First, Project Groundcover. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to open case files—after all, I’d seen the HITS guys do it dozens of times.
Project Name: Groundcover
Status: Gold Level Classified
I groaned, louder than I’d intended—Gold Level meant only Dr. Fishburn could access it from his office computer. Still, I scrolled down. Most of the mission details were grayed out and unclickable. At the bottom, however, was a category that, while unclickable, still provided information that made me freeze for a dangerously long time.
Active Agents:
Katie Jordan (Role: RETINA SCAN REQUIRED TO ACCESS)
Joseph Jordan (Role: RETINA SCAN REQUIRED TO ACCESS)
There were other agents listed as well. A few were junior agents, but most were names I didn’t recognize—I guessed they were probably from other SRS facilities. One was Alex Creevy, a name I vaguely remembered Clatterbuck mentioning back at The League—Everything on Creevy was locked up ages ago. I clicked on all the names uselessly, hoping to reveal more information, but finally the computer beeped angrily at me. If I kept this up, the entire thing might shut down—I had to keep moving. I closed the window, opened the index of SRS agents, and typed frantically.
Katie Jordan. Mom’s file popped up, the borders of the window bright red to indicate the security clearance needed to access it. I heard something in the hall—maybe just the AC kicking on, maybe footsteps, but I didn’t have time to pause and dwell on it. The computer slowed as the system struggled to pull up the hundreds of missions she’d participated in, Project Groundcover included. Meanwhile Dad’s face appeared slightly smaller beneath hers, under the heading “Current Partner.” Finally the computer caught up, and I scrolled down frantically. Status, status, I just needed to see her status. If SRS was telling the truth, she’d be listed as “missing in the field.”
I froze, staring at the screen. Blinking, angry letters smashed through my eyes all the way to my brain, rummaged around, and tore up everything I thought was real.
Status: In the Weeds
Mom and Dad were marked to be eliminated on sight. By SRS.
Chapter Twelve
You know that feeling when you’re in the car, and you go over some little dip in the road, and your stomach goes up for just a second? At the moment you’re a little scared because you feel all off balance, but once it’s over, you realize it was pretty fun, and want to go over it again. But then the supervising agent driving you to the dentist is like, No, we don’t have time to go over bumps just for fun, Hale, now be quiet?
Maybe that last part is just me.
But anyway, that feeling—like the world was dropping out from under you suddenly—that was what reading about my parents being In the Weeds felt like. The world fell away, and I kept waiting for that moment, the moment where someone revealed that this was all just a joke or a training mission or some sort of twisted test. I’d be embarrassed that I’d fallen for it, and my parents would come out and remind me that I should have kept my cool, and hug me, and then we’d go home and I’d complain about my uniform and we’d talk about blast-door-wiring schematics over dinner, like normal.
That didn’t happen.
I printed the screen about my parents and kept the paper folded up in my pocket. Each time I took it out, I hoped it would read differently. Each time, I was more sure about what I had to do next: I had to trust The League. They’d told me the truth about my parents, so there was no reason to think they were lying about everything else. They were the heroes.
I had to go back. I had to become a hero too—for my parents’ sakes.
For the next week I very, very carefully rebuilt my reputation—which is to say, I went back to being Fail Hale. There was too much attention on me, and I’d never be able to sneak away so long as that was the case. So, I went to class. I lost the race at the end. I avoided Walter and the Foreheads—who, given that I’d revealed their favorite kitchen escape route, were now especially Walter-y. I ignored Kennedy’s concerned looks and Ms. Elma’s attempts to convince us that she’d actually cooked dinner, even when we recognized the food from the cafeteria’s lunch menu.
It paid off—the following Friday, Otter handed me his dry cleaning ticket and waved me off while Walter and the other junior agents headed to the firing range to practice defensive archery. I breezed past the receptionist, as per usual, but then instead of heading to the dry cleaner’s, I boarded the first train to Fairview.
