“She likes us, Mr. Hastings. We’ll take good care of her,” Kennedy said earnestly.
“She doesn’t like anyone—she hardly even does anything,” Hastings argued grumpily. “Fine. Take the dumb dog. But you’ll go to England, then?”
Otter sighed and put his fingers to his forehead, which was something he did more and more these days. “We’ll send a team to England to look at the clown registry, and we will be in touch with you.”
The fact that Hastings didn’t seem sad at all about Annabelle coming to the farmhouse helped the niggling guilt I felt burrowing around in my gut over the fact that we’d basically just kidnapped the guy’s pet. I’d hoped his reaction would sway Kennedy and Walter as well, but they looked a little testy on the bus home.
Annabelle, on the other hand, looked like she’d just won some sort of dog lottery. Her eyes were big, her mouth was open and panting, and she kept laying her head in our laps, going from person to person like she was inspecting us each for general petting abilities.
On Annabelle’s second pass, I rubbed her ears together and looked up at my sister. “Okay, Kennedy. I get it. But I don’t think Annabelle is sad to leave Hastings. I mean, look at her. He didn’t even like her, and I don’t think she liked him, either.”
“That’s not it, Hale,” Kennedy said hesitantly, like she didn’t want to argue but couldn’t keep the words in for long. “It’s just . . . well. Taking the dog as collateral is just . . . it’s something SRS would do. We’re not supposed to be like them.”
Otter jumped in. “That man would have had us go to England—go all over Europe, really—to find his books. We’re not messengers, and we’re not personal assistants. We’re spies. Sometimes deals have to be made,” Otter said, keeping his voice low—we were on a public bus, after all, and the Swiss people all around us already looked kind of perplexed by the giant dog in their midst.
Walter and Kennedy went quiet. I stayed quiet. Because I hadn’t even thought about that—that taking the dog was something SRS would do. I’d thought of the mission. I’d thought of how we had to do something to keep from being Hastings’s voluntary treasure hunters. I’d thought of how we had to move faster, to rob the bank. I’d thought exactly like SRS had trained me to think, but . . . it was what had to be done, wasn’t it? Were we allowed to act like the bad guys in order to be the good guys in the end?
When we got home, Kennedy fed Annabelle all the sausages Clatterbuck had been planning to make us for dinner. Otter shouted at her, then I shouted at Otter, and then Annabelle started to howl, and then Ben’s newest invention—the TurBENate—exploded in the yard, and we had to spend most of the evening convincing the couple who owned the pony farm that it was just a meteor, not dynamite strapped to a station-wagon bumper. When they left, we all reconvened for a moment in the kitchen to eat crackers and the buns that were supposed to go with the sausages.
Otter said, “Beatrix, I need everything you’ve got on that clown database. How to break in, how to—”
“Oh, you won’t have to break in. They’re all on display!”
Otter blinked.
“At . . . a place in Somerset called Wookey Hole Caves?”
We all blinked.
“That’s what it’s called! They’re on display there. You can buy tickets. We could all go! There’s a dinosaur exhibit!” Beatrix said, growing more excited. Ben was nodding enthusiastically.
“It’s not a game!” Otter snapped. What was strange about this is that he didn’t yell. He just said it, bam, like a quick punch, and it threw everyone. He put his fingers to his temples. “I’m going to bed. Jordan and I are going to Somerset tomorrow. Clatterbuck, set up a transport, please. Ben, we’ll need hidden cameras, and Beatrix, we’ll need a live feed at Hastings’s. Got it?”
Everyone nodded without saying anything.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Our team was always pretty quick (we had to be, since it was just the seven of us), but the trip to Wookey Hole Caves came together in record time. Before bed, Beatrix and Ben had put together a new round of fake passports. By the next morning, Clatterbuck had arranged for a flight to Bristol, and a rental car for when we arrived—something sporty, which I think he got to try to improve Otter’s mood. Annabelle had greeted each and every one of us that morning—including Otter—by leaping onto us and licking our faces.
Otter’s just not the sort of guy whose face you lick, but I guess Annabelle didn’t know that yet.
