Spy-in-Training (5 page)

“B
ridget, listen . . .”

Oh my God. OH MY GOD! This is bigger than the throne of Luxembourg. THIS IS BIGGER THAN STEPHEN COLBERT!

“Bridget, this is important . . .”

Do Mom and Dad know? Are they spies, too? Maybe Pottery Barn's a cover!

“Bridget!”
yells Spool from the screen. I'd forgotten he was there.

What if Ryan's a counterspy? What if
Natalie's
one?

“Bridget!” Spool shouts. “I understand this is hard
for you. You should probably talk to a qualified professional who can help you deal with what I've told you. Unfortunately, you can't. Because the conversations taking place in this room are secret and highly confidential.”

“Do my family, my real family, know about this?” I ask.

Spool shakes his head no.

“Can I tell them?”

That head shake again.

“I'm expected to keep something this huge a secret?” I'm about to protest but then I don't. I don't protest because it hits me that I just used the words
huge
and
secret
in a sentence about me. I've never had a huge secret before. It feels good.

“Bridget,” Spool keeps shouting. “Can you pay attention for a second?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I'm all yours.”

“There's a reason we made contact in this particular manner. If you watch the screen, you'll understand.”

Spool's face vanishes. Another face fills the screen. The handsome man. The man with the dark eyes and the gap between his teeth.

“Hi, Bridget,” the man says. And now I'm concentrating on my computer screen. The man's head is
slightly lowered. He looks up at me, nods like he's a tiny bit embarrassed.

I whisper back, “Hi.”

“This isn't how I wanted us to meet,” he says.

“Me neither,” I start to say. “This is such a surpr—”

“You deserve more from me than a recorded message.”

Oh. I'm not really talking to him. Whoever he is.

“I'd rather see you face-to-face. But you've talked to Spool. You know the kind of life I lead. I don't always get to do the things I want to do. So this is the best I can do right now. I know this is a lot to deal with. But I've read Spool's profile on you. I know you're strong and I know you're smart and capable. In fact, the more I read about you, the more I thought, This is the kind of person I would recruit.”

“Recruit for what?” I say. And then I remember he can't hear or see me.

“For Section 23,” he says. “Which sounds crazy. Because you're a kid. But I was seventeen when they recruited me, and you're a lot more together than I was at your age.”

“Dude, you
really
don't know me,” I say. But I'm flattered.

“So I said to Spool, what if we brought Bridget on
board as an undercover junior operative? Assigned her Reindeer Crescent Middle School and the surrounding neighborhood. Put her in charge of identifying, profiling, and surveilling individuals with the potential to become future security problems. Gave her the tools to do the job. A little like the precrime department in that Tom Cruise movie
Minority Report.
”

“I like movies where there's dancing,” I tell the screen. “Where there's a big dance-off at the end.”

The recorded version of Carter Strike goes on. “Obviously, Spool looked at me like I was nuts. But that's our deal. He looks at me like I'm nuts. Then I save the world. So now Spool's come around to my way of thinking.”

I listen to Special Agent Carter Strike's calm, persuasive voice and I imagine most people come around to his way of thinking.

“But this isn't about what Spool thinks. I'm going be honest with you, Bridget. I'm scared.”

He stares at me from the computer screen.

“Of what?” I say.

“I can disable a nuclear warhead. I can topple an enemy government. I know three ways to eliminate an adversary using only a Styrofoam cup. But I don't know how to be a dad.”

You're talking to me
, I think.
You're acknowledging I exist. That's a start.

“I want to try, though,” he goes on. “That's why I thought, if you knew a little of what my life is like . . . not the nuclear warhead part or the killing with cups. Just a taste of the spying part . . . there wouldn't be such a distance between us. There would be a bond.”

I know he can't see me but Carter Strike is looking right at me. And he looks like he wants that bond more than anything.

“I do, too,” I tell him, even though I know he can't hear me. “Want it. The bond.”

“I wish I could talk longer. We will. Soon. But, for now, think about what I said. I can't wait to meet you. Bye, Bridget.”

The screen goes black.

Then it goes pink.

“So?” says Spool.

I don't reply. This is way too much to take in. My real father is a secret agent. Who wants
me
to be a secret agent.

“You want to do it,” Spool says. “I've got a sense about you.”

“I've got a sense you're a moron,” I tell him. “Do you know anything about me?”

“I know you can take care of yourself in the face of conflict. Like you did this afternoon.”

This afternoon seems like ten million years ago.

“The tracksuit,” Spool reminds me. “Your speed, your balance, your martial-arts skills. I did that.”

“What do you mean, you did that?”

For the first time, Spool smiles. He looks like a baby who's just enjoyed a loud and satisfying burp.

“This was actually kind of brilliant. I took a random sample of surveillance tapes of your father's physical confrontations and created an algorithm that . . .”

