“Ah, look who’s awake.” Her hands were busy grating Parmesan cheese, so she bypassed the hug and leaned over to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Hello, sleepyhead.”
“It’s not Sunday, is it?” I asked, a bit nervous.
“No, it’s still Saturday,” she replied to my relief. “I figured I’d break with tradition and make your favorite meal a day early. You know, because you’re such a good son. Oh, and the part about you saving over sixty-five million dollars in art from being stolen didn’t hurt.”
I smiled. “That really happened, huh? I thought maybe I had dreamed it.”
“No, it happened,” exclaimed a voice.
I turned to see Margaret sitting at the table, a big, goofy grin on her face.
“It’s all over the news and I have been waiting all day to hear the inside story,” she continued.
“Hey, Margaret, when did you get here?”
“After my game.”
It was only then that it registered she was wearing her DC Dynamo soccer jersey. “Oh, wait! Today was the play-offs. Did I miss it?”
“Just by a couple hours,” she said. “And it’s a shame, because I was amazing. In fact, the reason I came over was to give you a hard time for missing it. But then your mom told me about what happened and I figured it was an acceptable excuse. Barely acceptable. But acceptable.”
“Did you win?” I asked.
“Four–nothing, remember the part about me being amazing?” she said. “But we can talk about soccer later. I want to hear about the robbery. It’s all over the news, but there hasn’t been anything about a twelve-year-old boy as part of the story. Start at the beginning. You know, right after the part where I had to convince you the copyist was suspicious and worth looking into. Start there.”
I laughed and began to fill her in on what happened. I told her about arriving at the crime scene and telling the FBI about the copyist. I went through the details of the missing janitor and the search for the three paintings. I explained it all, and by the time I got to the discovery of the paintings, she and my mother were on the edge of their seats. (Mom had heard only bits and pieces of it before I went to sleep.)
“Mom and I were about to leave when I finally realized the importance of the size of the paintings,” I said.
“I still don’t get that part,” Margaret said.
“They had to be small enough to fit into the garbage bag on his cart,” I explained. “But more important, they had to fit into the machine that bundled all the cardboard boxes together for recycling. It was a great plan because the boxes provided padding to protect the paintings from getting hurt. And the recycling truck would have actually taken them out of the museum. All the thief had to do was wait for them to be delivered at the recycling center.”
“That. Is. Amazing,” Margaret said. “After they found the paintings, did they catch the guy who stole them? Did they find the eighth janitor?”
“Actually . . . I don’t know. I’ve been asleep. Mom?”
“Not yet,” she answered. “Your dad said the FBI set up a stakeout at the recycling center, but he didn’t show up. He’s still out there somewhere.”
That made me happy they hadn’t mentioned me on the news. I was part of the reason someone lost $65 million. He was mad and the last thing I wanted was for him to even know I existed.
“So who’s hungry?” asked Mom. “I think we should go ahead and eat without your dad. There’s no telling when he’ll get home.”
The spaghetti was delicious (of course), and while we ate I tried to fill in any gaps I may have left in the story. We also got Margaret to tell us all about her soccer game, which on any other day would have been the big news.
“Does that mean you’re in the WAGS championship?” I asked as I twirled some pasta onto my fork.
“We play the final next week,” she said. “And I better see you there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Unless of course the FBI needs any more help with international art crimes.”
“What’s WAGS?” asked my mom.
“Washington Area Girls Soccer,” explained Margaret. “It’s made up of leagues all over the District. There are about a hundred teams in our division.”
“And you’re playing for the championship?”
Margaret nodded and smiled.
“That’s impressive,” said Mom.
Just then the front door opened and my dad hurried into the house. “Hello,” he called out.
“In here,” said Mom. “Sorry, we started without you. We didn’t know when you’d get home.”
“Actually, I’m just here for a second,” he replied as he came into the kitchen. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
“Hello, Mrs. Bates,” said the man following Dad. “I’m Special Agent Marcus Rivers of the FBI. We didn’t get a chance for an official introduction last night.”
“Well, you had a lot going on,” Mom joked as she stood up and shook his hand.
“He’s the agent in charge,” I whispered to Margaret.
Despite the fact that he probably hadn’t slept at all, Agent Rivers still looked as sharp as he did the night before. The only difference was that he’d switched from the dark blue suit to a dark gray one.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” asked my mother.
He took a deep whiff and practically swooned. “I’d love nothing more, but I’m in something of a fluid situation at the moment.” He turned his attention to Margaret and me. “Florian, is this the friend you were with when you saw the man in the museum?”
“Yes,” I said. “This is Margaret.”
“Nice to meet you, Margaret,” he replied. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how can I get in touch with your parents?”
“My parents?” she asked. “Am I in trouble of some kind?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s just that you’re a minor and I’m going to need them to be involved.”
“I think they’re at the grocery store,” she said. “But they should be back in half an hour.”
