Page 14 of A Touch of Treachery (Section 47 #3)
CHARLOTTE
A fter the debriefing ended, I stalked back to the desk I had been using on level five. My feelings seesawed from anger to determination and back again, with a fair amount of frustration, disgust, and bitterness mixed in, and my mind spun from the emotional vertigo.
Under the watchful eyes of the liaisons and cleaners, I quickly gathered up my things, including my laptop, several folders, and the smoke-stained briefcase I was still carrying around like a child with a stuffed animal.
The instant I left the bullpen, whispers sprang up behind me.
Spies loved to gossip, and news of my demotion would be all over the building within minutes. Terrific.
I trudged along the corridor and stepped into an elevator. I stared at my own murky reflection in the metal door as the car rose.
By the time the elevator floated to a stop on the third level, my internal seesaw had landed on determination, and I was marginally calmer.
I had no choice but to keep my placid mask locked in place.
You never knew who was watching at Section 47, and I wouldn’t put it past General Percy to be studying me through a security camera.
My having a meltdown and throwing a tantrum would probably please him to no end.
I went down a corridor and swiped my keycard over a reader.
The door buzzed open, and I stepped into the level-three bullpen.
In many ways, it was a mirror image of the fifth level where the cleaners and liaisons worked.
A long, wide aisle running past cubicles cordoned off with clear plastic walls.
A couple of glassed-in offices and a conference room along the back wall.
People of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ethnicities typing on laptops or murmuring into phones.
Yes, in many ways, this area was exactly like level five, but I’d always thought the analysts and charmers had far more personality and flair than the cleaners and liaisons, at least when it came to their workspaces.
Family photos, movie posters, and calendars featuring cute animals doing yoga decorated many of the cubicle walls, while everything from crocheted superheroes to autographed footballs to snow globes adorned the desks.
Grandma Jane always said you could learn a lot just by studying how people decorated their personal spaces, and I’d used her advice more than once to figure out something someone didn’t want me to know.
At the sound of my footsteps, several folks peered past their laptop screens.
A few surprised hums sounded, and a couple of folks started typing on their keyboards, no doubt emailing their friends about my stunning fall from grace.
Everyone knew my returning to the third level could only mean I had been demoted.
I tightened my grip on my belongings, lifted my chin, and marched down the center aisle.
A few folks waved at me, including Ronaldo and Helga, who were analysts like me, tasked with using their own unique forms of synesthesia to study reports from Section agents, looking for patterns and actionable intelligence.
I returned the waves, ignored the curious looks and snide whispers, and walked to the back of the bullpen.
Even though I’d been working on level five for the last few months, no one had claimed my old desk, and it was empty, except for the standard office equipment—a monitor, a mouse, a keyboard, a landline phone, and a place to plug in my Section-issued laptop.
I dumped my things on the desk, then reached into my pocket and drew out a small crystal mockingbird.
The beautiful keepsake had been a gift from Grandma Jane the day I had started working at Section 47, and it was always on my desk, no matter where that desk happened to be.
Grandma Jane had meant the figurine to be a visual reminder that people could sing more than one tune, just like a mockingbird could mimic the songs of other birds, and that folks in the spy world were often not what they seemed.
Jethro Percy certainly fell into that category. On the surface, he seemed like your usual blustering leader, blowing into town certain he could right the company ship that was in danger of sinking. But Desmond and I had been tracking Henrika Hyde for months, so why had Percy shown up now?
I didn’t know, but I was going to find out why Percy had suddenly taken such a keen interest and a starring role in my and Desmond’s mission.
And it was still our mission. I didn’t care what Percy said, did, or threatened.
I was going to find Henrika and make her tell me everything she knew about my father’s doomed mission.
Then she was going to pay for everything she’d done to Desmond.
I plugged in my laptop, then sorted through the folders and other items I’d brought from the fifth level.
The twenty-something woman in the neighboring cubicle swiveled her chair toward me.
She was on the petite side, with dark brown eyes, dark brown skin, and black hair that was pulled back in a ponytail.
