“No can do. It would take over six months to create a backup system capable of housing this much information,” Hammett explained.
“Drat,” Shelley grunted as she pulled out a pen and a pad of paper and jotted something down.
“You’re not even writing. I can see the paper. It’s blank,” Jonathan huffed loudly.
“That’s because the mere act of pretending to write helps me remember things,” Shelley said sheepishly.
“Only three people outside the president and vice president were aware of the vault—Secretary of State Harold Foster, the president’s chief of staff, Alice Englander, and the technology expert who installed the safe, Gupta Nevers,” Hammett informed Jonathan and Shelley as he started to pace.
“No need to worry, we’re on this, we’re going to figure out which one of them is behind the leak ASAP,” Shelley declared, having returned to her usual self-assured manner.
“Oh, because you’ve done this before? Oh wait, that’s right, you haven’t! Come on, Shelley, haven’t you heard of managing expectations?” Jonathan griped.
“Take it down a notch, there’s no need to get your khakis in a bunch!”
Hammett snapped his fingers, refocusing Jonathan and Shelley’s attention back to the matter at hand. “We need you two in the field no more than twenty-four hours from now. So we’re going to train you as best we can with the time allotted. But, as the future of this country depends on the success of this mission, the president has asked MI5, the United Kingdom’s top espionage group, to send two of their best operatives to help. Unfortunately, they can’t get here for at least four days. And we can’t wait four days.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to call the FBI or the CIA?” Jonathan asked in an uneasy tone, overwhelmed by the gravity of the mission before him.
“Those putzes! I wouldn’t trust them to find a missing dog, never mind the vice president of the United States!”
OCTOBER 15, 5:02 P.M. THE LEAGUE OF UNEXCEPTIONAL CHILDREN HEADQUARTERS. WASHINGTON, DC
The room was cold. The air was stale with a faint hint of both coffee and dust.
A threadbare American flag and the seal for the League of Unexceptional Children decorated the wall behind the brown lacquered podium. An olive-green intercom, mounted next to the door, crackled and buzzed.
“We have a 1982 Code Green. All agents are to report to their positions immediately,” an unknown voice boomed.
“A 1982 Code Green?” Jonathan repeated to Shelley as the two sat alone in the middle of ten rows of folding chairs.
“I bet the VP caved. And now the Seal is trying to sell his first document, maybe even the nuclear codes,” Shelley hypothesized dramatically.
“The nuclear codes?! I hadn’t thought of that… how on earth are we—two people who can’t even manage to get Bs on spelling tests—being put in charge of this?” Jonathan asked with a hint of hysteria.
“Who cares? We’re in charge and we’re going to be awesome!” Shelley answered confidently.
“How crazy are you? Because only a crazy person would say that in response to what’s happening. The codes that could blow up this whole country in a second might have just been sold to the highest bidder, and you’re telling me that you actually feel prepared to handle the situation?” Jonathan exploded.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got skills… skills to… buy some dills…” Shelley quietly trailed off.
“Dills? Are you talking about buying dill pickles?” Jonathan asked while shaking his head.
“I was, and I really couldn’t tell you why. It just came out, which is weird since I don’t even like pickles. I’m more of a sugar than a salt kind of girl,” Shelley admitted.
“Has anyone ever diagnosed you with mental issues?”
“You mean like having a great personality? Because if so, the answer is yes,” Shelley proclaimed. “And FYI, Congress is trying to pass a bill to ban khaki, so you may want to look into some other clothing options.”
“Khaki is a great color,” Jonathan responded as he looked down at his trousers. “It tells the world, ‘I plan on paying my taxes when I grow up.’”
“That’s what you want to tell the world? Boring… like, I’m already asleep.”
“And what exactly does your outfit say?” Jonathan asked.
“Sociopath… or at least that’s what I’m aiming for, anyway,” Shelley answered.
“Great. I’ve been tasked to save my country from destruction and my partner is a sociopath,” Jonathan groaned.