“Mr. Jordan! Dr. Oleander told me you might be back!” the guy at the reception desk said when I walked into League headquarters, and his voice was all flat—like he hadn’t been told, but rather, warned. He kept an eye on me as he lifted his phone and pressed a few buttons, then spoke quickly into the receiver. A few moments later Oleander appeared at the end of the hallway, walking toward me quickly, pantsuit crisp and rustling.
“Mr. Jordan,” Oleander said kindly, then held out a well-manicured hand. “I assume we have a lot to talk about.”
I shook her hand, suddenly aware of how clammy my own was. “We do.”
Oleander led me back to her office, where Clatterbuck joined us. I withdrew the printout on my parents and handed it to her.
“I broke into the control deck and saw that,” I said quietly. “Katie Jordan and Joseph Jordan. Those are the two agents I thought The League kidnapped.”
“Jordan—they’re your parents, aren’t they?” Oleander said, and I got the impression she wasn’t entirely surprised.
I nodded. “I think they knew. About everything, I mean—I think that’s why they were marked In the Weeds. They figured out that SRS were the bad guys.”
Oleander exhaled. “Well, Hale, the news could be worse. They’re In the Weeds, not Contained. That means they’re on the run. SRS doesn’t have them. And I’m guessing that also means that when you were here last time, you lied about being on a mission for Project Groundcover. You came on your own to rescue them, didn’t you?”
I nodded again.
Oleander smiled a little. “That was very brave of you.”
I didn’t know how to answer, both because thanks seemed like a stupid thing to say, and because my chest felt like it was defrosting from how good it felt to hear someone say that. I waited a few moments before taking a breath and continuing. “I’m sorry I lied about Groundcover—but my parents really were working on that mission, whatever it is—that’s what they were out on when they went missing. I’m sure if we can find them or make it safe for them to come to us, they’ll tell you what they know. And in the meantime, I figure I can draw up blueprints of the SRS facility. I know you’re low on people here, but I think with my blueprints, a fifteen-man team could get in there and cause enough damage to set them back. To really take them out, you’ll need at least fifty people, and I don’t . . . Well . . . I don’t think we should hurt any of them. They’re all probably just like me—they have no idea they’re fighting for the bad guys. So we go back, get my sister, and then . . . I don’t know, I guess we live here with you guys?”
“Mr. Jordan, that won’t work,” Oleander said delicately.
I stared. “Where are we going to live then?”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean that—you’re welcome to live in our dorms here, though everyone at The League actually lives off campus—Clatterbuck and the twins live in that beige apartment complex across the street? Never mind, that’s not the point. What I meant was, we can’t go into SRS at all. Not with fifty men, not with fifteen. Literally, we can’t—we don’t have the resources for a mission like that. We barely have the resources to keep the lights on. You’re talking about putting our middle-age former field agents up against SRS’s flawlessly trained army of . . . of . . .”
“Hard bodies,” Clatterbuck offered, looking down at his belly mournfully.
Oleander looked annoyed, but she nodded. “Against SRS’s very fit, very fast, very smart, very well-supplied agents. Hale, Groundcover is the pin in the middle of all this—
I don’t think it’s just what your parents were working on when they went missing. I think Groundcover is why your parents went missing—or at the very least, it had to be what tipped them off about what sort of organization SRS really is. We have to know more.”
I paused, trying not to be too bothered that there was someone else telling me to “think of the mission” instead of my parents. I guess directors of spy agencies are just mission-focused by nature. I said, “I don’t know anything else. Groundcover is a highly classified mission. I can’t access any information on it, and it doesn’t sound like The League can either.”
“But maybe together, we could,” Oleander said.
“What do you mean?”
Oleander took a deep breath and glanced at Clatterbuck before responding. “We’d like you to go back to SRS. We’d like you to be a double agent. Keep working for SRS while really working for The League. If we figure out and stop Groundcover, not only have we kept SRS from becoming more powerful, but I think we’re a lot closer to making it safe for your parents to come home.”
Now it was my turn to take a deep breath. “Things don’t work out well at SRS for double agents,” I finally said grimly. I said agents, but I’d actually only ever heard of one double agent—it was supposed to be a secret, so naturally, everyone knew about it by the time we were seven. I’ll spare you the finer points of what SRS did when they realized they had a traitor in-house. Let’s just say that Kennedy swore she’d seen his ghost once.
