Agents of the Glass (30 page)

Andy's phone buzzed while he and Penny were taking their final walk of the day, around nine-thirty. When he saw that it was Winter, part of him wanted to ignore it—he just wasn't in the mood to deal with her—but Mrs. Cardigan's words about minimizing the risk of the operation rang in his ears, so he took a deep breath and answered.

“Andy! Hi! You weren't sleeping, were you?”

He breathed in deeply again before answering. “No. I'm outside, walking Penny. What's up?”

“I was just wondering…what's going on with Jensen? I heard she ran away. That she's in California. Figures. She's so
weird.
”

“What? California? No way. She hates California. She has a relative there, and she hates him. Where did you hear 
that
?”

“I had a meeting with Deanna Decameron—you know, from NTRP—about this story they want me to do, and while I was there, I saw video of one of their reporters talking to a cop. I don't know the reporter, but the cop's name was Cunningham. Super handsome. Really nice suit. Loudest laugh I ever heard, I swear.”

“Oh, yeah? Huh. Well, I haven't heard anything like that,” said Andy, staring at his phone and smiling at the realization that Winter obviously knew everything he did. “I haven't heard from her, but I just figured she still wasn't talking to me because she was mad about the whole Karina Jellyby interview thing. But I still don't believe she's in California.”

A long silence followed, finally broken by Winter. “So, what's going on, Andy? Why are you acting so…you know, cold? I thought we were friends. I mean, I've had fun working with you. And we were great together on the Karina piece. What is it? Did I do something to offend you?”

Her sincerity was so realistic that Andy
almost
believed it. He was relieved that they were talking by phone; in person, it would be harder to resist her charms. It wasn't hard to imagine those remarkable pale eyes pleading with him, her hand touching his just so, her voice oozing fake genuineness. Despite all of Silas's talk of his unusual ability to resist the power that Syngians have over mere mortals, Andy didn't trust himself completely, and he touched the glass circle hanging around his neck to remind himself of the importance of his mission.

“I'm…You didn't do anything. I just…have a lot on my mind, that's all,” he answered. “We
are
friends, at least I hope so.”

Two can play this game,
he thought.
I can pretend to be charming, too.

“That's good to hear, because I really like working with you, and now that we're going to be working at…Well, I can't tell you because I promised not to tell anyone until after the concert, but I can't wait.” She laughed, adding, “The whole world will be a better place when it's over.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll just have to wait and see like everybody else. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.”

A few blocks away, Detective Cunningham was having coffee with Zhariah Davis, the reporter from the
Inquirer.
Since meeting Jensen and Andy, she had been spending most of her spare time (as well as most of her spare money) on the Halestrom story—unofficially, because her editor threatened to fire her if she asked him so much as one more question about the story. Cunningham was the lead detective on the Ilene Porter case, so she'd waited for him outside the Nineteenth Precinct and offered to buy him a coffee if he would let her ask some questions. At least he couldn't fire her.

“You can ask all you want, but a cup of coffee doesn't necessarily buy you any answers.”

“Fair enough. Let's start with Ilene Porter. Do you know the cause of death yet?”

“We would have to have a body to know that,” he said. “That's why it's a missing-persons case. There's no evidence of anything more than that. No signs of foul play, as you reporters like to say. But maybe you have information that you want to share. Shed some light on this case for me, please. Is it a kidnapping? That seems logical—rich lady, single, no security.”

She held his gaze for a few seconds before answering. “I don't have anything concrete, but I don't think it's an ordinary kidnapping, if that's what you're saying. When you look at the big picture—you know, the timing and all that—her, um, disappearance is…
unusual,
to say the least. She meets with a bunch of charity bigwigs at this swanky hotel, and then, they all stop giving away their money. Except her. And then…”

“And then what? Nothing. It's all circumstantial. She comes to New York, she's at the Newgate…and then she isn't. She's worth in the neighborhood of a billion dollars. If she wanted to disappear for a while, she could afford to do it right. An island in the Caribbean. A little place in Provence. Maybe she's thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About whether to stop giving
her
money away, too. Maybe they all just got tired of fighting a losing battle.”

