A Spy Like Me (5 page)

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm gasped out. “You had
food? In the Louvre?”

I could have sworn the whole room, even the
walls, gasped, and the angel in the painting smirked.

Damn
.

Ack! I’d forgotten to throw out the rest of
my Skittles. I dropped to the ground, scooping up the money by
armfuls and shoving it into my bag. Before I could pick up the
candy, the guard stepped up to me.

“
S’il vous
plait
. Come with
me.”

Great. One more spy team was set to come
through, and I was screwed. Or they were because their informant
wouldn’t be here. I gathered my stuff, collapsed the easel, and
flashed a scathing look at Malcolm.

On the way down to the museum offices, I
texted Aimee asking her to switch spots with me, quickly. Thirty
minutes later after lots of hand motions because my French sucked,
and after the guards found my dad’s phone number in their files,
they kicked me out. For good.

As soon as I stepped from the
pyramid-entrance into the courtyard, a blast of wind hit me.

“Savvy!” a voice called.

I peeked through my Medusa-like hair to see
Aimee waving furiously as she ran toward me. I yanked the artist
smock over my head. “Here! Quick change.”

She ripped off the burnt-orange pea coat and
handed it to me. “You’d better hurry.”

“I know. I know. Can we meet up later at
Les Pouffant’s
?”

“
Oui
, see you there.”

Aimee flew into the pyramid clutching the
easel and satchel, just as Peyton and his group arrived in the
courtyard. Talk about good timing. They pointed at the turrets and
stone arches, oohing and aahing, then Peyton rushed them into the
Louvre.

I left the fledgling spies and Malcolm
behind, hurried across the courtyard, and grabbed a taxi. At the
Eiffel I threw a bunch of bills at the driver, and then hoped they
weren’t the Spy Games counterfeit ones. I sprinted across the
grass, dodging tourists, and passed the first leg of the tower. I
flashed my special Spy Games pass and bypassed the line for the
elevator on the ground. Weaving in and out of the tourists, I raced
to the first floor. All three hundred steps.

With my chest heaving and my breath shooting
out in short gasps, I waited in a shorter line for the elevator.
After the ride up, the doors slid open at the tippy top, and I
burst out. I pulled my coat together and folded my arms. If I
thought it was windy at the Louvre, here at the top of the world,
it quadrupled a million times.

A narrow walkway circled the top of the
Eiffel, and the city of Paris was spread out before me. Crisp air
filled my lungs as I entwined my fingers through the mesh cage. The
Seine snaked across the land, and the bridges looked like Lego
pieces. Tips of skyscrapers poked at the sky in the distance. But
what always amazed me was the wide expanse of blue, like I was
overlooking the entire world.

After taking a few deep breaths, I turned and
leaned my back against the wire cage. Tourists passed me in a blur.
My eyes went out of focus until I caught a flash of blue go by. I
recognized it, a scarf with threads of a paisley blue and yellow. I
squinted and my heart dropped straight to the ground floor.

“Mom?” I whispered.

The lady slipped into the crowds like any
other tourist. It had to be her. Mom had shoulder-length brown hair
that she claimed grew one inch every ten years. I followed blindly,
weaving in and around tourists, probably pissing them off, but I
had to know. I followed the memory of my mom’s hazel eyes, her
smile, her laugh. I followed the few happy memories I had and the
crazy wish she were here, looking for me.

“
Excuse moi
?” Someone tugged on my
coat, but I brushed them away. The blue and yellow scarf teased me,
bobbing in and out of the crowds.

And then I heard a desperate voice. “I found
the scones but where can I find a root beer float?”

The words yanked me back into the real world.
I stopped and turned around. Recognition flashed across the woman’s
face. She tucked a strand of graying hair back into her bun.

I whipped open my bag. “Take the clue.”

The Eiffel Tower clue was a basic code that
sent them off on a treasure hunt through the most famous historical
sites of Paris. For them, that was when it got fun, because Frankie
shot blanks at them in empty alleyways. He got their adrenaline
pumping.

