Golden Gate

by James Ponti

  Mother looked over his shoulder and studied it. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Great job!”

  Rio beamed with pride, and the others hooted and hollered their congratulations. Loudest of all was Sydney, trying not to sound jealous as she said, “Way to go, Rio!”

  “What’s the name of the store?” Paris asked.

  “Zee’s Bakery and Confectionery,” Rio answered as he clicked open the store’s website. “According to this, Zee’s has been a Chinatown fixture for more than a century. It was famous for helping popularize the fortune cookie, which was invented in San Francisco in 1907. The bakery now makes the cookies for restaurants throughout California.”

  “Unbelievable,” Mother said.

  “I know,” Paris said. “I always assumed the fortune cookie was invented in China.”

  Mother chuckled. “That’s surprising too. But I meant it’s unbelievable that Clementine took the picture in front of a fortune cookie bakery. That is so like her.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Monty.

  “Fortune cookies were a big deal with us,” he said. “We used to joke that the fortune cookie was the ultimate symbol of spycraft, because it was a message hidden inside of something that had absolutely nothing to do with messages. We used it as a term to describe any coded communication.” He paused for a moment. “It’s even how I proposed.”

  “Wait, what?” asked Sydney.

  Mother smiled at the memory. “There was a Chinese restaurant near Paddington that was our favorite spot for date night. The food was cheap but delicious. I had a special fortune cookie made, and I worked it out with the waiter to deliver it at the perfect moment. When Clemmie opened it, it read, ‘Will you marry me?’ And of course, Clemmie being Clemmie, she answered in Mandarin. I had to have the waiter translate to make sure she’d said yes.”

  “She speaks Mandarin?” said Sydney.

  “Fluently,” answered Mother. “Along with seven other languages.”

  The story was both sweet and heartbreaking. A reminder of when Mother and Clementine had been a happy couple.

  “So now you think she’s sending you a message?” Rio asked. “A fortune cookie.”

  Mother nodded. “I’m sure of it. I just hope this one’s in a language I know.”

  Just then Brooklyn piped up. She’d been using Beny to perform big data searches and had found something interesting. “I think I know what it might be about.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mother.

  “R.F. Stroud,” she said.

  “He’s the bloke who bought the camera in Oxford, right?” asked Paris.

  “Yes,” answered Brooklyn. “He’s also the bloke who was found dead in Muir Woods on the morning of October fourteenth.”

  It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room as everyone rushed over to Brooklyn to look at her computer screen.

  “What’s Muir Woods?” asked Rio.

  “It’s a redwood forest just outside of San Francisco,” said Brooklyn. “Listen to this incident report,” she continued. “The body of a man was discovered by Ranger K. Gilson at 10:47 a.m. in the Cathedral Grove. The man was unresponsive, and the ranger administered CPR until paramedics arrived and took him to the UCSF Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead. The cause of death was determined to be a heart attack, and the man was later identified as R.F. Stroud of Watlington, United Kingdom.”

  “Watlington?” said Mother, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “I used to visit a friend there when I was at uni,” Monty said. “It’s right outside of Oxford.”

  “I know exactly where it is,” Mother said. “And now I know exactly who R.F. Stroud is.”

  “You do?” asked Brooklyn.

  “He’s a longtime spy named Parker Rutledge,” Mother said. “I worked on a team with him for the first couple of years I was in the Service. I learned a lot from Parker. He was brilliant. I heard he died of a heart attack while he was on holiday in California, but by the time it got around to me, there weren’t any details.”

  “Then how can you be sure this is the same heart attack?” asked Rio.

  “Watlington,” he answered. “It’s a small town, just a couple of thousand people. It’s where Parker spent his whole life. His father was a professor at Oxford. He taught ornithology.”

  “That’s the study of birds, right?” asked Brooklyn.

  “Parker was heavy into it too,” said Mother. “He was also a professor, and the president of the Oxford Ornithological Society. Ever since he retired from MI6, he’s been traveling the world on bird-watching trips. That’s what he was doing in California when he died.”

