Tinsley brushed away the tears that had welled in the corners of her eyes and smoothed the imaginary creases from her pale pink trousers.
‘Mrs Chalmers, you are the luckiest woman in the world to be married to such a good man who loves you so much,’ Rosa said. She shook her head, marvelling at her own good fortune to be working for such an important family.
‘Yes, the luckiest woman in the world,’ Tinsley repeated, glancing at the tiny camera above the door.
After the chill of London, Kensy was absolutely wilting. It wasn’t just the heat that was confronting. The incessant chorus of cicadas coupled with the strong smell of eucalyptus was beginning to give her a headache, but maybe she was a bit jetlagged too.
‘I think we should head back home,’ Max suggested, eyeing his sister. He nodded at the copy of the Beacon tucked under Fitz’s arm. ‘We could see if there are any more details about you know what.’
Fitz grinned at the boy. ‘Your grandmother would be impressed to hear you say that. You know she’s counting on you.’
‘And me,’ Kensy snapped.
‘Of course, Kens – she’s counting on both of you,’ Fitz said. He made a note to cajole her into having a rest this afternoon. It was a certain indication the girl was exhausted when she started biting people’s heads off.
There was no sign of Song once they got home, although when Max walked past the video screen in the kitchen he noticed that the man was on the roof terrace doing a spot of tai chi.
Fitz handed Max the newspaper and headed upstairs. ‘Go nuts, kids. I’ve got to do some reading myself. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘So, do you think this is a real mission or Granny’s way of getting us out of London for a while?’ Kensy asked, plonking herself down at the kitchen table.
Max shrugged. ‘Fitz said she was relying on us.’
‘I know, but don’t you think it’s all a bit too convenient that suddenly we’re on a mission on the other side of the world?’ Kensy ripped open the bag of Violet Crumbles and dived in. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unhappy about being away from whoever wants us dead for a while; it’s just weird missing school – well, our school.’
Max sat down and spread the latest edition of the Beacon on the table. The front-page story was about the British Prime Minister cutting the ribbon on a new wing at one of the London hospitals. ‘We can’t really question Granny’s motives – she is the boss, after all. Any way, these kids exist, and they must be in some kind of danger if they require surveillance.’
‘Go to the finance section,’ Kensy said through a mouthful of Violet Crumble. ‘I want to see if I can decode the messages the way Miss Ziegler taught us last week.’
‘I don’t know if we’d be expected to work out anything that complicated. What about the death notices? They’re easier, and Miss Z said that was another favourite way to communicate.’ Max thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here they are.’ He ran his finger down the summary of names. ‘What about this? Grey, Sydney – that’s got to be for us.’
* * *
MRS SYDNEY GREY
Departed this life 16 February. Much-loved mother and wife. Funeral plans to be announced soon. We take comfort that her suffering has ended and she is now at peace. Donations in lieu of flowers to Children in Need.
* * *
Kensy leaned in to study the text, scattering crumbs onto the page. She dusted them off, leaving a brown smear across the message. ‘Oops. How do we know which words we’re supposed to be paying attention to, anyway?’
Max removed the page they were looking at, then turned to the daily cryptic crossword. He studied the numbers in the left column of the grid. ‘Look – write this down. Eleven, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-one, forty.’
Kensy wrote the numbers, then Max counted off to each word in the funeral notice until a phrase materialised: Mother plans to take children.
Kensy screwed up her nose. ‘That’s not much to go on. Parents can take their children if they want to – unless she’s intending to do them harm. I don’t understand.’
‘Maybe there’s a custody dispute and she’s scheming to take them out of the country or something,’ Max said. ‘We’ll have to check the paper again tomorrow.’ He smiled to himself. It felt pretty cool to be decoding a real-life message and not just one of the exercises in their spy classes.
