by James Ponti
“I’m beyond convinced,” Mother said, marveling at it. “I don’t suppose you figured out which company owns them all.”
Brooklyn interrupted and said, “Sinclair Scientifica!”
“Correct,” Kat replied as if she’d just noticed that Brooklyn was also at the table. “How’d you know that?”
“We’ve just spent seven days learning everything we possibly could about their headquarters in Paris,” said Brooklyn. “A building that’s called … Olympus.”
“Home of the gods,” said Sydney.
“Not only that,” Brooklyn said, happy to be noticed, “but the first four characters are S-S-2-K. My guess is that stands for Sinclair Scientifica, which was founded on January 1, 2000.”
They were all surprised by this revelation, especially Kat. Brooklyn held up the biography and said, “That part’s on page three.”
Kat studied her for a moment and nodded. “That’s sound deductive reasoning.”
From Kat, that felt like a five-star review, and Brooklyn beamed. Through the window they could see the outskirts of Paris as they neared the Gare du Nord train station.
“Why would Sinclair Scientifica keep their ownership of these companies a secret?” asked Sydney.
“There are a lot of reasons,” said Mother. “Some companies do it to avoid government regulation and others to keep their competitors in the dark. There are endless secrets in the business world.”
“Well, somebody knew this one,” said Kat.
“What do you mean?” asked Brooklyn.
“The Purple Thumb,” she answered. “Whoever’s committing these crimes knows they’re all part of one company. Maybe that’s why they’re doing it: to send a message. To let Sinclair know they’re onto them.”
“That’s extraordinary, Kat,” said Mother. “I don’t know if anyone else could’ve found that pattern.”
“It has a flaw, though,” said Brooklyn.
“What flaw?” Kat asked defensively.
“One crime scene doesn’t fit,” Brooklyn answered. “The two dead agents floating in the Seine. It wasn’t an attack on Sinclair, and it wasn’t during the summit. Why did the Purple Thumb break their pattern? And what are they going to do with the stolen virus?”
20. The All-Seeing Reggie
BECAUSE HE WAS TRAVELING UNDER a different cover story, Mother split up from the group at the Gare du Nord. Technically, he wasn’t part of FARM, so he wasn’t in Paris for the summit. Instead, if anyone got suspicious and checked his travel plans, they’d see he was in the city visiting museums as part of his job with the Scottish National Gallery.
Before separating, though, he gave Brooklyn a pep talk as they walked along the platform next to the train. “Just because you don’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not nearby watching everything,” he reassured her. “And you know what to do if you need to talk directly?”
Brooklyn nodded.
“I want to hear you say it,” he said.
“I text you the word ‘pancake,’ ” she responded. “Just ‘pancake’ and a time.”
“That’s right,” he said. “If someone hacks us, it won’t mean a thing to them. But I’ll know where and when to meet you.”
Anyone intercepting the text would assume it had something to do with breakfast, but it would actually be a reference to the judge from family court. Mother would know to meet Brooklyn in front of the Palais de Justice, which was located in the exact center of the city.
“And remember,” he added. “Forget about the wall. You don’t have to climb it.”
Brooklyn took a few more steps and was about to respond when she looked up and saw that he was gone. She had no idea how he disappeared so quickly, but as she scanned the travelers on the platform, there was no sign of him.
“Come on,” Sydney said as she walked up and threw a friendly arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to love this city.”
Outside the train station they hopped on the number forty-two bus to get to their hotel. The Three Lions Inn was located in the Madeleine neighborhood of Paris where two roads intersected at sharp angles, making the building wedge-shaped like a four-story slice of cake. As with most hotels in the city, the staff worked diligently to maintain its star rating in guidebooks and on travel websites. Except, unlike others who tried to move up the scale, the Three Lions was determined never to earn more than a single star, the lowest score possible.