Rivers checked his watch and looked back up at her. “Actually, we don’t have that much time. Why don’t we call them there?” He handed his phone to her. “Just dial the number.”
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“I need you both to come down to the Hoover Building.”
“What’s the Hoover Building?” I asked.
“FBI Headquarters.”
10.
The Bureau
MARGARET WAS EXCITED. HANDS-IN-the-air-on-a-roller-coaster excited. Except instead of whizzing around a theme park, we were racing down Massachusetts Avenue.
“This is so cool!” she exclaimed as the agent behind the wheel expertly maneuvered in and out of traffic. “Imagine if you could get to school this way. You’d never get another tardy.”
“No, but you might get whiplash,” I replied as my fingers gripped my armrest. (Did I mention that I hate roller coasters?)
We were riding in a government-issue black SUV with an armored body and bulletproof windows. “It’s not like anyone’s going to shoot at us,” Rivers assured us when he told us about these features. “That’s just how they come.”
After we’d wolfed down the rest of our spaghetti while he spoke with Margaret’s parents on the phone, Margaret raced home to change. Then we all piled into the vehicle. Mom and Dad sat in the back row, Margaret and me in the middle, and Rivers in the passenger seat, while another agent drove.
Fast.
Apparently, FBI agents don’t have to follow the speed limit when they’re on a case.
“Look, look, look!” Margaret said, pointing at a tourist holding up her phone to take a picture. “She’s taking our picture. She thinks we’re important.” Margaret smiled and waved even though the tinted window made it impossible for the woman to see her.
“Why exactly are we going to the Hoover Building?” I asked.
“Two reasons,” said Rivers. “I want you two to look at some pictures to see if
you recognize the man you saw in the museum.”
“I. Told. You. So,” Margaret said, poking me in the shoulder to punctuate each word. “He’s an international hit man. Couldn’t be more obvious.”
“Actually, he’s not,” replied the agent. “But he may be involved with some high-end art crimes. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“What’s the other reason?” asked my mother.
“Admiral Douglas wants to personally thank Florian for his help last night,” he said. “We’re going to stop by his office.”
“Admiral Douglas?” I asked. “Who’s he?”
“Admiral David Denton Douglas is the director of the FBI,” explained Rivers “He’s a close adviser of the president and as powerful as they get. In all his years as director, this is the first time he’s ever requested a meeting with an eleven-year-old.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m twelve.”
Rivers laughed.
“I’m just messing with you,” he said. “I know all about you, Florian Bates. You were born at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, on March twenty-fourth to parents James and Francesca Bates. Most recently you attended the Castelli International School in Rome, where you got straight As except for a B in physical education.”
“How do you get a B in PE?” asked Margaret.
“It’s a long story,” I said with a sour face, unhappy to be reminded of what I considered a miscarriage of academic justice.
“And you will soon be starting eighth grade at Alice Deal Middle School,” Rivers continued. “Where you’ll be part of the International Baccalaureate program. Very impressive, by the way.”
“How do you know all that?”
“The I in FBI, it stands for ‘investigation,’ ” he said. “We know things. Besides, you’re about to meet the director. We don’t let that happen without a thorough background check.”
“Well, just for the record, it’s not certain that I’ll be in the IB program,” I told him. “I’ve applied for it but won’t find out if I was accepted until next week.”
“Okay,” Rivers replied. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that. Just act surprised when they tell you.”
Margaret and I shared a happy look. She was already in IB and this meant we’d have classes together.
“What about me?” she asked playfully. “Do you know anything about me?”
Agent Rivers opened an e-mail on his phone and started reading. “Margaret Campbell. Daughter of Paul and Denise Campbell. Both attorneys. Also a student at Alice Deal Middle School.” He looked up from his phone. “Favorite color: purple.”
She was blown away. “The FBI knows my favorite color?”
He shook his head. “No, I looked at the purple shirt, the purple sneakers, and the purple nail polish and took a guess. With regard to the other stuff, I called it in as soon as Florian told me your name.”
The SUV pulled into an underground parking structure where an agent was already waiting. He gave us visitor badges and within seconds we were on an elevator. I wasn’t sure if we were in a rush because we were on a tight schedule or if the Bureau wanted to make sure no one saw us there.
We got out on the fifth floor, which was a maze of offices and cubicles. Because it was a Saturday, most were empty, but there were some people scattered about.
“Working on a Saturday,” Margaret said. “That’s just not right.”
“Yeah, well, we haven’t had much luck convincing the criminals to take the weekends off, but we’re trying,” he joked. “This area is all dedicated to major theft investigations. Cargo Theft over there. Jewelry and Gems next to that. And this is Art.”
“Your office,” I said.
“Home sweet home.”
A few minutes later, Margaret’s parents were ushered in and we all sat down on a pair of couches. Each family on a different couch with the kids in the middle.
