A Spy Like Me (3 page)

Did that mean Malcolm might have died? Maybe
someone killed him, wrapped him up in the quilt and threw him in
the river? My face prickled and fear spiraled up through my chest.
I leaned over and fiddled with my shoelaces.
I left a guy
half-naked by the Eiffel Tower last night, alone and bleeding.
I wanted to rush the three steps across the kitchenette and hang my
head over the sink and puke my guts out.

“You look pale.” Dad sounded like he cared.
“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” Except I’d made a huge mistake. I
never should’ve tried to play the role of the flirty date. I never
should’ve tied him up. What had I been thinking?

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He folded
his newspaper twice over, which always meant the talk was serious.
And usually it meant chatting about my future, especially since I
was seventeen.

“Can we talk later?” My words came out kind
of breathless, like I’d run ten miles. “I’m meeting Aimee early
this morning.”
And I had to see about a body.

He clasped his hands together. “I guess.
We’ll talk later then.”

I nodded while under the table I dug my
fingernails into the palms of my hands. I had to know if Malcolm
was okay. Maybe he’d gotten home last night, wrapped up his arm,
and would be at work today. I hoped.

“Okay, but be careful. Stay with the crowds.”
He pushed back the chair and it banged into the cupboard. He dumped
the rest of his cold coffee into the sink. “You up for the fiver or
the tenner this afternoon?”

“Maybe tomorrow.” And then I felt worse, if
that was possible. I hadn’t run more than a mile since we got to
France.

“Great. I’ll be at the warehouse preparing
for the debriefing at nine sharp. I’ll see you there.”

I nodded and downed a glass of water before
slipping outside. Resting my head against the front door, I traced
my fingers along the fun circle designs burned into the worn wood.
Dad wanted to talk to me, really talk to me, and I’d said no? What
if he’d wanted to tell me about Mom? Or say he was sorry? That had
to wait. My priority was finding Malcolm.

I turned to leave and tripped over a brown
paper package on the step. Every piece of mail we get addressed to
Mom makes her absence that much worse. She should be here to get
them herself. I kicked it off to the side and it landed behind a
bush with a satisfying thud. The birds singing in the trees needed
to be shot. I sprinted to the corner before slowing to a jog.
Prayers slipped from my lips, me making a deal with God. Something
about Malcolm being alive and at work, and me never eating cookies
again.

Aimee waved ecstatically from the far corner
of
Les Pouffant’s
, our favorite café. I speed-walked through
the black wrought iron tables searching everywhere, behind every
person and pillar. No sign of Malcolm.

“Oof!” I walked right into a big
somebody.

“
Excuse-moi, Madamoiselle
!” His big
round belly puffed into me, knocking me back, and his long, curly
grey beard had bits of frosting stuck in it. Cinnamon dusted his
shoulders. He frowned at me, his shaggy eyebrows almost touching
his nose.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, then rushed past
him. Aimee had already ordered for me: an extra-tall latte and a
croissant filled with strips of chocolate.

“Oo la la, you look terrible!” The sun gilded
Aimee’s blonde frizzy hair and speckled her blue eyes. “You know
that was the Pouffant of
Les Pouffant’s
who you just bumped
into.”

I waved my hand. I had bigger concerns than
poofy pastry chefs. As soon as my butt hit the chair, I opened two
menus and propped them at the edge of our table. I leaned forward
and nibbled on my croissant.

“What is up?” she asked.

I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the
cup. “I don’t think I can do Spy Games today.”

She crinkled her nose and laughed. “You are
never in the mood. Have you talked to your papa about this
yet?”

“No.” I poked my finger into the melting
chocolate, which I’d normally be devouring. “But have you talked
with your grandmother about backpacking across the world yet? And
touring ancient castles?”

Aimee puckered her lips to the side. “No.
That is different.”

Customers streamed in and out of the café, a
sea of strangers, but none of them were Malcolm. If he didn’t walk
out of the café in the next minute, I’d scream.

After tapping the side of her cup and staring
intensely, Aimee squealed. “I can not stand it anymore.”

“Stand what?” I tested my latte before taking
a sip.

“Your date! With the cute waiter?”