“We know,” Oleander said. “Don’t think I’m oblivious as to what this would mean, Hale. But without an inside man, we’re left exactly where we were before you broke in—”
“I didn’t say I won’t do it,” I cut her off. “Just that things don’t work out well for them. But yes—I’m in. I’ll be a double agent.”
Oleander looked pleased. She rapped her nails on the desk a bit and then spoke. “All right, Hale—what sort of missions are you on right now? What we need is to get you assigned to Project Groundcover, but we’ll need to know—”
I lifted my eyebrows, halting her. “I don’t go on missions.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t go on missions,” I repeated. “I can’t pass the physical exam, so I’m not a junior agent.”
Clatterbuck and Oleander gave each other wary looks. “Are you . . . close to passing it?” Clatterbuck asked hesitantly.
“No,” I answered. “Look, I’ll do what you want—but there’s no way they’re going to start sending me on missions.”
Oleander frowned. “Well. Huh. Clatterbuck? Any ideas? What would you have done back in your mission days?”
“We would’ve sent in a different agent,” Clatterbuck said uselessly. “How is a kid able to break into and out of League headquarters not a junior agent?”
“Your security isn’t very good,” I muttered. Clatterbuck looked offended, but Oleander sort of nodded in agreement and then sighed.
“Hale, why don’t you head to the cafeteria and grab some dinner while we sort this out?”
“All right,” I said. “But I’ve got to be back at SRS before lockdown at seven, or they’ll miss me.” I trudged down to the cafeteria, hands slung in my pockets.
I wasn’t quite sure why The League called this a cafeteria—it was really a wall of vending machines and a basket of sandwiches made from questionable-looking cheeses. There wasn’t an attendant, but there was a jarful of coins and a sign that said HONOR SYSTEM. I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t think it’d bode well for me to take one without paying—after all, that would mean my first act at The League was to flood the place, and my second was to steal. There was a little bowl of candy on one of the chipped-up tables, though, so I slumped down into one of the closest chairs and ate one.
“Hale!” someone said cheerily. I looked up to see Ben walking into the room, followed by Beatrix. “You came back!”
“I did,” I answered.
“Did you sneak in? Did you use another disguise?” Beatrix asked excitedly. “Ben and I were talking about that Campfire Scout uniform—well, actually, everyone was talking about it. That was genius. Genius.”
“It was just some cut-up pants,” I said, though I did feel myself swell a little. That outfit was pretty clever, and I knew it. “But no, I didn’t sneak in. I came to talk to Oleander. She was right. SRS has my parents marked In the Weeds. I snuck into the HITS room and looked up their files. But now they want me to go rogue and be a double agent—” I stopped, because I realized Ben and Beatrix were staring at me, wide-eyed.
I really had no idea how to talk to kids who weren’t spies.
Ben sat down on the tabletop, swinging his legs off the edge. Beatrix took the spot across from me.
“So, is it like in the movies? Do you know karate? I took karate once, but I wasn’t very good,” Ben said. I opened my mouth to answer, but he kept on going. “I bet it’s just like the movies. Do you walk away from a lot of explosions?”
“What?” I asked.
“You know. Something explodes and you just walk away. Because you don’t even care. You’re that cool. Walk away.”
“Uh, no. I don’t think I’ve ever walked away from an explosion,” I said.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Beatrix asked hesitantly.
“What? No. We’re spies, not assassins!” I answered.
Ben changed the subject, sort of, which I appreciated. “So you’re going to be a double agent? You’re going to spy on SRS?”
“I was going to. But Clatterbuck and Oleander’s plans all revolve around me getting sent on missions, and I’m not a junior agent.”
I reached forward to take another candy out of the bowl. They were purple, so I imagined they were supposed to be grape, but they tasted a little strange. Beatrix made a yelping noise and dived for my hand.
“Have you been eating those?” Ben said, and his tone was urgent. Urgent enough that I realized we were talking about something more serious than a broken honor system.
