by James Ponti
“We have a covert asset,” Kayla instructed the agent behind the wheel. “Drive accordingly.”
“Roger that,” said the driver as he picked up the pace.
We stayed on Massachusetts Avenue, which is also known as Embassy Row, for about a mile. Then we started making some sudden turns onto little side roads. I could feel car sickness coming on.
“He’s just making sure no one’s following,” explained Kayla.
“That’s good,” I said. “That man you destroyed. Is he going to cause trouble for you?”
She laughed. “He is going to go to his grave without admitting to anybody that he was outmuscled by little ol’ me.”
Margaret laughed.
Kayla looked at me and shook her head. “Florian, what were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“You are unbelievably smart,” she said. “This was anything but.”
“I know.”
That was the entire lecture I got from her, but I was certain there were more to come.
“Are we clear?” she asked the driver.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “No one’s following.”
“Great, take us to the Washington Field Office.
“I’m stationed there and not at the Hoover,” she said to me.
“I’m worried about Agent Rivers,” I said. “I didn’t see him come out of the embassy.”
“Yeah, well, he was sure worried about you,” she replied. “Thank goodness you had enough sense to send a distress signal.”
“Actually that was Margaret,” I said. “Thanks, Margaret.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “That’s what BFs do, right?”
Ten minutes later we pulled into the underground garage at the FBI Washington Field Office. It was large and nondescript, about a half mile from the Hoover Building. A few minutes after we got there, another car pulled up beside us. It was a maroon hybrid. Agent Rivers was behind the wheel.
I let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Looks like your ride is here,” she said. “So it’s time for me to say good-bye. You two stay out of trouble, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Definitely,” said Margaret.
“And, Florian,” she said, looking me right in the eyes. “That big brain of yours . . . don’t forget to use it.”
We got out of the SUV and Agent Rivers came right to me.
“Florian, I can’t believe you did that,” he said. “I am so angry with you.”
“I know,” I replied.
“But we are going to deal with the anger a little later,” he said.
That’s when he wrapped me up in a hug. It was tight and comforting and long.
“I’m sorry, Agent Rivers,” I said, looking up at him.
“You call me Marcus.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”
26.
Black Tuesday
“EPIC” IS ONE OF MARGARET’S favorite words. It’s also a good way to describe the scope of the grounding my parents gave me after Agent Rivers drove us home and told them what happened.
I made a point of explaining to Margaret’s mom and dad how I’d put her in an impossible situation. And Marcus followed up by pointing out that she was the one who saved the day, so we were able to help her a little. But my world was limited to the campus of Alice Deal Middle School and the walls of my house for as far as the eye could see. And while at home, the computer was limited only to its role in helping with homework, and the television was banished as though Philo T. Farnsworth had never invented it.
And I totally deserved the punishment. Every bit of it.
The one exception was that I was allowed to keep participating in after-school activities. Suddenly I became the most active member in student council history, volunteering for any subcommittee or planning board I could get on.
Two weeks after our little adventure to Romania, I came out of an oversight committee that considered possible changes in the school dress code—like I said, I volunteered for everything—and was surprised to see my dad waiting for me in front of the school.
“What’s wrong? Mom’s worried I’m having too much fun on my walk home?” I joked as I got in the car.
“Worse,” he said, a serious look on his face. “There’s been a new development. The story broke. All of it. A writer at the Post published it online about two hours ago. TV news jumped on board and now it’s a circus.”
“I don’t understand—what story?”
“They’re reporting that Woman with a Parasol was stolen, and claiming the FBI and National Gallery kept it a secret out of embarrassment. Nicolae Nevrescu was identified as the prime suspect.” He turned to look at me. “And there’ve been mentions that a boy has been part of the investigation.”
“Did they use my name?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But there are so many bigger parts of the story right now. It’s really going to cause problems for Agent Rivers.”
“It’ll put pressure on Nevrescu, too,” I said.
“One of the news stations ambushed him outside his construction company,” said Dad. “There was a lot of shouting and yelling.”
When I got home the television and computer bans were temporarily lifted so that we could watch the story unfold. Margaret came over and joined Dad and me.
“How’d the story even get out?” I asked as we watched a reporter do a live update from the sidewalk in front of the museum.
“It’s like I told you,” Margaret replied. “Nothing stays secret in Washington.”
As far as names, the only ones mentioned much were Marcus Rivers as the agent in charge and Nicolae Nevrescu as the prime suspect. A few reporters revealed that there may have been involvement in the crime by museum staff, but no one referred directly to Serena Miller or Earl Jackson.
Oliver Hobbes, however, was all over the news. Not as a suspect but as someone to be interviewed. We saw him on two national broadcasts as an industry expert with a working knowledge of the situation.
“I bet he’s your leak right there,” said Dad.
