t you think?” the designer asks.

  “It definitely is,” I reply, my eyes getting misty. “Can I—could I … possibly try it on?”

  “Most certainly,” he says.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of a wall of mirrors in the dream dress. Blair spoke of having a bridal moment when we were shopping. I remember how happy she looked—the smile on her face, the tears in her eyes, and the way she twirled around—and I know that I’m feeling the same way.

  I don’t ever want to take this dress off.

  Thomas is fussing around with the gown, straightening the train and slightly pulling it in at the waist. “Of course, we’ll need to alter it to fit you perfectly. And, if you get married in a traditional church setting, I could add illusion sleeves and fill in the décolletage area. We’re still not completely done with the hand-beading on the three-meter train, but it is close. We’ve already logged in more than five thousand hours, perfecting this creation. Let me call for the veil, so you can see the full effect.”

  A group of six women enter the room, carrying silk tulle like it’s a sacred scroll.

  “Because the dress is so ornate, I designed a very simple veil,” Thomas explains. “The edge is outlined with a single bead-line of Swarovski crys
tals.” He takes my hair in his hands, twists it into a bun, attaches the veil, and then steps back to admire his work. “Perfection.”

  “It’s kind of crazy that I’m considering buying it with everything that is going on in the world,” I comment, mostly to myself. Because this is crazy.

  But, at the same time, it feels so incredibly right.

  “Especially in Montrovia,” Thomas says, lowering his head. “I fear for King Lorenzo’s country.”

  “As do I.”

  When I turn to look at the back of the dress, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  “You’re beaming,” Thomas says. “This is your dress?”

  “Someone recently told me that, when you find a dream dress, you should buy it even if you don’t have an occasion to wear it for. I don’t know when I will get married, who I will marry, or even if we’ll all survive this virus, but you’re right. I am beaming in the midst of it all. So, I’d say that means this is most definitely my dress.”

  I can picture the fairy tale I had in my head. Lorenzo and I standing on the balcony on our wedding day, waving to the crowd. Me in this dress.

  The dream that I didn’t think could die.

  The dream that was shattered to pieces today.

  But, as I gaze at myself in this dress, I realize that’s not what this dress symbolizes.

  It’s not about him.

  It’s about me. About finding love. About allowing myself to fall in love. About trusting someone.

  And about having emotional entanglements.

  I understand now why I was supposed to avoid them. They add a messiness to your life. They can be a distraction.

  They can also be the thing that drives you.

  To help you keep going when all seems lost.

  I wouldn’t be here, looking for Sophie, if it wasn’t for love.

  The logical part of my brain keeps telling me that the baby could be Daniel’s. That Lorenzo could have been lying because I’d told him to pretend that he and Lizzie were together until after the crisis in Montrovia passed.

  But it wasn’t just the words that came out of his mouth.

  It was the look on his face.

  The kind of look that could break your heart.

  Regardless, I find myself driven to save him.

  Just one more time.

  I think loving someone is like living on a fault line. Most of the time, things go smoothly. Occasionally, there are little tremors—a shaking of the ground to remind you that life is precious and finite.

  The tremors also reinforce the notion that, no matter how hard you might try, you’re not in control. Because the tremors are a sign of movement in the plates underneath the ground.

  An indication of the earthquake to follow.

  The first tremor in our relationship was Lorenzo telling me I was dismissed when he was upset about his mother. The second came when he took the vaccine, basically committing suicide in front of me.

  But that wasn’t the worst of what was to come.

  Hearing Lorenzo say that Lizzie was carrying the Montrovian heir to the throne was a twelve on my Richter scale. A twelve would be something known as a MegaQuake. Something scientists say can’t actually exist, for the magnitude of an earthquake is directly related to the length of the fault on which it occurs.

  Back in the sixties, the Gran terremoto de Chile—the Great Chilean earthquake—recorded a nine-point-five on a fault with a length of over six hundred miles. They say there is no fault line known to exist that will generate a magnitude of ten.

  And they say, if one did exist, that it would extend across most of the world.

  And that makes sense since Lorenzo is at the epicenter of my world.

  I know that I probably shouldn’t love him further, but my feelings for him are so strong that they haven’t disappeared.

  Maybe, over time, they will, but until then, I continue to feel the aftershocks—little dangerous and unpredictable movements in my earth, the kind that can collapse what was damaged in the earthquake.

  That is probably why I’m standing here, in a wedding dress, even though I know a tsunami is right behind the quake. One massive wave that will wipe out everyone I care about.

  “Great love takes great faith,” the designer says. “I see brides brimming with love every day. But the thing I wonder is if love is enough.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say. “You need great trust, too.”

