The Dead Drop Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - The Arrival

  Chapter 2 - The Roommate

  Chapter 3 - The Psychic Spy

  Chapter 4 - A D.C. Tour Guide for Math-Camp Shut-Ins

  Chapter 5 - The Spy Museum

  Chapter 6 - The Life of a Spy

  Chapter 7 - CIA Project MINDSCAPE

  Chapter 8 - The Acquisition

  Chapter 9 - Spy Camp

  Chapter 10 - The Message in the Cipher

  Chapter 11 - The Museum Ghost

  Chapter 12 - The Promotion

  Chapter 13 - The Dead-Drop Message

  Chapter 14 - The Secret Code

  Chapter 15 - Team Crypt

  Chapter 16 - The Profiler

  Chapter 17 - Lincoln’s Ghost

  Chapter 18 - “The Man of Our Dreams”

  Chapter 19 - The Ghost in the Machine

  Chapter 20 - The Frightening Face

  Chapter 21 - Two Truths and a Lie

  Chapter 22 - Dream of the Psychic Spy

  Chapter 23 - Cracking the Code

  Chapter 24 - A Dangerous Encounter

  Chapter 25 - An Unpleasant Discovery

  Chapter 26 - The Graffiti Ghost

  Chapter 27 - Spy Games

  Chapter 28 - Shaking a Tail

  Chapter 29 - The Last Meeting

  Chapter 30 - Secret Cameras and a Drugstore Fiasco

  Chapter 31 - The Interrogation

  Chapter 32 - The Mind of a Spy

  Chapter 33 - The Alley of the Russian Poets

  Chapter 34 - The Master Psychic

  Chapter 35 - The Mansion on O Street

  Chapter 36 - Midnight Spy Slumber Party

  Chapter 37 - Svetlana’s Story: A Film

  Chapter 38 - Breakfast of Spies

  Chapter 39 - The Last Dead Drop

  Chapter 40 - The Spy Party

  AFTERWORD

  Acknowledgements

  also by Jennifer Allison

  Gilda Joyce,

  Psychic Investigator

  Gilda Joyce

  The Ladies of the Lake

  Gilda Joyce

  The Ghost Sonata

  DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Of

  fices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Allison

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by

  any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage

  and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher,

  except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclu

  sion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or

  third-party websites or their content.

  CIP Data is available.

  Published in the United States by Dutton Children’s Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  www.penguin.com/youngreaders

  eISBN : 978-1-101-05706-3

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my friends at the International Spy Museum with appreciation,

  and to anyone whoever dreamed of becoming a spy.

  PROLOGUE

  Packing List for Washington, D.C.,

  Internship and Spy Activities

  • Jackie Kennedy-inspired pink taffeta dress with matching pillbox hat (awesome vintage clothing store find!)

  • Jackie Kennedy accessories: short white gloves, multistrand pearls, oversize white sunglasses, white clutch purse

  • White stiletto pumps (because my feet can take it)

  • Rollers and curling iron for bouncy bobs and flippy flips

  • Ponytail hairpiece for 1960s-style “spy hair”

  • Leggings and boots (to approximate 1960s Diana Riggs Avengers-style catsuit)

  • Nancy Reagan-style fire engine red “first lady” power suit with quarterback-sized shoulder pads

  • Red-sequined evening gown for dinner parties

  • Agent 99-style light blue trench coat (wear on rainy days with collar up and vinyl knee-high stretch boots)

  • Jogging suit for early morning workouts near the U.S. Capitol Building (opportunity to rub elbows with winded senators)

  • Ordinary tourist clothes, including yellow sundress and flip-flops

  • Nondescript government-employee-style black skirt and white blouse (to blend in with the crowd during surveillance activities)

  • 1960s “spy chic” minidress found at excellent garage sale

  • Liquid “spyliner” and false eyelashes for creating sultry spy eyes

  • Hairspray for big spy hair

  • Disguise kit: wig, makeup, fake mustache and beard (for extreme disguises), spirit gum, thick eyeglasses

  • Water bottle needed to brave scorching temperatures

  • Map of Washington, D.C.

  • Tourist guidebook

  • Polaroid camera for ghost hunting

  • Professional guidebooks: Haunted Government: The Famous Ghosts of Washington, D.C., and “Spy Savvy” : A Tradecraft Handbook

  • Notebooks, pens, and my beloved typewriter!

  1

  The Arrival

  Gilda exited Reagan National Airport and made her way toward a line of people waiting for taxis. The air was thick with humidity and, as she dragged her heavy suitcase behind her, she found herself wishing she hadn’t worn her Jackie Kennedy outfit for traveling. How did women stand wearing panty hose and high heels every day back in the old days?

