Drmtsi and Vrsk studied the building for a moment, then crossed the parking lot and went inside. Turow grabbed his cell phone and hit the speed dial again.
“It’s Turow,” he said. “Hey, we just observed the suspects entering twenty-thirty-eight North Fenster. An establishment called Jungle Norman’s. Yes. J-u-n-g-l-e.” He listened for a moment, nodded, then said, “Copy that.” He closed the phone.
“Copy what?” said Iles.
“We’re going to cover the exits,” said Turow. “I’ll take the back. We are not to enter the premises, not to engage the suspects until directed.”
Iles said a bad word.
Turow said, “There’s an insertion team in a chopper on its way.” As he spoke, they heard the whup-whup-whup of an approaching helicopter.
“That was fast,” said Iles, yanking the Ford over to the curb. The two agents quickly climbed out. Turow headed around back of the shopping center; Iles jogged toward the front door of Jungle Norman’s. As they ran, both men brushed their dark suits, trying, without much success, to get rid of the Cheez-It dust.
IT WAS A TYPICAL FRIDAY EVENING at Jungle Norman’s Pizza Party Place, meaning it was a cross between a school recess and a prison riot. There were fourteen birthday parties going on simultaneously, and the huge room echoed with the earsplitting din of dozens of sugar-crazed children running, shoving, laughing, shouting, shrieking, crying, and fighting for turns on the various video games, at least half of which were out of order.
Toby, having made himself visible again, covered his ears as he picked his way through the chaos toward a group of long tables swarming with more shrieking kids and tended by harried waiters wearing safari outfits. The tables were littered with pizza crusts, fries, ketchup blobs, spilled drinks, and giant gooey smears that had once been birthday cakes. An air war had erupted between two of the tables, with a party of eight-year-old boys hurling chicken nuggets at a party of seven-year-old boys, who retaliated by throwing cupcakes, one of which had just knocked the princess tiara off the head of a sobbing five-year-old birthday girl at a third table. Parents at all three of these tables were shouting at their children, at other people’s children, and at the parents of other people’s children. None of this shouting had any effect on anybody.
The tables were grouped around a low stage, on which was Toby’s objective, the centerpiece attraction of the Jungle Norman experience: the Jivin’ Jungle Jammers. This was a band made up of five large, brightly colored robot animals: Ernest Elephant on drums, Harriet Hippo on keyboards, Gina Giraffe on guitar, Leon Lion on saxophone, and Gordon Gorilla, the MC and lead singer, who wore a purple top hat. Every few minutes the band would come to life and go through its computerized routine. First, Gordon Gorilla told some stunningly unfunny jungle jokes. (“Why are bananas never lonely? Because they hang around in bunches!”) Then the band performed “Happy Birthday,” followed by some songs that had been popular, or at least vaguely familiar, several decades earlier, when Jungle Norman’s had first opened.
As Toby neared the stage, the Jivin’ Jungle Jammers were performing an anemic version of the Pointer Sisters’ “Jump (For My Love).” A wedge of pepperoni pizza soared gracefully over three party tables and landed on Harriet Hippo’s nose. Toby, remembering SecretAgentMan’s instruction, got as close as he could to Gordon Gorilla. He turned and quickly ducked as a cupcake whizzed past. Then, with his back to the stage, he scanned the crowd, not sure what or who he was looking for. He glanced down to make sure he had the iPhone clipped to his belt; he hoped the fragile fiber-optic filaments hadn’t been damaged as he pushed his way through the crowd. He resumed scanning, watching, waiting.
“Toby!”
Toby, startled, turned and saw Tamara and Micah working their way through the crowd toward him.
“What are you doing here?” he said, as they reached the stage.
“We’re here for the pizza,” said Micah. He pointed at the slice on Harriet Hippo’s nose. “Is anybody eating that?”
Toby looked at Tamara. “I told you not to come.”
“Right,” said Tamara. “And your plans have been working out so well.”
“But your parents…”
“They already grounded us for life,” said Micah. “What’re they gonna do, ground us for the afterlife?”
Toby allowed himself a small grin. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks for coming. You guys’re good friends.”
“Shut up,” said Micah.
