"What's happening?" I asked, looking at Mr. Smith.
"Breach," he said simply as I was dragged (or practically carried) up the stairs.
Girls crowed the hallways. They had pajamas and bare feet. And weapons. Oh yeah, they'd brought a lot of weapons.
"Is it the Circle?" one seventh grader yelled, voice breaking. "Are they here?"
But the faculty kept me gripped in a tight circle. I could barely make out a single face until Tina Walters broke through. "Cammie, are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" I yelled, trying to squirm free.
And then the alarms stopped.
"You gave us quite a scare tonight, young lady," Townsend greeted me on the landing.
My friends stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me. Their hair was tangled and full of cobwebs. Their faces were filthy (which meant mine probably was too). "Exactly where have you girls been keeping yourselves?"
"Secret passageway," I said. "I just found it. It's awesome but . . ." I glanced at Macey, who had a large black mark on one perfect cheekbone. "Dirty."
"You," Townsend said, pointing to Liz. "What do you have in that bag?"
Okay, so maybe it did look a little strange. After all, a hundred girls had filled the hallways and lined the staircases that night. There were face masks and retainers, but Liz carried the only backpack, and Townsend wouldn't have been the spy everyone thought he was if he hadn't wondered what was inside it.
"Well?" he asked again, stepping closer.
"Homework!" Liz blurted. "Books."
"You may not know this, Agent Townsend," Dr. Fibs said, "but Ms. Sutton here is one of our most dedicated -"
"Open it," Townsend demanded. He grabbed the bag and turned it upside down. I held my breath and watched as two notebooks, a pack of gum, and fourteen colored pencils scattered across the floors.
I'm pretty sure I supposed to breathe a sigh of relief, but instead I felt panic. Terror. We'd risked our lives to get that journal, and it was nowhere. Gone.
"Where's the . . ." I found myself saying aloud, but Macey gave the slightest of nods. The journal was hidden, it told me. The journal was safe.
"Cammie!"
I knew that voice.
"Mom," I said, trying to see through the crowd.
"It's okay, everyone," my mother - our headmistress - told us. "The security department assures me that the perimeter had not been breached. There's no one within the mansion or the grounds who is not supposed to be here, go back to bed, everybody." When she looked at me, there was no doubt it was on order. "Go straight to bed."
Yeah, in case you're wondering, we totally didn't do that.
Sure, we went to our suite. Sure, we turned out the lights. But ten seconds later the four of us were huddled in the bathroom, staring at the book that looked especially dark in Liz's pale hand. When she handed it to me, a single piece of paper slipped free, fluttered, and landed on the floor.
Dear Cammie,
If you're reading this, I must be gone. I know I should probably apologize for keeping this journal from you for so long, but I won't because I'm not sorry. In my professional opinion, you weren't ready. And in my personal opinion, I had hoped you never would be.
I've made mistakes, Cammie - too many to name here. But the biggest of which, I still carry. The worst of which, I've spent a lifetime trying to make it right.
I did try to make it right, Cammie, I really tried, but if you're reading this, I must not have tried hard enough.
Forever sorry,
Joseph Solomon
The thin book felt heavier than, more precious than all of the first editions in the Gallagher Academy's library put together. The cover was brittle and dry. The pages tallow with age. I was almost afraid to open it. But needless to say, not reading it wasn't really a viable option at that point.
I took a deep breath and turned to the first page, read the heading - COVERT
OPERATION REPORT - but beyond that, I couldn't read a single work.
"It's encrypted," Bex hissed in frustration. "We risked our bloody necks and we can't even read it. I tell you, I'm half tempted to break into CIA custody just so I can break Joe Solomon out of CIA custody just so I can break Joe Solomon."
But at the word encrypted, Liz had snatched the journal form my hands and was holding it up to the light.
"It's the pigeons!" she shouted, and I worried that Tina, Eva, Courtney, and the rest of the junior class might come barging into our suite with crossbows and curling irons.
"This is it," Liz said, jabbing her finger onto the page. "See, look at this. It's almost more like hieroglyphs in a way. Almost like a -"
"Language," Macey said.
Liz's eyes shone in the dim room. "Yeah, that exactly it."
"And you don't crack languages - not really," Bex said. "You learn them."
"Or you translate them," Macey said.
"Exactly. Mr. Solomon didn't leave a bunch of crazy scribblings on a board . . ." Liz started.
"He left a key." Macey reached out to take the book. She ran her finger over the page. "Is this Mr. Solomon's handwriting?"
"No," I found myself whisper. "It's my dad's."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Covert Operations Report
(Translated by Operative Morgan and Sutton)
Day 1
Joe's nightmares are back.
He says they're nothing, but I can hear him screaming down the hall - something about Blackthorne and Vatican City. Last night I ran to his room and found him reaching, half asleep, for a knife.
He says he had an op go bad there. Only problem is, according to Langley, Agent Joseph Solomon has never been to Rome.