by Bruce Hale
On an elevated sort of command center to his right, Max noticed several swivel chairs fronting a bank of controls, lit by the cool azure glow of the massive computer screens above them. On one screen, he recognized an electronic map of the capital decorated with blinking dots of various colors.
Could these be his missing friends and father? Max hustled over to the screen and peered up at it, heart splashing in his chest. Although most of the dots were motionless, a few crawled along what Max guessed were motorways. He scanned the display. Where was a handy-dandy caption, something to give meaning to these random spots of color?
Nowhere, that’s where.
He leaned over the controls, pondering how to coax more information from this mysterious machine. Spotting an enter button, he pressed it.
Instantly, the map vanished.
“No!” burst from Max’s lips. Whoops. His hand flew to his mouth, and he shone the flashlight around, making sure he was still alone, that no one had overheard.
The chamber was as deserted as an ice cream shop in the dead of winter.
He turned his attention back to the screen, which now displayed a list of names, most of which had the word minister before them. Where had the map gone? Max tapped the ENTER key again, and now the layout of an extensive building appeared. One more tap, and it zoomed in.
A section bearing labels like CENTRAL LOBBY and HOUSE OF COMMONS filled the screen. The Houses of Parliament? He frowned. Was LOTUS planning on infiltrating the government?
Before he could investigate further, a familiar sound sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his body.
A sustained creak up above. Voices.
Someone was coming down the stairs!
Max whipped his flashlight about in a wide arc, searching for a hiding place. The rows of lockers offered scant protection. Ditto for the command center. But in the wall beyond it, two corridors opened into deeper darkness.
He hustled across and plunged into the right-hand hallway. Shielding his beam now, Max tiptoed down the narrow passage past doors guarded by card-scanner locks. When he judged he’d gone far enough, he hugged the wall, clicked off his light, and listened.
Footsteps clattered on the steel steps.
“I tell you, it ain’t necessary.” Humphrey’s gruff voice grew louder as he descended.
“The guv’nor decides what’s necessary,” snapped a sharp female voice. Dijon LeStrange. “And she wants security double tight.”
Max tensed. The guv’nor meant Mrs. Frost. Was she home already?
Lights snapped on, and Max had to squint against the sudden brightness.
“See?” said Humphrey, his words echoing in the cavernous room. “Nobody home.”
“That’s your whole inspection?” Disapproval drenched Dijon’s tone like curry on rice. “Good thing you’re not on gate duty. The enemy could roll a bloody Trojan horse past you.”
“Get knotted,” said Humphrey. “I just don’t fancy wasting effort, that’s all.”
At the end of his passage, back the way he’d come, Max could see a slice of the larger chamber. If either of the guards walked past, they would be able to see him too, plain as day. He glanced behind him, searching for a safer spot. A stack of cardboard boxes rested near the corridor’s dead end. Perfect.
“Ooh, listen to Mr. Efficiency,” sneered Dijon. “‘Wasted effort,’ he says. For your information, if the cameras malfunction, it’s not a waste of time to check and see if any bad guys are about.”
Creeping back to his hiding spot, Max thought, Bad guys? They’re the bad guys. He ducked into place and winced as his knee bumped a box.
“What was that?” said Dijon.
Max froze.
“The prisoner, no doubt,” said Humphrey.
“Come on, then,” said Dijon. “Let’s go look. Unless you fancy finding other employment.”
Humphrey grumbled. Max hugged the wall as the footsteps drew closer, and now he could see the agents through a narrow gap—Humphrey, buff and broad-shouldered; Dijon, sinister and svelte. They stopped at the first door. The grumpy spy drew his weapon, and Dijon slid a key card through the scanner.
As soon as the door opened, a high, anxious voice emerged. “Don’t hurt me! What do you want? My parents are rich; they’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me, please!”
Addison Rook.
With all that had happened since, Max had nearly forgotten about the boy genius he’d helped kidnap only that morning. Now he felt a twinge of sympathy for the twit. Nobody deserved to be kidnapped and imprisoned, not even Addison. But since the teen was a valuable pawn, Max knew he wouldn’t be harmed. He scowled and pushed the thought from his mind. Addison just wasn’t his problem.
