by Mark Levin
“But was actually a spy,” Benji said.
“Right,” the man said. “You were then gassed and held hostage by an old lady, who didn’t like to let you use the bathroom, and her husband. There was also a dog.”
“A really mean dog,” Benji said.
“Noted,” the man said. “I’ll write ‘really mean’ next to the word ‘dog’ in my notes.”
“Listen,” Rebecca said coldly. If there was one thing she hated, it was being patronized. “You might enjoy feeling superior, but we’ve just been through the wringer. This is serious!”
“I know it’s serious,” the agent snapped. “That’s why I’m missing my lunch to get a thorough record. Tell me more about the Vadims.”
“The Vadims?” Roger said.
He was suddenly even more fed up than Rebecca. Hadn’t they already explained the situation?
“We’ve told you already!” Then Roger realized something. He still didn’t know exactly why the real Vadims had sent fakes to Chicago. Frustrated with everything, he tried to work it all out. “The Vadims are the family we thought we did the house swap with. But the Vadims who showed up—let’s call them the Chicago Vadims—didn’t turn out to be the real Vadims, OK? Who knows why? Maybe the real Xavier Vadim knew he was going to steal this vial of MGF and wanted to throw the authorities off track by sending a fake version of themselves to America. All I know is that we somehow ended up in the middle of an international mess and you have to help us!”
“Please,” Rebecca said. Suddenly all she wanted was to be in her own house, safe in bed. “Can we please just go home already?”
“America will require your passports,” the agent said. “That’ll take forty-eight hours minimum.”
“Forty-eight hours?” Roger said.
“That’s forever,” Benji said.
Maddy nodded. “One hundred wall posts in Facebook time.”
“Don’t worry,” Rebecca said. “We aren’t waiting any forty-eight hours.” She reached under her shirt and pulled out a stack of Euros—the ones she had taken from Madame Vadim’s shoe—and painted on her best smile. “Can’t we make that a bit quicker?”
“God, Mom,” Maddy said. “I thought you were looking a little bit chesty there. Nice.”
For the first time since they’d entered his office, the agent smiled, as though he had spent the entire interview waiting for an excuse to call in the cops. “You aren’t trying to bribe me, are you, Mrs. Hitchcock?”
“Of course she isn’t,” Roger said, taking the money. “She was kidding, weren’t you, dear?”
Before Rebecca could launch into her own denial, the agent sighed heavily and waved a hand. “Keep your money, all right? I can offer hotel vouchers until your new passports are prepared. That’s it.”
Rebecca sank back in her seat. “So we’re stuck?” she said.
“For two days,” the agent said. He glanced icily at Maddy. “Or one hundred wall posts to you.”
If Rebecca was resigned to their fate, Roger wasn’t—not quite yet anyway. In his view, an American official should do whatever he could to get them home as fast as he could. Also, his little rant about the true identity of the Vadims had gotten him riled up. Suddenly he had to know exactly what was going on—even if it wasn’t in his best interest.
“Then how about my phone call?” he said. “Even prisoners get phone calls, right? Are you authorized to let an honest, hardworking American use your phone?”
The agent quietly slid the phone to Roger.
“Dial seven for an outside line. I’ll get your vouchers.”
The man left the room and Roger picked up the phone.
“Roger,” Rebecca said. “Who are you calling?”
“Quiet,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”
He punched in their home number. The phone rang twice.
“Hallo?” It was the Chicago Vadim. “Who is this, please?”
Roger knew he should keep his mouth shut. He knew that nothing good could come from confronting the fake version of the man who had tricked him into switching identities. But he couldn’t help himself. He needed to vent and he needed to do it now.
“I’ll tell you who this is! Roger Hitchcock! The man who owns the house you’re staying in. Now who are you—really? I know you’re not Xavier Vadim!”
The Chicago Vadim wasn’t breaking character. “I am sorry?” he said. “Roger? Are you all right?”
Roger was pacing now. “Please! Explain to me what’s going on. You hear me, you piece-of-crap imposter!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“You have no idea . . . ? You get out of my house!”
