The Long Game
Page 11
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No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
“Class is starting.” Henry took the seat in front of me and leveled a stare at John Thomas. “Eyes to the front, Wilcox.”
“Protective, isn’t he?” John Thomas asked me. “You do have a way with the opposite sex.”
Among the limited tricks in John Thomas’s repertoire was suggesting that I’d cemented my position at Hardwicke by sleeping my way through the junior class. He’d never managed to get a rise out of me on the topic, but that didn’t keep him from trying.
Mr. Wesley—who taught Speaking of Words, the Hardwicke version of “speech”—seemed to sense that today wasn’t a good day to even attempt a lecture. He put on a video of a poetry slam and turned off the lights.
“Girls like you, women like your sister—they’re only good for one thing,” John Thomas whispered. “And it’s not running campaigns.”
“Mr. Wilcox,” the teacher called out. “Watch the video.”
John Thomas let his eyes linger on me. “I’m watching.”
CHAPTER 9
“Sources are reporting that there were no casualties in today’s bombing—thanks, in large part, to an anonymous tip that Homeland Security received last night about this woman.”
The moment World Issues had started, Dr. Clark had dimmed the lights and turned on the news. In sharp contrast to the video in Speaking of Words, everyone’s attention was focused on the screen now.
This woman. The picture that accompanied the anchor’s words was a profile shot, taken from a distance. The woman was young—dark hair, fair skin, athletic build.
“While the Nolan administration has issued no confirmation of the woman’s identity, documents leaked to the press suggest she was a medical researcher living in Bethesda under the name Daniela Nicolae. It is unclear at this time whether or not that is her actual name.”
At the front of the classroom, Dr. Clark watched us watching the news report. I glanced at Henry, whose eyes were locked on the screen, then at Asher, who was sitting as still as I’d ever seen him. Beside me, Vivvie’s fingers worried at the sleeve of her blazer, her dark brown eyes cast downward.
“No casualties. A suspect in custody. I don’t see how this is anything other than a victory for the current administration.”
While I’d been assessing my friends, the program had switched to a “he said, she said” format. Pundits sat to either side of the anchor. He had no sooner given his opinion than she chimed in.
“Who is this Daniela Nicolae? How did she get into the country? And why is an anonymous tip the only thing standing between us and a terrorist attack on American soil?” The female pundit was a redhead in her early forties. She was girl-next-door pretty and utterly without mercy. “Under the Nolan administration,” she continued, letting loose at rapid fire and not giving her opponent an opportunity to interject, “our intelligence agencies have become more concerned with spying on American citizens and policing our private communications than in tracking foreign nationals like Nicolae.”
An argument erupted between the two pundits. When the anchor took over again, he addressed the camera, his voice solemn. “This is what we know: according to her passport, Daniela Nicolae is twenty-eight years old, with dual citizenship in Venezuela and Belarus. She was educated in England and graduated from Oxford with a degree in medicine at the age of twenty-four. She spent three years with Doctors Without Borders before beginning a research fellowship here in the States.”
“And the only reason we know any of that,” the female pundit said when the floor was hers once more, “the only reason we even know this woman’s name, is because of a security leak. Quite frankly, I don’t know whether to be more concerned that we still haven’t heard from the president on any of this, or about the fact that under his watch, our national security is springing leaks.”
Dr. Clark lifted the remote and hit the power button. As the screen went black, she said something about us breaking into small groups to discuss our own reactions to the day’s events, but I barely heard her.
I was still stuck on three words, buried between the female pundit’s diatribes.
Doctors Without Borders.
CHAPTER 10
Walker Nolan had volunteered his medical services overseas for two years under the Doctors Without Borders banner. I wanted to believe that it was a coincidence that Daniela Nicolae had worked for the same group.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.
“Class is starting.” Henry took the seat in front of me and leveled a stare at John Thomas. “Eyes to the front, Wilcox.”
“Protective, isn’t he?” John Thomas asked me. “You do have a way with the opposite sex.”
Among the limited tricks in John Thomas’s repertoire was suggesting that I’d cemented my position at Hardwicke by sleeping my way through the junior class. He’d never managed to get a rise out of me on the topic, but that didn’t keep him from trying.
Mr. Wesley—who taught Speaking of Words, the Hardwicke version of “speech”—seemed to sense that today wasn’t a good day to even attempt a lecture. He put on a video of a poetry slam and turned off the lights.
“Girls like you, women like your sister—they’re only good for one thing,” John Thomas whispered. “And it’s not running campaigns.”
“Mr. Wilcox,” the teacher called out. “Watch the video.”
John Thomas let his eyes linger on me. “I’m watching.”
CHAPTER 9
“Sources are reporting that there were no casualties in today’s bombing—thanks, in large part, to an anonymous tip that Homeland Security received last night about this woman.”
The moment World Issues had started, Dr. Clark had dimmed the lights and turned on the news. In sharp contrast to the video in Speaking of Words, everyone’s attention was focused on the screen now.
This woman. The picture that accompanied the anchor’s words was a profile shot, taken from a distance. The woman was young—dark hair, fair skin, athletic build.
“While the Nolan administration has issued no confirmation of the woman’s identity, documents leaked to the press suggest she was a medical researcher living in Bethesda under the name Daniela Nicolae. It is unclear at this time whether or not that is her actual name.”
At the front of the classroom, Dr. Clark watched us watching the news report. I glanced at Henry, whose eyes were locked on the screen, then at Asher, who was sitting as still as I’d ever seen him. Beside me, Vivvie’s fingers worried at the sleeve of her blazer, her dark brown eyes cast downward.
“No casualties. A suspect in custody. I don’t see how this is anything other than a victory for the current administration.”
While I’d been assessing my friends, the program had switched to a “he said, she said” format. Pundits sat to either side of the anchor. He had no sooner given his opinion than she chimed in.
“Who is this Daniela Nicolae? How did she get into the country? And why is an anonymous tip the only thing standing between us and a terrorist attack on American soil?” The female pundit was a redhead in her early forties. She was girl-next-door pretty and utterly without mercy. “Under the Nolan administration,” she continued, letting loose at rapid fire and not giving her opponent an opportunity to interject, “our intelligence agencies have become more concerned with spying on American citizens and policing our private communications than in tracking foreign nationals like Nicolae.”
An argument erupted between the two pundits. When the anchor took over again, he addressed the camera, his voice solemn. “This is what we know: according to her passport, Daniela Nicolae is twenty-eight years old, with dual citizenship in Venezuela and Belarus. She was educated in England and graduated from Oxford with a degree in medicine at the age of twenty-four. She spent three years with Doctors Without Borders before beginning a research fellowship here in the States.”
“And the only reason we know any of that,” the female pundit said when the floor was hers once more, “the only reason we even know this woman’s name, is because of a security leak. Quite frankly, I don’t know whether to be more concerned that we still haven’t heard from the president on any of this, or about the fact that under his watch, our national security is springing leaks.”
Dr. Clark lifted the remote and hit the power button. As the screen went black, she said something about us breaking into small groups to discuss our own reactions to the day’s events, but I barely heard her.
I was still stuck on three words, buried between the female pundit’s diatribes.
Doctors Without Borders.
CHAPTER 10
Walker Nolan had volunteered his medical services overseas for two years under the Doctors Without Borders banner. I wanted to believe that it was a coincidence that Daniela Nicolae had worked for the same group.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.
