The Inside Job: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy

  I hooked my foot into the corner of the desk and tripped forward. I released Kennedy’s arm and, on the way down, grabbed the desk for support. I missed, though, and wound up grabbing the phone. Me, the phone, some paperwork, and three pencils careened into the floor. Leonie gasped, and a few people nearby spun around to see what the commotion was about. I could feel my knee swelling and rug burn spreading down my shins. I groaned and sat up—

  “Are you all right?” Leonie asked in French, so stunned that she had forgotten to speak in English. I looked at her blankly, even though I understood, until she repeated the question in English.

  “I’m fine,” I said as Otter fussed over me and then hauled me to my feet. Everyone—even a non-spy—can spot a fake trip a mile away, so I’d had to really go for it. I groaned and rubbed the spot on my head that had crashed into the side of the desk, while Kennedy pranced around me, snickering.

  “You should have seen your face, Georgie!” she hooted. Leonie gave Kennedy a stern look, and Otter grabbed for her but she dodged away. Leonie was trying to look after me, silently scold Kennedy, and gather her things all at once. I reached over and quickly, easily, yanked at the plug connecting her phone to the ground socket. It popped out neatly.

  “Well—let’s see. Er, Markus. Right,” Leonie said, shaking her head as she put her pencils back in her desk. She lifted the phone again and then frowned. “It’s not working,” she said, hanging it up and trying again.

  “Did he break it?” Otter said, sounding disgruntled. “You must be more careful, son.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall on my face!” I said, flushing.

  “You’ll have to pay for it,” Otter said, shaking his head.

  “But it was an accident!” I wailed. “It wouldn’t have even happened if stupid Violetta hadn’t gone over there and you didn’t make me go get her—”

  “It’s no trouble,” Leonie interrupted. She smiled at me sympathetically. “These things happen. You won’t need to pay for the phone. But you’ll have to excuse me, since I’ll need to dash upstairs to get Markus for you.”

  “Fine,” Otter said. “But hurry please. Like I said, we’re in a rush. I need to get this deposited before my son breaks anything else.” He waved an envelope—which we’d stuffed with clipped coupons, since we didn’t have hundreds of dollars—in the air. Leonie looked hurt on my behalf and then scurried away.

  “I can’t believe you broke her phone,” Otter said. “Really, Georgie. See if you can fix it.” No one could hear this, but it would be a decent show for the security officers if they were watching us. I rolled my eyes and fidgeted with the phone for a minute, then pulled on the cord. I lifted it to show Otter—and the security cameras—it was unplugged, and then circled Leonie’s desk. I jammed the phone cord back into its socket and, as I rose, snapped a picture of the computer screen. We didn’t have time to check it—there was no telling how close or far Markus Hastings’s desk was from Leonie’s. I made eye contact with Otter. I’ve got the photo.

  Otter shoved his hands in his pockets, looking bored. We couldn’t just bolt for the door; it would attract attention. He waited another beat and then lifted his cell phone—which didn’t even work—to answer an imaginary call.

  “What? No! Tell the pilot we’ll be there momentarily. My god, I pay his salary—he’ll wait there all day if I want him to!” Otter grunted into the phone. He rolled his eyes, looked at the envelope of “money” in his hands, then at Leonie’s empty desk. “Fine, we’re on our way. Let’s move, kids,” he said to us as he stormed off. We followed behind, Kennedy still hopscotching. A few other bankers looked up as we stomped through the doors, but their faces said, What a rich jerk! rather than Oh no, spies! so I didn’t panic. I turned back to look just as Otter and Kennedy breezed through the door.

  There was Leonie, at the top of the staircase, with a man who I assumed was Markus Hastings. I couldn’t tell you a thing about his height or weight or even his hair, because in the split second our eyes met, all I really noticed was this: Markus Hastings looked terrified.

