"So the subs' next generation cameras with the 360 degree range and heat-sensitive triggers aren't bothering you?" Liz asked. I couldn't tell if she was mocking me or not.
"There's something he's not telling us," I whispered.
"Like what?" Bex asked, interested again.
Like what's so important about this journal? Like why didn't man in D.C. shoot him and kidnap me when he had the chance? At least filled my mind, but the halls were crowded, and there was only one thing I dared to say.
"There's just . . . something."
"He's a guy, Cam." Macey pushed past me and led the way down the hall. "And a spy.
He's a guy spy. There's always going to be something he's not telling."
"He fought with us - in D.C.," Liz said. There was no doubt in her voice, no fear. "I know you couldn't see, Cam. I know they drugged you and banged your head and all. But he and Mr. Solomon fought with us," Liz said one final time, and then turned and ran toward Mr. Mosckowitz's classroom.
I turned to Macey.
"So he's mysterious," she said with a shrug. "Mysterious is sexy." And then it was her turn to spin on her heels and run out the front doors, on her way to P&E.
When I turned to Bex, I wanted her to say that everything was going to be fine - that there was nothing the four of us couldn't do, and it was just a matter of time until we found our way into the Sublevel Tow, cleared Mr. Solomon's name, and stopped global warming (not necessarily in that order).
I looked at her. I waited.
"We can't trust him." She pushed past me, stepped calmly into Room 132. "We can't trust anyone."
I wanted to her she was wrong (but she wasn't). I thought I might think of a way to prove he was an exception (but I couldn't). I wanted her to stop looking at me as a spy and start talking to me as a girl, but Gallagher Girls are only exceptional because we're both - all the time. I wante3d to go into the CoveOps classroom and pretend to read whatever boring book Townsend was going to give us and relay every conversation that Zach and I had ver had. But before I could take a single step, Agent Townsend appeared in the doorway of the classroom, a coat in his hands, saying, "Junior class, come with me."
I know we're supposed to be in the business of being prepared for anything - of never, ever being surprised - but let me tell you, most of the people I know still shock the fire out of me on a regular basis. (Like for example, the time Mr. Mosckowitz and Liz went rock climbing together and neither of them actually died.) But in five and a half years at the world's premiere school for spies, very few things have surprised me more than walking with the rest of the junior CoveOps class, following Agent Townsend through the halls.
He was the sort of man who always moved with purpose, never wasted a step, but that day he walked even faster. He seemed taller. And though we were still inside the Gallagher mansion, something told me that Agent Townsend was finally back on similar ground.
"Um . . .sir . . ." Tina Walters said, pushing through the crowd, trying to get as close as possible to the man at the front of the pack. "Are we going to Back to Sublevel Tow?"
she asked, but Townsend acted as if she hadn't uttered a single word.
"The primary job of any field agent is what?" he asked in a manner that made him sound almost like real teacher. Almost.
"To recruit, run, maintain assets of intelligence," Mack Morrison said, quoting page twelve from the old copy of Understanding Espionage: A Beginner's Guide to Covert Operations, Third Edition, that we'd all taken turns reading under the covers in the seventh grade.
Agent Townsend looked at her. I thought for a split second that he might actually smile, but instead he just said, "Wrong."
It felt like the entire class missed a step. Townsend, on the other hand, kept walking.
"The primary job of a field agent is to use people - strangers, typically. Sometimes friends. Secretaries, neighbors, girlfriends, boyfriends, janitors, and little old ladies crossing the street. We use them all."
He stopped in the center of the foyer and turned to face us, while, behind him, main doors flew open. A van sat idling in the center of the drive. I was tempted to close my eyes and pretend that it was a really CoveOps lecture, that we had real CopeOps teacher again.
But then Townsend said, "But, of course, if that's somehow beneath a Gallagher Girl . . ."
"No, sir!" Tina chanted.
He stepped aside and gestured toward the open doors. "Then, after you."
What happened next was a rush of emotion and adrenalin like I hadn't felt in six weeks. It was intoxicating. I felt almost drunk. And yet I stayed still, watching my classmates race out the door and toward the waiting van.
"I suppose you think this optional, Ms. Morgan?" Agent Townsend stood staring at me through the open door.
"Of course I want to go, but there are these new security protocols" - I glanced away, somehow unable to face him as I admitted, "Professor Buckingham told me I'm not allowed to leave the grounds."
"And I suppose you think I've forgotten that fact?"
"No, sir."
"Then you think I'm a fool."
"No, sir, I -"
"Don't worry, Ms. Morgan, I know you're special. And because of you and your mother, I've spent a great deal of time and energy making special arrangements," he said with a condescending smirk. "But if you want to stay in the mansion . . ."
I didn't wait for him to finish. I was already out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spies need covert operations. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. Because even though our brains are . . . you know . . . brain-sized, every undercover operative knows that a mind is totally big enough to get lost inside - to go crazy if you're left with too much time and too much room to let your biggest ears run free.