The sun streamed in through the window, bathing the hotel room in golden light. My arms stretched over my head. I was completely relaxed. Any tension that had been building from the past days in Belgium had melted away.

It's so nice to see the sun in the morning.

Wait, why is the sun so bright? I glanced at my wristwatch and gasped. The words 'three missed alarms' glowed up at me. It was eleven-thirty in the morning.

"Dari!" I murmured. "Wake up!"

Dari rolled over in her bed, then went back to being still. Ugh, come on Dari. We need to get going.

A fog had settled over my brain, making it impossible to think clearly, but I forced myself to my feet. Pain shot through my calves as I set them on the ground. They were still sore from chasing the bracelet thief. I guess I'm not as in shape as I thought.

"Dari," I said again, stifling a yawn.

It felt silly forcing another person to get up when you are completely exhausted yourself. But the real Xara would never permit her crew to sleep in during a mission. She never permitted herself to sleep in.

I stumbled over to Dari's bed and shook her with all my might.

"Wake up!" I said, with as much projection as I could muster.

"AHHHH!" Dari screamed.

I jumped back, my heart rate spiking. Dari froze, her brown eyes squinting at me.

"Oh, it's you X," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, it's only me."

"You scared me."

"I can tell."

Her scream did have one advantage. It functioned as an alarm clock. The fog had cleared from my head.

"Do you want coffee?" Dari asked as she rolled out of bed. "I need caffeine."

"Yeah, I'll take some coffee."

I grabbed a black shirt and jeans from my bag, then ducked into the restroom. Today, I needed to go basic. I slipped the clothes on. The black color was comforting, almost camouflaging my mistakes. I ran a brush through my silky hair and applied all of my make-up in a record time of ten minutes. I probably just set a Guinness World Record.

I exited the bathroom to the scent of brewed coffee. Dari reclined on a bar stool, sipping a cup of joe. She pointed to a second cup sitting on the island nearby. Steam danced above, an invitation to sit and enjoy it. I plopped onto the stool next to her. My fingers wrapped around the mug. Heat seeped into my skin. I wished to stay like that for hours, relaxed and warm. But I was on a tight deadline. I lifted the mug to my lips and chugged the bitter liquid in one gulp.

Dari's brow knit together, but she didn't say anything. I hopped off my seat and grabbed my red coat.

"I'm heading down," I said. "I'm going to see if I can catch an ambassador for lunch. Tell the guys where I went."

"Uh, okay. I'll join you when I get a chance."

As I raced down the stairs, I began to review all of the events that had occurred so far on the mission. I knew why we had slept in. I knew why we were lethargic. It was because we felt like there was no progress being made. Everywhere we turned, there was another suspect. It seemed like every single person was an imposter.

There's something I'm missing. What on Earth could it be?

I thundered down the steps to the lobby. Disapproving stares followed me, but I didn't care. I couldn't waste any more time. I was almost to the dining room when a voice called out behind me.

"Why Miss Oclen!" I turned around to see Sarah Norris standing by the exit of the hotel with Chausiku Jebet and Mr. La Foie.

"Hello!" I said. "Are you all heading to lunch?"

"Yes," Mrs. Jebet answered with a smile. "Would you like to join us?"

"I would love to. Thank you."

"We are just waiting for Peter Kohler," Mr. La Foie said, checking his watch. "He said that he forgot his phone in his room, and he needed to have it in case he received any important calls."

I should probably tell the others  where I'm going. I quickly typed a message to my crew.

I am joining La Foie, Jebet, Norris, and Kohler for lunch. Dine with some of the other delegates at the meeting. I'll see you in one to two hours.

I pressed send just as Mr. Kohler bounded down the stairs.

"Oh good, we are ready to go," Mrs. Norris said. "To the cafe!"

I followed the others onto the crowded sidewalk outside. The wind nipped at my bare hands and face. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, pulling the thick fabric tighter around my torso. I kept a few paces behind the four diplomats so as to pick up on every detail they said and not be distracted by being asked questions.

"We're going to Le Nouveau Vert right up the road," Mr. La Foie said. "It's a very popular tourist spot, so they primarily speak English there. It's also a farm-to-table cafe. I have met the owner personally, and all of the produce used is grown in the restaurant's garden. They source all of their farm products and meat locally and bake their bread fresh everyday. You can't get much better than home cooking."

"No, you certainly can't," Mrs. Jebet agreed. "It's so disappointing to see how many farms have been industrialized. So much food is processed and packaged these days." She shook her head. "Such a shame."

"It's no wonder that we are in the health crisis that we are in today," Peter Kolher added. "Our food is severely lacking in nutrition."

"It's like I have always said," Mrs. Norris said, "We can not and should not allow all of these large-scale food companies to profit at the public's expense."

All four harrumphed in agreement.

It wasn't long before we came to a white, stone building with a red roof, lodged among the many city shops. A few tables sat outside with red and white umbrellas, surrounded by a flower and vegetable garden.

"How lovely!" Mrs. Norris exclaimed.

"I love these sorts of restaurants," Mrs. Jebet said. "Gardens make the dining experience so much more enjoyable."

