Nina Berry: City Of Spies

Mercedes’s cheeks were red. Her eyes glittered in the dim light. Pagan had never seen her cry, but she looked darn close.

“No,” she said shortly. “I know you don’t. But you say ‘our house,’ and you welcome me here. And what do I do? I study, and I can barely pay a few bucks toward the bills.”

“You don’t need to work. My parents left me enough money for us to live for ages. But still you work harder than I do sweeping floors at that comics store while getting your high school diploma at the same time,” Pagan said.

Mercedes frowned at her. “I’m not going to sponge off you or anyone.”

Pagan smiled. “Well, you’re contributing the brains to this sorry partnership of ours, sweetheart, because I sure as heck don’t have them. And I know you want to try for college. If that happens, this crazy world might stand a chance.”

“College.” Mercedes swallowed, her dark-lashed eyes flicking wide to stare into the distance. Pagan almost didn’t recognize her for a second. Was that what M looked like when she was scared? “I have to pass my exams first.”

“As if that’s in any doubt.”

Going to high school without distractions had given Mercedes an appetite for learning that left Pagan in awe. It was like her brain had been starved, and now she couldn’t wait to eat up every piece of knowledge the teachers and librarians cooked up for her. The principal hadn’t wanted to let her into the physics class. He’d said girls didn’t belong in science except for cooking class. But Mercedes had promised him she’d get an A, and he’d finally given in.

It made her the weird girl at school, but she didn’t care. Her affinity for formulas coupled with her access to comics thanks to her part-time job at a comic book store had made her one of the most popular kids in her physics class.

“All that time I wasted, fighting people.” Mercedes gave her head a small shake, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Violence is so stupid. I’m never going to fight again.”

Pagan peeled off her gloves, easing her feet out of their punishing heels. The bottoms of her stockings were black from walking around the yard at Farralone. She leaned her head back and gazed up at the beautiful swirl of gem-like color that was the Renoir above them. The figure of a woman with a blue parasol was just visible through the press of lilacs and sun-dappled leaves. It was, literally, a masterpiece, and a grateful Dr. Someone had given it to Mama back when Pagan was eight years old.

Pagan had always loved the painting, and had moved it from above her parents’ bed to the living room so she could see it every day. The move had marked the beginning of a new era. The house and the painting belonged to her now, not to her parents, and she’d gotten legally emancipated last month so that she no longer had to answer to a legal guardian.

But if Dr. Someone was who Pagan thought he was, the painting might not have been his to give. It would always be glorious, but maybe it no longer belonged in her living room. Its home was a mystery, a secret probably lost forever in the midst of the looting, murder and deceit of the Second World War. Seeing it now only made her throat tighten. Was there any part of Mama’s life that wasn’t tainted by her lies and secrets?

Never mind the dang painting. The night had been full of its own drama.

Pagan slapped her gloves onto the side table. “You totally should have come with us to the party. You would’ve enjoyed it.”

“And I told you I have to study.”

“I know, I know. I’m still getting used to this whole ‘taking school seriously’ thing. And guess what? Devin Black came to see me at the party tonight,” Pagan said.

“He’s like the Shadow,” Mercedes said, referring to her favorite crime fighter with psychic powers who posed around town as a wealthy playboy. She had never met Devin, but Pagan had told her everything that had happened in Berlin back in August. “You think he came here afterward to loiter in your bushes?”

Pagan snorted. “Can you imagine him in his thousand-dollar suit, crouched behind a cactus with binoculars? It wouldn’t be him personally, but it could’ve been someone from the CIA. They’ve been keeping tabs on me because they want me to do them a favor.”

Mercedes smiled one of her rare smiles. “What if a government spook staking out your house ran into one of my old friends casing the joint?”

“A convention of ne’er-do-wells that would put Frank Sinatra’s party to shame. All in our backyard.”

She started to tell Mercedes everything that happened that night, so they broke out the Oreos and milk. “Tell me everything about the party,” Mercedes said, dunking her cookie. “What was Nancy Sinatra wearing?”

Pagan gave her the details, dwelling on the things she knew Mercedes would like most—the tension between Frank and Dean Martin over Angie Dickinson, Tony Curtis trying hard not to stare at Juliet Prowse’s legs, Jack Lemmon’s gentlemanly manners.

Mercedes watched Pagan’s face as she talked about Devin and sometimes frowned down at her own strong fingers, the nails clean, unpolished, short but not too short, lying relaxed on the polished wood of the table.

“They could dangle your mother’s file in front of you for years to keep you on their string,” she said. “The file might not exist. Devin himself told you not to trust them.”

“I don’t trust them. But I know Mama was up to no good,” Pagan said. “She was helping this Dr. Someone, or Rolf Von Albrecht, or whatever his name was. Mama’s gone, but he might be down in Argentina, doing more bad things. If the CIA doesn’t give me what I want, at least maybe I can help stop him, bring him to justice.”

Mercedes said nothing, her eyelids at half-mast as she stared at Pagan.

“What?” said Pagan.

“You were eight years old when this German man visited your house,” she said. “You were twelve when your mama took her life. A little girl.”

“I know,” said Pagan. “But I’m not little anymore, and if I can make a difference now...”

“If you can right your mama’s wrong, you mean.”

“She was my mother!” Anger at her friend surged through her. How could she try to take away Pagan’s strong connection to her mother, good or bad? “Everything she did had a big effect on me! And if she was a bad person...” She stopped, not knowing where that sentence was going.

Mercedes leaned forward, dark eyes ferociously intent. She tapped her index finger on the table with every word as she said, “What she did is not your responsibility.”

A surge of emotion flooded up from Pagan’s chest. Her eyes filled with tears. “But what if Mama died because of me?”

Mercedes did not relent. She shook her head. “That woman had all kinds of things going on, way over your head. You could be risking your life here—again. Why are you doing that?”

Pagan got up and grabbed a kitchen towel, wiping her eyes. The cloth came away streaked black with mascara and eyeliner. “I don’t know, M. But even if I never find out why Mama killed herself, I want to help them get this guy. My mother aided in a Nazi escape. Isn’t that reason enough? Right now I’m the only one left alive who might be able to identify him.”

“Okay,” Mercedes said. “Let’s call it patriotism and justice for now and see what happens. But I’m going with you.”

Pagan’s mouth dropped open. “But school—that’s really important to you. I wouldn’t want you to miss...”

Mercedes considered this. “Okay, I’ll go for the first week, as long as I can get the reading assignments in advance.”

The corners of Pagan’s mouth turned up into a huge grin and she darted across the room to throw her arms around Mercedes’s neck.