by Bruce Hale
No pressure there, thought Cinnabar.
There wasn’t time to hunt down private-school uniforms before they left, for which Cinnabar was eternally grateful. (It’s hard to rock a boring blue-and-gray outfit with dorky school tie, after all.) So instead, the S.P.I.E.S. crew ended up wearing street clothes and going as themselves—an unusual and uncomfortable situation for a group of spies.
Thanks to the security screening process, they had to leave nearly all weapons behind. Still, the group managed to smuggle a few useful items into the building. A bad moment came when the police challenged Mr. Stones’s “cane,” but when he loudly griped that he’d received his “injury” defending the country in the last war, the duty sergeant waved him through. At last, the team reached its appointed rendezvous and discovered Lady Sallow-Dankworth’s aide, Kevin Chopra, waiting for them.
“Welcome to all you Merry Sunshine students and—” the Indian man began, and then he caught sight of Max and Annie. “Er, hang on. Didn’t I see you two earlier?”
Max grinned and held up his palms. “Busted,” he said. “We wanted to find out whether our school would enjoy the tour.”
Cinnabar admired how he could turn on the charm like that, and it seemed to be working—mostly.
“But why did you book your tour at the last minute?” Mr. Chopra asked.
“Because…” Cinnabar lied, “our, um, mock Parliament debate is tomorrow, and we simply must see the real thing first.” She gave him a dose of her own charm, batting those golden eyes that many said were her best feature.
Mr. Chopra’s forehead creased. “Are you all right, miss? Something in your eye?”
Suppressing a flicker of irritation, Cinnabar assured him she was fine. Her charm might not have worked as intended, but at least it helped distract their guide from uncomfortable subjects.
“Everyone stay close, please,” said the aide. “At this late hour, we may not be able to offer the full tour, but if we move smartly, we can hit at least some major highlights. This way to the Central Lobby.”
Max leaned close to the spymaster. “I can’t believe you got us in. Exactly what do you have on Lady Sallow-Dankworth?”
“Kept her son’s story out of media,” Annie whispered. Her index finger went to her lips in a shush gesture. “Very embarrassing.”
As Mr. Chopra led them off, Hantai Annie gave a tiny nod to Cinnabar and Wyatt.
“Sorry, mate,” said Wyatt, “but I need to make a pause for the cause.”
The aide glanced around, frowning. “Beg pardon?”
“You know,” said the blond boy, tilting his head toward the toilets. “See a man about a horse? Punish the porcelain? Drain the—”
“Yes, me too,” Cinnabar cut in. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch up to you in the er, Main Lobby.”
Mr. Chopra handed them a doubtful look, but Hantai Annie barked commands, hustling the little band forward, and she was a force of nature that few could resist. Cinnabar and Wyatt entered the respective ladies’ and gents’ rooms, waited for couple minutes, and then peeked outside.
The coast was clear. Their team had marched out of sight, and this late in the day, only a group of French tourists could be seen, making its way toward the exit.
Cinnabar jerked her head at Wyatt and mouthed, “Let’s go.”
Strolling casually, they headed along the hallway. A passing pair of constables glanced at them curiously, but didn’t break stride or stop their conversation. When a narrow corridor appeared on the right, Cinnabar and Wyatt ducked into it.
“According to the map, there are loads of offices down this way,” said Cinnabar. The air felt stale and musty, like nobody had ever opened any windows and people had been breathing the same oxygen over and over since Shakespeare’s time. Everything smelled like old leather and dust.
“All we need is one open computer,” said Wyatt. “Shouldn’t be too hard this late in the day.”
“Assuming Mr. Chopra doesn’t come searching for us,” said Cinnabar. “Or security doesn’t get suspicious.”
Wyatt cocked his head. “Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?”
She shot him a glare. Maybe she was being overly pessimistic, but Cinnabar couldn’t shake a sense of unease. This spying mission carried serious consequences if they were caught.
Unlike the grander main passageway, this hallway seemed narrow and dingy, designed to impress no one. Offices crowded together like shoe boxes on a hoarder’s shelf. At the first few doors they surprised startled-looking secretaries who wondered aloud what kids were doing in this wing.
