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  She didn’t want to fight the emotion. She wanted to drink it in, thirstily, like wine.

  BERLIN WAS THE LAST PLACE ON earth Tom wanted to be right now—although any place other than home with Gaia would have felt equally as torturous. She could only hate him at this point. There was no doubt of that. After all his promises. . . to simply disappear again, leaving nothing but a cursory note, it must have appeared to be his all-time low.

  Porcelain Angel

  Appeared? It was his all-time low.

  Since the moment he and Gaia set foot in their Mercer Street apartment, Tom had begun to entertain one notion far more seriously than ever before: Maybe he had finally done enough for his country. Maybe it was time for Enigma to disappear and for Tom Moore to risk the consequences.

  But the agency had given him no choice. Not when Gaia’s safety was at stake. If there truly was a leak in Loki’s organization and the agency wanted Tom in Berlin as the contact, that’s where he would be. He’d be there even if they didn’t want him as the contact. If this informant knew anything about Loki’s inevitable plans and how they might involve Gaia, Tom wanted to hear them firsthand.

  He wouldn’t risk any possible misinterpretation. No one on this earth was more qualified to interpret Loki’s sadistic logic than his own twin. Yes, Tom was where he needed to be: sitting on a park bench in the public square just beyond the Brandenburg Gate.

  The square was filled with loud tourists who fired off photo after photo of the imposing gate, with its massive pillars and the triumphant sculpture of a four-horse-driven chariot at its peak—the Quadriga. The more people, the better, as far as he was concerned. He could melt into the crowd here. It had been a long time since Tom had been in Berlin. He shivered. He’d forgotten how cold it could get. Cold and foggy.

  The informant refused to give any identifying information. His gender was just about the only thing the Agency knew about him. He was obviously skittish. Who wouldn’t be after choosing to betray Loki? That was something akin to a self-imposed death sentence. So Tom had no idea who or what to look for. The informant had only said that Tom would know when the time was right.

  It felt like hours had passed before a young girl approached him at the park bench. She was selling German chocolate bars from a cardboard box. Tom smiled. She had long blond hair, and she couldn’t have been more than ten years old. She was wearing a white dress, like a porcelain angel. She was utterly adorable. Until she came closer.

  Her eyes. . . from a distance Tom could have sworn they were blue, but when she stepped closer, they were so dark, they appeared nearly black.

  “Is your name Tom?” the little girl asked with a German accent.

  “Yes, it is,” Tom replied. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Gaia,” she said. “And I’m going to die.”

  Tom stiffened. There was a split second of uncomprehending, paralyzing shock—and then gunshots were echoing through the square, one after the other, seemingly coming from every angle.

  This is an ambush. I’ve been set up.

  Tom screamed for the crowd to drop to the ground, to no avail. Panicked tourists fell over each other in terror. Tom pounced on the little girl, knocking her to the ground, desperately trying to protect her from the spray of bullets. The shots seemed infinite. The screams were deafening, melding together into a high-pitched screech that was gouging Tom’s eardrums. Flashbulbs blinded his eyes, and the cold white ground was like ice, painful to the skin and wet. Had it begun to rain?

  And then, very abruptly, the gunfire ceased.

  Tom lifted himself off the girl to make sure she was unharmed.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  He wasn’t wet from rain. He was wet from her blood. “Dad?” she moaned, blood trickling from her mouth and soaking through her white dress. “Why did you leave me? How could you leave me again?”

  Tom’s breathing became short and forced. He was beginning to hyperventilate. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even scream. The sound of his breath echoed through his head, over and over. Getting louder and louder—

  He jerked upright.

  It was a dream.

  The square was gone, as was the blood and the girl.

  He was soaked in his own sweat in his hotel in Berlin. The sun through the window was blinding. The screech of the terrorized crowd was now a horrible noise blasting from the hotel alarm clock. Tom slammed it off and ripped the wet sheet from his body, then jumped out of bed. He didn’t wait to collect himself from his horrible nightmare. Instead he dropped into the chair of the hotel desk and tore a piece of notepaper from the pad. He was still gasping for air.