The inside looks just as nice. Wire tables dotted the dining room with four, six, or eight seats. Flowers and vines provided pops of green. A ceiling fan generated a light breeze, giving the effect of outdoor dining.

A woman stood at a desk at the front, dressed in black uniform. She smiled as we walked inside.

"Bonjour! Welcome to Le Nouveau Vert. How many will be dining today?"

"Five," Mr. La Foie said.

"Excellent. Follow me." She grabbed five menus and escorted us to a table by large, glass windows on the opposite end of the room. It was at just the right angle so that the sun formed a spotlight on the garden.

"Oh, this view is incredible!" Mrs. Norris said. "We get to see the early stages of our food being made. Maybe a chef will even pluck some produce for our meal."

"That would be quite extraordinary," Mr. Kohler said. His eyes widened as he opened his menu. "I say! What a large selection of foods. They offer everything from steaks to salads to sandwiches."

"To soups," Mrs. Jebet added, glancing up from her menu. "Which is what I'm getting."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Norris said as she opened her menu. "Which one?"

"The chilled cucumber soup," Mrs. Jebet said. "I've had it before and it's very light and refreshing."

"Yes, I'm in the mood for something a bit lighter, too," Mrs. Norris said. "I think I will order the same thing. Oh! And it comes with a side of fresh baguette!"

I lifted the sides of the menu. My eyes immediately fell on the eight-ounce steak. It sounded delicious, and I was hungry. But I felt funny ordering a steak while the other women ordered light soups. I decided to check the salads. Salads were socially acceptable for women to eat in large quantities, so I figured that was my best bet. I noticed a garden greens salad with grilled chicken. That sounds healthy, something Xara would normally order. And I can get some bread on the side.

The waiter stopped by and took our orders. It felt like we had to wait an eternity before our lunch, or in my case, breakfast finally arrived.

A small plate was set before me, the salad forming a neat pile in the center. Ugh! Why do fancy restaurants have to give such small portions?

If I hadn't been calm, cool, and collected Xara, I might have stormed over to the restaurant host and told her that rich people need to eat, too.

Naturally, I could not do that.

I grumbled internally as I stabbed the tines of my fork into the lettuce leaves. The salad was delicious. The chicken, tomatoes, lettuce, fresh goat's cheese—it was all light and balanced. I lifted the bread next. Steam wafted onto my face as I bit into it. It was honestly the best bread I'd ever tasted. The only problem with my meal was that there was so little of it.

Perhaps I can order something to go...

But before I knew it, the rest of my party had finished their morsels. Mr. La Foie paid the check, the quite large check I might add, and we left.

Once again, there was nothing of suspicion. It felt like all we did was join the diplomats for meals and tours. We weren't making actual progress on the case.

I was tearing my hair out. How could I ever complete this mission? Every detail that seems significant was rebutted with a logical explanation. There was only one more suspect—Mrs. Lopez. But I didn't pick up on any suspicious clues in our last conversation.

Socializing alone isn't going to solve this case. I need to actually think!

There was something I was missing. I could feel it. It was crawling under my skin, irritating me just enough so that I knew that something was wrong, but not enough so that I could see it. Why can't the real Xara be here? Why?

I remembered what the Director had said to me. He had told me that I was Xara. He was wrong. The powerful, genius Director of the IIA was wrong. I was no Xara. I was just a...

Clone. A clone, barely even a human being. I was supposed to be a carbon copy, brainless and emotionless. I was supposed to be exactly like my predecessor. I was supposed to look, think, and act like her.

And yet, for some reason, I didn't. What is wrong with me? What went wrong?

Such questions could not be contemplated on a semi-empty stomach.

"Oh, look!" Mrs. Norris exclaimed.

I gazed upwards in the direction of her pointed hand to see an LED ice cream cone a few blocks down.

"I think I could go for some ice cream right now," Mr. Kohler mentioned.

"Me too," Mrs. Jebet said.

I found it humorous that grown-ups wanted ice cream. Perhaps it was because I was technically a kid myself, and I didn't understand the whims of adulthood.

The ice cream shop was a tiny building with a black overhang. We walked inside, the frigid air chilling my bones. I shivered. I almost need a winter coat.

Although my stomach rumbled, I knew that Xara wouldn't have caved to ice cream. It was too sugary, too unhealthy to be eaten except on the rarest of occasions. Even then, Xara often declined delicacies.

"You go ahead," I said to Mr. La Foie, gesturing for him to go in front of me in line.

"Oh, I'm not having any ice cream right now," he said. "How about you?"

"Me neither," I said.

"Ah, I see. Have to keep in shape, correct?"

"Yes."

The Belgian diplomat nodded understandingly. We stood awkwardly at the edge of the shop, waiting for the others to receive their orders.

"I'm going to step into the fresh air, if you don't mind," Mr. La Foie said.

"I'll join you."

The noon sun cast its burning rays on me as I exited. I basked in the light. My eyes rested on Mr. La Foie's hands. Once again, I was struck by the finger nail color, which was edging on purple. According to Xara's memories, Mr. La Foie wasn't usually that cold.

