by Stuart Gibbs
Only Chip wasn’t there. He’d been dispatched to the Arabelle to keep watch over it, just in case Leo Shang made a move. (Chip had been selected for this assignment because he was the only member of the team who didn’t realize it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. He’d been thrilled to get out of eavesdropping duty—only to discover that keeping tabs on the enemy at night in a ski town in winter was extremely dull and exceptionally cold.)
“I want you to really think about everything you saw in Leo Shang’s room,” Cyrus told me, taking a bite of pepperoni, meatball, ham, and sausage pizza. “Then tell me all about it.”
I sighed. Cyrus had already been grilling me for an hour and he kept coming back to the master suite. “Like I said, I barely got a glimpse of it. I’ve already told you everything I saw. . . .”
“No,” Cyrus corrected. “You’ve only told me everything you remember seeing. Which isn’t much. After all that memory training we gave you, that’s the best you can do?”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Well, do better. Remember more.”
I started to protest that this was ridiculous: How could I possibly force myself to remember something that I obviously couldn’t remember? But I was sure that would only annoy Cyrus, and he seemed annoyed enough with me as it was. He had already described the results of my foray into the Shangs’ suite as “borderline pathetic.”
So I tried to recall the tiny bit of the room I’d seen. But I could still think of only one thing. “The silver case—” I began.
“You’ve already mentioned that,” Cyrus interrupted.
“Because it’s important, isn’t it? It looked a lot like the cases SPYDER used to move nuclear missiles around in, only a bit smaller.”
“So your theory is, what? That Leo Shang has a small nuclear missile in his bedroom?”
“Er . . . maybe.”
Alexander walked past, on the phone. “We have credible intelligence that Shang has been doing some sort of aerial reconnaissance,” he was saying. “No, I don’t know what he was reconnaissancing. But we believe his activities are suspicious.” He listened a bit, then cupped his hand over the phone and looked to his father. “They say we need more evidence than that to authorize further action.”
“I’m working on it,” Cyrus muttered, then yelled to the eavesdroppers. “Bug team! What’s going on?” He pointed to each of them in sequence.
“The guards in the living room are currently discussing their fantasy football teams,” Zoe reported.
“Leo Shang is making calls to China in his room,” Jawa said. “But as of right now, they’ve all been about legitimate business dealings.”
“Dane Brammage has seriously bad gas,” Hank said. When everyone groaned, he added, “Hey, it’s not my fault Ben put the bug so close to the hall bathroom.”
“Jessica Shang is on the phone with her mother in her room, complaining about her father,” Warren said. “She’s still very upset. She just called him an onion waffle.” Warren reconsidered that for a moment. “Sorry. She called him a bully. I misheard. You see, Chinese is a very complex language and the slightest difference in inflection can lead to very different—”
“Erica!” Cyrus called out, before Warren could prattle on any longer. “Any luck?”
“None.” Erica sighed. “Given that ‘Molly’ can be a nickname for either ‘Mary’ or ‘Margaret’ in addition to just being plain old ‘Molly,’ there is a very large number of potential Molly Denhams in the world. However, there’s only one person with any of those names in the CIA’s criminal database, and it’s unlikely she saw Shang this week.”
“Why not?” Alexander asked.
“Because she’s dead,” Erica replied. “And she has been for forty years. So she probably doesn’t do much helicopter skiing.”
“Unless she’s a zombie,” Warren suggested. “Maybe Shang’s evil plan is to bring the dead back to life.”
Hank smacked him on the back of the head. “The only thing that’s dead around here is your brain.”
“Anyhow,” Erica went on. “I’m trying to narrow down potential suspects by looking at those Molly Denhams who live in Colorado or those who might be in Colorado at the moment, but it’s going to take a while. I’ve found two possibilities so far, but both washed out. One’s pretty much the squeakiest clean person I’ve ever come across—teaches kindergarten, runs a Brownie troop, makes sandwiches for the poor—and she hasn’t left Denver all week. The other one is only four years old.”