To achieve this, the staff offered mediocre service; the rooms were kept clean, but not too clean, and the building’s lone elevator was almost always out of order. Not surprisingly, though there were only twenty-eight rooms to let, the hotel always had at least a handful of vacancies. Even during the busiest tourist seasons. As one reviewer put it, “It’s amazing the Three Lions is able to stay in business.”
What no reviewer could possibly know was that the Three Lions stayed in business because it was one of several hotels in Paris owned and operated by the British Secret Intelligence Service. Constant vacancies were necessary in case an agent needed emergency lodging. And while the hotel didn’t offer luxuries such as plush bedding, gourmet meals, or a day spa, it did have bulletproof windows, an underground communication center, and three separate hidden exits, one of which led to a tunnel connecting to the British embassy two blocks away.
Of course, none of that was apparent as the team approached the building’s rather unimpressive entrance. The paint was fading on the old sign above the doorway, and the H was so faint it looked like it said “Tree Lions.”
“This is where we’re staying?” Sydney asked unenthusiastically.
“Trust me,” said Monty, who’d kept the hotel’s MI6 connection a secret. “There’s more to it than you see at first glance.”
When they entered the equally uninspiring lobby, Sydney leaned over to Kat and whispered, “Hopefully there’s more to it than you see at second glance too.”
Before Kat could even laugh, a voice boomed from across the room. “I heard that!”
Sydney looked up and was startled to see a man looking directly at her from behind the check-in counter. She was certain he couldn’t have heard her whisper from so far away. At least she was almost certain.
“You heard what?” she asked cautiously.
“I heard you disparage this fine establishment,” he answered. “The first rule of the Three Lions is that Reggie sees all and hears all.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sydney replied, suddenly backpedaling. “I-I didn’t mean to …”
He cut her off with a roar of laughter. “I’m only joking. You should hear how I talk about the place. It’s a dump. But it’s my dump.”
Of all the special features at the hotel, the most special was Reggie, who was seemingly on duty around the clock. He’d been with MI6 for twenty years, and like many great spies, he was of uncertain age and ethnicity. Depending on the lighting and whether his hair and beard were neatly trimmed, he could pass for anything from a thirtysomething Middle Eastern businessman to a midfifties South American beach bum. In reality, he was forty-five and from Liverpool. He’d been an operative in Southeast Asia until a bullet lodged in his right knee and ended his career as a field agent.
Now he put his cloak-and-dagger skills to work at the Three Lions, where a state-of-the-art security system and the hotel’s unique triangular shape allowed him to keep a constant eye on anyone approaching the building. If someone followed you, Reggie knew it. More important, he knew exactly what to do about it.
“Hello, Reg,” Monty said warmly as they approached the desk. She’d known him ever since basic training, when he was one of her weapons instructors.
“Lovely to see you, Alexandra,” he replied, calling her, as he always did, by her first name. “Welcome back to the Three Lions.”
She looked at the old couch in the otherwise empty lobby, the outdated travel posters on the wall, and the rather uninviting bowl of hard candy sitting on the counter. “I love what you haven’t done to the place,” she said as she
handed him everyone’s passports to check in.
“We wouldn’t want to over-egg the pudding, now would we?” he said with a sly grin. He wrote the names into a ledger and grabbed three keys from a row of cubbies on the wall behind him. “Let me show you to your rooms and make sure everyone’s acquainted with all the amenities.”
As he came out from behind the counter, he walked with the help of a cane that had the name “Harry” written on its barrel.
“I thought your name was Reggie,” said Rio.
“It is,” said the man.
“Then who’s Harry?” Rio asked, pointing at the name.
“Harry’s the cane,” Reggie explained.
It took a moment, but Paris was the first to get the joke, and, when he did, he laughed hard. “You named your cane after the footballer?”
“Indeed I did!” Reg shot him a wink and smiled. “We’re called the Three Lions for a reason.”
