by James Ponti
“I didn’t mean to slam into him, and when I did, my brain malfunctioned,” I said. “I answered him in Russian, and then the librarian told him that we’d been asking about him.”
“On the plus side, I managed to get a couple of good pictures.” She held up her phone for me to look. In the photo, the spy is handing me the book, and Margaret has a clear shot of his face.
“They should be able to run that through facial recognition software.”
“That’s good.”
“And check out this one,” she said, swiping through a couple. “Florian Bates, action hero.”
In this image I was running from the man with a look of total panic on my face.
“More like action zero,” I said.
“No. You did great. I’m proud of you.”
“By the way,” I said. “How’d he end up falling so spectacularly?”
“He was too focused on you to see my little foot sticking out,” she said with a sly grin.
“It’s a good thing,” I said. “I needed every second.”
We locked up the bike and sent a text to Marcus telling him to meet us at my house for important developments. We used a bunch of exclamation points rather than giving him a blow-by-blow of our near-death encounter with a killer spy. (What’s the emoji for that?) Then I climbed up on her handlebars, and we started down Nebraska Avenue toward our neighborhood.
Apparently I was a little dramatic with my moans and groans because after half a block she said, “If you want, you can pedal, and I’ll ride.”
“No. It’s just that every inch of my body is sore. So try to take it smooth.”
“You mean like this?”
She swerved slightly to go over a bump in the road.
“Owww!” I wailed as I bounced on the handlebars.
“Just joking,” she said.
“Well, it’s not funny,” I said as I laughed and winced at the same time.
She pedaled smoothly for a bit, but then she started picking up the pace.
“Okay, Margaret,” I protested. “Once is funny, but take it easy.”
She didn’t answer. She just pedaled faster and veered over and popped up onto the sidewalk.
“I’m serious,” I said as I reached down and clutched the handlebars to steady myself.
“So am I!” she said. “We’re not alone.”
I craned my neck to look without throwing off our balance and saw a black SUV about half a block behind us. The sunlight was reflecting off the windshield, so it was hard to see the driver’s face, but I could tell it was him. I also recognized the license plate on the front of the vehicle. It was a diplomatic one, common in Washington and given to employees of various embassies.
“This is bad in so many ways.”
She pedaled faster, and we zipped along the sidewalk. “We can’t beat him home,” she said. “It’s all streets between here and there. He’d be right on top of us.”
Luckily, we were on the left side of the road, so we were separated somewhat by the traffic heading in the opposite direction. But still, there was no way for us to outrun his car.
“Got any suggestions?” she asked.
My mind raced trying to come up with some plan that didn’t end up with us getting run over by the SUV. Then I had a strange thought.
“Is Model UN today or next Saturday?”
“What?” she exclaimed.
“Josh was talking about it at lunch the other day,” I said. “But I don’t remember if it was today or next week.”
“Seriously?” she complained. “We’re being chased by a killer spy, I’m pedaling for two, and you’re curious about the schedule for Model United Nations?”
“It’s just that if they’re meeting today . . .”
“Then the school’s open,” she said, finishing my thought.
“Exactly.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Just brilliant.”
“Maybe,” I offered. “But we won’t be able to outrun him to Deal, either.”
“Maybe not on the street,” she said.
“Does your bike have wings that I’m not aware of?”
That’s when I looked up and saw the small opening in the fence surrounding Fort Reno Park, which is located next to the school.
“You’re going to ride through there?” I cried.
“No,” she said. “We’re going to ride through there. He can’t fit through it, so he’ll have to drive around.”
“Are you sure we can fit through it?”
She laughed. “We’ll know in about ten seconds.”
I was much less confident than she was. Especially since I was on the front of the bike and would therefore bear the brunt of the impact if we couldn’t. I held my knees and elbows in close and looked down at my feet, which were dangerously close to the spokes.
“Hold on!” she exclaimed, and I gripped the handlebars as tightly as I could.
It may have been my imagination, but it felt like my arms brushed against the posts on both sides of the opening. I was so relieved we made it through that I didn’t mind the bumpiness once we started riding across the grass and dirt in the park.
The shortcut probably gave us only an extra thirty seconds, but that made all the difference. When we ditched the bike and ran up toward the entrance of the school, the SUV was just coming around the corner. We were on our turf, the one place we knew better than anywhere, and had enough of a lead that I thought we could lose him.
According to the signs in the front hall, Model UN was meeting in the cafeteria, but we decided to duck into the main office because it was closer.
“Mr. Albright?” I called out to the principal as we entered. “Are you here?”
There was no response, and through the window we could see the spy park his SUV and get out.
We ducked under the counter of the front desk, and my phone chirped to signal a text. It was Marcus saying he was almost at my house. I texted him, Get to Deal!!!! and put it on vibrate.