“Shh.” I didn’t want to talk to Aimee about
my date. Her friendship was too important. What if she wrote me off
as a total jerk? And then slowly backed out of our friendship? I
couldn’t handle losing my only friend.

Aimee waved her hand. “Put away the menus. He
did not show for work this morning.”

I gagged on my drink and spit it out on the
patio. “What?”

“He did not show. I already asked.”

Images of Malcolm being pulled from the
bottom of the Seine flashed in front of me, his body deathly white,
eyes vacantly staring at me. I groaned.

“I have heard that groan before. After you
used your papa’s spy equipment to see if he ever talked to your
mother and he caught you.”

I fiddled with the menu and sipped my latte.
I tried to focus on the good parts of last night: the picnic and
the effort Malcolm took to make it romantic, probably spending the
last of his money for the week. I remembered his quick kiss. I
remembered his fine-looking bare chest. But the color red bled into
my images and ruined the memory.

“Share now, before I make a scene.” Aimee
stared me down, her grip tightening on her cup, and the blue flecks
in her eyes turning stormy.

I whipped the cash out of my shoulder bag and
slammed it on the table next to a small metal tray. “We’ve got to
go. Now!”

“Something must be terribly wrong if you
leave half your latte.” Aimee placed her hand on my arm. “What
happened?”

I combed my fingers through my hair and tried
not to hyperventilate. “I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.” I
grabbed the tray from the table, and while Aimee fiddled with her
chair, I shoved the tray up my shirt. A girl can never have too
much protection.

We half ran, half walked toward the Eiffel.
When we were almost there, I breathed a bit easier. Within minutes
I’d know whether or not my date took a big drink in the Seine.

A little out of breath, Aimee said, “Start
talking.”

That’s what I loved about her. Ever since we
met, she always cared. Wanting to know what was wrong without
wanting anything back. I took several deep breaths then summed up
the previous evening.

“Beautiful sunset. Sparkling cider.
Fruit-filled pastries. Great conversation. A kiss.”

Aimee clasped her hands together with a
dreamy look on her face. “Sounds romantic.”

Then I told her the rest, almost. I talked
about his admission of guilt and the mock trial. And the part where
I tied him up and the fact that Malcolm wears boxer briefs, not
tighty-whities. When I tried to talk about the shooting and that I
didn’t know if he was dead or alive, my throat closed up. I
couldn’t do it.

At first, her face showed nothing. Then her
lips twitched, and her eyes crinkled. She lowered her head while
her shoulders shook. Several times, she tried to rein it in and act
casual but to no avail.

“Go ahead. Laugh. I get it. I’m an idiot.”
But the truth was nothing to laugh at.

She stopped giggling, wiped at her tears, and
then grabbed my hand. “Oh, Savvy. How do you get into these
messes?”

“No clue. I just need to know he escaped.” A
part of me wished I’d told her the truth.

“I’m positive someone found him last night
after you left. I’m sure.” She cocked her head and suppressed a
grin. “Almost sure.”

At the Eiffel Tower, I sprinted toward our
picnic spot, with Aimee right behind me. The cops were already
gone. The river searched. Not even a bit of yellow police tape was
visible. The dewy grass soaked my sneakers, and I shivered at the
bite in the air. He was nowhere.

“You sure about all this?” Aimee asked, a
hand on my arm.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I slumped to the ground,
not caring that my homemade bullet-proof vest jabbed into my
stomach or that the wet dew was seeping into my pants, and I’d have
a spot on my butt for the next hour. What if he was lying in a
foreign hospital or tied up as a hostage? I couldn’t let myself
think he might’ve died. “What if something terrible happened?”

“I doubt that.” Aimee crouched next to me.
“Do you like him?”

“Heck, no.” Even if I did, what did it
matter? He’d gone missing and could very well be dead. And I had no
idea why or what he was mixed up in.

Aimee nodded as if to say, yeah right. Then
she tapped her watch. “You might not get fired from this job
because your dad is the boss, but I can.”

She stood and slung her backpack over her
shoulder. The whole ride on the Metro, I tried not to think about
Malcolm. We got off at our stop after throwing out all sorts of
conspiracy theories like my dad being overprotective and sending
his goons to shadow us or Malcolm working for the Mafia. But I had
bigger things to worry about.

