They Call Me Alexandra Gastone Read online

  Still laughing, I tousled his hair. “You’re such a doof,” I said, pecking his cheek before hauling myself to standing.

  “See you later, alligator,” said Grant, waving from his place on the floor.

  Smiling, I rolled my eyes. “In a while, crocodile.”

  Thinking of Grant’s kiss as I walked to my car, my heart started to flutter—a sensation I wasn’t prepared for. It may have ended with us in a heap on the floor, but the beginning started with great promise. Grant had a habit of catching me off guard, and I was flustered by the ferocity of his kiss and the feeling that was obviously behind it. Inside my old Chevy Apache, I leaned back and closed my eyes, allowing myself a moment for thoughts of his lips on mine. Their feel—soft but firm. Their taste—a combination of mint and oranges.

  “Close but far, close but far,” I muttered, recalling Varos’s concern over the relationship.

  Spies don’t have the liberty of real relationships. You must keep an emotional distance from Grant without him realizing it. Close but far, he’d said.

  I shook my head.

  His taste…

  His feelings…

  My…

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it.” I commanded my thoughts to be silent. “You’re being supremely ridiculous.”

  I focused on my breathing, inhaling long and deep.

  One breath…two breaths…three breaths…

  After a minute, my thoughts stilled, and I opened my eyes. Right, time to get going. I stuck my key in the ignition, said a quick prayer my truck would start, then gave it a turn. The engine coughed twice then sputtered to life. The truck, a 1960s model, was formerly Albert’s—as in, he bought it new in the 1960s. Given its senior citizen status, the truck’s reliability was questionable at best. I patted the dashboard. “Good boy.” Martine was expecting me, and I hated to make her wait.

  As I made my way out of the school parking lot, I noted two vehicles that were new to the school grounds with drivers I’d never seen. The first was a non-descript silver Toyota Camry inching out of a parking space, with Virginia tag 777-GN8. The driver was a wide-shouldered, bearded male wearing a plaid shirt. The second was a black Suburban with a female redhead in her mid-thirties, with New York tag 552-NR1. Asa King and Lydia Ogawa had the same Toyota, but their cars had novelty license plate frames. No one at Fair Valley East, neither teacher nor student, had a black Suburban. It was second nature for me to pick out what didn’t belong. My years at Perun had taught me threats surrounded us constantly, no matter where we were.

  I logged all the information on the cars and the drivers into two mental folders, one for each driver, and watched as both cars fell in line behind me. I closed and filed the folder on the Toyota when it turned left out of the lot and sped off. The redhead turned right and followed me down the road at a respectful distance.

  I made a left.

  She made a left.

  I made a right.

  She made a right.

  Even when I made a turn for the seedier side of downtown, she continued to follow. Until that point, I hadn’t been worried as I was following the standard route into town, but the area I now approached was a total dead zone. I was about to turn down an alleyway to see if she would continue tailing me when she veered into a Burger King.

  Another folder closed and filed…

  Chapter 2

  I aimed my Kalashnikov at Martine’s retreating figure and fired. The bullet caught her in the right leg, and she pitched forward onto the pavement. “Take that, bitch,” I yelled. She rolled, bringing her Glock around and firing. I dove behind a dumpster. Her shot went wide.

  “You’re cheating,” said Martine, hitting pause on the game and dropping her controller on the table.

  “I am so not,” I said, smiling.

  “You’ve played before. There’s no way you could be this good on your first time out.”

  We were an hour into playing Espionage 4 at The Gamespot, the local gaming parlor, and so far, Martine was losing big time. A self-proclaimed goddess of the video game, she didn’t take kindly to being squashed, especially by a gaming serf like me.

  Martine grabbed her soda and a handful of chips. “You’re really telling me you haven’t played this one before?”

  “Yes!” I said, nearly yelling. The game was doing an admirable job of simulating the drills I’d been trained in at Perun, which partially accounted for the luck I was having.

  “My shots keep going wide. It’s like you’ve got eyes on the back of your head the way you move so quick.”

  I laughed. “More like I have peripheral vision. You tense before you’re about to fire, so I know when to zig out of the way.”

