The Doublecross: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy

by Jackson Pearce

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “He just doesn’t want to risk the mission.”

  “No one’s doing anything!” she protested, sitting back. Her eyes were wide, her skin pale under the overhead light.

  I exhaled. “How about we go to bed? It’s later than it feels.”

  “It’s barely seven,” she said, wiping her nose with her hand. Still, we left our takeout containers untouched and went to brush our teeth. I helped Kennedy into her bed and pulled up the covers, then found Tinsel, the stuffed hedgehog that she liked to pretend she didn’t need anymore, but definitely did at times like this.

  “Are you going to tell me a story?” she asked, her voice meek. Dad used to tell us bedtime stories about when he was a new agent—the time he mixed up German for Icelandic, or when he used three sticks of chewing gum to hot-wire a car. I knew Dad didn’t tell her stories every night anymore, but I sat down on the edge of her bed anyway.

  “I don’t have any good stories,” I said. “I’m not an agent.”

  “You could tell me about winning the race yesterday,” she suggested, picking at Tinsel’s quills. “I mean, your version.”

  “The true version, you mean,” I said, and launched into the story. I started quietly with just the details, but as I went on, things got bigger and louder, until I was crashing across the room in a re-creation of the way I slid into the cafeteria ahead of Walter. Kennedy was giggling, her thin lips pulled into a broad smile. When I left the room, she was still awake, staring at the ceiling, and I knew she would cry again before she fell asleep. But truthfully? So would I.

  I ran into Ms. Elma in the hall—literally ran into her, hard enough that she bounced back a few steps.

  “You didn’t eat your dinner,” she said politely. “You’re supposed to eat it.”

  “We aren’t hungry,” I answered, wondering if Ms. Elma was really the best person to be put in charge of me and Kennedy. Surely, she’d do better with something less human and more, say, houseplant?

  “Oh. I’ll save it then. You’ll probably be hungry later. I finished alterations on your uniform.” She held out a limp pile of black spandex and gave me an almost warm look, as if the fast turnaround was something to be appreciated and admired. She cleared her throat. “I know, Jordan—Hale—that you want someone to charge in and save them. We all wish it were that easy. But SRS agents can’t just sneak into League headquarters. It’s risky for everyone—including your parents. And the mission. You’ve got to think of the mission.”

  “Right.”

  Ms. Elma nodded, twisting her lips in a way that made her face look like it contained too many bones. Finally she patted me on the shoulder and retreated back to the living room. I went to my bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to lock it, but I was worried Kennedy might want to come in sometime during the night. I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars that covered my ceiling.

  The truth was, everything Ms. Elma and Dr. Fishburn had said made sense. With my parents gone, SRS couldn’t just throw more agents out into the world and hope for the best. Agents were precious resources, the product of years of training and preparation. And a mission—even a mission I didn’t really know anything about—was always the priority.

  But I wasn’t an agent.

  I then began to undeniably, unabashedly scheme.

  Chapter Six

  It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, and I could see a line of light under my bedroom door. Judging from the clattering and hissing, I gathered Ms. Elma was futzing around with Dad’s espresso machine. I exhaled, steeled myself, and then crept out of my bed slowly so my mattress didn’t creak. I ran in place as quickly—and quietly—as I could, till my lungs began to ache. I then leaped back into bed, yanked my blankets up, and felt at my cheeks—flushed and damp.

  Perfect. Go time.

  “Ms. Elma?” I called out weakly, my voice barely a whisper. I waited. Another hissing sound. I was pretty sure she’d just broken the milk steamer.

  “Ms. Elma!” I called again, louder this time. I heard a sigh and the sound of a coffee cup being put down too hard, and a few minutes later Ms. Elma swung my door open. I curled into the smallest ball possible and coughed. “I don’t feel good.”

  Ms. Elma’s eyes widened. “You’re bleeding? Broken bone? I’ll call medical—”

  “What? No. I’m just sick.”

  Ms. Elma didn’t look like she fully understood what I meant.

  “I just feel sick. You know. Headache? Like I might throw up?” I said. Ms. Elma blinked. I suspected Ms. Elma had never called in sick. “I think I just need to get some rest,” I finished.