“No, really,” said Toby. “I mean it.”
“Me, too,” said Micah. “Shut up.”
“Enough,” said Tamara. “Have you seen your mystery guy?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So what’s your plan?” said Tamara.
“I’m supposed to stand by the gorilla,” said Toby.
As he spoke, the Jivin’ Jungle Jammers, having finished “Jump (For My Love),” launched into “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog.”
“Maybe,” said Micah, “he’s planning to kill your brain cells with this music.”
“Who’re those guys?” said Tamara. She pointed at two men working their way through the crowd. One was young, thin, and intense-looking; the other was older and heftier, with a thick beard. Both men wore ill-fitting brown polyester suits festooned with stains. Both looked overwhelmed by the chaotic mobs of children swirling around them.
“They don’t look like birthday boys, either,” said Toby.
“They’re coming toward us,” said Tamara.
As the men approached, Toby glanced down at the iPhone clipped to his belt. He located the sunglasses icon that would, he hoped, summon Sternabite.
“Okay,” he said to Tamara and Micah. “Let me handle this.”
“Handle what?” said Tamara.
“I have no idea,” said Toby.
“It is food!” Vrsk said to Drmtsi, in Krpsht. “They are throwing food!” Such a thing would never happen in Krpshtskan. For one thing, food there was scarce; for another thing, what food there was tended to be heavy.
“Really?” said Drmtsi. Like Vrsk, he had eaten nothing but smerk for days; there was only a little left in his pants. “They are throwing food?” As he spoke, a half-eaten, ketchup-drenched nugget landed on his lapel. He picked it off, sniffed it, and ate it. “Not bad,” he said.
They were almost to the gorilla, which was singing about joy to the world. Vrsk scanned the crowd, looking for Prmkt. But the only people near the singing gorilla were three teenagers, who stared at Vrsk and Drmtsi as they approached.
“They’re coming right at us,” said Tamara.
“Yeah, I can see that,” said Toby.
“What is that smell?” said Micah.
Tamara sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and said, “I think it’s coming from the fat guy’s pants.”
“That is gross,” said Micah.
Vrsk and Drmtsi reached the edge of the stage. The teenagers watched them closely, but nobody else at Jungle Norman’s seemed to be paying any attention. Drmtsi, showing excellent quickness for a man his size, caught a slice of pizza in midair and took a bite.
“Where is Prmkt?” he said in Krpsht, through a mouthful of cheese.
“Prmkt said he will come to us when we give the special signal,” said Vrsk.
“What is the special signal again?” said Drmtsi, taking another bite.
“We lift the hat of the singing gorilla,” said Vrsk.
Drmtsi, chewing, studied Gordon the Gorilla for a few seconds, then made a command decision.
“You do it,” he said.
Jungle Norman’s Pizza Party Place was now swarming with heavily armed federal agents wearing black SWAT-team uniforms. Most were from the FBI, but there were also personnel from a half-dozen other agencies, including two men who were with the CIA, although if questioned they would claim they were with the Department of Agriculture. The various agents had formed a perimeter around the stage area, taking cover behind video games. A few parents and staff members had noticed them but though
t they were there to entertain one of the birthday groups. In the general wildness of Jungle Norman’s, the agents had not yet created much of a stir.
The agents were under the command of a veteran field operative named Blount. He was monitoring the situation on night-vision binoculars from behind the Dance Dance Revolution machine. Blount raised his wrist to his mouth and spoke quietly into a microphone, which would transmit his voice to earpieces worn by the agents inside, as well as those outside on the barricaded street and others in cars and in the helicopters—there were now four of them—hovering overhead.
“The two individuals have approached the gorilla,” he said. “There are three other individuals in the vicinity of the gorilla. We wait for the exchange, people. I repeat, we wait for the exchange. We move only on my command.”
Both Agent Turow and Agent Iles clipped their FBI identification shields to their orange-crusted suit coats at about the same time. On opposite sides of the same building, they grabbed the door handles, ready to rush inside. They’d spent two days following these suspects; they wanted to be part of the takedown.
Toby, Tamara, and Micah watched as Vrsk put his foot up on the stage, as if preparing to get on it. The man looked around nervously. Toby was convinced this guy and his friend had something to do with the IMs he’d received. Why else would he be here, hanging around the gorilla?