  You’re a spy and you’re actually here in Washington, D.C.! she told herself. Stop griping about a little hot air!

  Gilda climbed into the taxi and was relieved to feel a cold blast of air-conditioning as the cab zoomed onto the highway.

  “You coming home to D.C. or just visiting?” The driver peered at her through his rearview mirror, eyeing her pillbox hat with curiosity.

  “I’m actually in D.C. to study spy tradecraft.” Gilda knew that a true spy would never actually give away this information; she would stick with a “cover” identity and purpose. I’m going to visit my sick grandmother, she might say, or I’m here to study church music at the National Cathedral. But Gilda simply couldn’t resist telling someone
about the adventure that lay before her—a summer job at the International Spy Museum, where she planned to learn intriguing secrets while improving her own spy skills by picking up tips from the experts.

  “A spy!” The cab driver grinned. “You workin’ for the CIA?”

  “Not exactly.” Gilda hoped she actually looked old enough to be working for the Central Intelligence Agency, since this would make the grown-up tidiness of her Jackie Kennedy outfit and hairsprayed hair well worth the effort. At the very least, she needed to look older than her age of fourteen years and eleven months, because she had told the Spy Museum that she was already fifteen after learning that this was the youngest age they would consider for summer interns. Gilda figured that fourteen going on fifteen was close enough, considering her passion for spying.

  “Lotta people ride in my cab are spies,” the cab driver continued.

  “Really?” Gilda knew from studying her Spy Savvy handbook that Washington, D.C., was “the spy capital of the world”—a place where people from around the globe came in hopes of obtaining secret information from the U.S. government.

  “I overhear everything in this taxi.” The driver exited the highway and drove through a lush, tree-dense neighborhood where grand foreign embassy buildings lined the street. “In fact,” he said, “maybe I should be a spy.”

  Maybe he is a spy, Gilda thought, remembering how her Spy Savvy handbook had warned that “nothing is exactly what it seems” when you’re operating in the world of espionage. “Don’t expect the spies around you to announce themselves,” the book warned. “A bus driver, delivery person, or even a homeless person on the street could actually be a spy in disguise—perfectly positioned to conduct surveillance or await a handoff of secret information without anyone noticing.”

  The driver pulled into the entranceway of an enormous old apartment building surrounded by magnolia trees: Cathedral Towers Apartment Homes. Gilda’s stomach fluttered. This is it, she thought. My new home for the summer. She felt nervous, realizing she would actually be on her own in a new city. Gilda had traveled away from her family a couple of times before, but this would be her first experience in Washington, D.C. Not only was she in an unfamiliar city, she would be sharing an apartment with a much older roommate as well—a young woman who had just graduated from college. It would also be her first experience figuring out a subway system, making all of her own meals, and going to a real job. Gilda had flippantly assured her mother she could handle it, but suddenly she didn’t feel quite so confident.

  “Good luck with your spying,” said the cabdriver, giving her a wink as he pulled her suitcase from the trunk of his cab.

  “Thanks,” said Gilda, handing him some wadded dollar bills and almost wishing he would stick around to make conversation, even though he was a complete stranger. “Same to you.”

  The lobby of Cathedral Towers reminded Gilda of an elegant hotel in an old Hollywood movie. For a moment, she thought she must have gotten the wrong address; she hadn’t expected anything quite so sophisticated compared to her surroundings back home in Ferndale, Michigan. High ceilings with ornate moldings soared above. A silent grand piano sat upon a plush area rug, surrounded by velvet benches and chairs. Large abstract oil paintings in earth tones decorated the walls, and tranquil music piped into the room.

  A young woman wearing a pantsuit carried a very official-looking briefcase through the lobby, her high heels clicking across the gleaming floor. She hurriedly pushed through the front doorway without smiling at Gilda or even looking in her direction.

  Gilda sensed an aloof emptiness in the building. This place is impressive, but it kind of gives me the feeling you get when everyone else is at school and you’ve been home sick for a week, she thought. It’s kind of a lonely feeling.

  “Can I help you?” A pale, fleshy woman peered at Gilda from the reception desk, her mouth stained with peach-colored lipstick and her graying hair slicked back in a severe bun.

  “Hi—I’m Gilda Joyce, and I’m moving in today.”

  The woman appeared displeased with this piece of information. She grumpily pulled a large book from beneath the desk and flipped through the pages, scanning a list of names and dates with a false fingernail and shaking her head. “There’s no record of a move-in request today.”

  “There must be. I’m moving in to share an apartment with Caitlin Merrill, and she was supposed to leave me a key. I just spoke with her yesterday.”

  “In that case, Ms. Merrill neglected to log a move-in request for you Miss—”

  “The name is Joyce. Gilda Joyce.” Gilda was beginning to feel as if she were a real CIA agent trying to cross the border of a hostile country. For some reason, she suddenly wished she had made up a false name. “And you are?”

