Going Rogue (5 page)

Jesse shrugged. “We already got chased by a madman once, Mags. Weirder things have happened.”

He had a point. Unfortunately.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you informed,” I
promised him. “But I might not be able to tell you everything. I need to keep you and Roux safe.”

“Have you told Roux yet?”

I shook my head. “No. I just found out this afternoon and I don’t really want to text her about this.”

“She’s going to lose her mind.”

“Oh yeah, she is. It’s going to be so ugly.”

“I’ll probably be able to see the exact moment her head turns into a mushroom cloud.”

I started to laugh at the image. “Mount Vesuvius spotted on the Upper East Side.” I giggled. “News at eleven!”

Jesse wasn’t laughing, though, and he looked down and put his hands in his pockets, avoiding my eyes. “Hey,” I said softly. “I meant what I said. I might not be able to tell you everything, but I’ll always come back, no matter what.”

He nodded and swallowed hard before kissing me. This kiss was different from our train station one earlier. Jesse wasn’t comforting me anymore. This kiss was all about us. I ran my fingers into his hair and pulled him closer to me, afraid to let go, afraid of the day when I wouldn’t be able to touch him, see him, find him.

“Love you,” he whispered when we pulled apart. “I love each and every one of those passport girls.”

I smiled and blushed. “You always know just what to say,” I said.

“I also know when to shut up.” He grinned, then leaned in to kiss me again.

Spy romance. It never gets old.

I slept in the next morning after crashing late. I had been too wired to sleep and had spent most of my night practicing on Angelo’s stupid lock. I was so close to cracking it, but every time I almost did it, the pins would collapse back into place and I’d be shut out. I worked until 3:00 a.m., hunched over my desk and probably ruining my posture before dragging myself to bed, and when I finally woke up, the sun was streaming in through the windows and the air already felt steamy.

My parents’ bedroom door was still shut, and I could hear their worried murmurs leaking through. I stood there for a minute, trying to listen, and almost fell into the bedroom when my dad yanked the door open.

“Are you spying?” he accused as I righted myself.

“How dare you?” I replied. “Accuse
me
of all people of being a spy.” I smoothed my hair down. “I never.”

I was trying to make him laugh, but all I got was a muscle spasm that was either a repressed smile or a minor
stroke. It’s hard to tell with parents sometimes. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping on your parents,” he told me. “It’s rude.”

“Well, you’re the ones who raised a spy, sooooo …” I shrugged. “What can you do?”

My mom poked her head out from the bathroom where she was brushing her teeth. “Oo nee ta klee or moom.”

I glanced at my dad. “All the technology in the world couldn’t decipher what she just said.”

“You need to clean your room,” he translated. “And she’s right.”

“I didn’t know that Mom brushing her teeth was an official language.”

I could hear my mom spitting and rinsing. “Clean your room!” she yelled from the bathroom.

“Am I the only one who remembers what happened yesterday?” I cried. “Excuse me, but why aren’t we making a plan?”

My dad just pointed at something on our kitchen counter. “Angelo will fill you in,” he said.

“I bet none of the Avengers had to clean their rooms,” I muttered, but went to inspect the piece of paper.

I would have known it anywhere, a calligraphed
A
printed on heavy cream card stock: Angelo’s card. I turned it over and looked at the drawing on the back. It was a statue of a man riding a horse with what looked like an angel standing in front of them. It looked like a thousand statues in Manhattan.

“Angelo.” I groaned, dropping my head into my hands.

Sometimes he’s too clever for his own good.

***

An hour later, I had done some sleuthing and discovered that Angelo wanted me to meet him at the northern corner of Grand Army Plaza in Manhattan (not the one in Brooklyn), next to the Sherman Monument. I was showered, dressed, and caffeinated, and ready to kick ass and take names. The first wave of humidity hit me as soon as I stepped outside, though, and before I could change my mind and go back upstairs into our air-conditioned loft, I spotted Angelo out of the corner of my eye.

