Tall rises to his feet. “Thank you for your time.” He turns to the door, uses his key card to open it, and twists to pass through the narrow doorway.
“Any time,” Sha’ar answers, and in his eyes I can see how lonely he must have been over all these years alone. Then we’re out in the hall again, with no noise but Tall’s breathing and the clomp of his feet as he stalks toward the lobby.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” I ask when he’s still a door or two away. “Tell me you do, because I sure have an idea in my head.”
“Smith,” Tall mutters, reaching for the doorknob. “It’s Agent Smith.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” But why wait so long, then? Maybe he had to because—
The door swings open—and I find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. “Don’t move, Agent Thomas,” a voice declares, “or I will be forced to shoot.” It’s a deep voice, husky—and not in a good way.
Agent Jones.
Because this day couldn’t really get much worse.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It’s all so clearly understated
“Agent Jones.” Tall sounds perfectly calm as he confronts her across her weapon.
Me, I’m freaking out.
“Shoot her!” I shout into the mic. “Or take her gun away! Yeah, do that first so she can’t shoot you, then—shoot her! Knock her out! Put her in a sleeper hold. Make her look away for a second and turn invisible, then dart past when she runs on by! I don’t know, do something!”
Yeah, okay, I can get a little excitable at times. But here we are, we’ve got a new lead on what’s going on—though it’s one I almost can’t believe—we’re deep inside MiB headquarters, the entire rest of the workforce could come boiling back in at any time, and suddenly here’s Agent Jones to throw a monkey wrench into everything.
It’s like it’s her job. Or at least her favorite hobby.
“I take it you have recovered from whatever sent you on your rampage?” she asks. It’s like she’s reading off cue cards or something, she’s that stiff—even Tall is looser and emotes more than this! Except that what she’s asking, and how she’s asking it—if you ignore the flat tone, and the large handgun, she does almost sound like she was genuinely concerned.
“I did,” he agrees. Then he pauses for a second. “Agent Jones, I’m sure you’ve noticed the strange behavior of our fellow agents lately. Within the past week or two.”
She cocks her head to the side like a bulldog being asked to shake. I really can’t help it, every time I think of analogies with her it winds up being a bulldog. “I have nothing to compare their behavior to,” she replies. “As you no doubt remember, I joined the agency only ten days previous.” Man, it’s like they’re both using one of those text-to-speech programs, typing in these awkward bits of dialogue and having the computer spit out these strangely modulated sound bytes in return. I can practically hear the keys clacking.
Tall nods. “True, but even so you must have wondered why the other agents have been so . . . agreeable. So easily swayed.”
Her hand cannon doesn’t lower for a second, doesn’t waver—she must have forearms of solid steel, I’d be pointing at the floor by now, or with my luck taking aim at my own big toe—but I can see she’s considering this. “I have noticed that, for an agency charged with such aggressive protection procedures, everyone seems unusually willing to acquiesce to anything.” Good lord, she’s like a walking thesaurus! I am never playing her at Scrabble, especially since I bet she’d stick to the official rules just like Tall does. I still say sound effects should count for double.
“Someone has drugged the agency,” Tall explains to her. “They used a chemical called Jorbinate Sublimate, which they mixed into the CampGirl cookies at the factory. Anyone who eats those cookies becomes severely receptive to verbal commands.”
“Is that what led to your own strange behavior?”
“It is.” He grinds those two words so tight they’re practically powder. “I was told to cut loose and rampage through the streets. So I did.”
“How did the others stop you, then?” Still that gun. It’s like it isn’t even there, the way the two of them are—stiffly—conversing. Like it was newspaper on the table in front of them. Only then, human nature being what it is, at least one of them would’ve tugged it around and started flipping through it by now, looking for either the comics or the sports scores.
“The only way we know of to snap someone out of the trance the chemical induces,” Tall replies, “is to command them to snap out of it.” This has been a public service announcement of the Tall and Terminally Unfazed Brigade, I add quietly, but I don’t say it out loud. Tall wouldn’t have laughed, anyway.
