Spy School: Chapters 5–8

“We still have all of that here: rigid social cliques, lousy teachers, incompetent administrators, terrible food, bullies. And on top of that, occasionally, someone tries to kill you.”

Our fellow students sat ramrod straight and were impeccably dressed, as though concerned that someone might be grading them on their posture and grooming.

On the other hand, Murray seemed to be making a deliberate attempt at slovenliness. His hair was unkempt, his shirt was untucked, his sweatshirt was stained a dozen times over—and was currently getting a fresh coat of spaghetti sauce.

“But Chip coerced me into it.”
“And thus would’ve kept his hands clean. Doing something stupid isn’t so stupid if you can get someone else to do it for you.”

I got the reference: Ian Fleming had invented James Bond—and thus created several generations of people who naively assumed espionage was a glamorous profession.

She had her nose in a textbook, apparently uninterested in anything—or anyone—else. Given my brief encounter with her, however, I suspected her aloofness was a front; Erica was probably well aware of every single thing going on in the mess at that moment, if not on the entire campus.

“I used to be like you, back when I first got here. I was as gung-ho a Fleming as you’ve ever seen. But then one day in the middle of my second semester, I’m in the gym here, learning how to fend off an attacker with a machete, when I have this epiphany about becoming a field agent: People try to kill field agents. On the other hand, very few people ever try to kill the guys who work at headquarters.”

I’ll take any excuse I get to render him unconscious.

She stayed riveted to her book, as if unaware anything else was happening.

“I was in the computer lab all afternoon, and I have sources to corroborate that.”

Around the room there were a lot of snickers at Chip’s expense, though they were quickly stifled before Hauser and Stubbs could figure out who was making them.

In fact, it occurred to me that I’d spent a considerable amount of time since my arrival at spy school in various states of fear, ranging from moderately spooked to completely terrified.

“Please don’t kill me,” I said, for the second time that day. It was becoming my mantra.

My tennis racket. The one Alexander Hale had suggested I bring to use as a weapon, just in case. At the time, I’d thought he was making a wry, offhand quip, but now it seemed he’d been eerily prescient.

At the time, I’d thought he was making a wry, offhand quip, but now it seemed he’d been eerily prescient.

Maybe if I threw big words at the guy and sounded confident about it, he’d think I was way smarter than he was. “First, you have to set up a quadrilateral subnet matrix, then ossify the syntax and fibrillate the coprolites...."

Maybe if I threw big words at the guy and sounded confident about it, he’d think I was way smarter than he was. “First, you have to set up a quadrilateral subnet matrix, then ossify the syntax and fibrillate the coprolites...."

I leapt onto my cot, slipping past him as he tried to land a karate chop, which instead cleaved my bedside table in half.

But it felt wrong to run off in a woman’s bathrobe while she was facing an assassin for me. I’d already run down the hall almost nude; I didn’t need to make any more faux pas that night.

So I walked back down the gauntlet of gawkers.

The place was trashed. Furniture was shattered. My belongings were strewn everywhere.

The principal had commandeered Tina’s room to question me.

“He hasn’t even had Intro to Self-Defense yet, let alone Enemy Subjugation and Apprehension.”

“He hasn’t even had Intro to Self-Defense yet, let alone Enemy Subjugation and Apprehension.”

A glimmer of understanding—and perhaps concern—passed between them.

She wore a formfitting pantsuit and, despite being about only thirty, didn’t seem fazed by the principal’s angry demeanor.

“It’s about time,” the principal groused.

I peered into the shadows of the Box, saw nothing, and chided myself for letting my nerves get the best of me yet again.

I toyed with the idea of lying, telling Erica that I wasn’t a naive rube, that of course I was aware of what was going on as well, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get away with that for more than thirty seconds and would only end up looking worse.

"...He wasn’t a very good spy.”
“So the CIA put him in charge of the entire spy school?" I asked, incredulous.

“Your file is supposed to be classified. All documents pertaining to the recruitment of new undercover agents—as well as anything pertaining to the existence of the academy at all—is Security Level A1. For Your Eyes Only, no dissemination allowed. And yet, within eight hours of your arrival here, an enemy agent breaches our perimeter, knowing exactly where to find you and possessing intimate details of your file.”

“So...my recruitment was a sham?”

“Oh, there’s lots of possibilities: criminal organizations, multinational corporations looking to protect their interests, disgruntled former agents with a bone to pick...though I’d say the good money’s on a rival agency from another country. One that views America and the CIA as a threat.”

“There was a sudden opening.” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized that they, like so many other things I’d heard at spy school, were a euphemism for a much darker story.

The school covered it up, of course. Claimed Josh had a virulent allergic reaction to a bee sting.

This could’ve all ended tonight if they’d let me be involved. Or anyone competent, really.

So let’s just consider this a covert extra-credit assignment for us right now.

And though Erica seemed to have some qualms about her father being involved, I didn’t.

If I turned her down, she’d probably never deign to speak to me again.

They didn’t think I had what it took to be a spy, and thus, chances were that, once the mole hunt was over, they’d find a way to jettison me.