Spy to the Rescue

by Jonathan Bernstein

  Irina walks up and down the shelves, casting an expert eye on her armory, stopping to pick up a gun or a knife or a rubber thing and either throw it into her canvas bag or return it to its resting place.

  “When you said this was your changing room, you weren’t kidding.”

  “Nope,” she says.

  I watch my biological mother slide a knife into a hidden space in the heel of her boot. I watch her wind a length of steel wire around her fist and then place it carefully in the bag.

  “So, um, what’s happening now?” I ask.

  “What’s happening is, I’m getting you as far away from this place as possible, and then I’m coming back and blowing it to pieces.”

  “What about Strike?” I say.

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t we need to get him far away from this place, too?”

  “He’s a big boy,” Irina says. “He can figure his own way out.”

  “I visited him at his place,” I tell her. “He was eating a chicken with his bare hands. I asked him why. He said he couldn’t be bothered washing his fork. He has one fork! No wonder he was so easy to put in a crate!”

  “I can’t help everyone,” says Irina, as if I were tugging at her sleeve and peppering her with annoying questions. Strike’s not everyone! I give her my most outraged stare, but she busies herself filling her bag with bombs and weird plastic brick things.

  My ringtone sounds. I think, I promise, I’ll wear a scarf!

  It’s not my mother. Surveillance camera feed appears on my screen. The Squirrel again?

  This footage is clearer. A few people standing in a large room nodding. Alex Gunnery, little Lucien, and Joanna. No Sam. The camera moves to show the person they’re nodding at. A tall, distinguished man with white hair. Behind him, the windows in the room give a panoramic view of the office building opposite. The same view I had when I was standing out on the ledge. Joanna and the Gunnerys must be on the forty-eighth floor. I check the time code. They didn’t go home. They’re here right now. But who is that white-haired man?

  “That’s Edward Dominion,” says Irina, looking over my shoulder.

  At the sound of his name, the man on my phone looks straight at the camera and smiles.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bad Plan

  Irina and I watch Edward Dominion as he talks to Alex Gunnery, Joanna, and little Lucien. Alex is nodding and making big elaborate hand gestures.

  “Wow, that woman’s got a lot of scarves,” says Irina.

  I remember how soft they felt the first time she hugged me.

  “He’s going to hang her with them,” says Irina.

  “Don’t say that!” I shout. “That’s my best friend’s aunt and her cousin.”

  “Well, I hope you took a lot of nice photos to remember them because they’re not getting out of here.”

  There’s no emotion on her face. No fear or concern.

  “Their best bet is he decides to recruit them, but their lives are still over.” She shrugs.

  “We have to help them,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “That would be playing into Edward’s hands. And anyway, are you a hundred percent sure it’s even them?”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” I say. “I’ve known Joanna since I was . . .” And then I remember the man with Strike’s face. I remember the nanomasks. I stare at the phone.

  “No,” I say. “It’s them. Who are they going to find to substitute for a little five-year-old boy?”

  “A kung fu dwarf,” she replies without even a second’s hesitation.

  “Do they have those?” I ask.

  “On floor forty two and a half,” she says. “But you’re right, it’s probably them.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Same as five minutes ago,” she says. “Get you out of here, then blow up the Forties.”

  “Bad plan,” I say. “I’m the reason Alex and Joanna and little Lucien are in Edward Dominion’s clutches. My lies brought them here.”

  Irina gives me a fond look. “We’re a lot alike.” She goes to touch my hand.

  “We’re clearly not,” I say, snatching it away. “If you feel something for me and you want to protect me, you have to want to protect them, too, even if you don’t care about them.”

  She lets out a frustrated sigh. “This is what he wants. To pull us apart. To make me vulnerable so he can control me again.”

  “Stay here, then,” I say. “But I can’t.”

  I climb on top of a cabinet and start to open the secret compartment that leads to the outside of the building. Irina pulls me back down. I struggle out of her arms. She gives me a furious glare.

