A Spy Like Me

  Twenty-nine

  I scrambled to my feet. Marie stood over me with a finger to her lips, pointing to the side yard. “Leave. Quickly.”

  I searched her eyes but found nothing that revealed the truth. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is Aimee okay?”

  She shook her head. “You must leave now. I must get back inside.”

  “But. . .” I tried to argue, but she forcibly pushed me away.

  When I heard Jolie call to her from inside the house, I took one last look at her warm eyes before running.

  The next morning, I was ready to go. But this time I was prepared. Water bottles, granola bars, camera, binoculars, hairpins, Band-aids, and a crowbar. If I were going to end up in a dirty henhouse again, I’d have the basics. I strode into the kitchen, confident, in control, ready to take on the world of espionage with the best of them.

  Dad sat at the kitchen table buried in the newspaper as usual. I poured a cup of coffee, black this time. I didn’t need a sugar crash later in the day. The steam coated my face in warmth.

  “Any more shootings?” I asked.

  “Thankfully, no. But I’ve pulled shooting blanks at our clients from the program, for now, until this dies down.”

  I bit into an apple and munched. “Good idea.”

  Every morning, any time Dad and I bumped into each other, Spy Games became the topic of the day. I could change and let him into my life by talking about Malcolm, or about Mom. But if I brought those subjects up, and Dad asked questions or we fell into a serious talk, I’d have to lie. I don’t think he’d do well with, “Oh, by the way, Mom could be an assassin,” or “Yeah, funny thing, Malcolm is spying on our family and a pastry chef might have it out for me,” or even worse, “I have thousands of dollars stuffed in my closet.” Yeah, no. He had experience running a business, and anything I said he’d blow off as paranoia. Or he’d take over and lock me in my room. No way.

  I played his game. “How’s the new route coming along? Are we ready for Spy Games this weekend?”

  He flipped down the newspaper and gave me the eye, suspicious that I even cared. I don’t blame him because most of me didn’t. It was called deflection. Let’s talk about you so we don’t talk about me. And he always fell for it.

  “It’s great. We’re all set for this Saturday. I think the new addition will be perfect. I’m thinking of expanding even more, trying for a game every weekend instead of twice a month.”

  “Money?” I asked, suddenly feeling guilty about the hidden wads of cash, and remembering the phone call I’d heard from under his bed.

  But I had no idea where the money came from. What if I used it and then found out it was stolen and some mad man with muscles the size of a truck came after me and broke my kneecaps? No thanks.

  “Well, yes. And it will be good for the business. Get the word out.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the coffee maker and then to the front door.

  “Expecting someone?” I finished my apple and tossed it into the trash.

  Dad nodded to the fridge. “There are some leftover pancakes in the fridge if you want them.”

  “Thanks.” I warmed them up in the microwave, not falling for Dad’s trick of changing the topic. Maybe I learned my conversational tactics from him. While dowsing them in syrup, I said casually, “So, someone stopping by? Gray? Nancy?”

  Dad coughed and lifted the newspaper. “Spy Games business.”

  “Don’t think,” I stuffed pancakes in my mouth, “that I can’t see what you’re doing.”

  “What?” Dad feigned shock.

  “That’s right. Vague answers. What do you want me to do?”

  A smile lit up his face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “And perfect timing,” Dad said. “Come on in!”

  Malcolm entered, and I about peed my pants. Good going, Dad.

  Thirty minutes later, Malcolm and I stood outside the Notre Dame cathedral. Tourists brushed past us to enter the old church, but I wasn’t ready. Again, the cobblestones got to me. I loved them. I lifted my head straight back and stared up at the stone structure carved with so many saints and intricate details. Incredible. That might be why I barely noticed when Malcolm slipped his arm around me.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  If history could be carried on a breeze, it rushed and swirled around me. The sounds of ancient priests, the clip clop of horses, the ring of the giant bell I knew was hidden in the cathedral’s towers.

  “Can you imagine?” I whispered.

  “What?” he whispered back.

  “Being here, living here. Sometimes I’d love to touch the iron fence, the right one, and I’d travel back in time.”

  “That sounds great, but I have to work this afternoon. And we’re on a mission for your dad.”

  Right. I shook it off along with Malcolm’s arm.

  “Let’s go.”

  As we walked under the arches, I felt the crowbar press through the backpack into my back. I shouldn’t have to use it if I played the game. And if Malcolm didn’t act suspicious.

  Again, an overwhelming sense of history in the black and white checkered floor and the vaulted ceilings washed over me. The long halls and the muted light filtering in through the stained glass windows made me whisper.

  “I don’t think this is going to work for Spy Games.”

  “Why not?” Malcolm spun, his outstretched arm pointing to the interior. “I think it’s great. Another big tourist place.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a church. Isn’t it wrong to play games here? And we have to pay to get to the towers. Dad’s looking to cut costs.”

  We paid the fee and headed toward the start of the spiral stairs.

  “That’s what your dad said when I suggested we check this place out—”

  “This was your idea?” I stopped in my tracks, right at the bottom of the stairs.

  A chill descended into my bones. He set this whole thing up? Since I didn’t trust Malcolm, I had to look at the deeper reason he brought me here. I knew he didn’t care about Spy Games.

  “Isn’t this the church famous for the hunchback?” I asked.

  “Yes, exactly. That’s why I think people will love it, especially Americans.”

  That hunchback was held prisoner in the towers overlooking Paris. Held prisoner. Was this a veiled threat? Or was I being too melodramatic? All of a sudden every tourist pointing a camera in my direction became the enemy. Every man in a suit coat with a Bluetooth in his ear became a possible assassin. What if Jolie had goons following us with plans to shoot me down with a special camera? It’s been done before. I could end up in something worse than a smelly chicken coop. Like a coffin. After they extracted whatever secret information they thought I had embedded deep in my psyche.

  Adrenaline rushed through my limbs, and I wanted to whip out the crowbar, just in case. I took a deep breath and forced myself to climb the stairs. From the outside, I had to look like I was enjoying myself, out on a date with a cute boy. I grabbed Malcolm’s hand and swung our arms like we were an innocent couple in love.

  He sneaked a glance at me and smiled. In that moment, I wanted to tell him everything. About the money, the Extravaganza, that I had no clue what they wanted to know. That I wasn’t a spy, that I wasn’t a danger to anyone. A part of me trusted him, trusted the nice boy who planned picnics and wanted me to be safe.

  “What?”

  Then I remembered his conversation with Pouffant, his willingness to spy on me. “I was just thinking how we’ve got a lot of stairs to climb. Let’s get started.”

  We climbed around and around and around. The stairs were endless. My legs burned.

  “How much longer?” I puffed out.

  “We’re almost halfway. Trust me, the climb is totally worth it. Even if we don’t use it in Spy Games, you’ve got to make the climb at least once.”

  “I’m not sure about that. There’s no way we can do this for the games.
Just climbing the stairs will take two hours!”

  I stopped to rest. An echo of footsteps behind us also stopped.

  “Okay,” I said, “Let’s do this.”

  After a couple minutes, I stopped. Again, a few seconds later, the footsteps behind us stopped too. We were being followed.