Camp 30 (2 page)

“That's what we were told,” Jack said.

“I'm sorry for raising my voice like that,” she said. “You boys have been through a lot … I was just so startled by the sound. My Harold—my son—says I'm as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It hasn't made it any easier with him serving overseas. He's fighting in Africa.”

“Our dad is there, too,” I said. “He's with the St. Patrick's Regiment.”

“I'm sure you're as proud of him as I am of my Harold. But pride doesn't chase away the worry, does it?”

She was right about that.

“And it doesn't make my nerves any better to hear about all those strange goings-on up at Glenrath,” she continued.

I felt a chill go up my spine.

“Glenrath?” Jack asked, trying to sound innocent and ignorant. “What's that?”

“Your family's not from around these parts, are they?”

“We've only been here a couple of months,” I answered. “We moved down here from our farm so our mother could work at the big D.I.L. munitions plant in Ajax.”

“Lots and lots of newcomers here in Whitby since the war. To us old-timers the Sinclair farm is called Glenrath. It's down by the lake, right by Thornton Road. The Sinclairs pulled up stakes and sold it, must be nearly a year ago now.”

“Don't know it,” Jack said, pretending.

“And you haven't heard about any of the commotion around there?”

We both shook our heads.

“Explosions, planes coming and going, lots of strangers. I heard it was some kind of secret training
place for spies, that's what I heard.” She said the last few words so softly that her voice was barely audible.

“That's pretty hard to believe,” Jack said.

“I've heard stories,” she said. “Maybe it's only gossip, but there's often truth in gossip.”

“We haven't heard anything at all,” I said.

“Nothing?” she asked. “Not a thing?”

I shrugged, and Jack shook his head.

She started to chuckle. “Funny, you two are delivering the news but you know a lot less than anybody else in town.”

She'd have been shocked to find out what we really did know—probably a lot more than anybody else in Whitby!

“I guess we're just too busy working to spend time wagging our tongues,” Jack said.

The amused expression on her face was gone now— she looked as though she'd just bitten into something sour.

“We have more papers to deliver. Good morning, ma'am.”

Jack turned and started away. I gave the old woman a wave goodbye and hurried after him.

“Stupid old biddy,” Jack said as I reached his side.

“That was strange.”

Jack shot me another look.

“I mean her wanting to talk about the camp.”

“Other than the weather and the war, what else is there to talk about around here?”

“It reminded me of the way Mr. Krum always tried to pump us for information, that's all.”

Jack burst out laughing. “So you think that the old woman is a German spy too?”

“She could be!” I said defiantly. “You never can tell.”

Jack stopped snickering. “You know, considering all we've been through, I guess maybe you're right.”

“I am?” I asked, shocked that Jack was agreeing with me.

“I've learned the hard way that things aren't always what you think they are.”

“So you think she
could
be a German spy?”

“She could be Adolf Hitler's mother for all I know.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“More likely she's a spy for
our
side, though,” Jack went on.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe she was told to talk to us to see if we'd reveal anything about Camp X, if we'd break the Official Secrets Act.”

“We'd never do that!”

“I know that, but maybe Bill doesn't,” Jack said.

“Bill trusts us,” I argued. Bill was military, in charge of security at Camp X. We'd gotten to know him pretty well after blundering into the camp and landing in a load of trouble.

“It really doesn't matter if he trusts us or not as long as we don't say any—” Jack stopped mid-sentence as a familiar-looking white panel truck slowly passed us, moving up the street. At the intersection it came to a stop, flashing its tail lights, and then turned to the right, disappearing behind a stand of trees.

I turned to Jack. “Is that the same truck?” We'd been seeing it—or one just like it—all over the neighbourhood.

“Maybe, maybe not. Even if it is, it doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“But did you notice how slowly it was driving when it passed us this time?”

“It was probably looking for a number on one of the houses,” Jack said. “Whitby's a small town. It's probably just a coincidence.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm going to keep my eyes open and just see if—”

We both saw the truck as we turned the corner. It was pulled over, a hundred feet down the road.

“Another coincidence?” I asked.

“One more than I like. Come on, let's go straight ahead up the street.”

“But we have to deliver some papers down that way,” I said, gesturing toward where the truck was parked.

“We'll come back for them at the end of the route.”

I knew it meant a longer walk, but I wasn't going to argue. We started to cross the street. I looked at the
truck. It was covered with dust and dirt, and the window was up despite the heat, and—

“Owww!” I howled as Jack punched me in the shoulder. My head spun around. “Why did you do that?”

“Don't look at it,” Jack ordered. “If they
are
looking at us, we don't want them to see us looking at them.”

“Why not?”

“Figure it out for yourself!” he snapped.

What I figured was that maybe Jack was getting even more paranoid than me. What I knew for sure, though, was that Jack was mostly right—and even when he wasn't right he was still bigger than me. And I didn't want another punch.

We crossed the road and continued up the street. If the truck reappeared now it would be a whole lot more than just a couple of coincidences.

“Third house in on the other side gets a paper,” Jack said.

“Oh, yeah, right.” I dug a paper out of the bag and started across the street. Looking back, I was relieved to see the empty road. No panel truck … not even a kid on a bike. I trotted up the front walkway, getting close enough to the house to make sure my toss landed on the porch. I threw, and the paper skidded into the door. I started back across the street, looking both ways, and there it was—a white panel truck coming down the road toward us from the direction we were heading.

“Jack?”

“I see it. Get over here.”

I scrambled to his side. “Is it the same one?” I asked. “I can't tell. Maybe.”