Like what the hell happened to Malcolm.

Aimee and I arrived outside the dirty white
warehouse known as Spy Headquarters seconds to nine. Weeds spilled
out of the cracked pavement and black and red spray paint dripped
down the walls. Overall, it was kind of creepy—exactly what Dad
wanted. I gripped the metal handle, and the door opened with a
familiar screech. Once the door closed behind me, I felt safe from
any random, unexplained bullets.

In one of the office-turned-dressing-rooms,
we rushed to change our clothes, put on our gear, and then get in
position for our grand entrance. When Aimee wasn’t looking, I
ditched my armor, but it wouldn’t be for long. Every noise that
sounded close to a ping or ricochet sent fear coursing through my
veins. A serving tray could possibly save my life. Maybe.

Aimee climbed the steps on the side of the
warehouse, and I followed. Newly spun webs clung to my face and
neck. I brushed them off with one swipe. At the top, Aimee and I
helped each other hook the zip line cables onto our belts and
tighten the safety straps. Then step-by-step, keeping my eyes
focused on the back of Aimee’s head and not the fifty-foot drop, I
sidestepped a rafter to our position. My fingers dug into the
support beam.

“You can do it!” Aimee whispered.

As we inched closer to our take-off spot, I
watched my coworkers perched like pigeons, waiting patiently. Gray
Chalston, Dad’s right hand man, always coordinated the staff and
made sure the games ran smoothly. Frankie Newtz, the eccentric guy
in his twenties who still wasn’t sure what to do with his life,
played a great psychopath, miscreant, hostage, murderer, whatever
the games called for. His wild red hair and acne scars just added
to it. Nancy Jergen, a housewife from upstate New York who loved to
wield a gun, (thank God they were never loaded), played the double
agent. And then there was Aimee and me, the lowly informants.

They all nodded hello. Dad had strict
orders—no talking in the rafters. My palms grew sweaty, like last
time. This was our second round with the “grand entrance,” and the
drop scared the crap out of me.

The spies trickled in, timid at first at the
large empty space and the cold cement floor. No chairs or tables or
water coolers were in sight. Or free, tasteless coffee.

“Look at them,” I whispered.

A group of balding men walked in wearing
trench coats. True wannabes. They wore sunglasses and carried
backpacks probably filled with spy gadgets they’d bought off eBay.
I couldn’t look down for long because my stomach felt queasy and
vertigo hit me like a sugar high. Aimee had no problem standing on
the roof rafter; after all, she was the one who wanted to climb
mountains. Not me. I rubbed my arms. It was damp and the chill
started in my toes and coiled around my body until I was shivering
like a naked spy on a rooftop in January.

And then this macho man breezed through the
entrance, full of swagger, wearing leather pants and sunglasses. He
posed in the middle of the room, ready, willing, and waiting for
danger.

The ultimate spy.

I made a mental note to stay away from him.
His stomach pouched over the edge of his pants as if he’d eaten one
too many donuts, and when it came to hair gel, he was my dad’s
twin.

The beam beneath my feet creaked. I swayed
and clenched my teeth to hold my breakfast back. The smell of bat
excrement made me feel positively sick.

Aimee nudged me. “It is about to start.”

A light sweat formed on my body as our time
to plummet towards the cement floor drew near. I checked and
rechecked my cables and attachments. A cold draft sent goose bumps
down my legs. Maybe I’d end up in a hospital next to Malcolm. Or
the morgue.

Aimee whispered, “You can do this.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to.”

Gray gave us a stern look to stop
talking.

As soon as Dad strode through the side door,
his boots echoing on the cement, everyone quieted. Kind of like
when God created the earth, I imagined. Dad evoked this kind of
scary presence when he was in full Spy Games mode. By his long
stride and the swish of his leather pants, the sway of his
shoulders and his slicked-back hair, they would never know that six
months ago he sold herbal remedies to constipated old ladies.
Unfortunately, his dramatic efforts worked on everyone but me. That
was because I’d seen him in his sweats, singing to Barry Manilow,
while he burned our instant mac and cheese.