  And terrified people? They’re the most dangerous.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The place where we were staying in Geneva was really nice. This was pretty surprising, since we couldn’t exactly pay for a fancy hotel or anything. But apparently, Clatterbuck’s old spy days meant he and The League still did have contacts around the world. His contacts, however, were a little different than what I expected. When the SRS says it has contacts, they mean oil barons and CEOs and mob bosses. Clatterbuck’s contact? A farmer.

  Well, technically a horse breeder. Small horses. Or rather, (in French), poneys.

  The miniature-horse breeder—a very old man and his wife—had a house on their property they rented out to travelers, and Clatterbuck secured it for us for three weeks. (“If all this SRS business takes longer than that, maybe we can offer to feed the horses to stay?”) Unfortunately, the old couple spoke only Romansh, which was the only language in Switzerland I didn’t know. Neither did Clatterbuck, so we made do with lots of smiling and thumbs-ups to convey our gratitude.

  “And how do you know them, again?” Otter asked. He was so amazed, I think he forgot to look irritated.

  “I had to go in disguise as a circus animal trainer once. They lent me the ponies,” Clatterbuck said. “I guess you could say we hit it off.”

  “But . . . you don’t even speak the same language,” Beatrix said, shaking her head.

  “No, but I brought them chocolate and made the bed when I left. It went a long way,” Clatterbuck said happily, like this explained everything. He turned and went into the house, leaving the rest of us outside, staring at the darkened forms of a tiny pony herd nosing its way up to the barn for dinner.

  Inside was sparse but pretty—lots of white tile on the floors and the walls. Beds with perfectly square foam pillows and neatly tucked-in blankets. Bathrooms with windows that overlooked the aforementioned ponies—I guess so you could pee and observe nature all at once. The art on the wall was weird, but not too terrible, even though Kennedy did take down the creepy painting of an old lady that was in the bedroom she and Beatrix were sharing. (“It stares at us, Hale. Can paintings be haunted?”) Walter, Ben, and I were in another room that had four bunk beds—just enough room for three boys and all of Ben’s inventing equipment.

  We convened at the kitchen table, pulling up an extra recliner and barstool so there was enough room for the seven of us. Beatrix had her Right Hand out and plugged into two different computers. We watched as she pulled up my photo of the bank code and stabilized it, snatching the number off the screen. She then went through a series of screens that contained about a billion numbers and letters, typing frantically. Finally she looked up at us.

  She was frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Beatrix kept frowning. “There’s about three dollars and four cents in the account. Adjusting for the currency exchange rate, of course.”

  We blinked.

  “Maybe this doesn’t account for the hard cash and the gold in the vaults, is all,” Otter said swiftly.

  “No—this is including what’s in the vaults rather than in the digital account. Three dollars and four cents.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said, shaking my head. “We hurt SRS when we broke out of the Castlebury location, but we didn’t ruin their finances. Besides, SRS would never allow the money to get so low. They must have moved it.”

  “Well, wait—no . . . Hang on, it’s weird,” Beatrix said, typing frantically again. “All right—so, yes, money was moved out of this account. It was moved to another account that has . . . a hundred thousand in it. And then last week, money was moved from that account to two different accounts. And those were moved to . . . three others. Hang on, I’m getting confused by the trail.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Otter said. “Antonio Halfred, that’s the name—did you type it in right?”

  “I did,” Beatrix answe
red testily. “I’m telling you, if this is SRS’s account, they’ve moved the money recently. They’re moving it a lot.”

  “Well, sure, moving it makes sense—it’d keep people like us from being able to find it. But that couldn’t have been all of SRS’s money. Even if that account had a hundred thousand dollars in it at one point, SRS has millions. Where is that money?” Walter asked.

  We went quiet again.

  And then I realized. I exhaled. “It’s . . . everywhere.”

  “What do you mean?” Kennedy asked.

  “Beatrix—can you see how many accounts SRS’s money has been in? Or how many are connected in some way to this Antonio Halfred?” I asked.

  “Uh, well, I can try? But I won’t be able to see them all. There are hundreds. Maybe more,” Beatrix said.

