*
It’s just as Mr. Vanders said. The passage ends abruptly at what seems like an impassable boulder, but Jane finds a handle and pulls. With a groan, the enormous heavy door swings open. There’s so much noise—the voice of a wailing child, waves crashing, shouts, then the roar of an engine—that she’s certain she’s too late, the FBI has found the children, Grace will be tortured, and Ivy and Patrick will spend the rest of their lives in jail for treason and kidnapping.
Then there’s a disturbance in the scrub brush to one side, followed by a small, moving circle of light. Ivy shoves her way through branches to Jane, her balaclava pushed back above her glasses so that Jane can see her face.
“Hi,” she says calmly. “I heard the door. Is something wrong?”
“Ravi’s bringing FBI agents to look at the bay,” Jane says, gasping.
Ivy’s face sharpens. “When?”
“Now.”
Reaching behind Jane, Ivy hauls the door shut. Then she pushes out of the scrub. Jane follows her into a spitting rain, squinting, adjusting to the dim darkness. They’re at the edge of a tiny, crescent-shaped patch of beach. In the water bobs a small, wooden boat, attached by a rope to a half-submerged post, its engine running. Patrick stands in the water beside the boat. An adult, presumably Cook, sits in the boat, as does Grace, who’s holding Christopher, who’s screaming to wake the dead. Ivy’s flashlight washes over them irregularly several times and Jane reads the boat’s name on the stern: The Ivy.
What Ivy’s done with the flashlight must be a signal to the people at the boat, because several things happen at once. The boat engine cuts out; Patrick reaches to Christopher and Christopher stops crying; Grace yells something in outrage and Patrick yells something back; then Patrick wades out of the water and begins to run across the sand toward Jane and Ivy.
“I have to go,” Ivy says to Jane, grabbing on to her hand roughly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be gone at least a week. Will you still be here when I get back?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mrs. Vanders tell you the rest of what we know about your aunt’s death?”
“Her death? What about it?”
“Ask Patrick,” says Ivy, tugging on her hand. “Promise me you’ll ask Patrick.”
“I promise,” Jane says, her breath ragged, almost full of tears.
Ivy pulls her close suddenly, holds her tight, smashes her lips against Jane’s. Then in an instant she’s gone, flying across the sand. At the water, she unhitches the rope from the post, climbs into the rocking boat. She sits beside Cook and says something to Grace that makes Grace scramble to the floor of the boat with Christopher in her arms, hiding both of them from sight. There’s a clatter of wood on wood and Cook has produced oars. He passes one to Ivy and steadily they begin to row the boat toward the open sea.
Patrick grabs Jane’s arm and pulls her back into the brush. He pulls her down so that the two of them are crouching with their backs to the rock door. His pants and the bottom of his coat are soaked and the rain is spitting harder. Jane, coatless and bare-legged, shivers violently.
“I’d give you my coat,” Patrick whispers, “but it wouldn’t warm you.”
“It’s okay,” Jane whispers. “I’m okay.”
“What’s happening?” Patrick says. “Who’s coming?”
“Ravi’s bringing FBI agents to look at the bay,” Jane says. “Kiran’s going to try to stall them.”
Somewhere in the ramble, Kiran is shrieking with laughter. A moment later, arcs of light swoop across the sky, then Jane hears the voices of the others. Ravi, quiet, chuckling, and a woman’s voice Jane doesn’t recognize. A second man shouting in laughter; Kiran, giggling, still emitting the occasional high shriek. Twigs break and leaves rustle as they slide down from the ramble onto the beach. Jane can’t see them, but someone is practically putting on a light show with a flashlight.
“What are we looking for, anyway?” Kiran calls. “Footprints? Fin prints! Brancusi fish fin prints!” she yells, then giggles at her own comedy. The FBI man chuckles too, then says something indistinct but cheerful. He sounds drunk.
“We’re not likely to find anything at all,” says the FBI lady in obvious annoyance, “with you running around in figure eights and trampling everything.”
“Ouch! Or shining the light in our eyes!” says Ravi. “Watch it, Kir! I can’t see a thing.”
“This is not the walk I’d envisioned,” says the FBI lady.
“True,” says Ravi, “but I like seeing my sister laugh.”
“She’s drunk,” the FBI lady says sharply. “Would you please take that flashlight from her? I’m going blind.”
“Kiran,” Ravi begins. Whatever he intends to say is drowned out by Kiran’s screeches of delight, then splashing sounds as she apparently runs headlong into the water. She turns the light back to shore and shines it deliberately on her companions. Jane can see the brightness swishing back and forth, she can hear Ravi and the FBI man laughing, the FBI lady cursing, and she understands what Kiran is doing. Kiran’s making it impossible for them to isolate the silhouette of the rowboat on the water behind her. She’s good at this, isn’t she?
“Your sister is a child,” the female agent says in a scathing voice. “An absolute pollywog. And it’s raining.”
Ravi’s voice is hearty. “Kiran,” he shouts, “we’re going back now.”
“Did I mess up your fun?” Kiran shouts back.
“Yes!”
“I win!” Kiran shouts.
“Congratulations, you pain in the ass!” yells Ravi.
A few more splashes and flashes of light. Then the sound of cracking twigs and shifting leaves as the four of them climb back into the ramble.
Finally, only the roar of the ocean, coming, going, and the patters of rain.
Jane’s senses are full of Ivy’s kiss. Ivy’s mouth was soft, her gun halter palpable through her coat. Nothing is quite how Jane imagined it would be. And it’s possible she’s never been so tired.
“What now?” she says.
“Now we wait for Cook to come back in the boat with Philip Okada,” Patrick says.
“Philip Okada?”
“When the lady who’s helping us picks Ivy and the kids up,” Patrick says, “she’s dropping Philip off. We owe you, you know. Maybe we would’ve seen Kiran’s light in time—well, we probably would’ve seen Kiran’s light in time,” Patrick amends, “because Kiran was very smart about it.” He stops, looking vague and miserable.
“So you don’t owe me after all?”
“Sorry,” he says. “No, we do owe you, because even if we’d been able to get the boat away, we wouldn’t have gotten Ivy to it in time. I’d probably have had to go in her place, which would’ve been inconvenient for me, and really inconvenient for Ivy. After she delivers the kids to their parents she’s expected in Geneva. Breaking things off with HQ is a long procedure.”
“Is it like she’s retiring?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, “pretty much, except she’ll be in possession of some sensitive secrets when she retires. HQ needs to put her through the wringer about that before they’ll let her go. She needs to prove she’s trustworthy.”
“Will they really let her go?”
“I’m not worried,” he says. “You shouldn’t worry.”
“They’re not going to make her move to some horrible, remote place, are they?”
“Nah. She’ll be allowed to live wherever she wants. She’ll just have to take a trip to Geneva every couple years for follow-up.”
“Why does Mrs. Vanders let her have dangerous information?” Jane says indignantly. “Why does Ivy need to know where the Panzavecchias are going?”
“She doesn’t know,” says Patrick, “and she still won’t know when she gets there. I don’t know either. Mr. and Mrs. Vanders do a good job of keeping things from us. Even from their son, Cook.”
“I bet they do,” Jane says, thinking of Aunt Magnolia.
“Hey. Knowing the truth in this business is really dangerous. People die.” The words are punching themselves out of his mouth.
“Like your parents,” Jane says.
“People die,” he says simply.