Page 18 of The Valiant (Spy Girl 4)
"It's not supposed to relate to her death," he says simply. "It's supposed to do with something that starts with Montrovia and ends the world as we know it."
I throw my hands up in the air. This is fruitless. "Well then, someone is going to bring a Trojan Horse to Montrovia. Montrovia will fall, and the world will soon follow, but a few of the survivors will sail away--in this case, probably on their yachts--until the women they are with force them to land somewhere and create a great new civilization."
Intrepid doesn't say anything in response, just nods toward our tour guide, who is making her way toward us, offering up a picnic basket, blanket, and bottle of Prosecco that must come with our tour.
He obviously read the guide's expression when I said he was my uncle because the second she sets the basket down, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close, and gives me a charming smile. "Perfect timing. I'm ready to have you all to myself. Let's go find somewhere private, shall we?"
I try not to giggle, but it slips out anyway. Even though, when studying the great spy, I admit to having a few fantasies about him, that idea seems ridiculous now. He's too real. Too much of a father figure. And too endearing to consider anything of a sexual nature with him. I realize the giggle probably fits the role I'm playing though and decide to go with it. I playfully slap his arm, nuzzle myself into his neck, and whisper something unintelligible, which will ensure the tour guide will remember our slightly scandalous behavior rather than our interest in a particular sculpture.
He quickly leads me down a path and to an idyllic spot under a shade tree where he spreads out the blanket, going through the motions of pretending to care about it all.
"Last night, I went out on my own. To a restaurant where my mother and I had been when we were in Rome. She left me to dine there alone one evening while she sat at a nearby fountain and watched something. She left a coded message at the restaurant where it was pinned to the wall in the kitchen ever since."
"What did it say?" he asks, pouring us each a glass of bubbly.
"Seemingly random words. Arcadia, Lorenzo the Magnificent, Giuliano Medici, The Society, Trojan Horse, Harrison McClellan, and John F. Hillford Sr."
"Any idea how they are related?"
"Not really other than the former president is the one who ordered the hit on her, so he was probably deeply involved in whatever she discovered. And McClellan owns--"
"The world's largest biotech firm and started the conspiracy-theory-ridden World Seed Vault."
"Correct."
"While this is all really fascinating," he says, "we have a crisis that I need your help with. I have no idea if it relates to Montrovia, but we have to deal with it regardless."
"Are you talking about the missing nuclear backpacks?"
His eyes get huge. "How do you know?"
"It helps, being friends with the president's son."
"Your brother tells me the two of you have planned a quick trip to Florence today but that you will head to London first thing tomorrow morning."
"That's correct. So, you have all these people holed up in a Montrovian safe house, trying to break the case; have they discovered anything useful?"
"We have to deal with the current threat first," he says seriously.
"And how are we going to do that?"
"We're going to a birthday party, and I need you to get us an invite."
"Whose birthday is it?" I ask.
"Your old pal Wesley Windsor."
"And what does he have to do with a nuclear bomb?"
"Nothing, but the party room next door to his just happens to be holding an event for someone who might have something to do with it." He takes a sip of wine. "Bring something very sexy to wear. With this man, you will need it."
I have barely agreed before he has the picnic thrown into the trash and is dragging me across the lawn.
When he drops me off at my hotel, he reiterates, "It's imperative that we get an invitation."
"We?" I ask.
"Yes, your brother and I will be there with you. See you in London," he says and then ditches me.
When I arrive back at my hotel suite, I find Malcolm and Aleksandr in the living room instead of my brother.
"We'd like to speak with you, Huntley," Malcolm says. "Please sit down."
I give them a defiant stare, cross my arms in front of my chest, and remain standing, trying my best to emulate how I think my father would have reacted.
"Look, we're sorry about last night. It was rude of us to ask you to leave in the middle of dinner," Malcolm says, "but you must understand our predicament. We're bound by certain rules."
"Which you have already broken by telling me about the group and how it related to my father," I reply.
"Yes, and we hope it is a conversation you will keep to yourself," Aleksandr adds.
I nod, indicating that I will, which is a complete lie. If I find out the organization had anything to do with my mother's death, I will not rest until it is destroyed regardless of their affiliation.
"We do have some news to share that does not breach that confidence. I told you that I would find out who was responsible for the death of our late president."
"And you have discovered that?" I ask, interested to know if he found out the truth.
"Yes, it was the work of an assassin known as The Priest. What I'm about to tell you is classified, but I want you to understand the kind of man the government is up against here."
"Okay," I reply, taking a seat and listening.
"Six years ago, the assassin killed a female CIA agent and her husband. The man was killed in a car bombing, and the woman was shot point-blank in her home," Malcolm says, causing my throat to go dry and making me wonder if they know the truth about me.
I keep my eyes trained on them, as I should during a conversation of this nature, but my mind is running through different scenarios of how I'll escape and if I will have to kill my father's friends to do so.
"She had a young daughter whose body was never recovered," Aleksandr says, his voice cracking with compassion.
"That's horrible," I manage to get out.
"Yes, it is," Malcolm agrees. "But the CIA covered it up, and if you ever looked their names up in the newspapers, you would think they were just a normal family who died in a tragic motor vehicle accident. A hit-and-run, presumably caused by a drunk driver."
"Needless to say," Aleksandr says, "the American government took this hard. John F. Hillford Senior was president at the time and ordered a Special Forces team to take out the assassin once and for all."
"They determined where he lived and bombed his house. He was presumed dead for the past six years," Malcolm continues. "Until the former president's son, Jack, was assassinated. It turns out, the assassin survived the assault and was looking for revenge."
I want to tell them that they have it all wrong. That Hillford ordered the hit because of what my mother knew. But I can't.
"I'm glad they figured out who did it. The story in the papers didn't make a lot of sense. And attacking another country for one man's sins maybe doesn't make sense either."
"Know that our government will not rest until this man is dead," Malcolm says. "But what I wanted you to be aware of is, they believe this assassin is also behind the kidnapping of Lorenzo as well as the death of Clarice Vallenta."
"And the car bomb?"
"Probably him as well," Aleksandr states.
"And do you think he's still trying to kill Lorenzo?" I ask, trying to make myself look scared.
"They assume, after the failed attempt, he went into hiding," Malcolm says. "I think, for the time being, you are safe."
I let out a sigh. "That's a relief."
"Yes, it is. We are thrilled to have a piece of Ares back in our life, so to speak. And we would have hated it if you had gotten blown up."
"I think I would have hated that, too," I say solemnly.
Although their information is incorrect, probably given to them from Mike Burnes hims
elf, their frankness is touching.
"What is it?" Aleksandr asks when he notices the tears forming in my eyes.
"I'm just really grateful that you both have been so kind to me. You've made me feel ... almost like I have a family. I'm sorry for the way I behaved at dinner last night, too. You offered to petition The Society for me, and I told you not to."
"To spite your father?" Aleksandr wonders.
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Have you changed your mind?" Malcolm asks. "We will meet again here in Rome, as usual, in early August. Maybe, if we work our magic, you can attend that meeting with us."
"Can I ask you a serious question first?"
