“How poetic,” Amber comments. “I think Shakespeare may have said that first.” She packs up her workstation.
“Possibly Maya Angelou?” says Thomas. I snort and even Kit and Peggy stifle smiles.
“Gimme a break, all of you,” grumbles Caitlin, getting up. We all follow her and rise to clear the room.
2
KIT MEETS ME AT HOME, where I’ve rushed back to grab some things before I head to the airfield to board the flight to Pakistan. We live together in an expansive house in Notting Hill, a part of London that Kit moved to fifteen years ago. It’s not as manic as the middle of the city but there are still a ton of great places to hang out, good restaurants, and lots of vintage clothing shops where Kit can satisfy her occasional shopping cravings.
It takes me about ten minutes to pack. Everything I need is within reach, and though the inside of my closet might look like the aftermath of a burglary, I know where everything is. When I’m done, I haul my backpack into Kit’s bedroom, an oasis of distressed wood floors, crisp white linens, and subdued modern art. My mother has lit a couple of citrus candles, sending warm flickers of light onto the pure white walls. The sounds of whale song and ocean waves issue softly through the ceiling speakers. These weird soundscapes are apparently designed to enhance our well-being, but I find it a bit disorienting to hear crashing breakers on some Hawaiian beach when there’s only a little green English lawn outside the window.
Kit is busy rummaging around in the vast expanse of her walk-in closet.
“I have to go,” I call.
My mother hurries out with a pile of shirts hanging over her arm.
“What about these?” she asks.
I sigh. My backpack is stuffed full of plain T-shirts, which vary only in that some of them are white and some of them black. Unsurprisingly, most of Kit’s clothing just looks like it belongs to a music star, and none of it is really my style.
“Seriously, Mum?” I ask. “If you want to help, why don’t you—”
The doorbell interrupts me. I’m closest to the video monitor panel mounted next to Kit’s bed. The image is in color, high definition, crisp and clear. I feel like I’ve seen the man standing there before, also on a screen . . . then I realize where. I’ve seen him on the TV news. Not to mention in person, just once.
“That’s Jake Graham,” I say.
“The journalist?” Kit asks.
“How many Jake Grahams do you know?”
“Bloody hell,” Kit sniffs.
“He trashed you!” I remind her—as if she wouldn’t remember.
During our last mission in Belgrade, Kit went undercover and gave a performance for the human trafficker Gregory Pavlic. It was purely as a distraction so that Caitlin could break into Gregory’s office and find the evidence we needed to bring him down. Despite our best efforts to keep the concert quiet, the story hit the press, and it was written by Jake Graham, the crusading social justice reporter. And so it looked like my mother was a money-grabbing has-been singer who’d played a gig for a scummy criminal. It turned public opinion against Kit, but she shook it off, deciding it was a good thing. Nobody would suspect a sell-out singer of running a secret agency to help women.
The bell rings again. Long and hard. I stay quiet and wait, watching the wheels turn in Kit’s mind.
“Stop worrying,” I tell her. “Jake has no idea that Athena exists.”
“I know. But it’s just better that he doesn’t connect you to me,” she says. “Just in case.”
“Then don’t answer it,” I suggest.
But she takes a step toward the stairs, toward the door.
“I need to find out why he’s here.” She flicks on the recording app on her phone and pockets it. “Listen from up here, Jess, and stay quiet, okay?”
I nod. Kit disappears down the stairs while I stay out of sight at the top of the landing, sitting comfortably so that I won’t have to move a muscle.
Kit opens the door and there’s a wary exchange of pleasantries. Like the pushy reporter that he is, Jake asks if he can come in, but Kit doesn’t let him past the threshold.
“What do you want, Jake?” she asks.
“Look, Kit, I know my piece about you and Pavlic must have hurt, but people have a right to know the truth,” he says.
“Do you make a point of apologizing in person to everyone you expose? Or is there something else you want from me?”
I smile. I can just imagine Kit’s steely stare.
“I want to talk about Cameroon,” Jake says.
That wipes the smile off my face. I lean forward, straining to catch every word, to sense Kit’s response.
“The country in Africa, you mean? Isn’t that where Cameroon is? Or is it the Caribbean . . . ?” wonders Kit.
Jake makes a slight noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a snort of disbelief.
“What do you know about those schoolgirls who were saved by an unknown private army a couple of months ago?” he demands.
“Unknown private army.” That would be us. For a moment I’m a little bit flattered that just the three of us agents on the ground in West Africa gave someone the impression of a whole platoon.
“Jake, I’m busy and you’re talking in riddles. If you have something to ask me, contact my manager or my PR firm. Their email addresses are on my website.”
“You’re friends with Peggy Delaney, right?”
Another left-field question. And I’m sure Jake has noticed that it’s keeping the front door open and Kit planted on the step. She makes a sound of acknowledgment. There are pictures of Kit and Peggy everywhere, from the White House to Pakistan, so there’s no point in denying it.
“Peggy was helping the Cameroon government take care of those girls. I bumped into her at the embassy.”
That freaks me out even more, because I was with Peggy when Jake spoke to her at the embassy. I am 100 percent sure he wouldn’t remember me, though. I bite tensely on a nail. Okay, 95 percent sure. Jake’s still talking:
“That was right after the operation in Cameroon. The attack on Ahmed.”
Boy, he’s really smart. Planting a name that we know well, just to see if it sticks. But my mom is smarter.
“Who is Ahmed, for Christ’s sake?” Kit sounds exasperated.
No explanation from Jake. A bit of shuffling. Then:
“Here. This is a female soldier. Do you know who it is?” Jake asks.
There’s a short pause, during which I imagine Kit is looking at whatever image he’s showing her.
“Are you serious? It’s grainy and—well, it’s not even in focus. Jake, I’m sorry. Even though you made sure I can’t walk down the street without someone spitting at me, I kind of respect your reporting. But you’re really pissing me off right about now, and if you don’t take a hike, I’ll call the police.”
“I can’t tell if you’re for real,” says Jake.
“Trust me, I just need to push this panic button and the cops will be here in three minutes.”
“Not about that,” Jake continues, perfectly cool. I really want to run downstairs and punch him. But I sit on my hands and make myself breathe (quietly).
“About Gregory Pavlic,” continues Jake, and his voice has dropped now, like he’s trying to genuinely connect with Kit. “Your whole women’s rights campaigning thing, all these years? It always struck me as, well, honest. And then you go and sing for a notorious trafficker. It doesn’t feel right, Kit.” There’s a long pause. I lean forward, straining to listen.