“Hunting for my dad’s office,” said Wyatt, employing his big-eyed, innocent-baby expression. “Sorry to trouble you.”
Cinnabar was irked to see that his goofy brand of charm was more effective than hers. Not that they were having a charm competition or anything.
Finally, near the end of that long corridor, she and Wyatt came across the perfect candidate: an office that was both unoccupied and unlocked.
“You stand guard, I’ll go hacking,” said Wyatt.
“No, you stand guard, and I’ll hack,” said Cinnabar.
They glared at each other for a few beats, then simultaneously seemed to realize that their search time was limited.
Wyatt shrugged. “Okay, we’ll both go in.”
Once through the door, Cinnabar turned the bolt to give them a bit of warning, and Wyatt took advantage of her delay to scoot in front of the room’s only computer.
“Hey!” she said.
“Snooze, you lose,” he crowed, plugging a thumb drive into the USB port and beginning to work on cracking the password.
Cinnabar put her fists on her hips and blew out some air, considering. Time was tight; she couldn’t waste it arguing with Wyatt. She’d have to be the mature one—like always.
Giving the cubbyhole-size office the once-over, she noted details: the stacks of papers piled on every horizontal surface, the dusty old fan, assorted keepsakes, and the many framed photos of the MP (a tired-looking blond man) smiling phony smiles with various other people in dark suits. On the wall above the MP’s desk, a poster featuring a crowned vulture declared KEEP CALM AND CARRION.
Did people lose their sense of humor when they entered politics? Cinnabar wondered.
On the hunch that maybe not everyone kept their schedule on the computer, she rooted around the messy desk for a calendar or appointment book. No luck. She did encounter a cup of lukewarm coffee, stacks of complaint letters, an engraved invitation to some kind of event called Cirque du Chat that evening, and notes on a civil service committee meeting that were dull enough to put a sugar-crazed kindergartner to sleep in the blink of an eye.
The doorknob rattled.
“Thought you didn’t lock up,” said a male voice outside.
“Must have done it on autopilot,” a female voice replied. The key scraped in the lock.
Cinnabar and Wyatt shared a worried glance. He pocketed the thumb drive. She scanned the tiny office. Nowhere to hide—they’d simply have to brass it out.
Waving Wyatt to the secretary’s seat, Cinnabar took the visitor chair, folded her arms, and assumed an expression somewhere between bored and annoyed. Inside, her heart thudded like a trip-hammer.
The door swung open to admit a slender gray-haired man with skin a shade darker than Cinnabar’s, and a pale woman whose jerky movements reminded her of a chicken.
“There you are,” said Cinnabar, rising from her chair. “We’ve been waiting to see our MP for ages, haven’t we, Waldo?”
“Mmm?” said Wyatt, not realizing he was Waldo. “Oh, er, yes. Yes, we have, er, Cindy.”
Gray Hair stepped in front of Chicken Woman, as if to protect her from the ferocious teens. “How did you get in here? It was locked.”
Favoring him with a pitying smile, Cinnabar said, “I know. We locked it—for safety.”
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“We’re, um, constituents,” said Wyatt.
Chic
ken Woman squinted at them. “But you’re too young to vote.”
“Children of constituents,” Cinnabar corrected, “and we’ve been waiting donkey’s years to talk to the MP about school funding.”
“But we were only gone for a—” Gray Hair began.
Wyatt tossed up his hands. “Clearly he doesn’t value our vote—er, our parents’ vote.” He stood, pretending to be upset. Unfortunately, his acting wasn’t good enough for a primary-school play, let alone the world of espionage.
“And after we came all this way too,” said Cinnabar, joining Wyatt. She took on an offended tone. “I guess an appointment doesn’t mean what it used to.”
At the word appointment, Chicken Woman jerked her head around to stare at the computer. She bustled over to her keyboard. “You were on the schedule? I’ll just check….”
Cinnabar’s breath caught in her throat. On the one hand, she wanted to peek at the MP’s schedule. On the other hand, she wanted to flee, since she knew they weren’t on it. Peeking won. She wandered a step closer and watched the screen as Chicken Woman scrolled up and down the MP’s appointments.