She was wearing a dark blue pantsuit, although a T-shirt for a popular local rock band peeked out from beneath her jacket.
Ticket stubs from concerts were sitting in a glass cup on her desk, flanked by toy guitars and pianos.
A classical tune drifted out of the headphones hooked around her neck.
“Hey, Charlotte.” Mika Doleni smiled at me.
Mika was a linguist, aka a lingo, someone who could read, write, speak, and understand any language. Something that came in handy when transcribing chatter from paramortal villains and trying to figure out the code words they used to communicate.
My synesthesia surged. My vision flickered, and Mika melted away, replaced by a woman with long red hair and rosy skin sitting in that same chair and smiling at me. Miriam Lancaster, the charmer I’d thought had been my friend but who had really been a mole.
My gaze zipped over to the front of the bullpen and landed on the spot where Miriam’s body had fallen after Desmond had shot her to save me.
My vision flickered again, and suddenly, I could see Miriam lying on the floor, blood oozing out of the bullet wound in her head, her hazel eyes already glassy with death.
I shivered and looked away from the phantom image.
Even though Miriam had been responsible for the deaths of other agents and had been willing to kill me to escape, part of me still missed the charmer, missed the part of her that had been my friend—if that part had even existed at all and hadn’t been just another illusion that Miriam had projected with her paramortal charisma.
Mika cleared her throat, drawing my attention.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
She gestured at the folders on my desk. “Are you back here now? As a . . . level-three analyst?”
She was asking if I’d been demoted. Mika was kinder about it than most folks would have been, but I still had to resist the urge to throw something.
“Yep. My assignment on the fifth level ended, and I’m back here full-time again.”
Mika flashed me another smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte. In fact, I was wondering if you could help me with something . . .”
The lingo showed me a transcript she had been working on.
Some paramortal criminals she was tracking were planning to meet up, which was pretty unusual, given their territorial disputes.
Had I ever run into a situation like this?
Should she pass it along to the analyst supervisor? Or wait for more information?
Mika’s questions washed over me one after another, but I only listened with half an ear. Mostly, I was still thinking about General Percy showing up out of the blue. Why had he come to Section headquarters? And why was he suddenly so eager to track down Henrika Hyde?
I didn’t need my synesthesia to know something about this whole situation was rotten, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how much worse things were going to get.
I pushed General Percy out of my mind and answered Mika’s questions. Satisfied, she slipped her headphones back on, cranked up her classical music, and returned to work.
I opened my laptop. An automated email reminded me to complete my after-action report about today’s mission as soon as possible.
I huffed. The last thing I wanted to do was dissect my failure yet again, but it was better to get it over with, so I filled out the necessary forms and paperwork.
I also emailed the armory, and a tech came to my desk and picked up the stained briefcase, along with the Grunglass Necklace, and whisked them away for cleaning and repairs.
The rest of the afternoon dragged on. I checked on the other criminals, terrorists, and assorted rogue paramortals I was tracking, but there were no imminent threats or actionable intelligence to pass along.
Even villains took time off for the holidays, and January was often a quiet month, as everyone ramped back up to their normal levels and schedules of mischief, mayhem, and murder.
Every time the door buzzed open, my gaze snapped to the front of the bullpen, hoping it was Desmond, but he didn’t appear, and he didn’t text me either.
Unease simmered in my stomach, but Desmond had his own work to do, as well as dealing with the sudden appearance of his father.
Desmond had promised to find me at the diner later, so I’d just have to wait to get answers.
Desmond didn’t show up, but someone else from level five did: Joan Samson.
The liaison appeared just before six o’clock, right as I was packing up my things. Mika had already left, along with the other analysts and charmers, so the bullpen was deserted except for me. Joan walked over to my cubicle and scanned the barren wasteland of my desk with a curious gaze.
Before Grandma Jane had gotten sick, my desk had been filled with my favorite things, just like everyone else’s.
Family photos, several fantasy and sci-fi figurines in their original boxes, even a few vintage comic books in protective cases.
But one by one, I’d sold them all to help pay for Grandma Jane’s medical care.