She frowns. At least, I think she does—the line between her brows deepens a notch, but she was already kind of glowering, so it’s hard to tell. It’s more like she ratchets the frown up to Defcon Two, I guess. “And you expect me to believe all this?”
And that, I have to admit, is a very good question. Damn it. How the hell does Tall expect her to believe any of this? It’s completely ridiculous—an entire agency, and not just any old agency but the MiBs themselves, mind-controlled through boxes of CampGirl cookies? Talk about nuts! And what kind of proof do we have? The other MiBs are all still gone—I check my watch, half an hour to go—and Tall can’t touch the things anymore, so unless Jones wants to try downing some of those cookies herself, we’ve got no way to show her what they do to people. And there’s no way she’s falling for that one.
“It’s a lot to swallow,” Tall tells her slowly. “But it happens to be true. The detainee in 12-A, Monsinal Sha’ar, was the first to discover how to create Jorbinate Sublimate, and to realize its properties. He’s why I came back, to find out who learned about the chemical from him.”
Jones nods. “And?” I’m starting to think she’s actually got invisible wires holding that gun up.
“The only people who knew about it were the agents who apprehended him.” Tall sighs. “One of them was Agent Smith. I don’t know who his partner was at the time.”
Jones barks at him, and it takes me a second to realize she’s laughing. Either that or she’s just mistaken him for a passing car. “So, what? You want to go ask Agent Smith if he has been drugging the rest of the agency? I don’t think that will go over very well.”
“Naw, Smith’ll get a good laugh over it,” I mutter. “He’s so easy-going, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Yeah, right.
Tall doesn’t bother to repeat my crack, or even to acknowledge it. “Perhaps not,” he says instead. “But it’s the only move I have right now. We need to identify the person behind all this and stop them from pursuing their plans further. Until we do that, the entire agency’s been compromised. We can’t trust anyone.”
What’s this “we,” white man? I want to ask him. But Jones actually beats me to it.
“You say ‘we,’” she tells him, “as if you and I are somehow working together on this. We are not. I am an agent in good standing. You are an agent currently on administrative suspension, and recently escaped from custody. I am not helping you—I am re-capturing you.” The gun finally moves after all this time, as she waggles it to remind him it’s there. Like any of us have forgotten!
“Think about it,” Tall urges her. “You can apprehend me, yes, but who knows what will happen then? The other agents will still be under mind-control, and whoever did that to them will still be out there. Imagine what someone could do with the agency at their fingertips. We can’t let that happen!”
“I will look into the matter once you are back in your cell,” Jones promises after a second. “If matters are as you say, I will devise a plan. I cannot trust you to assist me, however.”
This time it’s Tall who laughs, his usual rough-edged, gravely chuckle. “Assist you? Agent Jones, I am the primary on this case. I have been on it since the beginning, and I possess all the relevant information. There isn’t any time to bring you up to speed
on it, either. You would have to assist me, not the other way around.” Great, we’re standing here with a gun pointed at us and he’s busy arguing over pecking order.
“Tall, she’s got a gun trained on you,” I remind him quickly. “Just agree to whatever she says and go along with it until you can turn the tables on her, okay?”
I’m totally unsurprised that he doesn’t go for it. “You’ve seen me both under the cookies’ influence and not,” he tells Jones now. “Tell me you didn’t notice a difference!”
“I did,” she agrees. “There were times you were docile and accepted any statement or request as an order that could not be gainsayed. Then there were other times when you bulled ahead like a runaway train, not accepting direction from anyone.” A tiny little smile flickers across her lips as she mentions that second style, which takes me aback. Did Agent Jones just talk about how stubborn and bullheaded Tall is—in a wistful, admiring sort of way? As cranky, overbearing, arrogant secret agents go, is Tall a hunk?
