Katie was rolling the secret door in the restaurant out of the way.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the corridor, the commandos had charged in, crossbows stinging like wasps.
The kids tumbled out into the fish larder at the restaurant. They slid the lobster tank/secret door closed and ran for the exit.
The restaurant was not only deserted—with tables overturned and fried clams all over the floor—but it was on fire. The windows were all smashed, as if the commandos had kicked their way in, and candles had been knocked over and now the tablecloths were burning with a thick, greasy smell. Flames were rising all over the dining room. Coughing and whacking the smoke away from them, the five stumbled past the bathrooms.
Just as the kids were about to run out the front door of the joint—just as they were almost home free—Katie stopped in her tracks, looking horrified.
“THE SENTIENT LOBSTERS!” she exclaimed.
Dear reader. Dear, dear reader. Here we find ourselves, you and me, engaged in a book in which someone has just exclaimed, in all seriousness, “The sentient lobsters!”
How did we end up here? Did we make some mistake along the way? Aren’t there books on geology, or the ancient Greek theater, or the art of Japanese flower arranging, to study?
I ask you, Isn’t there something else we should be reading?
And I tell you: No.
Because you and me, we understand that important things don’t always seem important. We understand that looks can be deceptive. We understand that Katie’s question was in fact a very important one. Why? Because it’s important to think about the fact that the Ministry of Silence might seize upon the tank of sentient lobsters who guard the safe house for the Resistance—and it’s important to consider that if Katie didn’t yell “THE SENTIENT LOBSTERS!” the lobsters might have found themselves abandoned and forgotten, sad eyed and with drooping claws—while the restaurant burned—and their briny water heated up—and the littlest lobsters wept for help—as the flames rose. . . .
AND THAT CANNOT HAPPEN, MY FRIENDS!
“She’s right!” said Lily. “Those lobsters are trapped in their tank! We’ve got to save them!”
“Save them?” said Taylor. “Forget it! They’re boiled! They’re bisque! They’re Newburg! They’re lobster thermidor!”
“They are poets!” said Katie. “They’re painters! They’re playwrights! They’re singers!”
“They’re not singers,” said Drgnan.
“You know what I mean,” said Katie.
Lily and Katie ran back into the fish larder.
The commandos were just starting to push the lobster tank out of the way, so that they could crawl out from the little door behind it—when Lily, panicking, threw a dead fish at the lead soldier’s head! He ducked, slipped, and fell backward.
Katie, meanwhile, was wheeling the tank away from the wall, saying, “Don’t worry! We’ve got you!”
Unfortunately, moving the tank exposed the secret passage entirely—and now the commandos struggled out into the larder as Katie and Lily scarpered.
The two girls rolled the tank between them, giving it a shove and pulling up their feet so they rode it, soaring, into the dining room.
The flames in the restaurant were billowing. Lily and Katie looked about in terror. They weren’t sure they could make it back to the front door, where they saw Jasper, Taylor, and Drgnan waving their hands and calling. The fire was between them and the exit.
But the commandos were close behind them.
So the two girls did what they could.
“Under water!” Lily yelled over the crackling, and she took a deep breath—shoved off with her foot—and plunged her whole upper body into the tank. Now the tank was shooting toward the flames—so Katie, too, dunked—and the tank went hurtling through the fire—
Leaving the commandos behind.
Katie and Lily watched the flames flicker by quaintly through the green glass. Then they were on the other side, near the front door. Home free.
The boys pulled the tank out into the market square. The girls, sopping, pulled handfuls of sentient lobsters out of the water with them. “We’ve got to take them!” said Katie.
Lily lowered her arms into the brine. The little claws nipped at her to hold on, and she, grimacing with the pain, pulled them out. They hung from her arms, grateful for the ride. Jasper plucked some. Drgnan set two on his shoulders, where they waved their antennae about in delighted thanks and relief.
The kids left the empty tank behind them and scrambled over the cobbles.
Taylor said, “Okay, kiddies. My Hummer is parked near where I met you. If we can just get there, we’ll be fine. It has, shall we say, a few extra features. A few unusual conveniences. Some things that might come in very useful.”
