Golden Gate

by James Ponti

  “Okay,” Sydney said. “That makes a lot of sense. But still, she was there and he took a picture of her. Why?”

  “That, I don’t know,” said Rio. “I’d figure it out, but I just burned off a bunch of energy with all that deductive reasoning. I think I need some more clam chowder to recharge my batteries.”

  He gave Monty a hopeful look, but she didn’t bite.

  “I think you’ve had enough food today, mate,” said Paris. “We practically ate our way across the city.”

  “Was it only eating?” asked Brooklyn. “Or did you manage to find anything useful?”

  “We most certainly did,” he answered proudly. “We figured out something about the datebook. Or more to the point, we figured out something about the names in the datebook.”

  “What?” asked Kat, her interest piqued.

  Paris pulled out Rutledge’s pocket calendar from his backpack and opened it to the last week. “Check this out. Fay Chie Hong; Bernhard Berliner, MD; and Charles Blyth are all appointments from that week.”

  “Right,” said Kat. “We knew that. We just haven’t been able to figure out who they are.”

  “Because they’re not people,” said Paris.

  The girls each gave him a confused look.

  “They’re places,” answered Paris. “Each one is a specific location. Fay Chie Hong is an alley in Chinatown, and a kind of sketchy one at that. By the way, it literally translates into ‘fat boy alley,’ so you have to be careful who you ask about it.”

  “And Bernhard Berliner, MD?” said Kat. “How is that a place?”

  “That’s the best one,” said Rio.

  “He says that because he’s the one who figured it out,” Paris joked.

  “This is my story to tell and I’ll tell it the way I want,” said Rio. He turned to the others. “After Chinatown, we went across town to Golden Gate Park.”

  “Why?” asked Sydney.

  Paris laughed. “Why do you think?”

  “Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Food.”

  “Yes, food was involved. But it wasn’t just food,” Rio said. “There’s also an excellent magic shop there, and we went to check out the latest tricks. And the food wasn’t just food. They were the greatest burritos I’ve ever eaten.”

  “They were really good,” Paris agreed.

  “Anyway, after we ate, Paris suggested we check out the botanical garden, which was just down the street.”

  “I’d remembered that Rutledge had taken a picture of the sign there and then of some birds in the garden,” said Paris. “So I went back and looked to see which day he’d taken them. Then I checked that against the calendar. He took them the same day he was supposed to meet Bernhard Berliner.”

  “Who’s been dead for forty-four years,” said Sydney.

  “And then the most amazing thing happened….” Paris paused dramatically.

  “What?” asked Monty, enjoying this. “We’re on tenterhooks.”

  Paris laughed and said, “Rio’s eating finally caught up with him. He was actually full.”

  The others reacted comically. “That can’t be.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I may have eaten a few too many burritos,” Rio admitted.

  “Burritos with an S, as in plural?” asked Sydney. “How many did you have?”

  “The number’s not important,” said Rio. “What’s important is what happened next. I could feel the carne asada and chorizo churning around in my stomach, and I told Paris that I needed to take a break, so I sat on one of the benches. I thought I’d look at the flowers and let things settle. But while I was sitting there, I noticed there was a plaque on the bench dedicated to a woman named Blanche Thebom.”

  “Who’s Blanche Thebom?” asked Kat.

  “I have no idea,” said Rio. “But it got me thinking about the names on the benches. So—and this was my idea—we started checking the names on all the benches.”

  “Just for the record,” Paris interjected, “the botanical garden is made up of fifty-five acres and features hundreds of benches.”

  “After we’d checked thirty, Paris wanted to stop,” said Rio. “But I insisted we keep going.”

  “And?” asked Brooklyn.

  “Number forty-two,” Paris said, holding up his phone for them to see the picture. It was a photograph of a wooden bench with a commemorative plaque that read:

  BERNHARD BERLINER, MD

  1885–1976

  “Unbelievable,” marveled Monty. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar-bill, and offered it to Rio.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Go buy yourself another clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl,” she said. “You’re a rock star.”