The hotel was named after England’s national soccer team, which was nicknamed the Three Lions because of the lions on the crest of King Richard the Lionheart, which they wore on their jerseys. Harry Kane had been the captain of the team during the 2018 World Cup and won the Golden Boot as the tournament’s highest scorer.
“I put everyone on the ground floor,” Reggie said as they reached one of the rooms. “So you don’t have to worry about the lift.” He unlocked a door to reveal a plain room with three beds, a desk, a chair, and a large stain on the wall.
“This one’s for the girls,” he said. “I call it the Princess Suite.”
He shot a look at Sydney, who simply said, “Lovely.”
“I know you don’t mean it, but it really is,” he replied.
He gave the window two solid whacks with his cane, and rather than shattering the glass, the cane just bounced off. “These are ballistic level-three glass-clad polycarbonate windows, and the bathroom walls are reinforced steel with armor plating. If things go pear-shaped, that’s where you hide.”
Suddenly the kids were beginning to get the sense that the hotel was not what it seemed.
“This light switch works the lights,” he said, demonstrating by flipping it on and off. “But this one activates a radio jammer so no one can use electronic devices to listen in on you.”
“Doesn’t that mess up Wi-Fi?” asked Brooklyn.
“Yes, but you shouldn’t be using Wi-Fi while you’re here,” he said. “It’s too easy to compromise. If you need to go online, just plug this into your laptop.” He pulled up a corner of wallpaper to reveal a hidden computer cable. “It puts you on the same network as the embassy and has a fully encrypted firewall.”
“Wow,” said Brooklyn.
“Now, let me show you how to use your room key,” Reggie said.
Sydney laughed but then realized he was serious. “Wait. Isn’t there only one way to use a room key?”
“If all you’re worried about is unlocking a door, then yes,” he said. “But this is designed for self-defense.”
He held up the key chain: a metal lion’s head attached to a key ring with superstrong parachute cord. “If you find yourself in trouble, slide this ring between your fingers like this and it becomes a handle, and the lion’s head turns into a weapon.” He swung it around like a ninja. “Just hold them at bay until Harry and I can come to the rescue.” He lifted his cane for emphasis.
“You’re going to beat them with your cane?” asked Rio.
“If I have to,” he said. “But I’d rather do this.”
He held the cane up like a gun, pressed an unseen button, and a feathered dart shot out of it and stuck to the wall.
“Harry’s also a tranq gun,” he said. “This should knock anyone out until the cavalry arrives.”
The team stared first at the dart and then at Reggie, trying to make sense of the scene.
“I told you there’s more to this place than meets the eye,” said Monty.
“Finally, the linen closet’s across the hall,” he said. “The odds are good that the staff will fall behind in its housekeeping, so that’s where you’ll find fresh towels. More important, it has a false panel behind the shelf that opens onto a tunnel connecting to the embassy. If you run through the tunnel, it triggers an alarm in the embassy; and believe me, they will be ready and waiting once you reach the door.
“The code to unlock the door is 1-9-6-6,” he said. “It’s a doodle to remember because that’s when England won the World Cup.”
“This is officially the greatest hotel in the world,” said Paris.
Reggie flashed him a grin and said, “I’m chuffed to hear you say that, mate. Just be sure to keep that opinion among ourselves. I wouldn’t want an extra star popping up in the Michelin next year.”
Once they’d settled into their room, Sydney lay on her bed working on her speech while Brooklyn and Kat huddled around a laptop to test out their latest weather models. They were halfway through them when Monty knocked on the door.
“Who’s ready for some sightseeing?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t we be preparing for tomorrow?” asked Brooklyn. “It’s the first day of the competition, and we want to get off to a good start.”
“You’ve trained nonstop for three weeks,” Monty replied. “And you’re about to start an intense few days. I think a little fun might be in order.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
For the next few hours, they were tourists, not spies. They posed for goofy pictures in front of the glass pyramid outside of the Louvre, they ate crepes from a sidewalk cart, and Paris even showed them a favorite “secret spot” he knew from when he lived in the city.