  “If you knew him early in your career,” said Rio, “does that mean Clementine knew him too?”

  “We were both on his team when we met,” he said. “Parker was one of Clemmie’s mentors.”

  “And the day he dies in San Francisco, she’s in town using his camera?” said Paris. “That can’t be a coincidence. There’s got to be a connection that we’re not seeing. Was there anything suspicious about his death?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mother answered with a shrug. “But like I said, by the time the story got to me, there weren’t many details.”

  “There’s something wrong about this,” Brooklyn said as she continued searching for information with Beny. “According to the ranger’s handwritten notes, Stroud—who’s really Rutledge—was taken to the UCSF Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead of a heart attack. But there’s no record of him arriving at the UCSF emergency room at that time.”

  “They list patients by name?” asked Monty, surprised. “I’d think those would be confidential.”

  “They don’t list the names,” said Brooklyn. “But they do list times and descriptions. There’s no one within an hour of when he was picked up. And the closest ones are a woman with a severe laceration and a young man with a gunshot wound.”

  “What about the ambulance?” asked Paris.

  “The same,” said Brooklyn. “According to this dispatch log, the ambulance was sent out at 10:46, which matches the ranger’s notes, but then there’s no record of it returning. There’s no mention of it until it goes out on another call at 12:41.”

  “MI6 must have erased it,” Mother said. “You probably won’t find a record of him staying at a hotel either.”

  “Then why didn’t they erase the ranger’s report?” asked Rio.

  “They probably didn’t know about it,” said Mother. “You said it’s handwritten, right?” he asked Brooklyn.

  “Yes.” She put it up on the wall monitor for them all to read.

  “That means it might not have been scanned into the computer records right away,” he explained. “You can’t erase something if you don’t know it exists.”

  “But why would they bother to erase any of it?” asked Sydney. “A retired agent has a heart attack. It’s sad, but it’s hardly a state secret.”

  “Unless he wasn’t a retired agent on holiday,” said Monty. “And he was actually an active agent on a mission.”

  11. The Bird-Watcher

  WATLINGTON, ENGLAND—TWO YEARS EARLIER

  AFTER THREE DECADES WITH MI6, Parker Rutledge’s retirement from the world of espionage lasted a grand total of sixteen days. On the seventeenth, he was tending to a flower bed in front of his quaint redbrick home when he looked up and saw something so surprising, he had to adjust his glasses to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

  Well, I’ll be gobsmacked! he said to himself when he realized they weren’t.

  Walking directly toward him was none other than Sir David Denton Douglas, a man who, despite the fact that all three of his names started with D, was universally known as C, the title historically given to the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Douglas was Britain’s top spymaster.

  All the more curious was the fact that he seemed to have materialized out of thin air. There was no sign of the bulletproof SUV that dropped h
im off every day at Vauxhall Cross or the protection detail that escorted him on his frequent visits to Parliament and Buckingham Palace. There was just an aristocratic man in a finely tailored suit, carrying a briefcase as he walked along the very unaristocratic Watcombe Road.

  “Good afternoon, C,” Parker said, incredulous as he stood up and hurriedly brushed the dirt off his clothes. “What brings you here?”

  “Just thought I’d stop by and have a cuppa with my favorite bird-watcher,” the chief said with a smile and a wink.

  Within MI6, “bird-watcher” was the most common slang for “spy,” but for Parker it had double meaning. Like all agents, his role in the Service had been classified. As far as the rest of the world knew, he really was a bird-watcher. He taught ornithology at Oxford, just as his father had before him.

  “Please come in,” Parker said. “I’ll put on a kettle.”

  A few minutes later they were sitting in the kitchen when C asked, “So, has the boredom of retirement driven you mad yet?”

  Parker chuckled as he poured the tea and replied, “It hasn’t had the chance. My farewell party was just three weeks ago.”

