“Can you keep a secret, Brae?” says Clay.
“Yeah,” says Braedon.
“Because if I tell you this, you have to promise you won’t tell anyone else. And I mean anyone. Not Daniel. Not Emily. Not Sue or Carol. Not Deb. Not Teddy. Not your mother if you get in contact with her. Not the school counselor. And when you go talk to a therapist, you can’t even tell them. The only person you can talk to about it, other than me, is Grandpa Judd. And that’s because he already knows. But no one else. Can you make that promise?”
Braedon nods, his eyes big and open and inquisitive.
“It’s a matter of safety for you and safety for me.”
“I promise, Dad. Really. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
Braedon smiles for the first time since Clay came into his room.
“When I was playing professional soccer in Europe and when I was a coach over there, I was also working for the United States government as an intelligence agent.”
Braedon’s smile fades. His eyes get even bigger and he says, “You mean you were a spy?”
“Yes,” says Clay. “Not like James Bond or anything. I mostly just went out to bars and restaurants in whatever city I was playing in and listened to people talking, hoping to pick up information from diplomats and the people who make and sell weapons. Once in a while, I delivered a hand-written message. Or maybe I put it in a dead letter box.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a place or a thing where spies leave messages for each other. Like under a rock in a park or in the toilet tank of a bathroom.”
“Cool.”
“Yep,” says Clay, “spies have been using them for hundreds of years. Still a good method.”
“Are you still a spy?” says Braedon.
“That’s a good question,” says Clay. “I’m not working as a spy now—there’s not a whole lot to spy on in Riverwood—but I am still in contact with my superiors in Washington. They may want me to work for them at some point in the future. But not anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“Because in Europe I was working undercover. No one knew I was a spy. Not my teammates or coaches. No one knew except for the United States government. Then my cover was blown by a double agent.”
“Is that a traitor?” says Braedon.
“Yes. Someone who says they’re a spy for one country but they’re really spying for the other country. And once my cover was blown, I couldn’t do it anymore, plus it was dangerous for me to stay in Europe. And it was dangerous for you, too. That’s one of the reasons we moved back here so fast. Didn’t even wait for your school year to end—just took off and begged them to let you finish the year remotely. And everyone thinks I’m doing such a nice thing, turning down offers to coach in Europe or MLS so I can give back to my high school soccer team, but it’s a little more complicated than that.” Clay shifts in his seat. “Questions?”
Braedon thinks for ten seconds and says, “Did you ever shoot anyone?”
“I never did,” says Clay. “Not when I was in the army and not when I was working in intelligence.”
“Did anyone ever try to hurt you?” says Braedon.
“Only once. When my cover was blown. I was lucky to get out of there without being seriously injured. That experience is what helped convince me it was time to get out of Europe.”
“But you said we could visit.”
“We can. And we will. But we can’t go for at least a year or two. I need to lay low for a while.”
Braedon thinks again. It’s not easy. His head is spinning from Clay’s admission of wrongdoing and this new informationabout being a spy. But he manages to formulate a question. “Are we safe now? Is there any chance they can find us?”
“We’re safe, Braedon. When a spy leaves the game—that’s what we call it sometimes—or the theater of espionage—they’re usually left alone. The other side may or may not know I’m here in Riverwood—but they know I can’t do any damage from here.”
Braedon says nothing. He feels his father’s hand on his shoulder, and tilts his head to rest it there.
