by Stuart Gibbs
“Because my grandfather knows I know about it,” Erica replied. “So he probably has security keeping an eye on it.”
“You think he’s expecting you to come back here?”
“It’s a possibility, though security can’t keep tabs on the entire wall. It’s more than a mile long. And to be honest, the security here isn’t exactly the most competent staff at the CIA. In fact, it’s pretty much the dregs.”
I knew that from experience. SPYDER had once kidnapped me from inside the academy’s own safe room. Still, Erica and I didn’t take our infiltration lightly; if Cyrus thought we were coming, he would have beefed up surveillance as much as he could.
Only about a fifth of the spy school property was the actual school. The remainder was a good-size pocket of forest, virtually untouched since the founding of Washington. It was mostly used for practicing war games and to provide a buffer to hide the academy from the rest of the city.
Erica knew exactly where the best spot to get over the wall was, as though she’d surveyed the entire length of it many times during her time at school. She scrambled up a grand old oak tree on a corner across from the campus, as quickly as a panther would.
It took me a bit more time to scale it, but eventually I joined her on a thick branch high above the ground.
Erica used a small crossbow to fire a thin steel wire into another oak on campus, then secured the wire to our tree and quickly rigged a zip-line harness to it. I had used a zip-line with Erica enough times to know exactly what to do without asking questions. We clipped ourselves to the harness, skimmed over the wall, and climbed down the other tree.
Close by was an ancient toolshed that served as an access point to the school’s hidden network of underground tunnels. I had used this one before as well. We entered the shed and shifted the deceptively nondescript trowel on the wall that triggered the secret elevator. The floor instantly lowered, taking us down into the first subterranean level of the school.
The academy’s tunnels were very different from the one I’d spent the previous night in. They were newer—although not that new, being mostly relics of the Cold War—with smooth cement walls and fluorescent lights. They contained everything from bomb shelters to food storage for the cafeteria to the school morgue. (Our meals were so awful, students often wondered if the cooks had gotten the food storage and the morgue confused.) The whole thing was a sprawling labyrinth; every tunnel looked exactly the same, and the designers had purposefully omitted any signs in order to make it even more confusing. It was gloomy, dank, and unsettling. Whenever I was down there, I half expected to run into a minotaur. Left on my own, I might have wandered about in circles for hours, but Erica knew the place by memory.
Although the campus above us was closely monitored with security cameras, the subterranean levels weren’t. There wasn’t enough money in the school budget for that, and the designers had figured that anyone who knew about the tunnels was probably on our side. This allowed Erica and me to move quickly, without fear of having our presence recorded.
Erica led the way through a mind-boggling series of lefts and rights—pausing every now and then to let guards wander through distant intersections—until we found ourselves outside a door mundanely marked C414. There was a coded keypad entry for security, but Erica knew the code. The door clicked open, allowing us into the Cheney Center.
I’d been here before as well, on the receiving end of the CIA’s information-acquisition practices. The center was actually designed to be calming, rather than frightening, as current CIA research showed that this was the better way to coerce people into spilling their guts. There was a reception area that seemed more suitable to a spa, with comfortable chairs, bamboo screens, and a burbling Zen fountain. New age music played softly from hidden speakers.
There was also a heavily armed guard, lying unconscious on the sisal carpet. A chloroformed rag lay crumpled beside him.
Uh-oh, I thought.
At which point, someone leapt out from behind one of the bamboo screens and attacked us.
NEGOTIATION
Cheney Center for the Acquisition of Information
CIA Academy of Espionage
February 13
0300 hours
Our attacker was clad in black from head to toe, armed with another chloroformed rag, and had the element of surprise. However, he made one key mistake:
He attacked Erica instead of me.
According to Professor Georgia Simon, my self-defense instructor, I had the fighting skills of “a wet piece of tissue paper.” If I had been attacked first, I probably would have been unconscious before I’d even realized what was happening.
Erica, on the other hand, could kick Professor Simon’s butt. Our attacker didn’t stand a chance against her. She sensed his assault, whirled to face him, grabbed his arms, and calmly flipped him into the Zen fountain. Then she whipped out her dart gun and aimed it at him.
“Wait!” I exclaimed.
I had recognized our attacker’s groan of pain.
Erica’s finger twitched on the trigger of her gun but didn’t depress it. “Give me one good reason,” she said.
“It’s Mike,” I told her.
“Ben?” Our attacker struggled to his feet, slightly dazed and sopping wet, then pulled off his mask, revealing that he was, in fact, Mike Brezinski. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Erica demanded.
“I asked you first,” Mike said.
“I’m the one with the gun,” Erica reminded him.
“Good point,” Mike conceded. “I was trying to help you.”
“By attacking us?” I asked.
“That was an accident,” Mike explained. “I thought you were with SPYDER. I didn’t realize it was you until I was in mid-attack. I mean, the entire CIA is looking for you. Why on earth would you infiltrate here?”
“It’s the last thing anyone would expect,” I said.
“Oh.” Mike nodded understanding. “Gotcha.”
Erica kept the gun trained on him, as though she still wasn’t sure whether to believe him. “Did you knock that guard unconscious?”
