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  And then I’m released from the vision’s hold. The headache is gone too. Stranger still, as I slide the key into the lock and twist, another sensation fills me: euphoria. I feel a rush of something wonderful, totally disconnected from the horror I just witnessed. It’s as if the pain grew like a soap bubble to create the vision and then popped, sprinkling everything with a rainbow-tinted afterglow.

  I close the door behind me and hurry to the mantel in the living room. To that picture of Uncle Brian and that woman . . . and just as I remembered, he’s sitting in a café in an all-too-familiar Hawaiian shirt. Having focused only on Brian and the woman with whom he was so clearly in love, I failed to notice before what was in the background of the shot: a sixty-foot statue, a looming silhouette of a freedom fighter in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat.

  “Uncle Brian?” I call out. I head back into the entry hall. “Uncle Brian!” I shout with more urgency.

  “Kass?” His muted reply floats down the stairs. “I’m in my room.”

  I glance at my new watch. It’s past midnight. I’m late for curfew, and I’ve probably just woken him, but I don’t care. I need answers. Now. “Okay, I’ll come up there.”

  “No,” he shouts back quickly. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right down.”

  I head back into the living room and sit in his chair. As I wait, I try to catalog all the various tchotchkes on the bookshelves and windowsills, the random items a person collects over the course of his life that paint the story of who he is. Or the person he tries to convince others he is. Now that I’m focused, I notice that there are a lot of items from Latin America: a small brightly colored wool rug (the kind the hippie kids wear as ponchos); a fuzzy little llama sculpture; woven baskets; and candle holders.

  “Do you approve?” Uncle Brian says as he shuffles into the room, catching me mid-inventory.

  “Is it all from one trip, or have you traveled to Latin America a lot?”

  He tightens the belt on his robe then runs his hand over his face. The skin under his eyes is puffy and pink. His face looks haggard, his body tense. “Is that really what you wanted to ask me?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “ You didn’t.” He pauses, puts his hands in the pockets of his robe. “I haven’t really slept much since Graham was murdered, if you want to know the truth.”

  Seeing my great-uncle in this state, I no longer have the stomach to pump him with questions. So I sit there, mute, as he stands over me, waiting for me to say something.

  “Um, I was just wondering if they’d made any progress in the investigation?” I ask lamely. “Like, are they any closer to finding the gunman or figuring out who did it?”

  Brian shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware, no. I realize this must be very upsetting for you too.”

  I nod. That much is true. “I just hope they catch the guy soon.” This too is true.

  Brian nods. “Why don’t I make us some tea? Hopefully it will soothe us both.”

  “That sounds great, thanks.” I stand and follow him into the kitchen. But in the light, I pause, realizing just how dirty my clothes are from my roll on the ground with Pankaj. “Uh . . . I’m just going to change into my pj’s,” I mumble, heading for the stairs. “Be right back down.”

  “Take your time,” he replies. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  As I climb the steps, there’s a twitch in the reptilian part of my brain. It’s the part that acts before it thinks. I’m aware I’m about to do something ill-advised. But even my superego isn’t strong enough to stop me from seeking answers to my questions. Questions about my great-uncle’s history. I need to understand why he and his colleagues were playing deadly spy games in Latin America.

  I look at my new watch and give myself six minutes.

  After loudly padding into the observatory, I strip off my clothes, throw my nightshirt over my head, and exit silently. (Watch check: 5:20 remaining.) Back in the hallway, I start moving on my toes, placing my feet slowly and gently on the floor in front of me. Once I’m up the stairs on the third floor, I switch to my soundless and stealthy fox walk, touching each foot lightly to the ground so that the outside edge hits first, then rolling the foot inward until the whole surface area of the sole is down.

  There are doors to my left and right, both partially open, and one at the end of the hall, which is closed. I assume that’s Brian’s bedroom, so that’s the door I walk through (4:53).