  Martine’s mouth dropped. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re saying I have a tell, and you can see it out of the corner of your eye with everything going on in front of us?” Martine waved at the high-def screen.

  “Yeah, I guess I am saying that,” I replied, offering Martine my best aw-shucks smile.

  “Well, crap. Let’s play something else.”

  Martine was a senior at Fair Valley West, my school’s rival. She was half Chinese, half French, and I’d first met her at The Gamespot. Wanting a temporary reprieve from being Alexandra, I’d come in on a whim after a meeting with Varos. As luck would have it, I sat next to Martine, who saw me go through ten bucks in quarters in less than five minutes trying to play Super Mario Bros. on a vintage machine. Taking pity on me, she offered up some pointers, and a friendship was born.

  My social group at Fair Valley East was J. Crew preppy with a little Abercrombie and Fitch mixed in. As Martine didn’t fit this mold, I found her immediately refreshing. Martine was Project Runway meets punk. She had eyebrow piercings, fluorescent red hair, and an asymmetrical haircut. She also had a tattoo of a butterfly across her upper back. To compliment her hair, tat, and piercings, Martine liked to wear the best of French fashion. She regularly wore Christian Louboutin, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Frank Mechaly.

  Martine and I had bonded over a shared interest in the arts and our lack of parents. Her mom passed away from cancer when she was five, and despite living in downtown DC, Martine’s father, a Chinese diplomat, was largely absent from her life, preferring the world of politics over his teenage daughter. Martine lived with her maternal grandmother. I kept Martine on the periphery of my life as Lex Gastone and, because of that, I was able to talk to her about my love of ballet—a hobby the actual Alexandra had failed at and had no interest in.

  “So how are things with your quarterback?” asked Martine. “Did you do the deed last weekend like you thought you might?”

  “Ah. No,” I said, shaking my head and trying not to look guilty. Grant and I had come close over the weekend, but then I’d done my usual and panicked, Varos’s words rolling through my mind over and over. Close but frickin’ far. Then Grant had done his usual post-girlfriend-panic-attack behavior and had acted like the perfect gentleman, suggesting we watch a movie instead. We’d been watching a lot of movies lately.

  Martine raised an eyebrow. “Well, why the hell not? From the way you talk about him, he sounds as sweet as can be. You need to put that poor boy out of his misery.”

  “I don’t know why,” I said, fiddling with my controller.

  “Are you scared?” she asked, her voice serious. “I’ve never slept with a dude, but I hear it only really hurts the first time and—”

  “I’m not scared it’ll hurt, it’s just the time hasn’t been right.”

  Martine grimaced. “Please tell me you’re not one of those girls that wants the fairy-tale first time?” She reached across the couch and took my hand. “Because honey, guys just don’t key into that sort of thing. You’ll be a virgin for the rest of your life if you’re waiting for the fairy-tale princess ending.”

  I gagged. Fairy tale? Princess? Me? “No, I’m not expecting a Cinderella story. Thank. You. Very. Much.” Desperately wanting to get off the topic of sex, I switched gears. “Speaking of fairy tales, di
d I mention Grant and I are up for homecoming king and queen, if you can believe that?”

  “Of course I can. You guys are apple pie. Congrats! I’m sure you’ll win.”

  I shrugged. I might not be a princess, but Grant was certainly a prince. “It’ll make Grant happy, so that’s good. He loves that kind of stuff. How are things with Sadie?”

  “We’re up for homecoming king and queen, too,” said Martine with a smirk and a twinkle in her eye.

  I laughed. “Well, that ain’t apple pie.”

  “More like French Silk,” she said, winking. “Now, speaking of relationships, have you given any more thought to trying to hook my grams up with your grandpa?”

  “I’m not sure he’s ready.”

  “What?” said Martine, her eyes widening. “You said he hasn’t been on a date since you came to live with him. How many years ago was that? Like fifteen?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “Jesus, girl. He’s old, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be a monk. Don’t you think my grams is good enough? She’s still a real looker.”

  “Of course I do.”

