“Not so bad? He’s been poaching my snatches! What could possibly be ‘not so bad’ about that?”
“I think you’re overreacting. Frank told me all about it. He said you were walking around Beijing sightseeing instead of doing the snatch. So Uncle sent him to do it.”
“And you buy that?” I blurt out. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. From my own snatch partner, no less. “Frank told me all about it.” What else is Frank telling her? I can feel my face getting hot.
“Let’s talk about something else,” she says, “like how you’re going to do the snatch in your long underwear.”
“This isn’t long underwear!” I say a little too loudly.
“Whatever. Pajamas. Wait, I’ve got it!” Abbie’s eyes are shining. She does a pirouette on the spot. “Nineteen sixty-two. Paris. The Hope Diamond heist. Remember?”
“Sure, I remember,” I say. How could I forget? It was a perfectly executed snatch. For a month after, no one had a clue the world’s largest diamond had been stolen. But the best thing about Paris was the bowl of French onion soup. Easily the best I’ve ever tasted in my life. Just thinking about that bowl of soup is easing the tension in my shoulders.
“Well, same thing,” she says. “Only this time, we switch roles. You’ll be the VIP, and I’ll be your aide-de-camp. Also, I’ll do all the talking.”
“Hold on. Didn’t I give you a two-word allowance in Paris?” I ask.
Abbie flicks a piece of fluff off her suit jacket. “Well, maybe,” she says slowly. “All right. You get two words, Cale. But that’s all.”
“Plus variations,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “You drive a hard bargain, mister. Okay, plus variations. But you’d better pick them fast. We’ve only got sixteen minutes left.”
I think for a moment and then say, “Cincinnati and Ohio.” Technically, they’re place names and not real words, but Abbie doesn’t seem to object.
“Fine. Now, you see the Brolly Shoppe’s picture window?” she says, pointing. “We’re going to cross and stand right in front of it. As soon as we get there, start swooning.”
“Swooning?”
“You know: fainting, falling down, collapsing, hitting the deck. Whatever you want to call it. Just make it look real, okay? And here,” she adds, handing me her sunglasses. “Take these, Your Excellency.”
“Your Excellency?”
“Uh-uh.” Abbie shakes her head. “Remember? No talking from here on in except for your two words … and variations.”
I nod and we cross the street. A strong smell wafts from the Ye Stinky Cheese Shoppe.
As soon as we arrive in front of the umbrella shop, Abbie turns to me and says in a loud voice, “You’re looking pale, Your Excellency. In fact, if we don’t find some relief for you from this bright sun, I’m afraid you may not be able to carry on. But look, Your Excellency, good fortune is smiling on us. An umbrella shop!”
“Cincina!” I shout.
The carved woodcut sign above the door says JOHN WESTERBROOKE AND SON, ESTABLISHED 1835. And below that, in mirrored glass, UMBRELLAS, TROPICAL SUNSHADES, FOLDING UMBRELLAS, WALKING STICKS.
I gaze at the display. Someone has gone to a lot of effort to build a wheel made entirely of umbrellas. I continue to stare until I see Abbie’s face reflected in the window. She’s giving me the look of death.
“Swoon!” she commands over my mindpatch.
I swoon. To my credit, it’s a brilliant bit of acting: I go down heavy, banging my elbow and scraping my knee on the sidewalk.
A chubby man appears at my side and helps me up. Another man, this one wearing suspenders and a narrow brown necktie, comes rushing out of the umbrella shop to help. Out of the corner of my “royal” eye, I can see Abbie’s frown turn into a tight smile.
“Your Excellency, are you all right?” she asks.
“Nati. Nati,” I say, stumbling a bit.
“We must get you inside and sitting down, Excellency.” Abbie takes my arm. I feel a tingle at her touch, which surprises and embarrasses me at the same time. But I don’t think she notices. She’s too caught up in her performance.
“Sir, would you be so good as to assist?” she asks the man wearing suspenders.
“Certainly, miss.” He takes my other arm and they lead me into the Brolly Shoppe. I play up my dizzy monarch role, swaying slightly before they plop me down onto a chair.
