Trouble in Paradise (9 page)

“We thought that second guy might be up to no good,” Jack said.

“Is that the only reason?” he asked.

“Well … I guess we were sort of curious,” I admitted.

“Thank you for being honest. So you initiated surveillance on the suspect.”

“If that means following him, then yeah, that’s what we did,” Jack said. “We saw him turn down that alley and we followed him, and that’s when things got all crazy.”

“Yes, that was when things went in an unexpected direction,” Little Bill said. “As you surmised, he was, in fact, up to no good. Our hope was to capture him … alive.”

“He’s dead?” I asked, even though I really didn’t have any doubts.

“Unfortunately. We did not expect him to pull a weapon and start firing. That was unexpected and unpredicted.”

“Who was he, anyway?” Jack asked.

Little Bill didn’t answer, and I realized that maybe he wouldn’t tell us anything. He was probably unhappy about what we’d seen and that we knew as much as we now knew.

“You don’t have to tell us,” I said.

“Of course I don’t have to tell you,” he said. “But I will.” He took a sip of his tea. “There are German sympathizers on this island. We were already certain of that. But we also believe that there are men and women who will do more than merely sympathize, who might be part of an established espionage ring. We set a trap tonight to test
that theory. The theory proved correct, but unfortunately, with this man’s death, we have no ability to extract further information.”

Extracting information meant interrogating him and finding out things. Dead men were the only men who kept their secrets.

“And then, the second unpredicted and unexpected element emerged.” He pointed at us.

“We didn’t know what was going on,” Jack said. “We saw that guy get shot, and then we tried to get out of there, and that’s when the others spotted us. They were your men, right?”

“The same men who brought you here.”

“If we’d known they were your men—you know, the good guys—we wouldn’t have run away,” I said.

“And we wouldn’t have fought them, either,” Jack added.

“You had no way of knowing,” Little Bill replied. “I can understand your decision to flee when you saw a man being shot.”

“That was pretty scary,” I admitted. “But not as scary as when they shot at us.”

“They shot at you!” my mother exclaimed.

Jack gave me another dirty look. When was I going to learn to keep my mouth shut?

“It was
way
over our heads,” Jack said.

Sure, if a few inches counted as “way over.”

“It was really more like a warning shot,” Jack continued.

I knew neither of us believed that, but if it made her less worried, then a little lie was good.

“And how did you manage to escape?” Little Bill asked.

“We dodged into a walkway and then went into a building … I think it was like a garage or storage shed,” Jack said.

“Yes,” Little Bill said. “That is what my operatives reported. But they did not know how you were able to elude them. Please explain that.”

“That was Jack’s doing,” I said. “He threw open the door at the other end of the building to make them think we had run out that way, and we stayed in the building, hiding in the corner.”

“Misdirection. Excellent. When they realized you hadn’t gone in that direction, they doubled back and did a thorough search of that building.”

“We weren’t there. We doubled back, too, and went out through the door we entered,” I said.

“Again, excellent thinking, Jack.”

“That was George’s idea,” Jack said.

“It was an excellent idea. My congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But what I still can’t understand is how they finally caught us, how they knew where to look, how they were at our house.”

“Yeah, I was thinking about that,” Jack said. “They didn’t follow us—I know that—so how did they even
know
where we lived?”

“I told them,” Little Bill said.

“But how did you know it was us to begin with?” I asked.

“When my operatives reported to me, they indicated that the shooting had been witnessed by two people who appeared to be young—perhaps even boys.”

“But there are a lot of boys on the island,” I said.

“Yeah, hundreds, maybe thousands,” Jack added.

“But only two who could elude my operatives and vanish into thin air,” Little Bill said. “And I happened to know the address of those two boys.”

That explained everything.

“So, what happens now?” Jack asked.

“Now we wait,” Little Bill said.

“Wait for what?”

“For your father to arrive.”

“Our father?” I gasped. “Why is our father coming?”