  I loved Amélie. Whenever I went over to Martine’s, Amélie stuffed me full of dessert and told me stories about being a young girl in France during World War II. She was fascinating and probably someone Albert would love.

  “It’s just… Why are you pushing this so much? You haven’t even met my grandfather. Do you want your grandma out of the house more or something? Maybe so you and Sadie can have some alone time?”

  Martine waved a hand in front of her face. “Fa,” she said. “The way you talk about your grandfather, he has to be awesome. And Grams loves Sadie. She even suggested I invite her over for another sleepover.”

  “Really? So you haven’t told her yet?”

  “I was going to, but then she suggested the sleepover, so I thought I’d wait. I’m thinking I might mention it when I go off to college in the fall. Besides, my father will disown me, and I’m not ready for that. Did I tell you he called the other day?”

  I raised an eyebrow and shook my head.

  “He asked for a father/daughter date in a few weeks’ time. Said he missed me.” Martine’s voice indicated skepticism.

  “Well that’s good, right?”

  Martine frowned. “Maybe. He asked me to do something about my hair and said no piercings for the night.”

  I grimaced. Martine was perfect just as she was. I’d never met another teenager so comfortable in her own skin and true to herself. I envied her. “Are you gonna go?”

  Martine nodded, but her gaze left me as her thoughts turned internal. For a brief time, her face was clouded with what had to be negative thoughts, judging by the furrowed brow, but then she pulled her focus back into the room. “Grams really wants me to. So yeah, I guess I will.” A wry grin spread across her face. “Who knows, last time I saw my dad, he gave me a car. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade.”

  “You have a BMW.”

  “With gas prices topping six bucks a gallon, I need something economical. Something like a Tesla Roadster. A plug and play.” Martine’s eyes went dreamy for a moment. “How cool would that be?”

  “Aiming high much?” I said, taking a peek at my watch. “I better get going. I’m fixing dinner tonight for my grandpa. It’s book club night.”

  “We still on for our senior ditch day next week?” asked Martine as we headed out.

  I nodded, pushing open the door. “Most certainly.”

  A cold breeze smacked us both in the face as we left The Gamespot. Martine shivered, folding her arms in over her chest. “And what about that big appointment we have for your birthday?”

  “Still game for that, too,” I said, digging for my car keys.

  “Have you thought about what you want?”

  “Yep, but you’ll just have to wait to find out,” I replied, smiling mischievously.

  Martine groaned and poked me in the ribs in protest. As I was batting her hand away, I saw the man again, the bearded man in plaid, the driver of the silver Toyota from the school parking lot. Standing at a USPS mail drop box across the street, he was staring directly at me.

  Chapter 3

  With Martine around, I could do nothing but watch as the bearded man turned and walked away. By the time I reached my car, he was gone. I spent a half hour scouring the streets for him before having to abandon the task for more conventional pursuits like grocery shopping and making dinner.

  The sun was beginning to fade as I pulled into the garage of Albert’s farmhouse and parked next to his pride and joy—a silver Jag XKE. The house Albert and I shared was a hundred-year-old beauty built by Albert’s own grandfather. It had once sat on a thousand acres of prime Virginia farmland, but now occupied a hundred acres and was flanked by three different McMansion subdivisions. Since Fair Valley was a twenty-minute car ride to downtown DC, land speculators regularly asked Albert to name his price for the remaining land. He had yet to give them a number, which made Albert pretty damn cool in my book.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” I called out, plopping the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.

  “Hey, Lex,” answered Albert, coming into the kitchen. He carried a copy of Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins, an index finger holding his place. “I expected you back ages ago.”

  “Sorry. A friend was having calculus troubles so I said I’d help.”

  “Well that was nice of you.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll have dinner ready in about an hour. That should give you enough time to finish,” I said, nodding toward his hand. We alternated who got to pick each week’s book, and The Hunger Games was mine. Normally, we liked to torture each other. He’d pick old and dry books like The Art of War, and I’d pick something with lots of romance or teen angst. With The Hunger Games, I’d gone easy on him, thinking he might appreciate the underlying themes, and I’d been right. He’d devoured the first two books and was within spitting distance of finishing the trilogy. If I could settle my feelings of unease about my possible tail, I knew the night’s book club would be more fun than most.