“These are pretty basic,” Ben said as we ate cereal for breakfast. He opened a pair of glasses and reached across the table to slide them onto my face. “They plug right into your comm, so they’ll use the same system. The camera is in the center, which is why I had to put the tape there. Sorry, Hale.”
There was, indeed, a thick strip of tape in the center of the glasses, which were already huge and old-person-like. I looked over at Beatrix’s Right Hand—there was a little black-and-white video of everything I saw playing in the center.
“Looks good?” she asked.
“Looks great. You’ll take this over to Hastings’s place once we get there?”
“Yep! And if we have extra time, I’m going to try to squeeze in one of those helicopter tours today. You think there’ll be time?” Clatterbuck said, rolling a ball back and forth between his hands for Annabelle, who was just a little too slow to actually catch it but very entertained by trying.
“I doubt it. But I’ll hurry, okay?” I promised, patting Clatterbuck on the back when he went crestfallen.
Otter didn’t really talk to me on the way to the Geneva airport. Once we were there, he went totally into character, pretending to be my father. I figured when we were on the plane, he’d at least want to go over the mission, simple as it was, but he read a German magazine from the seat-back pocket instead. I used the time to memorize flight patterns, since that seemed like the sort of information a spy might use one day.
We landed in Bristol, which was rainy and cool. Otter’s car was red and small and looked sort of desperate, if you ask me, but it did seem to improve his mood. He almost smiled when we cut through bright-green countryside. The road was tiny, nestled between hills and trees and stone walls, and Otter took corners fast so that it pinned us both to our seats. We passed quaint lodges and inns, and the occasional dog ran out of a cottage and chased our car for a ways. Finally we arrived at a cluster of neat buildings made of stone and stucco, one of which had a roof that looked like a witch’s hat. Also, there was a giant gorilla statue.
“This is the place?” Otter asked warily, looking at the gorilla’s head. Behind it, there was a handful of stone dinosaur heads. “I thought they were like, caves. You know. Underground.”
“The website said they have lots of stuff. Caves and an arcade and a Christmas show . . . ,” I began.
“And a clown registry?” Otter said.
“I guess. Beatrix? You with me?” I said over the comm as I put my glasses on.
“We’re here! Well. Me and Ben and Uncle Stan. Kennedy and Walter are trying to take Annabelle for a walk, but she won’t leave the front step,” Beatrix said in my ear.
“All right. Let’s go,” I said. I paused for a moment to look at the way the other kids my age were approaching the front gate, then: “Come on! We’re going to miss the circus!” I whined loudly.
“I’m coming,” Otter grumbled in a parental sort of way. He pressed the button to lock the car and then trudged behind me as I bounded to the gate. I wished I’d thought to get some ice cream stains on my shirt to complete the character; instead I ruffled my hair so that it stood on end, like I’d been sleeping on a long car ride. We weren’t really pulling one over on anyone for this mission, but I couldn’t help but get the details down.
“One adult and one child?” a lady in a witch costume asked at the front counter. Otter flashed a fake season pass card—Clatterbuck made it himself last night—and in we went.
“I’d really like to see the clown registry. Don’t th
ink we’ve made it down there before. Can you point me in the right direction?” Otter asked pleasantly in a flawless London accent. Meanwhile, I grabbed ahold of his arm and made a show of pulling him farther into the park. It wasn’t my most dignified character, but spy work wasn’t always dignified.
“The clown registry?” the witch asked, frowning. “You mean—oh! The eggs! Not many people come just to see those. Down this way, then a right, in the circus area. They’ll be right in front of you.”
“Thanks,” Otter said to the witch, and then over his comm, “Eggs? What’s that about, Beatrix?”
“It’s Ben—Annabelle got out and is chasing the ponies, so Beatrix and Kennedy are trying to catch her and they slipped in a pile of— Never mind. So, apparently the clown database is stored on eggs.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said into my comm.
“They’re on eggs. It’s how they kept—”
“Ohhhhh,” Otter and I said at once, because as soon as we ducked into the Wookey Hole circus tent, we saw just what Ben meant.
