by James Ponti
“Not the paparazzi,” he said, trying not to laugh. “I meant the one on my computer.” He pointed at a small camera on the top of his monitor and I flashed an embarrassed grin. Moments later he handed me a visitor’s pass, and Agent Sanchez led me up the driveway past a half-dozen television news crews getting ready to go on air.
“Excited?” she asked, reading my mood. “Or nervous?”
“Both,” I admitted as I tried to soak it all in. “It’s pretty overwhelming.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied. “And I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I met you out here because I want to have a talk before you enter the residence. There are some topics I can’t discuss at school with Lucy present.”
Just when I thought things couldn’t get more intimidating, the unflinching stare made a return.
“First of all, I know that you’re working for the FBI,” she informed me. “How that’s possible, I haven’t the foggiest idea, but you need to realize that my sole job is to protect Lucy from any threat.” She stopped walking for a moment to emphasize the statement as she reiterated, “Any threat.”
It took me a few seconds to realize she meant me.
“I’m not a threat,” I said. “Not in the least.”
“Is that so?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” I replied as I began finding some confidence. “The director of the FBI asked me to figure out who’s pulling the pranks at Chatham. That’s all I’m going to do. If it turns out that the person is Lucy, then I’ll pass that information along and let the people in charge figure out what to do with it. If it’s someone else, perhaps someone trying to make Lucy look bad, then I’ll find that out as well. And in that way, we’re both protecting her. But I’m not going to do anything to Lucy. I’m just looking for the truth. Besides, she invited me here.”
“Yes, she did,” she said. “But only because you lied to her.”
“I haven’t lied to her,” I answered, beginning to feel even more self-assured. (That’s the beauty of working on these mysteries: They make me more confident than anything else in my life.) “I really am a student from Deal on an exchange to Chatham. Lucy and I are in the same French class. And I’m here so we can work on a project for that class. I may not have told her everything about myself, but I haven’t directly lied to her.” Then I looked at the agent and added, “Unlike you.”
This caught her attention.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, irritated.
“Today at lunch when Lucy and I were talking about this assignment, you said that you don’t speak French.”
“Right,” she said assertively, “because I don’t.”
“So you didn’t take French in school when you were growing up?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble,” she replied. “But I took Spanish in high school and Mandarin in college. No French.”
“Then explain this: In class there’s a boy who sits two rows in front of Lucy; I think his name is Jacob.”
“And . . . ,” she replied.
“And yesterday in class he was having trouble with his translation. He was supposed to say, ‘Je mets mon petit dejeuner sur la table de la cuisine,’ which means ‘I put my breakfast on the kitchen table.’ But instead of ‘petit dejeuner’ he said ‘petit derriere,’ which translates as ‘I put my little butt on the kitchen table.’ ”
She snickered at the memory.
“I know. It was funny,” I continued. “Everyone laughed, including Jacob. And including you.”
“Like you said, it was funny.”
“But how did you know that?” I asked. “How could you know it was funny unless you understood what he was saying?”
Her lack of a response told me I was right.
“So now we’ve established that you do in fact speak French. That means either you lied again just now when you said you didn’t study it in high school or college, or you learned it as an adult when you were stationed overseas.”
“And what makes you say I was stationed overseas?”
“Your class ring is from the US Naval Academy, which means you were either in the navy or the marines. There are twenty-nine countries for which French is the official language. Other than France and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, most are small. I doubt any of them have a US Navy base.”
“Nor does any have a marine base,” she added.
“True. But one thing I learned living in London, Paris, and Rome is that the marine corps provides security for all American embassies around the world. I bet you worked security at an embassy in one of those twenty-nine countries. Protection detail just like this. And when you left the military it seemed natural to move into the Secret Service.”
This time I was the one who stopped for emphasis.
“Which brings me to the really interesting point,” I said. “Why lie about something so insignificant?”
“Exactly,” she replied.
“My guess is that you want everyone to think you don’t understand so that they’ll feel free to speak openly in front of you. Almost tempting them to use French to say anything confidential. It’s not because you want to hear gossip. It’s just that you’re looking for any bit of information that might help you protect Lucy better. Any slight slipup that lets you foresee trouble. That’s what we have in common. We specialize in identifying little pieces of information. For you those clues help you keep Lucy safe. For me they help solve mysteries.”
“And you think you can solve this one?” she asked.
“I have no doubt.”
“Then why haven’t you asked me who I think Loki is?” she wondered. “I’ve been at the school for each of the pranks. I’m observant by training. Shouldn’t you ask what I know?”
I shook my head. “No, because we’ve already established that you’re willing to lie, so I couldn’t trust what you’d say. But more important, you’re too good at your job. That’s obvious. And your job is to protect her. Not to help me. Margaret and I will figure it out. We don’t need your help for that. You just keep Lucy safe.”