“Then you can see for yourself that I am not currently under that influence,” he tells her, apparently completely missing her brief fangirl moment. I wonder if he’d even have any idea how to respond anyway. Tall doesn’t strike me as the type that’s too suave with the ladies. “Thus you know I am acting of my own free will.”
“And what’s to stop you from eating cookies again at some later point and reverting to docility?” Jones asks him. At this point I’m wondering if her gun is just a replica painted to look good and then filled with helium so it not only stays up but supports her arm as well. Oy.
I don’t have to see Tall to know he’s grimacing. “I had a crash course in immersive aversion therapy,” he manages to spit out. “I couldn’t eat another cookie if I wanted to.” And given how many boxes he went through right from the start, I don’t think he’d want another CampGirl cookie if he could at all avoid it, anyway. Though maybe I’m just being gleefully malicious here, seeing as how I’m actually rubbing my hands together right now and cackling, “All the more for me, mwa-ha-ha!” Under my breath, of course.
Amazingly enough, Jones actually seems to be considering his suggestion seriously. “Explain to me again why I cannot simply lock you up and proceed myself,” she asks, but it doesn’t have the same force as her earlier statements. It sounds rhetorical to me. And yes, I know what that means. Hell, I make rhetorical statements all the time! It comes from never expecting anyone to reply to me. Which is probably why I sometimes startle if people do respond—I’m just not used to it. Ignore, yes. Sneer, sure. Throw money, occasionally. Throw food, often—hey, you’d be amazed how many free lunches you can cobble together that way, especially on the subway! But actually answer? Yeah, not so much.
“I have already explained,” Tall replies, and he’s using that “speaking to the slow kid” voice again. I love it when he breaks that out and it isn’t aimed at me. “I have been following this case since it broke. I am possessed of all the pertinent information. I am now immune to the lure of the CampGirl cookies, despite the addictive nature of their new additive. And I am a senior agent, whereas you are still a rookie.”
“A senior agent currently on probation and possibly still labeled a fugitive,” Jones corrects, but after a second and a blink she holsters her pistol. Finally! To be honest, I’m not even sure how she manages it—I can’t imagine her arm has any flexibility after being held ramrod-straight like that for so long. But somehow she does it, though she may have cheated and used mirrors, because one second I’m staring down the barrel of that thing—admittedly, from several million light-years away, but it looks like it’s right in my face—and the next it’s nowhere in sight and she’s rebuttoning her jacket. I bet she’s a whiz at the ol’ shell game.
“Very well, what is our next move?” she asks Tall like she hadn’t been threatening to shoot him a second ago. I wonder what it would take to unnerve her, or any of the MiBs? An act of God? An extinction-level event? Everyone being quiet and calm on the subway? I know that last one would freak me out!
“We need to ask Agent Smith some questions about his old case,” Tall replies. He turns without another glance at her and starts toward the stairwell door. “There’s no time to lose.” No “hey, thanks for not shooting me, Agent Jones!” No, “Hey, welcome aboard the ‘Stop-the-crazy-cookie-zombies’ train!” Nope. Nada. But then, Tall’s never been a people person. He’d have done great in HR.
“Why don’t we just check his work history?” Jones asks, falling into step beside him. Which is disorienting for me, since it means all I can see of her now is the barest edge of her shadow at the lip of my peripheral vision—but her voice is coming through loud and clear. A little too loud, actually. She really needs to take some lessons in adjusting her volume. I think she’s got “inside voice” confused with “baseball stadium voice.”
“Because we don’t have time,” Tall replies. “I’m still considered a fugitive, as you pointed out, and the rest of the agency will be returning within the next twenty minutes. I cannot afford to be here when they do.”
“I can put in the file request and meet up with you,” Jones offers. “That would be the most efficient use of our time.”
He only pauses a second before nodding. “Fine. Do that. Meet me at the Malibu Diner.”
And he steps into the stairwell, takes a deep breath, and grabs the stair railings about halfway up with both hands.