“Well, keep at it,” Cyrus said, then returned his attention to me. “If you’d like to remember anything else about that silver case, now would be a good time. The clock’s ticking, and as of right now, that’s our only lead.”
“What about the information Erica got about the helicopter?” I asked. “That was proof Leo Shang wasn’t actually skiing.”
“But it’s not proof that he was doing anything illegal, either,” Cyrus retorted.
“How about the helicopter pilot?” Jawa suggested. “He must know something about what Shang was doing up there. Why hasn’t anyone talked to him yet?”
“Because he’s gone missing,” Cyrus replied.
Everyone paused in what they were doing and stared at him. Except Erica, who already seemed aware of this information.
“Like, dead?” Warren asked, paling.
“I don’t know,” Cyrus admitted. “The guy didn’t show up to work today, and no one’s heard from him since he flew Shang around yesterday. So, yeah, dead’s a possibility. But it’s not confirmed.”
“Well, isn’t that evidence Shang is up to no good?” Zoe asked.
“No,” Cyrus corrected. “In fact, a missing person is the opposite of evidence that Shang is up to no good. Because said evidence is missing. Which brings us back to our mysterious silver case.” He returned his attention to me, his eyes boring into mine. “You honestly can’t remember anything else about it?”
“No,” I said, feeling like this was a major failure. Also, I was pretty freaked out by the fact that the helicopter pilot had vanished. If Shang had gotten rid of someone who’d simply flown him around, what would he do to someone he was really angry at—like me?
“Did it have any telltale markings on it?” Cyrus pressed. “Nuclear symbols, a skull and crossbones, anything that would indicate it wasn’t just a big old piece of everyday luggage?”
“It wasn’t everyday luggage,” I told him. “It was built to hold something besides clothing.”
“You can prove that?”
I grimaced. “No. It’s just a hunch.”
“Then for all we know, this case is just a busted goose.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Cyrus frowned, like he was annoyed I didn’t know this piece of CIA lingo. “A busted goose is a distraction. In the wild, when a mother goose wants to protect her ducklings from a predator, she pretends to have a broken wing to lure them away. Sometimes, our enemies do the same thing. They put something out in the open to pull our attention away from what we should really be focused on. For example, the CIA once had an agent stationed in Damascus, on the lookout for a big-time arms dealer. Well, this agent spots a suspicious-looking fellow with sunglasses and a shifty demeanor and a metal case handcuffed to his wrists, and he tails him. Turns out, the guy’s a busted goose. The idiot agent gets distracted by him and the arms dealer ends up moving an entire tank right through the city without being noticed.”
Alexander set down his phone, looking hurt. “Dad, for the last time, I really thought I had the right guy. It was an honest mistake! Anyone could have made it.”
“Not anyone competent,” Cyrus muttered. “The guy you followed was the most obvious decoy I’ve ever heard of.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Alexander argued. “I’ve fallen for way more obvious decoys than that.” He suddenly realized what he’d said. “Wait. That didn’t come out right.”
While he and Cyrus bickered, I sagged in my chair, wondering if the silver
case was important or not. It had certainly seemed suspicious, but then, I had no proof that it wasn’t merely designed to look suspicious.
“Can’t we just send someone to infiltrate the suite and see what’s in the case?” I suggested.
“Such a move would be exceptionally dangerous,” Cyrus told me. “I’d be willing to authorize it if we had credible evidence that the case is the real deal. But without that, it’s too big a risk. I can’t put this mission on the line for a busted goose.”
I nodded understanding and returned to racking my brain, trying to come up with the evidence Cyrus needed. Unfortunately, I kept drawing a blank—and being penned up in the tiny room with so many other people wasn’t helping. It felt as though everyone else was waiting for me to come up with something, increasing my feelings of failure and frustration.
Warren was so fixated on me, he wasn’t even watching what he was doing and dropped a piece of pizza on the bed.
