by Anna Dale
‘I guess not,’ said Dawn slowly. Her brain had felt pretty numb by the time she had reached the final question and she was prepared to admit that she hadn’t given it much thought.
‘If your cover’s been blown and you’ve got someone on your tail you should run away,’ said Socrates, ‘as fast as you possibly can. You mustn’t let yourself be captured.’
‘OK,’ agreed Dawn.
‘Chances are he’ll probably give chase and then it will be up to you to give him the slip. That’s why it’s important to know the area like the back of your hand. If you’re having trouble shaking him off, find yourself a big crowd of people and lose yourself in it. That’s always worked for me.’
‘Right,’ said Dawn.
‘Apart from that last blunder,’ said Socrates, totting up her score, ‘your other mistakes were fairly minor. All things considered, you haven’t done badly at all. Good effort, Dawn.’ He gripped the arms of his chair as if he was going to get up, seemed to change his mind, deftly folded Dawn’s test paper until it resembled an aeroplane and threw it back to her.
She caught it in one hand, then smoothed it out and studied a wavy vertical line of red ticks and crosses. There were several comments scrawled by Socrates in the margin and at the bottom of the sheet was a circled number.
‘Eighty-one-and-a-half per cent!’ breathed Dawn. She felt immensely proud. ‘That’s got to be worth a couple of housepoints at least!’
‘Nice haircut,’ said Red approvingly.
‘Thanks,’ said Dawn. After the test, she had been summoned to the Concealment and Disguise room and had eaten a lunch of banana sandwiches while Izzie snipped at her hair with a small pair of silver scissors. Instead of a head of lank, rather untidy jaw-length hair, she now possessed a chic, short hairstyle with a feathered fringe. There was nothing remotely flamboyant about it, but Dawn had opened her eyes very wide when Izzie had held up a mirror. It was the closest thing to a fashionable haircut that Dawn had ever had.
‘Cute outfit, too,’ said Emma.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Dawn, stepping over the threshold of Red’s office. She felt a little naked without her mushroom-coloured knee socks and faithful old plimsolls, but she had to admit that her new white sandals (complete with creased straps and worn-down heels to make them appear as if they’d belonged to her for ages) kept her toes nice and cool. It had to be said that her new navy shorts were also far more summery than the woollen kilt she had been wearing earlier in the day. Her new pale yellow T-shirt was her favourite item of clothing, though. Its sleeves, with their scalloped edges, were very pretty, but they weren’t the reason that she liked it so much. It was the colour that had won Dawn over. It was almost exactly the same shade of yellow as the front door of number eight, Windmill View.
‘You look just perfect,’ said Emma.
Dawn smiled – even wider than she had done when Jagdish had been taking her picture a short while ago. She had sat on a stool in the Forgery and Fakery room while he clicked away with his camera, using up a whole roll of film. He was probably developing it at that moment. She couldn’t wait to see the photographs of herself after her makeover.
‘I feel like a new person … kind of,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Red, sitting forward in his green leather chair. ‘That’s the idea!’ He rubbed his hands together before sorting through a pile of papers on his desk. ‘I think it’s time. – ’
‘Excuse me, sir, but Trudy’s not here yet,’ pointed out Emma.
Red sighed. ‘Botheration. There’s no point in starting without her. What do you suppose is holding her up?’
‘I believe she’s having a fitting.’
‘Still?’ Red looked amazed. ‘Goodness me! I wouldn’t have thought it’d take more than five minutes to throw on a few togs.’ He began to nibble fretfully at his nails. ‘We’ve got an awful lot to get through. Nip across the corridor, Emma, would you, please – and ask Trudy to get over here pronto.’
‘With pleasure, sir.’
Before Emma could rise from her chair there came the sound of a door opening in the next room. Brisk footsteps crossed the small space where Trudy did her typing and then someone rapped quite vigorously on the door of Red’s office.
‘You may come in,’ he said. ‘Oh, Trudy, it’s you. Excellent. My, my – don’t you look nice.’
‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that Dawn would have chosen. It didn’t seem as if Trudy agreed with his choice of adjective either. She stood in the doorway dressed in a pair of brown slacks, a plain cotton blouse and a baseball cap. The expression on her face was nothing less than murderous.