Behind them, they saw troops running across the market. No one else was out in the dark lanes.
Horrified, they glimpsed, a long way down a side street, the soldiers leading along several girls in braids and blrga shirts. The musicians and Drrok were all handcuffed and were being hustled into the back of the Ministry’s vans.
Lily’s heart sank. Here there had been a safe house, a place for those who fought for democracy and freedom—a place where people had played music and been happy—hidden for years—inviting even the lobsters in—and now it was ruined.
Flames were billowing out of Wilt’s Fishery.
Four commandos spotted them—ran toward them and raised their crossbows.
Lily, instinctively, ducked.
Taylor pulled out his Game Wedge™. He aimed it at the soldiers and released another cloud of sleeping gas. The commandos stumbled and crumpled.
Jasper frowned. He looked at the sleeping stooges. He had an awful feeling that Taylor Quizmo might actually be a better version of him—superior gadgets, more confidence, more knowledge of the world. He had to admit, “Good work.”
“De nada,” said Taylor, and motioned with his hand.
The kids scrambled along a cobbled road. Now they were in the alley where Bvletch had been seized.
They turned a corner into the main thoroughfare.
Not too far up, beside a public lantern, was Taylor’s red Humvee. “My mom and dad got it for me,” he boasted, opening the doors so the others could clamber in. “After I stopped a little assassination attempt in the Low Countries. Just a little matter of a prime minister.” He winked, though no one was looking at him. He slammed his door shut and pulled on his seat belt.
“They’re coming!” said Jasper, pointing out the back window. Commandos were running out into the avenue. “Go, go, go!”
Taylor just stayed put.
“Go, brother!” said Drgnan. “The wolves approach!”
Taylor looked a little vexed. “Are . . . ,” he said, “are any of you over eighteen?”
There was a frazzled silence.
“Of course none of us are over eighteen,” said Katie. “What do you think?”
Taylor shifted uncomfortably. “I only have my learner’s permit. It was issued specially. I’m too young to have a learner’s permit usually, but for spy missions, they thought—”
“Heavens to Betsy—what are you getting at?” Jasper exclaimed.
Taylor admitted, “I can’t drive. Legally. Except if I’m accompanied by an adult over eighteen years of age.”
Katie thumped her head, exasperated, in her hands.
“Great Scott,” swore Jasper.
Taylor seemed a little embarrassed by this.
Actually, it wasn’t a bad thing. If they’d torn off up the road, there’s no question that the commandos would have seen them and followed them. As it was, the commandos just ran around them, up and down alleys, trying to figure out where the kids had disappeared to.
The kids just sat tight, ducking below the windows.
Watching the soldiers run past without noticing them clearly made Taylor feel a little better. He stopped pressing his lips together so hard and instead started stroki
ng the padded dashboard. “Yep,” he said, “she’s a pretty great vehicle. She can climb right over a twenty-two-inch vertical wall and drive up a sixty percent grade. I guess that’s pretty good, huh? Huh? Is that okay enough for you? ’Cause I think it’s pretty okay, and she can also traverse a forty-percent-grade side slope with a full payload of three thousand pounds, and she’s equipped with an emergency parachute, and an oil slick, and bear repellent, and I don’t mind saying that she can plow through up to thirty inches of—”
“Um, Taylor?” said Lily, who didn’t want to be rude. “Maybe we should all keep quiet and scrunch farther down.”
The sound of jackboots on cobbles shook the Hummer.
“Yeah,” said Taylor, a little cowed. “We should scrunch down.” He unbuckled himself. He squatted. “There’s plenty of foot space to hide in,” he said, somewhat glumly. “Huh? Not too shabby. Plenty of, um, legroom. For hiding.”
Lily, trying to be nice, agreed, “Very . . . big and . . . spacious.”
And so they all crouched in the ample legroom. They waited for the soldiers to give them up for lost.
PLUMBING THE DEPTHS IN THE DEPTHS OF THE PLUMBING
Hours later they were safe in the sewers. The lobsters took them there.