“Warren!” Jawa snapped. “You got tomato sauce all over my pillow!”
“It’s no big deal,” Warren told him. “Just call housekeeping for a new one.”
“Housekeeping?” Jawa shot back. “At this place? They all went home hours ago. That’s now your pillow.”
“Fine,” Warren said petulantly. “I like the smell of pepperoni.”
I sat up suddenly. Cyrus was right: I hadn’t remembered everything. “Housekeeping!” I exclaimed.
“What about it?” Cyrus asked.
“The bed wasn’t made in Leo Shang’s room,” I explained. “And there were dirty clothes on it. But Leo had been gone all day. Now, if you were renting out an entire hotel for yourself, don’t you think the housekeeping staff would clean your room? I mean, this place is a dump and they still make our beds every day.”
Erica looked up from her computer, intrigued. “Ben’s right. The Shangs have the hotel’s entire cleaning staff at their disposal. The only reason the room would be a mess is if Leo Shang didn’t want them in his room. And that man is fastidious. He’s the only person in this entire town who wears button-down shirts. So it follows that he’s hiding something in there.”
“We’ve been thinking all along that he rented the entire hotel for his own privacy,” I said. “But how much privacy does anyone need? They have a suite the size of a mansion for only two people. You’d think that would be enough. But suppose it isn’t just about privacy? Suppose Leo Shang is hiding something inside the hotel. If he’s renting the whole place out, he controls the entire staff, the restaurants, and all the common areas. No one goes anywhere without his permission. . . .”
“Except his daughter,” Zoe pointed out.
I swung back toward Cyrus, who didn’t look nearly as frustrated with me as he had before. Now he looked pensive. “I realize that’s only circumstantial evidence,” I said, “but it’s still evidence, right?”
“I think Ben’s got something,” Erica said. “It seems pretty obvious that Shang’s trying to keep something secret in his room.”
Cyrus didn’t say anything. Instead, he grabbed his phone and called Chip.
He had the volume up loud enough that I could hear when Chip answered. “Hello?”
“Has anyone left that hotel with a large silver case?” Cyrus demanded.
“Not that I’ve seen. Of course, I’m only watching the main entrance. . . .”
“That’s the only one that matters. They’d need a vehicle to move this thing.”
“Oh. Hey, it’s really cold out here, and I’m freezing.” I could hear Chip’s teeth chattering over the phone. “Any chance I can come back there and warm up?”
“No,” Cyrus said, and hung up. Then he grabbed his jacket, heading for the door.
Alexander looked to him expectantly. “Where are you going?”
“To break into Leo Shang’s room. I’m gonna find out what’s in that case.”
“While Shang and all his men are there?” Warren asked.
“There’s no time to waste,” Cyrus replied. “It isn’t gonna be easy, but I’ve handled plenty worse in my time.”
“Can I come?” Alexander asked excitedly. Like he was ten and his father was off to see a baseball game.
“Forget it,” Cyrus told him. “This is a delicate operation. I can’t have you screwing it up.”
Alexander slunk off to pout.
Meanwhile, Erica sprang to her feet and intercepted Cyrus. “I’m the best break-and-enter person on this team.”
“You’re only the second best,” Cyrus corrected. “I taught you everything you know, and I’ve still got gas in the tank. Besides, I need you working this Molly Denham thing.”
“This Molly Denham thing is boring,” Erica told him. “Make Zoe do it.”
“I’m eavesdropping,” Zoe pointed out.
“On two guards talking about fantasy football,” Erica reminded her.
“Actually, now they’re talking about who’d win in a fight: Superman or Iron Man,” Zoe admitted.
“Leo Shang is still talking business,” Jawa reported.
“Dane Brammage is still on the toilet,” Hank said. “Man, what did that guy eat?”
“Jessica just asked her mother if she could stuff a chicken up her nose,” Warren said, then reconsidered. “Oh, wait. Maybe she said she needed a tissue.”