  Ms. Elma rocked back on her heels warily. “Well. All right. Do you want some . . . medicine?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you want some . . . soup?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t call medical?” Ms. Elma asked again, almost desperately.

  “No, no, I’ll pull through,” I said, firming my lips like I was being very brave about my sudden illness. “I’ll probably just sleep most of the day. Don’t feel like you have to stay here—I know you probably planned on going home for a few hours.”

  “Mmmm,” Ms. Elma said, grimacing in a way that made clear she had not only planned on going home but badly wanted to. “I’ll just stay here.”

  “Really?” I mumbled, letting my words drift off like I could barely stay awake. I yawned enormously; through my half-closed eyes I saw Ms. Elma wrinkle her nose at my open mouth. “That’s so nice of you. I can’t believe you’re going to miss Doctor Joe’s Present-Palooza.”

  “Present-Palooza?” Ms. Elma asked, her overplucked eyebrows shooting up so high, they pulled at her scar.

  “I heard the receptionist talking about it while I was out getting Otter’s—Agent Otter’s—dry cleaning,” I said. I reached over and knocked around a set of binoculars as I fumbled for the tissue box on my nightstand. I feebly tugged one from the box, then used it to mop at my forehead, waiting till Ms. Elma leaned forward eagerly to continue. “He’s giving away all sorts of stuff to people in the audience, and is sending some sort of wrinkle cream to anyone who calls in every time he says ‘carrot top.’ You know, maybe it’s tomorrow though. I don’t really remember . . .” I coughed and hugged my blankets closer. The flush from my face was beginning to fade . . .

  Ms. Elma nodded. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she left the room.

  A half hour later there was yelling, crying, and things breaking. Ms. Elma was trying to get Kennedy ready for school and didn’t know my parents’ tricks; with five minutes to go before class started, Kennedy was still shouting about not being able to find her uniform shoes. (“They’re covered in stickers of pink owls. Yes, pink owls! Who cares? They’re my shoes!”) Ms. Elma responded by muttering under her breath about how in her day, back when she’d gotten the scar on her face, agents didn’t always get shoes. I didn’t believe her, and I suspected Kennedy didn’t either. Finally the supernova that was my little sister found her shoes and went to class. It was nine o’clock. The Doctor Joe show came on at ten . . . Nothing to do but wait.

  “Hale?” Ms. Elma said through my closed door at nine fifty-five. I grinned beneath my blankets.

  “Mmmm?” I answered groggily.

  “I’m going to run downstairs for a few minutes. If anyone asks, I’m just getting some . . . personal effects. I’ll be back, all right?”

  “Mmmm,” I answered.

  She left in such a hurry that I wasn’t sure, at first, if she’d left at all—the door didn’t click all the way shut. Finally, when I was sure she was gone, I tossed my covers back. I rose and pulled my uniform on—I hated it, but I might need it—and some street clothes on top of it. Then I ran into Kennedy’s bedroom.

  Walking into Kennedy’s room was sort of like being punched in the face with a pack of highlighters. The walls were covered in neon pink and purple posters, most depict
ing animals, cheerleaders, or animals being cheerleaders. Her floor was a disaster of books and candy-colored stuffed toys, along with a few dolls with catlike eyes and plastic, glitter-filled jewelry. I grabbed a stuffed turtle with a peace sign on its back and a variety of bears and cats, several of which were tie-dye. I nearly tripped over a set of lime green pom-poms on the way out of the room.

  Back in my bedroom I shoved the toys beneath my blankets until they were feasibly shaped like me sleeping. It was an old trick, but it would have to do—there was no time to rig a voice-activated response system, which was a shame, since I aced that class last year. In the kitchen I left a bowl filled with a few drops of milk and a half handful of cereal, so it looked like I’d emerged to eat something. I left the milk out for good measure and then glanced at the clock.

