"This is not a required course, ladies. You no longer have to be here." Mr. Solomon turned around. His green eyes bore into us, and at that moment Joe Solomon wasn't just our hottest teacher, he was also our scariest. "Six of your classmates have already chosen a relatively safe life on the research and operations track of study. If you can't remember a fifty-minute lecture, then I'd encourage you to join them."
He turned back to the board and continued writing. "Your memory is your first and best weapon, ladies. Learn to use it."
I sat there for a long time, absorbing what he'd said, what it meant, knowing that he was right. Our memories are the only weapons we take with us no matter where we go, but then I thought about the second part of his statement— Don't make things harder than they have to be. I thought about what I'd overheard the night before. The look in my mother's eyes on the long, quiet ride home. And finally…Josh. And then I realized that my life would be a whole lot easier if there were some things I could forget.
Chapter Four
Summary of Surveillance By utilizing the "least-intrusive means possible" model of covert operations, The Operatives were able to ascertain the following:
According to some very popular Internet search engines, "black thorn" is a common type of rose fungus, but does not appear to be a code name for any rogue government conspiracy theories.
There are approximately 1,947 people in the United States named Blackthorne, but, according to the IRS, none of them have listed their profession as Spy, Spook, Ghoul, Assassin, Hitter, Pro, Freelancer, Black Bag Man (or woman), Operative, Agent, or Pavement Artist.
Seeing through the door to the East Wing wasn't possible, because, despite rumors to the contrary, Dr. Fibs's X-ray vision goggles had not passed beyond the prototype phase. (Which also explained why he was wearing that eye patch.)
A good thing about going to spy school is that you have genius friends with incredible abilities who are able to help you with any "special projects" that may come up. The bad part is that they really get into those "projects." Way into them.
"It's got to be in here somewhere!" Liz cried over the sound of heavy books crashing onto hard wood as she dropped volumes nine through fourteen of Surveillance Through the Centuries onto the library table.
I looked around the quiet room, waiting for someone to shush her, but all I heard was the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the sigh of a girl who, after spending every spare moment for a week barricaded in the library, was starting to lose faith in books. (And Liz is the girl who actually slept with a copy of Advanced Encryption and You during finals week of our eighth grade year!)
Macey tossed aside The Chronicles of Chemical Warfare that lay on her lap. "Maybe it's not in the library," Macey said, and I seriously thought Liz was going to hyperventilate or something. She might have if Macey hadn't crossed her legs and asked, "So what does that mean?"
Oh my gosh! I can't believe we hadn't asked that question before—that somehow we'd forgotten one of the basic rules of covert operations: everything means something! Not finding something significant was maybe the most significant thing of all.
"Do you know how current something has to be not to be in these books?" Liz asked, backing away, sounding slightly terrified and a little bit giddy. She looked at the volumes on the table as if they were so dangerous they might explode (which is silly, since everyone knows the so-top-secret-they'll-explode-if-you-read-them-without-clearance books are stored in Sublevel Three).
"So black thorn must be—" Macey started, looking at me.
"Classified," I finished. "Really classified."
Spies keep secrets—it's what we do. So we sat in silence while the fire crackled and the truth washed over us: If Blackthorne was that Top Secret, then I was sure we'd never find it.
"You know, Cam," Bex said, smiling a smile that might be alarming on an ordinary girl, but on a girl with Bex's special talents it's downright terrifying, "there is one place we haven't looked." She tapped a finger against her chin in a gesture that, even for Bex, was especially dramatic. "Now, who do we know who has access to the headmistress's office?"
"No, Bex." I sat up straight and began stacking and restacking books. "No. No. No. I cannot spy on my mom!"
"Why not?" Bex asked as if I'd just told her I couldn't pull off wearing red lipstick (which, by the way, I can't).
"Because…she's my mom" I said, not even trying to hide the duh in my voice. "And she's one of the CIA's very best operatives. And…she's my mom!"
"Exactly! She would never suspect"—Bex paused for effect—"her own daughter." And then Bex, Liz, and Macey looked at me as if this were the best plan ever. Which it wasn't. At all. I mean, I know a little something about plans, having helped my father design a Trojan horse-type scenario to infiltrate a former Soviet nuclear missile silo that had been taken over by terrorists when I was seven. And this was not a good plan!
"Bex!" I cried. "I don't want to do this. It—"
But before I could finish, the library door swung open and I heard Macey say, "Hello, Ms. Morgan."
Even though I'd been sitting relatively still for forty-five minutes, my heart felt like I'd just run a mile. Mom looked down at the Portuguese translation of 101 Classic Covers and the Spies Who've Used Them and said, "What are you girls doing in the library on a sunny day like this?"
"COW extra credit," we all said, citing the cover story we'd agreed on before we left the room.
But still, my pulse didn't slow down. I just sat there, reminding myself that we weren't breaking any rules. I hadn't really told any lies. (Mr. Smith had assigned extra credit, after all.) Technically, I hadn't broken my promise. Yet.