  Dearest Gaia,

  You can’t read this, but I have to write it. I swear to you I’ll be back as quickly as I can. If it can be a day, it will be a day. I have not abandoned you, Gaia. Some part of you knows this, I’m sure of it. Just as I’m sure some part of you despises me. Wait for me, Gaia. Please. And protect yourself. Not just your body, but your heart and your mind, too. Your sanity can protect you. And then I’ll be home. I promise.

  Tom crumpled the note and stuffed it in his briefcase. He walked to the window and stared down at the stark Berlin streets. He had no faith whatsoever in premonitions. He was a pure pragmatist. But the dream had shaken him to such an extent that he actually found himself believing for a split second that he’d been given a horrible glimpse of future events.

  So he did all he could do. He prayed that he was wrong.

  “SHE’S HERE! SHE’S HERE, SHE’S here!” Mrs. Moss greeted Gaia with a warm embrace that quickly turned into a suffocating bear hug.

  Magical Fortress

  Gaia watched over Mrs. Moss’s shoulder as the rest of the family gathered in the foyer to greet her, each of them with bright grins of anticipation. The next world war had just ended, and this was her long-awaited homecoming. She had just entered some fantasyland—one so alien, she could hardly process it. But then, fantasyland was just another term for Central Park West: the Victorian colored glass chandeliers, the varnished blond wood floors, and those elegant but funky antiques that only Mrs. Moss could have found.

  And then there was the family. It was so strange; when Gaia had first come to New York, she hated “the beautiful people”—the happy wanderers who walked the city without a care in the world other than their next shopping journey. Had she seen any member of the Moss clan at that time, all would have certainly fallen into that category. But now she could appreciate their beauty. Just as she had appreciated Mary’s.

  They lined up in a row to hug Gaia. First came Mr. Moss—who was sturdy and somewhat nondescript, with brown hair and brown eyes and a deep comforting smile. Then came Mary’s oldest brother, Brendan, the NYU student—and Sam’s former suite mate.

  Gaia held her breath. A burst of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She’d been expecting that seeing Brendan would dredge upall the recent Sam-related horror and misery. A small part of her also half expected him to lash at her; she knew he was no great fan of Sam’s. But miraculously, nothing happened. He just offered her the same melancholy smile as his father had. The apartment was a fortress, a magical fortress that seemed to keep the outside world at bay.

  Then came Mary’s brother Paul, whom Gaia suddenly remembered—with crimson-faced embarrassment as he hugged her—as “the cute one.” Paul had much more in common with Mary and her mom physically, with the exception of course of the quarter inch of reddish blond stubble on his chin. But his shaggy hair was a shade of red bordering on blond, and his eyes were the exact same shade of bright blue.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur. Gaia felt like she was being carried along by a wonderful, warm, and enveloping current; she was powerless to do anything but watch, to let the experience wash over her. The family immediately ushered her into the dining room and sat her down for dinner. The scent of “real” food wafted in from the kitchen as Olga, the family cook, brought in a platter of roast chicken. Gaia suddenly realized she
was starving. After weeks of pizza and chili dogs and doughnuts, she was worried that she’d grab the chicken and start ripping it from the bone with her teeth, like some homeless savage wild child who’d been raised by wolves and was attempting her first “civilized” dinner. Olga brought the tray to Gaia’s left and offered her chicken. Gaia took only one piece even though she wanted ten.

  “Take more, dear,” Olga said. “You look hungry.”

  Gaia flashed a self-effacing smile. “You’re right.” She took another piece. “Thank you.”

  “I always forget that you speak Russian,” Mrs. Moss marveled as she took some chicken.

  “I’m sorry?” Gaia asked.

  “Russian,” Mrs. Moss repeated. “You and Olga were just speaking Russian.”