  Rio swiped the money with a huge grin and raced down the pier toward the seafood stands.

  “So the names aren’t the people he’s meeting,” said Brooklyn. “They’re the places where he’s meeting them.”

  “Classic spycraft, if you think about it,” said Monty. “You’d never want to risk giving up an asset, so you wouldn’t write down their name. Not even a code name or an alias. But if these are meeting spots, then the person still stays anonymous.”

  “So who’s he meeting in these places?” asked Kat.

  As Monty considered the answer, she stared out toward the sun setting beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. The sky was on fire with color.

  “Let’s think it through,” said Monty. “He’s trying to figure out Magpie’s identity. To do that, he’d have to go anyplace where there’s any inkling that Magpie’s been. Every city has old spies skulking around. Especially the cities he’d been visiting, like Moscow, Berlin, Beijing, and Tokyo. So he had to go to these places and meet with local assets to try to dig up anything on Magpie. But that’s very dangerous.”

  “How so?” asked Brooklyn.

  “Because those old spies and agents are probably some of the same people Magpie’s using to pass along secrets and help Umbra with all their criminal activity. It’s not always easy to tell who’s on which side. So if he came across the wrong one, that could be bad.”

  “Worse than bad,” said Sydney. “It could be deadly.”

  “Okay,” said Kat. “If the names are places and not people, then what other places did he visit?”

  Paris smiled. “I got a weird one for you.” He opened up the datebook and said, “ ‘October twelfth: Charles Blyth, four fifteen.’ Then under it he wrote the initials SV.”

  “Are those the initials of the asset’s name?” suggested Brooklyn.

  “No, I don’t think he’d do that,” said Monty. “You’ve got to protect those names. Even initials.”

  “Silicon Valley,” said Kat.

  “You’re quick,” Paris said, impressed. “That’s exactly what I thought too, although it took me a lot longer to come up with it. It makes total sense. Silicon Valley is the biggest tech center in the world. Which makes it a giant candy store for any cyber spies out there. Plus, it’s just thirty miles south of San Francisco.”

  “But…,” Sydney said, sensing a problem with the logic.

  “But there’s nothing to do with Charles Blyth in Silicon Valley,” Paris answered. “There are a few of people with that name who live down there, but we’re no longer looking for people. We’re looking for places.”

  “Did you find one?” asked Brooklyn. “A place, I mean.”

  “Yes,” he said, beaming. “Two hundred miles northeast of here is a little ski resort named Squaw Valley. Also SV.” He went to his phone and opened up Rutledge’s cloud account. “So I double-checked against his photos, and sure enough, he shot a bunch of pictures of birds in the mountains that day. And the sign at the beginning of those pictures was this.”

  On the phone was a photo of a giant sign eighty feet tall and thirty feet wide. It was curved and featured the crests of various countries as well as the words SQUAW VALLEY, USA. At the very top were the Olympic
rings.

  “It’s called the Tower of Nations,” said Paris. “And it was the centerpiece of the 1960 Winter Olympics. This is where the Olympic torch was situated and where the medals were presented.”

  “And what does Charles Blyth have to do with the Olympics?” asked Brooklyn. “Did he win a medal there?”

  “No, but he was the key person to bring the Olympics to Squaw Valley and so they named the ice-skating rink after him,” he said. “The rink’s gone, but there’s a plaque commemorating it, and I was able to find a picture of it online.”

  “Let’s get this straight,” said Sydney. “All week he’s meeting spies and assets in San Francisco. Then, two days before he’s murdered, he drives four hours to meet someone in Squaw Valley, California. I mean, it’s one thing to find spies in Moscow and Beijing. But a little town none of us have ever heard of?”

  “I can think of worse places to retire than a ski resort,” said Monty.

