by James Ponti
I was impressed at how Marcus dug for information without being obvious.
“I don’t suppose he gave you his name,” he said. “I can give him a hard time about it next time I see him in the carpool lane.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I told him I could put a hold on the book, but he wouldn’t do it. He just keeps coming back every day to see if it’s been returned.”
“Sounds stubborn?” said Marcus. “I bet it’s Phil Anderson.” He turned to Margaret. “Chloe’s dad.”
“Is he tall with red hair?” asked the librarian.
“That’s him,” said Marcus with a chuckle. “Tall with red hair.”
“Funny,” she said. “He didn’t sound like an Anderson.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“With an accent like that,” she replied, “I would’ve guessed his last name was something Russian.”
6.
Spasibo
IT TOOK EVERY BIT OF self-control I had not to react when the librarian told us about the man who’d been looking for the book. We’d only come to get a picture of the dead drop where one spy had hidden the key for the other. Now we had what may have been a partial description of one of the two: tall, with red hair and a Russian accent.
Even more important: He comes back every day to look for it.
“Stay cool,” Marcus whispered as we walked away from the help desk. “And keep your eyes open.”
Suddenly everyone in the library seemed suspicious. Any one of them could’ve been an FBI agent or a spy. A woman sitting in the reading area looked up from her book when we passed her. A man standing by a table flipped through the pages of a George Washington biography but didn’t seem to actually be reading it. Then there was the woman at the end of the aisle, just a few feet from where we were headed.
Young and athletic, she wore a white cap, exercise pants, and a shirt from the Marine Corps Marathon. She looked like she was about to go for a run. Except she was wearing basketball shoes. They didn’t quite fit the picture. Was she an undercover agent who accidentally wore the wrong shoes? Or was she just a woman at the library?
Like I said, everyone seemed suspicious.
I took slow, steady breaths and focused on our cover story. As far as anyone was concerned, Margaret and I were students working on a project, and Marcus was her dad. I knelt down to look at the books on the bottom shelf and read off the titles to them. “Physics of the Impossible; The Road to Reality; Big Science.”
“Those sound good,” said Margaret. “Get all three.”
I pulled them off the shelf. As I stood up, I tried to get a good look at the runner, but she’d turned away from us and was now deep in a book.
“There’s an empty study room,” Marcus suggested, pointing down the aisle. “Why don’t we go in there?”
There were three study rooms side by side, each with glass walls that let you see right into them. Two college students occupied the one on the far left. One was typing away at a laptop while the other was reading a book and writing notes on a legal pad. An older man with silver-gray hair was in the room on the far right. He had a stack of books on the desk and was intently reading. Judging by the titles, all the books were about the Civil War.
We took the study room in the middle.
Unlike the “box within a box” where we discussed secrets at FBI Headquarters, this room was completely exposed to outside eyes. “Not exactly a SCIF,” I joked once we closed the door.
“No,” Marcus replied. “But it’s as close as we’re going to find here. Everyone can see us, so act like we’re discussing these books.”
We sat down at the desk, and I handed them each one. We started to flip through the pages as we talked.
“Do you think the Russian with red hair is one of the spies?” I asked.
“My gut says yes,” he replied. “It’s significant that he was only interested in one particular book.”
“But why would he come back?” asked Margaret. “The government’s already confiscated the files.”
“He may not know that,” he said. “That’s the weakness of a dead drop. Since they don’t communicate directly, the two spies might not have a way of letting each other know that something went wrong. At least not right away.”
“Spy number one hid the key, so he probably wouldn’t come back,” I said, piecing it together. “His part of the pass is over the moment he leaves the key.”
“And spy number two can’t be certain that the person who checked it out also discovered the key and found the post office box,” he said. “He may be coming back hoping that it gets returned with the key still in it.”
“That makes sense,” said Margaret.
I looked out across the library as I considered all this. “So what do we do?”
“We do nothing,” answered Marcus. “We’ve peeked through the door as far as we can. This belongs to the joint task force. They can set up surveillance and catch this guy when he comes back. I’ve got to get word to them and tell them what we’ve discovered.”
“How?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you let them know what we know without letting them know that we were poking around the edges of their case?”
“I think we’ll have to come clean and tell them what we’ve done,” he said. “I’ll alert Admiral Douglas, and he can pass it along. They won’t like it, but he’s the director of the FBI, so they won’t challenge him on it.” Marcus stood up. “However, that’s not exactly the kind of call you should place on a cell phone in a public library, so I’m going to have to find a secure location.”
He moved toward the door but stopped and turned back to us. “I can’t help but notice the two of you aren’t getting up and leaving the active crime scene.”
“We still need to get pictures,” insisted Margaret.
He gave her an unpleasant look.
“She’s right,” I said. “And we need to get them now. Once the joint task force sets up surveillance, we won’t be able to come in here without them seeing us.”
