The Dead Drop by Jennifer Allison Page B

throat loudly. Why wasn’t April jumping at the chance to make her a camp counselor? She was sitting right there!
    “I think you might have one volunteer.” Matthew tilted his head in Gilda’s direction.
    “I’d love to,” said Gilda, standing up. “I’m great with kids.”
    “You are a kid,” said Janet.
    I definitely do not like Janet, Gilda thought.
    “Yeah, she’s a little young,” said April. “I mean, I appreciate that you’re offering to help, Gilda, but you’d only be a few years older than some of the kids.”
    “So give me some of the younger ones and I’ll whip ’em into shape. By the time they leave this place they’ll be running circles around the CIA.”
    Jasper Clarke made a move to leave. “Well, it looks like you have this under control, April.”
    “Very funny.”
    “I have a meeting with our advisory board to discuss some museum development plans. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the four of you to figure this out.” Jasper paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you should give Gilda the job. She’s a natural spy, so they’ll never guess that she’s only fifteen.”
    Make that fourteen going on fifteen, Gilda thought, a little guiltily.
    The room fell quiet for a moment after Jasper left.
    “I guess I could give her a smaller group,” April suggested, “maybe some of the younger kids.”
    Janet looked skeptical. “Won’t the younger kids be more difficult for her to control?”
    “They might be more likely to respect her,” said Matthew.
    “I think we’re forgetting the art of disguise,” said Gilda wondering why nobody in the room was addressing her directly.
    Everyone stared at her with surprise, as if she had just belched loudly.
    “Aren’t we in the Spy Museum? It shouldn’t be hard to look a few years older than my real age with makeup and wigs.”
    “While we’re at it, we could make you look like a little old man.”
    Janet and April wrinkled their noses as if trying to imagine Gilda disguised as an old man.
    “Well!” April stood up and brushed invisible lint from her pants. “The bottom line is that there are a few busloads of kids showing up to attend this camp, so we’d better hustle. Gilda, I hope you’re done cutting out those cipher wheels because you have some camp-counselor training to accomplish today.”
    “Awesome! And don’t worry; I won’t disappoint you.”

13

    The Dead-Drop Message
    Instead of going directly into her apartment building after work, Gilda decided to investigate Oak Hill Cemetery to see if she could find any more clues to explain the strange dream about President Lincoln. She made her way down Wisconsin Avenue, past the rumbling of idling delivery trucks parked outside businesses, past the high wall of the Russian Embassy with its security gates and wary guards, and past Guy Mason Park, where toddlers played in the sand as bored nannies watched. As she neared Georgetown, the air filled with the smoky aroma of Rockland’s Barbeque and an assortment of Thai and Italian restaurants where people sat at little tables along the sidewalks, fanning themselves in the heat.
    Gilda turned onto R Street where the atmosphere was sullen with humidity and a heavy silence. Again, the street gave her the ominous feeling of being watched by quiet, empty houses—houses that knew things. Sweat trickled into her eyes and between her shoulder blades, staining the back of her yellow sundress.
    Gilda froze: she suddenly spied Boris Volkov heading up the walkway toward his house, his black jacket slung over one shoulder, his arm gently resting on the back of a well-dressed, middle-aged woman whose hair was dyed a very unnatural shade of red and styled in a stiff, hair-sprayed do. That must be Boris’s wife, Gilda thought. She had an impulse to run up to the couple and say hello—to ask Boris’s wife why she had wanted those KGB artifacts out of the house. Instead, Gilda hid behind a tree just as Boris turned to glance behind