Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (14 page)

"Yes."

"And
if they are as good as you say, then do you really think that woman would wear
a ring that could lead us to her? It's a mistake," Bex finished, and I
just stood there, the unspoken truth settling around us: they didn't make mistakes.

"Morgan!"
our teacher called. "Baxter! Back to work, please."

I pulled Bex to her feet.

"You
know," Bex said, "there is one resource we haven't utilized
yet."

Through
the window, I saw my mother crossing the grounds.

"No!"
I snapped as Bex lunged toward me, her foot sailing far too close to my ear for
comfort. "I am not spying on my mom again," I said, maybe too loudly
considering that Tina Walters and Eva Alvarez were ten feet away.

"Who
said anything about your mom?" Bex whispered to me, gesturing behind us at
the rock wall and Mr. Solomon.

"No
way," I whispered. "Mom was bad enough, but Mr. Solomon would
be—"

"Look again," she
whispered.

And
then I saw that Mr. Solomon was not alone. That he was with someone. That he
was smiling. That they were laughing.

And
that my best friend in the world thought that I should snoop on my aunt Abby.

I would
like to point out that, despite evidence to the contrary, I don't like breaking
rules. I do not enjoy violating people's privacy—especially people I love. And
I try to never, ever stick my nose into other people's business. Still, I couldn't
shake the feeling that what was happening with Macey had become my business
when I fell forty feet through a metal shaft and landed in a cart full of dirty
laundry.

So
that's why we huddled in our suite that Thursday night.

And
that's why I didn't protest as Bex asked, "So, everyone clear?"

Macey
laced up her running shoes and Liz gripped her flashlight, while I just sat
there telling myself that there's a big difference between spying and snooping,
and espionage isn't so much about uncovering embarrassing things as it is, you
know, about saving lives (and other important stuff).

Macey
was safe. The Secret Service and Aunt Abby were on the case. But if someone was
hunting Gallagher Girls, then none of us would rest until we knew who. And why.

Covert
Operations Report PHASE ONE 1830 hours

On
the night of October 1, Operative McHenry announced to the entire post-dinner
crowd in the Grand Hall that she was going for a run in the woods.

Agent
Abigail Cameron announced that the protectee wasn't allowed in the woods alone,
and that Agent Cameron had a headache, so therefore, the proctectee wasn't
going anywhere.

Operative
McHenry (a.k.a., the proctectee) announced that she was going for a run and if
Agent Cameron didn't like it she could … (Well, let's just say it was in
Arabic. And it wasn't very ladylike.)

Agent
Cameron announced (louder, and in Farsi) that the protectee was not to leave
the mansion.

Operative
McHenry replied (even louder) that she WAS.

And
then she fled the Grand Hall. Fast.

Agent
Cameron had no choice but to follow.

Walking
through the mansion with Bex that night, I felt a little sick to my stomach—not
because of what we were about to do, but because I was afraid it might actually
work. I might learn something I couldn't unlearn. And every spy knows that we
live our lives on a need-to-know basis for a reason.

I
glanced out the window and saw a blur as Macey dashed through the woods, Abby
following closely behind her. From behind a tree, a flashlight clicked off and
on twice, Liz's way of telling us the coast was clear. Everything was going
according to plan, and yet a nervous feeling settled in as I walked toward my
aunt's room and knocked, knowing full well that no one would answer.

It took
ten full minutes to break into Aunt Abby's room. Yes, ten minutes. Not
necessarily because my aunt had used every surveillance detection known to man,
but because we couldn't be sure she hadn't, and Bex and I weren't taking any
chances. (We were juniors, after all!)

When
we finally stepped into Abby's room, for some reason I held my breath. Our
flashlights played over a closetful of clothes I'd never seen my aunt wear.
There was a dresser covered with knickknacks, trinkets from other worlds and
other times, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind that each one held a story
that I'd never heard. I'd been listening to her wild tales for weeks, but every
spy learns early on that the stories that matter most are the ones that you
don't tell.

Abby
had come back to us—but one look around her room told me that a part of her was
still long gone.

The
beam of my flashlight nearly blinded me as it shone against the mirror. A tiny
black-and-white photo was tacked to the bottom corner of the glass. I stood
there for a long time staring at the image of my aunt, my favorite teacher, and
my father—all three laughing at a joke that was long since over.

For
a second I almost forgot what we were searching for. Someone was after Macey,
but right then my aunt was the mystery I most wanted to solve.

"Cam."

Bex's
voice cut through the darkness as the beam of her flashlight fell upon—an image
I'd hoped I'd never see again.

"That's
it," I muttered, stepping closer to look at the grainy black-and-white
photograph—a close-up of a hand. It was pretty good considering it had been
taken with an NSA satellite a few hundred miles above the earth. It didn't show
the faces. If I hadn't known, I wouldn't have even recognized my own shoulder
and neck. But the hand was fully in focus, the ring as clear as day.

"Do
you recognize it?" I asked, feeling my heart beat faster, seeing the proof
at last that I wasn't chasing a phantom image from my mind.

Bex
stared harder. "Maybe," she said, then shook her head. "I don't
know."

1830
hours

Agent
Cameron succeeded in dragging Operative McHenry back to the primary mansion.

Unfortunately, Operatives Morgan
and Baxter had no way of knowing that.

"Oh,
Joe!" Abby's voice echoed down the hallway. "You are going to get me
into so much trouble."

I
froze, totally unsure what was more terrifying: the look on Bex's face or the
flirty tone of my aunt's laugh or the sound of a key being inserted into the
lock on Abby's door.