“Spool!” I snap. “You're losing me.”

“Sorry,” he says, and he looks disappointed he's not getting the opportunity to explain his brilliant idea in lengthy and mind-numbing detail.

“The tracksuit and the sneakers have been designed to anticipate potential conflict in any given situation and react to it like your father would.”

“Shut up,” I retort.

“You shut up,” he says, sounding offended. “It works. You saw it work. You were there.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean
shut up
shut up. I meant . . . I'm
wearing
my dad? Is that what you're telling me?”

“Well,” he says. “The suit was created using nanotechnology, which, at its core . . .”

“Spool!”

“Yes, essentially, you're wearing garments that exactly imitate Special Agent Strike's skill set. Put in the most simplistic terms . . .”

“I love the most simplistic terms.”

“While you're wearing the suit and the shoes, you can run like him and fight like him.”

The stuff that happened this afternoon immediately comes rushing back to me. Oh my God! I jumped onto that Doom Patrol kid's shoulders! And I hate heights. I flipped right over the other dudes. I kicked their caps off. I intimidated them with my unnamed fighting stance. But, wait . . .

“I got the suit and the shoes from a . . .”

Spool is smiling a little too smugly for my liking. “A Section 23 base entirely staffed by our operatives,” he says, talking over me.

“So the tall girl who served me was . . .”

“Section 23.”

“But what if I hadn't wanted a tracksuit and sneakers? What if I'd wanted a dress or a scarf or . . .”

“Then my research would have been wrong. And that's never happened.”

Me? A secret agent? Insane.
But my dad thinks I can do it and he saves the world on a regular basis. And I
want to get to know my dad. I want there to be a bond as much as he does. I think I'm actually seriously considering becoming a spy. Spies are secretive, right? They lurk in the shadows. They blend into the background. No one notices them. They're more or less invisible.
I'm perfect spy material!

A few minutes ago I thought I was about to have a panic attack. A minute ago I thought I was about to throw up. And now? I'm laughing. Talk about an emotional roller coaster!

“Is everything okay?” asks Spool.

“Yeah.” I grin. “I just . . . I don't even know how to deal with this.”

“Maybe you want to take a break before we go into the rest of the plan.”

I feel my eyes go big. “There's more?”

“There's a whole bagful,” says Spool.

I
've upended the contents of the brown-and-pink bag on top of my bed. I hold the box of green Tic Tacs up to the computer screen.

“Cameras,” says Spool.

I take a single Tic Tac from the box, hold it in my hand, and stare at it. Looks green and normal to me. I pop it in my mouth.

“That's hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of equipment you've got in your mouth,” shouts Spool.

“All that money didn't help the taste,” I say.

“Touch the screen of the phone,” says Spool.

I roll the Tic Tac around my mouth, lean forward, and tap my middle finger on the phone. Spool's face vanishes again. All I see is . . . it's blurry . . . I see pink and white and something metallic and a flash of green and . . . oh my God, I'm looking at the inside of my mouth! It's horrific. I spit the Tic Tac into my hand and stare at it. I look over at the phone and the screen is showing a close-up of my face. It's even more horrific. I toss the tiny candy camera across the room.

“Hundreds of thousands of dollars,” moans Spool. “Years of research. Not meant to be sucked.”

“Why make it look like a Tic Tac, then?” As I ask the question, I know the answer. Because you can hide a piece of candy anywhere and nobody will notice it. Ooh, I can put one in Ryan's bedroom. Find out what's
really
going on with him. I can put one in Dale Tookey's pocket. Not that I'd want to. But I could.

“The phone is bulletproof, fireproof, and missile-proof,” Spool says.

“Is there a chance someone's going to fire a missile at me?”

“There's always a chance,” he says. “It can disguise your voice, translate up to one hundred and thirty-five foreign languages, and act as a handy flashlight.”

I throw my old cell phone in the trash. I just upgraded.
“The secret agent apple didn't fall too far from the tree,” says Spool. “You're turning into a spy right in front of me.”

“I never said a word,” I protest.

“You didn't have to,” he smirks. “It's written all over your face.”

“What about these?” I say, holding up the thick black glasses. “Can I see through walls?”

“No, but you can see through lies.”

“Shut up!” I gasp. “Seriously?”

I yank my glasses off and put the black pair on. I blink a few times. What was once blurry is now crystal clear. Technology!

“Look at me,” says Spool. “Get close.”

Not a fun assignment, but I hold the phone inches from my face.

“I much prefer dealing with you to my regular work,” he says.

As he speaks, green-tinged data floats in front of my eyes. The words
forced smile
hover by Spool's face.

Body temperature elevated. Perspiration detected.

Eye movement to the right. Vocal pitch rising.