Roger slammed down the receiver, then looked sheepishly at his family.
“Honey,” Rebecca said. “Calm voice.”
Roger sighed. “I’ve lost my calm voice, honey.”
Just then the fax machine on the agent’s desk began to hum. A moment later an arriving fax began to inch onto the paper tray.
“Oh my God,” Benji said.
“What, dear?”
Benji felt his lips go cold. “Look. It’s us!”
The appearing document contained the Hitchcocks’ passport pictures. Underneath the passport pictures was a group shot.
“That’s outside the Eiffel Tower,” Rebecca said.
“I told you the Elevator Man was taking our picture,” Benji said.
“But what’s this all about?” Maddy said. “Why is this guy getting our pictures?”
“Maybe the Elevator Man is alerting all the embassies in Europe to keep an eye out for us,” Roger said.
“Yeah,” Rebecca said. “To help us get home.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the fax finished printing and fell to the floor. Maddy picked it up. The moment she held it up to the light, her skin went cold.
“This isn’t good,” Benji said.
Maddy had never seen her parents look so pale and lost. It was hard to blame them. The fax had nothing to do with helping them get home. On the bottom of the page, printed in clear bold capitals, were chilling words:
wanted—for espionage!
When the embassy agent returned with the family’s hotel vouchers, the Hitchcocks were gone, hurrying through streets they didn’t know in a city where they didn’t speak the language. Before long, they found themselves approaching an outdoor market. Carts selling everything from food to clothing lined an open square. Roger clutched the APB—their “wanted” fax—in his right fist.
“What’s going on?” Rebecca asked. “What have we gotten involved in?”
“I don’t know, honey.”
“It has to be about the MGF,” Benji said. “Whatever that is. It was stolen and somehow we’re getting framed for it. We find the MGF and we figure this out, right?”
“Right,” Roger said. “But keep your eyes down, people. No eye contact, OK? Not with anyone.”
Terrified, Maddy did as she was told. What had been a fun adventure had crossed the line into terrifying a while ago. For the time being, she was done thinking about Noah, Grace, or the town pool. It was one thing to be hunted by criminals like Harry Huberman—at least then she had assumed the police were on their side. But now they were being hunted by the government. Did that mean she’d spend the rest of her teen years in a Bulgarian prison, living on saltines and water? How would they ever get home now?
Then Maddy saw it—a vibrant flash of red. Wheeling around, she stared across the square to the outdoor café.
“Maddy!” her mother said. “Did you hear your father? Eyes down.”
“Look!”
“I said, eyes down,” Rebecca said.
“What is it?” Roger said.
“Yeah, Mads,” Benji said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” Maddy stammered. She pointed across the square. “The real Veronique Vadim.”
Chapter Sixteen
She stood no more than twenty feet away,
a thirteen-year-old girl with long red hair, browsing through a cart of books.
“No way,” Benji said. “It can’t be.”
“Yes way,” Maddy said. “You didn’t sleep in her bed.”
“She’s got the red hair,” Roger said.
“She’s the right age,” Rebecca said.
“It’s her, OK?” Maddy said. “The girl in the pictures and Stephan’s painting. Trust me on this.”
The family soon got the final proof. As the Hitchcocks watched, the red-haired girl paid for her paperback, then walked across the square to an outdoor café. At a small table was the rest of her family. The Vadims. A little boy, no more than three, was finishing a bowl of ice cream. The mother, also a redhead, was idly stirring a glass of iced coffee. Then there was Monsieur Vadim himself, browsing through a guidebook.
“The real Xavier Vadim,” Roger whispered. “It’s him.”
Looking at his alter ego was both exhilarating and frightening. The real Xavier Vadim was dark and slim but a tad shorter in real life than his pictures. He wore a light-blue polo shirt and tan slacks.
“Are they following us?” Maddy whispered. “Or are we following them? I’m confused.”
“Maybe they can lead us to the MGF,” Benji said.