“Oliver?”
“He’s always had a shady side.”
“But why would he leak the story?” asked Margaret.
“I’m sure he’s getting pressure from the insurance company,” Dad said. “They probably think the FBI is moving too slowly and wanted to put them in the hot seat.”
“My company was against keeping the theft a secret right from the beginning,” Hobbes said during his interview. “We believe that the best policy is total honesty with the public. But the FBI insisted and we were forced into silence.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” interjected Margaret.
“And why do you think the FBI kept it a secret?” asked the interviewer.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Hobbes. “They don’t want the public to know how much they’ve messed up.”
When Mom got home from work, she gave us a behind-the-scenes account of the National Gallery.
“Everyone was running around crazy,” she said. “Reporters kept trying to come inside with their television crews. Serena Miller went in for a closed-door meeting with the director that lasted over an hour. Eventually my boss came into our studio and told us to leave early and not speak to the press.”
“Does anyone there know that you already knew?”
Mom shook her head. “I’m good at keeping secrets. I played dumb like everybody else.”
As far as my participation, a few reporters mentioned a rumor about a kid being involved, but it seemed so far-fetched and strange that no one gave it much thought. I had my fingers crossed that things would stay that way.
“Wait a second,” said Margaret, holding her hands up to signal stop. “Where’s Pavel Novak?”
“In the Czech Republic,” I said, unsure what she was going for.
“No, I don’t mean where is he on the planet. I mean, where is he in the story?” she asked. “He’s the one person tha
t we definitely know is involved in the crime, and no one has mentioned his name.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“They must not know,” said Dad. “Whoever leaked the story must not know about Novak’s involvement.”
“Then it’s not Hobbes,” I said. “He’s known from the beginning.”
“Then who could it be?” Margaret asked, thinking out loud.
“Oh no,” said Mom. “This does not look good.”
We looked over to her and she was glued to the monitor.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Marcus is in trouble.”
We all quieted and turned up the volume and listened as a news anchor held up a piece of paper and began to read from it.
“According to this statement from Nevrescu’s attorney, the businessman categorically denies any involvement,” she said. “In a troubling twist, there are reports Special Agent Marcus Rivers may have entered the Romanian embassy under a false identity two weeks ago.”
The anchor next to her shook his head as though this was an earth-shattering development. “If that’s true, it would be a clear violation of international law,” said the anchor. “I’m sure the State Department will be getting involved now.”
I couldn’t believe it. On top of everything else, Marcus was going to get in trouble because of something I did. It was my fault and he was going to pay the price.
“They’re going to fire him, aren’t they?” I said. “It’s going to cost him his career.”
“You may be right,” said Dad.
Then Mom reached over and put her hand on my shoulder. “Unless you solve it first.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Mom and Dad shared a look for a moment and then both of them turned to me. “There is a temporary lifting of the restriction within the confines of the Underground. Just downstairs. You can’t talk to anyone. You can’t go anywhere.”
“We don’t need to go anywhere. The TV’s bringing it all to us.” I looked right at Margaret. “This is our test. Are you ready?”
“Ready to take it. Ready to crush it.”
27.
Kidnapped
MARGARET AND I SPENT TUESDAY evening and all day after school Wednesday in the Underground trying to break the case. We were in total TOAST mode, ignoring the big things to focus on little details that didn’t quite fit.
Here were some of the things we wanted to figure out:
1. Who leaked the story? We filled an entire wall with cards that listed who knew what and when. Then we started comparing those names with what information did and did not become public.
2. What was the importance of the cleaning crew? When we looked back at the video my secret-agent glasses recorded at the Romanian embassy, we were able to identify that the custodian there worked for the same company as the custodians at the National Gallery.
3. How did the burglar find out about the security upgrade? If neither Serena nor Earl was involved—which we believed in our hearts to be true—then someone else had to pass along the information about the upgrade. Who could have known about it?
4. Who else crossed paths with Pavel Novak?
“Okay,” Margaret said, staring at the evidence on the wall. “I’ve got one more for you. But I warn you, it’s really TOASTy.”
“What does ‘really TOASTy’ mean?” I asked.
“I mean in the Theory of All Small Things, this is smaller than small. It’s tiny. But it doesn’t make sense,” she explained.
“Lay it on me,” I said.
“How’d he know about the soccer game?”
She just let it sit there for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“We know there’s a Romanian connection.”
“Right.”
“And it all points to Nevrescu as the mastermind.”
“Yes, but we can’t prove it.”
“Nevrescu recognized you at the embassy because he had seen you at the soccer game.”
“Right,” I said.
“But how did he know you would be at the soccer game in the first place? He didn’t follow you from your house. The FBI would have mentioned that. But they just said he went to the soccer game and watched you there.”
I considered this and smiled.