  The desk attendant pursed her lips, reluctant to give out her own name. “Ms. Potts,” she said coldly.

  Gilda had a sudden urge to call her mother for help—an urge she did her best to squelch. If I’m going to be on my own in a city, I’m going to have to learn to take charge. “Ms. Potts,” Gilda said, doing her best to sound authoritative, “I must have the key to my apartment, or I shall have to call a building manager.”

  Ms. Potts gazed very directly into Gilda’s eyes. “Miss Joyce, you are talking to the building manager. And I will welcome you with open arms once your name is properly in the move-in request book.”

  “Then, Ms. Potts, let us inscribe the name Gilda Joyce into yon Move-In Request Book herewith.” Gilda wasn’t quite sure why she had begun to speak in such a ridiculously pompous tone, but it seemed to suit Ms. Potts’s own attitude.

  “I can’t just write your name here because you want me to. The move-in request has to be made at least twenty-four hours in advance of the requested move-in time.”

  I know her type, Gilda thought. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t want to give you something you want simply because she knows you need it.

  “Ms. Potts,” said Gilda, attempting a different strategy, “I’m sure this is not the sort of welcome foreign diplomats typically receive to the nation’s capital.” Gilda realized this was a risky fib, but it seemed worth a try. If I’m going to be a spy, I may as well practice using a cover identity while I’m here, she thought.

  At the mention of “foreign diplomats,” Ms. Potts’s eyes widened slightly, registering the tiniest flash of fear. What if she had made a mistake and offended one of her truly important tenants? But her name isn’t in the move-in request book, Ms. Potts reminded herself. We must follow procedures.

  Gilda and Ms. Potts locked eyes like poker players, each trying to determine whether the other was bluffing, whether the other would back down. Gilda had a fleeting memory of her father complaining about “Washington bureaucrats.”

  Realizing that Ms. Potts was stubborn enough to stand there all day without budging from her position, Gilda decided she had no choice but to call her new roommate for help. “Excuse me, Ms. Potts. I’ll speak to Caitlin Merrill about this.”

  Gilda turned away from the desk and dialed Caitlin’s number.

  “National Criminal Justice Association,” a chirpy voice answered. “Caitlin Merrill speaking.”

  “Hi, Caitlin; this is your new roommate, Gilda, and I have a little problem here.” Gilda explained her predicament.

  “Ms. Potts loves to act as if we live in the FBI building or something. Pass me over to her, okay?”

  Gilda handed the phone to Ms. Potts, who flipped through her beloved move-in request book while listening to Caitlin. Gilda thought she saw the ghost of a smile on her peach-stained lips as she listened to Caitlin’s bright, chatty voice. Gilda watched as Ms. Potts scribbled the name Gilda Joyce into the timetable and pulled a key from a hook on the wall. “All right, darlin’,” Ms. Potts said to Caitlin into the phone. “She’s all set.” Ms. Potts handed the cell phone back to Gilda with a gesture of disdain.

  Gilda was seriously impressed with her new roommate. “How did you do that?” she whispered into the
phone as Ms. Potts turned to find some paperwork in one of her files.

  “I bribed her with chocolate. Ms. Potts likes me because I’m the only person in the building who at least pretends to be nice to her.”

  I guess I could learn a couple things from my new roommate, Gilda thought.

  “That’s politics in D.C., right? Oh, and I’m really sorry about the mess when you get up to the apartment. I was going to clean, but I’ve been so busy this week.”

  “Don’t worry; I like it messy,” said Gilda, whose room at home was notoriously unkempt.

  “Not too messy, I hope.”

  “Not gross-messy, just kind of neat-messy.”

  Caitlin laughed. “I should be home pretty soon; I’ve just got to proofread one more brief for this week’s newsletter, and I’m outta here.”

  Ms. Potts slid a key across the desk toward Gilda. “Remember,” she warned, “if you ever need to use our freight elevator, you must sign up more than twenty-four hours in advance.”

  “I shall never forget that, Ms. Potts.” Gilda headed toward the elevator to make her way up to the fourth floor.

  2

  The Roommate

  Gilda felt instantly happy when she opened the door to her new apartment. It was definitely a girl’s apartment: sunny, comfortable, and also slightly messy, just as Caitlin had promised. Art posters from museums including the Smithsonian and the Corcoran decorated the walls, and quirky mismatched furniture filled the room—an enormous brown couch, an antique armoire, a Tiffany lamp, and chairs of different shapes and colors that Caitlin had acquired as hand-me-downs from relatives or flea market purchases. CDs were scattered across the windowsills amid several wilting potted plants.