‘I resign,’ she said.
There was a pause; then Red exploded into laughter. ‘You’ve got a cracking sense of humour,’ he said admiringly. ‘Hasn’t she, Emma? What a wit!’
‘Er … I’ve got a feeling she’s deadly serious, sir.’
‘Hah, hah, hah I don’t think so!’ Red neatened the pile of papers on his desk. ‘Now,’ he said, becoming serious again. He stole a glance at the top sheet. ‘I bet you’re both dying to know what your false names are going to be –’
‘I refuse to go on this mission looking like a scruff-bag,’ said Trudy, folding her arms in a defiant manner. ‘You promised me a stylish wardrobe. When cashmere was mentioned I imagined a beautiful roll-neck sweater – not,’ she said, lifting a trouser leg, ‘a pair of socks. I can’t possibly be expected to go out in public wearing this hideous get-up. I look like a farm hand, for goodness sake.’
Red and Emma glanced at each other and smiles crept across their faces.
‘You’re almost there – but not quite,’ said Red.
‘I don’t follow,’ said Trudy crossly.
‘Sandra Wilson – that’s the name we’ve selected for you. Originally, I’d visualised Sandra as a teacher of flower arranging, a Brown Owl … or something like that, but Emma came up with a much better idea.’
‘Did she indeed,’ said Trudy, her face like thunder.
‘Yup. Farm hand wasn’t a bad guess. The career we’ve chosen for Sandra does have something to do with agriculture … or should that be horticulture?’ Red grinned proudly. ‘You’re going to be a gardener.’
Trudy pulled a face. ‘And that would involve …’
‘Mowing lawns,’ said Red, ‘digging, weeding, a bit of pruning here and there. It’s the perfect job for someone undercover. You’ll be able to infiltrate no end of gardens and – this is the really clever bit – Dawn can be your helper! It’s the summer holidays; you’re a single mum; nobody will turn a hair if you bring your daughter to work with you … and while you’re doing your stuff in the flowerbeds, Dawn can snoop about. Cunning idea, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose,’ said Trudy grudgingly. ‘But I still don’t think I’m the right person for this assignment.’ She held out her smooth, pale fingers, the nails of which had been painted pillar-box red. ‘Do these look like the hands of a gardener to you?’
‘Not at the moment,’ agreed Emma, ‘but their appearance can be altered easily enough. Once Izzie’s clipped your nails and pressed a little dirt underneath each one …’
Trudy groaned. ‘I hope I’m going to get a pay rise after this.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Red, pushing a few sheets of paper into her hands. ‘This is your personal legend.’
‘My what?’ Trudy said.
‘Details about your new identity: your birth date, your family background, favourite pop group, and so on.’
‘And here’s yours, Dawn,’ said Emma, handing over some pages which had been paper-clipped together.
‘I want you both to memorise them,’ said Red, glancing at the clock on his desk. ‘I’ll give you fifteen minutes.’
‘State your name, please,’ said Red, ‘in full.’
‘Katherine Ann Wilson,’ said Dawn, ‘but everyone calls me “Kitty”.’
‘Age?’
‘Ten years, five months and nine days,’ said Dawn precisely. ‘My bir
thday is the eighteenth of February. I was born on a Tuesday.’
‘Where?’ said Red.
‘In a place called Bury St Edmunds. I weighed seven pounds exactly.’
‘Excellent,’ said Red, ticking a few things off a list. ‘Now, tell me some more about yourself, Kitty.’
‘I’m an only child,’ said Dawn. ‘My mum is called Sandra. She’s forty-one and she looks after people’s gardens for a living. She and my dad, Pete, got divorced when I was little. Um …’
‘You’re doing very well,’ whispered Emma.
‘My hobbies are stamp-collecting and gymnastics,’ said Dawn, squeezing her eyes shut and concentrating very hard. ‘My favourite colour is pale pink, I read books by Enid Blyton, I like chips and cheesecake but marzipan makes me feel sick … and I want to be a schoolteacher when I grow up.’
‘Very impressive,’ said Red. ‘Let’s hear from your mum, now, shall we?’