  “Sounds good,” said Albert. “Guess what?”

  “We’ve won the lotto?”

  “No,” said Albert, rolling his eyes. “But something just as exciting. I’ve been invited to the gala dinner honoring the Olissan President, Vladik Kasarian. He’s scheduled a US trip for talks with President Claymoure.”

  “That’s great,” I said, switching on the gas and setting a pot to boil. “I know how much you’ve been wanting to meet Kasarian.”

  “But that’s not even the best part.”

  I looked up to find Albert bouncing up and down. He was grinning from ear to ear, and his clear blue eyes glistened with excitement. He looked like a giddy five-year-old the night before Christmas—either that or a man who really had to pee. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “What’s the best part?”

  “You’re my plus one.”

  I nearly dropped my can of tomatoes. Unable to find my words, I grabbed a few more items from the grocery bag and set them on the counter to buy some time.

  “So. What do you think?” asked Albert.

  “Wow, Grandpa. Are you sure you want to take me and not a real date? What about one of those ladies I introduced you to at church?”

  “Nonsense, girl. You’ve already had a background check. Taking someone else would just be a pain. Don’t worry. You’ll love it. There will be tons of interesting people to chat up. Vladik’s sister, Alina, will be there. She seems like a particularly interesting young lady to meet.”

  I walked around the counter to give Albert a hug. “I can’t wait.”

  Albert patted my back. “Give me a holler when supper’s ready.”

  I watched him retreat to the living room. For a seventy-year-old man, he was in remarkably good shape. His posture was strong, he was visibly muscular, and he still moved with ease. His mind had also stayed sharp, perhaps because he’d refused to retire and still made daily trips into his office
at the CIA. The Gastones had good genes. Most of the clan lived well into their nineties, and I often wondered if I would make it half as long living as an impostor. Although I liked the idea of living to a ripe old age and taking up hobbies like shuffleboard and croquet, I knew spies didn’t have a long shelf life and had come to terms with that reality. I was willing to trade old age for the safety of Olissa. A retirement enclave down in Boca was not in my cards.

  For the blood of the fallen. For the blood of the living. For Olissa we fight.

  I returned to cooking, wondering what the faces in my locket photos would be doing now if they had survived the car crash. Alexandra’s father, Greg, had been a special agent for the FBI. Like a policeman’s son becoming a fireman, Greg had joined the FBI in a fit of rebellion against his CIA father during their estrangement. I figured Greg would still be at the FBI, but he and Albert would have reconciled. Albert refused to go into details about the rift, but I couldn’t fathom anyone staying mad at Albert. Tabitha, a stay-at-home mom, would have popped out a few more kids. She had grown up in foster care, bouncing from home to home, and had wanted a big family to make up for what she’d missed out on growing up.

  As I continued prepping dinner, I stifled thoughts of Tabitha and Gregory. Thinking of them helped keep me in character as their orphaned daughter, but if I thought of them too often or for too long, I lost my perspective and my edge. I started to feel guilty they had died, and at Perun, I’d learned guilt was something a good spy couldn’t afford. Gregory and Tabitha were Perun’s casualties, sacrificed for the cause. I also couldn’t let my concern over the bearded man change my behavior around Albert. I needed to be “on” all the time. So I poured all my concentration into making the best meal possible.

  “Grandpa, dinner’s ready!” I called out some time later as I drizzled homemade walnut oil dressing over the spinach side salad. I popped a crouton slathered with the dressing into my mouth and tasted the very distinct, rich nuttiness of the oil then licked my fingers clean. It was perfect.

  Book club night meant we dined in style. Instead of Corelle at the table in the kitchen alcove, we ate on Albert’s wedding china at the antique cherry table in the dining room. We even sipped our sodas out of crystal glasses. Albert didn’t have one fancy bone in his body, but Fern, his late wife, did, and I think using the china and crystal made him feel connected and loyal to her, a trait I found endearing as she’d been dead for over thirty years.