One

The days were just starting to get shorter. By six o’clock the sky had taken on a streaky pinkness, but even that was yielding to the coming darkness. Outside there was the laughter of students enjoying both the September warmth and the freedom of a Thursday afternoon. But Hollis Larsson was still in her office at Bradford University, still typing, a half-dozen books on the United Nations crowding her desk.

It wasn’t her already delayed book on the history of the UN that she was writing, though. Instead she was adding the final touches to her lecture on Interpol. She’d become fascinated with the subject, the first time in years she’d been excited to teach her students about the complexities of international relations.

But it was what she couldn’t teach them that interested her the most. A short mission to Ireland for Interpol just a few months earlier had turned into an adventure, both dangerous and exciting. She could still recall the thrill of uncovering a killer, though the fear she’d felt at the time had faded a bit. From the safety of her small Michigan town, it seemed like a dream. If it was, it was one she and Finn had shared and kept as a secret between them.

She leaned back in her chair, stretching her spine to relieve the tension that lived there these days. Too much sitting. There was some report somewhere that it was worse than smoking, which seemed impossible and plausible all at once. At least with smoking there was the high of nicotine and the noir beauty of wisps of smoke. Sitting was just an ache, a rounded spine, and an increasing waistline. But it couldn’t be helped. She had research to do—and not the kind she could pawn off on a grad student.

This research was about Blue, the group that lived somehow within Interpol, or beside it. In Ireland it had been brought up more than once, and in a way that made it clear it was a secret entity. It was intriguing. Interpol was founded in the 1920s to allow for police organizations to better coordinate international investigations and catch criminals. Blue seemed to operate in the gray area between what is specifically illegal and what isn’t—more CIA than police. But why would it be needed?

She couldn’t answer the question despite months of trying. There was nothing she could find. No whispers in academia anyway. Even people who had devoted their lives to understanding Interpol had never heard of any intelligence organization operating across international borders. Cooperation between countries’ intelligence agencies, yes, but working as one group? One retired professor she contacted actually laughed at the idea.

“We can’t even get the FBI and the CIA to coordinate, and we’re all Americans,” he’d said. “Do you honestly think that the Brits, the Aussies, the Germans, and who knows who else would team up in some secret group?”

“Maybe if the threat were significant enough,” she’d countered.

He laughed again. “Intelligence agencies guard their territory like mothers guard their young. Wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. Where do you come up with these ideas?”

She didn’t say. She didn’t know if she could trust him with the truth that she’d been in the center of a Blue operation and knew of a threat that could potentially crash the world’s financial markets. She and Finn had decided early on that going public would only put them in more danger. She let the retired professor think she was over-
reaching.

“Don’t go chasing shadows,” he’d advised her. “I know these days academics want to make a name for themselves, get on all the cable news shows with bestselling books. But don’t ever forget, Hollis, we’re teachers. And what we teach are facts, not theories.”

And now, sitting alone at her desk, she had to admit, aside from limited personal experience of Blue, all she had were theories.

“Maybe it is a joke,” she said out loud, with nothing but the dust bunnies gathering under her desk to hear her. Maybe the agents who spoke of Blue were just playing some game. She shut off her computer for the day and stood up for the first time in hours. Her hip creaked a little. At forty you just couldn’t miss three weeks of yoga and expect to stay flexible.

“Dr. Larsson?” A woman about her age peaked her head into the office. “Can I bother you for a moment?”

Hollis waved her in. The woman in turn waved to someone behind her and in seconds she was joined by a man. Both dressed in jeans and Bradford University t-shirts, with overeager grins and the nervous expectations of the parents of freshmen. Hollis didn’t know either of them, but she knew immediately the conversation she was about to have.

“I’m Anne,” the woman began. “Our son Jim is a student of yours and we’re just wondering how he’s doing.”

“The semester just started. I don’t even know everyone’s name. Jim …?”

“He had a quiz,” the man said. “He got a C. He wasn’t a C student in high school and it worried us. So we thought we’d both take the day off work and drive here from Grand Rapids.”

“Not just for this,” the woman corrected him. “Jim needs some new clothes and we also thought maybe we could stock his fridge. I don’t want him living on pizza.”

“What can I help you with?” Hollis asked with a practiced tone of patience.

The man nodded. “Sorry, Professor, my wife worries. He’s our oldest, you see. We thought maybe Jim might need some extra tutoring. Or maybe he’s partying too hard and he needs a stern warning. I remember my college days.”

“Arthur!” the woman said. “He doesn’t party,” she assured Hollis.

Helicopter parents. They got worse every year.

“He’s just adjusting to the workload,” Hollis told them, as she’d told many parents before them. “It takes time for all freshmen to find their sea legs. I’ll keep an eye on him and if there’s any concerns about his grades, I’ll be in touch.” She had no intention of following through on that. If her guess was right, she wouldn’t need to; Anne and Arthur would be checking in regularly.

Hollis turned off her desk lamp and moved toward her office door. The parents moved with her, luckily, until they were all in the hallway. Hollis locked the door and smiled. “Nice to meet you both. I’m sure Jim will adjust. They all do.”

“He said your husband is a teacher here,” Arthur said.

“Yes, world literature, but Jim wouldn’t have a class with him. Not yet, anyway. He mainly teaches graduate students.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Anne gushed. “You with world politics and your husband with world literature. You must have wonderful conversations over dinner. Maybe Jim will want to major in that.”

“Who can make a living with a literature degree?” Arthur said, less as a question than an obvious statement.

“Take care.” Hollis smiled and turned in the other direction. As she reached the stairs she heard Anne telling her husband he had been rude, and wondering, loudly, how that would affect their precious child’s grades.

She had several students named Jim, but she only taught one freshman class, Intro to World History. It wouldn’t be too hard to figure out which one of them belonged to Arthur and Anne. But that was next week’s problem. She had a long weekend stretching out in front of her and she wasn’t going to waste a moment of it thinking about school.