He was standing next to a light post, reading the French newspaper
Le Monde
and wearing a crisp, white cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark pants. His shoes were impeccably polished, of course, and when he saw me, he gave me a wave and a wink.

“Lovely to see you again, darling,” he said, giving me the requisite kiss on both cheeks. “You look as fresh as ever.”

“What are you doing here?” I said, kissing him back. “I got your note, I was on my way to meet you.”

“Well, that’s good. I thought you might not be able to solve this one.”

“I’m smarter than you think.”

“Yes, Google is a very useful tool, isn’t it?”

I pretended to punch him in the arm and he chuckled. “It’s good to admit you need help every now and then,” he replied, offering me his arm. “And I thought I might escort you there.”

My fingers gripped at his elbow as I stopped in the street, nearly causing a collision of people behind me. “Escort me?” I said. “Why?”

“Because it’s a beautiful day and I happened to be in your neighborhood.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You never escort me.”

He shrugged. “I thought I taught you not to ask too many questions. You should get your answers by listening.”

“I’m listening now,” I said. “Did you follow me last night, too?”

He just smiled and started toward the subway entrance two blocks away. “Let’s just say that safety in numbers has never been a bad thing.”

“Why do we need safety?”

Just as the words were out of my mouth, a cab came barreling across the intersection, swerving out of the way of a delivery van and nearly coming up on the curb next to us. Angelo’s arm immediately cut in front of me, pushing me out of the way like it was nothing, but I didn’t miss the look that ghosted across his face: worry, anger, and suspicion all wrapped up in a split-second gaze.

“Asshole!” I yelled. “Sorry, Angelo.”

“Well, yes, sometimes certain words do convey emotion better than others.” His face had smoothed back into its normal, calm expression, and we continued walking.

This time, I held on to his arm and didn’t ask any more questions.

His face had told me everything I needed to know.

Grand Army Plaza was teeming with both tourists and locals alike, which came as no surprise. Angelo was always having me meet him in the most crowded places: the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a rainy school field trip morning, the Statue of Liberty on the Fourth of July, the High Line on the most beautiful spring day. Last March, we held a whole conversation while walking next to the St. Killian’s marching band during the St. Patrick’s Day parade. (We happened to be next to the bagpipe players. I was hoarse and nearly deaf for a week afterward.)

“So,” Angelo said as we made our way toward the statue. “Tell me, darling. How did you sleep last night?”

“Late,” I said. “Very late. Too late, actually. I thought it was all a dream at first.”

“Some tossing and turning, I assume. That’s to be expected. You got quite a jolt yesterday.”

I nodded and leaned against the statue’s granite pedestals. “You could say that.” I turned to look at Angelo and forced a smile. “But that’s the game, right?”

“Yes, my dear, but you’ve been out of the game for some time. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to play.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and watched as two tourists, both wearing Statue of Liberty foam hats, took a picture in front of the Plaza Hotel. Someone rushing toward the subway interrupted their shot and they frowned and tried to take it again. “What do you think?” I asked, secretly pointing at them. “Honeymooners?”

Angelo reached out and took my hand in his. “Maggie, my love, you know you don’t have to do this.”

“And you know that I do,” I replied, suddenly feeling the weight of everything we weren’t saying. “There’s paperwork hidden somewhere, isn’t there?”

“Not paperwork, but yes.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s probably locked away.”

Angelo nodded again. “It is a safe assumption.”

“Then I don’t have a choice. They’re my parents, Angelo. What am I supposed to do, just let the Collective
lie
about them? Kick them out?
All of us
out?” I took my hand away, then felt bad about it. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just … frustrated, I guess. I’m pissed off. And it’s hot. And it smells like horses.”

Angelo chuckled to himself. “I thought you loved animals.”

I just looked at him. “This is really bad, isn’t it, Angelo.”

Angelo came over and patted the granite. “You picked the right one,” he said. “This statue is the reason I brought you here.”

I looked up at it. The bronze was dingy and green in
some places, but it was still pretty impressive. It was of a man riding a (let’s be honest here) pretty terrified-looking horse while a winged woman stood in front of them.

