Forty-three
I left Jolie for the moment and inched my way through the crowd, closer and closer, squeezing between two reporters huddled in conversation. I grabbed a tray of pastries and lifted it up in front of my face, a pitiful attempt at camouflage. The few pastries on it weren’t even stacked high enough. So with the confidence of a trained F.B.I. agent, I made my way to all the contestants’ tables, and when they weren’t looking, I grabbed a pie, a cake, or some kind of pastry to build my tower.
I absolutely could not let Malcolm see me.
About ten yards away, I peeked around a strawberry tart. Malcolm was shaking his finger in the face of a street mime with black lips and black triangles above and below his eyes. I gripped the tray to prevent myself from dropping it and running. Taking baby steps, I moved as close as I could without being obvious. I turned my back and listened. The tower of pastries wobbled a bit. The frosting shone in the sun. My arms strained under the weight.
“What the hell is your problem?” Malcolm snarled.
“Just watching out for you.”
“Go back home. You haven’t left me alone since I found her.”
The mime laughed. “Does someone have a little crush? Do you know how dangerous that is? Thank God I’m here. To get the job done.”
Malcolm lowered his voice, and I couldn’t hear.
I pushed through the crowds a bit further. How did Malcolm know the mime so well?
The mime spoke. “Do you have the guts to follow through, or should I?”
Follow through? My arms shook harder, and I almost dropped the tray. Was Jolie in danger? Or was I? Aimee counted on her grandfather. She loved him. She needed him. In one big flood my feelings toward Jolie changed. I wanted to save him for real.
“Back off,” Malcolm threatened. “I got this. And I’ll take care of the girl too.”
The colors and sounds of the Extravaganza swirled around me. The classical music started to sound like something from a horror movie—the part where the main character gets killed. The sugary smells made me feel sick. The M word sat in the back of my throat, and I had to take in deep breaths.
I rushed away on wobbly legs, scared I’d give in to my impulse to slam my tray of delights into their faces. Why would the mime be following Malcolm around? Why would they want to murder Jolie? And what girl would they be taking care of? Me?
Jolie’s voice roared above the crowd. He held out his arms in a lame attempt to ward off the Spy Games’ teams. But he must have had enough, because with a grand flourish, he reached into his coat and threw what had to be the next clue into the crowds. The papers fluttered in the breeze, dancing over the heads of the spies.
In a mad frenzy, they rushed forward, knocking over reporters, grabbing at the air, desperate for the clue. He never should have underestimated the competitive drive and determination of the people that sign up for Spy Games. I never would again. My eyes widened as a couple of the clues completed whirly birds and landed gently on the top of Jolie’s entry to the contest.
Silence gripped the crowds as the last clue landed. It was a perfect distraction for me to talk to Jolie, whisper words of warning in his ear. I crouched, but as I approached, men in tuxedos closed in on me. Jolie’s minions. Who else could they be?
They stood in a perfect line, not saying a word, their faces unreadable. I half expected them to start kicking up their legs in a line dance they were so perfectly organized. Did they spring from the cobblestones? Maybe it was coincidence. I waved my hand at them, gesturing I needed to get through.
“Excuse-moi!”
They didn’t blink an eye. Damn. I was stuck.
“Savvy?”
I whipped around. Dad? The lines on his forehead looked like mountain ridges.
“Hey, Dad!” I forced a smile and waved, a tad bit relieved.
They couldn’t drag me away, not with Dad to protect me. He eyed the line-up of men in tuxedos and leaned closer to me.
“What is this all about?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” My voice sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk.
“This.” He pointed to the mountain of pastries on my tray.
“Oh, that. I, um, entered the pastry contest.”
He would be proud if he knew the truth. I had finally become everything he wanted me to be. I was sneaky. I lied to him about not feeling well, and I’d rubbed shoulders with a bad guy.
He pointed to the crowd of Spy Games clients all grasping at the paper clues.
“Please tell me you don’t have anything to do with this.”
“I don’t. They all arrived at the same time. Promise.”
The line of Jolie’s men stepped closer, their top hats blocking out the sun. Dad eyed them while pulling me a few steps away.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
Time for the truth. If I could face down bad men and save a prisoner, I could face my dad.
“I’m sorry.” I searched his eyes, looking for some hint of understanding or compassion. “When you wouldn’t believe Aimee had been kidnapped, I stole into your office to find out where Peyton lived.”
Dad’s mouth formed an O, and he surveyed the scene with a knowing look.
“While I was looking at your files, you came back, and I overheard you talking about money troubles so I entered the Extravanganza. I won first place and advanced to the finals. There’s prize money, and if I win, you can have it all.”
The words seemed useless and my voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s why I lied earlier about not feeling well.”
The crowd screamed. Dad and I turned and watched. The moment of reckoning had arrived. The group of clients had jumped at the remaining clues on top of Jolie’s mountain of elegantly displayed fruit tarts in the shape of a dove or a pelican. Some kind of bird.
“Mon Dieu!” Jolie dove at the crowd with his arms spread, pushing the crowds away from his masterpiece.
Okay. I felt a tiny bit bad. As the spies-in-training struggled over the clues, they gave no regard to the tarts. In a matter of seconds, they were covered in an assortment of colors. Strawberry juice dripped off their hands like blood. It could’ve been a rated R violent movie scene. Dad gripped me in a hug. I tensed, ready for the lecture.
“I’m proud of you, Savvy.”
I pulled away. “Say that again?” He had to be kidding.
“I’m not saying you did everything right. But you took risks. And that man has been the most stubborn mule to work with. He deserves it.”
I smiled. Dad didn’t know the half of it. Jolie gave up on his tarts. He stood with his back to us, his shoulders heaving. His body trembled. I tried to step back, but the wall of minions blocked my way. Inch by inch, Jolie turned around. He searched the crowds, back and forth, until his eyes landed on me. He shoved the reporters and his fans to the side and stormed over to me, his eyes flashing.
And that was when I fully grasped the old cliché of, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”