And if that made him heartless, well, secret agents and foster kids didn’t survive by being as gooey as a box of Christmas chocolates.
“Don’t wet your bloody pants, boy,” growled Humphrey. “We’re only checking up on you.”
“Oh.” Addison’s relief was almost comical.
“Are the accommodations to your liking?” asked Dijon with a sarcastic lilt. “Is the food up to snuff?”
“The cell is…adequate,” said Addison, a hint of his self-assurance creeping back. “The lamb, though, was a tad overdone.”
Humphrey snarled and took a step closer.
“But I like it that way?” the boy genius squeaked, his voice jumping an octave.
Dijon shut the door, and the electronic lock clicked.
“Now can we go?” Humphrey groused. “The guv’nor will be home any minute.”
“All right, then.” She led the way back into the main room, her voice receding. “But I want you to go check on that brat Segredo, make sure he’s not up to mischief.”
Uh-oh.
Max squeezed his eyes shut. He wouldn’t be able to take his time and try to locate his friends on that blasted computer. Instead, he’d have to sneak back upstairs, pray he didn’t get caught, and devise a reasonable excuse to cover his time spent snooping.
The overhead lights snapped off, and the guards’ footsteps retreated up the stairs. When Max heard the false floor slide back into place, he snapped on his flashlight and recrossed the evil lair. Moving as cautiously as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, he scaled the staircase, careful not to make a sound. At the top, Max put an ear to the false floor, listening for any sign of human activity. Nothing. Only a faint electrical hum.
Max reached down and flipped the switch. As the floor above him began to retract, he rushed up the last steps and into Mrs. Frost’s office. If someone was waiting, he at least wanted to meet them head-on.
The chamber lay empty. A quiet pop came from the fireplace as the sap in one of the logs ignited. Max released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
So far, so good.
He worked the lion statuette, and the floor slid back into place. Taking one last glance at the office, he made his way to the bathroom door, passed through, and relocked it.
When he spun around, Max nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What in the world,” said Vespa, “are you doing in my loo?”
HER CONVERSATION with Simon Segredo wasn’t going quite the way Cinnabar had hoped.
“You’re both certifiably brainsick,” said Mr. Segredo. “You think you can waltz into LOTUS headquarters, just the two of you, and rescue Max? From the best-guarded, most secure spy compound in the country?”
“Not just the two of us,” said Wyatt. “We were hoping you’d come too.”
Max’s father only raised his eyebrows in response. He paced the dingy parlor of the cut-rate hotel suite he’d taken them to, peering out between rust-colored curtains at the gloomy day outside.
In spite of the man’s impeccable pearl-gray suit, Cinnabar thought Mr. Segredo looked haggard. His cheeks were hollow, his brown eyes shadowed with fatigue. Maybe he wasn’t trustworthy, but he was Max’s dad. He deserved to know.…
“We haven’t to
ld you everything,” said Cinnabar.
Mr. Segredo wheeled back toward her, his long face impassive. “All right.”
Cinnabar and Wyatt traded a glance. “It’s Mrs. Frost,” Wyatt began.
“She’s trying to adopt Max,” Cinnabar finished.
Mr. Segredo’s jaw tightened, but that was the only sign of whatever he was feeling. “Adopt him. And you know this how?”
“Tully has a source,” said Cinnabar.
The tall spy rubbed a hand across his face.
“We can’t let it happen,” said Wyatt. “Obviously.”
“I see.” Mr. Segredo seemed lost in thought.
“Don’t you care?” Cinnabar rocketed up off the ratty sofa and crossed to him. “Look, I don’t trust you, seeing as how you’ve worked for LOTUS—”
“Understandable,” said Max’s father.
“But no matter what, Max is your son,” said Cinnabar. “How could you let him be adopted by that evil old bat?”
Simon Segredo massaged the back of his neck, his gaze troubled.
“It’s not Max, it’s me,” he said.