The panel truck moved slowly down the street. The sun was reflecting off the windshield and I couldn't see who was driving or if there was anybody in the passenger seat. It slowed down even more and came to a stop right beside us. I slid over so Jack was between it and me. Then the window rolled down and a young woman stuck her head partway out.

“Excuse me!” she called. She had a heavy accent … but it wasn't German. French, maybe. “Do you boys know where is King Street?”

“That's in the centre of the village,” Jack answered. “Go back down to Highway 2, turn left and you'll find it.”

“What is …
highway
?” the woman asked.

“It's a big road,” Jack said, “with lots of cars. And when you get there, go that way,” Jack said, pointing to his left.

“Ah,” the woman said, nodding her head and flashing a big, friendly smile. She was very pretty. “Could you show me on this map?” she asked, holding it up and partway out the window.

“Sure, easy,” Jack said, smiling back. He walked across the road to the driver's-side window. I trailed behind him. I think we were both feeling a little silly about our earlier suspicions.

“It's not hard,” Jack said. He took the map from her hands. “You just take this road right here and then—”

Out of nowhere two men dressed in black raced around the side of the truck. “Both of you, not a word!” one of them warned. The two men pinned us against the side of the vehicle.

“Into the truck!” one of them ordered. I looked down. There was a pistol in his hand!

CHAPTER TWO

THE WOMAN BEHIND THE WHEEL
opened her door and stepped out. The man grabbed me by the arm and started to push me forward. I resisted—until he shoved the pistol into my back. Then I climbed in behind the wheel and was grabbed by a second set of arms and pulled over the seat and—

“Bill!” I exclaimed.

“How nice of you to drop in,” he said. He sat in the middle seat, a smile on his face.

“I'm so glad to see—”

“Leave me alone!” Jack screamed as he was thrown into the truck, crashing into me and knocking me over.

“It's Bill, Jack! It's Bill!” I yelled.

Jack struggled to untangle his limbs from mine and got to his knees. He looked shocked, surprised, and confused—and angry, to boot.

“You two should make yourselves comfortable. Sit,” he
said, patting the seat beside him.

We pulled ourselves up and onto the seat. Just then the side door of the truck opened and the two men climbed in, slamming the door closed behind them.

“These are my associates,” Bill said as the two younger men took places on the back seat.

“Pleased to meet you.” One of them extended his hand over the seat and shook first Jack's hand and then mine. The second man did the same. Both had heavy foreign accents.

The truck's engine roared to life. I turned back around. The driver—the woman—was back behind the wheel. The truck started off, swaying as it pulled away from the side of the road.

“So you must be wondering why you're here,” Bill said.

“That sort of crossed my mind,” I admitted.

“And why did you have to get us this way?” Jack asked. “Why didn't you just call us instead of staging a kidnapping?”

“The original plan was to call you,” Bill said, “later on today. Until we noticed that you had broken our surveillance.”

“We didn't break it!” I protested. “We haven't touched anything!”

Bill laughed. “Surveillance. It means we were watching you, and we realized that you'd seen us watching you.”

“I told you not to look at them!” Jack snapped.

“That wasn't it,” Bill said. “As soon as you started across the street rather than turning right the way you usually do, we knew you were aware of our presence.”

“How do you know we usually turn right?” Jack asked.

“Because you've turned right at that intersection every day for the past week delivering your papers.”

“But how do you know that?” I asked.

“He told you, George. They've been watching us.”

“For the past week?”

“Actually, for the past ten days,” Bill explained.

“We only started to get suspicious a couple of days ago,” Jack said.

Bill turned around in his seat and looked at the two men. “Some of my operatives seem to be much better than others at observing without being observed.”

“Sorry,” one of the men mumbled, and the second looked down at his feet.

“But I don't understand why you'd be watching us to begin with,” I said.

“Isn't it obvious?” Jack snapped again.

“No. Explain it to me,” I challenged him.

“It's probably some sort of training exercise,” Jack said. “You've had people watching us to help them learn how to do it, right?”

“Very sharp, Jack,” Bill said. Jack puffed out his chest proudly. “At least, that's part of the reason.”

Bill leaned forward then and tapped the driver on the shoulder. She turned slightly around in her seat.

“Could you please pull over?” he said.

The truck slowed down, and then I could hear the sound of gravel beneath the tires as it swayed and veered onto the gravel shoulder of the road.

“Everybody get out,” Bill said as soon as the truck had rolled to a stop. Nobody moved. “Out!” he yelled, and I tried to get to my feet.

“Not you,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You and Jack stay. Everybody else leaves. It won't take long, but I need to talk to the boys alone.”

The driver turned off the engine and climbed out. The two men in the back shuffled to the side door, opened it, got out and closed the door behind them with a loud thud.

“I needed them to leave,” Bill told us.

“Because they're foreigners?” Jack jumped in. “I noticed they had accents.”

“No, that's got nothing to do with it,” Bill said. “A lot of our agents are originally from Europe—from countries that are now our allies, of course. It gives them a tremendous advantage if they find themselves parachuted in to their home countries. I sent them away simply because they're not authorized to hear what I'm going to say.”

“But we are?” I asked.

“You know more about our operations than most of the spies we're training. Besides, there's not much choice, since this involves you two … you two and your mother.”

“Our mother? Is she okay?” Suddenly I was feeling scared again.

“She's fine. Actually, probably better than fine.” He looked at his watch. “Right about now your mother will be very happy. She's being offered a new job, which will involve a promotion and a significant raise and—”

“That's fantastic!” I exclaimed.

“And a relocation,” Bill continued.

“Relocation? What does that mean?”

“A move. Your family will be leaving Whitby so your mother can take the new position. The job is in Bowmanville.”