  I had plenty of time—despite the lack of Present-Palooza, I suspected Ms. Elma wouldn’t be able to turn off Doctor Joe—he was her long-lost soul mate, after all. Still, the sooner I left, the better. I finished the pretend breakfast scene by pulling a chair out from the table and then I went down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. I lifted a hand to knock before remembering I didn’t have to—they weren’t inside—then turned the knob and opened the door.

  I froze as cool air swept across my face, air that smelled like Dad’s deodorant and Mom’s face cream. Their bed was made, the closet door was shut, and my mom’s wedding rings sat on the nightstand—she never wore them out on missions, but she always put them back on first thing when she came home. I could still see their footprints in the carpet. I closed my eyes.

  The mission. Think about the mission.

  Not their mission—my mission. I had to focus. I gritted my teeth, opened my eyes, and hurried across the room. I flung open the closet door. Mom’s clothes were on the right, Dad’s on the left; I grabbed an armful of dress pants off their hangers, which swung wildly, knocking against the wall. I shoved the pants into a mesh laundry bag and slung it over my shoulder, then took a handful of Dad’s loose change off his dresser.

  With everyone at work or in training, it was easy to make it down the hall relatively unseen. I knew cameras were on, but I also knew the sight of me lugging around a bag of laundry wasn’t exactly something that put the HITS on high alert. I forced myself to look unrushed on the way to the front desk.

  “Morning, Hale,” the agent at the front desk said sweetly as I walked in. “I heard about The Team. Don’t worry. I’m sure Dr. Fishburn has a plan.”

  “Me too,” I said, which, if you ask me, was one of my most convincing lies to date. I nodded toward the laundry bag on my shoulder. “Dropping off dry cleaning.”

  “Agent Otter has more dry cleaning?” the exit desk agent said, shaking her head at the bag. “Something’s wrong with that man.”

  “No kidding,” I said, smiling at her. The agent didn’t see it—she had already gone back to filling out spreadsheets. I stepped around her desk and walked to the elevator. I waited till the doors closed, then let out a deep breath. I don’t know why I was relieved—breaking out of SRS was the easy part.

  It was breaking into The League that was going to be difficult.

  Chapter Seven

  Castlebury had a single train line that went straight into the city—it was impossible to go wrong. I climbed on, the bag of laundry wedged between my legs, and I tried to relax as we rumbled along. We stopped a dozen or so times on the way, picking up an ever-stranger assortment of passengers. By the time the city appeared ahead—gray lines that became buildings that became windows and bridges and cars—we’d collected a few hippies, a few students, and what sounded like seventeen crying babies, whose screams seemed to make my hidden SRS uniform fit even tighter. I began to wish I’d stolen one of the SRS’s helicopters instead. I’d flown one in simulations—how different could a real one be?

  Where Castlebury was old bricks and potted plants, Fairview was steel beams and parking meters. People didn’t notice me here any more than they did in Castlebury, but the difference was, in the city they seemed to be intentionally not noticing me. Which was just as well, really—I didn’t want to be seen. I knew the city well enough, since I’d visited it on outings with my parents and the occasional class trip, but being here alone felt very . . . scary? No. Not scary. It felt big. Like the whole place could swallow me, and it made me grin and sort of shake all at the same time. I cut around delis, past food trucks cooking mysterious meat products, and away from the larger buildings.

  Toward The League’s headquarters.

  I knew exactly where League headquarters were. Everyone at SRS did—and everyone at The League, I reasoned, probably knew where we were. I mean, if there were grizzly bear dens near your house, you’d know where they were, right? I took a right at a grocery store and walked past a group of Campfire Scouts wearing khaki-colored sashes and hawking cookies to every passerby.

  And then . . . there it was.

  Like the SRS, The League occupied a relatively nondescript building, though theirs was big, made of metal and glass and stretching toward the sky. I suspected the height was more of a distraction—most of their facilities were surely underground, safely buried beneath the city. The letters EBP were on the side of the building in bright red block characters, but I was pretty certain they didn’t stand for anything—they were just the sort of letters that a regular person would nod at, assuming they belonged to some rich corporation. The building had wide stairs leading up to it, where people stopped to talk, eat lunch, or stare at the pigeons that hung out around a weird twisty statue.