There are umbrellas everywhere: hanging from the walls and the ceilings, standing tall in bins scattered throughout the shop. Big. Small. In every color of the rainbow. There’s even an umbrella with a map of London on it.
“I’m so sorry about this,” Abbie says to the shopkeeper. “His Excellency has a very delicate constitution. He simply cannot tolerate being out in the sun for long periods of time.”
“Ohi. Cinci,” I concur.
The shopkeeper looks at me with wide eyes and then says to Abbie under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “He don’t speak the Queen’s English, then? Tell me, in his own country … is the boy somebody important … y’know … high up?”
She looks him right in the eye and whispers, “He wasn’t until two weeks ago. High up, that is. But then his older brother, the king of Lower Slobovia, died.”
“The king—you don’t say,” the shopkeeper whispers back, his eyes even wider than before. He skips to the front of the store and flips the sign on the door to Closed.
“It was sad, really. He died of … too much sunshine,” Abbie says.
“No! You don’t say,” says the shopkeeper.
“I’m afraid so. But not to worry. Except for his sunlight allergy, His Excellency is in perfect physical condition.”
Abbie glances around the shop, looking impatient. I have to admit it—she’s smooth. Still, I wouldn’t mind if she got to the snatch part a bit quicker.
The shopkeeper breaks the silence first. “Well, we do have umbrellas here, miss. Perhaps Your—I mean, His Excellency would like one.”
“That’s very generous,” says Abbie, smiling. “But you mustn’t feel obliged to give His Excellency an umbrella.”
“Cin, cinnat, nati,” I agree wholeheartedly.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking ’bout giving it to him for fr—” begins the shopkeeper.
But by then, Abbie is already halfway across the floor of the shop. She plucks a green umbrella with an intricately carved handle from a glass display case and examines it.
“This is the one, Cale,” she mindspeaks to me. Out loud to the shopkeeper she says, “This umbrella will be acceptable.”
The shopkeeper’s face goes white. “Oh, not that one, please, miss. It’s a one of a kind, you see. A Frederick Blackman. You can see his initials carved right there in the handle. There are only a handful of Frederick Blackmans left in the world and only one in this color. Picked it up at Randolph Churchill’s estate sale for a song. It might even have been used by Winnie himself at one time. I’m terribly sorry, but it’s not for sale. How ’bout a very nice—”
“Sir, quickly”—Abbie cuts him off—“what level of security are you cleared for?”
“What d’you mean, miss?” asks the shopkeeper.
There he goes with the wide eyes again. Only this time, he leaves his jaw hanging open, too.
“I mean, sir,” says Abbie, still clutching the Frederick Blackman, “your telephone is about to ring, and I must know this instant if your security clearance is high enough for you to answer it!”
“Well I—” begins the shopkeeper.
The next second the phone rings.
“Never mind.” Abbie rushes toward the counter. “I’ll get it.”
“Hello? Yes, Your Majesty,” she says. “Thank you, ma’am. His Excellency’s trip was very comfortable. Buckingham Palace? Of course we can. As soon as His Excellency recovers.”
Abbie nods into the phone. “Yes, I’m afraid so. His Excellency’s had one of his spells. … Oh, that’s very kind, ma’am. Thank you, but really the
re’s no need for your personal physician. … We are here at …”
She pulls the phone away from her ear for a moment and looks inquiringly at the shopkeeper, who has taken up a position behind the counter.
“The Brolly Shoppe, miss,” he pipes up. “Tell ’er Majesty yer at the Brolly Shoppe on Kensington High Street. And that Nick Westerbrooke is taking personal care o’ you. That’s Westerbrooke with an e,” he says, straightening his tie.