“You like your regular work more than dealing with me?” I snap. “What's wrong with me?”

“I was demonstrating how the technology works,” says Spool.

Throat lubrication detected.

I pull the glasses off. “Too weird,” I say. “How can I ever trust anyone again?” Spool nods sadly. “It comes with being a spy. The short answer is, you can't.”

I put the glasses back on.
What's left?
I pull the USB drive out of the bag.

“What's this?”

“It's a superfast data storage device with infinite capacity.”

“Wow,” I say, hoping my
wow
communicates the depth of my disinterest. I pick up the keys and jangle them in front of the phone, hoping that communicates the depth of my interest. My very interested interest.

“A car, right?” I ask. “My spy car.”

Spool nods. “Yes.”

“Yeah, right.” I grin.

My lie-detecting glasses say . . .
nothing.
They say nothing. Spool's not lying. He's truthing!

“Shut up! I get a car? My own car? What kind is it?” I know nothing about cars so it doesn't matter what he says.

“The car is for emergency situations that will never arise. But if they do, the car will take care of everything.”

“Will it take care of me not being able to drive and also being thirteen?”

“Yes,” says Spool.

I don't know what this means but . . .
I already love the car.

Spool says, “Tonight before I go to sleep, I will drop to my knees and pray that you never experience any kind of emergency.”

Once again, my glasses are free of lie-detecting data. But I find the mental picture of Spool on his knees praying for my continued well-being sort of touching. Embarrassing but touching. There's one last item on the bed. The yellow tube of pear-flavored lip balm.

“This is the most important thing I'm going to tell you today,” intones Spool. “Never put the lip balm anywhere near your lips. Or your face. Point it away from you at all times.”

“Why?”

“Face it away from you and twist the bottom.”

I turn the bottom of the tube with my thumb and forefinger. The top pops off.

“Point it at something that is of no value to you.”

Everything in my bedroom is of value to me. My
books. My clothes. My computer. My movie posters. My photographs. Even the stuff in my closet that's been piling up for years and I'll never get rid of. I hop off the bed and open the closet door. Empty boxes, single sneakers long divorced from their pairs, Billy the Singing Bass, too-small T-shirts, broken tennis rackets, and on and on and on . . .

I point the lip balm at the clutter.

“Now give the tube a single squeeze.”

I follow Spool's instructions. I tighten my finger around the lip balm and . . . a flash of razor-thin white light comes out of the top. It's a light saber! My lip balm tube is a light saber. I aim the white light at a single sneaker. It disappears. In its place is a small pile of ashes. I laugh out loud. I point the lip balm again.

The empty boxes. Ashes. The T-shirts. Ashes. Billy the Singing Bass. Ashes.

I spin around and scream “Oh my God!” at the phone. The light from the lip balm tube turns one of my desk legs to ashes. My computer and everything else on the desk slides onto the floor.

“Squeeze the tube again!” yells Spool. I do. The light vanishes. The top pops back on.

“It's a laser,” explains Spool. “Use it sparingly and carefully. You might also want to make a note of its
additional components. Two squeezes activates the Taser function. Three, the smoke machine.”

I have no words. I just gasp, stare, and nod. I look over at my desk with its missing leg. I could probably have propped it up with my tennis racket, if I hadn't also reduced that to ashes
with my lip balm laser.

“All right,” says Spool. “I think you've got enough to deal with for one day. You can contact me via the phone and I you. We'll discuss your first assignment in due course.”

“Wait!” I yell at the screen. Spool stares back at me.

“Spool, what's he like? My dad. I mean, you and him are friends, right?”

The screen on my phone goes black.

“What's all that stuff on your bed?” says my mom.

I let out a gasp and feel myself flinch. I didn't hear her walk in.

“You didn't even knock! Don't just walk in without knocking.”

I'm freaked out by Mom's sudden appearance. It's not a good idea to scare me right now. Not when I'm standing here with a laser in my hand.

She stares at my face.

“What are those? Where did you get them?”

She's peering at my new, thick, black lie-detecting
glasses. Which are not providing me with any telltale data right now.

“In school.”

“Someone gave them to you?”

A few days ago I was desperate to have Mom remember my birthday and shower me with attention. Now? Now I've got a huge secret. And I don't want to answer any questions.

“What happened to your desk?” she asks. “All your things are on the ground.”

I just want her to go. “Mom, I know. I'm fixing it. Look, I already tidied the closet, like I said I was going to do.”

I point at the closet door. Bad move. I should have swept up the piles of ash.

I can see Mom's eyes pinballing from the ash to the stuff on my bed to my glasses to my broken desk. “Can you go, please?” I shout. “I've got stuff to do for school, an important project. You're stopping me from working.”

“Bridget,” she says, taking a step toward me. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

Ummmm . . .