“Maia, do you have anything to say about—” started one reporter.
“Do you know anything about—” said another.
“Can you give us some room?” I cried over the din, wincing when someone tried to grab my arm, pinching the skin. “Back off, seriously!”
Only when I heard the words “secret mission” did my feet halt against the pavement.
“What did you say?” I blinked, guarding my eyes against the flashes. “What’s going on?”
“Everyone, please calm down.” A deep, baritone British voice rang out over the din. “Our Effigies have only just returned from the mission. Please be so courteous to allow them room to breathe.”
Because of the commotion, I hadn’t even noticed the double doors of the London facility’s main building spit out a tall, well-built man. He was dressed well too, his long, black jacket heavy atop his maroon vest. His penny loafers clicked against the pavement as he walked toward us. But then Bartholomäus Blackwell was never one to shy away from extravagance.
He looked all too comfortable with the media attention, despite the fact that as the representative of the Sect’s governing Council, he wasn’t required to interact with the public much at all. Each division had a director, like Sibyl, who was the director of the European Division, or Director Chafik, who ran the African Division. They coordinated with the facilities in their jurisdiction, major and minor, as well as sharing information among one another. Then there was the Council, the shadowy presence that oversaw the Sect’s operations in its entirety.
Blackwell was a diplomat, offering himself to foreign leaders of countries as the voice of the Council, the members of which stayed hidden in secrecy. When he wasn’t doing that, he was off somewhere watching symphonies or hanging out in that huge mansion of his in the countryside, endlessly delighting in being a rich asshole.
Now, as he approached us, he reveled in the spotlight, the camera flashes blanching his already pale skin, his lips stretched into a self-satisfied smirk.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, and when he was close enough, I could see the diamond cuff links glittering on his sleeves. “Although I should apologize. I know some might consider it impolite to be late to your own press conference.”
I should have known he was the one who’d called it. It wasn’t the first time, either.
His thick black brows arched the moment his eyes found us, the Effigies, peppered through the crowd of journalists.
“Ah good, they’ve arrived. Girls!” He motioned us forward. “Join me. And, everyone, please give them space. I promise you, your questions will be answered.”
The reporters finally backed off. The breathing room was appreciated, but I wasn’t about to move at his command. It wasn’t until I saw Belle turn to the three of us and nod that I reluctantly dragged my feet forward. At the end of the day, Blackwell was still a high official within the Sect. We couldn’t appear to be “disobeying” him, not in front of all these cameras.
And he likely knew that.
“Don’t be shy.” He “welcomed” us with outstretched arms, though none of us came anywhere near them. We followed Belle’s cue instead, lining up by his side like little pageant princesses on display for the consumption of greedy eyes.
My skin crawled as I stared into the crowd of men and women who grasped their recording devices tightly, eager for a sound bite. I could tell by the stiffness in the other girls’ expressions that I wasn’t the only one. Even Lake, who draped media attention around herself like a security blanket, went rigid as she stared up at Blackwell with her shades lifted, waiting for his next words with the slightest hint of dread in her eyes.
“Well, we should start. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this as brief as possible.” He adjusted his white panama-style hat over his long, black curling hair. “I know the world has been anxious about the lack of information concerning the Sect’s ongoing security issues. I’ve decided to call you here to stem any worries. The Sect, as it has and always will be, is functioning at peak efficiency. Thanks to the hard work of our courageous young Effigies”—he flashed us an empty grin—“and our Sect officials, especially the efforts put in by Director Langley, who has been leading the charge on this front, I can confidently relay to you new developments that have come up through the recently conducted mission.”
I straightened. Mission? The mission that was supposed to remain a secret from the public? Belle kept her gaze dead ahead, but I could see her jaw tighten.
“Sir, when you mention the Sect’s ongoing security issues,” said one male reporter in the front, “are you referring to the Sect’s failure to capture the international terrorist Saul?”
“Among other things.” His finger ran along his square jawline as he thought. “Luckily, I have good news to report. After successfully tracing Saul’s whereabouts, I’ve just been informed that we have been able to find and extract the target.”
What the hell was he talking about? I stared at him in disbelief, but he wasn’t finished.
“I can now confirm, given my sources, that he is presently within Sect custody at the Marrakesh Sect headquarters, thanks in large part to the efforts of these four.”
“It doesn’t look like this particular Effigy agrees,” said one suspicious reporter.
And they were looking at me. That was when I realized my mistake: my face.
You have to think of the camera as the ultimate frenemy, Lake had told me weeks ago in our dorm room. One of the many PR lessons I’d been given by the master. Like, if you love it, it’ll love you, sure. But it’s always waiting in the wings, ready to take you down the moment you show even the slightest hint of weakness. The camera’s a snake trying to tear you apart every second. That’s why, like I said, you always have to keep calm. Mind your reactions. Control the narrative.
Mind your reactions. Control the narrative. Two good tips. And once I realized that my face had been contorted in confusion and panic, I knew I’d blown each one.
Relaxing my face and snapping my mouth closed, I stared back at the journalists, whose eyes were now trained squarely on me.
