Trapped!

by James Ponti

  “I think it has to be him,” said Margaret. “He’s guilty.”

  “Based on what?” asked Marcus.

  “Look at the security,” she said. “Buzzers. Key cards. Motion detectors. I don’t see how someone can sneak in from the outside, and he’s the only suspect who still works here.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Marcus. “But the truth is, we don’t know when the books were taken. Maybe they were all stolen nine or ten years ago and one just happened to turn up this week. And back then all of the suspects worked here.”

  “Wouldn’t someone notice if a book has been missing for that long?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily,” said Marcus. “Books in the special collections don’t get circulated much. I remember looking at some that hadn’t been checked out in fifteen years, and I wouldn’t be surprised if no one’s looked at them since.”

  “What do you make of the sunburn?” asked Margaret.

  Marcus laughed. “I have no idea. But that’s Alistair for you.”

  We all quieted when we heard his footsteps approaching.

  “What was it?” asked Marcus when he returned.

  “A lost intern,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I think everything you’ve done back here is really impressive,” said Marcus.

  “You haven’t even seen it all,” he said proudly. “Down in the server room there’s a computer that tracks every single entry and exit from the stacks as well as every time a light turns on or off. I can literally go down there and see who was in the stacks and where they went.”

  “That’s amazing,” he said. “Good for you, Alistair.”

  “We should probably head back. It’s nearly closing time,” said the librarian.

  “Of course,” said Marcus.

  As we started to follow Alistair, I noticed something about the wall. Normally the paint on a wall will fade due to sunlight and other factors, but because there were no windows and so much was done to protect the books from temperature and humidity, the walls looked almost freshly painted, which is why it was so easy to spot the discoloration in one area. There was a spot about two feet by two feet that had been repainted a slightly different shade of brown.

  “What was here?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you the eagle eye,” he said. “That was an entrance to a book tunnel.”

  “What’s a book tunnel?” asked Margaret.

  “They’re throughout the library and connect to the different committee rooms in the Capitol,” he explained. “Our first responsibility is serving the Congress. When this building opened, it featured a conveyor belt system that carried books back and forth. You’d load them on in here, and some congressional staffer would take them off in there.”

  “Why don’t they still use it?” she asked.

  “What was a technical marvel in 1897 is no longer state-of-the-art,” he answered. “And as the library continued to grow and the collections spread, it became more efficient to have a staff of workers who bring the books back and forth in carts.”

  “What did they do with the tunnels?” I asked.

  “They just plastered over the entrances,” he explained.

  The tour ended at his office, where he showed us some renderings of what the redecorated reading room might look like. They didn’t look all that different from the current layout, but we oohed and aahed like they were major improvements. I also used the time to scan his desk and shelves for any deeper clues to his personality.

  Everything about the room was neat and orderly. The desk was practically spotless, and I realized all the books on the shelves were organized alphabetically. Even the pictures on the wall were arranged following a careful geometric pattern. The only thing that seemed out of place was the tube of sunburn cream next to his computer, no doubt to ease the pain of his right arm.

  What was interesting about the pictures, though, was that they showed a different side to his personality. They were striking images of landmarks and landscapes that had been taken around the world. They were all outdoors and served as such a contrast to the interior nature of books and libraries.

  “Did you take these?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ve played around with photography ever since I was a kid.”

  “They’re beautiful,” said Margaret.

  “Yes, they’re really terrific,” added Marcus.

  There were photos of famous locations, such as the Eiffel Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge. And there were images of places like a waterfall and a mountaintop. But one picture in particular attracted my attention.

  “Have you been to Saint Petersburg?” I said, pointing toward a photo of the Hermitage Museum, which I’d visited with my parents on our tour of Russia.

  “Several times,” he replied. “That picture was taken two years ago when I was there on an exchange with the National Library of Russia. I took that because, before it was a museum, that was the Winter Palace.”

  “Where the books in the Russian Imperial Collection were kept?” I said.

  “Exactly,” he responded. “Have you been?”

  “With my parents,” I answered. “They work in museums, and we went there on a vacation.”

  “Eto krasivyy gorod,” he said in Russian. “It’s a beautiful city.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  I was so focused on this connection to Russia that I didn’t notice something else about the wall. But just like she did when we played Toastbusters, Margaret picked up on what I overlooked.

  “What picture’s missing?” she asked.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “There used to be a picture here, and now it’s gone,” she said, pointing to the wall.

  She was absolutely right. There was a gap in the pattern, and if you looked closely, you could see a small hole where the nail had been.

  “A lighthouse,” he said. “I took it down because I just took one I like better. Sunrise at the Bodie Island Lighthouse in Nags Head.”

  He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out an expensive-looking camera. He turned it on and flipped through some images until he found what he was looking for.

  “This is it,” he said proudly.