“Um . . . yes,” Mike admitted, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. He was going to call the administration on us.”
“Us?” Erica and I asked at once.
“Me and Zoe,” Mike said. “She’s already inside, talking to the prisoners.”
I turned to Erica. “Looks like they had the same idea that we did.”
“Was your idea to come down here and ask them what SPYDER was up to?” Mike asked.
“More or less,” I said.
“Then, yeah, we had the same idea,” Mike agreed. “Cool! Great minds think alike.”
Erica still didn’t lower her gun.
Mike looked to me. “Zoe said you called her last night and claimed SPYDER had framed you for the attack on the president. Unfortunately, no one else at the CIA seems to believe that—except for your friends.”
“Who are . . . ?” I asked.
“Me, Zoe, Warren, Chip, and Jawa. We spent the whole day trying to convince people you were innocent, but no one would listen. In fact, the principal claims he suspected you were a mole for SPYDER all along.”
“Of course he does.” I groaned.
“So we figured we had to get some more evidence ourselves,” Mike went on. “But this was the only place we could think of to look for it.”
“Why’d you wait until now?” Erica asked.
“Probably the same reason you did,” Mike said. “Everyone else is asleep right now. The CIA warned us not to do anything to help Ben, so we had to pretend like we understood and wait until everyone let their guard down. Except that guy.” He pointed to the unconscious guard on the floor.
“If you and Zoe are here,” I said, “where are Warren, Chip, and Jawa?”
“On patrol in the halls outside, making sure no one catches us by surprise.”
&nb
sp; “Like we did?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mike replied. “Apparently, their patrolling techniques could use some work.”
“They’re probably keeping an eye on the more common entrances from campus,” Erica pointed out. “The one we came through isn’t well known.” Finally convinced that Mike was on our side, she lowered her dart gun and slipped it back into her holster. “This has cost us enough time. Let’s find out what we came here for.”
A door opened from the reception room into the rest of the complex. Erica led us through it. We passed down a nicely decorated hallway with more new age music playing, past a series of rooms where people were “coerced” into coughing up information.
Now that Erica wasn’t aiming a gun at him, Mike had the time to look over my new outfit. “Nice suit,” he told me.
“Thanks,” I said. “I just got it.”
“Did it come with the utility belt?”
“Yeah. But you have to load it yourself.”
“Do you have anything cool in yours?”
“Not unless you think gum is cool.”
“Would you two mind canning the chitchat?” Erica asked. “This is a covert mission, not a slumber party.”
“Sorry,” Mike and I said.
We arrived at a thick metal door that looked as though it had recently been installed. The computerized keypad lock had been shorted out and the door was propped open with a wad of paper. Zoe’s handiwork.
We entered the recently remodeled incarceration area. The walls between a few information-extraction rooms had been knocked down to create a larger, significantly less comfortable space, which was divided into three sections: two jail cells, positioned side by side, and a longer, thinner corridor that allowed people like us to visit the prisoners. It felt like being at a very old zoo where bars were still on the cages.
The cells were sparsely decorated. Each had an army surplus cot for sleeping and a cheap desk for dining and homework. The toilets were metal and sat right out in the open, next to the cots. (Although there was a wall between the cells to provide a tiny bit of privacy.) The only amenity was an extremely large television and gaming console in the cell to the left, which Nefarious Jones had been given as a reward for good behavior.
Despite the late hour, Nefarious was playing video games.
This came as no surprise. Back at evil spy school, Nefarious had done almost nothing except play video games. It occurred to me that being incarcerated with a gaming console probably wasn’t much of a punishment for him; in fact, it might have even felt like an improvement over his previous life. He had already spent so much time sitting on his cot staring at the TV screen that he’d created a large divot in the mattress under his rear end. He was playing Target: Annihilation, the exact same game Jason Stern had been playing, although he was significantly better at it. Jason had been struggling with level three. Nefarious was on level 638.
“Hey, Nefarious,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” he said, then went right back to his game.
This qualified as a decent bit of conversation for Nefarious. I had gotten an entire word out of him, as opposed to his usual “Mneh.” I figured it meant he actually liked me.
I got a considerably stronger reaction from the other two people in the room.
Zoe, who was standing in front of Ashley Sparks’s cell, squealed with delight, then raced over and threw her arms around me. “Ben! I can’t believe you’re here! I was so worried about you! I’m so happy you’re not in jail!”
“Me too,” I said.
Zoe noticed Erica and crowed, “And you! You were only pretending to be upset with Ben, weren’t you? Oh, I could hug you, too!”
“Don’t,” Erica warned. As if, maybe, Zoe had threatened to punch her.
Zoe backed off. “I only said I could hug you, that’s all.”
“Well, well, well,” said a voice from the second cell. It was chirpy and yet oddly malicious at the same time. “Looks like all the jidiots are finally here.”
Mike looked at me, confused. “Jidiots?”
“Ashley always does this thing where she combines two words to make a new one,” I explained. “Jerks plus idiots equals ‘jidiots.’ ”
“Oh,” Mike said, then realized he should take offense at this. “Hey! We’re not either one of those things!”