“On second thought,” Cyrus told Erica, “take over for Warren. We should probably have someone who actually understands Chinese listening to the Shangs. Warren, you handle the Molly Denham thing.”
“Grandpa . . . ,” Erica started to protest.
“Right now, I’m not Grandpa. I’m the mission commander,” Cyrus said. “And I just gave you an order.”
Erica stormed over to the bed where Warren was sitting and told him, “Move.”
Warren did exactly as she’d asked, handing over the headset and withdrawing to where Erica had been researching Molly Denhams.
Cyrus headed for the door again. This time I was the one who stopped him. “Agent Hale, before you go . . .”
“For criminy’s sake, what now?” Cyrus groused.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I told him. “But I’m a little worried Leo Shang is onto me.”
Cyrus shook his head. “We’ve been eavesdropping on his suite ever since you bugged it and we haven’t heard anything to that effect. His anger toward you appears to be solely based on his disapproval of you personally, not on any suspicion that you’re a spy.”
“You didn’t see the look on his face when I was leaving today. He was really angry. It looked like a lot more than mere disapproval.”
“Well, he’d just caught his daughter hugging you. And our intel suggests he is an extremely overprotective father.”
“I understand that, but . . .” I paused, hesitant about adding the next part for fear that Cyrus would be dismissive of it.
He glanced at his watch impatiently. “Benjamin, for all we know, the safety of the free world may be at stake here. I don’t have time for dramatic pauses.”
So I said what I was worried about. “Yesterday afternoon, when I was out on the mountain after my lessons, I got the idea that someone was spying on me. I never got a good look at him, but it could have been one of Shang’s men.”
“It wasn’t,” Cyrus said definitively.
“Why don’t you think so?”
“Because it was me.”
I took a step back, surprised. “You? I thought you were tailing Leo Shang yesterday.”
“Leo Shang was in a helicopter all day. And as you may recall, we don’t have a helicopter ourselves. So that left us waiting by the helipad for him to return. As that task wasn’t particularly challenging, I left my son in charge of it. I felt there was another threat that needed assessment.”
It took me a moment to realize who he meant. “Mike?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You think my best friend is a threat to the CIA?”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s a threat. I know he’s a threat. And he has been for some
time. To begin with, last winter he infiltrated our campus as part of a SPYDER plot. . . .”
“He was duped into that.”
“And yet he still did it. Despite numerous signs around the campus perimeter indicating that trespassing on that property is against the law. His actions then mandated a major disinformation campaign to dissuade him of the truth about our facility. Given your conversation with him on the slopes yesterday, however, I think we can assume that campaign was a failure.”
“You heard that?” I asked, concerned.
Cyrus tapped the hearing aid in his ear. “I don’t wear this because I’m deaf. I wear it because it’s actually a unidirectional long-range listening device.”
Everyone in the room had stopped eavesdropping on the Shangs and was now eavesdropping on us.
“What’s this all about?” Zoe asked. “Is Mike onto us?”
“He’s had some suspicions,” I told her. “But I think I’ve put them to rest.”
“You have done no such thing,” Cyrus informed me. “If anything, you’re directly responsible for his suspicions. After all, you have repeatedly failed to hide your spy skills and maintain a proper non-espionage persona in front of him.”
“I’ve done my best,” I argued.
“Then your best leaves a great deal to be desired. As I’m sure you’re aware, academy policy is that friendships with civilians are discouraged, and your egregious handling of this one is a prime example of why that policy exists. And then, as if Mr. Brezinski weren’t already enough of a threat, you allowed him to come here and jeopardize an active mission.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with him coming here. It was a coincidence.”
“Poppycock!” Cyrus exclaimed. “There is no such thing as coincidence! Every action is the result of another action—and in this case, your actions, such as your ill-thought-out discussion at the zoo with him the other day, led to this debacle.”
“Wait,” I said. “How’d you know I went to the zoo with Mike the other day?”
“I’m a spy. It’s my job to know things.”