“Follow me,” he instructed as they entered Printemps department store.
First he took them up an elevator. Then they rode an escalator to the top floor. The others were fairly certain he was pranking them until they stepped out onto the rooftop terrace and were greeted by a stunning view.
“You can see the entire city from here, and it’s free,” he said as they looked out at the 360-degree panorama. “There’s Sacré-Coeur, la tour Eiffel, even the top of the Arc de Triomphe. I used to sit on this bench for hours and forget my problems.”
“It’s lovely,” said Monty.
“Almost too lovely,” said Brooklyn. “In some ways this city doesn’t seem real. Everywhere you look, it feels like … you’re watching a movie.”
“Like we’re back at Pinewood,” said Sydney.
“All that’s missing is Jonny Lott jumping out of a Jag and forgetting his lines,” joked Rio.
“I’m here for queen and country,” Paris said, mimicking him, “and I’m here to make an … umm … umm … what’s my line again?”
Everybody laughed, and Brooklyn savored the moment. Her worries from earlier had been replaced by a much happier feeling. It was amazing how much her life had changed in less than a month. And, even though she still felt like an outsider, especially around Rio and Kat, she also felt lucky to be a part of whatever this was and to have these people in her life.
“How does this view compare to that one?” Brooklyn asked, pointing at the Eiffel Tower glimmering in the sunset.
“Don’t know,” answered Paris. “I’ve never been up the Eiffel Tower. It costs money to do that, and I never had any.”
There was quiet until Monty said, “I’ve got money.”
* * *
Ninety minutes later, they took a glass-paneled elevator past the two lower decks and went straight to the top of the tower. The view was so breathtaking that, for the moment at least, Brooklyn forgot her fear of heights.
“Okay, Brooklyn,” Monty said as the elevator climbed. “Here’s your question for the day: Is the Eiffel Tower a work of art? Or is it an exhibition of science?”
The others laughed knowingly.
“Careful how you answer,” warned Paris. “This is like a crusade for her.”
“Right,” said Sydney. “Get it wrong and there’s a very long tutoring session involving Monty and a slid
e projector.”
“That’s enough from you two,” Monty admonished. “I want to hear her answer without any commentary.”
Everyone was focused on Brooklyn as she said, “It’s definitely beautiful, so that would make it art.…”
In the corner of her eye she noticed Kat almost imperceptibly shaking her head no.
“But …” Brooklyn continued before Monty could respond. “The engineering is impressive, which would make it science.”
Monty gave her a stern look. “Does that mean you think art isn’t impressive and science isn’t beautiful?”
“I think I hear the projector warming up,” teased Sydney.
“You’re digging a hole for yourself,” Paris warned.
“Enough from you two,” said Monty. “Come on, Brooklyn, which one is it?”
Just then Brooklyn saw that Kat had her hands crossed and was just barely extending two fingers as a clue. Brooklyn smiled.
“It’s both,” she said. “It’s a work of art that is also an exhibition of science.”
“That’s very good,” said Monty. “Though I think you may have received some help.” She shot a suspicious eye at Kat.
As they stepped out onto the observation deck, Brooklyn whispered to Kat, “Thanks for saving me.”
“I wasn’t saving you,” she said. “I was saving myself from having to listen to that lecture again.” Then she turned her back and moved away.
Brooklyn shook her head, wondering if Kat would ever warm up to her.
As the group looked out over Paris, Monty continued her mini lecture.
“The tower is so beautiful that when Eiffel completed it, people complained that he was so focused on artistry that he ignored engineering,” she explained. “When in fact, the primary concern during its design and construction was dealing with the wind, proving that true science and true beauty are one and the same.” She admired the view for a moment before adding. “Of course, that doesn’t do anything about the sun.”
“What does the sun do?” asked Brooklyn, her dislike of heights rapidly returning.