I didn’t regret my actions, although I missed my treasures from time to time, especially my first-edition Karma Girl comic book. That one had been particularly difficult to part with. The art had been so bright and colorful and whimsical and fun, and it had really cheered up my drab cubicle.
Joan gestured at the crystal mockingbird, the lone personal item on my desk. “May I?”
“Sure.”
She picked up the mockingbird, admiring the sparkle of the clear crystal and the winking black facets that made up the creature’s eyes. “It’s beautiful. Vintage crystal. Very old, very rare, and very expensive. And it’s in perfect condition.”
“Thank you.” I gave the polite, automatic response, then frowned. “How do you know it’s vintage?”
A small smile played across her lips, and she returned the crystal bird to its perch on my desk.
“A little quirk of my transmuter magic. I can often tell how old something is just by touching it, along with the quality of materials used and the level of craftsmanship. It’s just a sort of extra sense I have. ”
Her smile vanished, and her gaze met mine. “Kind of like the extra senses you have with your synesthesia, Charlotte.”
I waited, expecting a derogatory comment, but it didn’t come. Synths were fairly common, and many paramortals looked down their noses at us, thinking synesthesia was one of the weakest forms of magic. Shortsighted idiots.
Oh, synesthesia might not be an offensive power like Joan’s transmuter ability to reduce a marble column to dust with a wave of her hand, but synesthesia had its uses, and my magic often told me everything I needed to know about someone.
And right now, my synesthesia was whispering that this was far from a casual visit.
Or maybe that was just my own healthy paranoia.
Hard to tell, since they were often one and the same.
“What can I do for you, Joan?”
She fiddled with a silver brooch pinned to her suit jacket. Joan noticed me tracking the movement, and she abruptly released the brooch, which was shaped like a tiny sword. White diamonds glittered along the sword’s blade, which was pointed down and in, as though it was about to prick her heart.
“What a beautiful brooch,” I said. “Is it vintage too?”
“Thank you. And yes, it is vintage.” Joan cleared her throat and held out some manila folders. “You left these behind.”
I’d been in such a hurry to escape from General Percy’s scorn that I’d forgotten to check all my desk drawers. A sloppy, rookie mistake, just like all the others I’d made today.
“Thank you.” I took the folders and added them to the piles on my desk.
Joan rolled her shoulders back and down, as though mustering up some courage. “I also wanted to apologize, Charlotte. It’s no secret I lobbied hard to be Desmond’s liaison when he came to the D.C. station a few months ago, but I never wanted to get the job like this.”
I shrugged. “I appreciate the apology, but it’s not your fault. From what I know of General Percy, he does whatever he wants whenever he wants to whomever he wants, and damn the consequences.”
Joan laughed, but it was a dry, bitter sound. “You have no idea. Some of the things Graham told me . . .” Her voice trailed off, and sorrow pinched her face.
“I’m sorry about Graham,” I replied in a serious voice. “Desmond told me how many missions you worked on with Graham. How . . . close the two of you were.”
Another laugh rasped out of Joan’s mouth, and she fiddled with the diamond sword brooch on her jacket again. “Yeah, close . That’s one way of putting it.” She dropped her hand and gave me a knowing look. “Just like you and Desmond are close now.”
Desmond and I hadn’t kept our relationship a secret, but I wasn’t about to discuss it with Joan like a girl giggling over a crush at a slumber party.
Apologies were nice, but in the end, they were just words, and I had no idea if I could trust the liaison.
Just like with General Percy, there was a lot more to Joan Samson than met the eye.
“Don’t worry about Desmond,” Joan said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’ve worked with him several times. More important, he’s a friend. I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t go rushing into danger.” A wry grin curved her lips. “At least not without the proper equipment.”
That was all I could ask of any liaison, so I nodded. “I appreciate that.”
Joan nodded back, then left the bullpen. I watched her go, unease simmering in my stomach. She hadn’t said anything remotely threatening, and I hadn’t gotten the smallest whiff of danger from her, but I still felt like she was hiding something.
Just like everyone else at Section 47.