  The picture was spectacular. The black-and-white lighthouse was in the foreground in the early dawn, and beyond it you could see the sun peeking out of the ocean, the sky a brilliant mix of purple and orange.

  “It’s amazing,” I said. “Absolutely amazing.”

  “I had a print made, and they’re mounting it in the frame that was already here.”

  He handed us each one of his business cards and said, “If there’s anything I can do for any of you, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  I could see the hopeful look in his eyes, so I said, “And I’ll make sure to tell the president how helpful you’ve been.”

  He beamed. “Thank you. I’ll check with the Librarian of Congress to see about giving him a special invitation to look at the Jefferson collection.”

  Once we left the library, we sat on the edge of the big fountain with Neptune to compare notes.

  “I still say it’s got to be him,” said Margaret. “And you think so too, Florian. That’s why you put him on the spot about the picture from Russia.”

  “I know,” I said. “But he loves that collection. Do you really think he’d steal from it?”

  Marcus nodded his head. “You know, I think he might.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Money. Not for himself but for the books. The department has a special fund that people can donate to. That may be how he paid for the motion lights, the high-tech climate control, and the computer that keeps track of who uses the stacks.”

  “So if he sold one of the books, he could take the money and make an anonymous donation to the department,” I said.

  “And if he were going to steal from it,” said Margaret, “he wouldn’t take something that was part of our national DNA like a book that belonged to Thomas J
efferson. He’d take something that was valuable but didn’t necessarily belong in the Library of Congress.”

  I nodded at her reasoning.

  “And remember what he told us,” concluded Margaret. “He’d do whatever it takes to protect the collection.”

  14.

  Palace Books

  THAT NIGHT MARGARET AND I went into the Underground and started making a caseboard. We began with pictures of the Tenley-Friendship Library and Andrei Morozov, which we taped to the center of the wall because we knew for certain they were part of the case. I wrote “Fisheries Attaché” on his picture and put a sticky note on one of the library that read, “Relativity—530.11.”

  “We need to get some photos of the Friendship Station Post Office,” said Margaret.

  “And a map of Wisconsin Avenue showing what’s between them. But until we do that, we’ll use this.”

  I wrote out an index card to look like the message that had been discovered with the key, making sure to cross the sevens and add the Russian word at the bottom.

  PO BOX 1737

  FRIENDSHIP

  STATION

  ХОРОШО

  Next to that Margaret put up the pictures I’d taken of the shelves that held the Russian Imperial Collection as well as photos of Rose Brock and Alistair Toombs that we’d found online.

  “What do we need to find out about Rose?” she asked.

  “Where she’s actually from,” I said. “If the person who wrote that note is Russian and she turns out to be Russian, that’s important.”

  “We also have to determine what kind of relationship she has with the NSA. If she’s close to someone who works there, that could explain how she got the secrets.”

  She wrote “Russian?” and “NSA?” on an index card and taped it beneath Rose’s picture.

  “And Alistair Toombs?” I asked.

  “He has full access to the Russian Imperial Collection, and it would be easier for him to steal the books than anyone else. He also speaks Russian and said he’d do anything for the collection.”

  She wrote out another index card, which said, “Access to collection,” “Speaks Russian,” and “Would do ANYTHING.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about that weird sunburn,” I said. “I mean, how do you burn only one arm?”

  “I know. It’s not like there’s a shirt that has one long sleeve and one short one. But is it relevant to the case? Or is it just strange?”

  “I’m going to throw out a crazy idea,” I said.

  “Those are my favorites,” said Margaret.

  “Is there some chance that the thief is accessing the books by using—”

  “The book tunnel?!” said Margaret, completing my thought. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I don’t know how they’d do it, but it belongs on the caseboard.”

  We found some articles about the tunnel online and printed a picture that we put up on the board. Margaret had to go home, but I stayed up researching whatever I could think of, including the Shakespeare cipher and the Rare Book Reading Room.

  I must’ve stayed up too late because I was tired the whole next day in school. After classes were over, Marcus picked us up, and we drove over to Palace Books near Dupont Circle. Brooke King, the third name on our list of potential suspects, owned the store.

  “I’m not sure how long she’s been in the bookstore business,” he said. “Back then she worked as a repair specialist in the conservation department.”

  “Like my mom, except with books instead of paintings,” I said.

  “Exactly. She’s really good, too. One time my parents’ basement flooded, and the water damaged a bunch of books, including a Bible that’d been in our family for generations and some old high school yearbooks. My mom was heartbroken, but Brooke fixed them up better than ever.”

  “She’s the only one of the suspects who didn’t work in the Rare Book Reading Room,” Margaret pointed out. “Why’d you suspect her?”

  “As a conservationist she had access to all departments,” he said. “She’d also repaired a number of books in the Russian Imperial Collection, so she knew it extremely well.”