“Really?” asked Wyatt. “She’s trying to adopt you too?”
Max’s father shook his head. “She’s trying to hit me where I’m most vulnerable.”
“So hit back,” Cinnabar pleaded. “Help us find LOTUS’s new headquarters and rescue Max.”
“This is my concern, not yours,” said Mr. Segredo. “I’ve got something they want, so it’s best if I sort this out on my own. You kids shouldn’t get involved.”
Cinnabar’s temper flared. “Well, pardon me for living, but it’s not your decision. We’re already involved.”
Wyatt stood to join her. “She’s right. Max is our mate, and we won’t abandon him, no matter which ruthless granny has got her mitts on him.”
Mr. Segredo crossed his arms and looked from one of them to the other for a few heartbeats, eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Max is lucky to have friends like you.”
“So…?” Cinnabar’s gaze searched his face.
“So, I’m glad there’s someone who knows where LOTUS headquarters is.”
Cinnabar frowned. “Who?”
“Me.”
Cinnabar felt completely gobsmacked. For the first time in a long while, she couldn’t speak.
Wyatt gasped. “You know? Stuff a duck, you mean you’ve known all this time?”
“Yes,” said Max’s father.
Cinnabar’s hand flew to her heart. “But why? If you know where he is, why haven’t you already rescued Max?”
Turning away, Mr. Segredo drew in a long breath and blew it out. “It’s not as simple as you think.”
“Sure it is.” She followed him, heat rising to her face. “You go in, you get him, you bring him out. Done.”
“Easy-peasy,” said Wyatt.
The tall spy grimaced. “For one thing, I’ve been splitting my time between watching LOTUS and watching you.”
“Us?” Cinnabar rocked back on her heels. “Why us?”
“You’re Max’s closest friends. If anything happened to you, he’d never forgive me. I’d never forgive me.”
She brushed aside his explanation. “Forget us—worry about him. We can take care of ourselves.”
Mr. Segredo’s smile was a sardonic one. “Like you were doing outside The Eye?”
Cinnabar flushed and studied the carpet. She had no comeback.
“And what’s the other thing?” said Wyatt.
“Sorry?”
The blond boy scratched his cheek. “You said, ‘for one thing.’ What’s the other?”
“I need a solid plan, based on trustworthy intel—which I’ve almost got.” Max’s father faced them squarely. “And I need a team.”
Wyatt made a voilà gesture that took in himself and Cinnabar. “Presto change-o, here we are.”
“No offense, but for a compound that well protected, I need a team that’s a bit more…substantial,” said Mr. Segredo. “You mentioned one of your teachers and his crew were in Chinatown?”
Cinnabar’s brow crinkled. “Mr. Vazquez? But Tully only said they’d been spotted. We don’t have an address, or even a phone number.”
Mr. Segredo tut-tutted. “What do they teach you young spies these days? Didn’t your crew ever work out a dead-drop system or another way of passing messages?”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers. “Gumtree! Of course.”
“Gumtree?” said Cinnabar. “Is that some Australian thing?”
“Tell you in a sec,” said Wyatt. “All we need’s a computer.”
Max’s father produced a compact laptop model from his duffel bag. “Here. Get going on that while I work on rounding up some resources.”
Hours later, as daylight bled from the room, Cinnabar rose from the sofa and stretched a crick out of her back. Scribbled plans littered the cheap coffee table, and Wyatt hunched over the laptop computer like a vulture over roadkill.
“How about now?” she asked him.
He sighed. “For the twelve hundred and thirteenth time, Cinn, I’ll get an e-mail alert when someone responds.”
One half of a muted conversation drifted from behind the closed bedroom door. Cinnabar glanced over at it. Who was Mr. Segredo calling? she wondered. He’d been absolutely smashing when he saved them from the LOTUS agents, but her suspicion was a habit that died hard. Would they be able to trust him when the chips were down?
The electronic chime of the computer jolted her from her reverie. Cinnabar strode back to the sofa. “Well?”