“And your family name?” the assistant asked.
“Brixton,” said Cinnabar, who’d always rather fancied the name. “Cindy and Waldo Brixton. We’re, um, cousins,” she said, forestalling questions on the differences in their hair and skin color.
“Brixton…” said the woman, searching through the schedule. “I don’t see…”
And there—as Chicken Woman scrolled down far enough to reveal the evening’s meetings, Cinnabar got what she came for. No official meetings at six, seven, or seven thirty. Either this MP wasn’t on LOTUS’s target list, or tonight’s gathering was unofficial.
Bumping Wyatt with her shoulder, she edged toward the office door. “Ah, forget it. We’ve waited long enough, and now we have to go.”
Gray Hair blocked their exit, arms crossed and wide mouth set in a frown. “You’re not going anywhere until I hear some kind of reasonable explanation for your presence.”
Uh-oh. The man was bigger than both of them, and although Cinnabar and Wyatt might be able to take him out with their martial-arts moves, security would take them out of the building.
They needed a distraction, and they needed it now.
The door swung open. “There you are!” chirped a jolly voice.
Stepping aside to see, Gray Hair revealed Simon Segredo standing in the doorway. The dapper spy wagged a finger good-naturedly. “I got worried when you wandered off.”
“And you are?” Gray Hair scowled.
“Their father,” said Mr. Segredo.
“Well, my father, anyway,” Wyatt put in.
Chicken Woman’s eyebrows squished together. “Mr., er, Brixton?”
With a lightning glance to Cinnabar for confirmation, Mr. Segredo said, “That’s right. Sam Brixton Jr.” His acting was much better than Wyatt’s. “So,” he addressed Gray Hair like an old school chum, “is your MP headed to that big meeting tonight?”
“Big meeting?” The man cocked his head.
“Sure. The one everybody’s talking about?”
Gray Hair cocked his head the other way, like a befuddled beagle who’s lost the scent. “Everybody?”
Mr. Segredo frowned playfully. “Ooh, sorry, old bean. Guess your guv’nor’s not high enough up the food chain to wangle an invite.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” Gray Hair didn’t know whether to be offended or concerned.
Max’s father flapped a hand. “Forget I even mentioned it. Come along, children—your mum is waiting.”
As she and Wyatt sauntered past Gray Hair and out the door, Cinnabar couldn’t resist a parting jab. “A shame about your MP. Guess that’s what comes of not looking after school funding.”
The man blinked rapidly, not entirely sure of what had just happened.
As they headed down the hall, Wyatt said, “Beauty move, Mr. S! That bloke didn’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his bum.”
Max’s father waved aside the compliment. “He also didn’t know about our meeting. Did you two learn anything?”
“Nothing on the appointment calendar,” said Cinnabar. She turned to Wyatt. “Tell me you got something from the computer.”
“I’m a hacker, not that guy from The Matrix.” Wyatt scowled. “Didn’t even have time to crack the password.”
Mr. Segredo grimaced. “Hopefully we’ll get another shot at it before the tour is over, or…” He didn’t need to complete the thought. They all knew the consequences of failure.
Hurrying down another narrow corridor, they entered a room the likes of which Cinnabar had never seen before. It seemed entirely dipped in gold, from the diamond-shaped tiles on the floor, to the fancy filigree on the walls, to the chandeliers and the intricate ceiling above them. An enormous tapestry of something historical dominated one wall, while oil portraits of kings and queens glowered down from all around.
“Ah! I told you they show up soon,” came Hantai Annie’s voice. “And here they are.”
Cinnabar whirled to see her classmates and teachers enter the long hall through a side entrance, accompanied by Kevin Chopra. The aide wore a nervous frown.
“Really, Mrs. Wong,” he said. “They’re not supposed to be roaming about unsupervised.”
“They weren’t unsupervised,” said Mr. Segredo. “They were with me.”
Wincing apologetically, Mr. Chopra said, “Still, I could land in a great deal of trouble for—”
Mr. Stones clapped the man on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Kev. No harm, no foul. Higgledy-piggledy-pop—they’re back in a jiffy, and no one’s the wiser.”
