CONTACT

CIA Academy of Espionage

Washington, DC

Armistead Dormitory

June 10

1500 hours

On the very last day of spy school, my plans for a normal, uneventful summer were completely derailed by the delivery of two letters.

The first was waiting in my room when I returned from my final exam in self-preservation. I had already packed all my belongings, hoping to make a quick exit from campus. The note was perched atop the pile of suitcases.

Benjamin--

Come see me at once.

--the principal

Up to that point, I'd been having a good day.

To start with, I felt positive about all my exams. I'd been working hard at the academy and had improved in all my classes in the months since I'd arrived. I had jammed on my History of Espionage final, aced Codes and Cryptography, and squeaked through Basic Firearms and Weaponry. (I hadn't scored any bull's-eyes, but unlike some of my fellow first years, I'd at least hit the targets and not accidentally wounded myself.) I'd been most concerned about Intro to Self-Preservation, which had always been my weakest class, though that afternoon I had managed to last for over an hour on the training grounds against a dozen "enemy agents" armed with paintball guns, while much of my class had been smeared with royal blue before five minutes were up. I figured that had to be good for at least an A-minus.

Now, I was relieved to be done with class for the summer. Although I'd miss my friends from the Academy of Espionage, I was eager to head home, see my parents, and have a decent home-cooked meal for the first time in five months. Plus, my thirteenth birthday was only a week away. I'd made plans to spend it with some old friends, without anyone trying to kill or maim me.

The note, however, suggested there was trouble ahead.

I picked it up gingerly, as though it were explosive. Frankly, I would have preferred finding a bomb in my room. I knew how to handle a bomb. The principal, on the other hand, was far more unpredictable.

I dropped the note in my paper shredder, then burned the remains. It seemed like overkill, but this was standard procedure for all written correspondence at the Academy of Espionage, even Post-it notes. Then I set off for the principal's office.

Outside, the sun was shining brightly, heralding a glorious summer. The academy, which had looked so bleak and dreary in the winter, was now far more attractive. The gothic buildings stood majestically around gorgeous green lawns fringed with flowers. Now that classes had ended, my fellow spies-in-training were reveling in the warm weather. I spotted several friends playing Ultimate Frisbee on the main commons and could hear the distinct rattle of semiautomatic weapons on the firing range in the distance.

"Hey, Smokescreen!" a shrill voice called out. It was Zoe Zibbell, a fellow first year and my best friend, who was with a large group of students. Zoe had christened me "Smokescreen" as she was under the delusion that I was an incredibly talented spy--albeit a spy who often feigned incompetence to make everyone else underestimate him. Any time I displayed my actual incompetence, Zoe inevitably thought it was a ruse. "We're getting up a soccer game on Hammond Quadrangle! Want to play?"

"I can't," I said, then pointed to the Nathan Hale Administration Building. "The principal wants to see me."

Zoe grimaced. So did all the other students. It looked as though I'd told them I had to go face a firing squad. "Is something wrong?"

"I hope not," I said.

"Well, if you feel like it, come find us afterward!" Zoe said, trying her best to be upbeat. "We could...