“Is there something we’re missing here?”
“Are you telling the truth?” another asked. “Is the terrorist in custody?”
The floodgates opened, and it wasn’t just the reporters. The fans were still outside, yelling over one another as they pressed up against the gates.
What did I do?
I could feel the sweat begin to bead my hairline. This had to be some sort of trap. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Blackwell’s last press conference ended with the world knowing that a number of agents, including his own former right-hand man, had helped Saul escape in the first place. But as he stared at the four of us, the congratulatory smile streaking his pale face disappeared. He looked at us with as much confusion as we looked at him.
“Haven’t you captured him, girls?” He asked it quietly, but I still prayed to every deity in existence that his words hadn’t been picked up by any of the journalists’ recording devices.
This was a mess. So many people already distrusted us even before Saul’s escape. Who would give Blackwell this false information? Who even let him call a press conference?
The gates opened, and a parade of Sect vans drove through so suddenly, the reporters scattered. Sibyl Langley could barely wait for her car to come to a complete halt before she kicked opened the passenger door and stalked up the paved path toward us. Her milky pantsuit highlighted her dark skin and the standard black suits of the agents flanking her.
“Director Langley!”
“Director, can you comment on—”
The reporters’ questions fell on deaf ears as she made for Blackwell, her hawklike gaze ready as daggers. She didn’t stop until their bodies were inches from each other.
For a fleeting moment, the two were locked in a battle of wills, neither able to yield to the other. Sibyl was much shorter than the large man, but in the end, her intimidating gaze made
up the difference. Defeat settled into his features, his shoulders relaxing, his jaw setting. Just as he turned his head, Sibyl whipped around, her short black hair catching the wind as she pivoted on her feet.
“Thank you for coming. This conference is over. The guards will show you out,” she said to the stunned reporters. Then to us: “Girls. Can you follow me, please?”
None of us were stupid enough to think that she’d asked a question. We followed her, leaving Blackwell behind.
• • •
“A press conference.”
“Sir . . . ,” Sibyl started, but the red-faced man on the jumbo screen made it all too clear he wasn’t finished when he lifted up a hand to silence her.
“A press conference on a secret mission that ended in failure.”
No one in the vast conference room dared speak as he barely held in his rage. Instead, we stared at Blackwell, who, of course, had taken the head of the table for himself.
“The amount of foolishness . . .” The man shook his head. “The utter incompetence.”
But Blackwell leaned back into his seat. “The only incompetence I’ve witnessed is in whatever broken system of communication that led to Sect personnel giving me false information about their recent operations. That reflects a general incompetence within the operational structure of the Sect, does it not? Which in turn reflects a general incompetence in leadership.” Blackwell tilted his head just slightly, letting his black ringlets slide down his broad shoulder. “Should you really lay that incompetence at my feet, Arthur? The role of the Council’s representative is very different from that of you directors.”
Arthur Prince, the director of the North American Division. I didn’t know much about him, but given how comfortably he berated Sibyl, it was clear he saw himself as above her although they both had the same job. I could gather as much from that domineering sense of importance. If it weren’t for his inscrutable composure or the intimidating broadness of his frame, he might have looked like a tax accountant instead, with his short dirty-blond hair, his gray suit, and his pin-striped tie.
Prince answered Blackwell with a deep scowl. As his wide jaw tightened, the skin around his neck and chin, loose from age, gave a slight tremor. “You called a press conference to prematurely disclose delicate information. The optics were bad enough with the Sect’s inability to bring Saul into custody. We directors have had to coordinate search teams for Saul across the globe while aiding governments in repairing the devastation he’s caused on top of dealing with phantom attacks. We are under enough pressure. Langley—”
Sibyl answered with a slight turn of her head.
“I know you’re up to this job. I oversaw your training in Philadelphia myself. I was the one who prepared you to replace Director Bradshaw as leader of the European Division after he died.”
He’d trained her. That might have explained why she still referred to him as “sir” even though they were technically of the same rank—why she listened to his rantings quietly instead of tearing him to shreds like I knew she could. It was either a seniority thing or a force of habit.
“I remember,” Sibyl said in a measured tone.
“When I, along with the other directors, agreed to the Council’s decision of putting you in charge of the Effigy initiative to capture Saul, I did so under the assumption that you would be able to handle the operation.”
“It was the Council’s decision, sir,” replied Sibyl coolly. “None of you had a choice to begin with.”
“But your management of the situation so far has only placed the Sect under a heightened scrutiny that we cannot afford right now while we are dealing with our own internal issues.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Sibyl said, and I’d never seen her more careful with her words. “I endeavored to stop the press conference, which should never have been held in the first place”—she glared at Blackwell—“the moment I got wind of it.”
“Which wasn’t soon enough.” He looked uncomfortable in his chair as he sat back and placed his hand on his desk as if it were all he could do to keep himself from trying to jump through the screen to get to us. “Not to mention your handling of the Effigies.”
Lake and I exchanged a glance. The four of us sat quietly at the long, rectangular table like we were told, but it looked like it was our turn for a scolding. When Sibyl had told us we were going to the briefing room, I’d expected more angry faces around the table, but it was just us and a host of empty seats under the blinding ceiling lights.