“Aspiring sociopath,” Shelley corrected Jonathan. “Apparently sociopaths are super successful.”
Just then Nurse Maidenkirk and Hammett entered the room.
Shelley immediately jumped out of her seat and announced, “There’s been a 1985 Code Green and Jonathan here thinks it’s the nuclear codes, but not me. It’s the president, isn’t it? He’s been kidnapped. I hate to admit it, but I had a feeling, one of my paranormal feelings, that this might happen.”
“Quite the imagination, doll. A 1982 Code Green is the start of a Monopoly game in the lounge. We’ve got over a hundred grounded spies; we’ve got to keep them busy somehow,” Hammett explained, his toothpick hanging from the left side of his lip.
“That was my second guess… Monopoly in the lounge,” Shelley mumbled under her breath.
“I feel this is a good time to bring something rather serious to your attention,” Jonathan interrupted. “Nurse Maidenkirk, Hammett—Shelley has admitted to me that she is a sociopath, which I think we can all agree is not the ideal for an agent.”
Shelley turned and looked at Jonathan in disbelief before refocusing her attention on Nurse Maidenkirk and Hammett.
“I said I was an aspiring sociopath… and believe me, I’ve got a great reason for wanting to be a sociopath: success. That doesn’t really help my case, does it? That’s probably what a sociopath would say. For the record, I haven’t pulled the legs off a grasshopper or anything.”
“I’m going to need a new partner,” Jonathan declared firmly.
“One is born a sociopath, it is not something that can be achieved through sheer determination, Shelley,” Nurse Maidenkirk clarified. “And Jonathan, the only way to get a new partner at League is for your old one to die.”
“Have agents died in the line of duty?” Jonathan asked.
Hammett and Nurse Maidenkirk exchanged a tense look before averting their eyes.
“I’d take that as a yes,” Shelley whispered to Jonathan. “A make-sure-you-have-life-insurance kind of yes.”
“Come on, kiddos,” Hammett said, “we need to get you sworn in and off to training as soon as possible.”
Jonathan and Shelley stood before Hammett with their left hands in the air and their right hands on a book entitled How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave. Positioned off to the side, Nurse Maidenkirk acted as the event’s official witness. Although she seemed far more interested in drawing horns on the man gracing the front page of the Washington Chronicle than the ceremony.
“Do you, Shelley Pauline Brown, promise to serve the League of Unexceptional Children with honor, dedication, and innate mediocrity? To be average amongst greatness? To be forgettable amongst celebrity? To risk your life for your country’s liberties, all the while answering to the wrong name?” Hammett asked solemnly.
“I do,” Shelley stated assuredly.
Hammett then turned to Jonathan and repeated the same speech.
“… to risk your life for your country’s liberties, all the while answering to the wrong name?”
“I do, but only because you seem to really want me here, and because, well, what else do I have going on in my life? But let the record show, I have serious reservations about my capabilities.”
“Duly noted,” Hammett said. “By the authority vested in me by the president of the United States of America, I welcome you to the League of Unexceptional Children.”
Jonathan and Shelley turned and looked at each other. Hammett ha
d been right. Ever since he uttered those first words, nothing had been the same. And as far as they could tell, nothing ever would be the same again.
“Unfortunately, kids, we don’t have time to celebrate. We just received the vice president’s confidential record and it’s not good. It turns out he slept with a night-light until he was sixteen. He quit the Cub Scouts after burning his fingers making a s’more. And he has twice asked a doctor for local anesthesia to remove a splinter. This tells us he has a very low threshold for pain and suffering,” Hammett stated in his usual rapid-fire manner, toothpick still hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“Ticktock, ticktock… time’s running out,” Nurse Maidenkirk interjected ominously.
Hammett nodded. “It’s true, every second you kids aren’t out there, this country is one step closer to obliteration.”