He hesitated, and Margaret went in for the kill.
“You don’t want a repeat of your first case.”
“What do you mean?”
“You caught the guy who was selling the rare books. But you were never able to figure out who was helping him because, once he left the country, your case dried up. If the redhead is spy number two and they catch him, it might make it so we never find his partner.”
This was obviously a sore spot for him. He was also in a hurry and didn’t have time to debate with us. “Just be out of here in ten minutes.”
He hurried out the door and disappeared down the stairwell. Despite our promises and good intentions, it took us longer to do what we needed because we were determined to be cautious and thorough. We moved around the second floor of the library pretending to look for different books while Margaret took pictures from every angle and I searched for pieces of TOAST. Since we didn’t know exactly what we were after, we tried to get a little bit of everything.
One thing caught my eye when we were by a computer used for searching the catalog. There was a stack of scrap paper and a box of short yellow pencils so people could write down the call numbers of the books they were looking for. I nudged Margaret and pointed at the box.
It took her a moment, and then she smiled. “Golf pencils.”
When we were in the SCIF, I’d said that the spy had used a golf pencil, but I’d forgotten that libraries used the same type.
“Think he wrote it here?” she asked.
“Seems a little out in the open,” I said as I picked up one and pocketed it. “But we can compare them later.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It had been twenty-five minutes since we’d promised we’d be gone in ten. “We better scram. We told Marcus we’d be out of here long before now.”
“Oh my goodness,” exclaimed Margaret. “Look over there.”
I turned a
nd saw a tall redheaded man bounding up the stairwell. He was dressed all in black with a sport coat. His hair was cropped short so that it stood straight up and gave him a tough-guy vibe. Most noticeable, even from this distance, were his ice-cold eyes.
“Is that him?” she asked.
“It could just be a guy with red hair.”
He bypassed the help desk and went straight for the aisle marked “433–616.”
“Although, he is going down the right aisle,” I said. “Why don’t you get a picture of him so we can show it to Marcus?”
“Easier said than done,” she replied. “It’s pretty crowded, and he’s moving fast. I don’t know how to get a good shot without him noticing.”
His head turned slightly our way, and we got a quick glimpse of his scowling expression.
“It’s got to be him.”
“Then what do we do?” she asked.
“Go over by the circulation desk,” I said. “I’ll get in his way and slow him down long enough for you to get a clean shot.”
“Are you sure?”
“We don’t have time to figure out a better plan. He’ll be in and out before anyone from counterintelligence arrives.”
“Okay,” she said. “But be careful.”
She walked over to the circulation desk while I got in position. I was so focused on him that I almost ran into the woman dressed like a runner as she left to check out a book. I stood at the end of the aisle and tried to take up as much space as I could. In order to get past me, he’d have to slow down, which would give Margaret a clear shot.
By the time I got there, he was looking at the books on the bottom shelf and was obviously frustrated that the book he wanted wasn’t there. This was definitely our guy.
I gave Margaret a slight nod, and she held up her phone to get ready. Everything was perfect . . . except that he didn’t come back down the same aisle. Instead, he walked around the other end. Now I was completely out of position. He was moving quickly, so I had to hurry. I looked at where he was headed and tried to predict where our paths would cross. I had to practically run to get there in time. As a result, I didn’t block him.
I slammed right into him.
“Uunnff!”
He was so muscular, it was like hitting a wall. I bounced off him, and my books fell to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked right at me, and up close his eyes were even scarier. It was as if they had no color at all. I stood frozen in fear but hoped that Margaret had a clean angle.
Instead of responding, he just made a slight growling noise and bent down to pick up the books I’d dropped.
I was rattled, and when he handed them to me, I had to force myself to thank him. Except, in my nervousness, knowing who he really was, and trying to be calm, I thanked him . . . in Russian.
“Spasibo,” I said.
“Pozhaluysta,” he answered reflexively. Then he thought about it for a moment and gave me a curious look. “How do you know I’m Russian?”
I almost passed out, so I did what I always did when I was in over my head. I looked for TOAST and read him as quickly as possible.
“Th-the la-lapel pin on your jacket,” I stammered. “It’s the Russian flag.”
He looked down and saw that I was right. “Smart boy,” he said with his version of a smile. “Funny that you were able to see something so small but didn’t see the large person you walked into.”
I wasn’t sure if this was an accusation or a joke until he laughed.
I was relieved both because he seemed satisfied with my reply and because I was certain Margaret had a chance to get a good picture.
That’s when the librarian came by pushing a gray cart with books to reshelve.
“I see you found him,” she said to me.
“N-n-n-no, no, no,” I said nervously.
“What do you mean?” he asked her.
“They were asking about you earlier.”
His eyes narrowed as he reexamined me. For the first time he actually looked at the books I was carrying. When he realized that they were all about the theory of relativity, his smile disappeared completely, and his expression became something very different.
