The Dead Drop (21 page)

“Gilda, may I ask why you’re taking a picture of the wall?”

“Oh—I just thought I’d show my team the evidence and ask them who’s responsible. If nobody comes clean, I’ll hook them up to those lie detector machines we made yesterday.” As an activity, Gilda’s team had made small “lie detectors” using batteries, wires, and tiny lightbulbs; the machine functioned by detecting tiny amounts of sweat causing a bulb to light up when the subject became nervous. Gilda’s recruits had tested the gadgets during yet another game of Two Truths and a Lie, with decidedly unreliable results.

April and the counselors laughed at Gilda’s suggestion. “That’s a good idea, but I’m not sure how accurate those lie detectors are.”

As Gilda held the print from her Polaroid, waiting for the image to dry, she noticed another clue—an unusual aroma that was both floral and spicy, like a very sweet perfume.

“My point,” April continued, “is that you need to know where your kids are at all times. ‘Have fun while avoiding costly damages’ will be our motto from this stage forward, okay? Okay! Well, the campers are arriving, so we need to get going with our day.”

As April and the camp counselors headed up to the Venona Room to meet their campers, Gilda approached Roger, who remained behind, examining the wall.

“It wasn’t the kids who did this,” he blurted.

“Then why didn’t you say something to April?”

“I don’t know.” Roger pulled the rag from his back pocket, sprayed some WD-40 on it, and rubbed the wall without success. “I’m not so sure of myself right now. I’m functioning on about two hours of very bad sleep and I haven’t showered in two days because the hot water in our condo isn’t working, and I also have a baby spit-up stain on my shirt.”

“It doesn’t really show.” Gilda noticed a dried white patch that resembled a residue of bird poop on Roger’s blue T-shirt.

Roger sighed. “When I found this graffiti on the wall, I had security check out a surveillance camera that’s focused on this exhibit because I wanted to know exactly what happened before I got everyone else involved.”

“Did it show anything?”

“It was so weird. Like, at one moment, everything in the exhibit looks normal. Then, in the next microsecond, there’s that word
Anna
on the wall, like it just appeared on its own, out of nowhere.”

Gilda felt a surge of excitement. “More evidence of our ghost,” she said, remembering a passage in her
Master Psychic’s Handbook
about rare ghosts who leave messages in the form of “ghost graffiti”—words or images that appear on the walls of houses and then mysteriously vanish without a trace. “Roger, I feel like there’s something she wants us to understand. I mean, assuming the ghost is a she.”

“She can’t just write us a note with paper and a pencil?”

“That wouldn’t really get our attention, would it?”

“I guess not. Just between you and me, I’m no fan of this ghost, if that’s what it really is. I’m ready to call in a ghost exterminator.”

Gilda realized she was going to be late to meet her campers if she didn’t hurry up. “Tell me if you see anything else, okay?”

“It’s a deal. Tell me if you find me collapsed and unconscious on the floor, okay?”

“You got it.”

As Gilda climbed the stairs, walking past the Nuclear Age exhibit posters displaying posters from the 1950s with such headlines as “How to Survive a Nuclear Attack:
Don’t Be There
!”, Gilda examined the photograph she had taken. She immediately stopped and stood motionless, staring at the photograph with awe and near-disbelief. A message had appeared in the photograph—
a message that hadn’t been on the wall
:

Gilda’s
Master Psychic’s Handbook
recounted many stories of ghosts who communicated through photographs: some of them appeared as shadowy figures in the background of family portraits. “Often you will not see the ghosts and apparitions around you with the naked eye,” Balthazar Frobenius wrote. “You will only discover them after you develop your pictures.”

But this isn’t some phantom image,
Gilda thought.
This isn’t some weird plume of smoke or little orb of light.
Gilda was also pretty sure she remembered this phrase from the incident in the audio surveillance room, and she was almost positive that Agent Moscow had said the words meant “the last meeting.”

But what in the world did these clues—“Anna” and “the last meeting” actually
mean
to her investigation?

“Listen,” said Gilda, lowering her voice as Team Crypt gathered around her. “Remember how I told you that the Spy Museum might be haunted?”

They all nodded.

“Well, something very interesting was discovered in the museum earlier today—an actual written message from the ghost.”

Baby Boy’s eyes grew large, and his mouth hung open with fascination and fear. The entire group fell very silent. “I have reason to believe it may be the ghost of a spy who got killed,” Gilda added.

She showed her recruits the photograph she had taken and described the mysterious clues that had turned up on the wall and in her photograph.

The Misanthrope frowned. “How do we know you didn’t doctor up this photograph?”

