The bell rings again. Long and hard. I stay quiet and wait, watching the wheels turn in Kit’s mind.
“Stop worrying,” I tell her. “Jake has no idea that Athena exists.”
“I know. But it’s just better that he doesn’t connect you to me,” she says. “Just in case.”
“Then don’t answer it,” I suggest.
But she takes a step toward the stairs, toward the door.
“I need to find out why he’s here.” She flicks on the recording app on her phone and pockets it. “Listen from up here, Jess, and stay quiet, okay?”
I nod. Kit disappears down the stairs while I stay out of sight at the top of the landing, sitting comfortably so that I won’t have to move a muscle.
Kit opens the door and there’s a wary exchange of pleasantries. Like the pushy reporter that he is, Jake asks if he can come in, but Kit doesn’t let him past the threshold.
“What do you want, Jake?” she asks.
“Look, Kit, I know my piece about you and Pavlic must have hurt, but people have a right to know the truth,” he says.
“Do you make a point of apologizing in person to everyone you expose? Or is there something else you want from me?”
I smile. I can just imagine Kit’s steely stare.
“I want to talk about Cameroon,” Jake says.
That wipes the smile off my face. I lean forward, straining to catch every word, to sense Kit’s response.
“The country in Africa, you mean? Isn’t that where Cameroon is? Or is it the Caribbean . . . ?” wonders Kit.
Jake makes a slight noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a snort of disbelief.
“What do you know about those schoolgirls who were saved by an unknown private army a couple of months ago?” he demands.
“Unknown private army.” That would be us. For a moment I’m a little bit flattered that just the three of us agents on the ground in West Africa gave someone the impression of a whole platoon.
“Jake, I’m busy and you’re talking in riddles. If you have something to ask me, contact my manager or my PR firm. Their email addresses are on my website.”
“You’re friends with Peggy Delaney, right?”
Another left-field question. And I’m sure Jake has noticed that it’s keeping the front door open and Kit planted on the step. She makes a sound of acknowledgment. There are pictures of Kit and Peggy everywhere, from the White House to Pakistan, so there’s no point in denying it.
“Peggy was helping the Cameroon government take care of those girls. I bumped into her at the embassy.”
That freaks me out even more, because I was with Peggy when Jake spoke to her at the embassy. I am 100 percent sure he wouldn’t remember me, though. I bite tensely on a nail. Okay, 95 percent sure. Jake’s still talking:
“That was right after the operation in Cameroon. The attack on Ahmed.”
Boy, he’s really smart. Planting a name that we know well, just to see if it sticks. But my mom is smarter.
“Who is Ahmed, for Christ’s sake?” Kit sounds exasperated.
No explanation from Jake. A bit of shuffling. Then:
“Here. This is a female soldier. Do you know who it is?” Jake asks.
There’s a short pause, during which I imagine Kit is looking at whatever image he’s showing her.
“Are you serious? It’s grainy and—well, it’s not even in focus. Jake, I’m sorry. Even though you made sure I can’t walk down the street without someone spitting at me, I kind of respect your reporting. But you’re really pissing me off right about now, and if you don’t take a hike, I’ll call the police.”
“I can’t tell if you’re for real,” says Jake.
“Trust me, I just need to push this panic button and the cops will be here in three minutes.”
“Not about that,” Jake continues, perfectly cool. I really want to run downstairs and punch him. But I sit on my hands and make myself breathe (quietly).
“About Gregory Pavlic,” continues Jake, and his voice has dropped now, like he’s trying to genuinely connect with Kit. “Your whole women’s rights campaigning thing, all these years? It always struck me as, well, honest. And then you go and sing for a notorious trafficker. It doesn’t feel right, Kit.” There’s a long pause. I lean forward, straining to listen.
“With Pavlic—I’m not proud of it, but I needed the cash,” Kit lies, managing to sound broken by the admission. “That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Now go to hell,” she says, her voice quavering.
The door slams, cutting off Jake’s reply. I wait where I am. Kit stands silently by the front door for a moment then trudges up the stairs and jerks her head for me to follow her into her bedroom. It overlooks the back garden, not the street, but we both stay far from the windows in case Jake is still hanging around, sniffing for scraps.
Kit paces up and down the pale wooden floor by the side of her bed, staring at the planks beneath her feet. She’s literally wringing her hands together. I can understand why. Nobody sanctions what we do at Athena. If we’re found out, it would mean jail time for all of us; not to mention an end to our work. Something has clearly spooked my mother. I can guess what it is too:
“That picture he showed you? The female soldier? Where was it from?”
“From
