Trapped!

by James Ponti

  “I’d like to show you some of the evidence that isn’t classified,” he replied. “So you can run it through the Toaster.”

  “The Toaster?” I asked.

  “You know, let the three of you put your Theory of All Small Things to work.”

  We laughed. “I like it. ‘The Toaster.’ ”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Margaret.

  We put on white cotton gloves so we could handle the evidence. First he showed us the library book. Based on the copyright it was nearly twenty years old. Although the pages were yellow with age, it felt almost like new and was crisp to open.

  “You said it hasn’t been checked out in nearly a year,” I said.

  “That’s right,” answered Douglas.

  “That makes sense,” said Marcus. “You’d want to use a book that rarely circulates to make sure no one else gets it by mistake.”

  I opened the back cover looking for the pocket that holds the due date slip. PROPERTY OF DC PUBLIC LIBRARY was stamped on it in crisp black ink.

  “Here’s the key,” said the admiral.

  He handed me a small bronze key. Engraved into it was USPS (for United States Postal Service), DO NOT DUPLICATE, and the numbers 32751. I studied it and passed it to the others.

  “There’s just a serial number,” Margaret said, looking at it. “How could he know what it opened?”

  “Because this was with the key,” he said as he handed her a small piece of paper about the size of a postage stamp. She looked at it before passing it to Marcus and me. In dark pencil somebody had written:

  PO BOX 1737

  FRIENDSHIP

  STATION

  XOPOШO

  “Mr. Prothro assumed it was part of some sort of scavenger hunt or contest,” the admiral continued. “He went to Friendship Station, which is located on Wisconsin, near the library, and discovered the binder in PO Box 1737.”

  “What’s this at the bottom?” asked Margaret. “XOPOWO?”

  “Some sort of code,” he answered. “We haven’t deciphered that yet.”

  I studied it closely and said, “I think this was written with a golf pencil.”

  “Why do you say that?” Marcus asked.

  “Its writing is distinctive. My dad loves to play, and sometimes I ride along in his cart and keep score.” I turned to Margaret. “Remember that time we played mini-golf?”

  “I remember beating you by six strokes,” she said with a proud smile. “But I don’t recall anything significant about the pencils.”

  “They’re small, and the lead in them is really thick and dark to make it easier to keep score while you walk around,” I said. “The writing looks just like this.”

  “So you think the spy is a golfer?” asked the admiral.

  “Not necessarily,” I answered. “I just think he used a golf pencil. However, I’m pretty sure he’s European. My guess is Russian.”

  Marcus gave me a look, and then he examined the scrap of paper. “What makes you say Russian?”

  “The sevens are crossed,” I pointed out. “That’s how they write them in Europe. That’s how I was taught when I was growing up there. I usually do it in the American style now, but sometimes I forget and do it this way out of habit.”

  “That points to Europe,” said the admiral. “But why Russia in particular?”

  “The code at the bottom,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a code at all. I think it’s Cyrillic.” I pointed it out for the admiral.

  “What’s Cyrillic?” asked Margaret.

  “The alphabet they use in Russia,” I said. “A lot of the letters look like ours, but they’re different. If that’s English, then it’s a code. But if it’s Cyrillic, it’s the Russian word for ‘good.’ ”

  Marcus and Admiral Douglas shared a look, and I could tell they were impressed.

  “Well done, Florian,” said Marcus. “That’s really good.”

  Margaret was incredulous. “How do you know that? You speak French and Italian, not Russian.”

  “I speak a little Russian,” I said, holding up my index finger and thumb. “I spent two weeks there with my parents visiting museums in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. The word means ‘good,’ but it’s one of those words that has multiple meanings, like ‘okay’ or ‘good luck.’ They use it all the time.”

  “That’s an interesting development,” said the admiral. “Because there was one more item in the post office box.”

  He pulled out an antique purple book. The title was in Russian and stamped on the cover and spine in gold leaf. He gently placed it in front of Marcus, and it was obvious by the look they shared that the book had significance to them.

  “Is it from the collection?” asked Marcus.

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  When Marcus picked it up, he had the same expression I’ve seen my mother make when she restores a painting. He was careful and deliberate. He cradled the book in his left hand and opened it to the second-to-last page. He held it closer to the light for a moment and smiled. Then he pointed to something as he showed it to Admiral Douglas.

  “Someone’s tried to erase it, but you can see where ‘RIC’ was once written right along the seam,” Marcus said with a charge of excitement. “This book was stolen from the Russian Imperial Collection at the Library of Congress. That’s amazing.”

  “First Florian speaks Russian, and now Marcus is a book expert,” said Margaret. “I feel a little left out in the secret skills department. How do you know that it’s from the Russian whatever collection?”

  “The Russian Imperial Collection,” he answered. “It was my first big case. I ran a sting operation that caught someone selling books stolen from the Library of Congress for tens of thousands of dollars.”

  “He didn’t just catch someone,” said the admiral. “He caught Alexander Petrov, a high-ranking official at the Russian embassy. That’s when I realized that Marcus was a star on the rise. It was big news. Petrov was PNG-ed.”