Drrok had, over the years, created a number of plans in case the Autarch’s forces should ever discover the Resistance’s secret hideout. There was a hidden place deep in the sewers of Wilmington where they could all assemble and decide the next step to take.
The lobsters, of course, knew where it was, and so once the coast was clear, they led the kids through the streets and gutters. The lead lobster—his name was a movement of antennae—sat on Lily’s shoulder, pointing the way with his mammoth old claws. He was a blue lobster, and his carapace was the color of a beautiful deep midnight frost.
Wilmington did not look welcoming that night. Metal shutters were pulled down over the fronts of businesses and locked. The tall windows in upper stories of buildings were dark. Shades were drawn, except when some old lady was peering out.
No one was on the streets. Once in a while, an idle man would be sitting on a street corner, whistling. When the kids passed, his tune would change.
Or a public mailbox they passed would rustle, as if someone were shifting their weight on top of letters.
Or a tree’s branches would swing like a periscope to follow them.
Finally the Blue Lobster directed them down a flight of steps, through a brick archway, and into the city’s sewers.
If you have read many adventure novels, you’ll know that spies spend about half of their time in the sewers. They run along sewer tunnels, shooting. They find secret hideaways in sewers. They take weird funeral barges through sewers, poled along by old men in hoods. In fact, if a spy’s kid wants to get a message to their mom or dad, the easiest way to do it is just to flush it down the toilet. Scribble, scribble: Mom, don’t forget I have soccer practice at three. Love, Patrick.*FLUSH.* Two hours later, there’s Mom with the minivan, out of breath and brushing poos off her lapels.
When spies aren’t in sewer tunnels, they’re usually crawling through air ducts. I’m not sure exactly why this is. It makes you kind of wonder: Are spies just frustrated maintenance men? Is that what spies really want to be doing? Plumbing? Air conditioner repair? I fear the day that they follow their dream, lay down their laser-gun cigarette lighters, and pick up wrenches. Our country will be in great peril, though with fewer toilets backing up and more of our houses at a uniform sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.
So the kids were led through passages beneath the brooding city. There, deep in the sewer tunnels, in an old, octagonal chamber with empty niches in the brick walls, the remnants of the safe house sat sadly and waited for news.
They were surprised to see the kids and the lobsters arrive. Blue Lobster waved his antennae. A guard who spoke lobster got up, held his arms straight up like antennae, and spasmed them over his head. Blue Lobster twitched back. The guard translated the story of the lobsters’ escape to the other Delawarians. There was a sigh of great relief.
Otherwise, the Delawarian Resistance did not seem entirely happy to see the kids. It took a moment to understand why, but then Jasper and Lily looked at each other unhappily, and they both realized: The Delawarians believed that somehow, the kids had led the Ministry of Silence to the secret safe house and made it forever unsafe.
“Did we?” Jasper asked anxiously.
“Maybe Bvletch told the Ministry of Silence,” said Lily.
“Brother Bvletch would never break under pressure,” said Drgnan. “He is a monk of Vbngoom.”
“But because he is a monk of Vbngoom,” said a guard, “he cannot tell lies. If they have captured him and he speaks, then they know the truth about where you were headed, and about the safe house—”
“And they know that Vbngoom is no longer on the Four Peaks, but is off in the mountains to the west!” said Jasper.
Firmly, Drgnan insisted, “I do not believe we need to worry about Brother Bvletch.”
“Then maybe we were followed,” said Lily. “We were pretty careful, but maybe . . .” She looked around. The eyes of the refugees were accusing. Gentle, but accusing.
The refugees had lost everything. They had lost their home.
Lily asked, “Is there anyone else who might have known where the safe house was?”
The guard shook his head. “There are several safe houses and bases of operation in Wilmington, but few people know all—”
“Ah! Thanks be to the pillars of heaven that you are safe!” said a voice, echoing through the vault.
In the candlelight, the kids couldn’t see who it was at first. Then Lily saw it was Grzo’s friend, the van’s other driver, dressed in his plainclothes disguise. He had just arrived in the octagonal chamber. He shut the metal door behind him and waved.