The aide didn’t look mollified, but he resumed his tour-guide spiel. From Max’s and Nikki’s expressions, Cinnabar judged that the S.P.I.E.S. team had had it with government and history, and was spoiling for some proper action.
As the group shuffled into the next room, Max fell behind, edging up to Cinnabar. “Well?” he muttered. “Happy hunting?”
She shook her head.
He grimaced. “And they’re going to boot us out of here in less than half an hour. Time for Plan B.”
“We have a Plan B?” said Wyatt.
“Always,” said Max. “But we need to be closer to the loo for it to work.”
“Oh,” said Wyatt. “That Plan B.”
Somehow, Cinnabar and her friends managed to grit their teeth and survive another fifteen minutes of Simon de Somebody’s medieval parliament and the story behind the stained-glass windows. At last, Mr. Chopra led them on a meandering course back toward the hall where they’d entered.
When they neared the bank of toilets, a series of significant glances took place: Annie to Stones, Stones to Tremaine, and Tremaine to Max. Then Mr. Stones approached Kevin Chopra with a detailed question, maneuvering him so that his back was to Tremaine and Max. The older teen leaned against the wall by the fire alarm, blocking the view of the nearest security camera with his broad back.
Max casually propped himself by Tremaine, like they were sharing some juicy gossip. Then he brushed back the Plexiglas cover and pulled the switch.
Ning-ning-ning-ning-ning! keened the fire alarm, at a volume loud enough to give orbiting aliens a headache.
This part of the plan was easy. Like the rest of her crew, Cinnabar clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, running about like a flock of panicked turkeys. The aide tried unsuccessfully to corral his tour group, which had no intention of being corralled. In no time at all, a river of people streamed down the hall from deeper in the building, making for the exit.
Taking advantage of the cover, the S.P.I.E.S. team members slipped into either the gents’ or ladies’ toilets. Cinnabar was one of the last to hide, and as she ran into the loo, she nearly collided with a middle-aged woman running out.
The woman caught her arm and shouted something that was drowned out by the annoying alarm. Her grip was harder to break than a Chinese substitution code. When Cinnaba
r shook her head, making the I-can’t-understand-you face, the woman pointed at her, then at the exit.
Cinnabar nodded, mimed really having to go to the toilet, and held up an index finger as if to say, One minute. The woman shook her head again and began leading her away from the loo. Cinnabar shrugged agreeably and accompanied her. When at last the Good Samaritan released her, Cinnabar slipped into the flow of people leaving the building and doubled back to the loo.
Unlike the men’s toilet, which, according to Max, boasted a janitor’s closet for easy concealment, this loo had none. Thanks, Max. After trying the first stall and finding it locked, Cinnabar entered the second cubicle. She barred the door, closed the toilet lid on some unspeakable mess, and squatted atop it to wait, trying to breathe through her mouth. She considered flushing, but didn’t want the noise to reveal her presence.
The wail of the fire alarm kept up, like a wet baby seeking relief, for what seemed like ages. At last it cut off abruptly, midshriek.
“About bloody time,” was the comment from the stall beside her. Nikki.
“Shh!” hissed Hantai Annie from the other side. “No noise!”
Through the metal partition, Cinnabar could picture Nikki’s eyes roll, but the redheaded girl said nothing further.
Time passed. Loads of time.
The toilet door creaked open. “Anyone in here?” said a gritty female voice. “Hullo?”
A long pause, during which Cinnabar could hear breathing.
The door closed, and the woman went away.
It struck Cinnabar that eventually, the janitor would come in to clean the toilets, and they had no idea when that might be. After hesitating several times, she shared this thought with Hantai Annie.
As it was already past five thirty, the spymaster agreed that it might be safer to hide in an empty office. After all, the team still had to locate the meeting where LOTUS would make their play. Moving as quietly as ants crawling on cotton, Cinnabar, Nikki, and Hantai Annie left their stalls and crept to the outer door.
The spymaster cracked it open just enough to peer outside.