Upstairs, Fitz was thinking that, so far, their mission brief had been exactly that – brief. Before their departure from London, he’d received an encrypted file with some pertinent details, including the names of the children Kensy and Max were assigned to befriend. A relatively easy internet search had revealed their targets to be the grandchildren of Cordelia’s best friend, Faye Chalmers. The rest of the notes he had were about the school. They still had to find out the reason for the surveillance. Given the fact Faye’s son, Dash Chalmers, ran the world’s largest pharmaceutical company, there was a strong possibility of a kidnap plot. Fitz was planning to update the children later that day and hoped they would discover more in the paper too.
He leaned back against the pillows. The last time he’d taken up a role in a school, he’d found himself teaching Science. Thankfully, PE was more up his alley. A thought crossed his mind, and he hopped off the bed and walked into the wardrobe, where he pulled down a pair of trousers that were hanging at the end of the rack. As he did so, the wall slid back to reveal a thin cavity lined with a range of lethal weapons. Fitz selected a small-calibre handgun and checked that it was loaded, then placed it in the top drawer of the bedside table. Although Cordelia was confident no one knew the children’s location, he couldn’t afford to take risks, especially when the evidence pointed to the fact that Pharos had a mole in their midst.
‘This is so itchy,’ Fitz complained. He rubbed under his nose and sneezed.
Kensy and Max looked up from their notes and did their best to stifle the giggles that were bubbling up inside them.
‘It’s going to be weird calling you Dad,’ Max said.
Song grappled with the double chin, pressing it in place until the adhesive took effect. He then picked up a make-up brush and a pot of stubble and began applying a five o’clock shadow to Fitz’s jaw. ‘Once this is done, sir, it will be there until the end of the mission.’
‘It’s so real,’ Kensy marvelled, peering at the man as if he were a rare specimen. ‘I can’t believe how different you look.’
Fitz glanced into the portable mirror that was set up on the dining table, turning his head left and right. ‘Well, that’s hideous,’ he said, tugging at the double chin and wobbly turkey neck Song had conjured for him, ‘but it’s still not as bad as the time Romilly was transformed into a hunchbacked hairball of a man who closely resembled a troll.’
Song chortled. ‘Oh, I remember that – it was a Christmas-party challenge many moons ago – Mrs Vanden Boom’s disguise was outstanding. So, too, was Mr Rupert’s. No one had any idea until a second Dame Spencer appeared in the room and we had to work out who was who. I am ashamed to admit I got it wrong,’ the butler said, doing his best to keep a straight face.
‘Oh, wow, are there photographs?’ Kensy asked eagerly. ‘Can we see them?’
‘I am afraid that is not possible. What happens in Alexandria stays in Alexandria,’ Song said as he wrestled something rather large from the case on the floor. It was also incredibly unwieldy, flopping about all over the place. ‘Now we must complete the effect.’ Kensy and Max began to giggle as the butler held up the flesh-coloured blob and pressed it against Fitz’s stomach, instantly transforming the man’s toned abs into an impressive belly.
By now the twins were laughing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down Max’s cheeks.
‘So when are you due?’ he gasped.
‘Any day, I’d say!’ Kensy snorted. ‘And by the size of that gut, it’s probably another set of twins.’
‘You two are incorrigible,’ Fitz said, but soon began to laugh too, which only c
aused his belly to jiggle up and down and make some rather nasty belching noises. ‘The headmaster might have second thoughts about the job once he sees me. I don’t look like I’m at peak fitness, do I?’
‘Um, not exactly,’ Max said, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Then I’ll just have to woo everyone with my undeniable skills and, if that doesn’t work, my research has turned up some interesting notes on my colleagues,’ Fitz said.
Kensy’s jaw dropped. ‘And what would you do with that information?’
‘Let’s just say, if I can’t charm them, I could always resort to … more persuasive means,’ Fitz said, waggling his eyebrows.
Song tutted. ‘Hold still, Mr Fitz.’
Fitz apologised and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Now, kids, let’s go over what we know so far,’ he said.