There were hundreds of eggs set up in little rows in a case lined with red velvet. Each egg was immaculately painted with a clown’s face. The level of detail was amazing—gruff and speckled beards, bright eyes, hats, and even tufts of hair were glued onto the eggshells. The pedestals the eggs rested on were made to look like the tops of the clowns’ shirts, and in front of those were little placards with each clown’s name on them.
It was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen, and also one of the creepiest. All those little clown eyes staring at me, frozen smiles and garish makeup. It didn’t help that there were three life-size clown mannequins nearby.
“Hi there!” one of the mannequins shouted.
Otter screamed. He told everyone afterward that it wasn’t a scream, it was just the comm mic reverberating, but I was there and I promise, he screamed.
The mannequin—who was not a mannequin after all—jumped off the platform. The other two mannequins who apparently were mannequins stayed put.
“Come to see the show?” the clown asked in a bobbly voice, squeezing a flower-shaped horn affixed to his giant coat.
“We came to see these, actually,” I said, motioning to the eggs.
The clown’s face softened, even under all the make- up. “The egg registry? No one ever comes to see the egg registry!”
“It’s for a school project,” I said swiftly, even though it made me sad when the clown’s face fell a little. Still, he seemed touched.
“Well! Do you need any help?” the clown asked, pulling at his suspenders and rocking back on his heels.
“Oh no, we’re—”
“Hale! They don’t show the clowns’ real names on the displays—they keep those in a book in the back. So maybe play nice with the clown,” Beatrix said, her voice rushed like she’d run back to the comm. Or, more likely, rushed like she’d just shoved a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound dog off Walter.
“You know, I did have a few questions, actually,” I said swiftly, and smiled as goofily as I could. People liked goofy. It put them at ease. Probably why clowns were so popular—though, given Otter’s still blanched face, I guessed they didn’t put everyone at ease.
I asked a few questions just to get the clown talking; he took us back and forth, pointing to famous clowns here and there. I let my eyes drift over each egg, going slowly so the camera in my glasses could focus properly. At each one, I heard Hastings in the background back in Geneva. “No. No. Maybe! No, wait, no . . .”
“A whole bunch were broken when a display cabinet fell and crushed them. Goose eggs are tough, but they’re not that tough,” the clown showing us around said sadly, shaking his head. I stepped to the next case.
“That’s him!” Hastings roared so loud, the comm earpiece squealed.
I flinched. The clown heard Hastings; there was no doubt. And he was frowning, which was weird since his face was still painted into a smile. He looked up at the ceiling, toward the speakers that played circusy music quietly.
“I love this clown’s makeup. Do you know who he is?” I asked casually, pointing to Twinkles Meatloaf.
“Uh . . . I . . .” The clown was still looking around, confused, but then he refocused. “Twinkles Meatloaf. Now that’s a name,” he said, though I couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or not. “Anyway—now, see, no other clown is allowed to use his face makeup or his name because he’s registered himself here!”
“Cool! So what would he do if he caught another clown using his face makeup?” I asked overenthusiastically.
“Well, he’d most likely try to settle it with the other clown first—sometimes mistakes happen. But if they couldn’t work it out, he could call a lawyer, who would come here and check the book in the back to verify that Twinkles Meatloaf was registered. So, let’s say you become a clown—”
Annabelle started barking over my headset—loudly. The clown froze again, and I saw his eyes on my head, tracking the sound’s source—
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Otter cried. “What are you trying to do, mister? Talking to my son about becoming a clown?”
“Huh?” the clown said, blinking. I heard a clattering as everyone back in Geneva tried to silence the dog, but it only made things louder.
“Well, first it’s jumping out at us from the mannequin display, then it’s all the information on the eggs, then it’s all the details on the clown registry—he’s going to be a lawyer, right, son?” Otter boomed, talking fast to cover up Annabelle’s barks.
“Uh, sorry, sir. I was just trying to help him with his report—”
“I know how you clowns operate! First it’s a joke here, a water-squirting flower there, and the next thing you know, indoctrination!”