  “You want me to go save these people I don’t know,” she says, the accent of her native land becoming more pronounced. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

  She grabs her black canvas bag of weapons and jumps on top of the cabinet. This time I pull her back.

  “Bad plan,” I say. “That’s what he’s expecting. He’ll have a hundred armed goons lying in wait for you.”

  “Only a hundred.” Irina fake yawns. “I’m insulted.”

  “What he’s not expecting is that the mama lion, i.e., you, would be careless enough to let her favorite cub, i.e., me, wander unprotected into . . . I was going to say the lion’s den, but that’s one too many lion references. . . . What I mean is, he won’t be expecting me to show up.”

  “No,” she says. “No way.”

  “Think about it,” I persist. “He wants you but he’ll be interested in me. He doesn’t need Alex, Joanna, and the kung fu dwarf. He lets them go. You spirit them to safety. Maybe you could pretend to be a tour guide. I act like I’m amazed and enthralled by the whole one-stop-shopping empire he’s built here. I’ll tell him it’s the Amazon of crime. It’s Crimeazon.”

  “Not that funny,” sniffs Irina.

  “He’ll find it charming,” I assure her. “I’m the unexpected factor in this equation. And I’ll make him think I can win you back to the Forties, because we had an instant connection.”

  “That’s something you’re making up for Edward or you think we have an instant connection?” says Irina.

  I’m starting to get a clearer picture of my biological mother, and it’s not what I expected. Irina Ouspenskaya is an insecure person, trying to impress me with her assassin’s prowess one minute, worrying what I think of her the next. It makes her seem more human. It makes me like her.

  “Of course we do,” I say.

  Her face lights up, as much a face as pale as a street covered in newly fallen snow can light up. “So I whisk the scarves woman, the dwarf, and the other one . . .”

  “Her name’s Joanna,” I point out.

  “. . . Joanna to safety while you spin a web of lies to Edward Dominion, and then . . .”

  “Then Irina O builds a ladder of broken bones for me to walk down and out of the Dominion Brothers Building.”

  Irina reaches out and touches my cheek. “A ladder of broken bones,” she whispers, and I swear, I see her eyes grow damp.

  She guides me out of her secret changing room and toward an elevator on the forty-ninth floor. As the door opens, she gives me a quick hug, and I feel her hand slipping something into my pocket.

  “Bad plan,” she murmurs into my ear. “But you’re doing it for the right reasons. Just remember I’m close if it all goes haywire.”

  I step inside the elevator. I see mirrors and shiny gold buttons. I instantly relax, swipe Gunnery’s key card, and reach out to press forty-eight.

  Twelve seconds later, I walk out onto a floor with a deep, rich red carpet and white walls lined on both sides with big burly black-clad guys holding weapons and staring dead ahead. They make no sound and no eye contact.

  “I’m here to see Sir Edward Dominion.” Did I just say sir? “Edward Dominion. I’m Bridget Wilder. Of the Sacramento Wilders.”

  The massive gentleman closest to me jerks a thumb to the end of the floor, where two large white
doors are flanked by security guards. I begin my silent walk toward the white doors. And then I hear my phone ring. I look at my phone.

  Dad. Not Carter Strike. My dad dad.

  “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, it’s up to you, New York, New Yoooork,” he sings down the phone. I glance left and right at the double line of deadly Dominion security men while listening to my father’s full-throated performance.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, after he finally lets go of the showstopper last note. “Did you eat some bad bacon? Because it sounded like you were being violently sick.”

  “Where are the pictures?” Dad says. “That was part of our deal: we let you visit Joanna in New York City and you keep us entertained with a constant supply of pictures showing us where you are and what you’re doing on your fun trip.”

  I curse silently. I had ample opportunities to send pictures from the airport and the SUV, pictures of happy smiling Gunnerys, pictures of the amazing exterior and even more amazing interior of the Dominion Brothers Building.

