Trapped!

by James Ponti

  Before we left, Margaret ordered him a pork sandwich like the one I had and a lemonade.

  “Here,” she said, holding it out for him as he finished a call. “You have to eat. You said so yourself. It’s a pulled-pork sandwich and a lemonade.”

  “I love lemonade,” he said, smiling. “Thank you, Margaret.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But I eat out here,” he said. “No food is allowed in the car.”

  He ate standing up, his eyes still watching the road.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Our friends from the FBI,” he said. “They are about a half mile down the road parked at a gas station. I made some more calls, and now they’ll think this is a big meeting. They’ll bring more than two cars.”

  We reached Harrisonburg about thirty minutes later. Just outside of town we turned onto a country road that we followed as it snaked up a mountain. Homes were spaced out with acres between them and eventually it led us to Brooke’s.

  It was a two-story wooden cabin at the end of a long driveway. It had a wraparound porch with a view of the mountains. There were two cars in the driveway.

  “You think both of those are hers?” asked Margaret.

  “Either that or maybe one belongs to Alistair Toombs.”

  Nic kept driving for a quarter mile until he passed a bend in the road. There he did a U-turn and parked it on the side so that we were looking back toward the cabin.

  “What are we doing?” asked Margaret.

  “Waiting,” he said.

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For the FBI to get into better position,” he said. “And hopefully for this woman to leave the cabin.”

  “Why?”

  “It will be safer that way.”

  “What will be safer?” I asked.

  “Just be patient, Florian. Just be patient.”

  We just sat there for about forty-five minutes, which in that back seat felt like hours. Nic tried to start little conversations to distract us. He asked us about school and what movies we liked. Finally, the conversation got around to our parents. I told him about my mom and dad working in museums. Then he turned to Margaret and asked, “What about you? What are your parents like?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “They’re just like parents.”

  “I was raised by criminals, Margaret. Not all parents are alike.”

  “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Anything.”

  Margaret told him all about her dad coaching her soccer teams when she was little and about visiting her mother’s relatives up in Michigan. She told the story of when she broke her arm and her dad literally carried her to the doctor’s. She talked about how her mother volunteered to represent poor people in court cases and how much she looked up to both of them.

  “They sound great,” he said.

  “I try not to tell them so they don’t get bigheaded about it,” she said. “But I want to grow up to be just like them.”

  I can’t imagine what it was like for him to hear about the people who were raising his daughter, but he seemed genuinely pleased by all of it.

  “You see, Margaret. They are what good people are like. There’s a big difference.”

  A few minutes later there was activity at the cabin. Brooke came out onto the porch with Alistair. They got in one of the cars and drove off down the road toward town.

  “Perfect,” said Nic.

  “Okay, I don’t understand what we’re doing here,” I said. “Shouldn’t we follow them?”

  “You two have a problem,” he replied. “You need the FBI to enter that house so that they can see the evidence that this woman is a spy.”

  “Right,” said Margaret.

  “But the FBI cannot enter that house unless you can show them that a crime has been committed. And you can’t do that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So what do we do?”

  “Not we,” he said. “I will give them a different crime. And then they can follow me in.”

  He got out of the car and turned back to us. “Florian, you can move up into my seat to stretch out your legs, but stay in the car. Do not get out and come toward the cabin. Do not get out until you see a friendly face.”

  I got out to move up to the driver’s seat, and he went around back and opened the trunk. When he returned, he was carrying a tire iron.

  “Get in the car,” he said as he handed me the keys. “Just so you can run the air conditioner and listen to the radio.”

  I started to ask him something but didn’t. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t respond, and once again he virtually transformed before my eyes as he began to walk and carry himself much more menacingly.

  “What’s he going to do?” Margaret asked as I got in the car next to her.

  “I don’t know.”

  He walked down the road toward the house and picked up his pace as he did. He sprinted the last twenty yards, and when he reached the door, he started hammering it with the tire iron. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. An alarm went off. Finally, he kicked it in and entered.

  “I don’t understand,” said Margaret. “What is he doing?”

  And that’s when the FBI and police started to swarm the building.

  “He’s giving them a reason to go inside,” I said, realizing. “They’ve seen him commit a crime by breaking into the house. They think he’s meeting with a crime boss, so they’re not just going to wait around. They’re going to go in there. And when they do . . .”

  “They can find evidence that points to Brooke.”

  We sat and watched in amazement as the agents and police surrounded the cabin. We were mesmerized, and when there was a rap on the window, we almost jumped out of our skin. It was Dan Napoli.

  The door was locked, and he signaled me to lower the window.

  “Nic said not to get out until we saw friendly faces,” Margaret said. “He’s not friendly.”

  “I’m just going to crack it,” I said.

  I opened the window just enough so that we could talk.