“My handling of the Effigies?” Sibyl repeated.
Blackwell, who looked amused as he watched the former teacher berate his former student, found a strand of his hair, twisting it around his finger. “Ah, yes, your handling of the girls,” he said. “Well, with your experience running the all-girls’ training facility in Botswana, the Council felt that you’d be able to relate to the Effigies better than any of us. And so they gave you the go-ahead to mold the girls’ public images.”
“But embracing the spotlight means training the girls to manage themselves in it,” said Prince. “Just like we need to manage the Sect’s public image.”
Chae Rin kicked me under the table, but I wasn’t about to be the one who interrupted the very mean, scary man yelling at us. I gritted my teeth.
“The Sect has had trust issues with the rest of the world for as long as I can remember. That didn’t start with this press conference.” Sibyl turned to Blackwell. “The bigger issue is that you seem to have gotten a taste for telling the media information they shouldn’t have.”
Sibyl’s glare would have made me squirm in my seat, but Blackwell only crossed his legs, amused.
“As the representative of the Council, it’s not unexpected that I might appear in front of the cameras.”
“Maybe. When you meet with foreign leaders. But giving out information on our operations is a sloppy move, and not the first you’ve made.”
“I would suggest you search your own house before you launch any accusations.” Blackwell leaned back in his chair. “It was under your watch that multiple agents helped Saul escape your custody.”
“It was Vasily Volkov, your personal agent, who led the charge of his escape,” Sibyl fired back.
Vasily. Both of my hands curled into fists atop the cold table. As an agent of the Sect, he would have been used to the battlefield, but he was far more violent than I ever thought possible, from cutting off a man’s finger to almost choking me to death in the backyard of Belle’s old foster home. I could still feel his rough fingers around my neck, could still see his fox grin and his long, faded blond hair grazing my face as he bent over me, straddling my body. My fingers twitched, aching to go to that spot on my neck, but I stayed still.
“Ex-agent,” Blackwell corrected. “Vasily has been dealt with. I have no need for traitors.”
“A traitor to you or to the Sect?”
I hadn’t even meant to speak. But the words flew out of my mouth regardless. I glared at Blackwell from my seat.
He looked shocked and almost insulted that I’d dared to enter the conversation between “grown-ups” without permission. “I beg your pardon, young girl?”
“Is Vasily a traitor to you or to the Sect? As I recall, when Vasily tried to kill me in France, he’d said he was only following orders. So whose orders was he following?”
Blackwell’s smug exterior cracked for just a moment, and I didn’t know if it was because of guilt or because of the affront of being accosted by teenager. It was back up in time for his response. “Believe me, little girl. My will is the Sect’s. If the Sect wanted you dead, the Council would have ruled it during your oath, and you never would have left the cathedral.” He watched me suppress a shiver before continuing. “If the Council did not want you dead, then the Sect did not want you dead. In that case, why would I want you dead?”
To keep me from discovering the message Natalya had hidden for Belle. The box under her floorboards. Alice’s letter. There was no other r
eason.
“Like I have already told the Council and assured the directors, Vasily acted against my own wishes. The Council has already assessed as much. And you know I have no say over what the Council does or does not decide. However . . .” He turned to Sibyl. “It was under your watch that agents are relaying false information about a classified mission—a failed mission, atop of that. Like Director Prince said, we can only do so much, but hasn’t your mishandling of the situation led to this outcome?”
As Sibyl’s eyes narrowed to slits, Prince rubbed his brow with a throaty sigh. “This is ridiculous. Like listening to children bicker.”
Or listening to parents fight. The other girls looked as stiff as I felt.
“Neither of you need worry. You both have a part to play in this mess and thus have earned the brunt of my disgust.” He spoke bluntly, and though he’d managed to bring the rage in his grizzled voice under control, it still simmered beneath his words.
“You should watch your tone, Arthur.” Uncrossing his legs, Blackwell leaned in, propping his elbows up on the table. “Regardless of what you might think—and the mistakes your students have made—I’m still the voice of the Council.”
“What you are, Bart,” said Prince, spitting out the name, “is a member of the Blackwell family, who have and always will be the useless ceremonial crust on the Sect’s toe. A glorified mouthpiece for the Council. A messenger.” Prince gave him a derisive smirk. “The only reason why Langley and I allowed you to be part of this conversation is because I correctly assumed you would have nothing better to do. Is that why you’ve taken to calling press conferences?” He tilted his head, curious. “Were you under the assumption that taking the position of an underpaid media liaison would finally give you a role better than relaying messages and occasionally dining with whichever prime minister has time for you?” His disgust was palpable. “A spoiled little boy with nothing to offer anyone. Like father, like son, I suppose.”
Blackwell’s face had turned to stone.
After a short pause, Sibyl cleared her throat. “It’s time we move on from this,” she said. “I called you specifically, sir, because I needed your advice on what our next move should be in regards to Saul. Maia?”
Siege of Shadows Page 8
