Travis was grabbed by another policeman and Edward Rose by a woman officer. The two girls broke through and over the barrier and stood, waiting.
“We need to see someone in security,” said Edward Rose.
“You’re looking at him, boy,” said the policeman holding him by his arm. “Talk.”
“We think someone took explosives into the Tower last night. We were part of the group that stayed over. We think someone tricked us.”
The bobbies looked at each other.
“Was there kids here last night?” the one with the curling moustache asked.
“Yes,” said the woman officer. “Some group from Canada, I think.”
“That’s us!” Sam and Sarah yelled at the same time. “We need to see someone who can check these helmets.”
“For what?” said the cop holding Travis.
“Plastique explosives,” said Travis.
Suddenly, he had everyone’s attention. The moustachioed bobby let Nish drop onto the pavement and all went quiet. Even those in the crowd who had been shouting at them went quiet.
“Where?” the policewoman asked.
“In the helmets,” said Edward Rose.
“In the helmets?” the large policeman said, looking at Nish’s dropped helmet as if it might go off.
“Not now,” said Travis. “Someone used the helmets to sneak the plastique into the Tower and then removed it once they were inside. We think there might be residue.”
The policewoman understood immediately. “You youngsters come with me.”
The woman police officer led them past more barriers, more crowds, and more police to a security base outside the main entrance. Travis sighed with relief. The explosives detector was still there.
The policewoman explained quickly. Men in plainclothes moved in and took the helmets from the two boys, and a technician took out the plastic wand with a small cloth wrapped around its tip, which she traced all over the inside of Edward Rose’s helmet.
She removed the cloth, placed it in the machine, and pushed several buttons. The machine closed on the cloth, whirred, and lights flashed.
“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s not a very strong reading.”
She took Nish’s helmet and performed the same procedure.
The machine whirred and stopped. A red light came on and stayed on.
The technician looked up, fear in her eyes.
“I have a reading for plastique,” she said.
18
Travis was astonished by the efficiency. In a matter of minutes the police had cleared the entire entrance to the Tower of London and were moving the crowds back down the street. The people were remarkably obedient and moved almost silently, the only sound a murmur of confusion as they tried to figure out what had happened.
It was clear, however, that they all understood there had been a security threat. They knew what that could mean, thought Travis. They knew everyone had to work together. He couldn’t imagine people behaving in such an orderly way back home.
The police took the five youngsters to a security tent and had just begun interrogating them when a senior officer came in and said that they would have to evacuate.
Sirens began wailing. A television was playing in the corner of the tent and Travis saw that there was confusion everywhere.
“The BBC has learned of a security breach at or near the Tower of London,” an announcer came on to say. “We will have details for you as soon as we know them ourselves. There has been no incident – repeat, no incident – but a security alert has been sounded and evacuation is under way in the immediate vicinity of the historic Tower.”
The police loaded the five friends into a police van and, with sirens screaming, headed up Tower Hill and away. The roads were blocked everywhere, grim-faced bobbies directing all traffic away from the area,
“We’d better be right,” Nish muttered. He was looking ill again.
The morning papers were filled with the story:
“400-YEAR-OLD-PLOT FOILED AGAIN!” said the Mirror.
“ATTACK ON ROYAL FAMILY PREVENTED,” announced The Times.
“GUY FAWKES PLOT FIZZLES!” cheered News of the World.
The gift shop in the Screech Owls’ hotel seemed to have hundreds of copies of dozens of different papers, all with their front pages dedicated to the story about the astonishing plot.
Mr. Wolfe was a phony. There was no Mr. Wolfe, and there was no International In-Line. The plotters, a terrorist group with so-far undetermined connections, had apparently spent millions of pounds – “quid,” Nish kept saying – setting up their false front for the attack. The ingenious plan was concocted purely to get the rare plastique explosives into the Tower without being detected. The organizers knew they could never carry it off themselves, but a bunch of kids just might.
“Mr. Wolfe” – his real name was still unknown – who set up his headquarters near Wembley Stadium, had seen the Young Lions practising in-line hockey, which gave him the idea for his outrageous plan. Another plotter owned a sporting-goods store, which New Scotland Yard police suspected was a money-laundering operation for a terrorist group believed to be involved in the illegal drug trade. It was an easy step to supply the team with new equipment, complete with false International In-Line logos and labels.
The Crown Jewels celebration, if not the actual details, had been known for more than a year. It was assumed the Queen, and possibly the entire royal family, would be journeying to the Tower of London for the special commemorative ceremony on November 5. That the celebration would coincide with Guy Fawkes Day was a happy coincidence for the plotters. It is believed this is why the main organizer took up the name “Mr. Wolfe.” A wolf might succeed where, in 1605, a “fox” had failed.
Mr. Wolfe had reasoned that plastique could be smuggled past security at the Tower of London if it were carried by innocent-looking kids. The plotters had inquired early on to see if the Young Lions team might be given special entry to the Tower, but the request was turned down on the basis that, if it were done for one British team, it would have to be done for others. The staff at the Tower did not wish to set a precedent.