  “What’s that?” asked Florian.

  “More alphabet soup,” explained Douglas. “PNG stands for ‘persona non grata.’ When someone gets PNG-ed, it means he’s kicked out of the country for good. Petrov was expelled from the United States and sent back to Moscow in disgrace.”

  “Unfortunately, he left the country before I was able to wrap everything up,” said Marcus with disappointment in his voice. “I knew he was the one selling the books, but I was never able to figure out how he got them from the library.”

  The admiral gave him a look as though he’d totally forgotten this piece of information. “That’s right,” he said with a sly grin. “You never did officially close that case, did you?”

  “No,” answered Marcus. “Once Petrov returned to Russia, all my leads dried up. I had to put everything in a box and ship it to cold-case storage.”

  Marcus glowered for a moment. The public might have viewed it as a victory, but he wasn’t satisfied with the outcome. However, where he saw frustration, Margaret saw opportunity.

  “Wait a second,” she said gleefully. “If it’s not officially closed, then you can still work on it.”

  The admiral smiled. “And there’s your special skill for the day,” he said. “Reading between the lines.”

  Marcus looked up at him and smiled. “I can do that?”

  “Of course you can,” said the admiral. “It’s your case. You can do whatever you want without obtaining permission from anybody. And if, in the process of solving your book theft case, you just happened to figure out who was spying on the US government, that would be a bonus.”

  “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” asked Margaret.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Although I do know that you’re supposed to be at Texas Tony’s eating ribs.”

  He couldn’t officially put us on the case, but he’d gotten us as close to it as he could. There’d be no more formal acknowledgment. Where we went from here was up to us. We said
our good-byes and went to the restaurant. The food was delicious, and we all had a great time.

  Texas Tony’s was filled with people who worked in the nearby government buildings, including many of the same faces we’d studied during our game of Toastbusters. The diners were laughing and having fun, and it dawned on me that in a city like Washington almost anyone could be leading a double life.

  After all, even spies like barbecue.

  And, it turned out, so did Dan Napoli, the mysterious agent from the reception. When I got up to get a second helping of beef brisket, I saw him at a table across the room. He was seated with another man who had that crew cut, FBI look about him. For a moment our eyes locked.

  Was he there for the same reason we were, because it was a good restaurant just a few blocks from work? Or was he there because he was spying on us?

  We held the look until I turned to get my food. I tried to force the thought out of my mind, but I remembered the last thing he’d said to us. That he was certain our paths would cross again.

  5.

  An Open Book

  DAN NAPOLI WAS STILL ON my mind the next day as Margaret and I rode our bikes along Nebraska Avenue. As we pedaled, my front wheel squeaked and wobbled, the result of an ill-advised attempt to jump over a curb onto a rain-slickened sidewalk earlier that week. The ensuing crash managed to injure my bike, my knee, and, most of all, my pride. Since the wheel limited our speed, we had plenty of time to discuss Napoli’s sudden arrival on the scene.

  “Could it have something to do with the new case?” Margaret asked.

  “I don’t see how,” I said. “He was watching us before we even found out about it. And I doubt Admiral Douglas told anybody we were part of his plan.”

  “Good point.”

  “Besides, Napoli works in the organized crime division. He shouldn’t be anywhere near a spy case.”

  “True,” she said. “But neither should we.”

  I flashed a guilty smile. “That’s a good point too.”

  Officially, the Special Projects Team was only supposed to reopen Marcus’s cold case about rare books stolen from the Library of Congress. But that evidence was in storage, which meant it was going to be a few days before we could start.

  Unofficially, Margaret and I wanted to spend our Saturday finding out as much as we could about spies, libraries, and post office boxes. Luckily, the Capital City Cycle Shop was only a few blocks from the Tenley-Friendship Library. This meant I could get my bike fixed and we could check out the crime scene.

  The library had a modern design with glass walls that made it bright and airy. There were vertical orange panels on the second floor that resembled the pages of an open book.

  “It’s pretty,” Margaret said as we locked our bikes to the rack in front.

  “It won a bunch of architecture awards.”

  She gave me a look. “And how do you know that?”

  “Research,” I said as if the answer were obvious. “I knew we were coming, so I looked it up. It has a special vegetative roof to absorb rainwater. The floors and countertops are all made from recycled materials. And because there are so many windows and natural sunlight, it needs less electricity for lighting. It’s very environmentally friendly.”

  “What about espionage friendly,” she joked. “Are there any special features designed to help spies?”

  “None that they mentioned on the website, but I’m sure we can find a few.”

  We were almost to the front door when she saw him. “Uh-oh, we’ve been spotted.”

  “By whom?” I asked as I scanned the people nearby. “Dan Napoli?”

  “Worse.”

  She took me by the shoulders and turned me so I was pointed at a concrete bench under a shade tree. Sitting there folding up a newspaper and staring directly at us was Marcus.

  “Ooh, you’re right. That is worse.”

  Even in black jeans and a Georgetown basketball shirt, he had “FBI agent” written all over him. I don’t know if it was the short-cropped hair, the way he walked, or the fact that he looked like he wanted to arrest us.

