Zeke Bartholomew (3 page)

Then I heard a quiet, cocky laugh. I looked up to see the smiling face of Derek Lance. He was staring right at me. Waiting until his mocking could be heard. It was a belly laugh, almost like he was trying too hard, but there was something beneath it, as though his mocking was personal in a weird way.

“Mr. Bartholomew?” Mr. Statler said.

“I know, I know,” I sighed. “See you in detention.”

Mr. Statler nodded. “And no more of your gizmos in homeroom, otherwise I'll see you in detention every day for a month.”

Derek Lance had stopped snickering, but the cocky smile remained on his face. It was imperceptible to anyone else, I think, but he shook his head slightly. Disdainfully. The head shake said one thing:
amateur.

For some reason, this mocking cut me deeper than Donna Okin, the laughter, or Stefan Holt. There was something about Derek Lance that made me uncomfortable. Like he knew who I was, knew what I was trying to do, and was able to cut just in the right spot to strike a nerve. And he had.

“You know,” Kyle said, “I bet that gadget has at least one thing going for it.”

“Oh, really? What?”

“We could use it to cut the gum off your butt.”

“You know I hate you, right?”

“Don't blame the peanut gallery.”

I ignored Kyle and gritted my teeth. I knew right then and there that I had to turn the tables. I had to know just who Derek Lance was. I had to spy on the spy.

That night I did what any self-respecting adventurous spy would do—I went through Derek Lance's trash cans.

I waited until after my stomach was bursting with a double helping of my dad's famous spaghetti and meatballs and he was crashed on the couch watching
Law
& Order
reruns. Then I slipped on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt (I didn't own black). I tried on a pair of cheapo sunglasses, but took them off after I bumped into a tree outside.

Using the cloak of darkness—or, more accurately, simply hoping nobody saw me—I crept into the Lances' front yard. Two trash bins were sitting on the curb, filled with all sorts of junk.

Quietly I removed the lids from the trash bins, took a pen from my pocket, and began to dig through their garbage.

The top layer was your common junk pile. Soda cans, packing peanuts, empty microwave food boxes. Apparently Derek and I had one thing in common: we both liked fish sticks. Below the fish stick boxes I found the first clue: discarded maps from all over the world. Honduras. The Netherlands. Prague. Iceland. Costa Rica. Beijing. No doubt souvenirs from Derek Lance's travels around the globe.

Under the maps I found something even more interesting.

A compass with a cracked face. It looked heavily used and didn't appear to be working. Below that I came upon something even more curious: a small blue pillbox with one word printed on the side:
Ipecac.

Whoa. Syrup of ipecac was something spies commonly used when they were poisoned. It was derived from the ipecacuanha plant and, when synthesized, was used to induce vomiting. If a spy was poisoned, a dollop of ipecac syrup would help him upchuck any evil goop he'd been forced to drink. I'd never heard of it existing in pill form. That sounded like some heavy-duty spy stuff, formulated in some underground lab where bespectacled scientists spent hours figuring out how best to make secret agents puke. Awesome.

I popped the pillbox in my pocket and continued searching. Soon I found a pair of sunglasses…just like the ones Derek Lance wore.

I wiped them off, placed them over my eyes, and practiced my best spy impersonation.

“Hey, I'm Derek Lance,” I said to nobody in particular. “Freeze. I'm Derek Lance. Agent Lance. That's me, all right. You have the right to remain awesome.”

I cringed. Wow. I made an even dorkier spy than I thought. Still, if I had access to the kind of technology and equipment that Derek Lance did, I'd be able to create some of the coolest devices ever known. Either way, I decided to keep the shades.

Then, below a few billion packing peanuts, I found a cardboard box for something called a “Red-i-Cam.” The box had contained a small, mountable surveillance camera. I dug deeper and found five more empty Red-i-Cam boxes. I turned around, looked up. And saw them.