  Rio returned with his new bread bowl full of clam chowder. “This is so delicious,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “How far did you get?”

  “Squaw Valley Olympics,” said Paris.

  “Cool, isn’t it?” said Rio. “It totally makes sense.”

  “Except it doesn’t,” said Kat. “Let me see that,” she said as she took the datebook from Paris.

  “Hey, just because you’re not the one who solved the riddle this time doesn’t mean that we’re wrong,” said Rio.

  “I don’t think you’re wrong at all,” said Kat. “Quite the contrary. I think you’re exactly right. This solution is brilliant.”

  At the mention of brilliance, Rio smiled proudly and then ate another spoonful of clam chowder.

  “I have no doubt that you’re right,” she said. “Which makes this entry even more confusing.”

  She opened the datebook. “Here, the day before he died, he had an appointment for R.F. Stroud at nine thirty a.m.”

  “But he’s R.F. Stroud,” said Rio.

  “Exactly,” answered Kat. “And when I thought the entries were all people, I convinced myself that it was his little way of reserving time to be by himself. I didn’t really believe that, but I ignored the problem. Well, now I can’t ignore it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Paris.

  “I believe in patterns. Patterns are everything,” she said. “And you have convinced me that these entries are places, not people. That’s a pattern, except this one doesn’t fit. How could he think of himself as a place to visit?”

  Monty’s phone rang and she looked down at the caller ID. “It’s Mother,” she said. Then she walked off so she could talk with a bit of privacy.

  Everyone watched closely, trying to read her reaction. This was the call they’d been waiting for. They were dying to know if he’d found Annie and Robert. The conversation was quick, and when Monty walked back to the group, the lack of a smile was telling.

  “They weren’t there,” she said.

  “Oh no,” said Brooklyn. “I was wrong. I can’t believe I made such a big mistake and got his hopes up.”

  “You weren’t wrong, honey,” said Monty. “They’d been at the school. You nailed it. But Clementine withdrew them a few months ago.”

  “Any idea where they went?” Sydney asked hopefully.

  Monty shook her head. “None,” she said. “They’ve disappeared.”

  The lively mood of team problem-solving quickly turned somber as they weighed the news. They sat quietly and imagined what Mother was going through.

  Sydney was near tears, so she walked over to the end of the dock and looked out at the water, her face turned away from the others.

  Monty moved over next to her. She knew Sydney blamed herself and would take this hardest of all. She could’ve made a thousand arguments for why none of it was her fault, but she knew Sydney didn’t want to hear any of those. At least not now. So she just reached over and put her arm around her.

  The sun had set, and there was a chill in the air as the wind blew off the bay. Soon everybody was at the railing except Kat, who stayed on the bench looking at her phone.

  During the hour they’d been at the wharf, the entire view from the waterfront had transformed. When the sun was setting, attention naturally fell on the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific Ocean beyond it. But now that night had fallen and the sky was black, the focus shifted to the island just a mile offshore.

  It was Alcatraz, a notorious prison that was now the city’s most popular tourist attraction. At night it was all lit up, and the group silently stared at it for a few minutes. No one wanted to talk, until Kat let out a yelp.

  “What is it?” Monty asked.

  Kat looked up from her phone and answered uncertainly, “I don’t know if I should say.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Monty.

  Kat scrunched up her face. “I’m not great at reading social cues. And I don’t always know what’s appropriate.”

  Monty chuckled at Kat’s blunt honesty.

  “I feel really sad for Mother,” Kat continued. “And when I feel sad, I like to solve problems. It helps distract my brain.”

  “That’s good,” said Monty.

  “And before the call came, we were trying to solve a problem… so I did. I solved it. But I don’t know if I should wait until later to tell you the solution.”

  “What problem?” asked Paris. “R.F. Stroud?”

  Kat nodded.

  “You figured it out?” said Rio, impressed.

  She nodded again.

  “Please,” Monty said, “tell us.”