  The hardwood floor is partially covered by a worn Persian rug, and a large bed takes up most of the back wall. On the nightstand rest a glass of water on a coaster and a heaping stack of books, each with a bookmark jutting out of its pages. There’s also a small wooden desk in front of the window and a corkboard hanging on the wall to the left. For such an eccentric, he has a disappointingly normal bedroom . . . at least at first glance. Unsure what I’m looking for, I slink over to the bulletin board.

  Tacked up is a Polaroid photo of my uncle, who looks like he’s in his thirties, ice skates hanging off his shoulder. He’s holding the mittened hand of a young woman—the same woman from the picture downstairs, the same woman killed in that explosion. Though they’re standing together at the edge of a crowded rink, they’re looking at each other as if they’re the only two people in the world. They are the stars of their own epic romance. Written in neat block letters in the white space below the image is a quotation: “Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling in love.” —Albert Einstein. There’s an asterisk under the quote followed by the words: “But it CAN and MUST be held responsible for my fall on that ice.” —Ellen Rios.

  So that’s her name (4:21).

  Still unsure of what I hope to find, I poke my head into the closet. The heap of junk at the bottom makes it look like Uncle Brian’s been in a perpetual state of “throw everything where no one can see it” housekeeping.

  Unless . . .

  Unless that’s the point. Getting on my hands and knees, I dig through the pile until I find a small safe he’s hidden here (4:08). My new lock pick is ideal for this type of work, but it’s in my bag downstairs, and I can’t risk the exposure of going back to get it. I need to make something work here, so I scan the room. On Brian’s desk is a single paper clip. That’ll do. Once I straighten the clip and refashion it into a tension tool, I pull the bobby pin from my hair and bend the end, turning it into a pick (2:34).

  It takes me longer than I hoped to get into the safe, but eventually I hear that telltale click, and the door swings open (1:47). I rifle through the papers inside until I find a file with a tab marked ucla. My pulse quickens: the letters from my first vision. I flip open the folder.

  Reading the front page of the report inside, stamped with the word confidential in red ink, I discover that ucla doesn’t stand for University of California, Los Angeles, as I assumed. It’s an acronym for something else entirely:

  Though controversial, the CIA’s use of the UCLAs (Unilaterally Controlled Latino Assets) in Nicaragua in the 1980s proved a highly effective tool of governmental destabilization.

  My head spins. I try to process this information. What the hell does “Unilaterally Controlled” even mean? It sounds shady, wrong. Latino assets sounds racist. Though my visions now have some context, they feel even more unclear and unsettling to me. Both the assassination of the candidate and the bombing must, in some way, be related to these tools of destabilization. And Brian was somehow connected to these various tragedies, if not directly responsible. More than ever, I need to know the role he played then and the role he’s playing now.

  “Kass!” Uncle Brian shouts from downstairs.

  I look at my watch: 0:23. Damn it. “Be right there!” I shove the report back in the folder and return it to the safe, throwing the clothes and junk back on top before shutting the closet door. I tiptoe down the hall and hit the stairs, flying down to the second floor before as
suming a casual pace. When I get to the bottom step, I see I have two seconds left of my six minutes, though it feels like a year’s been taken off my life.

  Uncle Brian is steeping the tea when I enter the kitchen. “Sugar?”

  “A lot,” I manage, somehow not gasping. “Thanks.”

  Handing me the mug, he looks me in the eye. “Now, what was it that you were so keen to speak to me about when you came home?”

  I take a sip of the tea before responding; I need to compose my thoughts. But I also don’t want to stall anymore. I need to know who this man really is. “I want you to tell me about your time with the CIA,” I say. “Specifically I want to know about Unilaterally Controlled Latino Assets.” I’m uncomfortable even saying the words. “What does that even mean?”

  Brian takes a step back, his eyes widening with surprise. “How did you—” But he stops. “How much do you know?”

  “I’ve had two visions. Two really disturbing visions.” I put the tea down on the counter. “ You were in the second one. A house you were in blew up. What’s UCLA, Uncle Brian?”