One Red-i-Cam was bolted to the Lances' front door, right above the peephole. Several others were mounted over the windows. Another hung over the garage. Clearly the Lance family wanted to know about everything and everyone who came near their house.

My blood ran cold. They could probably see me at this very moment. And in my dark sweatpants and sweatshirt, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, I probably looked like a short, nervous burglar. Nice going, Zeke.

Hastily I put the lids back on the trash cans and turned to head home. Just as I fastened the last lid on, however, a car pulled up in the Lances' driveway and I was frozen between a pair of ultra-bright headlights.

This was really not good…

The car was sleek and black and the windows were tinted. I didn't know what to do. If I ran, they'd know I was up to something. And if I stayed put, they'd still know I was up to something. So I did what I always do when I get nervous—I got the hiccups. As I held my breath, the passenger door opened.

The engine was still running when out stepped a man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. He walked around to where I stood, never taking his gaze from me. I tried to think of a million things to say, some sort of excuse as to why I was there.

The man walked up to me, stopped, and to my surprise said, “Agent Derek Lance?”

Agent
Derek Lance. I was right. Derek Lance
was
a spy!

I could have replied any way I wanted, and to this day I don't know why I said what I did. I responded with six simple words: “Yes, I am agent Derek Lance.”

The man nodded and mumbled something into a microphone attached to his sleeve that sounded like “Mr. Safari.” Then he said, “Come with us.”

The agent opened the back door of the sedan. Another agent was sitting there, along with a driver, both wearing the same suit getup. The man in the backseat nodded. “It's an honor to meet you, Agent Lance.”

“Likewise,” I said, slipping in next to him. I know you're never supposed to get in cars with strangers, but something about this felt right. My whole life I'd wanted to be a spy, and even if I couldn't be Derek Lance, I could at least feel what it was like to be him for one night before they discovered I was lame old Ezekiel Bartholomew. “Medium everything.”

The car pulled away from the Lance home. The three agents stayed silent. After about ten minutes, I said, “So…where to?”

The men laughed. “You know where we're headed, Agent Lance. He's dying to meet you.”

“Oh, I'm looking forward to meeting, um,
him
too,” I said stupidly. “Just forgot the address is all.”

“Understandable. He doesn't like people to remember where his headquarters is located.”

“Right. Well…he's done a very good job keeping it hidden.”

“He works quite hard to maintain secrecy,” the man next to me said.

“
Quite
hard,” the driver seconded.

“Extremely hard,” the third man said.

“He works hard. Got it,” I said.

“Before we arrive at our destination,” the man next to me said, “we need to be certain that you have the codes.”

My eyes went wide.

“The…codes?”

“Yes. As you know, Operation Songbird is scheduled to go into effect in twenty-four hours. SirEebro cannot be activated without the codes. That is why you're here.”

“Of course, SirEebro and Operation Songbird,” I said, playing it off. “But, you know, I'd rather wait until we get there before I give them to you. If that's okay.” I figured that would at least buy me some time to figure out what to do.

One of the agents up front spoke into a microphone. I only made out
codes…wants to wait…affirmative.

The man turned back to face me. “Mr. Le Carré understands your concerns. However, he requires you to reveal one of the three codes right now. The others can wait until we arrive, as you desire.”

“Right. One code. Out of three. No problem.” I thought about all the spy books and movies I'd memorized. They always spoke in code. I remembered enough to give it a shot. “Alpha. Tango. Bravo…”

The man next to me screwed up his lip.

“Is this a joke?” he said.

“Um…no. No joke,” I said. I was getting nervous. Being Derek Lance wasn't what I'd expected.

“Don't play stupid with us, Agent Lance.”

“I'm not playing,” I said.

“We all know that the codes for SirEebro are numeric.”

The codes for SirEebro were numeric. Of course they were.

“Agent Lance,” one of the men in front said angrily, “what are you trying to pull?”