“It’s that monk,” said Katie. “The van’s other driver. Grzo’s friend.”
“Grzo’s friend?” said Drgnan. “No, he is not Grzo’s friend. He just joined the monastery a day or two before we set out from . . .”
The kids all looked at one another.
“But—,” said Jasper.
“I thought you knew!” said Drgnan. “I wondered earlier about him, but I said nothing. One who does not turn on the stove never gets burned.”
“Children,” said the monk, whose name they didn’t even know, “it is so good to see no harm befell you. Brother Grzo has been most anxious about you.” He shook their hands one by one.
“Where is he, Brother?” Drgnan asked.
“He is with the van. There is a plan. A van plan. First, tell me of what has happened. I went to the safe house and found it besieged. If I had not met Byimpt here,” (he indicated a guard), “I would never have known where to find you.”
“Is Brother Grzo safe?”
“Far safer than you have been, I fear, brave tykes. We have been in a garage owned by the Resistance, having the van fixed and a new license plate and registration made up. Tomorrow morning—only a few hours from now—we shall board the ferry and cross to New Jersey.”
“So why isn’t Grzo here, sir?” Jasper challenged.
“He must stay with the van. He will meet us on the ferry. The Ministry of Silence knows to look for us and our van, so it is better that we go through the checkpoint onto the ferry in separate groups. Do not fear, children. All is arranged for our safety.”
“Well, it wasn’t arranged so well,” said Katie. “Because Bvletch is trapped in the Castle and somehow somebody told the Ministry of Silence about the location of the safe house, so there was a raid, and now none of these people has a home. And let me repeat about Bvletch. And it’s making us kind of suspicious.”
“This,” said the monk sadly, shaking his head, “is why it is awful to live in a land ruled by a tyrant. No one trusts his own brother or his own sister. Is that not terrible? Even the lobster weeps.”
The kids did not say anything in response to this.
Lily felt a nasty creeping sensation up and down her spine. She had driven with this man for hundreds of miles.
Finally Brother Drgnan broke the silence. He said, “This is the secret agent the United States government sent to help us. His name is Taylor Quizmo.”
“Ah!” said the monk. “You are sent from Washington?”
“Yes. Occasionally one of my friends from the United States Senate or the House of Representatives will call me and ask me, as just a special kind of favor, to do a little job for them. Little odds and ends like stopping assassination attempts, saving the World Bank, and blowing up illegal missile silos in the jungle. Little after-school activities like that. Extracurriculars, you could call them.” Taylor smiled humbly, arched his eyebrow, and cutely waggled his head.
“It is delightful to meet you,” said the monk. “We have been so long awaiting your arrival. The seedlings yearn for the fall of the first rain.”
Jasper studied the monk’s face. Was it a trick of the wavering light, or when they were introduced, had the monk just shot Taylor Quizmo, Secret Agent, a look of hatred and disdain—and then covered it up quickly with a smile?
Jasper and Lily traded glances. They didn’t like this at all.
“We may rest for several hours until dawn,” said the monk. “We must be at the ferry by nine in the morning.”
It was an awful night. They all huddled in the stone chamber. No one could sleep. Everyone was cold, and no one had any blankets. Drgnan and Jasper were both wearing shorts. Taylor Quizmo even took the sweater from around his shoulders and actually put it on.
Some of the refugees were crying. They looked accusingly at Lily, Jasper, Drgnan, Katie, Taylor, and the unnamed monk. Even though the members of the Resistance knew it was an accident that the Ministry of Silence had been led to their secret lair—still, they clearly couldn’t help but think that if these foreigners hadn’t stumbled in with their bratty ways, everyone would still be sleeping on goose-down mattresses around a courtyard fragrant with yellow blossoms.
Lily kept asking herself what she could have done differently. Jasper clearly was asking himself the same thing. They both longed to be home, with their parents, so they could tell them the whole story and ask what was right and what was wrong, and have someone say, It’s not your fault, even if it was their fault. Even if they had made some stupid mistake that had brought the Ministry of Silence right to Drrok’s rooftop.
Agent Q, or the Smell of Danger! Page 10