“Or should we call the police?” Rebecca asked.
Roger shook his head. “What are the police going to do? They’ll probably arrest us. Our fingerprints are everywhere.”
“So we follow them, right?” Benji said.
“Right,” Maddy said.
Roger nodded. “Those Vadims are our only chance of figuring out what’s going on.”
And so a game of cat and mouse began. After the Vadims finished their snack, they wandered slowly back up the main street, glancing idly in shop windows. As for the Hitchcocks, they remained far enough away to stay hidden but close enough not to lose the trail. Soon the Vadims made their way to a busy avenue teeming with rush-hour traffic. Across the street was a lavish marble building. The Hitchcocks hunkered down behind a lamppost.
“The Sofia Intercontinental Hotel,” Roger whispered, looking at his map.
“I bet that’s where they’re staying,” Maddy said.
“Then we’ll stay there, too,” Rebecca said.
“Come on, guys,” Benji said. “They’re crossing.”
But the rest of the family didn’t move fast enough. By the time Benji reached the curb, the light was turning yellow.
“OK, wait,” Rebecca said.
Benji’s gut told him it was time to channel his inner hero once again. If the Vadims got away now, they would be hard to catch. As the light turned red, he took off into traffic.
“Benji!” Rebecca called.
A cab honked. A truck skidded to a halt. An old man shook a grocery bag. But Benji didn’t stop until he had reached the opposite sidewalk.
“Sorry!” he called back. “We can’t lose them!”
“Jeez,” Maddy said to her parents as Benji hurried past the doorman into the hotel. “The kid steals some car keys and he thinks he’s a superhero.”
“Yeah?” Rebecca said. “Then he might be the first superhero in history to be publicly spanked by his mother.”
Unaware of the possible fate that awaited him, Benji followed the Vadims into the thick of the lobby. As Monsieur Vadim stopped to buy a paper, Benji ducked behind a large plant, heart pounding—not out of anxiety but out of excitement. When Monsieur Vadim stepped out of the newsstand, Benji moved behind a pile of suitcases, then crouched by the side of a decorative fountain. When the Vadims got on the elevator, Benji hurried behind, catching the door with his hand and slipping on at the last second.
“Sorry,” he said.
Monsieur Vadim smiled. “Pas de probleme.”
Benji swallowed hard. It was one thing to track someone from a distance but quite another to confront them face-to-face.
“Ah, merci,” he said.
“Your floor?”
This time it was Madame Vadim, an attractive woman with red hair and a kind smile.
With his heart pounding a mile a minute, it was hard to think. The Vadims had pressed “twelve.” To find out their room number, he’d have to pick a higher floor.
“Fifteen, please.”
Madame Vadim pressed the button for him, and Benji stepped back in between Veronique and Jean-Claude and tried to enjoy the ride. But as the elevator rose, America’s latest, greatest spy became more and more nervous. What if Monsieur Vadim recognized him somehow? Looking down, Benji saw Jean-Claude staring up at him. Was he about to be found out by a three-year-old kid? Did he sense that Benji had slept in his Batman bed? Or worn his cape to the opera? Benji gasped. Maybe the spy business wasn’t for him after all.
“Jean-Claude!”
It was Madame Vadim.
Benji exhaled sharply. He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to beat so quickly and still function.
“Oui, maman?”
“Ne regardes pas.”
The boy quickly took his eyes from Benji and stared at his feet. The elevator finally stopped—and not a moment too soon. Benji’s brow was dripping with actual sweat.
“Au revoir,” Madame Vadim said.
“Ah, oui,” Benji stammered. “Au revoir.”
It was only through an act of sheer will that he was able to press the “open door” button long enough to see the Vadims wander down the hall and stop outside Room 1212. Greatly relieved, he traveled up to fifteen, then pressed “one” to go back downstairs.
“You did it,” he told himself, highly pleased with his piece of improvised reconnaissance.
By the time he arrived back in the lobby, Benji’s nerves had settled. Now that he was safe, he all but strutted off the elevator.