  “Probably thousands,” I said. I leaned back in my chair, nearly tilting over when the legs slid on the tile. “SRS spreads their resources out. There are dozens of facilities. Even more sleeper agents throughout the world. They have their hands in organized crime and medicines and real estate. Of course they’d spread out their money too.”

  “They have their money in thousands of accounts,” Otter said, nodding in realization. “And they move it around so no one catches it.”

  “Are these accounts all in Antonio Halfred’s name?” Walter asked.

  “No,” Beatrix said. “They’re in a bunch of other people’s. And they seem to be real people too. This account I’m looking at now belongs to a butcher. This other one belongs to a lady who owns a shoe store.”

  “Genius,” I said. “Hide some money in real people’s accounts for a week or two. If they notice, they won’t say anything—who complains about an extra thousand or so in their bank account? And it means there’s no way to steal just the SRS money—the accounts are always changing. The amounts are always changing. I bet even the vaults are always changing. No wonder the account is tied to that Hastings guy—he must handle all this for them.”

  “He’s their inside man. We have to get past SRS and the bank’s security and someone at the bank who actually knows what’s going on with those accounts,” I said, slumping down in my chair. I stared at the smooth wood tabletop. No one moved. Everyone waited for someone else in the room to have the great idea.

  But no one did.

  “So we’re done? We can’t do it?” Kennedy asked, frowning.

  “Looks that way,” Otter said. He stood up, his chair clattering behind him. He stomped off to his bedroom, which Clatterbuck had the misfortune of sharing with him, and slammed the door.

  Ben snored.

  Ben really snored. Like, the sort of snoring that sounds like a truck on the interstate. It was kind of incredible that such a spectacular sound could come from a guy so small. I tossed and turned on the lower bunk, trying to figure out if Walter, who was sleeping above me, was awake. Finally I just whispered up to him.

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” he grumbled. “I tried to smother myself with a pillow, but it didn’t work. Maybe you could come knock me out?”

  “You really want me punching you?” I answered, and Walter laughed under his breath. We went silent for a few more moments, which Ben graciously filled with a bunch of short snores all in a row.

  “I’m sort of relieved about the bank. It’s a big job,” Walter finally said, his voice a little edgy, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say this.

  “You wouldn’t have gone in alone or anything,” I reassured him. Walter got jumpy on missions—he was the sort of guy who could rewire a light grid flawlessly in the practice room but would freeze up in the field.

  “That wasn’t really what I meant, actually,” Walter said, his voice lower now. “I mean, it’s a big job. SRS would be so angry. And they’ve still got my mom . . .”

  I felt stupid for not realizing what he meant, so I scrambled. “Oh. Well. Your mom is tough as nails. They wouldn’t be able to hurt her even if they wanted to. She’d go on the run.”

  “Like your parents?”

  I was quiet for a long time, thinking, No, not like my parents. Because, see, my parents went on the run even though it meant leaving me and Kennedy, because getting out of SRS was the right thing to do—because they were heroes, and sometimes heroes had to do really hard things like that. Right? But Walter was already gone—his mom could just leave. She could walk out right now, and if anything, she’d be even closer to getting to be with Walter again—it’d practically be easy! Yet, she was staying with SRS. She was just choosing to stay with the bad guys.

  I thought I could guess why she was staying. Because it was easier. She knew who she was at SRS—she knew the rules, the system, the goals. She didn’t know who she’d be here on the outside. But if I could get out despite all that, then so could she, right?

  Out loud, though, I finally said, “Yeah, I guess like my parents. They could join up, maybe. Help each other out. And then when SRS is done for, we’ll all go to some theme park together.”

  Walter laughed a little under his breath, sounding relieved that I’d finally said something. “You on a roller coaster. Sure, Hale. Sure.”

  “I let Ben strap inventions I don’t understand to my belt every day. I promise you, I’m totally cool with a roller coaster,” I answered, but I laughed too. Ben stopped snoring for a second, and I thought maybe we’d woken him up. We went still . . .

  SNORE.