OCTOBER 15, 5:45 P.M. THE LEAGUE OF UNEXCEPTIONAL CHILDREN HEADQUARTERS. WASHINGTON, DC
Standing in the kitchen/break room at the League of Unexceptional Children, Nurse Maidenkirk squinted, lifted her left hand, and then thrust a metal dart straight at the front page of the Washington Chronicle.
“The press calls him the Cookie Monster because he’s always eating cookies, whether walking into court or addressing the judge—there’s a flurry of crumbs falling down his chin,” Nurse Maidenkirk said flatly before effortlessly tossing another dart directly at the man’s left eye. “The name makes him sound warm and fuzzy. But that’s not Alan Feith. He’s a criminal who stole from the weakest members of society to get rich.”
Nurse Maidenkirk then turned to Jonathan and Shelley, who were seated at the round table in the middle of the room. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a mortician so I could dress up dead people. But then I learned about criminals. And I hate criminals. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, we’re here for training… is that something you could help us out with?” Jonathan asked apprehensively.
“Hygiene is a very important part of espionage,” Nurse Maidenkirk stated as she sat down at the table. “And I am not referring to your hygiene, although people have been known to lose limbs due to gangrene and other infections brought on by poor washing habits.”
“I love antibacterial soap,” Shelley bragged.
“As I said, I am not referring to your hygiene, but the hygiene of a scene. You may not be noticed when you walk in. You may not be remembered after you leave. Your words may blend into the background. Your faces into the wallpaper. But your fingerprints do not disappear. Your DNA does not disappear, which is why you are to leave the scene exactly as you found it, without a trace of yourself. Do not blow your nose and leave the tissue in the wastebasket. It’s a genetic calling card—”
“I never get sick, so that’s not a problem for me,” Shelley again interrupted.
“You know who I just heard was sick? Old lady Masterton. You know her, don’t you? She’s the one who lost a couple of fingers in a gardening accident last year,” Nurse Maidenkirk said, looking down at Shelley’s small, pale hands. “Speaking of fingers, you are to wear flesh-colored gloves at all times while on a mission,” she continued while laying two pairs of latex gloves on the table, each matched to Jonathan’s and Shelley’s skin tones, complete with painted-on freckles and fingernails.
“We are so James Bond!” Shelley said excitedly as she tried on the gloves.
“You are not James Bond. You are James Bond’s cousins who are routinely left out of the family newsletter for both a lack of interest and your relatives’ general forgetfulness regarding your existence,” Nurse Maidenkirk clarified. “Now, collect your things and go. Hammett is waiting for you on the Mall.”
OCTOBER 15, 6:12 P.M. THE MALL. WASHINGTON, DC
The National Mall is technically a park, although it looks more like an outdoor promenade lined with gardens, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol building, and museums. And while it is a popular tourist destination, today it was being used as Hammett’s training grounds for espionage.
“It’s like Beijing. There are people everywhere,” Shelley said to Jonathan as the two trailed Hammett along the Mall.
“So you’ve been to Beijing?” Jonathan asked skeptically.
“Beijing is a city in China where people eat really spicy food with chopsticks,” Shelley said as though recalling a fond memory from long ago.
“But have you been to Beijing?” Jonathan pressed on.
“Ugh,” Shelley groaned. “Why do you always have to listen to me?”
Seated on a park bench between Jonathan and Shelley, Hammett kept a copy of the Washington Chronicle folded in his lap. Shelley stared at the picture of Alan Feith, aka the Cookie Monster, pondering what he might look like if someone were to tame his large gray Afro. Having noticed Shelley’s interest in the picture, Hammett promptly turned the paper over. “Alan Feith thought he was above the law. And let me tell you, kids, no one’s above the law. You guys, however, are allowed to go around the law—but more on that later. First things first.” Hammett took two nondescript blue pens from his jacket pocket. “Always carry these with you.”
He then quickly pulled one of them apart, turning it into a strange pliers-type contraption.
“It’s a lock breaker. It will get you into most homes and low-security businesses. Slip the straight bit in the top and the curly bit in the bottom and jimmy it around,” Hammett said before returning the item to its regular form.
