Page 7 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
“This isn’t a game, Ms. Sterling.”
Alex reached for a donut. She took a big bite and felt the glossy sugar glaze break against her tongue—sweet and a little bit spiky. “Then why does it feel like I’m winning?”
The look on his face told her he felt it too. She should have been scared and trembling and cowering in his presence. Alex didn’t know who he was or how he knew so much about her, but he was good at this. She could just tell—from the stillness to those ridiculously competent fingers to the way he’d inferred half her life story just by watching her order takeout.
“I got it at the International Spy Museum.” She glanced down at her T-shirt, then licked donut off her fingers. “I bet they could find something in your size if you wanted.”
“No. Thank you.” The words were clipped and brisk—like little pieces of sleet that had been chasing them for twelve long hours.
“So...” Alex took a long, slow look around the place. Part of her kept waiting for a wall to slide aside, revealing a plexiglass elevator or, at the very least, a hidden cache of weapons, but what she got was a room that was so chilly she kept her coat on and another scowl from The Guy.
“Do I get to pick my own code name?” She asked him. “Can I be—”
“No.”
“Do you think any of those chairs are actually ejector seats?”
“No.”
“Trapdoors?”
“No.”
“Are martinis the official drink, and if I want mine stirred instead of shaken, what—”
He pushed off from the beam and stood upright—leaned closer—but Alex had to bite back a grin.
“Is this a joke to you?” It was the loudest she’d ever heard him. A pair of trainees talking not far away trailed off and glanced in their direction. They were causing a scene, which Alex was pretty sure wasa super spy no-no, but it didn’t feel like a failure. She’d flustered Mr. Unflusterable, and Alex thought someone might rappel down out of the rafters and give her a medal.
“At the very least”—she dropped her gaze and her voice—“can I wear a switchblade in a garter belt? Please? Please?”
He was opening his mouth to chastise her—or maybe just gape—when a voice said, “You can borrow mine.”
***
Alex didn’t know who the woman was, but one thing was certain: Alex wanted to be her. Immediately.
She didn’t so much walk to the front of the room as float, a vision of white hair and a white suit. She gave a white smile, and for a brief moment Alex wondered if she was an angel. Or a ghost.
“My name is Margaret Merritt,” the woman began. “I am seventy-one years old and still alive, which makes me anold spy. We are rare and we are precious. I have been doing this job since 1965. I’ve seen presidents come and go, regimes fall and rise. I worked both sides of the wall, back when Berlin had one, and I knocked more than a few holes in it along the way. Both literally and figuratively,” she added as an aside. “In short, I have seen things and done things, and the Agency has asked me to teach you how to not die. With a little luck, it might even work.”
Alex tried not to gulp as Merritt took a step, her gaze sweeping across the group.
“Who knows how many applications the Agency gets every year?” she asked, but the room stayed silent, and Alex cut her eyes up at The Guy because he knew. Sheknewhe knew.
“Michael?” Merritt asked.
The Guy recrossed his arms. “Fifty thousand.”
“Correct.” Merritt nodded. “But I want you all to remember a different number: twenty-four. That’s how many are in your class. You’re here because you passed the right tests and impressed theright people. You have the right skills and exhibit the right...” Merritt cocked her head, considering. “. . .characteristics.” She smiled, as if pleased that she’d gotten it right. But then, just that quickly, her eyes turned to granite. “And the vast majority of you should go home.”
Heat began to swell in Alex’s chest and sweep up her neck. Even before she turned, she knew what she was feeling: eyes. A stare like a laser.
“I’mnotgoing to teach you how to blend in; I’m going to teach you how tocease to exist,” Merritt went on, but Alex couldn’t look away from Michael Kingsley. “You aren’t walking away from another job. You’re walking away from your otherlife. The person you were this morning died the moment you set foot on that bus. From this point forward, anyone you ever loved will believe a lie. Everyone you meet will be introduced to a mirage. Everything you do will be life or death. Make no mistake, even if this job doesn’t kill you, the person you used to be is already dead.”
The first time Alex ever thought about death, she was four years old. Zoe was going to go away for a little while, her parents had told her. It was a place called a hospital. And there was a chance she wouldn’t come back. It wasn’t Alex’s fault... exactly. And maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe Zoe wouldn’t die.
Alex couldn’t help but wonder if her luck might have just run out.