  “Get out of the car,” commanded Napoli.

  “No,” I said. “We haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just sitting here.”

  “And my parents are both attorneys, so I’d be careful if I were you,” added Margaret.

  He took a deep frustrated breath.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Nicolae Nevrescu is delivering you a deep-cover spy who has been passing government secrets for at least ten years. Her name is Brooke King, and she’s working with Alistair Toombs. She has CIA files stored in a safe in that cabin, and since Nic just broke the door down, you can go find them.”

  34.

  Aftermath

  WE STAYED IN THE CAR and watched as the drama unfolded. After Nic broke into the house, the FBI and police swarmed around and followed him in. Alerted by the alarm, Brooke King returned with Alistair Toombs to find total chaos. Sensing that her cover had been blown, she started to speed away, but she was blocked by agents who then escorted the two of them into the house. Soon after that Melinda Dawkins in a black SUV and Marcus in his maroon hybrid arrived.

  I’d texted Marcus to let him know where we were waiting, and while Dawkins headed for the house, he came over to the car.

  “Nice ride,” he said as we got out of the Ferrari.

  “Tell me you haven’t handed in your resignation yet,” I said.

  “Oh, I handed it in,” he said. “But for some reason Admiral Douglas has yet to accept it.” He gave us each a look. “I don’t suppose either of you know anything about that.”

  We shrugged and played stupid.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “How would we know,” added Margaret.

  He looked back at the bedlam unfolding in the cabin and shook his head. “That’s going to take a while to straighten out,” he said. “Why don’t we hop in the car and chat?”

  I moved back toward the Ferra
ri.

  “My car,” he said.

  I looked at the sports car longingly. “I was really getting to like it.”

  “I bet you were.”

  As we walked over to the hybrid, Margaret went up to Marcus, and he put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I want you guys to start at the beginning and tell me everything,” he said.

  We got into the SUV and started talking. Margaret and I filled him in on every detail, even our escapade at the Library of Congress.

  “You knocked a hole in the wall?” he said.

  “It was a have-to situation,” explained Margaret.

  The real shock, though, came when we told him about Lucia.

  “She gave us the final piece,” I said. “Without Lucia we’d just know the code but not who was responsible.”

  He mulled this over for a moment. “She always came through in a pinch, so I guess I’m not surprised.”

  As we were filling him in on the final details with Nic the Knife, Dawkins walked out with Brooke in handcuffs. She led her to her black SUV and loaded her in back and put an agent in charge of watching her. Then she came over to us and rapped on the driver’s window.

  Marcus rolled it down, and she looked inside.

  “Boy, you two sure know how to throw a party,” she said to us. “We need the three of you to come inside and help sort something out.”

  As we walked toward the cabin with her, she filled Marcus in on some of the highlights.

  “Somehow, Nic managed to open her safe,” she said. “It was filled with stolen files that look like they go back at least twenty years.”

  “What about Toombs?” he asked.

  “He claims not to have known anything about it, but we’re not just going to take his word on that. He’s going to be spending time with some of our best people.”

  We were nearing the porch, and another agent came out leading Alistair Toombs away in cuffs. He had a look of total confusion on his face, made only worse when he saw us.

  “You two?” he said, befuddled.

  “I don’t think the president’s going to like this,” I said.

  He was loaded into another vehicle while we got up on the porch and walked through what was left of the doorway.

  “What about Nic?” asked Margaret.

  “That’s what we’re going in for,” she said. “He wants all three of you.”

  Marcus gave us a look, and we both shrugged.

  Dawkins led us to a living room where there were two couches. Nic was on one with his hands cuffed behind his back. Dan Napoli and his boss Mike Moretti were on the other.

  “Here you go,” said Dawkins. “I think we’ve got everybody in the room. Let’s start talking.”

  “I don’t know what there is to talk about,” said Napoli. “We’ve got Nevrescu for home invasion and transporting minors across state lines against their will.”

  “Actually,” I said, “not only were we willing; we asked him for the ride.”

  Napoli ignored me and turned to Marcus. “And that doesn’t even scratch the surface when we get to Agent Rivers here. Once again, Marcus solves a case, and the mob’s involved. How corrupt are you?”

  “Enough!” said Nic. “Here are my demands.”

  “Demands? You’re in no position to make any sort of demands!” said Napoli.

  Moretti finally piped up. “Dan, let’s just hear what the man has to say.”

  “Thank you,” said Nic. “Number one, stop the ridiculous harassment of Agent Rivers and these two children. Two children, by the way, who just delivered you a Russian spy that has been operating under your noses since before they were even born.”

  He shot a look to Dawkins, and she nodded.