Vrsk now was up on the stage. His eyes scanned the crowd and met Toby’s. Toby made a decision and stepped up on the stage with him.
“Are you looking for me?” Toby asked.
“What?” said Vrsk. “Who? Me?”
“Are you SecretAgentMan?”
“Who are you?” said Vrsk. He said it in Krpsht, so it came out sort of like spitting.
“Hey!” said Toby, wiping off his shirt. Tamara and Micah quickly climbed up onto the stage to back up their friend.
“Sorry,” said Vrsk, switching to English.
Now Drmtsi was also clambering up onto the stage. “Who is this?” he said in Krpsht, waving his pizza slice at Toby.
“Hey!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “You’re not allowed on the stage!”
Toby, Tamara, Micah, Vrsk, and Drmtsi looked down to see a waiter in a safari outfit glaring at them.
“I said, off the stage!” the waiter hollered over the music. “You’re not allowed to…uhhh.”
The waiter staggered sideways as his right buttock was penetrated by a small but potent tranquilizer dart fired from behind a Skee-Ball machine by an FBI sharpshooter acting on orders from Field Commander Blount. As the five people on the stage watched, the waiter staggered sideways with a puzzled look on his face, smiled, then slumped into a chair, unconscious and drooling.
Toby turned back to Vrsk and repeated, “Are you SecretAgentMan?”
“What is boy saying?” Drmtsi asked Vrsk, indicating Toby.
“He is asking if I am a secret agent,” said Vrsk.
“Admit nothing!” said Drmtsi. “Tell him we are tourists.”
“We are tourists,” Vrsk said to Toby.
“Smerk?” said Drmtsi, smiling at Toby and his friends while reaching into his pants.
“Ick!” said Tamara.
The drama on the stage had started to attract attention. People were pointing; several more safari-outfitted waiters were coming. Vrsk sensed that things were getting out of hand.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I must go to gorilla.” Pushing Toby aside, he started toward Gordon Gorilla, who had just launched into the Jivin’ Jungle Jammer’s big finale, Lee Greenwood’s patriotic anthem “God Bless the USA.”
“Wait a minute,” said Toby, grabbing Vrsk’s arm. “Who are you? Why are you here? Do you know Mr. P?”
“Please to let go!” said Vrsk. He struggled toward the gorilla, with Toby still tugging on his arm. Tamara and Micah stepped forward to help Toby. Drmtsi stepped forward to help Vrsk. Vrsk, determined to carry out his mission, dragged Toby to Gordon Gorilla, reached up with his free hand, and lifted the top hat. It took some effort—the hat was attached to Gordon’s head with duct tape—but it popped off. A small package wrapped in brown paper, which had been concealed under the hat, fell out and tumbled onto Gordon Gorilla’s shoulder. Vrsk grabbed for the package, but at that instant Gordon Gorilla sang “I’d proudly stand UP!” and raised his powerful robotic right arm to wave an American flag. Gordon’s fist slammed into Vrsk’s jaw, and Vrsk went down like a sack of rocks. As he fell, Toby reflexively grabbed the tumbling package.
That was all Field Commander Blount needed to see.
“GO!” he yelled into his wrist microphone. “GO! GO! GOGOGO!”
In an instant, Jungle Norman’s became even louder and more chaotic than it usually is, as two dozen agents charged. One of them went down immediately as he ran face-first into the path of an entire airborne basket of nachos. Another hit a nasty patch of vanilla frosting on the floor and lost control, slamming into two other agents, the three of them knocking down a row of classic Space Invaders games, which fell like dominos, one crashing into another, video tubes exploding, glass shards flying everywhere. There was some applause, which quickly changed to shouts and screams as excited partygoers and their parents realized this wasn’t a show. The crowd dove frantically out of the way of the burly black-clad men charging the stage, where Gordon Gorilla and the Jivin’ Jungle Jammers were hitting the dramatic final notes of “God Bless the USA.”