“Now that we’re all here, I’d like to officially welcome you to the Hoover Building,” Rivers said. “And I’d like to thank you for doing this on such short notice.”
“Sure,” said Margaret’s dad. “But what exactly are we doing?”
“Margaret and Florian reported seeing a suspicious person at the National Gallery. We want to show them a photo array to see if they can identify that man.”
“Is this dangerous?” asked her mother.
“Not at all,” he said. “One of the reasons we’re doing this on a Saturday in my office is because that way they’ll be nowhere near anyone who might identify them. We’re not asking them to testify in court. We’ve just received some surveillance footage and we want to know if we’re looking at the right guy.”
The four parents all shared some concerned looks but nodded their agreement.
“Great, let’s start with Margaret,” he said. “Why don’t you and your parents come with me, while the Bates family waits here? I don’t want your identification to influence Florian’s.”
They left the room and I sat there with my parents.
“This has been a crazy twenty-four hours,” Mom said under her breath.
“You’re not kidding,” replied my father.
Normally, you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their office. But all I could tell about Agent Rivers was that he’s neat. Extremely neat. The only personal touch on his desk was a picture of him at a graduation with his parents and a younger sister. His mom and dad looked proud. His sister looked bored. Other than that, there was no hint as to what his life outside of law enforcement might involve. The shelves of his bookcase were filled with neatly organized art books, and the walls had an impressive display of diplomas. He had a bachelor’s degree from Harvard and a master’s and PhD from Georgetown. No wonder his parents looked so proud.
It took less than two minutes for them to come back to the room. “All right, Florian. Your turn.”
My parents and I followed him into a large room near his office.
“We call this the bullpen,” he said. “It’s where we brainstorm different cases.”
The room had a few tables and large marker boards on each wall. Each board had information about a different case. On one board there were pictures of the interior and exterior of the National Gallery, diagrams of the crime scene, copies of each of the three paintings, and a timeline of events.
“We call this a case board,” he explained. “It’s where we put what we know about a case so we can all be on the same page. You see that empty space there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“That’s where we’d like to have a photo of our prime suspect,” he explained. “Hopefully you’ll be able to help us with that.”
“I’ll do my best,” I replied.
“I know you will,” he told me. “I’m going to show you six photographs and I want you to tell me if any one of them is the man you saw at the National Gallery. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Don’t tell me something that you think you might remember. Only tell me what you are exactly certain of. Understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He put a binder in front of me and opened it to reveal two rows of three photographs. It took me all of a second and a half to point to the one in the lower right corner.
“That’s him,” I said. “That’s how he looked the first time we saw him. When he had blond hair and a wife and a baby.”
“Are you certain?”
“Without a doubt,” I assured him.
“That’s exactly what Margaret said.”
He smiled, peeled the photo off the paper, and taped it in the empty spot on the case board. “There now, doesn’t that look better?”
“It sure does,” I said.
He told us to wait while he got Margaret and her parents. When they entered, she smiled the second she saw the picture taped to the case board. She knew that meant I’d identified the same person. Rivers logged on to a computer and turned the monitor toward us.
“Now I want to show you some security footage from Dulles International Airport,” he said. “Tell me if you see the man again.”
He pressed a key and a slideshow of images began to play. Each shot was a picture of someone going through airport security. Each one stayed up for about a second and a half. We watched carefully, trying to make sure we didn’t miss anything.
“That’s him,” both of us said at the exact same time.
Rivers hit the space bar and stopped the slideshow so the picture froze on the screen. In this image, the man looked like he did the second time we saw him, with dark hair. He had a kind, innocent face.
“Are you certain?” asked Rivers. “He looks like a completely different person.”
“There’s no doubt,” I said.
“That’s how he looked when he was a copyist,” added Margaret. “I know it’s him.”
“Go back two pictures,” I said.
Rivers gave me a curious look, but did just that, stopping at a picture of an older man going through security.
“Look,” I said, pointing at the background of the image. “You can see his feet when he was waiting in line. You can see the Europa trainers I was telling you about.”
Rivers smiled. “Okay. I’m convinced.”
He opened a file and referenced it while he talked to us. “We believe his name is Pavel Novak. He’s from the Czech Republic and is thought to have been involved in several art crimes in Eastern Europe. We’ve had no record of him ever coming to the United States before, which is how we missed him.”
“But he’s the guy, right?” said Margaret. “He dressed up as the eighth janitor and stole the paintings.”
“Actually, no,” said Rivers. “These pictures were taken yesterday afternoon, about ten hours before the burglary. When the paintings were being stolen, he was in an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean.”
We mulled this over for a moment.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Rivers nodded. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. He almost certainly was. He just wasn’t the one who stole the paintings from the wall.”
“If he didn’t steal them, then what did he do?” I asked.
“My guess is that he was studying the museum, trying to get a solid feel for everything from schedules to security. Because of you, we know he was in both rooms where there were paintings stolen. That’s a huge help.”