The Dead Drop (25 page)

The Mind of a Spy

Well, he’s quite a womanizer,” said Caitlin, peering at the napkin upon which Boris had scribbled a list of book titles among what seemed to be a personal shopping list for a party: the words
cocktails, hors d’oeuvres,
and
cake
appeared next to little sketches of cartoon figures with pineapples for heads and large feet. “Or at least he would like to be—that’s for sure.”

“How can you tell?”

“See here? He has a lot of large loops in the lower region of his handwriting. I see that all the time from guys who have girlfriends, but who still try to pick me up at the bar when they write down their names and phone numbers.”

“What else do you see?”

Pushing her cappuccino aside, Caitlin placed Boris’s table-napkin doodles and handwriting next to the photographs Gilda had taken of the dead-drop message. She took a magnifying glass out of her backpack to examine the letters more closely.

“You carry a magnifying glass with you?”

“Gilda, I’m telling you; people come up to me all the time and ask me to look at handwriting samples. ‘Should I hire this person?’ ‘Should I date this person?’ I’m beginning to think I should start charging for my services.”

“But this is free right now, right?”

“For you, it’s on the house. Now,” said Caitlin, “we can obviously see that these two handwriting samples are completely different. Anyone can tell that.”

“But someone leaving a dead-drop message might disguise his handwriting, right?”

“Even when people attempt to disguise their handwriting, they usually give themselves away. Little bits of their own handwriting creep in—a letter here and there, a different stroke. It’s like when an American tries to speak in a British accent: every now and then you’re going to slip a little unless you’re an exceptional actor. Same with handwriting.”

Caitlin squinted at the handwriting. “What I
don’t
see in Boris’s handwriting is any evidence of tension—those little angry strokes where the pen presses into the paper too hard. Whereas I see
a lot
of that in the message you photographed.

“Now this guy Boris has an ego, for sure, but he’s got a lot of openings at the tops of his letters, suggesting more openness in his personality. My sense is that he’s really more interested in seeking connections with people than hiding things from them, whereas this other person in the photographed message doesn’t ever want anyone to know what he’s up to. He’s probably one of those people who even keeps secrets from
himself.
My guess is that he started off as a petty grudge-holder who evolved into someone with criminal tendencies—mainly because he strikes me as the kind of person who blames others for all his problems.”

“In that case, I guess I should remove Boris from my list of suspects.” Gilda sighed and rested her chin in her hand.

“What’s wrong? That isn’t the answer you expected?”

“It’s not that . . .” Gilda liked Boris, so she was glad he was no longer a suspect. On the other hand, she now had absolutely no idea who a more plausible suspect might be.

“Isn’t this just a game for the Spy Museum? I mean, it seems like you’re taking it so seriously.”

“It isn’t a game at all!” Gilda blurted. She suddenly realized that while she had shown Caitlin the photograph of the dead-drop message and mentioned the mysterious flashing lights in their building, she had never had a chance to explain all the facts of her investigation. Caitlin knew nothing about her discovery in the cemetery or the haunting in the museum.

“Do you want to tell me what’s really going on with you?” Caitlin asked. “As your substitute mom for the summer, I demand to know.”

“It’s kind of complicated.” Gilda took a deep breath and described everything—finding the fake rock that contained the cryptic message, the dreams in which a dead woman’s face appeared, the spooky events in the Spy Museum.

“Gilda, I’m glad I know you well enough to know you aren’t crazy, because if you had told me all that on the first day you moved in, I probably would have had to put you back on a plane bound for Michigan. But now that we’re friends—aren’t roommates supposed to tell each other what’s going on? Why didn’t you tell me about all of this before?”

“A real spy wouldn’t need to tell anyone.”

“Oh, poo on being a ‘real spy.’ Listen, Gilda, you’re human, and you have to be able to trust somebody. People get weird when they keep too many secrets.”

“I guess.”

“Besides, maybe I could help.”

“Well, the problem I have now is that I can’t connect the clues in the museum with all the other pieces of the puzzle.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” Gilda showed Caitlin the poem by Anna Akhmatova. She explained how the name Anna had appeared on a wall in the museum and how the phrase “the last meeting” had mysteriously appeared in a photograph.

Caitlin read the poem. “I like this poem,” she said, thoughtfully. “It sounds like she had a love affair and this is about their last meeting.” She chewed on a coffee stirrer and thought for a moment. “I know!”

“What?”

“The Alley of the Russian Poets!”

“What’s that?”

Caitlin leaned for ward and whispered, as if she and Gilda were plotting something. “If I were a mole in the D.C. intelligence community, I think the Alley of the Russian Poets would be the perfect signal site. It’s a walkway lined with stones that look like little tombstones with the names of Russian poets—and there’s a tree planted for each poet. I’m almost positive I’ve seen a stone engraved with this poet’s name—Anna Akhmatova. It’s perfect! It’s walking distance from Oak Hill Cemetery; it’s just down the street from the Russian Embassy, next to Guy Mason Park.”