  “To great trust,” he says, handing me a flute filled with champagne.

  I honestly have no idea why I’m going to toast. Probably because there is a part of me that refuses to let the dream die.

  A part of me that can’t do this unless I trick myself into believing we still have a chance—of survival, of marriage, of having everything.

  I hold my glass out and clink his, hoping for some kind of sign. Some message from a power greater than me that I can find Sophie.

  That she will have answers.

  And that we can stop this.

  Somehow.

  I put the glass to my lips and take a drink.

  When I swallow, my throat hurts.

  Not the kind of message I was looking for.

  T-MINUS:12:08:27

  Although there aren’t many people on the streets tonight, the small pub is crowded. There’s an old Premier League game on the television, and if you didn’t know about the virus spreading around the globe, you wouldn’t discover it here.

  It’s a nice reprieve from the real world, which I suppose is the point.

  At a little before nine, I manage to snag a seat at the end of the bar that allows me to keep an eye on the entrance. It’s not an ideal location, as my back is fully exposed to the area where the kitchen and restrooms are, but since I’m not expecting anyone to attack me, I try not to worry about it.

  I spy a couple of girls who have commandeered four tables in the center of the room, more than likely holding them for the upcoming divorce party.

  The bartender says, “Fancy a pint?”

  I nod my head in response even though I’m not a fan of beer. “Yes, please.”

  When he sets my filled-to-the-brim glass in front of me, a group of girls comes into the pub, one who is wearing a sash proclaiming her as a new divorcée as well as a large button suggesting she’s looking for a shag.

  And I can’t help but smile.

  T-MINUS:11:26:34

  Forty-two minutes, five goals, and three thwarted hit-ons later, I’m still sitting at the bar, nursing my pint.

  Neither Madelyn nor Sophie has shown up.

  The divorce party, however, seems to be a raving success with nearly twenty in attendance, who are already on their second round of pints and have just ordered a third round of shots. Apparently, a divorce party equals getting drunk as fast as possible.

  I’m about to text Terrance and beg for more help when the door opens, and Madelyn saunters in alone. I immediately recognize her from her social media photos. She’s got a model-thin figure and a mane of brunette hair that cascades in curls down her back. She’s dressed head to toe in a matching Dolce & Gabbana dress, bag, and shoes, looking like she came straight from a tea party. The girls in the group squeal upon her arrival and have her bellied up to the bar for a shot in no time.

  I take a moment to study all of those in attendance a little closer, wondering if Sophie could be wearing a disguise. But she has a heart-shaped face and distinctive pale blue eyes that would be hard not to recognize even if she had dyed her hair—which, thanks to Hollywood, is the first thing people think to do if they are ever on the run. And, while a change of color makes you harder to spot at a quick glance, it’s not going to fool a professional.

  Sophie Andersen is not here. And I don’t think she’s coming, so I consider my next move—getting Madelyn to talk.

  There are a lot of techniques I could use to get her to tell me where Sophie is. I could tranquilize, kidnap, and then interrogate. I could threaten, injure, and force. I could even tortur
e. All things I was trained to do and probably should do to speed up the process.

  Except that I don’t want to hurt this girl.

  So, I sit here and wait for a little while longer.

  T-MINUS:11:11:11

  Even though it’s not technically the actual time, when the countdown on my watch reads that I have eleven hours, eleven minutes, and eleven seconds before the vaccines are given in Montrovia, I make a wish.

  Please let me find Sophie.

  I’d like to ask for her to have answers and a cure, but I hope it’s more powerful to ask for a single thing. I pay my tab, deciding it’s time to join the party.

  When I was at Blackwood Academy, we read the autobiography of Stanislav Lunev, a high-ranking Soviet spy who defected to the United States. In the book, Through the Eyes of the Enemy, he mentions that the reason he was so good at what he did is because he followed a simple rule. One that has always stuck with me. The best spy will be everyone’s best friend, not a shadowy figure in the corner.

  Time for me to start doing just that.

  “You girls look like you are having so much fun,” I say to the girl with the sash. “I wish you the best.”

  “Thank you so much,” she gushes. “You’re sweet. Have a shot with me.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “My goodness, you are so pretty,” the divorcée says. “Are you here alone?”

  “Yeah, recent breakup.”

  “Oh, girl, I feel you. I’m Leslie, by the way. What did he do?”

  “Got another girl pregnant.”

  “Oh, Madelyn, come here,” she says. “We can all be heartbreak mates.”

  Madelyn does as asked, and I stick my hand out. “Hey, I’m Huntley.”

  “Why are we going to be heartbreak mates?” Madelyn asks Leslie.