“But isn’t it illegal to break and enter?” Jonathan wondered aloud.
“You’ve been tasked to save this country, and with that comes a little leniency,” Hammett explained. “In other words, the president has given you the freedom to work around a few laws. Get it? Got it? Good.”
“If only I’d been part of League when I was caught with black-market Girl Scout badges. Maybe I wouldn’t have been dishonorably discharged.”
“Black-market badges? You mean, you bought badges?” Jonathan asked.
“Listen, Judge Judy, you have no idea how hard it is to start a fire with a little bit of lint and a magnifying glass,” Shelley replied defensively.
“Ticktock, ticktock,” Hammett interjected.
“Sorry,” Jonathan and Shelley mumbled in unison.
“In the highly unlikely event that someone recognizes you, they probably won’t remember your name or how they know you. So redirect them. If they’ve got shiny white teeth and healthy gums, tell them you haven’t seen them since you bumped into them at the dentist. If they look sporty, mention the gym. And if you can’t get a read one way or another, mention the grocery store. Everyone goes to the grocery store. Well, everyone except for your parents, Jonathan—they go to 7-Eleven.”
Jonathan nodded while Shelley looked on jealously—she loved 7-Eleven.
“Now, it’s rare, but we have had instances where agents have been caught in—how should I say—compromising situations. Why, last year alone we had agents discovered illegally entering the Capitol building and the mint. Should this happen, there’s only one thing to do: Show them your report card,” Hammett said as he handed Shelley and Jonathan their very own pocket-sized editions of How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave.
“Inside this book, which you are to keep on you at all times, is a copy of your actual report cards, albeit with different last names. There are also pictures of Vice President Carl Felinter. We have found that a great many League operatives have no idea what our elected officials look like.”
“Not me! I know Carl Felinter like the front of my hand… or is it the sole of my foot?” Shelley stopped to think. “Never mind, I know Carl. He’s a short, bald man with an enormous stomach and an English accent.”
“Doll, I believe you’re describing Winston Churchill. And not only is he dead, but he was never vice president,” Hammett corrected Shelley. “Also in the book are pictures of technology specialist Gupta Nevers; the president’s chief of staff, Alice Englander; and Secretary of State Harold Foster—the only three people ou
tside of the president and vice president who were aware of the secret vault.”
“What’s the point of the report card?” Jonathan asked as he flipped through the book.
“No one will think that a kid with straight Cs is working as a spy,” Hammett replied.
“But what if someone sees us reading the book and is interested in it?” Jonathan speculated.
“No one will ever ask to look at a copy of How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave unless they’re an agent too,” Hammett assured the boy.
“I don’t know about that. I’ve always wanted to know how to get all the kernels to pop without any of them burning,” Jonathan expounded.
“That statement alone solidifies your place in the League,” Hammett remarked, shaking his head.
The sky had morphed into a mix of pink and orange, highlighting the silhouettes of the skyline.
“Look at this place—gorgeous, isn’t it? And just think, somewhere out there the Seal’s got our vice president—and heaven knows what he’s doing to get that second code,” Hammett said as he tucked the newspaper under his arm and stood up. “On your stompers, we need to move. Don’t stay too long in one place. It attracts attention, and you never know who might be eavesdropping.”
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to eavesdrop on me,” Shelley said wistfully.
Ignoring Shelley, Hammett casually peered around before speaking again. “Your job is to get information. Get in, talk to the target if necessary, and get out as fast as you can. By the time the target realizes your questions were a bit off the beaten path, you will be gone and all the target will have is a fuzzy memory of someone who doesn’t exist. That’s right, you don’t exist because whomever they remember doesn’t look a thing like you. Not one thing.”
Jonathan stepped closer to Hammett and whispered, “And what kind of questions are we supposed to ask?”
“We will brief you beforehand. Now.” Hammett smiled at them. “I think you’re ready.”