The humans on the stage—Toby, Tamara, Micah, and Drmtsi (Vrsk was on the floor, unconscious)—watched in stunned incomprehension, still as stones, as the first wave of men reached them and, without slowing down, tackled them. They went down like bowling pins, only faster; Toby lost hold of the package. Tamara managed a short scream, but that was the only sound any of them had time to make before they were lying under a minimum of two agents apiece, unable to breathe, let alone shout.
In seconds their hands were behind their backs as all of them, including Vrsk, were handcuffed. Toby, his face smushed against the stage, watched as one of the agents picked up the package he’d been holding, shouting, “I got it! I got it!” He pointed at Toby. “This one here had it.”
“That’s not mine!” Toby said, fighting to get the words out with two agents—Turow and Iles—sitting on him.
“But you were holding it,” said Iles.
“But I don’t even know what it is,” said Toby.
“We’ll sort that out later,” said Turow.
“But what did we do?” said Toby. “What is this about?”
“We’ll sort that out later, too,” said Turow. Toby felt the weight come off him as Iles pulled him to his feet. He looked around the vast room. It was emptying quickly as the partygoers and their parents streamed toward the front door, leaving a chaotic mess of overturned chairs and tables, with food and drink spilled everywhere. At the front door, a TV crew was forcing its way in past the crowd, lights blazing. Some agents ran to intercept it, but the camera was aimed at the stage already, focusing on Toby and the others in handcuffs.
“This can’t be happening!” said Tamara. “I have to be home in twenty minutes! My parents think I’m in my room!”
“They’ll probably stop thinking that when they see you on TV,” said Micah, nodding toward the camera.
“Ohmigod,” said Tamara. “Ohmigod, we’re on TV. Toby, what’s gonna happen? What are we gonna do?”
Toby looked at his friends.
“I don’t know,” he said. His eyes were burning. He looked down at the floor.
“I don’t know,” he said again.
INSIDE TOBY’S HOUSE ON MILKWORT COURT,
Fawn Harbinger was in the kitchen cooking dinner, which involved pickled seaweed. She poked her head through the doorway to the family room, where Toby’s dad was reclining on his recliner, watching the local news.
“Roger,” she said, “could you please call Toby up for dinner? He’s in the basement watching TV.”
“Just a second,” said Roger. “The helicopters we’r
e hearing?” He pointed at the TV. “Look at this.”
Fawn moved closer to the screen, which had the words LIVE AND BREAKING across the bottom. She frowned as she recognized the building.
“Isn’t that Jungle Norman’s?” she said.
“Yup,” said Roger. “There’s some kind of huge federal raid going on. There are FBI agents and SWAT guys all over the place.”
“That’s less than two miles from here!” she said. “What on earth happened?”
“No one’s saying much.” Roger threw a lever, and the recliner lurched forward, nearly ejecting him. “The reporter said the FBI allegedly busted some kind of spy ring that was stealing defense secrets.”
“At Jungle Norman’s?” she said.
“I know!” said Roger.
As he spoke, the TV news camera showed four men coming out the front door of Jungle Norman’s beneath the giraffe head, carrying something large toward an FBI van. The image jumped around for a few seconds, as the camera person was jostled by the mob of newspeople shoving each other for a closer look. Finally the camera stabilized, and Roger and Fawn got a look at what the agents were carrying.
“Is that the singing gorilla?” said Fawn.
Roger nodded. “Gordon,” he said.
“But why on earth would—”
Roger held up his hand and said, “They’re bringing out the suspects.”
There were shouts, and again the image went jerky. For a moment, Roger and Fawn could see only a blur of bodies and faces. And then, all at once, there he was, filling the screen.
“Ohmigod,” said Roger.
“Toby!” screamed Fawn, staggering backward.
Their son was being half carried through the surging crowd by two men in dark suits flecked with orange dust. For just a moment, Toby’s pale and terrified face filled the screen. The next shot showed him being hustled into the van along with Gordon Gorilla. The van doors were slammed shut and the van roared away. The camera swung back to pick up…
“That’s Micah and Tamara!” Fawn gasped.
They were being hustled toward a second van. But by then Roger and Fawn were no longer looking at the screen; they were staring at each other, speechless, their faces slack with shock. Finally, Fawn found words.
Science Fair Page 14