By this point we’d reached the entrance to the building.
“Before we go inside there’s something I want to tell you out here where no one can hear us,” she said. “You can’t repeat it. Not to anyone. I would deny it under oath if you did.”
“Okay,” I said with a gulp.
“During the primaries I was on the protection detail for the Caldwell family. I spent a lot of time with Tanner and really got to know him well. I was more than ready to give my life to save his. That’s my job. That’s what I do. And the trick you played on him with the algebra test . . .”
She stopped midsentence to take a breath and I worried she was going to come down on me hard.
“What you did to him,” she continued, “was maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life. We’re talking ‘rainbows over a rose garden filled with unicorns’ beautiful.”
She gave me a sly half smile and I laughed.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I shared it with some of the other agents on his detail, and let me say, you made their day too.”
“Well, your secret’s safe with me.”
“One last thing,” she added. “You know how scary and intimidating this feels coming to the White House?”
I nodded.
“Imagine living here. Imagine if your father were the president and everything you did—every mistake you made or bad haircut you got or zit that popped up on your nose—imagine it was on display for the world to see and comment about. Imagine what it’s like to be Lucy.”
“It must be hard,” I said.
“In ways that you and I can never realize,” she said. “You know, if you search online for ‘Lucy Mays hair’ you get more than nine hundred thousand hits? Nine hundred thousand comments about a thirteen-year-old’s hair. There’s no way to take that type of pressure and not act out a little.”
I wondered if she was trying to make an argument for why Lucy should be f
orgiven if she was in fact Loki.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied.
We walked into the entrance hall and it took my breath away. There were chandeliers, presidential portraits, an antique piano, and more works of art than at most museums. Malena led me past the tourists and a couple of guards and turned down a massive hallway with bright red carpeting and columns along both sides.
“This is the Cross Hall,” she said, briefly taking on the role of tour guide. “When the president gives an address to the country, you usually see footage of him walking down this hall toward the podium.”
“You’re right,” I said, recognizing it.
“And speaking of pictures, this is the last place you can take one. So if you’d like a souvenir . . .”
She held out her hand and after a moment of hesitation I handed her my phone. “That’d be great.”
“Why don’t you stand over there by the painting of President Kennedy?” she suggested. “It’s my favorite one in the building.”
Unlike most portraits, in which the person is looking directly at the artist, in this one the president was looking down with his arms crossed. It seemed as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. I stood next to it and Malena snapped the picture.
“My mom’s an art preservationist so she’ll really appreciate the picture,” I said. “Thank you.”
“No problem, but none beyond here,” she said. “We’re going upstairs into the private residence and for a whole lot of reasons we don’t allow any photos up there.”
We peeked into the State Dining Room, which was being prepped for some big event, and then we went up the stairs.
“The first family lives on the second floor,” she explained. “You and Lucy are going to work in the Treaty Room.”
“That sounds official,” I said hesitantly.
“Every room here is official,” she replied. “But the first family uses it as a study.”
The stairs led us to a little hallway and I peered into a room that looked like a small beauty parlor. No matter where I looked, every work of art, piece of carpet, or swath of wallpaper was intriguing. I was trying to take it all in and as a result wasn’t exactly paying attention to where I was going.
“Watch out!” warned a voice. A friendly hand on my back kept us from running into each other.
I turned to apologize but when I did my mouth suddenly froze and my eyes opened wide. I just stood there for a moment before I finally got the words out.
“I’m so sorry . . . Mr. President.”
16.
The Treaty Room
I’D BEEN IN THE WHITE House for less than five minutes and already completely embarrassed myself by nearly slamming into the president of the United States.
Alexander Mays would have been intimidating even if he weren’t the most powerful person in the world. He was big—not just tall but thick with broad shoulders like a football player. He looked down at me and, in that deep familiar voice I’d heard so many times on television, demanded, “Who are you?”
For a few panicked-filled moments I thought he was angry. But then he smiled, and I realized he was just having fun with me.
“Florian Bates,” I said so softly I couldn’t be certain he’d heard me.
“He’s a friend of Lucy’s from school,” Malena added, coming to my rescue. “They’re working on a project together.”
“Florian Bates?” he repeated, trying to place the name. “I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere.”
“Maybe Lucy mentioned I was coming over?” I offered sheepishly.
“No, it wasn’t Lucy. It was . . .” Suddenly his eyes opened wide with recognition and he smiled. “It was Dave Douglas.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Admiral David Denton Douglas, director of the FBI. I knew him only as Admiral or Director Douglas. It never occurred to me that his friends might call him Dave.
“Admiral Douglas mentioned me?” I said, stunned. “To you?”