  Walter and I laughed more, trying to keep quiet, but doing so only made my stomach muscles burn and twist, which made me laugh more. Finally we settled down, and Ben rolled over a little so he was snoring at the wall instead of right at us. I was sort of getting that black, dizzy feeling, about to fall asleep, when Walter spoke, his voice low again, like he hoped I was already out.

  “I know you’re mad that so many people stayed at SRS, Hale. But I think you—we—have to remember that SRS—they’re the bad guys. They’re the ones that used us, your parents, my mom, everyone—”

  “Maybe Hastings,” I said, frowning. “He looked really scared at the bank today—maybe he’s not helping them so much as they’re using him, just like they used us.”

  “Right, maybe. But what I’m saying is, I know you’re

  mad that so many people stayed, but sometimes, I think, it’s just hard for people to do the right thing.”

  Hastings’s face was still in my head, but I pushed it aside to answer Walter. “Of course it’s hard. It was hard for my parents to leave me and Kennedy. But when you know it’s the right thing, you have to do it.”

  “Right,” Walter said quietly.

  I looked at the bedsprings above me, thinking about Walter on the other side of them. Sometimes I think he wished I’d never told him the truth about SRS and The League.

  Sometimes I wished I didn’t know the truth either. But that’s not the way the truth works—the truth doesn’t care if you believe in it or know about it or like it. It doesn’t care if sometimes you wish it would all go away, and that you could be back in apartment 300 with your mom and dad and sister like any normal superspy family.

  Hard or scary or complicated, the truth is just the truth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “SRS used us. And I’m telling you, they’re using Hastings too. He needs our help,” I said firmly the next morning.

  Otter looked at me like I was just as disappointing as the cup of instant coffee he was nursing. “First off, you don’t know that, Jordan. You’re just assuming because the guy looked nervous at the bank. Secondly, “used” doesn’t mean the same thing as “threatened.” Hastings probably knows exactly what he’s doing for SRS—and is probably being paid very, very well for it.”

  “He didn’t look nervous; he looked scared,” I said. “Look, all I’m saying is, we go to his house. We see if he needs our help getting out of SRS. If not, we leave Geneva.”

  “After a helicopter tour?” Clatterbuck said wistfully from the kitchen.

  “My hand to god, Clatterbuck, if you mention that helicopter tour
one more time . . . ,” Otter said through gritted teeth. He looked back to me. “And if he tells SRS about us coming to see him?”

  “If he were going to tell SRS about us, he’d have done it yesterday,” I pointed out.

  “He’s got a point,” Walter said from across the table. Walter had his own instant coffee, but he wasn’t drinking it. I think he just wanted to hold it and make himself look older.

  Otter scowled. “All the more reason for us to leave now. We’re not going to Hastings’s house, and that’s final.”

  We were going to Hastings’s, though, because everyone else was on board with me, so Otter was outvoted. We used the Internet to find Hastings’s home address. And then we went to his house. All of us, actually—Otter wanted to make it just himself, me, and Walter, but the others started complaining about being cooped up and wanting to do something and what did it matter if it wasn’t really a mission so much as a visit to find out if Hastings was being used or paid? Otter relented, then went and lay down for a long time, because we “made him tired.”

  We all packed into a big orange-and-white public bus and rode it up to Hastings’s neighborhood, just past the enormous lake on the northern edge of Geneva. When we arrived at Hastings’s address, I gave Otter a defeated look. It was the biggest house on the street, with a view of Lake Geneva and the Swiss Alps. It wasn’t something a banker—even an upper-management sort of banker—could afford, which meant Otter was likely right—SRS did pay Hastings, and they paid him very, very well.

  Walter reached the door first; he glanced back at us and then reached out and knocked hastily on it. It took a few moments, but then finally we heard shoes clapping on the floor. The door swung open.

  “What do you want?” Hastings asked sharply in German.

  “Er, ein . . . ein—no, wir—” Walter stumbled; languages had never been his forte. I stepped around Walter and squared my shoulders to Hastings.