  We parked in front of a row of town houses that had been converted into businesses. The bookstore was the downstairs of one that also had an artist’s loft.

  PALACE BOOKS was painted in bright blue letters on the front window. Underneath it in smaller print it said, RARE AND ANTIQUE BOOKS, APPRAISALS & CONSERVATION.

  A bell above the door announced our arrival.

  The inside of the store could best be described as organized clutter. Bookcases filled the walls, and their shelves were stuffed to capacity. There were two display cases in the middle of the room. One had old maps and the other antique books. Books were stacked in piles of various heights on a table that also had a cash register, a computer, and a half-empty package of blueberry muffins from a bakery called Orville and Wilbur’s. (The muffins looked especially delicious.)

  There was, however, no sign of anyone who worked there.

  “Hello,” Marcus called out.

  He waited a moment, and when there was no answer, he called out again a bit louder. “Hello? Are you open?”

  “Coming!” a voice called from a back room. “Are you Huckleberry Finn?”

  We all shared a confused look.

  “What?” asked Marcus.

  “Huckleberry Finn?” came the reply, making no more sense than the first time.

  Just then a woman entered dressed in jeans and a yellow sweater. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing gray socks but no shoes.

  “Somebody is supposed to bring by an early edition of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to be appraised,” she continued. “Is that you?”

  “No,” said Marcus. “My name is—”

  “Special Agent Marcus Rivers,” she said with a big smile as she recognized him. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Marcus did an excellent job of “recognizing” her, making sure it wasn’t too quick or practiced.

  “Wait a second,” he said, trying to place her face. “Brooke?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Brooke . . . Prince?”

  She laughed. “Close but wrong royalty. King, not Prince.”

  “That’s it, Brooke King,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “I can’t believe you remember me.”

  “How could I forget the man who got Alexander Petrov kicked out of the country?” She cackled with delight.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Marcus.

  “About three years ago I’d saved up enough money and decided to go out on my own,” she said. “Welcome to Palace Books, for all your rare and antiquarian book needs.”

  “That’s fantastic,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  “I almost called it Brooke’s Books, but I thought that was too cutesy. Besides, I figured my name is King, and a king belongs in a palace, so I went with that.”

  “It’s perfect,” replied Marcus. “I love it.”

  “Thank you.” She gestured to Margaret and me. “Are they with you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They’re friends from my neighborhood. Margaret and I are helping Florian find the perfect gift for his mother’s birthday.”

  She gave me a playful look as though she were examining me carefully. “Is that so? And your mother likes rare books?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know about rare books in particular, but she loves books. In fact, she loves anything artistic or creative.”

  “She reminds me of you,” Marcus told her. “His mother is an art conservator at the National Gallery of Art.”

  “A fellow conservationist?”

  “That’s what Brooke used to do,” explained Marcus, because we had to pretend like we didn’t know anything about her.

  “I still do,” she said. “I’ve got my own workshop set up in back and do freelance repair work for libraries and collectors. It helps offset the costs of the bookstore.�
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  “Best of both worlds?” he said.

  “And the worst,” she joked. “That’s why you’ll have to pardon my mess. The last few days have been crazy. I drove down to North Carolina for an estate sale and purchased all of these.” She motioned to the stacks of books on the table. “And then I had car trouble. I’ve been sorting books and dealing with mechanics ever since I got home.”

  “What kind of car trouble?” he asked.

  “I understand books not engines,” she said. “All I know is that I had to drive three hundred miles without air-conditioning.”

  “Ugh,” said Marcus. “That’s not fun.”

  “No, but I think it was worth it,” she said. “They were selling a great collection of nineteenth-century books. I’m going to give them a little love and attention in my repair shop, and they should sell well.”

  “Very nice.”

  She turned her attention toward me.

  “Now, for your mother’s birthday present,” she said. “Tell me about her.”

  “Like Marcus said, she’s an art conservator. She was born and raised in Italy.”

  Brooke smiled. “Stop right there. I know the perfect book.”

  “Already?”

  “I’m good at what I do,” she said playfully.

  Even though the shelves had no discernable organization I could understand, she knew exactly where to go. She walked straight to a bookcase and carefully pulled out a thin white volume, which she handed to me. It was a children’s picture book, and on the cover was a line of marching bears. The title read, La famosa invasione degli orsi in Sicilia.

  “The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily?” I said, translating.

  “You speak Italian?” she asked, delighted.

  “We lived there until last summer,” I said.

  “Then you understand how important it is to have connections to where you come from,” she said. “I guarantee your mother read that book when she was a little girl. It’s very famous in Italy.”

  Even though it wasn’t really my mom’s birthday, I wanted to buy her the book. But I also thought that it might be useful to have an excuse to come back to the store once we knew more about the case.

  “It’s really nice,” I told her. “Can I think about it?”