Trudy failed to do as well as Dawn. She misremembered Sandra’s birthday and couldn’t recall her favourite film, but Red seemed to think that with a little extra coaching, she would be word perfect by the morning of the mission.
‘It’s quite exciting, isn’t it?’ said Dawn, delighted by her own faultless performance. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy pretending to be someone else.’
Trudy grunted. ‘I suppose I can put up with these dreadful clothes and the odd bit of gardening, but if I find my files in a mess when I return …’
‘There’s no need to worry,’ said Red calmly. ‘I believe I mentioned that Emma will be taking over your duties while you’re absent. You’re not the sort to let standards slip, are you, Emma?’
‘Definitely not, sir’, said Emma.
‘Huh,’ said Trudy. ‘Couldn’t manage to put Bob’s file back in the right place, though, could you?’
‘I’ve already told you,’ said Emma heatedly, ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Well, it wasn’t any of the others. I’ve asked them.’ Trudy directed her next comments at Red. ‘I noticed the file was out of place last week. Not only was it stuffed into the filing cabinet willy-nilly … well, hold on a moment,’ she said, briskly walking over to the door. ‘I’ll fetch it, shall I? Then you can see the damage for yourself. ’
In half a minute, Trudy had returned to Red’s office with a grey cardboard folder in one hand. She opened it and produced a sheet of thick mauve paper with a gold edging, much like the paper upon which Dawn’s contract had been typed. At the top of the paper Dawn could see the name Robert Alfred Chalk, and below it his personal details were listed.
As Trudy held out the sheet in front of her, Dawn was able to crane her neck and read a few words. Bob was thirty-three. He was described as being ‘shrewd, determined and fearless’. He’d had over one hundred aliases, and his list of ‘special skills’, which included aikido and snake charming, was impressively long.
‘You see!’ said Trudy, pointing at the bottom right-hand corner of the piece of paper – or at least where the corner should have been. ‘It’s been ripped!’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Red, examining the torn edge, where a small triangle of mauve paper had been removed. Dawn watched him run his finger along the lowest line of text. Next to the category ‘Dislikes, Allergies or Phobias’ had been typed the word ‘None’. ‘I agree,’ he said to Trudy, ‘that someone’s been rather careless, but I don’t think there’s any harm done. No information has been lost as far as I can see.’
‘Nevertheless, it’d better not happen again,’ said Trudy, whipping the piece of paper out of his hands and staring pointedly in Emma’s direction.
‘Golly, is that the time?’ said Red, glancing at his clock. Its hour hand had almost reached the number five. ‘Time to wrap things up for today!’ He opened a drawer in his desk and lifted out a gardening manual. ‘A little something for you to read in bed,’ he said, handing it to Trudy.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.
‘As for my young spy,’ said Red kindly, turning to Dawn, ‘I think you deserve the evening off. Socrates tells me that you scored very highly in your test this morning.’
Dawn felt her cheeks turning pink.
‘Well, Kitty Wilson,’ said Red. ‘Only one more day to go before you can put all those things you’ve learned into practice!’
Chapter Nine
Trouble Downstairs
‘Operation Question Mark?’ said Red, looking flummoxed. He peered more closely at the piece of paper he was holding. ‘I don’t remember calling it that …’
‘Well, you did,’ said Trudy testily. ‘That’s what you’d written down. You gave me your notes and I typed them up word for word. If there’s an error, it certainly isn’t mine.’
‘Oh!’ Red slapped himself on the forehead. ‘I know what I did! I was trying to come up with a code name for this mission and I couldn’t think of one which seemed to fit. I wrote down “Operation” with a question mark next to it and decided to mull it over in my mind. I must have forgotten all about it,’ he said. ‘Anyone got any suggestions?’
The room fell silent as everyone thought very hard. Everyone, that is, except Dawn.
She was far too preoccupied with the butterflies in her stomach to care about the name of the mission. Her mission. The mission which she would be embarking upon tomorrow. She hugged her stomach as the fluttering sensation grew worse.