  “Number two,” he said. “Take off these handcuffs so that I may drive young Miss Margaret home.” He turned to me and said, “I trust you can get a ride with Agent Rivers?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Those are my demands.”

  “And what do we get in return?” asked Moretti.

  “Everything,” he said. “I will tell you all that I know, and you will put me in witness protection.”

  Moretti and Napoli were stunned.

  “You would give us specifics and testify in open court against other criminals?” asked Moretti.

  “Yes, yes, I know what is required,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to see if I can be a good person.”

  It didn’t take long for Moretti to agree to Nic’s demands. When Napoli tried to protest, he overruled him. Nic stood up, and they unlocked his cuffs. Then he walked over toward Margaret.

  “Miss Campbell, may I drive you back to Washington?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But why?”

  “We need to talk,” he explained. “And that should give us just enough time. I want to tell you about your parents. Your birth parents.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You know something about my birth parents?”

  He smiled. “I know everything about them.”

  “Who’s my father?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you that soon,” he replied. “But first let me tell you about your mother. She was tall and beautiful, just like you.”

  Epilogue

  A Visit to Fatou’s

  THE NEXT WEEK WAS ALMOST unbearable. Margaret barely spoke to me at all. When I saw her at school or in class she’d nod or say hello, but that was it. Just hello. She didn’t sit with me at lunch. She didn’t come by my house. It was like we weren’t friends anymore.

  On Thursday I met up with Marcus, and he caught me up on everything that was going on at the Bureau. Nicolae Nevrescu had come through as promised and was helping the organized crime unit build cases against some notorious gangsters.

  “He’s already been turned over to witness protection,” he said. “You won’t ever see him again. They’re going to give him a new life and identity somewhere far from here. But how’s this for amazing: he’s not going alone.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. And then I figured it out. “Margaret’s birth mother?”

  “That’s right,” Marcus said with a smile. “It turns out they kept a sort of long-distance relationship over the years.”

  “As much as you guys followed him around, you didn’t know that?” I joked. “I tell you, the FBI isn’t what it once was.”

  He laughed. “And speaking of long-ago relationships, I went over to the Petworth Library to thank Lucia in person.”

  “How was that?”

  “Brief,” he said. “I didn’t want to take too much of her time. I asked her to show me some pictures of her girls. And in addition to thanking her, I apologized for things that happened nine years ago.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Very good.”

  “How are things with Margaret?” he asked.

  “Terrible. She won’t speak to me at all. Have you talked to her?”

  “I think you’re forgetting something. I kept the same secret you did. She wants nothing to do with either of us right now.”

  “That’s going to change, isn’t it?” I asked. “She will talk to me again someday, won’t she?”

  “Yes,” he answered, although it wasn’t entirely convincing.

  On Friday I broke down and went over to her house. It was just after dusk, and I could see the light on in her room, so I knew she was home. I knocked on the door, and her mother answered it.

  “Hello, Florian,” she said warmly.

  “Hello, Mrs. Campbell,” I said. “Do you think that Margaret would be willing to talk to me? Just for a second?”

  She reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Not today, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t.

  I walked back to my house, went into my room, and just started crying. I’d never felt so low before. My mom heard me and came in to check on me.

  “What am I going to do?” I asked her between the
sobs.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she assured me.

  “She’s the best friend I’ll ever have, and she won’t speak to me,” I said, my words halting as I caught my breath. “How will that ever be all right?”

  “She’s in a lot of pain,” Mom told me. “If you really are a good friend, you have to give her time to work through it.”

  That Saturday I went down into the Underground for the first time since we’d closed the case. I started taking down all the pictures from the caseboard. I wondered if we’d ever work another case together.

  Then I heard my mother.

  “Florian, you have a guest.”

  I turned to see Margaret on the stairs. We both just stood there for a moment and looked at each other.

  “I’ll be in the family room,” Mom said as she closed the door.

  Margaret took a couple of tentative steps into the Underground, but I stayed where I was. I was determined not to crowd her.

  “You lied to me,” she said.

  I went to explain myself, but a voice inside my head told me to just admit it. “Yes.”

  “You lied to me about the thing I most wanted to know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Friends aren’t supposed to do that,” she said.

  “No.”

  “I know you had reasons. I know that you even had good reasons. But you still lied to me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Good,” she said. “You should be.”

  “You remember when you told me that when I needed to apologize and make something up to you, I should buy you that Russian candy we got at Gorky’s?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’ve got a case of it up in my room.”

  This caused her to laugh a little, and I felt it was a breakthrough. Small. But a breakthrough.

  “So it turns out that I’m an African-American-Italian-Romanian daughter of a notorious crime boss,” she said.

  “You’re still the same Margaret you always were.”

  “Evidence seems to indicate otherwise.”

  “Why would I listen to evidence when I know the truth in my heart?”