  “Right, right,” C said as he took a sip. “As we were singing your praises, you mentioned something about working on… what was it again… your bird list?”

  “My life list,” said Parker. “It means everything to a birder. It’s the record of every species you’ve seen in the field during your lifetime. My goal is to make it to a thousand. Like my father.”

  “I’m sorry I never got to meet him,” said C. “He’s the one who taught you the ways of birds?”

  “Indeed,” said Parker. “He’s also the one who taught me the ways of spies, although he never knew it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was the director of the Edward Grey Institute of Field Ornithology here at Oxford,” Parker explained. “From a very young age, I tagged along on his birding treks across Europe. And all the skills he taught me for spotting them—stealth, patience, attention to detail, and most importantly, the ability to observe without being observed—those are the same traits I used for thirty years to serve my country.”

  “And you served it quite well,” said the chief, holding up his cup as if he was making a toast.

  “Thank you, sir,” Parker replied proudly as he returned the gesture.

  The conversation stalled as Parker waited for the chief to say what had brought him out to see him and as C tried to figure out how to best broach the subject.

  “How far have you gotten?” he asked. “On your list?”

  “Eight hundred thirty-six,” answered Parker.

  “Impressive,” said the chief. He leaned forward in his seat and added, “I have a suggestion for number eight hundred thirty-seven, but it’ll be hard to track down.”

  “If it was easy, what fun would it be?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” The chief flashed a mischievous grin. “By showing what I’m about to show you, I’m in breach of at least three provisions of the Official Secrets Act. So let’s keep this conversation between you and me.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “For at least ten years, and probably longer, there has been a mole inside MI6 who’s been funneling secrets to Umbra. This double agent has cost us dearly. Security has been compromised, lives have been lost, and I’m quite sick of it. Yet, despite all our searching, we have very little to show for our efforts.”

  C placed a manila folder stamped TOP SECRET: EYES ONLY on the table between them. Parker opened it carefully. There was only one word written on the front page of the report: MAGPIE.

  “If you’re looking for a mole, why did you name it after a bird?”

  “You tell me,” said C. “You’re the ornithologist.”

  Parker thought about it for a moment and began to see the reasoning. “A magpie blends in because it looks common, even though it’s actually extraordinary. It’s one of only a handful of animals in the entire world that can recognize itself in a mirror. Magpies are intelligent, calculating, and notorious thieves who steal from the nests of other birds to decorate their own. They are among the most deceptive creatures on the planet.”

  “Yes they are,” C said coolly. “And one of them is loose inside MI6. I want you to find that magpie for me. There’s your bird. There’s your number eight thirty-seven.”

  12. Kinloch Abbey

  SINCE THEY’D COME HOME FROM the Sylvia Earle, Brooklyn had tried to avoid Sydney. And Sydney, sensing her friend’s hurt feelings, had given her plenty of space. But as they returned to school on Monday, Sydney decided to test the waters during the train ride to Kinloch. She waited until they were almost there before she sat next to Brooklyn, who was flipping through her textbook working on an algebra problem.

  “Hi,” Sydney said, trying a little too hard to sound friendly.

  “Hey,” Brooklyn grunted, not bothering to look up.

  There was an uncomfortable silence interrupted only by the sound of the train, until Sydney said, “So, what are you doing? Studying for a test?”

  Brooklyn pointed at her textbook and then the papers spread out on the tabletop in front of her before saying, “That’s amazing. Surveillance training is really paying off. How’d you figure it out?”

  Sydney fought her instinct to snipe back and instead let out a deep sigh. “So, is that how it’s going to be from now on?”

  Brooklyn finally looked up from her work and asked, “What do you want, Sydney?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to sit here. With you.”

  “Is that so? Because the other day you made it abundantly clear that you did not want to be with me.”

  “I know that I said that,” Sydney answered. “But I didn’t mean it.” She let out a confused groan. “Or if I did, not the way you took it.”