Oh, boy.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Doing the avoidance dance
“What did you find out?” That’s the first thing Tall says when Agent Jones catches up to him at the Malibu Diner. Tall’s sitting in a booth near the back—not the very back row, which I know he’d prefer due to the whole “back to the wall” thing, because there’s a big group of people back there being very geeky and very loud and frankly looking like they’re having a lot more fun than we are—facing the front, and he’s got a burger and a plate of fries in front of him, which he’s been picking at since they showed up a few minutes ago. I don’t think lingering over the food is helping it any, though. He’d have been better off just putting it out of its—and his—misery right away, because now in addition to be poorly cooked it’s semi-cool and partially congealed. Yum.
She slides into the booth opposite him, catches the waiter’s eye, nods, and taps Tall’s coffee mug with a forefinger. They must’ve had training in that, because Tall was able to get the waiter’s attention right away, too, and that never happens. Especially not in an old-school New York diner like the Malibu. The waiters here have clearly taken special “customer-evasion technique” courses—they can walk in your direction, drop food off at another table in front of you, take orders from a third table, scan your general vicinity, and turn away, all without once ever making eye contact or acknowledging your upraised hand. It’s kind of amazing, really, and certainly impressive—when you’re not the one trying to get your check and get out, or trying to complain that your medium-rare cheeseburger with Cheddar and fries done extra-crispy showed up well done with American cheese and fries only half a step up from raw. At the best of times it turns into a strange food-based dance, customer and waiter moving toward yet away from each other and spinning in circles around one another, demanding attention but never granting it if they can help it. At its worst it’s all-out war, leading to more and more aggressive maneuvers until one side finally snaps. I’ve gone so far as to wave menus over my head, clang flatware against water glasses, make up loud songs about the terrible service, and other shenanigans. One time my buddies and I got so fed up waiting for the waiter to take our order, we called in a delivery order instead—and told them “the table in the back right corner,” when they asked for our address.
Of course they got the order wrong.
Anyway, Jones waits until she’s got her coffee and has taken a sip before replying. “I put in the request,” she answers. “Four to twelve hours before we hear back. I checked Smith’s personnel file, as well, but it doesn�
�t list his home address.” She grimaces—I think. “The rest of the agents have returned. A slaver-wasp hive? Really?”
“It worked,” Tall points out, jabbing the burger again with his fork. It still just lies there, looking horribly unappetizing. “I’m guessing you tested several of them for the cookies’ influence, and for freeing them from it?”
“I did.” She reaches out to steal a fry, thinks better of it once she touches one, but is left holding the flabby, pale blonde piece of potato and finally brings it to her mouth, chews methodically, and swallows. “Your claim appears to be correct. Everyone else in the agency seems to be under the cookies’ command. Telling them to snap out of it, however, cancels its influence.”
“Yeah, until the next time they eat more cookies,” I point out, though I’m talking as much to myself as to anyone else. “We’ve already seen how addictive they can be.”
Tall doesn’t reply to me, or repeat what I said to her. I think he figures she already knows that much. Hey, just because it’s obvious doesn’t mean I won’t say it anyway! “Are you still willing to assist me?” he asks her instead.
She pauses a second before nodding.
“Then we need to find out where Agent Smith lives, and confront him in his home.” Tall frowns—I can tell from the starstruck look that crosses Jones’s face. Yuck. “The question is, how’re we going to do that when it isn’t in the database?”
That gives me an idea, though. “Hang on,” I say, swiveling around in my chair and kicking my computer to wake it up. Hey, it works for siblings, roommates, campers, and the occasional bedmate, why not computers? At least I draw the line at punching, head-butting, sitting on, peeing on, and upending. There’s a reason I never liked mornings. “Do you know Agent Smith’s full name?”
“No,” Tall answers for them both. “He’s always just been Agent Smith.” I see Jones raise an eyebrow—he said that under his breath but she heard it anyway.
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