So Mr. Wolfe, on behalf of International In-Line, took out advertising space in The Hockey News and ran his contest in Canada, the nation known for inventing the game of hockey. An exception could be made for some special visitors, and who would ever suspect a bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds from Canada?
The Screech Owls of Tamarack were selected in the contest and the plot was quickly put into action.
A novel way of getting the explosives inside the Tower still had to be found, and so was born the idea to give two of the players new helmets as awards for their play, and to insist that they bring along the prizes for the sleepover. The guards would understand; the explosives would make it in the entrance; and the plastique would be removed by the plotters, who were posing as International In-Line executives.
Before being hidden in the Jewel Tower, the explosive could then be attached to a cellphone and rigged up to be triggered by a call made just as the royal family entered.
And it might have worked but for Travis Lindsay’s long run around the Serpentine and his mind double-tasking while he wasn’t even aware he was thinking.
That part, Travis knew, he would never be able to explain.
Nish was furious that the Owls had all agreed to say as little as possible about their curious role in the unravelling of the plot. Travis had wanted it that way. So, too, had Edward Rose, who turned out to be as far from a vain, full-of-himself hotshot as Travis could have imagined.
Travis wanted nothing said about what he’d done. He’d only been a small part of it, in his mind. Data had figured out the explosives. Edward Rose had got them to the Tower in time. The policewoman with the explosives detector had found the traces that led to the evacuation and discovery of the hidden plastique.
“What about me?” Nish kept saying. “I wouldn’t mind being interviewed.”
“You did
n’t do anything except almost throw up,” countered Sam.
“It was my helmet! I’m the one who discovered there was something wrong with it!”
“Think about it, Nish,” said Sam. “If your head was any bigger you’d never have noticed anything.”
Nish blinked. “But … but … but …” he began, not quite sure what Sam had said, but knowing that somehow it did make sense. “I guess you’re right,” he said, sighing deeply.
It was an historic moment, Travis thought to himself with a smile.
The world’s biggest peewee publicity hound had admitted defeat.
19
“There’s no game,” Sarah said.
They were in the lobby of their hotel, and she had just got off the telephone with Edward Rose, who had called the moment he heard.
Mr. Wolfe and his phony associates had made no effort to book Wembley Stadium for an in-line hockey exhibition. That was why there had never been coverage of the big event by the BBC or by any of the London newspapers. Mr. Wolfe had known all along there would be no need.
But the game had meant everything to the Owls. It was why they had come. It was what they’d been working toward.
Muck came into the lobby, whistling. “The game’s back on,” he said. “I just talked to the Young Lions’ coach.”
“At Wembley?” Fahd asked.
Muck shook his head. “No. At the Serpentine. Best we can do under the circumstances – but we’re still going to play for the World Cup of In-Line Hockey.
“How can we do that?” Andy asked.
“Simple,” Muck said, smiling. “No one else does it. So it’s whatever we say it is.”
“Maybe this is better than Wembley,” said Sarah. Her voice cracked. She was shaking.
Travis was shaking, too. Not from the cold – it was an unseasonably warm day for November in London – but from the tension, the anxiety, the excitement.
Thousands of people had come to Hyde Park and gathered near the Serpentine to watch the first-ever, instantly invented World Cup of In-Line Hockey.
A reporter from the Mirror had found out more about the Screech Owls’ part in the biggest story of the year. She had not got all the details – she knew nothing about Travis’s guesswork and the frantic ride in the London cab – but she knew that the Owls had been tricked into carrying the deadly plastique into the Tower of London, thereby endangering their lives as well as the lives of the royal family.
And she also knew, because Mr. Dillinger had slyly let her know, that the Screech Owls had also been duped into coming over for a major event that never was to be.
“The kids,” Mr. Dillinger had told her with his droopiest sad-faced look, “have had their dreams shattered.”
Her story had run on the front page, and now it seemed everyone in London wanted to cheer on the Screech Owls from Canada and watch this so-called World Cup of In-Line Hockey – it had been Mr. Dillinger’s idea to tell the reporter that as well – played against the Young Lions from Wembley, who had also been unfairly used by the evil plotters.
The story had captured the imagination of a city grateful that a terrible deed had been foiled – even if no one knew exactly how it had been foiled.
As if by magic, people began walking along the paths of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens and assembling near the outdoor in-line rink a half hour before game time.
“There are several hundred people out here!” Mr. Dillinger had announced, giggling, sticking his head in through the tent flaps of the makeshift dressing room.
A few minutes later he was back.
“There are thousands of people out here!” he announced, his moustache dancing as he snorted in delight.
The Screech Owls were getting more and more nervous. Travis was shaking so hard he felt as if he’d just stepped out of the water at his grandparents’ cottage after staying in too long.
Mr. Dillinger’s head appeared again. “There’s more than a million!”
“Oh my God!” Sam screamed.
Mr. Dillinger grinned. “Just kidding – but there are thousands. With more coming.”
“This is horrible!” wailed Fahd.
“This,” said Nish, “is what I live for.”