  Brian’s eyes close and he swallows hard. I wonder if he’s picturing the scene again too. “The UCLAs were elite teams the CIA put together. They had allegiance only to us, putting the CIA ahead of their own governments and families; that’s what ‘unilaterally controlled’ means. All of the team members, the “assets,” were Latino, so—Unilaterally Controlled Latino Assets.” He looks down into his mug and stirs his tea. “I worked with them in Managua, Nicaragua. Graham Pinberg, Chris Figg, and I were down there helping them strategize in the fight against the Sandinistas. Graham didn’t last very long; didn’t suit him. He didn’t like the climate, the perpetual sweatiness. But more pointedly, he didn’t like the work we were doing. It was our job to make it ‘mentally easier’ for the Assets to do their jobs. So he left the Agency and found a job here at Henley.”

  I nod, immediately wondering how you make it “mentally easier” on someone who’s trying to destabilize a government. “What about the woman?”

  Brian nods. “Ellen was the reason I stayed.” He pauses momentarily and takes a sip of his tea. “She was the leader of our unit. She was brilliant, she was beautiful, and she was shrewd. She was also the love of my life.”

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.” I have a million questions, but don’t know what to ask first. “Why did they bomb your house?”

  “It was in retaliation for a political assassination.”

  I nod again. Just as I suspected, the visions were connected.

  “The US government sent the CIA into Nicaragua to promote ‘regime change.’ That’s what the government does when it wants to get rid of its enemies. So it was our job to help assets commit sabotage,” Brian continues, taking another sip of his tea. “We then trained them to create unrest and undermine governments throughout Latin America.”

  “By gunning people down?” I ask, first thinking of the vision and then getting a mental flicker of Professor Pinberg’s memorial in the Merion Building.

  Brian nods his head. “Occasionally, but assassinations were relatively rare. The UCLAs generally blew up refineries, ships, and bridges. The idea was to create chaos, especially at the ports, because they were of great economic importance. It was all in the name of stopping the ‘dire threat’ of communism.” His face darkens as his tone turns sarcastic, his eyes far away. “Sadly it’s just another dark and ugly chapter in US history. But I left the Agency after . . . Ellen.” He shakes his head. “I had to leave after that. I stopped believing in the mission. And I’d come undone.”

  I lift my mug to my lips. I want him to keep talking, but I also don’t want to give him the third degree. He’s suffering, clearly—not just over the present, but over the past—and I wonder for how long.

  “So then you and Figg came here?”

  “When Graham learned what had happened, he reached out to me and suggested I join him at Henley, but Chris stayed on at the Agency. He still had the stomach for it, and he had a particular genius for the work.” Brian’s tone shifts when he says this; it sounds like less than a compliment. “But it was Ellen who continued to influence me. In fact, she’s been the guiding light in my work here at Henley.”

  I shake my head, not understanding. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I told you we were exploring various aspects of ESP. I’m sure it’s been difficult to understand the purpose of many of the experiments I’ve been conducting, but they are all pieces of a larger mosaic. You see, my goal is figuring out how to amplify the neurological response to improve telepathy and strengthen visions. I won’t get into the neuroscience now, but essentially I’m trying to create a booster shot. It should turn the brain into a veritable satellite dish, picking up distant signals and giving us reception on more ‘channels’ than we ever dreamed possible.”

  I’ve been watching my uncle’s lips move, but I basically stopped listening after he said he was more or less creating an ESP booster shot.

  “Does anyone at Henley know that this is what you’re working on?” I ask.

  “No, not even Graham knew.”

  “But this is huge! Why not tell them at that big Internal Review Board meeting you have coming up?” I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of this solution himself. It seems so obvious.

  Brian shakes his head. “I can’t do that, Kass.”

  I make a gesture of bewilderment. “Why not?”