“I thought it was necessary for him to hear about the changes that have become necessary because of what has happened.” He got up. “It shouldn’t be too much longer before he arrives.”

Little Bill walked through the dining room and out the big double doors, leaving the three of us alone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WE SAT THERE
in stunned silence. I was pretty sure we were all thinking the same thing—
what changes?
—but nobody wanted to say the words, like saying it would make it worse.

“I can’t believe that Little Bill was here when all this happened,” I said.

“He’s here quite often,” our mother said.

“He is?” I questioned.

She looked taken aback. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I hope I haven’t violated any regulations.”

“I don’t think you saying he’s here sometimes would be revealing any secrets,” Jack said.

“Sometimes I’m not sure,” she replied.

I knew that feeling. It had gotten to the point that I was trying to think everything through twice before I spoke. I wasn’t that good at it, but it was becoming more of a
habit, even with stupid things. The teacher would ask me if I’d had a good weekend and I’d wonder what I should and should not say, like me hanging around was a matter of national security.

“Little Bill comes through often,” Mom said. “He always asks about you boys.”

“That’s nice.”

“He really does think very highly of you two.”

“It would have been nice if you’d told us he said hello,” Jack said.

“He didn’t say hello,” Mom replied. “He just asked about you. I’ve even invited him to dinner but he said that would open the door to too many possible complications. Besides, sometimes I don’t think he even eats.”

“We know he drinks tea,” I said, pointing at his empty cup.

“True, but he never seems to sit down long enough to eat, and the rumour is that he hardly ever sleeps,” she said.

“Everybody sleeps,” I said.

“Maybe, but it seems like he’s always running from place to place, here, there, in Canada, in England. I’d have been surprised if he
wasn’t
here when this happened,” she said. She paused and then smiled. “Do you know what they call him around here?”

“Sir?” I asked.

She laughed. “God.”

“God? Why would they call him God?” Jack asked.

“Because he sees all, knows all and seems to be everywhere at once …” She paused again and looked over her shoulder to make sure we were still alone. “Not that anybody would call him that to his face. Do you know that he remembers the name of every person who works here, asks details about their families, knows all about their backgrounds? I heard that he has a photographic memory.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It means his mind is like a camera. He looks at something and it sits in his mind like a photo in an album. He can flip to that page and see and remember everything, like he’s looking at a picture,” she said.

“Do you believe that?” Jack asked.

“If anyone’s capable of that, it’s him.”

The big doors opened and our father entered, in uniform, followed by Little Bill. Dad rushed across the room. He looked worried. My mother got up and they hugged.

“Are you boys okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jack answered, and I nodded in agreement.

“Good.” He turned to Little Bill. “Why did you have me brought here? Why are my children here?” He didn’t sound happy.

“Please, have a seat,” Little Bill said. His tone was friendly and he had a smile on his face. With most people, that would have only meant he
was
being friendly. But I remembered how Bill had told us that a good spy always
acts really friendly and smiles before he kills somebody. Not that I thought he was going to kill my father, but it was still unnerving.

My father hesitated for a second and then sat down beside our mother.

“I know you must have many questions,” Little Bill said.

“You’ve got that right.”

“And I will answer them all, but first I must ask you to sign these forms.” Little Bill slid some papers in front of my father.

He looked at them. “The Official Secrets Act? You want me to sign an oath of secrecy before you can tell me what’s happening with my wife and children?”

“Yes, I must insist, or I’m afraid I can’t even start this discussion.”

“Who exactly are you?” my father demanded.

“Where are my manners?” Little Bill said. “My name is Stephenson, William Stephenson.” He held out his hand and they shook.

“That’s your name,” my father said, “but you still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?
What
are you?”

“I am, shall we say, in charge of operations at this hotel.”

“You’re the hotel manager?” my father asked.

Both Jack and I burst out laughing before we realized that wasn’t wise or polite. We both shut up before our father had a chance to say anything.

