Mac Undercover

by Mike Lowery

  ipsum kind of like a Tyrannosaurus rex. lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum using seven bananas, which is

  why secret agents should carry bananas with them at all times. lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsumlorem ipsu. cut the

  red wire or the blue wire? Easy: I cut all the wires. lorem i ipsum. psupsupsupsupsupsu psupsupsum lorem ipsum disabled the alarm lorem ipsum lorem ipsum seven-digit code, which was (and still is) lorem ipsum ipsum. lorem ipsum lorem ipsum a ham sandwich. Then all there was to it was to lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsuorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum l ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum rem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lrem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum loripsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsm lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lom ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum loremsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem isum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ium lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lor ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum and there we were. Standing in front of the Mona Lisa.

  “We did it, Freddie,” I said, and tried to wipe the mustard from the sandwich off my shirt.

  The Mona Lisa was smaller than I thought it would be. It was also greener than I thought it would be, but that’s probably just because I was wearing night-vision sunglasses.

  Very carefully, I lifted the painting off the wall.

  I paused, holding the painting aloft, bracing for an alarm.

  After five seconds of silence, I smiled.

  “Looks like step seven worked,” I said to Freddie, who was busy licking the mustard off my shirt.

  I tucked the Mona Lisa under my arm and made for the exit.

  “Halt!” someone cried in the dark.

  I froze.

  “Turn around!”

  I turned around.

  I was face-to-face with a guard.

  “Hands in the air!” the guard shouted.

  “But then I’ll drop the Mona Lisa,” I said.

  “Good point,” said the guard. “Hand me the painting.”

  Reluctantly, I gave the guard the Mona Lisa.

  He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and chained me to the handrail of a nearby staircase.

  I slumped against the wall.

  “Be careful where you sit,” said the guard. “That spot is dusty. You don’t want to get those jeans dirty.”

  How could I worry about my jeans at a time like this, when my whole mission was falling apart?

  Still, they were great jeans. I shifted to a clean spot.

  “This is all a mistake,” I said. “My name is Hugh Anthony Cregg III, and I am simply here from Kalamazoo, Michigan, to tune the Louvre’s pianos.”

  The guard laughed.

  “Wait here, Mr. Cregg. We’ll—”

  “Mr. Cregg III,” I said.

  “Wait here, Mr. Cregg III. Soon you’ll be tuning all the pianos you want—in jail.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  But the guard was already gone.

  I expected to be arrested immediately.

  I sat handcuffed to the rail for hours.

  Luckily, I had a nice view: I was directly across from the Venus de Milo. (That name means “Venus of Milos.” Milos is the name of the island where the statue was discovered, but nobody knows for sure if it is supposed to be Venus. Pretty good name, six out of ten.)

  Staring at the statue gave me an idea.

  “Freddie!” I said. “I need you to chew off my right arm!”

  Freddie stared at me.

  “It’s our only hope at escape! Do it now!”

  Freddie got up on his hind legs and licked my wrist.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a start.”

  But before I could train Freddie to free me from my bonds, an alarm blared.

  Another guard appeared.

  She rushed to where I sat on the ground.

  “Monsieur!” she said, followed by a bunch of French.

  (I didn’t speak French.)

  When she figured out I spoke English, she said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The Mona Lisa is missing!” she said. “Did you see the robbery?”

  “See the robbery?” I said. “I did the robbery.”

  She seemed surprised. I figured I should come clean. When my mom caught me doing something bad, it was always best to confess everything. I got in less trouble that way.

  “Surely you are joking, monsieur,” she said. “And you are not very funny.”

  “I am not joking,” I said. “And actually a lot of people in my class think that I am pretty funny.”

  “Your class?”

  I remembered my disguise.

  “My class … ical music appreciation group. I am a piano tuner from Kalamazoo, Michig—”

  “I do not care,” said the guard. “If you stole the Mona Lisa, where is it, and why are you handcuffed to this staircase?”

  “I already gave it back,” I said. “I handed it to the other guard.”

  “The other guard?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He had light hair, serious eyes, and a sad smile. Oh, and green skin, but that was probably just my night-vision sunglasses.”

  “Monsieur,” said the guard, “there is no guard here by that description.”

  “Then who did I give the Mona Lisa to?” I asked.

  The guard pulled out a walkie-talkie.

  “Perhaps you should talk to the President of France,” she said.

  This is the Arc de Triomphe.

  On a foggy night, I met there with the President of France.

  Its name means “Arch of Triumph.” As you can see, it is an arch. It was built by the Emperor of France to celebrate triumph.

  Sure, good name. But on that night I did not feel triumphant. I was utterly defeated.

  The President of France looked very disappointed in me.

  Later, when I saw pictures of him, I realized that he always looked disappointed.

  At the time, it was hard not to take it personally. He wore a thick coat and pulled it around himself.

  “It’s cold out here,” I said.