“Geez, you sound like that nut on the radio. Howard somebody.”

“Twopenny? Ouch. You know how to hurt a guy.”

“How do you explain Jensen Huntley?”

“Who?”

“Oh, nobody. Only the girl who just happened to interview Ilene Porter just before the alleged
disappearance.
”

“Ah. Jensen. You asked how I explain her. The words
conspiracy nut
come to mind. She's a troubled teen. We had her listed as missing, but that's all been cleared up.”

“Oh,
wake
up, Detective! She's not a nut—or
troubled,
whatever that means—and nothing has been cleared up. She came to me with a friend, said they were working on a story for their school news program. About this company 233dotcom, which, according to those two, took all the books from their school library and
burned
them. They saw it with their own eyes. She was going to interview Ilene Porter and send me her notes, but…nothing. Her website's gone. She hasn't been in school. I bribed the doorman in her building, and he told me that the police dragged her away. Only, it turns out, it wasn't the police. I have
other
contacts who are cops, and they confirmed that. So where is she?”

“Finally. A question I can answer. California.”

“California?”

“Yep. Big state. Left side of the country. Nice beaches. Ring any bells?”

“Why are you so sure she's there? She call you or something?”

“She wrote me a letter. With a stamp and everything. Very old-school.”

“And you believed it? You know, Detective, just when I start to think that you're a smart guy, you go and say something like that. If Jensen Huntley is in California, I'll smear peanut butter on my phone and eat it. And I hate peanut butter.”

“Ha! That I'd like to see. Look, I know you have a job to do, but so do I. Right now my number-one priority is finding Ilene Porter—
alive,
I hope. Look, there's a concert Friday night at Wellbourne Academy. I'm going to be there because…well, because. You interested? It's that Karina Jellyby—” He paused when he saw Zhariah looking at him with a strange expression. “Wait…no, I don't mean like it's a date or anything….I just thought, you know, your story…”

“Sure, I'll go. Meet you there. Here's my number,” Zhariah said, slipping a business card in his hand. “And don't worry—I don't date cops.”

When Andy arrived at the Loom after school on Thursday, Mrs. Cardigan set down her knitting and rose from her chair to greet him. “Come in, come in. We have lots to talk about. But first, some tea.” She filled a mug with smoky Lapsang souchong and handed it to him. “Everyone thinks better over tea, don't you agree? Now let's get you caught up on everything we discovered last night. When you called, we had just found these articles about some students at Grootman College—”

“Hey, my mom went there. Let me see.”

Andy skimmed quickly through the articles as Silas filled in the missing pieces of the story. When they were finished, Mrs. Cardigan pointed to the large television screen on the wall. “Everyone, take a look. This is from a few minutes ago, the five o'clock news on NTRP. I got a message from our man inside the network that it's already generating a lot of buzz.” She pressed play, and the video started.

“NTRP is proud to introduce a new segment today, called nTeens,” the anchorman, Bill Betts, announced in his baritone voice. “Once a week, students from Wellbourne Academy will be writing and producing a special story for the younger viewers in our audience. Today, we are joined by Winter Neale, who brings us her interview with the musician Karina Jellyby, herself a graduate of Wellbourne. May I be the first to say, ‘Welcome, Winter.' It's great to have you aboard as our first-ever junior correspondent.”

“Thank you
so
much, Bill, and everyone here at NTRP, for giving me this opportunity,” said Winter, her voice oozing sincerity. “I am really excited to be a part of something so big, and with such a great network. We have a wonderful tradition of journalism at Wellbourne, and it's amazing to have the chance to show the world what we can do.”