“We don’t even know how to play!” said Sam in despair.
“We know how to play,” said Sarah. “We just have to remember what we practised.”
The Owls continued dressing. Shaking, Travis pulled his jersey over his head. He remembered to kiss where the “C.” should be as it passed over, and his heart jumped when he realized, looking out from inside, that good old Mr. Dillinger had now sewn it on.
He pulled the jersey all the way on and checked the others. Sarah had her “A,” and Nish had his.
Data, too, had an in-line jersey on, even though he wouldn’t be playing. And he, too, had an “A.”
Just then the tent flaps parted and Muck walked in, a chuckling Mr. Dillinger right behind him. Muck moved to the centre, stood there for a moment, and turned completely around on his heels until he stopped, staring intently at Nish.
“Don’t say a word,” Nish said, his face beaming. “I know exactly what to do.”
“It’s what we don’t want you to do that I worry about,” said Muck.
Nish said nothing, just resumed his usual pre-game position of crouching over his legs and trying to bury his face into his knees.
Muck looked around. “This game doesn’t mean a thing, as everyone here is perfectly aware,” he said. “So it matters only as much as you want it to.”
He stopped, stared around at the players looking up at him, their eyebrows all but forming question marks.
Then he left, abruptly, and without another word.
Derek started giggling. “What the heck was that all about?”
No one knew.
But then Nish, who usually never said a word before stepping out onto the ice, suddenly stood up and slammed his stick down.
“I want to win!”
Sarah stood, also slamming her stick.
“I want to win, too!”
Suddenly all the Owls were on their blades, sticks pounding in a haphazard circle.
The game mattered, Travis knew.
It mattered a great deal to them all.
20
Everything felt different.
Travis had his stride. His in-line skates felt, for the first time, as if they were just part of him, his skin and bone, not some contraption tied onto his feet. This was the way his ice skates felt when everything was going just right. He hadn’t expected it so soon with the in-line skates.
He hit the crossbar on the first practice shot.
He didn’t feel small like he did last time. He looked up the playing surface toward the Young Lions, also warming up, and they didn’t intimidate any more.
He saw Edward Rose, also with a “C” on his jersey, his golden hair flying out the back of his helmet. He watched him hit the crossbar and pump his glove in the air.
Travis laughed. He had the same superstition!
Travis was circling near centre a moment later when he felt a sharp rap on his shin pads. He looked up. Edward Rose was smiling at him. “Have a good one,” he said.
“You, too,” Travis said back.
Nish was deep in concentration, stretching in the corner, not even lifting his head to look at the other side. Wayne Nishikawa, all business. The way Muck liked Nish to be when the big games were on the line.
Travis looked beyond him.
His heart almost stopped.
They were pushed against the boards as deep as he could see. Perhaps thirty rows back. Men in dark suits, a few even wearing black bowlers. Woman smartly dressed for business. Young people in jeans.
Television cameras!
There were people there by the thousands, and they were even cheering the warm-up.
How long would they stay? Travis wondered.
Would they be disappointed?
They stayed.
They stay
ed and watched and cheered for nearly two hours as the Screech Owls of Canada played the Young Lions of Wembley for the World Cup of In-Line Hockey.
This game was not an 8-1 rout. This was a game.
Nish was a demon in his own end, hitting the Lions and freeing up the ball and stepping around checkers to send long feed passes up the boards.
Travis had his legs and he had his wind and it seemed, suddenly, as if he finally had a game to play. The plastic ball stayed on his stick better this time. He seemed to have more time, more confidence.
Sarah, playing on the other wing, was all grace and speed, handling the ball beautifully and passing perfectly.
But Dmitri was the one who put Muck’s game plan into play. It was he who first circled back on a rush, who swung left and then curled back, holding the ball and drifting it back to Nish, who sent a nice lateral over to Fahd, who then dropped it once again to Dmitri, still cruising back.
The play seemed to confuse the Young Lions, who had been quickly backpedalling in order to deal with Dmitri’s recognized speed. They reacted as Data had predicted. They waited and then they charged ahead, chasing the ball carrier.
The moment Dmitri realized that the Young Lions had gone into transition, he dug in himself and burst in the other direction toward the Young Lions’ goal.
The Wembley team tried to react, but their wheels couldn’t catch on the hard plastic surface the way sharp blades – Mr. Dillinger sharp blades – could on ice, and by the time they turned to deal with the reverse of flow, Dmitri and Sarah and Travis were in on a three-on-two.
Sarah read it perfectly. She let Dmitri and Travis charge the goal, Dmitri carrying, while she set the triangle. She would be “late man in,” even though she was a twelve-year-old girl. It was the way everyone described the play, and she kind of liked it.
Dmitri flipped to Travis, and Travis neatly tapped the ball back into the slot, with Sarah at the top of the triangle coming in fast as the defence split, one taking Dmitri, the other trying to ride Travis off into the corner.
Sarah faked the shot, cupped the ball in her blade, and curled around the falling goaltender to slip it, gently, into the back of the net.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 23