Hearing Caitlin’s description, Gilda felt an electric charge of energy coursing through her veins.
It sounds a lot like the dream I had where I was walking through a maze of tiny tombstones,
she thought. She jumped up from the table, feeling as if she didn’t have a second to lose. “Thanks soooo much, Caitlin. You’ve been the best substitute mom ever!”

“You’re going there
now
?”

“I just have this feeling I have to act fast.” Gilda again recalled the words from her dream:
“You’re getting closer, but you must hurry.”

33

The Alley of the Russian Poets

Nobody would suspect that the Alley of the Russian Poets was also a spy’s signal site. The peaceful, tree-lined path was marked with carved stones—each engraved with a Russian poet’s name. Someone had left a red rose at the foot of each stone in tribute to the poets.

Nearby, parents led children to and from a small brick building used for recreational activities and a tiny garden where bees and butterflies hovered over wilting hydrangeas, lilies, and fox-gloves.

Gilda felt giddy to discover the stone dedicated to Anna Akhmatova.
Look for my usual signal,
the spy had written,
blue gum marking Anna.

There, stuck to the side of the stone was a wad of blue chewing gum! It looked so innocuous and ordinary, Gilda never would have noticed the gum if she hadn’t been looking for it.

Gilda knew she had to act fast, before the mole’s contact picked up the information.
I have to try to get a photograph of whatever secret information he or she leaves at the cemetery drop site. Maybe I’ll even catch a glimpse of the person picking up the material and get a license plate number or something. . . .

Gilda resisted the urge to sprint down Wisconsin Avenue toward Oak Hill Cemetery.
Slow down,
she told herself.
You need to look as if you’re merely out for a stroll in case anyone follows you.

Gilda slowed her stride to a leisurely, casual pace, but her heart raced. The late afternoon sun sank lower in the sky, and her shadow lengthened as she made her way toward Oak Hill Cemetery.

Act confident,
Gilda reminded herself, bolstering her resolve to get to the bottom of the mystery once and for all.
Never look behind.

 

The cemetery was dappled with honey-colored light. As Gilda walked down the pathway, she heard the sound of mourning doves and rustling leaves. Here and there, shadows darted behind tombstones—fleeting signs of spirit activity.

Down the steep hill, past crumbling tombstones, Gilda navigated the cracked and broken stone steps leading to the dead-drop location. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear something stirring inside one of the graves?

Maybe it’s a deer again,
she thought. Or was it the sound of a person clearing his throat?

She approached the iron-gated mausoleum built into the hillside. Gilda froze for a moment, listening to the cooing of birds, the rustling of small animals in the leaves. When she reached the foot of the steps and turned to face the row of mausoleums, her entire body flooded with panic and nauseating disappointment at the realization that she had stepped directly into a trap.

He
was already there, leaning against the tomb and waiting for her. It was the man who had followed her twice before: Redbeard.

34

The Master Psychic

The psychic spy struggled to understand the vision that led him to Oak Hill Cemetery. He had clearly seen the ghost of Abraham Lincoln grieving at his dead son’s tomb; he had seen phantoms of fallen generals and spies from years past.

Still, he knew there was some other reason he was supposed to come to the cemetery.

Then she appeared: a teenage girl wearing a yellow sundress and cat’s-eye sunglasses at the foot of the stone steps. The psychic spy immediately recognized her pale, freckled face and dark hair from his visions. He had also seen her in the city—at the Metro station and at Ford’s Theatre. The girl bore a striking resemblance to his spirit guide, but she was several years older. And this girl was most definitely alive.

The psychic spy realized that the girl was terrified—ready to bolt like a young fawn.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he said, hoping he could find some way to convince her that he meant no harm. “I know this sounds odd, but I’m supposed to meet you.”

Gilda dug in her handbag, searching for her cell phone and something that might work as a weapon. She grabbed her apartment keys, thinking these would have to suffice as a means of defending herself against Redbeard if needed.
Go for vulnerable parts of the attacker’s body,
a self-defense handbook she had read advised.

“I should introduce myself,” said the psychic spy. “My name is Balthazar Frobenius.”

Gilda stopped digging through her purse. Her mouth fell open. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

“I realize it’s a pretty outlandish name.”

“You mean—you’re
the
Balthazar Frobenius—the great psychic?!”

“You know about me?”

Gilda dropped her apartment keys and pulled her tattered
Master Psychic’s Handbook
from her purse instead. She waved the book in the air. “I carry this with me everywhere!”

Throughout his career, Balthazar had been surrounded by people craving answers, but he had never really had a true fan—someone who genuinely wanted to follow in his footsteps. The realization that this girl knew so much about him actually scared him a little.

Balthazar chuckled nervously as Gilda handed him her book, which bore the stains of quite a few peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwiches. “Ah, yes.” He flipped through the pages and gazed at the book with nostalgia. “That book is probably still my best work.”

“It changed my entire life! I know most of it by heart.” Gilda took the dog-eared book from Balthazar and stuffed it back into her bag. “You know, if there had been an author portrait of you on your book, I would have recognized you. I mean, I assumed you were just a weird stalker or something.”