  Gaia looked up at Olga in surprise. Olga flashed a warm smile. Whoa, Gaia thought. She really was out of it. They were speaking Russian, and she hadn’t even noticed.

  “Do you speak any other languages?” Paul asked.

  “A few,” Gaia said casually.

  Then Mrs. Moss said something to Gaia in Dutch. Gaia shrugged and smiled as if Mrs. Moss had stumped her. Of course she knew exactly what was said; she was just too embarrassed to respond to it.

  We’re so happy to have you here.

  “We’re so happy to have you here!” Paul stated triumphantly.

  Gaia lowered her eyes. Her face felt hot. She was blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so bewildered and happy at the same time, as if she were five years old. But she didn’t want to fight the emotion. She wanted to drink it in, thirstily, like wine.

  “Chill, bro,” Brendan joked. “Save it for the bonus round.” He glanced at Gaia. “You’ll have to excuse my brother, Gaia. He doesn’t get out much.”

  “Real funny,” Paul replied with a smile.

  An awkward beat passed.

  Gaia looked up and saw that Mr. and Mrs. Moss weren’t smiling at all. Maybe there was a little too much truth to that statement. Mrs. Moss had said that Paul was living at home instead of at his Columbia dorm and that she could hear him crying at night behind his closed door. And when Gaia turned to Paul again, there was still a smile on his face—but there was undoubtedly something else behind it. A sadness in his eyes. Somebody would have to look closely to see it, but Gaia had done just that. And seeing that unbearable emptiness just beyond his functional surface was very much like having a mirror on the other side of the dining table.

  “Well, I’m going out tonight,” Paul muttered after a moment.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Brendan said. “Gaia, there’s a Fearless show at CBGB’s tonight. You’ve got to come with us.”

  “Sure,” she agreed absently, her mind drifting into the past. “God, I haven’t been to a Fearless show since Mary and I—”

  She cut herself off instantly. Mary’s name had not been mentioned once. Sitting in the sudden awkward silence, Gaia wondered if she’d just made a massive error—perhaps the biggest error a person could make in the Moss household.

  “Gaia,” Mrs. Moss said gently, as if reading her mind, “we talk about her all the time. We talk about her as often as possible, and you should feel free to do the same. I know you loved her as much as we did. As much as we do.”

  Gaia nodded and swallowed, then allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Talking about Mary was something Gaia would have never allowed herself to do alone. But in a way, that was what Mary’s gift had always been to her: the chance to do something she never would have done alone—whether it was going to a Fearless show, wearing a tight red dress, playing a game of truth or dare, or just listening to someone else’s problems instead of dwelling on her own.

  “I did,” Gaia said, just barely holding off another wave of emotion. “I mean, I do. But my point is this,” she announced, squelching every ounce of her sadness. She replaced her wimpy self-pitying tone with something bold and absurdly declamatory. “Tonight. . . I must rock.”

  Everybody stared at her.

  Then Paul laughed. So did Brendan. Mrs. Moss cracked a puzzled smile.

  It was an unquestionably stupid thing to say, but somehow Gaia knew that Paul would think it was funny. And that was precisely why she had said it. If she could make a member of the Moss family laugh, then she knew she was doing something worthwhile.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Time: 6:48 P.M.

  Re: The truth

  Gaia,

  I hated what happened this morning. It hurt more than you can imagine. But I know it’s my fault. Because you don’t trust me. And why should you? I’ve been lying to you, and I know you can tell. But I’ve only been lying to protect you. You have to believe that.

  I’m in real trouble, Gaia. And I think you may be, too

 

  Gaia,

  I have to see you tonight. I know you think I’m a liar, but there’s so much you don’t know. I want to tell you everything. I need to tell you. I’m being blackmailed, and I’m not even sure who is doing it. Josh is working for them, and now I’m working for him. I don’t even know if I’m going to come out of this

 

  Gaia,

  I have to put an end to all of this, and I have to tell you everything. You have to meet me tonight. But if I have to leave, it’s only because they can’t see us together. If they see us together, you could be

 

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Time: 7:03 P.M.

