Page 67 of Winterveil

“Thank you all for responding to my invitation so promptly,” he said.

“It seemed more like an order than an invitation,” said Julian coolly.

Dr. Iver ignored him. “I apologize for the cryptic nature of my request. But this is a matter of utmost discretion. The four of you have been selected for a very . . . consequential opportunity.”

“Consequential?” Nadiya echoed. Her voice had a strained quality. “What does that mean?”

The dark-suited man stepped forward. He removed his sunglasses, but even without them, his face was unreadable, almost blank. There were no distinctive features to it, nothing Klaudia could conjure a description for. The sense of complete anonymity made her skin prickle.

“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Deckard. CIA.”

Twenty-Three

Spring 2037

Rural Virginia

It seemed impossible: the cramped metal room, the flickering lights, the two other Valeran students who Giselle had never seen before, Dr. Iver smiling his ever-inscrutable smile. The man who had just introduced himself as CIA, seemingly unaware of how difficult it all was to believe.

And Nadiya. Nadiya, who would not look her in the eye. The scene took on not the atmosphere of a dream but the aura of a nightmare.

“CIA,” Julian repeated. “Is this a joke?”

“Only if you consider urgent matters of national security a joke.” Deckard’s voice was gravelly, that familiar pack-a-day rasp, though Giselle could not imagine him as a man with any vices. “The four of you have been selected for an important mission.”

They glanced among themselves, Giselle making brief eye contact with Klaudia. The other girl intimidated her—partly because Giselle had never met an actual Russian before, but mostly because her stare was so cold.

“What mission?” Klaudia asked.

“A very significant one,” said Deckard, as if that point had not already been impressed upon them repeatedly. “I’ll explain more when we reach Camp Peary.”

Camp Peary? Giselle looked around to see if recognition crossed anyone else’s face.

“The Farm,” said Nadiya. “You’re taking us to the Farm.”

“Camp Peary,” Deckard corrected her. “The CIA training facility in Williamsburg. There you will be briefed and prepped for your mission.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “And if we refuse?”

“This is not a spring break trip to Palm Beach, Mr. Joyce-Young,” said Dr. Iver. “This is a direct order from the government of the United States.”

“It’s an honor and a privilege,” added Deckard. “You should be grateful to have been chosen.”

“Funny,” said Julian coolly, “I was told the same thing about coming to Valeran.”

“And yet I’m not getting a sense of gratitude from you,” Nadiya muttered.

Julian’s gaze cut to her. “I’m not inclined to be grateful for being locked up. Are you?”

“Need I remind you,” Dr. Iver said, before Nadiya could snap out a reply, “that your other option was federal prison. And now that time is being remitted. Consider it a commuted sentence.”

Federal prison. Julian looked so refined and spoke with such eloquence that she had trouble imagining what he could have done to warrant such a punishment. Nobody with a name like Julian Joyce-Young III would have ended up at Valeran for swiping credit card numbers.

“A commuted sentence,” Klaudia said. “Does that mean we’re graduating early?”

“In a sense, yes,” Dr. Iver said. “Think of this mission as your final project. If you succeed, you will be released and given top appointments.”

Julian and Klaudia exchanged glances. There was something both restrained and electric in their eyes that Giselle couldn’t decode.