Red had called this meeting ‘The Final Briefing’. He had gathered together the staff of P.S.S.T. in the Top Secret Missions room first thing on Friday morning. On entering the room, Dawn had noticed that all manner of maps and photographs had been pinned to the walls. It looked like some sort of exhibition. There was a large-scale map of Cherry Bentley, showing field boundaries and footpaths with multicoloured drawing pins stuck to it. Alongside this were aerial photographs of the village green, the church, the local shops and a tumbledown mansion. Three black-and-white portrait shots turned out to be photographs of P.S.S.T.’s unfortunate spies: Miles Evergreen, Bob Chalk and Angela Bradshaw.
Although Dawn scanned the walls from top to bottom she failed to find a photograph labelled ‘Murdo Meek’.
Red had surprised Dawn by dressing more authoritatively than usual. He had put on a new brown tie with yellow stripes, swapped his sandals for a pair of lace-ups and trimmed his wispy ginger beard. He had also adopted an expression of utmost seriousness.
In fact, thought Dawn, as she glanced around the room at all the members of P.S.S.T. who were racking their brains to think of an apt name for the mission, everybody looked rather grim-faced, now she came to think of it.
‘Operation Hopscotch,’ said Izzie suddenly.
‘Hopscotch! Pah! That’s a kids’ game,’ sneered Socrates.
‘That’s why I suggested it,’ said Izzie. ‘I thought it would be fitting to use a name that’s associated with children – in honour of wee Dawn. This is the first time a youngster has been sent on a mission, don’t you forget.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ grumbled Socrates. ‘But Operation Hopscotch just sounds soppy. You need something a bit grittier – a word that could inspire you to do courageous things … like Arrow or Scimitar or Blunderbuss …’
Red’s face brightened. ‘Operation Blunderbuss – that does have a certain ring to it …’
‘What is it with you boys?’ said Izzie sharply, a frown appearing on her elfin face. ‘I won’t have you calling another of our missions after some nasty weapon. Why can’t we choose something nice that doesn’t tend to wound people.’
‘How about Operation Peashooter?’ said Jagdish. ‘Peas don’t really hurt. All they do is sting a little.’
Socrates groaned and put his head in his hands.
‘Leapfrog,’ said Izzie. ‘Now, that’s a lovely children’s game. Operation Leapfrog.’
Red shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Izzie. It’s not very uplifting, is it?’
‘How do you feel about Operation Bold Stroke?’ said Emma.
‘Operation Sunstroke,
more like,’ mumbled Trudy, ‘with me outside all day, mowing lawns and goodness knows what, in this awful heat.’
‘Bold Stroke … hmm,’ said Red. ‘That’s not bad.’
Socrates lifted his head and grimaced. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Operation Skipping Rope.’
‘Operation Broadsword.’
Red and Izzie exchanged scathing glances.
‘Operation Nameless,’ said Edith woodenly.
Half an hour later, the discussion was over. Red clapped his hands together. ‘That’s settled then, folks. Operation Question Mark it is.’
The ceiling fan rattled like an old cartwheel above Dawn’s head. Its blades rotated lazily. The fan was displacing a fair few specks of dust but it was not generating much of a breeze. As the morning wore on the room became unpleasantly stuffy, but opening a window was out of the question. What Red had to say was far too secret for anyone below, in the backyard or in neighbouring gardens to overhear.
When he had finished talking about ‘objectives’ and ‘strategies’, Red stood beside the large-scale map of Cherry Bentley and pointed at different coloured drawing pins with a long wooden ruler. Each pin represented a building or place that was relevant to Dawn’s investigation. The tip of the ruler touched on them all – from the red pin which showed the location of the phone box where Bob had been found in a heap, to the yellow pin indicating where Dawn and Trudy would be lodging.
Finally, Red made a confession. He had not informed the Chief of S.H.H. about Operation Question Mark and he had no intention of doing so. The only people who were aware of Dawn’s mission were the members of P.S.S.T., and he wanted it to remain that way.
‘You mean this mission hasn’t been authorised?’ Trudy looked appalled.
‘Philippa Killingback would have put the mockers on the whole thing,’ said Red, ‘if I’d been stupid enough to tell her about it. She thinks Bob and Miles are accident-prone idiots, she refuses to believe that Murdo Meek could still be alive, and she’d never agree to the hiring of a spy who’s only eleven years old.’