  Re: Tonight

  Gaia,

  I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. It was the wrong choice. Please agree to see me tonight. Say you will, even if you don’t want to. It’s urgent. And I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true. I need to see you. Please write back as soon as you get this. I’ve tried calling you, and there’s no answer. I don’t know where you are, and I worry about you.

  I love you.

  Sam

  bullshit smiles

  For the first time in weeks, he felt he could safely unload the enormous guilt he’d been carrying with him. He’d drop it like a sack of bricks.

  “DELIVERY!”

  Calculated Risk

  Josh Kendall now barged into Sam’s room at will. Sam jumped slightly but managed to click on the send command before Josh had a chance to see what he was doing. Not that it particularly mattered if Sam were caught. Whatever Josh missed, somebody else was sure to see. Sam now operated on the principle of “calculated risk.” It was something he’d learned from chess.

  At least there was an upside to the whole situation: he was able to put his long-standing paranoia to rest. He no longer had to wonder if “they” were watching his every move. He knew now that they were. He accepted it as just another part of his life—like homework, or labs, or classes. That was half the reason he’d been careful not to mention any specifics in his e-mail to Gaia. The other half was that he didn’t want to worry her until he could explain everything face-to-face.

  Josh exhaled with a grin. He dropped yet another brown paper package on Sam’s clothing-covered bed.

  “Shit,” he said. “This has got to be delivered by six-thirty, Sammy, so you better get going now.”

  Sam turned to Josh, his jaw tightly set. He made no attempt to mask his hatred. There was no point.

  Josh clapped in front of Sam’s nose like some psychotic inspirational football coach.

  “Come on, Sammy, let’s move, move. “

  Sam shot out of his chair, knocking his shoulder into Josh’s chin as he stood up. Another calculated risk—and well worth it. Josh’s head snapped back, and his features contorted as he winced with pain.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Sam asked, locking eyes with him. “You should be more careful around me. I can be really clumsy.”

  Josh massaged his jaw and shook his head slowly. He met Sam’s gaze with that Teflon smile still pasted back
onto his perfect, handsome, evil face.

  “Sam,” he said, oozing with condescension, “the thing you don’t want to do now is get cocky. That would be astronomically stupid.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sam replied as he picked up the package.

  “We’re almost there, Sam,” Josh said. “We’re so close. So what I strongly suggest you do. . . is behave.”

  Sam was already standing at the doorway of his room. “Josh,” he said, holding up the package, “I’ve got a delivery, man. You’re going to make me late.” Then he turned away and slammed the door behind him.

  ED STARED AT THE PHONE AS IF it had radioactive properties. As if it might burn through his hand if he actually picked up the receiver. He considered some of the things he’d rather do than call Heather and arrange a dinner for the sole purpose of letting her bawl him out.

  Kinder, Gentler Heather

  Would I rather be pelted with hot coals?

  Check.

  Would I rather have earphones taped to my head that would play nothing but Barry Manilow and Yanni twenty-four hours a day?

  Check.

  Would I rather be repeatedly hit on the head with a tire iron?

  Actually, that would hurt. Good. Finally he had found something worse than calling Heather. So now he could do it. Besides, he knew that a dinner meeting—alone, face-to-face but in a public setting so as to avoid any violence or major freak-outs—was the only possible way to move past all the lies. To move past the miscommunication. And most important, to move past the money. There was no way to mend their relationship without calling.

  Ed glanced around his empty kitchen. For a second he thought about pulling out his wheelchair just so he could sit and gather his strength. Nah. Better just to stand, to savor every painful moment. He leaned against the wall on his crutches, then placed the phone to his ear and slowly dialed her number.

  After two rings somebody picked up.

  “Hello?”

  Heather’s voice was much warmer than Ed had expected. It was more than warm; it was almost. . . sprightly.