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “It’s tiny, but that may be the piece.”
That question kept me up all night and bothered me all through the next school day. How could Nevrescu have known where I was going?
“Your SmarTrip card!” Margaret said the instant she saw me in the cafeteria on Thursday. “The agent knew you were there because your SmarTrip card set off some kind of alarm. Nevrescu must have access to the same information or equipment.”
I thought this through for a minute. “You might be right. But that would mean he has some sort of connection inside the FBI. We’ve got to reach out to Marcus.”
“He can’t talk to you,” she said. “He’s all over the news. I’m sure he’s in the admiral’s office fighting for his job. You can’t just have Johan Blankvort send a question into ‘Ask an Agent.’ ”
“Well, we’ve got to do something,” I said. “Let’s go straight to my house after school.”
“I can’t. I have my piano lesson.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I told her. “I’ll run home and start trying to figure out a connection between Nevrescu and the FBI. You come over as soon as you can.”
“Okay, and I know you’re in a hurry. But don’t take all your little shortcuts.”
“What’s wrong with my shortcuts?”
“Like the one behind the Safeway. It’s gross back there. And you know what I say about Dumpsters.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “You just get to the Underground as soon as you can.”
It was pouring when school got out, and I tried to reach both of my parents to see if either could pick me up. They couldn’t, so I decided to run through the rain, and despite Margaret’s warnings, I planned to take every shortcut I knew.
I ran down the street and squeezed between the fence to get behind the Safeway. I held my backpack over my head to try to keep dry as I hurried along the Dumpsters.
And that brings the story back to where I started—my kidnapping. A lot has happened since then, so I’ll recap some of the highlights.
The giant man from the Happy Leprechaun Flower Shop knocked me unconscious, threw me into the back of the truck, and drove me to a farm in rural Virginia. Along the way we semibonded over the joke about monkeys in my hovercraft, and then I was able to trick him into triggering my panic button, which was disguised as an asthma inhaler.
Oh, and I was seated at a table across from Nicolae Nevrescu, crime lord and art-theft mastermind.
“You are the one the FBI only talks about in whispers. The one they call Little Sherlock,” he said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
He gave me a disappointed look. “Let’s not play games. I know who you are and you know who I am.”
I nodded reluctantly. “I know you’re the man who masterminded the robbery at the National Gallery of Art.”
He chuckled. “Mastermind? I love that word. I wish it were true. No, that fact you have wrong. That’s why I had you brought here. So we could set the record straight and you could tell your friends at the FBI they are looking for the wrong suspect.”
That’s when he rolled up his sleeves and I saw the tattoos. The one that caught my eye was the tattoo of the daisy with the numbers “24/7” directly beneath it. Nothing about that made sense. It just didn’t fit.
Until it did. Until it answered Margaret’s question: How did he know I’d be at the soccer game?
“There’s been a huge mistake,” I said urgently. “You need to let me go right now.”
“Is that so?” He laughed. “Why should I do that?”
I looked right at him and did not blink. “Because the FBI is going to be
here in less than five minutes and that doesn’t leave us much time to talk about why your tattoo changes everything.”
This caught him off guard.
“That inhaler,” I said. “That’s really a panic button. The FBI has been alerted and they are going to come crashing through the door. And we have to talk about your tattoo before that happens, don’t we?”
His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. And then he answered, “Yes, we do.”
Nevrescu barked at everybody else, telling them to leave as he untied my hands. Both of us had to think fast. As the others scurried out of the barn and rushed to their vehicles, Nevrescu and I sat back down.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Your tattoo doesn’t make sense. You’re a tough guy, not a flower guy. Then I remembered the Romanian word for daisy—margareta, MARGARET A. The twenty-four/seven is the European style for the twenty-fourth of July. That’s her real birthday, right? July twenty-fourth?”
I looked across the table and saw him turn into an entirely different man.
“You’re Margaret’s father.”
28.
The Cavalry Arrives
THE FBI WAS COMING TO rescue me, Nevrescu’s henchmen were scrambling to get away from the barn, chaos was everywhere, but I didn’t hear a thing. I was so focused on Nevrescu’s tattoo and the realization that he was Margaret’s birth father.
“You weren’t at the soccer game to see me,” I said. “You were there to see her.”
“She was amazing in that game, wasn’t she?” he said.
“She’s amazing in everything she does,” I told him.
I ran through the timeline in my head. “And when we were at the embassy, I wasn’t the one you recognized, it was her. She was standing right next to me.”
“You must understand that I’m a bad person,” he said. “But she is not. She is only good. Nothing can ever connect her to me. That’s for her safety.”
All the pieces started coming together.
“Twelve years ago, you weren’t a criminal, you were a student at Georgetown. Is that where you met her mother, her birth mother?”