  This was where my plan ended. I’d never gotten close enough to The League’s building to really study it before, so I couldn’t plot how to break in till this exact moment. I pretended to be bored as I analyzed potential points of entry—my teacher from last year would be proud, I bet, since she did two months of classes on breaking into secure buildings.

  The League had cameras by the front doors. Probably more inside. There were likely vents or windows on the lower levels, but slipping through those was for people six sizes smaller than I was. The roof was out, since I didn’t have air support, as was burrowing underground. Basically, the only way into The League, for me, was through the front doors. Which meant I needed a way in—one that would not only get me through the front doors, but past the agents on the other side.

  I rose and walked away from the building. I ducked into the grocery store and dared to spend a handful of quarters in the vending machines across from the bathroom doors—because I’d skipped breakfast, I was too hungry to think straight. The honey bun I bought was dry and mealy, but it was something. I shoved the laundry bag into the corner of the largest stall and leaned against the door as I ate.

  Think. And think fast, because your parents are in that building, and you’re all they have.

  Except I had nothing at all. I closed my eyes and commanded myself to think. Focus on the mission, Hale. Come on . . .

  Wait. I didn’t have nothing. I had two dollars in change and a bag of laundry.

  Which meant I had a plan.

  Mission: Break into The League

  Step 1: Acquire necessities—knife, tape, and cookies

  The knife and tape were easy—I wandered the aisles of the grocery store until I found a guy shelving cans of tuna fish. He seemed like a nice enough guy, really. So I felt bad about intentionally shattering one of those four-gallon glass jars of pickles one aisle over. I shuffled away quickly; the tuna stocker ran past me and groaned. Muttering something about floor wax, he stomped off to get a broom.

  Meanwhile, I snuck back to the tuna fish, snatched his box cutter, and shoved it into my pocket.

  Knife? Check.

  Next I grabbed a bunch of the stickers from the bulk food section. They were supposed to seal the bags of self-serve grains.

  Tape? Check.

  Cookies were slightly trickier. I considered just stealing them, but I already felt pretty high profile after arriving with a laundry bag and breaking a p
ickle jar. I couldn’t afford to get thrown out, or worse: reported to the police.

  Instead I made my way to the bakery section. A glass case housed two dozen types of cupcakes and pies and éclairs and all sorts of desserts the SRS would never let us touch, much less eat. The woman behind the bakery counter smiled at me with overly glossed lips.

  “Are these samples?” I asked her. A plastic plateful of tiny sugar cookies with sprinkles sat on top of the case.

  She nodded, then smiled. “Help yourself!”

  Her smile faded as I grabbed one of the nearby bakery boxes and shoveled almost the entire tray of cookies inside. I shrugged. She had told me to “help myself.”

  Cookies? Check.

  I yanked an OUT OF ORDER sign off one of the drink machines across the hall, and then I stuck it against the bathroom door to give myself a little privacy.

  Step 2: Put together the perfect disguise

  I dumped the laundry bag out on the floor and reached for a pair of Dad’s khakis. I studied them for a moment and then folded them in half so the cuffs of the legs met each other. I pulled out the tuna guy’s box cutter. Carefully, I drew the blade through the pants, right below the pockets. It took a few cuts before I finally broke through the layers of fabric. Then I grabbed the bulk foods stickers and looped them so they were sticky on both sides. Folding the ends of the pant legs over, I ran the stickers along the edge, until they were flat and smooth, as clean a line as if the fabric had been sewn that way.

  All right, the moment of truth. I ducked between the two pant legs, letting one end rest on my left shoulder and the other on my right hip so it became a khaki-colored sash. I picked up the box of cookies and looked at myself in the mirror.

  Deep breaths, Hale.

  Half of being a spy is lying. What most people don’t realize—and what SRS students learn in year one—is most of that means lying to yourself. It’s easy to trick a stranger into believing a story. After all, they don’t know you—why shouldn’t they believe you? But fooling yourself is something else entirely because you have to bury the real you so far beneath the lie that it doesn’t have a prayer of poking its head up. Once you’ve fooled yourself, though, that’s when your cover is perfect.