Man, I find myself thinking, I wish I knew a spy.
I hear the gate behind me open, and soon Megan is coming toward us. She’s in pink shorts. A pink top. There is even a pink headband keeping her glossy black bangs out of her eyes while her glossy black ponytail swings back and forth, keeping time. She’s been for a jog, and her dark skin has a glow that is … well … pink.
For a second, I think Noah might actually gag on his own tongue.
“What are you two talking about?” Megan asks.
“Nothing,” I say, just as Noah blurts, “Hi, Megan!”
It’s like he’s just worked up the nerve to talk and now the words come rolling out. “You look … sweaty. But in a good way. The good sweaty, is what I mean.”
“Thanks,” Megan says, the word clipped, like she’s not exactly certain what to make of either the compliment or the boy who’s given it.
I expect her to walk inside, to roll her eyes and go do whatever it is that popular, beautiful people do. But Megan just stands there, arms crossed, looking at me.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re up to or not?” she asks finally.
“Not,” I say. Not because I’m worried that she’ll tell someone. I’m worried she’ll tell everyone.
“That’s too bad,” Megan says, pushing past us. “I thought I heard you trying to figure out how to hack into the palace’s mainframe.”
“That’s what you get for thinking,” I say with a shrug. “I hear it can give you breakouts. Nasty business. Best to avoid it altogether.”
And then Megan turns on me.
“I never did anything to you, Grace! I never did anything at all. I’ve been trying to be your friend since we were six years old, but I’m not good enough for you, I guess. I’ve never been good enough for you. Well this is me, deciding to stop trying.”
I’m still reeling from her words when she spins and starts toward the door. She’s almost inside when Noah calls out “Wait!” and she actually does.
Noah seems as surprised by this as I am. When she looks at him, his cheeks turn red and he starts to talk too quickly.
“It’s just that we’re looking for this guy and we know he was at the party at the palace last night, but we don’t have any way of finding him and —”
“I can find him,” Megan says matter-of-factly. Then she looks at me. “If that’s okay with you.”
But all I can think is Megan wanted to be friends with me? I think back on all the times the two of us were thrust together: companions of last resort. I always thought she resented having to come play with me. And as a result, I hated having to play with her. But maybe we were both wrong. Maybe we were just two proud and stubborn little girls who were just too proud and stubborn.
“I know you just got back from your run and you’re all … sweaty,” Noah says. I elbow him in the gut. Hard. “But we really need your help.”
Megan crosses her arms. “So what’s it going to be, Grace? I can help you. Or you can stand here, being too bullheaded to let me. It’s your call.”
I’ve known Megan almost all my life. This is the first time I’ve ever liked her.
“Whose office is this?” Noah asks three minutes later.
“Someone who is currently having tea with a good friend in Israel,” I tell him.
“Ms. Chancellor?” Noah sounds like he might hyperventilate, so I hurry up and close the door. “We just broke into the office of … Okay. Not going to panic.”
“Yeah. That’s what not panicking looks like,” Megan says, pushing past him and taking a seat in Ms. Chancellor’s plush leather chair. As soon as she touches the computer, the US State Department seal pops up on the screen along with a prompt for a username and password.
“She’s got to keep her password written down around here somewhere,” I say, looking at the meticulous desk.
“Ms. Chancellor? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t need it.” Megan’s sparkly pink fingernails are a blur as they fly across the keys. Sixty seconds later she announces, “We’re in.”
We’re looking at a new screen now. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before. This isn’t the official US Foreign Service desktop. This is something different. It’s like we’re inside the computer’s brain, and Megan is its master.
She spins on us, watches our expressions change.
“Don’t let the glitter fool you.” She wiggles her shiny nails in the air, then taps her temple. “I’m up here.”
“I see that,” I say as Noah whispers a very soft, “I love you.”
“What?” Megan asks.
“Nothing,” Noah says, then pulls back and walks to the other side of the desk.
“Now, what is so urgent?” Megan asks me.
But I’m still flummoxed by what I’ve seen.
“How did you …?”
“My mom is the chief operations officer for the CIA stationed in Europe,” she tells me. “I pay attention.”
“I see that,” I say.
“Now what do you need?”
“I need to know everyone who was at the party at the palace last night.”
“Is that all?” Megan asks, like the least we could do is try to challenge her.
A few minutes later she’s hitting PRINT, and soon I’m looking down at a list of names. Hundreds of them. My hands start to tremble as I realize that one of them must belong to the man who killed my mother.
I can feel Noah looking over my shoulder.
“Is there any way to cross-reference that list with embassy ID photos or something?” he asks. “We don’t have a name. Just a face.”
“You need pictures?” Megan seems a little upset that we didn’t mention that in the first place.
“Yes. Why? Is that a problem?” I ask.
“No. It just means we’re looking in the wrong place.”
Megan goes to work, and three minutes later I’m looking at a screen filled with nothing but people in formal attire walking slowly toward a camera, yellow dots covering their faces.
“What is that?” Noah asks.
“That is the palace’s facial-recognition program chronicling everyone who entered the gala last night.” Megan leans back and crosses her arms. She knows that we’re impressed. She is impressed. And I have to admit she has the right to be.
“Can we get a copy of that — without anyone knowing we have it?”
“I already emailed it to a dummy account.” She scribbles out a username and password. “Anything else?”
“Marry me?” Noah whispers.
If Megan hears him she ignores the question. She just keeps looking at me as I shake my head slowly back and forth.
“That was …” Words fail me. I don’t like to owe favors and I hate to be caught off guard. Thirty minutes with Megan and I am both. Embassy Row is turning into a far more dangerous place than I ever thought it could be.
Walking out of the embassy, Noah’s long, lanky legs carry him up ahead. For a moment, Megan and I are alone.
“Well, thanks,” I say, and reach for the scrap of paper, but Megan tugs it away, just out of my reach.
“So are you going to tell me now?” she asks.
“Tell you what?”
Megan spins on me, stopping and blocking my way.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Grace. And I’m sorry about what you’ve been through. But this” — she holds up the paper, accentuating the point — “whatever this is. It won’t bring her back.”
“It’s not —”
“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on? Fine. But don’t lie to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
She hands me the paper. “And, Grace? Whatever this is … be careful.”
Megan pushes through the gates and starts down the sidewalk. I feel as much as see when Noah comes to stand beside me.
“You ready?” he asks.
I smile and try to convince myself the answer is yes.