“You’re with these other jidiots,” Ashley taunted. “So you’re a jidiot by association.”
I moved down the corridor so I could get a better look at her. She was using the bars of her cell as makeshift gymnastic equipment, hanging by her hands from them several feet above the floor, her legs spread in a midair split. Instead of her usual sparkly pink leotard, she was in drab prison garb, but she still had a bit of her traditional glitter in her hair. While Nefarious had grown paunchy during the time since I’d last seen him, Ashley had actually become even more fit in jail—which was really saying something. She had been in excellent shape at evil spy school. Now her muscles bulged so big, they strained the legs and sleeves of her uniform.
However, the contemptuous glare she’d last had for Erica and me was still on her face. Her prison time hadn’t softened it at all.
“I’ve been trying to talk to them for ten minutes,” Zoe whispered to Erica, Mike, and me. “They both claim to not know anything about SPYDER’s current plans. I buy it from Nefarious, but I think Ashley’s hiding something.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Nefarious coughed up everything he knew about SPYDER weeks ago,” Zoe explained. “That’s how he got the TV and the game console—and why his sentence has been shortened. He’s almost done his time. So why keep anything else secret? But Ashley . . . well, she’s giving off this cocky vibe. Like she knows more than she’s letting on and is thrilled that we don’t know it.”
“I can hear you,” Ashley taunted. “But I can’t help you. Looks like you’re in serious treopardy, Ben.”
“See what I mean?” asked Zoe.
“Treopardy?” Mike echoed. “What’s that, trouble plus jeopardy?”
“Sounds right,” I agreed.
Mike grinned. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
Erica approached Ashley’s cell, then shimmied up the bars until she was staring Ashley in the face. “I think you know plenty about what SPYDER is up to,” she said.
“Well, I don’t.” Ashley tucked her legs and sprang backward off the bars, doing a flip before sticking the landing, a move that would have made most gymnastics fans gasp in awe. “I’ve been cooped up in this stupid jail ever since September. How could I possibly know what SPYDER has been plotting since then?”
“Because SPYDER isn’t reckless,” Erica replied. “They plot everything out well ahead of time with extreme care and caution. This assassination attempt would have taken months of planning, if not more. You were at evil spy school for more than a year before Ben arrived. Therefore, it’s extremely likely you heard something about this.” With that, Erica performed the exact same backward spring off the bars that Ashley had—only she did two flips before sticking the landing.
Ashley gaped in surprise, then caught herself and tried to act like she wasn’t impressed. “Why would they have told me anything? I was only a student.”
“I didn’t suggest that anyone told you anything,” Erica clarified. “I’m saying you might have heard something. You’re a smart girl. You certainly kept your eyes and ears open. There’s a good chance you picked up on a plot or two.”
“If I did—and I’m not saying that happened—why on earth would I tell you about it? You’re the one who put me in this horrible place.” Ashley shifted her angry gaze to me. “And you! You stabbed me in the back! You let me think you were on my side! You promised to go to Disney World with me!”
“I never actually promised that,” I said.
“You still betrayed me! You’re a quaitor!”
“Quisling plus traitor?” Mike asked.
“Duh,” Ashley sneered.
Erica returned to the bars of Ashley’s cell. “You are going to tell me exactly what I want to know about SPYDER. And here’s why: because I can bust you out of here if you do.”
“What?” Ashley said, completely caught by surprise.
“What?” Zoe asked, even more surprised than Ashley.
“What?!” I asked, even more surprised than either one of them. “We never discussed that!”
“Because I figured you’d say no,” Erica told me.
“Of course I’m going to say no!” I exclaimed. “It’s bad enough that I’m wanted for trying to assassinate the president! Now you want to add breaking a major criminal out of jail to that?”
“If we don’t break her out, then we don’t get the evidence to clear your name,” Erica explained.
“So to prove my innocence from one federal crime, I have to commit another?” I asked.
“Yes. The irony is incredible.” Erica removed a formal document from her pocket and unfolded it for Ashley to read. “This is a notarized affidavit from an emissary of MI6. In return for your help, they are willing to spirit you out of this country and help you establish your own gymnastics training academy in any of the British territories.”
“Any of them?” Ashley asked, so intrigued that she’d forgotten all about being spiteful. “Including Turks and Caicos?”
“Including Turks and Caicos,” Erica said.
“Wow.” Ashley’s angry grimace disappeared and was replaced by the excited smile I’d seen for most of my time at spy school. “I’ve always wanted to go to Turks and Caicos. And having my own gymnastics training academy would be swawesome.”
“Sweaty plus awesome?” Mike asked.
“Sweet plus awesome,” Zoe corrected.
“Oh.” Mike looked disappointed that he’d gotten one wrong.
“You could bring your family with you,” Erica told Ashley. “But we’d have to give you all new identities, and you’d never be able to return to the United States.”
“Big deal,” Ashley said. “This country stinks. First, the dimwit judge at our Olympic trials docked me a point by mistake. And then, when I tried to move on from that, the government threw me in jail.”