  “Oui,” said the President of France.

  (I knew what that meant.)

  “Maybe we should meet somewhere warm?” I said. “Like your palace?”

  “I take it you are a secret agent,” said the President of France.

  “Oui,” I said.

  “Then this is how we must meet. In the night. In the fog. In the cold.”

  “OK,” I said. “Mr. President, the world is a mess, and I think it is all my fault.”

  “I am sure you are being hard on yourself,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  I told him everything.

  “You are right,” said the President. “This is all your fault.”

  I frowned. “Well, it’s a little bit your fault too. For stealing the Coronation Spoon. And my Game Boy.”

  “But I did not steal the spoon. Or your Game Boy. I already own a Game Boy.”

  “You do? Do you play SPY MASTER?”

  “Oui.”

  “What’s your high score?”

  “Four thousand.”

  “Pretty good,” I said.

  (Mine was way higher.)

  “I will tell you,” said the President of France, “I am very happy to meet another grown man who plays a Game Boy.”

  “Actually, I am just a kid.”

  “Ah,” said the President of France. He looked even more disappointed. “You did seem very short. But then, so was the man who built this arch.”

  (He was right. You can look that up.)

  “I think it’s cool you play Game Boy,” I said. “My mom’s boyfriend, Craig, never plays Nintendo with me. He says video games are immature, and that boys go outside and wrestle.”

  “Wrestle?” said the President of France.

  “Yeah. He says he’s going t
o teach me wrestling moves, but then he just pins me to the ground and laughs. I don’t know what he’s trying to prove. He’s a grown-up. I’m a kid.”

  “Sounds like it is Craig who is immature.”

  “Yeah!” I high-fived the President of France.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Why does the Queen of England think that I stole her spoon?”

  “She thinks you’re mad at her because when you had lunch, she stuck her tongue out at you.”

  The President was astonished.

  “She stuck her tongue out at me?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I must have had my back turned,” said the President. “I had no idea.”

  He looked very sad.

  I was starting to believe he was innocent.

  But what about the note?

  “But what about the note?” I said.

  “What note?”

  I showed him the letter from the Tower of London.

  The President shook his head.

  “But this is not my handwriting. It is awful! The ‘R’s are not even facing the right way!”

  “The ‘N’s aren’t either,” I said.

  “Well, this is obviously a fake. I have wonderful handwriting.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. I am the President of France.”

  “Well, now I don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “It is obvious,” said the President. “You must retrieve the Mona Lisa. She is priceless.”

  I’d been wondering something.

  “Why is the Mona Lisa so valuable?” I asked. “It’s not even very big.”

  “It is her smile,” said the President. “Why does she smile so? What does she know? Many have guessed. Nobody knows for sure. The Mona Lisa is a mystery. And what do people want more than anything else? Mystery. To possess the unknowable.”

  “The Queen of England says more than anything else people want—”

  “Do not speak to me of the Queen,” said the President of France. “You must go now!”

  “But why would you trust me?” I said. “I ruined everything.”

  “And that is why you must fix everything,” said the President. “You are a secret agent. That is your job.”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I quit.”

  It began to rain.

  I walked along the river.

  When you are feeling sad, it is wonderful to walk alone in Paris, along the river, in the rain.

  But I was not walking alone.

  I was walking with Freddie, who was wagging his tail and licking everything.

  “Stop it, Freddie!” I said. “You’re ruining the mood!”

  But Freddie didn’t stop. At this point it should be clear that Freddie didn’t listen to anybody.

  I tried to block out Freddie and sink into my sadness.

  How much money was left in my envelope?

  Was it enough to buy a plane ticket home?

  Could I make it back in time for Derek Lafoy’s karate birthday party?

  Did it even matter, since I hadn’t been invited?

  “Does any of it matter?” I asked Freddie, who was licking a cobblestone.

  Nearby, in a phone booth, a telephone rang.

  It was the middle of the night.

  Nobody was around.

  The phone rang and rang.

  I walked over and picked it up.

  It was for me.

  “Hullo,” said the Queen.

  “Hello,” I said.

  There was an unpleasant crunching sound on the line.

  “Please excuse my crunching,” said the Queen. “I’m just having some biscuits before bedtime. How is it going with the spoon?”

  “Awful,” I said. “The President of France didn’t take it.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. He didn’t even know you stuck your tongue out at him.”

  “Oh,” said the Queen. “Well, I hope you didn’t tell him.”

  “I did,” I said.

  “Oh dear,” said the Queen.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I quit.”

  “Well,” said the Queen, “I can see why.”

  “You’re not going to ask me to finish the case?”

  “No,” said the Queen. “Why would I?”

  “Is this some mind game?” I asked. “Are you trying to trick me into staying on the case?”

  “Not at all,” said the Queen. “You’ve done nothing so far but muck things up.”

  “Well, you haven’t exactly helped!” I said. “You sent me to the President of France!”

