Spy School: Chapters 15–20

I quickly dug out Peachin’s Field Guide to Bombs and Other Incendiary Devices and then brought up the photo on my phone.

About twenty yards from a pallet full of powdered eggs.

“Tina’s not dumb enough to leave a classified file out in the open where a yahoo like Chip could find it.”

Just because a person has risen to a position of prominence doesn’t mean they don’t screw up now and then. I’d say any one of those professors could have just as easily leaked your info as Tina.

Erica finished typing with a flourish, then pressed the enter button.

“Erica? What have you done?”
“Me?” she asked coyly. “I haven’t done anything. You have. In fact, you’ve just developed something even more important than Pinwheel. Congratulations.”

My anger at Erica began to dissipate, though I wasn’t ready to be enamored of her again.

Erica's ploy had worked amazingly well. Everyone at the CIA she’d e-mailed about Jackhammer had bought it hook, line, and sinker, which was a little disturbing given that many of them were the top spies in the country.

“Ripley here had the principal so worked up, I thought the guy was gonna have an angerism.”
“Aneurysm,” I corrected.

“Yeah, Ripley. What's the deal?” Chip echoed, although there was a strange, mocking lilt to his voice, as though he already knew the answer.

It has to sort through an unfathomable amount of information. Trillions of bytes per second.

They’ve never had the entire CIA mobilize because of them.

And not to sound pompous, but none of them have ever had a chance to work with me. Not even my own daughter, and I taught her everything she knows.

“You’re right,” I finally conceded.

Familiarize yourself with some of this weaponry, fix yourself a drink, grab a magazine. I think there’s some cases of snack cakes in the larder.

I took a pass on examining the weapons—the steel walls of the bunker looked as though they could ricochet an errant bullet around for hours until it ended up in my skull—though I did opt to join Alexander at the monitoring station.

“Now let’s move out, men. We have an enemy to subdue.”

There was something disturbingly familiar about the gait of the man I was watching.

There was a heavy sack over my head that cut out all light, and I was trussed like a calf at a rodeo: My hands were bound behind my back and my ankles were cinched together.

It was possible that someone was trying to rescue me, but it was also possible that another faction of bad guys had just leapt into the mix.

The sounds of a protracted struggle came from the front seat while the van veered wildly.

After five minutes and twenty-three seconds the van slowed and jounced, as though it had suddenly jumped a curb, then stopped.

Even on a summer day, when the Lincoln Memorial is thronged with tourists, the southern side of the Reflecting Pool nearby can be virtually empty.

It was a small monument, marble like everything else in Washington, with a Roman arbor arching over a statue of Arthur, who looked bloated and gassy.

I pulled on the jacket. It seemed to hermetically seal my body heat around me.

We emerged behind a statue of George Washington in a small alcove.

Erica grew so downcast as she said this, it seemed as if it wasn’t mere speculation on her part, but as though she spoke from experience.

Now that he wasn’t putting on an act, he moved like a man fifty years younger, as spry as anyone in my class.

“I suspect the higher-ups are all really freaking out right now.”
“What’s the fallout?”

Crandall handed me the tea and proffered a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies as well.

Now then, it probably behooves us to do a bit of interrogation ourselves. To get an idea of whom we're dealing with here.

“The prevailing theory right now, based upon the chatter that was picked up, is that our enemy is Arabic. Are you suggesting that might be erroneous?”

I’d been so wrapped up in my own plight that night, I’d completely forgotten that my best friend had experienced some terrifying things as well.

The most elaborate lie he’s ever encountered, to allay any suspicion he has about this place. They’ll tell him it really is a science academy, but it was being leased to the Marines for practice and he stumbled across their exercises...or there was an FBI sting operation taking place...or who knows what.

In the ensuing silence I heard the distant sound of feet coming up the main stairwell.