Now the president got very excited and grinned as he said, “The National Gallery and the spy ring at the Chinese restaurant. Those were both you, right?”
I nodded, half-embarrassed. “Yes, sir.”
He gave me a big handshake. “Well, I’m a fan, Florian. Feel free to run into me any time you want.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to call the British prime minister.”
“Tell him I said hello,” I said, trying to be cool and humorous but failing at both.
“Try not to walk into a wall or break any china,” he joked as he headed for the stairs. “Some of the stuff up here is pretty expensive.”
Once he was gone Malena turned to me and asked, “What was all that about the National Gallery and Chinese spies?”
“Just some cases I worked on,” I said, trying to sound humble while my heart was about to explode with pride. “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you much more than that.”
She looked at me differently, maybe even a bit impressed, and said, “I can respect that.”
We went into the Treaty Room, which the first family used as a study. On the far wall a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant looked down at a long desk with a computer and neat stacks of files and books. Closer to the door was a sitting area with an overstuffed couch and three leather armchairs arranged around a coffee table. Lucy was on the couch working on her laptop. She wore an Orioles cap, jeans, and a T-shirt with the name of a band I didn’t know.
“Hey, Florian,” she said.
“Hi, Lucy,” I replied.
“Want something to drink?” she offered.
“No, I’m good,” I answered as I went over to one of the chairs. “Is it okay for me to sit here?” I asked, unsure if it was an antique or something.
“Of course,” she said.
I sat down, put my backpack on the table, and unzipped it.
“Want me to show you around before we get started?” she asked.
I really would have loved that. I’m sure every object in every room came with an amazing story. But I thought about what Malena had said about how hard this was for Lucy and realized the best thing I could do was act like we were just in a regular house.
“Maybe later,” I said.
When she smiled I could tell that I’d made the right decision. She asked if I had any difficulty with security and I told her that everything was easy. (I don’t know if that’s always the case or if it was accelerated because of my FBI status.) We made small talk for a moment and then jumped into the assignment.
“So what French person affects your life the most every day?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It dawned on me that Lafayette Square is right across the street and it got me thinking that he could be a good one. Without Lafayette the American Revolution might have failed completely and we wouldn’t even have a country now. I also thought about Napoleon and Marie Curie.”
“I thought of those three,” she said. “But I bet there are at least two presentations on each of them. I want to do someone different. Less obvious.”
“Okay,” I replied. “You’re great at music. Do you have a favorite French composer?”
“I love Debussy,” she answered. “But I don’t know what we could say about him for five minutes.”
“Maybe you could just play the cello for four and a half and then I could talk for the last thirty seconds,” I joked.
Unlike when we were at school, the conversation flowed naturally. There were no three-word answers here. Despite the fact that we were where we were, it didn’t feel all that different from hanging out in my front room with Margaret. (You know, if my front room had a grandfather clock that once belonged to John Quincy Adams and if Margaret were the suspect in a case I was working on.)
In addition to working on our project, I was supposed to uncover information on three different subjects:
Lucy’s membership in the Megatherium Club
> An explanation of the tension between her and Becca Baker
A list of enemies who might set her up, starting with Yin and Tanner
“What do you think of Madame Thibault’s class?” I asked. “It’s kind of weird being in there with all those high school kids.”
“I don’t mind that so much. Most of the time I’m surrounded by adults, so at least they’re kids.”
“Are you friends with any of them?” I asked. “Like that girl Becca, who sits next to you?”
She gave me a sour look. “Definitely not friends with her.”
She didn’t illuminate beyond that and I wasn’t sure how hard to push for information. I didn’t want to scare her off.
“Oh,” I said. “I figured because you were both into music you might be.”
“We used to be,” she said. “But now she treats me like I’m garbage. Actually, she treats me like I’m not even there.”
“Does that mean you’re frenemies?” I asked. “Someone told me that term, but I’m not exactly sure I get it.”
“No, we were friends and now we’re enemies, but there was no overlap.” She looked up with a hurt expression. “And I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
There was a brief lull in the conversation and she asked, “How’d you learn to speak French so well?”
“My family lived in Paris for nearly three years,” I said, which led into a brief history of the Bates family. I told her about my parents working in museums and our somewhat nomadic path through Boston, London, Paris, Rome, and now Washington. She seemed genuinely interested.
“What about you?” I asked. “Where did you learn to speak French so well?”
“I grew up in New Orleans,” she said. “French is a big deal down there. So are music and food, which just happen to be my two favorite things.”
“They’re very high on my list as well,” I said. “Well, I can’t play music, but I enjoy listening to it.”
“I love to play,” she said. “My dream is to play in a symphony. You know, when you try out for a symphony nobody knows who you are. Not even if you’re a man or a woman.”
