Double Crossed(28)

Joe Solomon was late—so late, I was beginning to get a little resentful that I hadn’t taken the time to go steal some M&M’s from my mom’s desk, because, frankly, a two-year-old Tic Tac simply doesn’t satisfy the hunger of a growing girl.

We sat quietly as the seconds ticked away, but I guess the silence became too much for Tina Walters, because she leaned across the aisle and said, “Cammie, what do you know about him?”

Well, I only knew what Bex had told me, but Tina’s mom writes a gossip column in a major metropolitan newspaper that shall remain nameless (since that’s her cover and all), so there was no way Tina wasn’t going to try to get to the bottom of this story. Soon I was trapped under an avalanche of questions like, “Where’s he from?” and “Does he have a girlfriend?” and “Is it true he killed a Turkish ambassador with a thong?” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the sandals or the panties, but in any case, I didn’t have the answer.

“Come on,” Tina said, “I heard Madame Dabney telling Chef Louis that your mom was working on him all summer to get him to take the job. You had to hear something!”

So Tina’s interrogation did have one benefit: I finally understood the hushed phone calls and locked doors that had kept my mother distracted for weeks. I was just starting to process what it meant, when Joe Solomon strolled into class—five minutes late.

His hair was slightly damp, his white shirt neatly pressed—and it’s either a tribute to his dreaminess or our education that it took me two full minutes to realize he was speaking in Japanese.

“What is the capital of Brunei?”

“Bandar Seri Begawan,” we replied.

“The square root of 97,969 is…” he asked in Swahili.

“Three hundred and thirteen,” Liz answered in math, because, as she likes to remind us, math is the universal language.

“A Dominican dictator was assassinated in 1961,” he said in Portuguese. “What was his name?”

In unison, we all said “Rafael Trujillo.”

(An act, I would like to point out, that was not committed by a Gallagher Girl, despite rumors to the contrary.)

I was just starting to get into the rhythm of our little game, when Mr. Solomon said, “Close your eyes,” in Arabic.

We did as we were told.

“What color are my shoes?” This time he spoke in English and, amazingly, thirteen Gallagher Girls sat there quietly without an answer.

“Am I right-handed or left-handed?” he asked, but didn’t pause for a response. “Since I walked into this room I have left fingerprints in five different places. Name them!” he demanded, but was met with empty silence.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and when I did, I saw him sitting on the corner of his desk, one foot on the floor and the other hanging loosely off the side. “Yep,” he said. “You girls are pretty smart. But you’re also kind of stupid.”

If we hadn’t known for a scientific fact that the earth simply can’t stop moving, we all would have sworn it had just happened.

“Welcome to Covert Operations. I’m Joe Solomon. I’ve never taught before, but I’ve been doing this stuff for eighteen years, and I’m still breathing, so that means I know what I’m talking about. This is not going to be like your other classes.”

My stomach growled, and Liz, who had opted for a full breakfast and a ponytail, said, “Shhh,” as if I could make it stop.

“Ladies, I’m going to get you ready for what goes on.” He paused and pointed upward. “Out there. It’s not for everyone, and that’s why I’m going to make this hard on you. Damn hard. Impress me, and next year those elevators might take you one floor lower. But if I have even the slightest suspicion that you are not supremely gifted in the area of fieldwork, then I’m going to save your life right now and put you on the Operations and Research track.”

He stood and placed his hands in his pockets. “Everyone starts in this business looking for adventure, but I don’t care what your fantasies look like, ladies. If you can’t get out from behind those desks and show me something other than book smarts, then none of you will ever see Sublevel Two.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mick Morrison following his every word, almost salivating at the sound of it, because Mick had been wanting to hurt someone for years. Unsurprisingly, her beefy hand flew into the air. “Does that mean you’ll be teaching us firearms, sir?” she shouted as if a drill sergeant might make her drop and do push-ups.

But Mr. Solomon only walked around the desk and said, “In this business, if you need a gun, then it’s probably too late for one to do any good.” Some of the air seemed to go out of Mick’s well-toned body. “But on the bright side,” he told her, “maybe they’ll bury you with it—that’s assuming you get to be buried.”