Things were quiet for a moment, and then we could hear footsteps in the distance. They weren’t the steps of a student hurrying off to the cafeteria. They were slow and methodical. I was able to peek through a small crack in the desk and see into the hall.
The steps got closer, and we both tensed.
“If he makes a move toward us,” whispered Margaret, “I’m going to get on the intercom and scream for help.” She pointed toward the nearby microphone.
I nodded my agreement.
Finally the spy walked into view, and I could see him through the crack. He looked around for any sign of us and quickly realized there were just too many places where we could hide. He was momentarily frozen, and I was cautiously optimistic.
Then something caught his eye, and he walked over toward a trophy case. He put his hands on the top of the case so that he could lean over and examine a picture on the wall. From my angle I had no idea what he was looking at. But he seemed pleased.
He snapped a picture of it and walked away.
We sat there silently for about ten minutes and were just about to get up when a foot stepped into view behind the desk.
We both screamed, only to see that it belonged to our principal, Mr. Albright.
“Florian? Margaret? Are you okay?” he asked.
We stood up, and I looked out the window to see that the SUV was gone. Margaret tried to make up some excuse for Mr. Albright while I walked over to the hall to look at the trophy case. I wanted to see what it was that had made him so happy.
There were nearly a dozen pictures on the wall above the case, but I instantly realized which one had attracted his attention. It was a picture of the girls’ soccer team celebrating a big victory. Standing in the middle of the celebration was the team’s star player.
The caption read, “The Vikings celebrate a hat trick by Margaret Campbell.”
The spy now knew Margaret’s name.
8.
Penalty Kicks
THERE WERE FOUR IMMED
IATE RESULTS of our run-in with (and subsequent running away from) the redheaded Russian spy.
1. An FBI crime scene team was able to lift a complete set of fingerprints from the glass top of the trophy case. The fingerprints combined with the photos that Margaret took made Marcus confident that they’d have the spy identified within twenty-four hours.
2. Security details were assigned to keep an eye on Deal Middle during school hours and Margaret’s house in the evenings in the event that the spy tried to track her down.
3. Margaret and I were enrolled in the Bureau’s next available courses in self-defense and evasive tactics.
4. Marcus got yelled at for about an hour by the head of the joint task force on counterintelligence for intruding on their case.
Despite numbers two and three, Marcus assured us that it was unlikely the spy would come back. This was something he reiterated numerous times the next day while we were practicing soccer drills on the field behind the school.
“I’m sure it’s just an instance of him getting surprised and overreacting,” he said as I passed the ball to Margaret and she tried to volley it out of the air. “He didn’t know what to think of you guys, so he panicked. It makes no sense for him to hurt you. He’s not going to come back for you.”
“You said that already,” Margaret responded after she curled the ball into the top right corner of the goal. “Multiple times.”
“I said it because it’s true,” Marcus replied defensively.
I passed her another ball. This time it bounced farther to her right than I intended, but she expertly adjusted and rocketed it just under the crossbar.
She stopped for a moment and gave him that great Margaret smile. “If you’re not worried about me, then why are you here on a Sunday afternoon when you could be somewhere relaxing?”
“This is relaxing,” he claimed. “Besides, it’s my job to worry even when no one else should be worried. It’s my natural state.”
She laughed. “I appreciate it. But I think you’re right. It doesn’t make sense for him to come back.”
“If you want to worry about someone, you should worry about me,” I said. “I feel like one giant bruise after that bike accident.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Worry about Florian.”
“Well, I worry about both of you,” he replied, focusing on me. “And because of the dramatic nature of what happened, not to mention your bruises, I haven’t really given you the appropriate amount of grief for staying in the library longer than you were supposed to or for making direct contact with a suspected spy.”
“Why do you look at me when you say that?” I asked. “She was there too.”
“She didn’t bump into the man and start speaking Russian,” he said.
Now they were both looking at me.
“I said I was sorry about that.”
They let me stew in my embarrassment for a moment, and then Margaret mercifully changed the subject. “I love this new field,” she said, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.
“What’s new about it?” asked Marcus.
“They replaced the turf and upgraded the drainage system so it will be more forgiving,” she said. “They put in metal bleachers, so you guys will be comfortable when you come watch me play, and they’re installing a new scoreboard this week.”
“What makes you think we’re going to come watch you play?” I joked.
She gave me a look. “All right, smart aleck, it’s time for penalty kicks. Get in goal.”
I groaned. “Didn’t you hear the part about how sore I am?”
“Come on, Gigi,” she said. “You can do it.”
“Who’s Gigi?” asked Marcus.
“Gianluigi Buffon,” I answered. “My favorite player and the greatest goalkeeper of all time. She calls me that because she wants to pummel me with soccer balls to the face.”
“No,” she said. “I call you that because you’re going to try out for the boys’ team as a keeper and I want you to get lots of practice”—then she laughed before she finished the thought—“getting pummeled with soccer balls to the face.”