I guess we don’t call him The Misanthrope for nothing,
Gilda thought. “Listen, I have better things to do with my time than trick my spy recruits. We’re a team, and if we’re going to solve this, you have to trust what I tell you.”

Agent Moscow picked up the photograph and held it gingerly between two chipped red nails. She studied it with great interest.

27

Spy Games

A buzz of conversation filled the Venona Room as people wearing business attire filed in to see a lecture by Boris Volkov. He had recently published a book entitled
Memoirs of a Russian Spy: My Life in the KGB—
a book that fascinated Gilda. During her lunch break, she had borrowed a copy from Matthew and read as much as she could in anticipation of the event:

After her campers had left the museum for the day, Gilda, Janet, Matthew, Marla, and some of the museum’s technical staff had busied themselves with preparing for Boris’s presentation: they arranged rows of chairs and set up a projector and microphones. Standing next to Marla, Gilda observed people shaking hands and exchanging business cards as she took their tickets and crossed names off a list of guests with special invitations.

“A lot of these people are special agents in the FBI or former CIA intelligence officers,” Marla whispered. “See that woman?” She pointed to a tall woman wearing a dark, conservative suit—the kind of person who looked as if she might be a banker or a lawyer. “She’s a former chief of disguise for the CIA.”

“She looks kind of ordinary to be a chief of disguise.”

“Well, she doesn’t go around wearing fake mustaches and noses all the time—at least not at these events. Besides, when you’re a spy, the point is to blend in with the crowd. Now see that guy over there?” Marla pointed to a short man with curly dark hair who stood in a corner, interviewing Jasper Clarke and Boris Volkov. “He writes a lot about intelligence issues for the
Washington Post
.”

I’d love to ask Boris a few questions myself,
Gilda thought, watching as Boris answered the reporter’s questions while shaking hands with friends who passed by.
I’d like to find out exactly why he got rid of those artifacts he donated to the museum. But Jasper wouldn’t like it if I put him on the spot in front of all these people; I’m sure he doesn’t want a story about a haunting at the Spy Museum turning up in the
Washington Post.

Gilda spotted a mushroom cloud of sunset-red hair moving through the audience. Beneath the hair there was a middle-aged woman in a well-tailored skirt and jacket who walked gracefully on sling-back pumps. She paused to kiss Boris, then made her way to her seat.

“Psst, Marla.” Gilda pointed at the woman. “Do you know that lady?”

“That’s Boris Volkov’s wife, Jacqueline,” said Marla as she took tickets from incoming guests. “She’s French.”

“I see.” Gilda remembered how Boris had mocked his wife’s attitude toward the artifacts: “My wife has the idea that they are bad luck,” he had commented.

There was a momentary lull in the flow of guests into the room:
an opportunity for me to go talk to Boris’s wife,
Gilda thought, feeling she had to seize the moment. “Excuse me, Marla,” said Gilda, “I just need to ask someone a quick question.”

“Okay, but hurry back.”

Boris’s wife had taken her seat in a corner of the room, away from the rest of the audience.
That’s good,
Gilda thought;
maybe we can talk without being overheard
.

“Excuse me—Madame Volkov?”

“
Oui
.”

Gilda wished she had signed up for French class at school. At the moment, the only French words she could think of were
croissant
and
bonjour
.

“Um, do you speak English?”

“Of course.” Jacqueline regarded Gilda with impatience. She struck Gilda as an elegant, haughty woman.

“I work for the Spy Museum, and I wanted to ask you something about the artifacts we acquired from your husband—the lipstick pistol and the camera brooch.”

Jacqueline thrust up her hand as if she were a traffic cop at a stoplight. “We cannot take them back.”

That was an odd thing for her to say,
Gilda thought. “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Volkov; nobody wants you to take them back.” Gilda slipped into the empty seat next to Jacqueline. “Mrs. Volkov,” she said, lowering her voice, “your husband said you wanted the objects out of the house because you thought that they were bad luck.”

Jacqueline looked very directly into Gilda’s eyes. “Have you seen her?”

She means the ghost,
Gilda thought. “Seen who?” she asked, playing dumb just to see what Jacqueline would tell her.

Jacqueline drew in her breath. “That face: I don’t ever want to think of it again. The headaches I had—the nightmares—the television and radio turning on and off all through the night . . . Do you know that for years, I thought it was my house that was haunted?” She shook her head, then placed a hand on her chest, peering at Gilda earnestly. “Because I am very sensitive. Boris—nothing.” She waved her hand dismissively and blew raspberries. “He sleeps like a big, fat baby all night while I am lying there, hearing footsteps and voices.