Something terrifying.
7.
United Nations
I STOOD MOTIONLESS, TERRIFIED BY how he might respond.
“What do you mean, they asked about me?” said the Russian spy.
“This boy, his friend, and her father,” answered the librarian. “They said you had a daughter at their school.” She turned to me, confused. “This is the man who wanted the book on the theory of relativity.”
The situation was spinning out of control, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The muscles tensed along his jaw, and he stared at me with those cold, colorless eyes.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
My lips opened, but nothing came out. Or at least no words did. There was a long whistling noise that sounded like the air coming out of a punctured tire.
“Who are you?” he repeated, leaning closer.
Finally, my mind was able to make my body move. I grabbed the librarian’s book cart and rammed it into him with all my strength. When he staggered backward, I wedged the cart between two bookcases and ran as fast as I could.
I’d taken three full strides when I locked eyes with Margaret.
“Go, go, go,” she said hurriedly. “Unlock the bikes.”
Somehow I weaved my way through the crowd of people without knocking anybody over, although I almost fell twice on the stairs: First my foot slipped off the edge of the top step, and then my ankle rolled as I turned on the landing.
When I reached the ground floor, I heard a loud crash and looked back up to see the spy sprawled across the top few steps. My guess was that Margaret had tripped him. He had a stunned look on his face as she leaped over him, her feet quickly maneuvering around his tangle of arms and legs.
I hesitated, but she looked at me and barked, “Bikes!”
We’d locked our bikes to the rack with a single long cable, so only one combination needed to be entered. I got there first, and my fingers fumbled with the dial.
“Hurry up!” she said as she rushed out of the library. “He’s right behind me!”
I popped the lock and yanked the cable from the spokes just as she got there. We hopped on and started pedaling, and that’s when I remembered my bent wheel.
It made a loud creaking noise as it wobbled to life. I looked back over my shoulder and saw that the man was now on the sidewalk hurrying toward us.
“Just pedal!”
My mind flashed back to watching the cyclists in the Olympics. They always lifted their butts in the air and leaned over the handlebars as they raced. I did the same as we hurried across Wisconsin Avenue.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a dirt path that connects the Metro station to the high school,” she said as we pedaled furiously.
“Stop! Stop!” yelled the man as he chased after us. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I’d never once beaten Margaret in a bike race when my bicycle was in good working shape. But with my having a bent wheel, she really had to slow herself down to keep from pulling away.
“You got it, Florian,” she said as I tried to pick up speed with him closing fast. “Just get to the path.”
He got close enough that I heard his shoes slapping against the sidewalk, but once we got past all the people heading for the Metro station, I pulled away from him. When we reached the dirt path, he was fading, and I was at least six or seven yards ahead.
“Come back here!” he commanded, his voice halting as he tried to catch his breath.
I resisted the urge to look and just pedaled as fast as I could in my Olympic pose, leaning over the handlebars and focusing on Margaret up ahead of me. After about a minute, I saw her look back over her shoulder.
“I think he’s gone,” she said with a
grin of relief.
I let out a deep breath and took a look for myself. There was no sign of him. I slowed slightly, and that’s when the wheel finally gave way and locked up. The bike pitched forward and threw me over the handlebars.
I’ve heard that some people say time freezes during a crash and everything slows down into small distinct moments.
That wasn’t my experience.
I was looking over my shoulder one instant and had a mouthful of dirt the next. There was no in-between, although I did hear a loud thump that I’m pretty sure was my body hitting the ground.
The bicycle also landed on top of me with the pedal and chain scraping my leg and back.
“Florian! Are you okay?”
I pushed the bike off my body, hacked most of the dirt out of my mouth, and rolled over onto my back. Every muscle throbbed with pain, and instead of answering, I just let out a slow, steady groan.
She circled back and got off her bike to tend to me.
“What happened?”
I said, “My wheel locked up.” But because of my discombobulated state, it sounded more like “Bly peal plogged scupt.” And then more groans.
She turned back toward the Metro station, looking for any signs of the spy.
“Hist te bear?” (“Is he there?”) I asked, still spitting out dirt.
“No,” she answered. “But we shouldn’t wait around to see if he comes back. Think you can get up?”
I closed my eyes for a second and nodded. Then I sat upright, still catching my breath. Finally I was able to breathe and use actual words.
“Not exactly rideable,” I said, looking over at the mess that was my bike.
We were behind Wilson High School. There was a bicycle rack about fifty yards away.
“Why don’t you lock it up and ride home on my handlebars?”
I laughed. “Really? Lock it up? Think someone wants to steal a broken bike?”
“Someone might want the parts.”
I brushed myself off the best I could, and we walked it over to the rack as pain throbbed through my body. As we walked, I tried to explain what went wrong at the library.