"Okay," Mom said, smiling. "I'll see you tonight, Cam."
I felt Bex's eyes on me and knew what she was thinking—that I was going to be spending the evening with my mother. In her office. What kind of operative would I be if I didn't take advantage of the situation?
But then I thought about my mother and wondered what kind of daughter I would be if I did.
Things I've Done That I'm Not Necessarily Proud Of:
A list by Cameron Morgan
One time I accidentally spilled all of Bex's detangling conditioner and refilled the bottle with
volumizing conditioner, and her hair got really big for a few weeks, but I never told her why.
I once wore Liz's favorite yoga pants without permission and totally stretched them out. Also,
her favorite sweater.
Whenever I'm in Nebraska I always pretend I'm too weak to open pickle jars, because Grandpa
Morgan likes to do it for me.
As I have thoroughly documented elsewhere, I once had a clandestine relationship with a really
cute, really sweet boy and then lied about it.
A lot.
· On the first Sunday after winter break in my sophomore year, I helped Liz implant a camera
in the watch Grandma gave me for my birthday. And then I wore it to Sunday-night supper in my
mother's office so that I could do the worst thing I've ever done. Ever.
When you're the daughter of two secret agents, you learn pretty early that spies walk a moral tightrope. We do bad things for good reasons, and for the most part we can live with that. But that Sunday night, when I sat in my mother's office eating microwavable crab puffs and fingering my new custom-made spy watch, I thought about my cover: hungry daughter bonding with her mother-slash-mentor. Then I thought about my mission: do a basic recon of the headmistress's office and hope there will be a report titled Operation Black Thorn or Contents of the East Wing just lying around.
Sunday-night supper in my mother's office is something I've been doing ever since Mom and I came to the Gallagher Academy. Usually, however, I don't feel nauseous until after I've eaten (because even though Mom once manufactured an antidote for a rare poison by using the contents of a hotel minibar, she has yet to master microwaves and hot plates).
"So," Mom said, gesturing to the small silver tray of puffs, "how are they?"
(Note to self: research bioweapon potential of microwavable crab puffs.)
"They're great!" I lied, and my mother smiled. No, scratch that—she glowed. And at that moment I seriously wanted to back out, to put the watch in my pocket and forget how I'd already memorized the exact position of everything on her desk in case I got a chance to snoop and then had to put things back. I wanted to stop being a spy and start being a daughter. Especially when Mom glanced at my wrist and said, "You're wearing Grandma's watch."
I rubbed my thumb over the smooth glass that now doubled as a telephoto lens. "Yeah."
"That's nice," she said, and smiled happily. Even though she seemed to be fine now, I thought about the worried woman I'd shared a limo with from D.C., and the conversation I'd overheard. I wasn't the only operative in that room clinging to her legend.
And then, before I could stop to think, I blurted, "Do you have any fingernail clippers?" Mom looked at me for a second, and I knew I couldn't back out now, so I held out my right hand, which thankfully, wasn't shaking. "I've got a hangnail that's driving me crazy."
"Sure, sweetie," Mom said. "In my desk. Top drawer."
So see, I didn't even have to pick the lock or fake the fingerprint-activated drawers. I was perfectly within my daughterly rights as I moved to my mother's desk and rummaged around for the clippers.
A brief search of the headmistress's desk revealed the following:
Headmistress Morgan had ten different lipsticks in her desk (only three of which were for purely cosmetic uses).
Mom carried a small pan into her private bathroom and turned on the water, and that's when I took pictures of every single thing in her trash can. Headmistress Morgan had, evidently, been fighting off a cold, because her trash contained fourteen used tissues and an empty bottle of Vitamin C.
I knocked a paper clip dispenser off her desk and channeled Liz with a loud "Oopsy daisy." Then I huddled on the floor as I picked up paper clips with one hand and rifled through her bottom desk drawers with the other.
Of all the items the Gallagher Academy receives royalty revenues from, Band-Aids are surprisingly the most profitable.
I could hear my mother on the far side of the room, stirring things, pouring things. "Did you find them?" she called out.
I held up the nail clippers with one hand while I closed her bottom drawer with the other.
I smiled and waved my manicured fingers and thought, I am a terrible daughter.
But my mother only smiled in return, because maybe I'm also a pretty good spy.
Ironically, the one person who could explain the difference was the one person I totally couldn't ask.
I placed the nail clippers back where I'd found them and looked down at a desk that even an expert would swear had never been touched. I placed my palms against the middle drawer and felt my fingertips brush against the smooth wood of the underside, the cool metal track on which it ran. But something else, too. Something thin and worn.
"I know this semester is going to be a big adjustment for you, kiddo," Mom said. She stirred a bubbling concoction in a Crock-Pot while I pressed a finger against the paper—felt it move.
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