‘I still think it’s weird that Granny wants us to watch her best friend’s grandchildren,’ Kensy said, scanning the notes again.
Max frowned. ‘Whatever this is, Kens, it’s personal, and if Granny trusts us to take care of them, then I’d say that’s a huge vote of confidence.’
‘Which is precisely the right attitude, Max,’ Fitz said. Although he was beginning to wonder if the whole affair was little more than a domestic dispute and probably Cordelia’s way to get the children out of London for a while.
Kensy rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I hope they’re nice – even if their mother’s a psycho.’ She threw her notes on the table and turned her attention to Song’s make-up kit. The butler was busy putting the finishing touches to Fitz’s gut, blending the edges of the belly into the man’s skin with a pot of something that looked like putty.
‘We don’t know that for sure yet,’ Max said. ‘There’s got to be more to it. Their father heads up the largest pharmaceutical company in the world, so perhaps he’s made some enemies over the years.’
Kensy pulled out a jar and grimaced at the contents. ‘He probably has,’ she said, unscrewing the lid and peering inside, ‘but there’s been no mention of anything like that so far. It’s the mother who’s the problem.’
‘Imagine if your grandparents invented the domestic use for paracetamol – that’s pretty amazing, huh?’ Max said.
Kensy grinned. ‘Our grandmother runs the most important spy organisation in the world, so I’d say we’re still one up on them.’
‘That is true, Miss Kensington,’ Song said. Satisfied with the appearance of Fitz’s new belly, he began to pack up.
Max turned to the second page of notes while Kensy pressed a fake wart onto her brother’s forearm and giggled.
‘Eww, what’s that?’ Max flicked at the appendage, but it didn’t budge.
Song glanced over and shook his head. ‘Miss Kensington, those warts are just about impossible to remove.’
‘What!’ Max exclaimed. ‘There has to be a way. I’m not going to school with a wart on my arm. No one will want to be friends with Wart Boy.’
‘Leave it to me, Master Maxim,’ Song said, and hunted about in the kit for something that might do the trick.
‘Kensy,’ Fitz chided, shooting her a reproachful look.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
Song cleared his throat and made a face at Fitz. ‘Perhaps, sir, this is a good time to tell the children about …’
Fitz gave a small nod. He supposed he had put it off long enough, knowing the inevitable meltdown that would ensue. The twins looked at him expectantly. ‘Max,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘you’re going into Year Six and, Kensy, you have to remain in Year Five.’
‘What!’ Kensy spat. ‘Why? And we’re twins, so that’s just stupid.’
Max winced. He decided it would be safer to keep quiet.
‘Actually, you won’t be twins on this mission,’ Fitz said. ‘You’re siblings born fifteen months apart.’
‘But I’m older by thirty minutes!’ Kensy thundered. ‘Why do I have to be younger than Max?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. It’s going to be much easier to befriend your targets if you have things in common and the most obvious one is gender,’ Fitz explained. ‘I can roll out a whole lot of statistics to support the decision if you need me to.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Kensy griped, slamming the jar of warts back into the make-up kit.
‘Aha!’ Song held up a vial of brown liquid that Max hoped was the answer to his wart problem. ‘Look on the bright side, Miss Kensington,’ the butler said. ‘At least the schoolwork should not trouble you, which will allow you to concentrate on the most important reason we are here.’
Kensy scowled. She knew that was probably true, but it didn’t mean she had to like it.
Hector Clement leaned back and rubbed his aching neck.
His wife looked up from the other side of the laboratory. ‘Are you all right, mon chéri?’
‘I am fine,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘And what would be the point in complaining? At least we are still alive.’
Marisol emptied the pipette into the test tube and pulled off her latex gloves. ‘Perhaps we can finish up for the day,’ she said brightly. It was just after five o’clock and she was tired. The past few weeks had been all the more exhausting thanks to the sudden move. Marisol looked towards the one-way mirror and gave a nod. She had no idea if there was anyone on the other side, but acknowledging her departure had become a habit of sorts, and these days she was resigned to the steady drumbeat of a daily routine.