“Forms, please,” Little Bill said. He pulled a fancy pen out of his suit jacket and handed it to my father.

It looked as though my father was going to say something, or argue, or maybe even refuse. Instead he signed his name at the bottom.

“So?” my father asked.

“I am in charge—here on the island, throughout the Caribbean, in Canada and in Europe—of all activities that involve clandestine operations.”

“Clandestine? That makes it sound like you’re some kind of spy or something,” my father replied.

“Yes,” was all that Little Bill said in response. “And now, since you have signed the oath, it is time for you to know that I am not the only spy in the room.”

My father looked around at the empty room—empty except for his own wife and kids—and then I saw his expression change as he realized exactly what Little Bill meant. “My wife is a spy?”

Little Bill nodded. “She is far more than a censor.”

“But you never told me anything,” our father said, looking at her.

“She couldn’t tell you anything,” Jack said. “You hadn’t signed the oath.”

“That is correct,” Little Bill said. “And further, your boys could not tell you about what they have been involved in.”

“What’s next? Are you going to tell me my boys are spies, too?” he asked, and he started to laugh nervously.

“Yes, they have also been employed as spies.”

My father stopped chuckling.

“Your sons are among the two most skilled, determined, bright and brave operatives I have ever been associated with.”

“My boys?” Now he looked shocked, confused
and
concerned. I understood him feeling all of those things.

“I feel that keeping these secrets from you has been an unfair burden on your family. There should be no secrets between a husband and wife, no secrets between boys and their father,” Little Bill said. “And that is why you were brought here today, why you were asked to sign an oath under the Official Secrets Act. You are going to be told everything.”

I gasped.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, George? To tell your father everything?” Little Bill asked.

“Yes, of course! I’m just not sure what we should say or where we should begin.”

“You must tell him everything, and you should start at the beginning—with that first encounter at Camp X.”

I covered my mouth as I tried to stifle another yawn. It was almost four in the morning and we’d been talking
for more than three hours. With each passing hour and new story, my father’s expressions and reactions had evolved. What had started as shock had changed to almost calm—although I think a big part of that calm was disbelief. And sometimes, when Jack was telling him something, I’d almost catch myself not believing it, either—even though I
knew
it was true because I’d been there.

We’d started off by telling him about how we had accidentally stumbled into Camp X, the super-secret spy base in Whitby … how innocently it had begun, and then how our curiosity had gotten the better of us and eventually had almost gotten Jack and me killed when we got tangled up in a Nazi plot to infiltrate the camp. He’d asked a whole lot of questions all through that first story.

Then we’d gone on to explain that, to avoid Nazi retaliation against us, our family had been moved to Bowmanville and Mom had been assigned to work at the prisoner-of-war camp, Camp 30. We explained how we had become entangled in an escape plan, been kidnapped, been forced to crawl through a tunnel and nearly ended up on a U-boat headed for Germany.

The next story involved the gangsters who kidnapped Mom and threatened to kill her if we didn’t help them break into Camp X to steal the gold deposits of the Bank of England that were supposedly stored there. By the time
we got to that story, Dad wasn’t asking nearly as many questions, but he did reach out and take Mom’s hand, and he didn’t let go of it again for the rest of the story.

Finally we got to how we’d broken up a plot to destroy the munitions factory at Ajax, and how that had led to us being sent to live in Bermuda.

By the end of the last story, Dad looked stunned. He just sat there, glassy-eyed, holding his face in his hands.

The door opened and Little Bill came in again. He had been doing that all night, every thirty minutes or so. He’d listen for a short while and then, without adding a word, leave. As the night went on, we all looked more and more tired and worn down. He didn’t. Even now he looked refreshed, almost rested. Maybe Mom was right: he didn’t need to sleep. Even his suit was neatly pressed, not a wrinkle, and his tie was perfectly knotted, the top button of his shirt still done up.