Kat is perched on a stool by the window, camera in hand, looking exactly like what she’s pretending to be, a freelance photographer with a vaguely Eastern European air. She’s done something different with her hair, gotten a blowout with some highlights, and she’s wearing a chunky knit sweater that makes her look almost approachable.
“Elena Varga,” I say, testing the name. “Hungarian?”
“Romanian mother, Hungarian father.” Her accent has shifted too, the Russian edges sanded down into something more ambiguous. “Moved to London at twelve. We met through a mutual friend at the Guardian.”
“And you’ve shot three pieces for me over the last two years. The refugee camp in Greece, the reconstruction story in Warsaw, and that disaster about the French minister’s mistress that never ran.”
“Because she threatened to sue.”
“Because she threatened to sue,” I confirm. Our cover stories interlock like puzzle pieces, courtesy of the SOE backstopping team, creating a history that will hold up to scrutiny.
“And I’m David Okonkwo,” Bayo says, settling into the chair in front of his monitors. “Tech consultant, freelance researcher, the guy you call when you need someone to explain blockchain to your readers without putting them to sleep.”
“Do you actually understand blockchain?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, yes.” He taps a few keys, and one of the monitors flickers to life, showing a map of Manhattan with several points marked in red. “Right. Let’s get down to it, loves. Global Dynamix headquarters is here, Midtown East. Miss Mia, your hotel is here. This safehouse is here. Vanguard’s penthouse is here, Upper West Side, but that’s not somewhere you’ll be going unless things get, well, very interesting.”
“Or very bad,” Kat adds, shooting me a knowing look. “Kiss or kill.”
“More like kissandkill,” I correct her.
Bayo continues. “Comms protocol is the same as London—earrings for fieldwork and anytime you’re with the target, though make sure your receiver is turned off, then encrypted messaging app for everything else. I’ll be monitoring local security feeds, police chatter, anything that might affect your movements. Kat will be mobile, playing photographer, keeping eyes on you from a distance.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“Then you get to the safehouse. Or the embassy. Or, worst case, you find a corner, and you wait for extraction.” Bayo’s faceis serious now, the joking warmth gone. “We’re not in London, Mia. This is Global Dynamix’s backyard. They have tendrils everywhere—cops, politicians, private security. They’re like a fungus. If they figure out who you really are…”
“They won’t.”
“Ifthey do,” he continues, ignoring me, “we pull you out. Immediately. No heroics. No finishing the mission. You just disappear and let Mank sort out the diplomatic fallout, if there is any.”
“Got it.” I don’t mention that disappearing isn’t really my strong suit. That when things go wrong, my instinct is to push harder, dig deeper, make them regret ever crossing me. It’s one of my better qualities, in my opinion, though Mank has been quick to tell me it’s also one of my worst.
What can I say? I’m fueled by spite most of the time.
“Your first official meeting at Global Dynamix is tomorrow morning,” Kat says, pulling up something on her phone. “Ten a.m., their media relations office. But Vanguard has a public appearance this afternoon—the Dark Decade Memorial in Central Park. Unveiling of the new Remembrance Wall.”
“I saw something about that on the news feeds flashing around the city.”
“He’ll be there in full regalia. Photo ops, handshakes, the whole performance. Perhaps it’s a good opportunity to observe him in his natural habitat before you’re face-to-face across a conference table.”
I nod slowly, already thinking it through. Watching him without him knowing I’m watching, seeing how he moves, how he interacts, what slips through the cracks when he thinks the cameras are the only ones paying attention.
“Press credentials will get you into the media section,” Bayo adds. “I’ve already registered you. Just…try not to do anything that ends up on the evening news.”
“When have I ever?”
“Helsinki. Cairo. That thing in Marrakech with the goat.”
“The goat was not my fault.”
“Sure it wasn’t.” He grins.
Central Park in October is the kind of beautiful they make movies about. The trees are showing off shades of amber and crimson, the sky is that particular saturated blue you only get this time of year, and the air is crisp enough to keep you alert and energized.
The memorial is set up near the Bethesda Fountain, a temporary stage with rows of folding chairs, a section of the new Remembrance Wall covered by a black cloth waiting to be unveiled. The chairs are already filling with survivors’ families, plus politicians and VIPs who dress and smile like nothing bad could ever happen again. Flowers are everywhere, as well as waving American flags. It’s the kind of somber pageantry that makes for great television.
I flash my press credentials and slip into the media section, finding a spot near the back where I can see without being seen. The other journalists are a mix of hungry young things with digital recorders and grizzled veterans who’ve probably covered every tragedy this city has to offer. No one pays me any attention, thankfully.