The clown was floored. He looked at me, then at Otter, then back at me, then said, “Perhaps I should go get my manager—”
“I’ll bet he’s a clown too!”
“No, no. He’s the ringmaster. I’ll be right back. Let me get him . . . ,” the clown said, backing out of the room slowly. He’d barely made it out the door when Otter turned to me.
“I’m going!” I said, and slunk around the egg display and into a room labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY.
It was tiny—barely more than an office—and covered in vintage circus posters. I squinted in the dim light—then nearly screamed like Otter, because suddenly there was someone right in front of me. No, no, calm down—it was just a mannequin dressed in a clown suit but without any makeup on. His weirdly blank face watched me as I yanked out one of Ben’s inventions—the BEN of All Trades, which was basically a Swiss Army knife with all the stuff Ben deemed necessary attached. There was the typical stuff, like little scissors and a flashlight, but he’d also included a rubber band shooter and a whisk, which I’d never had the opportunity to use. I flicked on the flashlight, held the BEN of All Trades by the whisk, and peered at the thick books that lined one wall.
Most were old yearbooks from a local clown college, or crumbling guides on applying face paint. A few folders looked like old tax records, and there were some phone books from before I was born stacked high in one corner. The books were clearly seldom used—while they were lined up neatly enough, the space between them and the shelf above was crammed with receipts, face paint containers, makeup sponges, and stacks of unsorted paperwork. I leaned in closer. I could hear Otter grumbling outside, then his voice raise as the clown—and ringmaster—reappeared.
There! A binder, the sort regular kids used in school, with a scratchily written label on the side: Clown Database Copy. I slipped it out of its spot and begin to flip through it frantically. Twinkles Meatloaf, Twinkles Meatloaf . . . The registry seemed to be sorted by the clowns’ real names rather than their stage ones, which meant I had to do this one page at a time . . .
“My point is, there should be some sort of advisory on the front of this tent! ‘Parents: clowns within will try to convert your child!’” Otter bellowed.
“Sir, I’m sure Noodle he
re was just—”
“Noodle? What manner of good Christian name is Noodle?”
“It’s a clown name, sir—”
I took a deep breath and blocked them out. I ran my finger down the list of clowns’ names—Ernie Burch, George Carl, Barry Lubin, a million people with the last name Fratellini. I still hadn’t seen a real name for Twinkles Meatloaf, and I suspected the ringmaster was about to call security on Otter.
“There!” I whispered frantically into my comm. “I’ve got it. Twinkles Meatloaf. Real name Kevin Stroganoff. Last known address Chemin Jacques-Attenville, 13C, 1352 Le Grand-Sacconex.”
“That’s in Geneva!” Hastings said excitedly. Ben, Beatrix, and Clatterbuck shushed him.
“Got it, Hale. Anything else?” Beatrix asked.
“There’s no phone number, says he’s been a member of the registry since—”
“And now he’s lost in your clown-land building!” Otter shouted, his voice rising in a way that was undoubtedly meant to signal me. I slammed the book shut and closed the BEN of All Trades. Footsteps were coming, growing closer and closer to the door—I snatched a wig and jammed it onto my head, then grabbed a handful of face makeup.
“Mon dieu!” the ringmaster and the clown said at the same time.
Otter said something less eloquent and then jumped back into his tirade. “See? Look what you’ve done to him!”
The wig was on crooked, but I’d managed to slather a fair amount of white paint onto my face. I had a blue diamond around each eye—well, they were diamondish, anyhow. My attempt at putting red around my lips had been foiled by the door swinging open, so rather than a cherry-red mouth, it just looked like someone had socked me in the teeth. I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the glass cases behind the three adults. I’m not sure “atrocious” really covers how I looked.
“All I did was tell him about the eggs!” the clown said, throwing his red-gloved hands into the air. The white paint around his eyes made him look even more shocked than he was. The ringmaster, dressed in a red coat with tails, looked like he wished he’d called in sick today. The man’s mustache quivered as Otter grabbed the back of my shirt.
The Inside Job: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy Page 9