  “I put Ryan in charge of visuals,” I lie.

  “He sends me six-second clips of dogs pooping on the sidewalk,” Dad says. “It gets old after the first twenty.”

  “I’ll be sure and rectify the situation.”

  “Rectify it right now,” Dad says. “Where are you? What are you doing? Have you eaten the famous New York pizza? Is it better than ours?”

  I glance up. Where I am is halfway up the long corridor. The massed ranks of security guards stare over my head.

  “No pizza yet. I’m . . . we’re just walking around,” I reply in a way that hopefully communicates my desire for this conversation to be at an end.

  “Don’t forget. I want pictures,” he says.

  I’m about to end the call when I have the sudden urge to keep talking. Hearing my dad’s voice takes my mind off my current situation and the gun-toting security giants on either side of me.

  “What’s going on at home?” I say. “How’s Natalie doing without me and Ryan overshadowing her with our amazing accomplishments?”

  “Big cheer crisis,” replies Dad, in hushed tones to communicate the gravity of the situation. “The Cheerminators didn’t qualify for the Cheer Classic. The Blue Canyon somethings . . .”

  “Bronze Canyon Valkyries?”

  “Yeah, them. They made it. Your sister is not happy. Heads are rolling.”

  I don’t want to end the call.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s happening on Law & Order?” I ask.

  “Bridget.” He laughs. “You did not fly to New York so you could ask me about a TV show.”

  “I learned a lot from that show,” I find myself insisting as I creep farther up the corridor. “It taught me that no matter how tough the bad guys are, how many weapons they have, and how well protected they think they are”—I look at the security men to my left and my right—“they can’t escape justice.”

  On the phone, my dad starts recapping the last episode he watched.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, not really listening. I feel comfortable walking down the double line of brutal killers while my dad talks in my ear. Finally, I reach the white double doors.

  “That sounds great,” I say. “We’ll watch a marathon when I get back.”

  I end the call.

  A guard pushes one door open and I walk inside.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  This Charming Man

  A heavy red velvet curtain faces me once I walk through the door and into the room. I take a few cautious steps forward, reach out my hand, and push through the curtain. On the other side, I see a very fancy sitting room, complete with grand piano, chandelier, and rubber tree plants climbing halfway to the ceiling. Alex and Joanna sit on luxurious armchairs. Little Lucien sprawls out in the middle of his chair, a wheezy snore noise emerging from his open mouth every few seconds. He’s clearly crashed from the heights of his Bridget-instigated sugar high. Alex and Joanna both have little tables set up next to their chairs. Each table is piled high with a selection of sandwiches, cakes, and tea. On the wall, a sixty-inch TV shows black-and-white footage of the building’s historic opening night. Edward Dominion sits, sipping from a teacup, in front of windows that show his stunning view of the city. He is the first to see me enter the room.

  “Bridget Wilder,” he says, standing up.

  “Sir Edward,” I say. Why do I keep calling him Sir Edward? “I mean, Mr. Dominion.”

  “B!” sings out Alex Gunnery. “Where have you been? Edward’s been such an amazing host.”

  “I’ll bet he has.” I give Edward Dominion a cold I know who you are and what you’re about stare.

  In return, he gives me a big beaming smile.

  “It’s my absolute pleasure,” says Edward Dominion.

  “Oh, no, it’s ours,” sighs Alex. She’s looking at Edward—his perfect dark blue pinstriped suit, his immaculate white hair, his tanned features and kind smile—like he’s a rare and precious jewel. Getting her out of here might be a tough job.

  “Bridget,” says Edward. “Come join us, please. I only wish you’d gotten here earlier so I could have shared a little of my family history with you.”

  Am I imagining a little half smirk when he’s saying this? Like he’s actually saying, Murder is my business and business is booming.

  “Where’s Sam?” Joanna suddenly says. “Wasn’t he with you?”

  I give her a grateful smile. Just the cue I need.