She seemed a little unsure, so I nodded. As
soon as she had the clue, I took off after the lady with the scarf.
I’d probably lost her for good. After circling the lookout tower
several times and handing out another clue, my energy petered out
and I sagged against the mesh cage. I’d always imagined Mom
visiting and walking with me through the Louvre. We’d quiz each
other on which painters went with which paintings. And then after
we’d toured the Eiffel and had our fill of culture and history,
we’d go find some off-the-grid patisserie and sit for hours,
sipping lattes.

And I could ask her why the hell she
left.

Obnoxious laughter carried on a breeze. Cliff
Peyton. Great. I so wasn’t in the mood for his ‘tude. Peyton
pointed in my direction. I closed my eyes, to center myself. This
was a job. He was a regular guy who would be out of my life in
fifteen minutes. Then I could look for Mom.

He sent a youngish woman from his group over
to me. Her blonde hair fell right below her chin and swished back
and forth. I put my hand on my bag.

“Excuse me, I mean,
excuse moi
?” Her
voice was just above a whisper.

I nodded at her.

“Do you know where I could buy some root
beer?”

Oh, crap. I hated when they screwed up the
line. Dad had strict orders to not help them out. At all. Period.
“Sorry, I don’t.” I walked away.

She tried again and still messed up. She said
something about a Dr. Pepper float. Jeez.

The lady with the blue scarf passed us.

The Spy Games client tried again. “I found
the scones—”

I cut her off in the middle of her sentence.
With not so gentle a nudge, I pushed her aside and sprinted. No
games this time. Paisley-scarf lady was only a few feet away, just
out of reach of my fingertips. I dodged an older woman with a baby
and grabbed my mom.

She turned, and the fringes of her scarf hit
my cheek. I stared, mouth agape, as French flowed from her mouth in
angry currents.

Mom couldn’t speak French to save her life.
And I know the last time I saw her she didn’t have green eyes or a
large mole on her chin with two black hairs sprouting from it. Ew.
Even so, it was Mom, and she pretended not to know me.

Her look softened and she grasped my hands.
“My dear, are you okay?”

Before she could let go of my hands, I
babbled out some words, sounding like a nervous twelve-year-old
about to give an oral report. “Where have you been?”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Did a
package arrive for me?”

Hot tears filled my eyes, but I refused to
let them fall. That was all she could say to me after a whole year?
“What’s going on?”

Discreetly, she whispered, “If and when it
arrives, don’t open it. Hide it in a closet or better yet, burn it.
Can you do this for me?”

“Where are you staying? You’ve got to call
Dad, let him know you’re here.”

“Savvy, this is important. You must follow my
directions. I don’t want you getting involved.”

“Sure, I got it.”

She glanced to the left and right and
squeezed my hand. “They probably already know you are in France.
Please,” her voice grew desperate, “don’t do anything out of the
ordinary. Act like a teenager. Eat croissants. Shop. Sightsee.”
Then she started mumbling and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to
me or not.

“Mom?”

She snapped out of it. “Shh. They could have
spies watching us right now.”

“Who?”

“Listen.” Her words rushed out. “In a couple
weeks there is a big pastry event near the apartment. Near
Les
Pouffant’s
. Meet me there. I’ll find you. Promise?”

“I promise.” What had gotten into her?

Then she walked away like she didn’t even
know me.

“Mom!” I called. We had a museum to visit and
lattes to drink. And damn it I wanted an explanation. She turned
back toward me with a finger to her lips and fear in her eyes. She
shook her head. Then she disappeared into the crowds.

What had happened to my business-like mom who
wasn’t scared of anything? The one always rushing off on trips for
her scrapbooking business or locked away in her bedroom, working. I
didn’t know the mom who wore disguises and told me to burn
packages. But after years of being so busy with work, she needed my
help. After leaving Dad and me last year, did I want to help? I
wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing. I couldn’t wait to get home
and open that package.

Someone gently shook me, but I couldn’t move
from the mom-stupor that had fallen over me. Another shake.

“Savvy!”