She nods quickly and turns her attention back to the phone. “The Brolly Shoppe, ma’am. And we’re being attended to by the owner himself … a Mr. Westinghouse. … Yes … I’m certain we’ll be able to depart shortly. Mr. Washinghook has offered to sell us one of his umbrellas so that His Excellency can carry on without a relapse. …”
Abbie continues. “Yes, I did say ‘sell,’ ma’am. … No, I wouldn’t dream of asking Mr. Westernwind to simply gift it to His Excellency. … Well, that’s true, I suppose. … I don’t think he realizes how important it is for Britain and Lower Slobovia to maintain good relations. … But, truly, ma’am, I would not want to embarrass him—”
“Wait!” yells the shopkeeper, hopping over the counter. “Tell the Queen that I’ll give it to His Excellency for free. And tell her that Nick Westerbrooke is a friend to all nations o’ the world.”
Abbie smiles. “Thank you … uh, Nick.”
“Atti O.” I give him a nod.
“Yes, ma’am, he has,” she says. “He is a most delightful fellow. All right. I will happily do so.” Then she hangs up.
“Mr. … Westermess?” Abbie says, looking at Nick. “Her Majesty thanks you immensely and says that she will commend you personally when she comes and visits your shop.”
“Thank you. Oh, thank you.” The shopkeeper kisses Abbie’s hand.
After a moment, he holds his hands out and says, “May I?”
She gives a little nod and hands him the Frederick Blackman. He turns and heads my way, cradling the umbrella in his hands. When he reaches me, he kneels and presents it to me sideways like a knight tendering his sword. “Please, Your Majes … I mean Your Most Excellency. I would be honored if you would take this umbrella as a gift of friendship from the British people.”
“Cincina. Ohi. Ocinci,” I say, which is my longest speech of the day.
“His Excellency says thank you,” Abbie translates as she helps me to my feet and hustles me to the door. “Farewell and thank you, sir. You have done a great service to your country.”
“An honor, miss,” says the shopkeeper, giving a little bow.
“Hio!” I waggle three of my royal fingers his way.
We begin walking away but don’t get more than five steps before the shopkeeper comes running up to us, out of breath. “Miss, did the queen say when she was coming by?”
“No, but don’t let that worry you,” she says. “She’s really not allowed to say those sorts of things over the telephone. Security concerns, you know.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” says Nick. “Well, I’ll be here. I always am.”
“Good,” says Abbie, nodding. She turns back my way. “Come along now, Your Excellency. We’re expected at the palace.”
She slips her arm under mine and continues walking. There it is again. The same squirmy but exciting feeling I felt before. Abbie, on the other hand, doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable. Did she take my arm as part of the act? You know—the loyal aide-de-camp leading the monarch of Lower Slobovia to his next social engagement? Or is she doing this because she likes me? I mean, as in she really likes me.
A peek at my fingernail tells me we’ve completed the snatch with three and a half minutes to spare. That’s plenty of time to find a quiet spot for the timeleap back to Headquarters.
The sun hits my eyes and I hoist the umbrella over my head, wrong end up.
“Nati?” I inquire, and this sends us both into gales of laughter.
It feels good to be here with Abbie, walking together and laughing. Just the two of us. I want to hold on to this moment forever.
“How’d you do that thing with the phone?” I ask.
She gives my arm a little squeeze and fishes something from her pants pocket. It’s a blue sphere about the same size as a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s fairly new. Uncle only got them in this week. It can set off anything you want within fifty feet.”
“Impressive,” I say.
She replaces the device in her pocket, slips her hand inside her suit jacket and pulls out a folded yellow umbrella. She’s smooth. I hadn’t even seen her steal it.
“Why two umbrellas?” I ask. “We only needed to snatch one.”
“Two is always better than one, Caleb of Cincinnati,” she says. “Besides, who knows? It may rain on our next mission.”
“Where is our next mission, anyway?” I say. It’s easier to ask Abbie than to check the mission schedule myself.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s listed as TBA.”
To be announced. So Uncle hasn’t yet provided details of the snatch to Nassim or to Phoebe. That could be because he hasn’t gotten around to doing it. But more likely it means that there’s something special about the snatch—something that Uncle wants to tell us himself.
I’m about to say something, and that’s when I see them. A family of five walking our way. The parents are holding hands and smiling. Right behind are three children, two girls and a boy. The older girl looks to be about my age. I peg her sister at twelve years old and her brother around five. He has the same mousy brown hair as me. The girls have grabbed hold of his arms and are swinging him along as they walk. The expression on the boy’s face is one of total happiness.