Mrs. Cardigan clicked it off after the interview with Karina, which had been edited down to just under three minutes. Winter's face was on-screen longer than Karina's, which was no accident; NTRP wanted everyone staring into those hypnotic eyes for as long as possible.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed with another update. “Our NTRP insider says that the phones are ringing nonstop and they got so many emails that their server crashed. Our biggest fear is about to come true: Winter Neale is going to be a media star. They're giving her a perfect platform to get started. How long till they decide to make this a daily thing? Imagine her as a regular on the morning news program. That show draws
millions
of viewers every day.”

“We have to stop her,” Reza said.

“Not as easy as it sounds,” said Mrs. Cardigan. “She's dangerous, yes, but in the eyes of the world, she's a child. We have to be careful—one wrong move could expose us or set us back years. The mood of the country is difficult.”

“Thanks to NTRP,” Silas said. “Their sleazy programs created this monster and made it possible for Winter Neale to become their—”

“Savior?” offered Mrs. Cardigan, smiling wryly. “You're right, of course, but that doesn't change anything. But we have something that St. John de Spere doesn't—and that thing is
patience.
They're a little too eager to put their new technology to work and to push Winter onto the American public now. They're going to make mistakes…and we're going to capitalize on them. Now, can I get a minute with Andy, everyone?”

“Sure. Let's go get some coffee, Reza,” said Silas. “There's a new place around the corner.”

“You buying?”

“Sure. Andy, in case you're gone when I get back, I'll see you at two-thirty tomorrow. I'll be with the band.” He paused, smiling. “Never thought I'd hear myself say those words.”

When they had stepped out into the darkness, Mrs. Cardigan stuck the
CLOSED
sign to the front door and invited Andy to sit in one of the wing chairs.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks.”

She poured herself another cup of tea and closed her eyes as she inhaled the pungent steam. “I'm sorry, you're waiting for me. There's so much to say, but I don't want to burden you with too much information on the eve of an important battle—yes,
battle
, because that's what this is, Andy. The Agents. NTRP. Good. Evil. It's that simple. You are one of us. For some people, it takes years, but not you. I can assure you that every one of the Agents, including those you have not yet met, is one hundred percent behind you.”

“Even the scary guy who used to be a British spy?”

“Ha! That's a very accurate description of Mr. Gardner. But the answer is yes, even him. Now, I understand that your mother is on her way home from Africa—is that right?”

“Uh-huh. She'll be back the day after tomorrow.”

“I'll bet you're excited. I'm sure you miss her. It's been a long time.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. A
long
time. But it's okay. I mean, I understand why she does it. She's helping people who really need help.”

“That's a very mature attitude for someone so young. You're right. Her job is very important. I'm going to tell you something else about your mom—something that may surprise you. Has she ever talked to you about her time in England, when she was at Cambridge?”

“Not much. Just that she went to college there. And I think she was an assistant professor or something like that for a while. That's about it.”

“Well, there's a little more to the story,” said Mrs. Cardigan. “Something that was kept out of the newspapers. At the time of the tragedy at Cambridge that you just read about, St. John de Spere—his name was James Thorneside then—was under the supervision of an advisor at Grootman College. She was a postgraduate student, a brilliant scientist in her own right. Well, after winning that big grant, de Spere felt he was untouchable, that nothing was off-limits to him. When he approached his advisor with the plan for his experiment, she refused to allow him to use the labs. The proposed experiment was so irresponsible, so against
everything
that she and the university stood for, that she went directly to the department head, who suspended de Spere's lab privileges pending an investigation. The next night, he carried out the experiment anyway, and you know the rest.” She paused, sipping her tea before dropping a bombshell: “What you don't know is that the graduate student who stood up to St. John de Spere was your mother.”

“
What?
My mom knows him?”

“It was a long time ago. She
knew
him. Even though she was completely exonerated of any blame, she felt that her name would forever be linked to the tragedy, so she left the university a few weeks later and came back home to America.”

Andy's mind whirled as he pieced together the fragments of the story. “There's still one thing I don't understand. If the part about my mom was kept out of the papers…how do
you
know about it?”