I
didn't have a clue what to do. I mean, as a rule, hiding is never a very good
idea. When in doubt, get out, Mr. Solomon always says. But I wasn't exactly
sure what he'd say when he is the person who is about to catch you.

"Bed!"
I snapped, grabbing Bex by the back of the neck. "Now!"

Crawling
underneath Aunt Abby's bed, I couldn't help but think about the thousands of
times in the past four and a half years when I'd wondered where she was and
what she was doing. (Note to self: be very, very careful what you wish for.)

"Oh,
Joe, stop!" my aunt cried as the door creaked open. "What if Rachel
found out? She'd never forgive me."

In
the darkness under the bed, Bex looked at me, her eyes as wide and bright as
the moon, as she mouthed the word, "Solomon!"

I
wanted to put my hands in my ears and sing. I wanted to wish myself into
another room—another galaxy—but instead I just squeezed my eyes together.

And
that's probably why I didn't see the bedskirt fly up and two hands grab my
ankles.

My
back skidded on the hardwood floors as a great force jerked me from my hiding
place.

My aunt stared down and said,
"Hey, squirt."

The
good news was that Mr. Solomon was nowhere to be found. The bad news was that
my aunt had had absolutely no trouble finding
us.

"Bex, darling, could you
give us a minute?" Bex looked at me. One of the cardinal rules of being a
Gallagher Girl was simple: never leave your sister behind. But this was
different, and we both knew it.

"See you upstairs," I
said as she walked away. The door closed behind her, and Abby turned to me.
"You really have grown up."

"Aunt Abby," I hurried
with the words, "I'm—" I had intended to say "sorry" but
Abby finished for me. "Busted."

She
dropped onto the bed and pulled off a black (standard Secret Service-issue)
loafer that was covered with mud. I looked around the room. "Uh… where's
Mr. Solomon?"

"Heck
if I know." Abby shrugged. She must have read my confused expression
because then she added, "Oh, Joe," mimicking her earlier tone. She
laughed. "Squirt, you should have seen the look on your face."

"Was I that obvious?" I
asked.

"Oh,
no way," Abby said, and as crazy as it might sound, I felt a little proud.
"But the bed thing is kind of a Morgan family tradition."

"Why? Did my mom—"

"Oh,
not your mom." Abby stopped me. She cocked an eyebrow. "Your
dad."

Your dad,
she'd said. She'd just…volunteered
it. My father was always with my mother and me, and yet neither of us ever said
his name. I realized then that Dad was like a ghost that only Aunt Abby didn't
fear. She walked to the dresser and pulled out a bag of M&M's.

"Want
one?" she asked, offering me the bag. For a second I thought about the
first time I'd met Zach, but the thought quickly vanished.

"Gosh,
your dad loved sweets!" she exclaimed as she sank onto the bed. "You
get that from him, you know. I remember this one time, we were trailing this
double agent through a bazaar in Athens, and there was this lady selling
chocolates. And they looked so good. And I could see your dad, and it was all
he could do to keep his eye on the subject. But your dad was a pavement
artist—you know that, right? So he's following this guy, while I'm up on this
second-story balcony getting the whole thing on surveillance and routing it
back to Langley. And your dad's a pro, but I could tell that he wanted
something sweet so bad he could hardly stand it. The only problem was…"

I
watched my aunt carry on. There was a light in her eyes, an easiness to her
words that I don't think I'd ever heard before. It was just another funny
story, an entertaining tale. I mean, sure it was classified and dangerous and
she might have been violating about a dozen CIA bylaws by telling me, but still
she talked, and I listened.

"Here's
the thing you've got to know," she said as she leaned closer.
"Everything's so crowded that if you blinked at the wrong time you could
lose someone, so it's a tough tail, you know? And I'm up on this balcony, but
housekeeping wants to come in and clean the room. This maid is yelling, and I'm
calling back, and I look away for—I don't know— two seconds. Seriously. No way
was it longer than that. And when I look back, your dad's got chocolate on one
side of his face and he's smiling at me."

Abby
threw her head back, and a part of me wanted to laugh alongside her. I tried to
imagine my father alive and half a world away. But the other part of me wanted
to cry.

"To
this day I don't know how he did it. I went back and looked at the tapes,
too." She wiped her hands together as if shaking off the dust of some old
mystery she'd given up on solving. "Not a sign of it." Then she
looked at me anew. "He was that good."

She
pushed herself back onto the bed and told me,
"You're
that good." The way she
looked at me said she

wasn't speaking as an aunt, she
was speaking as a spy.

But
I didn't want to be compared to my father in that place. In that way. I didn't
deserve it, so I said, "I'm not."

"Yeah,
maybe you aren't," Abby said, and despite my protest, a wave of hurt ran
through me. But then she cocked an eyebrow. "But you will be."

A
new feeling coursed through me—relief. I felt…like a girl. Like I didn't know
all the answers and that was okay because I still had time to learn them.

"So you're not going to tell
my mom?"

"Why?"
Abby looked at me. "So she can get mad at both of us?"

It seemed like a fair point until
I realized…

"But why would she get mad
at you?"

"For
showing you this." The sound of a heavy notebook dropping onto her wooden
dresser caught me off guard. Sheets of paper almost seemed to whistle as she
thumbed through the pages.

"The
threat book," my aunt told me as I looked at the book. The covers could
barely contain it. "This is just this month. This is just Macey—not even
counting the rest of the McHenry family," She thumbed through the pages,
but I didn't dare to read the words. "We keep copies of every letter,
every e-mail, every 911 call and crazy floral delivery card. We keep track of
everything, Cam, and analyze it and study it and do what it is we do."