Wyatt opened the e-mail message. So far, their few responses to the online classified ad for an “exotic pet” on Gumtree.com had all come from normal people. Cinnabar was beginning to wonder whether the rest of the S.P.I.E.S. team had forgotten that long-ago class on passing coded messages online.
Then a grin split Wyatt’s face. “Bonzer!” he whooped.
“It’s them?”
“Mr. V wants to know where he can meet us and get a gander at our bunyip.”
“That’s brilliant!” Cinnabar quirked an eyebrow. “Um, bunyip?”
Wyatt smirked. “It’s an Aussie thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
Cinnabar sank onto the couch beside him. “So where do we meet?”
At that moment, the bedroom door swung open, and Simon Segredo strode into the room, wiping his hands on a sky-blue silk handkerchief.
“And?” asked Wyatt.
“Success,” said Mr. Segredo, as calm and relaxed as if he’d just returned from a day at the spa.
“How did you manage to find what we needed?” Cinnabar asked.
“I traded favors with some, shall we say, less than savory acquaintances.”
Cinnabar stiffened, unable to hide her reaction.
“My dear Cinnabar,” said Mr. Segredo. “Unlike your precious Hantai Annie, I am willing to do whatever needs to be done.” He tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket and brushed some invisible lint off his lapels. “Now, any luck reaching Vazquez?”
Wyatt flashed two thumbs up. “All we need is a meeting place.”
“Excellent.” Max’s father pulled a small notebook from a jacket pocket, scribbled on it, and passed the note to Wyatt. “Here’s the spot. Tell them eight o’clock.”
Cinnabar felt a sudden lightness in her chest. This day was certainly ending on a much more positive note than it had begun on. With the team about to reunite, they finally stood a chance of rescuing Max before he was lost to them forever. Who knew? This harebrained mission might actually work out after all.
“Seriously? Here?” said Cinnabar. “Of all the places in the city, you wanted to meet here, right in the middle of all this?”
She stood with Wyatt and Mr. Segredo on a crowded sidewalk in the heart of the capital, across from the famous square that was one of its most popular tourist attractions.
Even at night, the neighborhood crackled with energy. Pods of American retirees, clusters of German teens,
and small knots of Chinese tour groups formed the boulders in the stream of humanity that flowed up the street. When the stoplight changed, Mr. Segredo led Cinnabar and Wyatt across, into the wide square with its spotlighted fountains and towering monolith. The fumes from fleets of cars, red double-deckers, and tour buses made the place smell like an oversize petrol station.
“You’ve gotta admit,” said Wyatt, “there aren’t many meeting places more public than this.”
“That’s the whole idea,” said Mr. Segredo, guiding them around a chattering group of Italians and up to a railing that overlooked the square. “The more public, the less likely that LOTUS will try something.”
“But how would they even know we’re meeting here?” asked Cinnabar.
An ironic smile crossed Mr. Segredo’s face. “Aside from the fact that your organization has more holes in it than a Swiss cheese? Let me put it this way: You know which spies live to a ripe old age?”
“Which ones?” asked Wyatt.
“The paranoid ones,” said Max’s father, opening his gear bag. “You two check for your friends. I’ll watch for any watchers. Here.” He tucked some objects into their jacket pockets. “A few useful items, just in case.”
Cinnabar patted the comforting weight in her pocket. She gazed out over the cloverleaf-shaped fountains, glowing ice blue in the darkness, at the statue of the old war hero on his high column, and at the figures winding in and out of shadows between them. She scanned for familiar profiles and recognizable gestures amid the press of strangers. And then…
“There!” Cinnabar pointed at a cluster of people by one of the lion sculptures at the monument’s base.
Wyatt leaned forward, squinting. “Is that Tremaine? And Mr. Vazquez?” He whirled back. “Hey, Mr. Segredo, look at—”
But Simon Segredo had melted away into the night.
“Who is he,” said Wyatt, “Batman?”
“Come on!” Cinnabar snatched at his sleeve, hurrying over to the steps. She and Wyatt descended steadily, watching the small group across the square. Mr. Vazquez glanced her way, and Cinnabar was surprised at the catch in her throat.