I took my position on the goal line as Margaret set the ball on the penalty spot twelve yards away. Stopping a penalty kick was difficult. Stopping one taken by a player as good as Margaret was almost impossible. In case there was any doubt about this, she proved it by putting eight straight balls into the net as I flailed and dived left and right, doing little to stop the shots but banging up my body even more.
“Time-out,” Marcus called as she lined up to take number nine. “Can I offer a little coaching for Florian?”
“Fine with me,” Margaret said confidently.
Marcus motioned me to the side, and we turned our backs to Margaret as he put his arm around me and started whispering.
“Why did you speak Russian to the spy?” he asked.
I slumped. “That’s your coaching tip? I said I was sorry.”
“It’s applicable to the situation,” he said. “So tell me. Why did you speak Russian to the spy?”
“Because I panicked,” I replied.
“Exactly. Things were overwhelming, and you panicked. That’s a completely normal reaction. But the problem is that when you panic, you stop doing the things you do well. All you do is react. And that’s what’s happening right now.”
I gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“A penalty kick is a panic situation. It’s almost guaranteed to go in.”
“Right,” I said, not getting what he was going for.
“Which means there’s no pressure on you,” he explained. “It’s supposed to go in. The pressure’s on her because if it doesn’t, then she’s made the mistake.”
“Okay, but how does that help me?”
“With the pressure off you, you can relax and do what you’re best at,” he said. “Something even Gianluigi Buffon can’t do.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You can use TOAST.”
I began to see where he was headed, and I smiled.
“You’ve been waiting for her to kick and reacting to where the ball is going,” he continued. “But what you should do is dive toward where you think she’s going to kick it. You should use TOAST to predict where she’s going to kick it.”
“And what if I guess wrong?”
“Then you miss it. No big deal, you’ve been missing them anyway. But if you guess right . . .”
“Okay,” I said. “That makes sense.”
I got back on the goal line and tried to disrupt her thought process. After all, he was right. The pressure was on her, and I wanted to increase it.
“I see it now,” I said to Marcus as she lined up for the kick. “That’s exactly what she does.”
I was making this up, but it rattled her a little bit. “What’s exactly what I do?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said with a smile. “Just talking to Marcus.”
She leaned over and adjusted the ball on the penalty spot. As she did, I noticed her glance twice at the right side of the goal. She took three steps back, and right before she took the kick, she adjusted her shoulders slightly toward that side as well.
According to TOAST, it looked like she was going to my left and high. The instant she kicked the ball, I dived that way, and although I didn’t stop the shot, I managed to get a couple fingers on the ball.
“Good one, Gigi,” Marcus said. “You almost got it.”
“But he didn’t,” Margaret reminded us.
“No,” I said as confidently as I could muster. “But I’m going to get this one.”
Marcus laughed, and Margaret gave me a look that she normally reserves for opposing players in actual games. “Game on.”
I watched her set the ball again, and this time I was able to confirm something I’d wondered about before. When she placed it on the spot, she lined it up so that the logo was pointing in the direction she was aiming. She also glanced that way and once again adjusted her shou
lders right before she kicked.
She was aiming lower left.
Suddenly the aches from my bruises disappeared as I focused on the ball and sprang into motion the instant she struck the ball. She smoked it, but I was already on the move and able to slap it wide of the goal post.
“Great save,” Marcus said with an enthusiastic clap.
“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Good save.”
Margaret wasn’t mad, but she wasn’t happy, either. She was a tremendous competitor and one of the best goal scorers among the city’s junior leagues. She didn’t like having her shot stopped. She was deeply focused as she took the next ball and put it on the spot. I could see that she was feeling the pressure, so I was confident that I had her routine down.
Logo, glance, shoulders.
She took ten more shots. I saved four of them and came close on two more. More surprisingly, two shots completely missed the goal, something Margaret almost never did.
“Okay,” she said after I saved the last one. “What am I doing wrong?”
And that’s why she’s such a great player. Instead of getting frustrated, she realized she needed to make adjustments and wanted help figuring them out. I explained how she was telegraphing where she was aiming, and after a couple of tweaks to her routine, there was no way for me to predict where her shots were headed. She scored on five in a row, and we called it quits.
We started putting the balls away in a big net bag, and she said, “Thanks. That really helps. I can’t believe I was telegraphing like that.” She stopped for a moment and added, “And those saves were epic. We’re talking Gigi good.”
I beamed. “You think so?”
“Yes,” she said. “If you play like that in tryouts, you’ll make the team for sure.”
“I’d do the victory dance, but my body’s too sore,” I joked.
Marcus had moved toward the sideline to take a call a few minutes earlier, and now he was headed back toward us with a determined look on his face.
“We got him,” he said.
“The spy?” asked Margaret.
“His name is Andrei Morozov, and he’s a diplomat at the Russian embassy,” he said. “Officially he’s an attaché on the fisheries committee.”