  “He’s downstairs,” I say. “He’s ready to go. Me too. He sent me up to get you.”

  “Bring the boy up,” says Edward.

  “He’s seen enough for today,” I say. “He doesn’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense.” Edward grins. Another victim in my clutches.

  “Go get him, Bridget,” pipes up Joanna. I give her a sharp look, counting on our years of friendship to make her see that I’m trying to communicate my urgent need to get her out of this lovely room. But Joanna only has eyes for the huge heapings of baked goods sitting in front of her.

  She turns back to the mountain of food on her table and selects a red velvet cake.

  “Perhaps we have taken up too much of your time,” says Alex.

  “Not another word about leaving,” says Edward, smiling at her. “It’s rare I get a firsthand chance to talk about the history of this building. We’ve had so many visitors over the decades. Late at night I can almost feel their presence in the walls and”—he looks directly at me—“deep under the ground.”

  Okay. That was a threat.

  I charge forward, yank the cake out of Joanna’s mouth, and pull her to her feet.

  “Ah woo gowa mawa pwawa,” she splutters. She swallows the half of the cake that’s still in her mouth and gives me a deadly stare.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But we have to go now.”

  “I think you’re being very rude, Bridget,” says Alex.

  “That’s just how she is,” says Joanna, a familiar edge entering her voice. “She’s completely rude and thoughtless. Everything has to be about her. She couldn’t just come to visit a friend. We have to go where she wants to go and then leave when she wants.”

  “Oh my God, Joanna,” I wail. “You’re bringing this up now?”

  “Bridget’s got a lot of important secrets,” Joanna announces to Alex, who looks mortified, and to Edward, who seems amused. “She only lets you know what she wants you know.”

  Here’s the Joanna I know. Here’s all the venom and built-up resentment I thought I missed.

  Her face is reddening as her eyes narrow. I feel a fight coming on. This is not the time or place. I need to shut her up and make her listen. I reach out to the table, grab a cupcake, and shove it into her open mouth.

  “Bridget!” I hear an aghast Alex shout.

  “Bwwiwww,” I hear a furious Joanna try to shout.

  I pull Joanna close, wrapping my hands around her forearms and leaning in to her ear. “This is a trap,” I say, my voice soft but bristling
with authority. “Get Alex and Lucien out of here or he’ll hurt them. Sam already knows. You can hate me all you want, but you know I’m on your side. So go.”

  I take a step back. Joanna stares at me, her mouth still stuffed with cake. She swallows it in one gulp, goes over to the sleeping Lucien, picks him up, and slings him over her shoulder.

  “The little monster needs to go home,” Joanna says to Alex.

  Alex watches Joanna head toward the red curtain. She gives Edward a regretful gaze.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sighs.

  “Children,” says Edward. “The joy they bring to our lives balances out the chaos.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” she says. “Thank you again for today.”

  “My pleasure,” he says.

  He escorts her toward the curtain.

  “Sir Ed . . .” I curse myself and start again. “Mr. Dominion, before I go, can I ask you a question? It’s for school.”

  “Of course, Bridget,” he says.

  Alex turns back to me. She could not dislike me more at this moment and I don’t blame her. I’m responsible for kicking her out of this wonderful unexpected afternoon with the dreamiest rich man in the world, and now I’m attempting to monopolize his attention.

  “You go ahead,” I tell her. “I’ll catch up.”

  “Can’t wait for that,” she says sourly, and vanishes through the curtain.

  “Tell your men to stand down,” I say to Edward.

  “Already done,” he says, and directs me to an armchair. “We’ll be left alone.”

  He sits opposite me, crossing one leg over the other and reaching for his teacup.

  “I don’t really have a question for school,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he says. “You’re stalling for time while your birth mother makes sure your friend and her family get safely out of the building. That’s not an Irina plan. You persuaded her to do things your way, which is something I haven’t been able to accomplish with any great success.”