"No."
"Not a lesson you've had? A cutout you've used?" he asked, then shook his head in frustration. "A cutout is a go-between two spies might use to carry information between
-"
"I know what a cutout is."
"And the pigeons don't mean anything to you?" he asked again.
I closed my eyes, thought back to the feeling of the cold wind on my face and the pressure of Mr. Solomon's hands on my arms, but it was his eyes that I saw most plainly.
"It happened so quickly. He was scared. He wasn't himself."
"There's good reason for that," the man said without a hint of emotion. "You don't know Joe Solomon."
"You're wrong," I said flatly. "There's been a mistake. Mr. Solomon is on the Gallagher Academy faculty. He's CIA, and he came to London to protect me or warn me . . . he was just worried because of the threat."
"You still don't get it, do you?" he was almost smiling as he closed the folder. "Joe Solomon is the threat."
"That's ridiculous," I shot back. "Mr. Solomon is my teacher."
The man stood. "You can stop calling him 'mister,' young lady." He walked to the door and rapped on the glass. "Joe Solomon will never be your teacher again."
Chapter Six
Over the next six nights the Baxters and I slept in five different safe houses.
There was seemingly abandoned gardener's shed on an estate in Scotland, an apartment with a view of Big Ben, a cottage in Wales, and something that could best be described as a small castle, which came complete with a suit of armor and a peacock.
Every morning we would drive. Every second there were guards.
Sure, you might think that full access to that many covert strongholds would have made Bex and me the envy of the entire student body; but as a rule, we Gallagher Girls don't envy anything that involves guards (when you're the guardee) and spiders (and MI6 safe houses have a lot of spiders.)
On the sixth night I woke in a narrow bed to the peaceful sound of Bex's breathing and something else - a muffled word: "Caven."
For a moment, I lay there, then I slipped out of the lower bunk.
The floorboards were surprisingly quiet beneath my feet. It was freezing, but I didn't stop to rummage through the duffel bags and suitcases that sat open but neatly packed, ready for a quick escape. Instead, I walked out to the hall and eased toward the narrow, crooked staircase that led from the second story to the small landing outside the kitchen.
Perched on the landed, I could see Mr. Baxter's legs as he sat at the kitchen table, shifting slightly as he spoke. "Have you seen Rachel?"
"Yes," a woman said in a hoarse whisper.
"I'm surprised that was possible," Mrs. Baxter said.
The woman laughed softly. "Well I wasn't in the mood to hear that it was impossible."
"I see," Mrs. Baxter said.
"Grace, how is she?" the woman asked.
"Fine," Mrs. Baxter said. "Should I go get her?"
"No."
I stood in the dark listening, while the wind blew and the castle moaned and the woman said, "Let the squirt have her sleep."
There was only one person in the world who ever called me Squirt, so I didn't think - I just stood, ready to bolt down the narrow stairs toward my aunt Abby. But then an arm was around my waist, and a hand clasped over my mouth. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bex's wide eyes gleaming in the dark.
She shook her head once, quickly. No, she was telling me. Think. We might not get this chance again.
My best friend's smile was especially mischievous (which believe me, is saying something) as she whispered, "I have a better idea."
Three minutes later I was standing on the top floor of the castle, looking at a small wooden box and a less-than-sturdy-rope, listening to my best friend insist, "You should do it."
"Why me?" I whispered, watching as the ancient box dangled in midair over a dark, empty shaft that disappeared into the cold stone of the castle walls.
"You're shorter," Bex said. (Which I am.) "And I'm stronger," she said. (Which she totally could be.) "And I'm . . ."
"Afraid of spiders?" I guessed.
But Bex plowed on, " . . . still a little deaf from the percussion grenade incident during final week."
So, yeah, that's how I ended up in the dumbwaiter.
I felt myself descending through the castle walls, lower and lower, while the noises in the kitchen grew louder and clearer.
"Are you sure you don't want some tea?" Bex's father asked.
"No thanks, Abe." My aunt's voice sounded weak - almost frail. "I haven't been sleeping all that well, to tell you the truth."
"Neither have we," Bex's mother added.
The kettle began to whistle. A chair scrapped across the floor.
"How close was it really, Grace?" Aunt Abby asked. "Was she in any danger?"
"Cammie is in contest danger," Mrs. Baxter said as the whistling stopped.
"You saw him, Abe?" Abby asked. Even though there wasn't a doubt who he was, it seemed to take forever for Mr. Baxter to answer.
"Yes."
"How was he?" Abby asked.
"Desperate," Bex's father answered.
"Do you believe it?" Abby asked.
"This is the way the Circle has worked for more than a hundred years . . ." Mr. Baxter started.