  “He left a note!” said the Queen.

  “He didn’t write it!” I said.

  “Then who did?”

  I dropped the phone.

  It dangled from its cord.

  (It was the 1980s. Phones had cords. You can look that up.)

  I pulled the note out of my pocket and picked the phone back up.

  “Who wrote that note?” I said.

  “That’s what I just asked you,” said the Queen.

  “Whoever wrote it must have known that you stuck your tongue out at the President of France. Whoever wrote it must have been at that lunch.”

  “Listen, Mac,” said the Queen, “if you are insinuating that I stole my own spoon—”

  “Was there anyone else at that lunch?”

  “What?”

  “Was anybody else at lunch with you that day?”

  The line was quiet while the Queen thought.

  “Well, let’s see … There was me … and the President of France.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Are you rolling your eyes?” asked the Queen.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, stop. Picturing you over there in France, rolling your eyes, is ruining my concentration. Now, where was I? Ah! Yes. The lunch. It was me … and the President of France … and a young man with light hair, and serious eyes, and a sad smile … I believe he was an officer from the KGB.”

  “THE KGB!”

  “There’s no use shouting,” said the Queen. “Nineteen eighties pay phone technology is perfectly adequate for—”

  I stopped listening.

  Of course it was the KGB.

  The backward letters in the note were Cyrillic.

  The KGB Man had disguised himself as a museum guard.

  And, come to think of it, as the flight attendant.

  I’d been followed this whole time by a secret agent of the KGB, and I’d been one-upped again and again!

  Well, it was time to turn the tables.

  I hung up on the Queen of England and caught a plane to Moscow.

  This is Lubyanka Square.

  It is home to two famous buildings.

  One of these buildings is the headquarters of a giant Russian toy store called Detsky Mir. Detsky Mir means “Kids’ World.”

  Cool name.

  The other building is called the Lubyanka.

  It was the headquarters of the KGB.

  The biggest toy store in Europe sat directly across from a command center for spies.

  (It still does. You can look that up.)

  This building on the left is full of toys.

  This building on the right is full of spies.

  Where would you rather go?

  I sighed, and went right.

  With Freddie in my arms, I burst through the front doors of KGB headquarters.

  A spy sat at a desk.

  “I demand to see, um,” I said. “Uh. I don’t know his name. He’s a KGB Man.”

  “We’ve been expecting you,” said the spy behind the desk. “Come right in.”

  I was shown to an office and asked to wait.

  “He will be here shortly,” said the spy. “He is just getting in from Paris, and his flight was delayed.”

  “OK,” I said.

  The walls of the office were pale green and lined with wooden bookshelves. There was a handsome desk with a phone, a lamp, and a hand-carved chess set. Th
ere was a bowl of chocolates too. A large window looked out onto a snowy square. It was nice.

  The office door opened and the KGB Man entered, carrying a suitcase. I recognized him from the plane and the Louvre, although he was now dressed in a drab and severe KGB uniform. He smiled sadly when he saw me.

  “Ah!” he said. “You beat me here. Very good. Very good. And I see you helped yourself to those chocolates.”

  I blushed.

  The KGB Man was already gaining the upper hand. I had to take control!

  I rose from my chair. “I’m here for the spoon!”

  “Please,” said the KGB Man. “Sit down and we can discuss this like secret agents.”

  The KGB Man sat at his desk and spoke some Russian into a phone.

  There was a knock on the door, and someone delivered a silver tray.

  “Coffee?” the KGB Man asked.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” I said. “I’m a kid.”

  “Of course,” said the KGB Man. “Perhaps some milk, then?”

  “Well,” I said, “I do like milk.”

  The KGB Man poured himself some coffee from a tall and shiny pot.

  Then he lifted a silver pitcher and poured me a cup of milk. The cup was blue and white, and decorated with tiny complicated patterns. I’d never drunk milk from a cup so beautiful.

  The KGB Man splashed some milk into his coffee and took a spoon from the breast pocket of his coat, which he used to slowly stir his drink.

  The spoon was gold, etched with leaves and the faces of monsters. Four pearls were set in its handle.

  I stood up again.

  “The Coronation Spoon!”

  The KGB Man looked down and shrugged.

  “Ah!” he said. “This spoon? It is a souvenir. I picked it up in England.”

  He laid it down on the tray.

  The KGB Man opened his suitcase and took out my Game Boy and the Mona Lisa.

  “Yes,” he said, “I found some wonderful souvenirs on my trip.”

  “You fiend!” I cried. “Why are you taking all this stuff? And why are you showing it all to me?”

  “Why indeed,” said the KGB Man. “It is not for you to understand why. You are a spy. Secret agents are like children. They do what they are told. You hear your mother and Craig arguing late one night. The next morning they tell you that you are going to summer camp. You may ask why, and your mother may answer, but that does not mean you will understand.”