  “Because if I tell them how close it is to completion, my research could be co-opted. By people I don’t know. If it falls into the wrong hands, the results could be deadly.”

  “Deadlier,” I say without thinking.

  He pauses. “Deadlier,” he repeats sorrowfully.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I wake up early, drenched in sweat, my mind racing after a jumble of strange and upsetting dreams. The only one I can remember clearly involved jumping out a series of windows with Pankaj, and each time we landed more painfully and more tangled up in each other. Apparently our adventure at the party last night made quite an impression on my subconscious. I decide not to delve too deeply into what my mind makes of this right now because I’m still trying to puzzle through how Uncle Brian made it “mentally easier” for the Assets to follow orders.

  Though I itch to get back into Uncle Brian’s room, even I’m not rash enough to sneak in while he’s still in bed. Instead I put on shorts and a T-shirt, lace up my sneakers, and leave a note for him saying I’ll meet him at the lab at nine.

  I start my run with a series of intervals, sprinting as hard as I can for short bursts of time. Slowly the BDNF, the brain-derived neurotrophic factor, kicks in. BDNF is a protein that protects you from stress by repairing and resetting the brain’s equilibrium, which is why running will genuinely calm you and improve your mood.

  Yes, there really is science behind it.

  So though I feel much better by the time I walk into the lab at 8:57 a.m., my peace of mind is short-lived. Mara enters behind me, chomping loudly on raw ginger. Pankaj and Dan are already seated; Alex and Uncle Brian have yet to arrive. I glance at Pankaj, but his eyes are cast down as he studiously doodles on a sheet of paper in front of him.

  “What happened to you guys last night?” Mara points between Pankaj and me. “I saw you as I came in, and then it was like you both vanished from the party.” She puts emphasis on “vanished” as if it implies wrongdoing. I silently curse my great-uncle for encouraging her to go off her meds.

  “I had to make a quick exit,” Pankaj says, continuing to avoid my gaze, his hand moving in front of his face to brush back his hair. “I think I might have pissed off one of the hosts. I decided it was better to slip out before he broke my arms.”

  Mara turns to me.

  “I got a really bad headache and had to get out of there,” I answer, which is not even a total lie. I take my seat, feeling like I’ve just outs
marted a sphinx.

  “Oh, really?” she says. “That must have been awful.”

  “ Yeah, it was—” I don’t get to finish the thought because suddenly Mara’s behind me, and the force of her hands on my shoulders stuns me. Breathing ginger down my neck, she kneads my muscles with her thumbs as if trying to manipulate dried-out Play-Doh.

  “Oh, that’s, um . . .” Incredibly painful.

  “My mom’s a masseuse,” Mara replies evenly. “The tarot cards suggested things would be especially stressful today. And with the gunman who killed Professor Pinberg still on the loose, I want to make sure everyone starts off as relaxed as possible.”

  “Thanks,” I say, as her left hand grips the base of my neck and the right pushes my head forward. As she jabs at pressure points behind my ears, I wonder if her mother received training at the Swedish Institute for Massage and Spearfishing. “So,” I grunt, “did you have fun at the party?”

  How much does she already know? How much can she sense about what happened between Pankaj and me? I can’t help wondering if this changes anything between us. Between any of us.

  But Mara keeps her own cards close and gives nothing away. “Well,” she says, “When Dan and I were talking, I could sense people were watching us, so I didn’t feel invisible. But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Bad,” Dan states. “I didn’t think it was fun. It made me uncomfortable.”

  “Dan”—Mara rolls her eyes—“ You’re just going to have to get used to the fact that you’re very good-looking, and people are going to stare at you.”

  Pankaj and I exchange a quick smile. But Dan’s lips are tightly set. He shakes his head.

  “I don’t like it. Feels exposed, dangerous. And then when I looked for you guys and couldn’t find you, I got worried. Thought something bad might have happened.”

  I wonder if he too might have been encouraged to go off his meds. “Dan, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just started seeing flashing lights, and it felt like—”