“My, you
are
quick, aren't you?” Mrs. Cardigan said, her eyes glimmering. “Silas warned me about you—he says you're the best agent he's ever worked with, of any age. I was hoping to save this for later, but the answer to your question is that I knew your mother back then. We knew about de Spere's experiments, and we were interested in them…until his objectives changed. Much as you are doing, she worked for us, keeping us informed about his work.”

“What about now? Is she still…Does she know that I'm…because I haven't told her. Silas told me not to tell anyone, even family.”

Mrs. Cardigan raised her hand to stop him. “I promise that when all this is over, I'll tell you everything I can. Don't forget, this is your mother we're talking about—the person who knows you best in the world. Like every mother of every son, she knows more than you think. Let's just leave it at that. Right now, though, let's focus on tomorrow. Is there anything else you need?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is the plan clear? You know what to do in case of emergency?”

“All good,” said Andy. “I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

“What are you doing with Penny?”

“She'll be with Karina in case I need her. I'm going to sneak her in right after school and put her in the greenroom backstage.”

“Your Lucian Glass?”

Andy pulled on the cord around his neck and showed her the disk of glass.

“Wonderful. Now take a close look at it. What letter do you see at the top and the bottom of the circle?”

“It's a
C.
” Andy's mind ran through the eight qualities. “Courage. And Compassion.”

“That's right. Have you thought much about the points on the glass? Does the circle remind you of anything?”

“I don't…A clock? Although, now that I think about it, it's more like a compass.”

“That's exactly right. Except that, in place of the four cardinal directions—north, south, east, and west—you will find what we call the cardinal qualities: Compassion, Courage, Integrity, and Discipline. The ordinal qualities—no less important, mind you—of Intelligence, Loyalty, Dignity, and Humility correspond to the ordinal directions of northeast, southwest, and so on. In the late 1500s, during the age of exploration, the Agents decided to call a person who has all eight qualities a Compass
.
And although we've been keeping track for hundreds of years, we still don't know by what accident of genetics a Compass comes to be. But I do know this, Andover James Llewellyn: You are one.”

“But I'm…You hardly know me. I'm still a kid.”

“Age has little to do with it. I was your age when I found out. Your mother was a little older.”

“My mom? She's one, too?”

“Yes, which makes your case even more unusual. The child of a Compass is almost never one.”

Andy sat up straight in his chair, squeezing his head between his hands. “Wait…I'm still trying to—this is too much for me to—you know my
mom
?”

“For many years,” said Mrs. Cardigan, her eyes twinkling. “I still have a few surprises. Be patient. I promise that you'll know more very soon.”

“And my mom—she's a…she's like me? Are there a lot…of us?”

“Not nearly enough, I'm afraid. And many have no idea that they are, including, strangely enough, Winter's father.”

“What! If he's…how can Winter be…”

“It's because he is a Compass that Winter is what she is: a kind of super-Syngian. As Silas told you that day you saw them in the park, we've known that her mother is a Syngian, but thanks to your fieldwork, we now know the full truth about her father. That's how he's been able to resist her conniving and dangerous ways, at least so far, and how he was able to walk away from the Neale family business.”

“So, when a Syngian and a Compass have a baby…you get…
Winter
?”

Mrs. Cardigan nodded. “A very dangerous combination, indeed. If we had known that Sawyer was a Compass, we would have done something to…well, to make sure he married somebody else.”

“I don't get it. If he's a good person, why
would
he marry someone like that?”

“Don't forget that Syngians can be
very
persuasive. They don't have the same issues that normal people have with lying to get what they want. They don't understand guilt. And Winter's mother was taught by the very best. But enough about them. I want to talk about you.”

Andy nervously rubbed his Lucian Glass between his thumb and index finger.

“Do you remember the first time you saw a compass? How, no matter which way you turned it, no matter how fast, it always kept its bearing. It always points north. Like you, Andy. Since the end of summer, your life has been spun like a top, and turned upside down and inside out, but you've never lost your way. You have a rare gift, and I want you to know how grateful we all are to you for sharing it with us and for the sacrifices you've made.”