“That horse does
not
look happy,” I told Angelo. “You should call PETA. They’ll regulate.”

He smiled and ran his finger over the writing on the plaque. “What do you know about gold coins?”

“Well, if they’re filled with chocolate, I love them, and if they’re filled with gold, I love them even more. Why, is that what’s missing?” Gold coins were a lot more interesting than paperwork and I stood up straight, suddenly intrigued.

Angelo pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to me. “Does this look familiar?” he asked.

It was a photo of a gold coin that had clearly been taken from a government file. There was a serial number at the top and the coin itself was being held by tweezers under a harsh light that only served to illuminate it. There was a woman embossed on the front, just under the word LIBERTY, holding a staff with her arms flung apart, rays of sunlight shining up at her feet.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “It actually looks like …” I trailed off and glanced up at the woman above me in the statue. “Is that supposed to be the same woman?”

Angelo nodded, a smirk playing at his mouth. He loves when I connect the dots by myself. “The same artist designed both of these pieces,” he told me. “A man named Augustus Saint-Gaudens. Quite a talent, don’t you agree?”

“I’ll say. I think I ate the Play-Doh when I was a kid instead of actually sculpting anything.”

“Well, we all have our gifts,” Angelo said. “She supposedly stands for victory.”

“I like her already.” I took the photo from him and turned it over in my hands, but there was no writing, no date, nothing to indicate when it had been taken. “So this coin is missing?”

“Several of them, actually. Many of them. They were created by the US Mint, but President Roosevelt ordered them to be destroyed in 1933.”

“Party pooper.”

“Yes, well, many people agreed with you. They were supposed to be melted down and most were, but some were sneaked out of the Mint and remain missing to this day. They’re incredibly rare, which makes them, of course,
incredibly
valuable. Especially to criminals.”

“So they’re technically contraband?”

“Stolen property, according to the federal government. The Secret Service has actually set up stings to get these coins back.”

“Deeee-
lightful
.” I sighed, handing the photo back to him. “So is this the point where I start scanning the trees for snipers?”

“I’ve already done that,” Angelo said, and I couldn’t tell if he was just maintaining a straight face for my sake or if he was actually being serious. Either way, I pressed my back against the statue because, hey, better safe than sorry.

“So the Collective thinks my parents have this gold coin.”

“Ten of them, to be precise.”

“Nice. But what’s the big deal about—get away from me, pigeon, I swear to God—these coins?” I narrowed my eyes at a pigeon that was getting too close to my personal safety zone. “I mean, yeah, they were stolen and yeah, gold is great, but how much are these gold coins worth?”

Angelo tucked the photo back into his suit pocket. “The coins we’re looking for are from 1933. They’re the rarest ones.”

“Okay?”

“One gold coin from 1933 sold at auction in 2002 for seven and a half million dollars.”

My jaw fell open.

“Shut the front door!” I gasped, then covered my mouth as several tourists turned to stare. (On the bright side, though, my outburst scared the pigeon away.)

“So basically, the Collective is accusing my parents of stealing seventy million dollars worth of gold coins?”

Angelo nodded.

“And they think that we’ve been hauling them around with us all this time?”

Angelo opened his mouth, closed it, then thought a minute before opening it again.

“I think some members of the Collective know very well that your parents do not have these coins. I also think that there are some members who would like our various coworkers to think otherwise, though.”

I leaned against Sherman and his Victory woman and thought about this. “So let’s say I find these coins. What’s
going to stop them from saying that I just, I don’t know, dug them out of my dad’s sock drawer?”

“Nothing. The Collective has always been able to say whatever it wants. And up until now, they have always told the truth.”

“So what’s the point then?”

“Because whether or not the Collective wants to do the right thing is beside the point.
We
do the right thing. We do it every day. That is your job, love.”

“Yeah, I know we do the right thing, but I’m not going to go out and find these coins and then put them in the hands of someone who doesn’t deserve them. What if I do that and then we get kicked out anyway and some evil genius takes them and invests in, like, terrorist activities or something?”