I stop and watch them pass. Feelings begin to stir deep inside me. Strong feelings that I don’t completely understand. I push them away. Out of sight, out of mind.
“What’s the matter, Cale? Is everything okay?” Abbie says.
“Sure,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not true.
“Why don’t I handle the check-in with Nassim,” she says, grabbing the Frederick Blackman from me. “You take a break. And maybe a shower too.”
Abbie ducks into a narrow lane. I’m not more than a couple of steps in before she vanishes. I raise my arm and sniff. Eww! She’s right. I give my wrist a tap, and the only thing I leave behind in London is my body odor.
June 23, 2061, 9:33 A.M.
Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)
I land near the side entrance door of the brownstone across the street from Headquarters. My sudden arrival six inches from where she’s standing startles a tall, spiky-haired woman and her Chihuahua. The combination of the woman’s scream and the yappy dog’s bark feels like someone’s driving a spike into my ears. I generally like to land in quiet, out-of-the-way places where my arrival won’t attract attention, but what can I do? This is New York. Correction: New Beijing.
As soon as the time freeze wears off, I backpedal and mutter my apologies. But the little dog isn’t the forgiving kind. She lunges for my ankle, which I suspect is as high as the wretched thing can jump, and I spend the next minute and a half trying to shake her off.
Finally, I manage to rid myself of the ankle biter and cross the street. The mega-sized screen at the top of 181 Franklin is flashing the results from last night’s game. Boston Red Sox 8, Beijing Blue Dragons 1. I don’t see why they even bother announcing the score: no one around here gives two hoots about the Blue Dragons. If you ask a hundred New Yorkers what they like least about the Great Friendship, they’ll all say the same thing: swapping the Yankees with Beijing’s pro baseball team. No one would have objected if it had been the horrible Knicks, but the Yankees? It’s like a stab through the heart.
I pause for a moment in front of Headquarters. It’s one of those perfect New York days: light breeze, warm but not too warm and a brilliant blue sky. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs. It amazes me sometimes how much my moods are influenced by the weather.
T
hen the front door opens and Frank steps out. Good-bye, perfect day.
“Hey, Caleb, what’s up?” he says.
As he walks down the steps toward me, I study his grin. When you live with someone, you get to know their facial expressions. Even at ten paces away, I can tell that this isn’t his usual “I’m better than you” smile. There’s something else to it. A slight raising of one eyebrow. A subtle flaring of the nostrils. Yes, this look says “I know something you don’t know.”
“Nice dress,” says Frank. “Been out shopping for a matching purse?”
There’s more than just the usual snicker in his little jab. He’s definitely holding back. Then it clicks in my brain.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “You changed my clothes for the London mission.”
“Are you accusing me?” he says and I immediately know from his tone of voice that my guess is right on the money.
“Accusing you?” I say. “Me? Never. You were right. I was out purse shopping. You won’t believe the choices they had. In fact I saw one that I almost got for you. It was made from porcupine skin. You just have to be a bit careful when you use the shoulder strap.”
“Very funny,” he says.
I begin to walk past him.
“Hey, not so fast.” Frank steps in front of me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I lift it off.
“If you don’t mind,” I say, “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Yeah, really,” I answer.
“So unfriendly. That’s hardly the way to speak to your roommate. Especially when he’s about to do you a favor.”
That’s precious. I can’t remember the last time Frank did me a favor. But instead I say, “You’re right. I should be friendlier. Let me see … oh, yes. Your duck last night was … ducky.”
“Thank you, Caleb. I got quite a few compliments. Abbie’s was the best, though. I’m actually going to see her now. She likes to hang with me, you know.”
It’s a good thing he can’t see past my closed mouth, because I’m grinding my teeth big-time. If I was being honest with myself, which is something I usually try to avoid, I’d have to admit that Frank’s not stretching the truth about Abbie liking to hang with him. I’ve seen it myself.
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