“Is it about the money?” the man next to me said. “You're being compensated quite handsomely for Operation Songbird.”

Okay, it was time to end this charade. I didn't know what Agent Derek Lance was involved in, but it didn't seem like it would be too good for my Zeke Bartholomew.

“It's not the money,” I said. “It's just that I don't have the codes.”

“Agent Lance, we are
not
playing a game,” one of the men said, anger rising in his voice. “If you are unable to give us the codes, you are worthless to Mr. Le Carré. And since you know what the codes are being used for, since you know about Operation Songbird, and since so much and so many lives are at stake, if you cannot give us the codes, we cannot let you leave.”

“If you can't give us the codes for SirEebro,” the agent next to me said coldly, “we have no choice but to kill you.”

My heart hammered in my chest. I didn't know what to do or what to say.
Kill
me? Lives at stake?
Even if they believed I wasn't Derek Lance, they'd already said too much. They wouldn't let me live. Suddenly, playing Derek Lance wasn't so much fun anymore. Suddenly, being a spy wasn't such a glamorous idea.

“What if I weren't Agent Lance?” I said nervously. The driver laughed.

“Right. We just happened to pick up a random kid standing in front of Derek Lance's house. Besides, I'd recognize those sunglasses anywhere, Agent Lance.”

Those stupid sunglasses! This didn't sit too well. In fact, it
really
didn't sit too well with my stomach. Then I remembered.
The
ipecac.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” I moaned.

“Enough games, Agent Lance,” the agent next to me said. “We're not in the mood…”

I leaned forward, pretended to cough, and quickly slipped the ipecac pill into my mouth. It lodged in my throat. Of course it did.

“Do you have any water? Bit of a scratchy throat.”

The agent next to me handed me a bottle of water. I drank it and felt the pill slip down into my belly. I smiled. It worked.

Then my smile vanished. Within five seconds my stomach felt like it was rolling and pitching on the high seas. And this storm wasn't about to end well.

“Oh, no,” I whimpered. “Spaghetti and meatballs…”

Suddenly I lurched forward and puked up my spaghetti-and-meatball dinner all over the driver. He shrieked and lost control of the wheel. The sedan skidded across the road, the tires making an awful rubbery screech. I upchucked all over the three agents, who screamed and tried to dodge the mess. No such luck. I'd had a big dinner.

Then I felt a huge jolt as the car slammed into something. Sparks flew up around us. My teeth rattled, and my shoulder slammed into the door hard, sending pain searing through my body. The seat belt kept me from being thrown into the windshield. Then we were spinning, around and around and around. If I hadn't already puked, this spin cycle would have done it for sure.

The four of us held on for dear life as the car rotated again and again, finally coming to a stop after about ten spins. I opened my eyes. The car was a complete mess. The agents were groggy, preoccupied with the grossness. This was my only chance.

I unbuckled my seat belt, threw open the door, and ran out into the night. The car had stopped on the middle of a bridge, diagonally cutting across two lanes. I was fifty yards away from either end of the bridge. No-man's-land. Then I heard someone yell, “Freeze, Agent Lance! Move and you're dead.”

I slowly turned around. The driver was standing there, nasty spaghetti strands dangling from his sunglasses. I felt a burp rise in my chest.

“I knew you were dangerous, Agent Lance,” he said, “but we clearly underestimated your diversionary skills. Now get back in the car and give us the codes.”

I started to walk backward. I couldn't get back in the car, but I didn't have time to run. The muzzle was pointed right at me. “I can't!” I shouted.

“You can and you will. Right now, or you're one dead spy.”

I kept backing up, kept telling myself,
This
isn't happening. This isn't happening.
Then the armed agent held out his hand and stepped forward. “Be careful, Agent Lance!” he shouted.

Just then I felt the guardrail clip my knees from behind. And as I toppled over the guardrail into the abyss below, I heard my own voice echoing in the night: “
I'm not Derek Lance!
”