The blood circulation tends to reduce as people get older.

Chatter bubbled behind me. I turned to see a man dressed in a bright-pink, hawaiin shirt and a woman in a yellow sundress strolling towards us.

"Honey, we are not lost," the man said.

"I want to stop and ask directions," the woman responded. "We'll never make it to the Contemporary Art Museum if we don't get some directions."

"We have a map!" the man countered.

"Well I don't have peace of mind."

"Excuse me," the woman said, running over to us. "Can you help us?"

Mr. La Foie grinned. "Yes, I know the whole city."

"I hope we aren't bothering you," the man said with a sharp glance at his wife.

"No, it's quite alright," Mr. La Foie assured them.

The woman beamed. "Where is the Contemporary Art Museum in Brussels?"

"Oh, that's very close by. Keep walking until you reach the Starbucks on this street, then make a right. It will be right there in front of you."

"Oh thank you!" the woman exclaimed.

"How many miles is that?" the man asked.

"We don't do miles here sir," Mr. La Foie said. "But it's fourteen kilometers."

"Thanks." The couple walked away, still bickering about asking for directions.

I can't believe some people. It's better to just ask than to wander around lost. Oftentimes, there are people ready to assist.

"That's incredible that you know the city so well," I said.

"Yes, well I've done so much business here that I know the layout by heart. Besides, I have to be able to help all of the lost tourists." He winked. I smiled ever so slightly.

Kohler, Jebet, and Norris exited the ice cream parlor.

"They have quite the selection in there," Mrs. Norris said.

"I could hardly choose," Mr. Kohler laughed.

"The same thing happens to me whenever I go for ice cream," Mr. La Foie said. "Now, I'm simply dying to know what flavors you got."

"I got a cone with pistachio, mint ice cream," Mrs. Norris said.

"I got a cup of fudge brownie swirl," Mrs. Jebet said.

"And since I'm feeling decadent, I got one scoop of vanilla shortbread and one scoop of chocolate cherry," Mr. Kohler finished. "But I skipped the cone. I don't want to eat more carbs than I have to."

I allowed myself to laugh along with the others.

"It all sounds delicious," Mr. La Foie said.

"Let's head back to the hotel now," Mrs. Jebet said. "I need to get ready for a conference this afternoon.

As we walked together, something was beginning to bother me about Mr. La Foie's interaction with the couple.

Keep walking until you reach the Starbucks, then make a right. It will be right there in front of you.

How many miles is that?

It's fourteen kilometers.

A conversation from a year ago floated into my mind, another time that Mr. La Foie helped lost tourists.

Oh, that's only four kilometers North.

Just go twenty-two meters Southeast.

"Oh! I'm sorry," the woman he was directing said. "I'm not so good with those kinds of directions. Are there any landmarks or reference points?"

"Certainly..."

The conversations kept coming. The recollections of all the times when he, in his altruism, had given directions. But he always used the same format, meters or kilometers plus the cardinal direction.

Now, he was using landmarks and reference points. That was not like Mr. La Foie. Moreover, that is a technique that women are far more inclined to use than men...

The cold hands. Women's blood flow isn't as evenly spread across the whole body, unlike men's, so their hands and feet get cold more easily.

Things were starting to fall in place. It seemed like Mr. La Foie was actually a Mrs.

There was only one question that remained: why would WAOIC replace a male diplomat with a woman?

Perhaps we would find out when we reprimanded this imposter back at the hotel.

The hotel arose from the street. My palms started to sweat, even though it was fairly chilly. I was going to have to reprimand the Belgian representative in a matter of minutes.

He's probably going to deny any allegations. There's no way to know if he's lying or not.

I needed to figure out exactly what to say to Mr. La Foie. I needed a game plan, with a backup plan, like Xara.

But is there sufficient evidence to accuse him? A few things that don't line up don't mean very much. He could have changed the way he gives directions. And he may have developed a circulation problem with age.

Perhaps I should speak with my crew first, before outright accusing Mr. La Foie of being a fraud.

I whipped out my cell phone and messaged the crew. Meet in my room right now. Urgent.

As we drew closed to the hotel, I could see a taxi waiting in the front.

"If you will please excuse me, I have a meeting that I must attend," Mr. La Foie said. "I'll be back around six in the evening."

"That's quite alright," Mr. Kohler said. "Thank you for taking us to lunch."

"The food was truly extraordinary," Mrs. Jebet said.

"The ice cream wasn't bad either," Mrs. Norris joked.

I barely paid attention to their banter. Internally, I was picking apart every single detail that could be interpreted as different when compared to the real La Foie. I dissected each sentence, each word used, the way words were put together. If there was an imposter, he or she had clearly been trained well.

"Au Revoir," Mr. La Foie said with a wave. He ducked into his taxi and drove off.

I glanced at my watch. It was fourteen minutes past one in the afternoon. We had a little less than five hours to come up with a plan.

A mixture of nerves and adrenaline coarse through my veins. Did I fear that I was making a terrible mistake? Yes.

But finally, after a week of stagnation, the mission was progressing.