“Yes—well, I ate one,” I said, lifting my eyes. Beatrix, who was clutching my forearm halfway to the candy dish, made a whistling sound through her teeth.
“That’s not good,” Ben said.
“What? Wait, is it poison? Why is it out in the open? No, never mind that—antidote. Get me the antidote, and hurry,” I said through pursed lips. I wanted to shout that, of course, but I knew from Intro to Chemical Compounds that panicking would make my heart race, which would just get the poison into my system even faster. I took a deep breath.
“It’s not poison,” Ben said. “Don’t worry. It’s one of my inventions.”
I let the breath out. “You invented hard candies?”
“Not all the hard candies. Just these specifically. They’re called JellyBENs.”
“JellyBENs?”
“I put my name in everything I invent. That way no one can rip me off. Ever heard of Nikola Tesla?”
“I think so . . . ,” I said.
“Well, he invented the radio, but who got credit for it? Marconi. All he did was steal the idea, and suddenly, oh, thanks, Marconi, your invention is totally revolutionizing communication! Tesla should’ve gotten that award. And don’t even get me started on Niagara Falls—did you know that Edison totally ripped Tesla off? He promised to pay him . . .” Ben ranted, throwing his hands around.
Beatrix gave me a sympathetic look. “Ben gets very upset about Tesla.”
“Clearly,” I said. “So what do JellyBENs do, exactly?”
“Well,” Ben said, frowning. “They’re supposed to have a side effect. But . . . Beatrix, shouldn’t it have happened by now?”
“That’s what my notes say,” Beatrix answered, looking down at her Right Hand. “Hang on—no! We have to account for his height and weight—”
“There!” Ben said, pointing enthusiastically at me.
I frowned and looked at my hands. Nothing was happening. Beatrix finally pressed a few buttons on her Right Hand and held the scre
en up to me. She’d flipped the camera so I could see myself on the screen—my entire face was purple.
Not like, oh-is-he-choking? purple. Really, really purple—the sort of color you’d expect to see on rare Amazonian frogs. The color of the kittens on the walls in Kennedy’s bedroom. Bright, obnoxious purple.
“Ben, Beatrix,” I said calmly. “Why is my head purple?”
“Oh, it’s not just your head,” Ben said. “It’ll spread to your chest—Oh, I think it already has! Wait, is your butt purple yet?”
“I haven’t checked,” I said. “How long will this last? Because I have to go back to SRS tonight.”
Beatrix shrugged. “Since you only ate one, the color should fade in an hour or so. Now, if you’d eaten all of them, you’d be purple till . . . I’d say next Thursday?”
“At least,” Ben agreed. “Beatrix was purple for almost three days, but you weigh more than she does, so you’ll burn the chemicals off faster.”
I exhaled. Somehow the inside of my mouth tasted purple. “All right, all right. How’d you learn to do this, anyway? Does The League teach classes like SRS does?”
“Classes? No—Beatrix and I are homeschooled through the Internet. But I didn’t exactly learn how to do this—I found some leftover chemicals in dry storage and started inventing things.”
“So . . . that’s what you do all day? You mix chemicals?”
“No! Of course not. Some days we just rewire things,” Beatrix said, looking offended. “Sometimes it’s just for fun, but the JellyBENs . . . We thought maybe someone would like them for April Fools’. You know, ‘Turn all your friends purple!’ and—”
“That’s it!” I cut her off. I looked at the bowl of JellyBENs, then back up at them. I grinned.
“Oh, his teeth are purple too!” Beatrix exclaimed, and typed this into her Right Hand.
“Guys,” I said, “I’ve got an idea for these, and it has nothing to do with April Fools’.”
Chapter Thirteen
I un-purpled a little bit later and left The League with my pockets jammed full of JellyBENs. I thought about explaining the plan to Clatterbuck and Oleander, but I ended up keeping my mouth shut since, for one, I figured Ben probably wasn’t supposed to be playing around with expired chemicals and second, if the whole plan failed miserably, I didn’t want them losing even more hope in my doubleagent abilities.
The Doublecross: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy Page 8