  “Florian, Margaret,” he said, greeting us. “How very unsurprised I am to see you here.”

  “Hey, Marcus,” said Margaret, trying to play it cool. “What brings you to the library? Looking for a good book?”

  “No,” he replied. “I was actually looking for a pair of seventh graders who can’t follow directions. It turns out that I didn’t even have to go inside to find them.”

  “This isn’t what you think,” I blurted.

  “Really?” he replied. “Because I think you wanted to visit the library and study the crime scene in hopes of finding some little nugget of TOAST. I think you convinced yourselves that technically you’re not treading on the other case because the library is a public place and you aren’t really investigating. And I think you didn’t tell me because you knew I’d say no.”

  “Well, if you put it that way,” I said sheepishly, “it’s exactly what you think.”

  “Guys, we are walking a fine line here,” he said. “We cannot be seen as encroaching on an investigation run by a joint task force of the FBI, CIA, and NSA. Spy catchers don’t mess around, and they don’t have a sense of humor about these things. The admiral cracked the door open just a little bit for us. We can’t go busting through it.”

  I knew he was right, but I also thought it was important for us to get a look inside.

  “He wants us to work the cold case, right?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Marcus. “The cold case about rare books. Not the extremely hot case about Russian espionage.”

  “Well, something inside this library connects to that cold case. All we want to do is get a look so we can figure out what it is when the evidence arrives from storage. Besides, you’re right. It is a public place. It’s our local library, and we have every right to be in there. There’s nothing suspicious or wrong about it. So I don’t see how the joint task force can complain.”

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. I could tell he was tempted.

  “You said the admiral cracked the door open,” added Margaret. “We’re not busting through it. We’re just peeking through the crack.”

  “We even worked out a backstory,” I said. “Margaret and I are doing a science project on Albert Einstein. While I look for books on the shelf, she’s going to pretend she’s texting someone, but what she’ll really be doing is taking pictures. Nonfiction is upstairs in the back. We’ll be in and out in less than ten minutes.”

  “You already know which part of the building it’s in?” he asked, incredulous.

  “He did research,” Margaret said with a raised eyebrow. “Ask him about the vegetable roof?”

  “Vege-tative, not vegetable,” I corrected. “It’s grass and dirt designed to absorb storm water. It’s fascinating when you think about it.”

  “Tell him more,” she said.

  “What would you like to know?” I asked. “About recycled materials or the use of natural lighting?”

  He chuckled. “You’re going to bore me to death until I give up, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the plan,” said Margaret.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, resigned. “A quick in and out. Just a few minutes.”

  Margaret and I exchanged a low-key fist bump.

  “If you two are doing a science project, then what’s my role in this scam?” he asked. “Let me guess, I’m Margaret’s uncle again.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t usually have your uncle take you to the library. This time you should pretend to be my dad.”

  He gave her a surprised look. “I’m not sure I look old enough to be your dad.”

  “Seriously?” she replied, stifling a laugh. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  He chuckled, but he also looked a little wounded, and I noticed him checking his reflection in the glass door as we entered the library.

  “One of those young, hip dads,” I said.

 
He nodded confidently. “You got that right.”

  I took the lead and headed straight for the stairwell that wrapped around the edge of the atrium. “It’s funny. You think of spies hiding in the shadows, but this place is filled with sunlight. It’s the exact opposite of what you’d expect.”

  “That’s because the spies you see in movies are nothing like the ones in real life,” said Marcus. “They’re experts at hiding in plain sight.”

  On the second floor, the main room was laid out with rows of bookcases in the middle and computer workstations along the windows. There was an area with overstuffed chairs where patrons sat reading and several study rooms along the far wall. Since all the walls were glass, you could see into everything. In this building, “in plain sight” was the only place to hide.

  “Can I help you find something?” asked a librarian.

  Margaret went to speak, but Marcus cut her off. “Yes, please. My daughter has a science project, and as usual she’s put it off until the last moment. So we’re scrambling to get it done this weekend.” Because we were “undercover,” Margaret had to play along.

  “I said I was sorry, Dad,” she replied, shooting him a dirty look.

  “We’re looking for books on Einstein’s theory of relativity,” continued Marcus.

  “My kids do the same thing,” replied the librarian with an understanding smile. “The theory of relativity is five thirty point eleven,” she said, referring to its Dewey decimal number. “That’s the second-to-last bookcase on this aisle, bottom shelf.”

  “Wow,” said Marcus. “You really know your library.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t normally have it so well memorized. It’s just you’re not the first person to come looking for the theory of relativity this week.”

  Marcus shot us a quick look to make sure we caught this, but tried to keep the conversation flowing, hoping she might give us some information.

  “Probably other parents from our class,” he said. “We’re always bumping into each other the weekend before a big project’s due.”

  “Well, this man didn’t have any kids with him, but he was frustrated, so maybe that explains it,” she said. “I walked over with him and showed him that we had an entire shelf of books on the subject, but he was only interested in one specific book.”