  “ ‘I was sick and tired of being cooped up in a room with Little Miss Perfect!’ ” Brooklyn said, adding a hint of Sydney’s accent as she did. “Am I quoting that accurately?”

  Sydney sagged as she admitted, “Word for word.”

  “Well, how else was I supposed to take that?”

  Sydney thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I just know that my problem wasn’t with you. It was with me. I wanted to be away from that. Away from how I was feeling. I wanted a little peace and quiet so I could try to figure out how I… fit in.”

  “How you fit in?” Brooklyn gave her an incredulous look. “That’s rich. I’m the one who’s trying to fit in. I’m the outsider joining a team that’s thick as thieves. You guys have been together for years, and you were the second one, so that makes you an OG. I’m the noob. And after all you and I have been through these last few months, I thought we fit in together. I thought we were friends.”

  “We were. I mean we are. Of course we are. We’re more than friends. We’re best mates.”

  “Really? ’Cause talking like that about each other, that’s not something best mates do.”

  “You’re right. It’s just some sort of twisted jealousy,” Sydney said. “But I need you to be my friend. I need you to forgive me.” She paused for a moment. “Because forgiving each other, that is something best mates do.”

  The train pulled into Kinloch, and Brooklyn quickly shoveled her papers into her backpack. “I am your mate and I do forgive you.” She thought about that for a second while she zipped the bag shut. “Or, at least I will… but at the moment, I’m still mad.”

  When she stood up, Brooklyn saw that Paris, Kat, and Rio were avoiding eye contact as they collected their backpacks a row behind them. They’d undoubtedly heard every word, which explained why they were trying to sidestep her.

  “Did you get all that?” Brooklyn asked them with a flash of New York attitude.

  “We didn’t get anything,” Paris replied. “I had my earbuds in.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rio, feigning confusion and doing a lousy job of it. “Absolutely no idea.”

  �
�Wow, you two should really consider auditioning for junior drama club,” Kat said, shaking her head at the two boys. “Come on, Brook, I’ll quiz you for your algebra test while we walk to school.”

  Once they were on the platform, Brooklyn turned to Sydney. “I really do forgive you. I just need a little time and space to not be mad at you.”

  “I can do that,” Sydney said, relieved. “I can give you all the time and space you need.” To punctuate the point, she plopped down on a wooden bench so that Brooklyn and the others could get ahead of her. “See what I mean? This is me giving you space. You all go on.”

  Kinloch railway station consisted of a small blue-and-white building with a ticket window, four covered benches, and a dodgy vending machine that stole money far more often than it yielded candy bars or crisps. The platform was situated between the north- and southbound tracks so passengers had to go up and over a wooden pedestrian bridge to get into town. While her friends crossed it, Sydney stayed on the bench and tried a quick meditation exercise she’d learned from Monty to help clear her mind. She hadn’t felt like herself lately, and she was ready for that to end.

  The footbridge offered a nice view of the town as well as a picturesque view of the school. This was where photographers would set up whenever it was time to take a photo for a new admissions brochure or to update the website. It was the can’t-miss first impression that wowed prospective students and their parents.

  Kinloch Abbey was one of the top prep schools in Scotland. It looked like a cross between a small college and a grand estate, with classic stone buildings and lush playing fields surrounding a stately manor house. Despite her natural antiestablishment tendencies, even Sydney had to admit that it was beautiful.

  “It’s a wonderland,” she’d said to Monty and Mother as they escorted her across the bridge for her first visit to campus. But looking at it now, she noticed something out of place. Unlike the panorama of the school, the view of the main gate was mostly obscured by the Kinloch Inn and the Bank of Scotland. Despite this, Sydney could see just enough to tell that there was some sort of activity going on there. She stood on her tiptoes and leaned over the railing far enough to see that a cluster of people was assembled just outside the entrance. That in itself was unusual. But when she leaned a bit farther, she saw something even more curious.