“Benjamin Hitchcock!”
Benji blinked as though he had expected to be met by a brass band and cheering section, as opposed to one extremely unhappy-looking mother. He had almost forgotten that he had left the family across the street.
“You listen to me, young man! Just because you stole a set of car keys doesn’t make you immortal. Did you see that truck? Of course you didn’t! Well, it nearly ran you over! Never run across a street like that again. Never sneak across a hotel lobby like a criminal. Or get in an elevator with a family of—of killers!”
Up until the end of Rebecca’s little tirade, Benji had been on the defensive. But Rebecca had overplayed her hand.
“Killers, Mom?” Benji said. “Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction?”
Rebecca was in no mood to get into a debate on semantics with a nine-year-old.
“Who knows what these Vadims are up to? What kind of people steal vials of things and send fake versions of themselves into the homes of innocent people?”
Now Benji smiled. “That’s the point, Mom. Now we can find out. They’re staying in Room 1212.”
“Bull’s-eye, sport,” Roger said.
“Guess they didn’t kill him, Mom,” Maddy said.
“Yeah?” Rebecca turned to Benji. “You run off like that again and I’ll do it for them.”
A short while later, the Hitchcocks were in an elevator going up to their own room: Room 1412. Since there was no thirteenth floor on the hotel, they would be one floor above the Vadims.
“Tonight we sleep,” Roger said. “Tomorrow we spy.”
He and Benji slapped five.
“Nice, Dad!”
The elevator stopped at fourteen.
“I don’t know about you,” Rebecca said as the doors opened, “but the first thing this team member is doing when we get to the room is a no-brainer. I haven’t had a hot shower in days.”
Chapter Seventeen
Early the next morning the Hitchcocks ordered breakfast from room service. After the trays were cleared, Roger slipped into the lobby and purchased four disposable cell phones. Soon after, the family fanned out to their assigned posts. While Roger and Maddy waited in their room, Rebecca and Benji took strategic positions in view of t
he elevator banks. Benji stood by the concierge’s desk. Rebecca crouched behind a giant ficus. Then they waited for the Vadims.
Ten minutes passed. Just when Benji was starting to get bored, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Monsieur.”
To Benji’s surprise, he found himself face-to-face with a well-groomed man in an elegant red suit: the concierge.
“May I get you something while you wait?” he asked in perfect English. “A newspaper or perhaps a coffee?”
“Uh, yes, yes,” Benji stammered. “Coffee. Extra milk.”
“Very good, sir.”
The concierge called the dining room to place the order. Eyes on the elevators, Benji moved behind the fountain in the center of the lobby. Five more minutes crawled by. A family of four exited the far elevator—a couple with a girl and a boy. For a moment Benji’s heart fluttered: the Vadims! But in seconds, he realized he was wrong. The boy was at least seven and the girl had blond hair. False alarm.
“Your café, Monsieur.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
As the concierge turned away, Benji took a sip. It was hotter and much more bitter than he expected. He forced it down with a grimace. As he wiped his chin, his cell phone rang. Benji tapped his Bluetooth.
“What are you doing?”
Benji glanced across the lobby. His mother was staring right at him.
“Are you drinking coffee?”
Caught red-handed, Benji opted for a complete change of subject.
“Do you think the Vadims are staying in for the day, Momma H.?”
“Don’t call me that, Benji.”
“It’s spy talk, Mom. Get with the spirit. And don’t forget. I’m Sonny H., OK?”
There was a click on the line. Benji checked his caller ID: his father, conferencing in from the hotel room.
“Got you, Poppa H.,” Benji said.
“Still no sign of the Vadims?”
“No,” Benji said. “Nothing.”
“You might have missed them while you were ordering coffee from the concierge. Your son ordered coffee, Roger.”
“Hmmm,” Roger said. “Was it good?”
“Pretty good. A little bitter.”
“See?” Rebecca said.
“We’re getting off the subject,” Benji said. “The Vadims. Still no sign of them.”