Hector turned off the Bunsen burner in front of him and walked to his wife, slipping his hand into hers. ‘We are getting too old for this. Surely there will come a time when they let us return home.’
Marisol squeezed his hand. ‘I imagine, while there are billions of dollars at stake, nothing will change. Besides, I am almost certain that our home no longer exists.’ She pressed the buzzer. A loud click sounded and the door opened. They were free to go – to their apartment at the end of the passage. Wherever they were this time, it was a place of silence apart from the odd bleating of sheep or moaning of cattle. Marisol had begun to suspect a train line was nearby too. One night she had heard the faintest clickety-clack followed by a long whistle.
Almost twelve years earlier, Hector and Marisol Clement had finished their work for the day in the basement laboratory of their Parisian townhouse on the Rue des Barres in Le Marais. They had clocked off just after seven. Hector had prepared his famous coq au vin for dinner while Marisol had set the table in the dining room and opened a bottle of chilled champagne. It was to be a celebration because, after twenty years of research, they had finally done it. Their discovery would change the lives of millions of people.
Hector and Marisol had spent the previous weekend with their daughter, Anna, and her husband, Edward, when they had revealed their exciting news. Edward had promised that he would not publish a word in the newspaper that he ran alongside his mother and brother. There would be no fanfare until everything was in place. Hector and Marisol wanted to find the best home for their vaccine. It was too important and, after all these years, they would not jeopardise their life’s work for fame and money. It wasn’t about that at all and never had been. Their daughter and son-in-law had shared their own thrilling announcement too – Anna was pregnant with twins. There had been so much to look forward to, especially as the previous few months had been a little unsettling with two attempted burglaries at their home. The police had investigated, reporting that it was just opportunists, but Edward and Anna had insisted they install extra security measures as a precaution. Thankfully, life had quickly settled back down.
The Clements had gone to bed after eleven that night, but at half past two their lives would change in ways they could never have imagined. Marisol was the first to wake, and it took her a minute to register the presence of the heavily armed men standing at the foot of the bed. She had gently shaken Hector, and the two of them had clutched one another tightly, fearful of what fate had in store for them. When the tallest of the men jabbed Hector in the arm w
ith a powerful sedative, Marisol knew it was far more serious than a garden-variety robbery. It was about their work, of course, but it had never been about what they could cure – rather, what they could unleash. And for the past twelve years they had laboured, producing some of the vilest diseases known to man. In turn, they had also created their cures and, somewhere out there in the world, someone completely unknown to them was likely becoming the richest human being on Earth.
‘So, what’s my name?’ Fitz said.
‘Dad,’ the twins chorused from the back seat of the Land Rover.
Fitz rolled his eyes. ‘What’s my other name?’
‘Gerald Grey, but everyone calls you Gerry,’ Kensy said, itching under the collar of her new school uniform.
Fitz nodded. ‘Good. Where’s your mother?’
‘She died,’ Max said. Neither he nor Kensy were particularly thrilled with that storyline, but it was the easiest way to deflect questions if kids got curious.
‘And why are we in Sydney?’
‘To avoid being murdered in London,’ Kensy said, garnering a glare from her brother.
‘Because you got a new job,’ Max said.
Fitz nodded at them again in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Right. Keep it brief. Don’t go into detail and, if you have to, answer a question with another question. Most people would prefer to talk about themselves if given half a chance, and the fewer particulars you have to remember, the better.’
Song turned into a tree-lined driveway and through an enormous set of sandstone gateposts. The elaborate cast-iron gates had a ‘W’ woven into their pattern on the left and a ‘G’ on the right.
‘After looking at the website, I thought this place was going to be a bit posh, but this is next level,’ Max said.
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