I snapped out of it. Aimee’s hair looked a
bit on the fritz, windblown strands falling in front of her face.
Her eyes, wide with panic, darted left and right.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Never mind that. We have got to get out of
here. That guy is crazy.” She tugged on my arm and dragged me
toward the elevator. “I messed up. It happened so fast, and I was
not sure what to do.”

An angry voice pierced the air. “I can’t
believe you!”

Aimee groaned.

I gritted my teeth and nodded toward Peyton,
who stormed toward us. “You mean that guy?”

“
Oui
,” Aimee whispered, inching toward
the door while holding my arm in a death grip.

Peyton’s eyes burned into me like they were
lasers and I was a metal wall he was trying to blast through. He
pointed to his right. “This woman from my group managed to say the
right words and you completely ignored her.”

“I...I’m sorry.” How would Peyton understand
that I’d seen my mom and then received a strange message from her?
He wouldn’t. I gave him my mean, terrible,
you-should-be-scared-of-me look.

“As staff, you are supposed to do everything
possible to fulfill our spy experience. Not only did you both screw
up at the Louvre, but—”

My eyes widened.

“Oh, yes. I know all about that. Not only did
you fail there but you did here too.” He put his face inches from
mine. Spit hit me as he spoke. “Your friend here was not allowed
access to the museum, so we couldn’t get our clue.” He whipped his
head toward her. “And then she refused to give it to me. I had to
call Mr. Bent.”

Aimee half-sobbed, her fingernails jabbed
into my arm. “I am sorry. I was not sure what to do. I wanted you
to have the full spy experience. I thought Mr. Bent might have an
alternate plan for you. And then the guards led me away.”

I cringed. Not good at all. Completely by
accident, we’d sent this man over the edge, although he must have
been pretty close anyway.

Cliff Peyton kept his face inches from mine.
His breath made me gag. He would never understand about my mom. And
what could I say? The Louvre was my fault. And Malcolm’s.

Aimee’s grip loosened on my arm, and she
moved between Peyton and me. After clearing her throat, she said in
a loud, shaky voice, “You need to leave, Sir.”

He jabbed a finger into her chest, pushing
her into me. “You were both probably in on it. Is that what you do
for fun? Pick one guy in the room and screw up his day?”

I slipped my hand into hers, squeezing. “You
need to find your group.”

With one last grunt and glare at Aimee, he
strode away. Clearly the guy had more problems than just us. He
acted more like a teenager than we did. At the door to the
elevator, he turned and pointed at us. “This isn’t over!”

As soon as he was gone, Aimee turned and
hugged me. “Oo, I am so sorry. I made things worse. I should have
given him the clue.”

I placed my hands on her shoulders. “This was
not your fault. I started it when I brought candy into the
Louvre.”

Aimee shook her head. “You made a mistake.
That is no reason for him to lose it.”

I tucked her hair behind her ears. “I have to
head on over to the hostage site so I don’t screw up that too. Why
don’t you go home and soak in the tub and eat your grandmother’s
cookies. I’ll explain everything to my dad.”

“That would be nice, but no.” Aimee set her
jaw and the fear left her eyes. “I am going to follow him.”

I pulled her off to the side. “But why? He’s
totally psycho. No telling what he’ll do.”

“I will be fine. I want to make sure he
treats the rest of his spy group okay. If not, then I will have
proof against him if he causes problems for us later.”

She didn’t need to say it. She wanted proof
so my dad wouldn’t fire her. I knew better than to say
anything.

“Good luck and stay safe,” I said, and after
a quick hug, she left.

I waited while the few tourists we’d
attracted got bored with staring. I needed to shrug this off. I had
a hostage to torture in a couple of hours, but I couldn’t forget
about the package. It wasn’t like Mom was asking me to kill
someone, but it was contact. Still, I wasn’t sure I was ready to
accept it with no explanations.

After handing out the coded messages at the
Eiffel, I shifted my armor back into place and headed to the
hostage site—a small room in the back of the Galagnani bookstore
along the Jardin des Tuileries. The spy teams would arrive after a
couple hours of breaking codes and finding clues hidden among
famous churches, gardens, and historical hot spots. The first team
to free the hostage would win the game. Unfortunately, all we could
offer were cheap trophies as prizes.