  “Yeah,” added Brooklyn. “It would be nice to hear something positive.”

  They turned to face Kat, although Sydney still had a hangdog expression as she wiped away some tears with the arm of her hoodie.

  “Like I said earlier, I believe in patterns,” said Kat. “And this pattern didn’t make sense to me. But it’s not the only one. Another pattern has been nagging at me for days. When Mother first joined MI6 and was on Rutledge’s spy team, what alias did Rutledge give him?”

  “Swift,” said Paris. “Gordon Swift.”

  “Yes. And what was Clementine’s?”

  “Robin something,” said Brooklyn.

  “Right, Swift and Robin,” said Kate. “Both birds. That’s a pattern, and it makes sense because Rutledge loves birds.”

  “So what doesn’t fit about the pattern?” asked Rio.

  “He doesn’t,” said Kat. “His alias is R.F. Stroud, which doesn’t have anything to do with birds. Or at least I didn’t think it did. But the entry in the datebook got me thinking, so I searched for something and found this.”

  She looked down at her phone and read what was on it. “Robert Franklin Stroud was a notorious criminal who spent most of his adult life in prisons across the United States. While in solitary confinement at one, he discovered a nest of injured birds and cared for them. He became fascinated with birds, studied them, and turned into a noted ornithologist. From prison he wrote scholarly papers about various species, primarily canaries.”

  “Wow,” said Paris. “That’s quite a transition from criminal to scientist.”

  “But it explains why Rutledge would use that as an alias,” said Brooklyn.

  “There’s more,” said Kat. “Stroud became so famous that a movie was made about his life. The film was even nominated for four Academy Awards.”

  “Really?” said Brooklyn. “That’s kind of amazing.”

  “What was the movie called?” asked Rio.

  Kat looked out across the water as she said, “Birdman of Alcatraz.”

  33. SFO

  ELEVEN HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES after taking off from London, British Airways flight 287 landed at San Francisco International Airport just before midnight. Among those seated in the elite business class was a passenger named Jordan Pope.

  Or at least that was the name on the phony passport.

  Pope’s real name had been buried under so many aliases and fake identities that
it had long since lost any meaning. That was the price of being a spy. At some point, you stopped being the person you once were and just became a temporary identity.

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” said the immigration officer. “Passport, please.”

  Pope slid the passport to the man and waited. As far as forgeries went, this one was as good as there was. There was no doubt it would pass inspection. The officer scanned it through a reader, looked up, and asked, “So, what brings you to the United States? Business or pleasure?”

  Magpie smiled and said, “Actually, I think a little bit of both.”

  34. The Rock

  IT WAS A CHILLY MORNING, and with a brisk wind blowing off the water, most of the passengers stayed inside and enjoyed the view through the panorama windows for the fifteen-minute ferry ride from Pier 33 to Alcatraz. Sydney was an exception. She stood at the front of the Alcatraz Clipper with the sea spray against her face, her cheeks turning pink and tender. She loved it all: the smell, the taste of salt in the air, the Golden Gate Bridge soaring to her left.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Brooklyn asked, tugging the ends of her sweatshirt over her hands as she joined Sydney along the front rail.

  “Nah,” said Sydney. “This is nothing compared to cruising the North Sea on the Sylvia Earle That was cold.”

  “And yet you still went scuba diving,” kidded Brooklyn.

  They both laughed, and it felt good. It was the first time they’d joked about what had happened on the Sylvia Earle.

  “Can you believe that was only a month ago?” asked Sydney.

  “Really?” said Brooklyn. “It seems so much longer.”

  “I know,” said Sydney. “Hopefully, not too long for me to apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?” asked Brooklyn.

  Sydney gave her a look. “For what I said. For the way I acted. For… everything.”

  Brooklyn looked at her friend and gave her a wink. “Best mates.”

  Sydney nodded. “Best mates.” She took a deep breath of salt air and added, “And as your best mate, I need to ask a favor.”