Double Vision (14 page)

But we kept moving and headed into Sacré Coeur, which was a giant church. Looking up at the arched windows, carvings, statues, paintings, I was getting dizzy. Stone and echo everywhere, colorful mosaics—now this was a field trip.

“How do we know where to find the next clue?” I whispered, feeling like I was being too loud for a church.

“To the courtyard,” Françoise said. “I'm sure Papa wants me to go there.” We went outside, to a huge garden with little trees. Mom would love how fancy and tranquil it was all at the same time. Even if it was pretty cold and kind of dreary, the garden was beautiful. I followed Françoise, who was standing near the fountain in the center. “It has to be here,” she mumbled. She circled the fountain twice. Finding nothing, she reached into the water to pull out some of the coins that were at the bottom.

“Françoise?” I wasn't sure what to do. She could kick my butt twice over—my first meeting with her in the alleyway had proven that. But I knew that pulling coins from a fountain wasn't just trouble, it had to be bad luck, too.

“But it has to be here,” Françoise repeated, mumbling now. “Why isn't it?” She sat on the ground near the fountain, dropping the coins in her lap. She was crying.

“That guy was cleaning the wall in the tunnel, remember? Maybe we're missing part of the code,” I said.

But Françoise wasn't listening.

I sat down next to her and tried to imagine what it had to feel like to have your father missing, to have these bad guys on your heels as you're trying to follow clues to get him back. I put my hand on her shoulder, and to my surprise, she didn't move or kick my butt in response.

Trying to think of something to say, I remembered the time after my grandma died. We were all at the house, sitting at the kitchen table, with Grandpa looking like someone had just drained him of all his ninja powers. And Mom, who would always bicker with him, just reached over and held his hand for what seemed like forever. Sometimes, shutting up is the best thing you can do. Especially when you're a Baker.

So we sat there a while, freezing in the November dark. Thinking about the warm California sun, my family, that stupid lawsuit. All I wanted to do was make things right. But finding this evil
Mona Lisa
seemed impossible.

Then all of a sudden, Françoise said, “You know, they say da Vinci used to go to the market to buy caged birds, just so he could set them free.”

“Sounds like an expensive hobby.”

Françoise laughed, and dropped the coins back into the fountain. “I don't know about you, but I'm hungry.” Then she turned on her heels. “Let's eat.”

OKAY, SO AT THIS POINT, YOU'RE PROBABLY
wondering: What will Linc do now? I definitely was, and so was Agent Fullerton. He called me, demanding to know where I was.

“At this place called Montmartre,” I said, trailing behind Françoise.

“Did you find the evil
Mona Lisa
yet?”

We walked down the winding little streets of Montmartre, where streetlights seemed to be popping on as we passed by. “I'm hot on the trail.”

“Maybe Agent Stark was right,” Agent Fullerton said.

“About what?”

“She says—” Agent Fullerton stopped. Then he snapped, “You find the next clue, you call me first.”

“Sure, yeah,” I said, and hung up.

I hurried to catch up with Françoise at the other end of the plaza. Under the streetlights there were artists everywhere, paintings on easels, even an old-fashioned puppet show where little kids were gathered on a small patch of grass despite the cold.

And then my phone rang again—I felt like customer service. This time it was Agent Stark.

“You were supposed to check in with me, remember?”

“Sure, I remember.”

“It's been a few hours. Where are you?”

“I'm busy.” I told her I was at Montmartre, and about to find the next clue. So maybe I fudged the truth a little.

“You have until noon tomorrow.”

“No problem.”

“You find anything, call me first,” Agent Stark said. “Good luck.” For partners, these agents sure didn't talk to each other a whole lot.

I caught up with Françoise. She looked tired and defeated but seemed to brighten when we reached this big windmill, with an attached building in front. When I realized that it was a restaurant, I lit up, too. I was starving.

Inside, it was dark but cozy, and smelled moldy and damp, but also like someone was cooking a stew. I'm pretty sure I drooled a little I was so hungry.

“Françoise?” A short, bald man with a round beer belly came out from behind the bar. As he walked closer, he smiled big. “Françoise!” He kissed her on each cheek, like the French do. But then he held her shoulders, and his face was sad. “My girl,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. They stood there for a good minute.

Making me feel really awkward. To make it worse, my stomach was growling, what with all the good food smells. I was dying to taste whatever deliciousness was being cooked.

Eventually, the guy let her go. “Any word on Jacques?”

Françoise shook her head. “I wish.”

“How are you and your grandmother holding up? I offered to send over one of my staff to help, but she wasn't having it.”

“That's Grandma. And we'll be okay.” Françoise jutted her chin with pride. “Papa will be home soon, I'm sure of it.”

Pierre turned his attention to me. “And you are Françoise's friend.”

“Lincoln Baker.” We shook hands, and he told me he was Pierre, which I had already guessed from what Françoise said during our cab ride to Montmartre. There was a tattoo of a yellow and red flame on his wrist, just like I'd seen on Guillaume. Maybe it was some kind of family thing?

“Are you hungry, Lincoln?”

“Starving.”

Pierre laughed, and motioned to a guy behind the counter. He brought out two big bowls of stew with a huge loaf of French bread. We sat at a table in the corner and ate—and I'm telling you this French stew and bread was like the best meal I ever had. While we scarfed down our dinner, Pierre went on to tell me all about his restaurant. How it had been painted by lots of famous painters, like Vincent van Gogh, Renoir, and even Picasso.

“I am glad you made it here,” Pierre said. “Last week, Jacques came. He told me the Vault is in trouble.”

Françoise froze. “My father talked to you? And you only tell me this now?”

“You needed to eat.” The man had a point. Pierre lowered his voice and leaned closer to the table. “The ledger of the collection was stolen, Jacques said.”

“Who took it?” I asked.

Pierre shook his head. “If Jacques knew, he didn't tell me. He was worried the Dangerous Double would be next, so he moved it. Jacques left you a message, Françoise.” He got up, reached under the bar counter, and came back with a paper menu that he slid across the table.

“This is just a menu,” Françoise said. She opened it and shook her head. “I don't get it. We already ate.” She tried to slide the menu back across the table, but I snatched it.

There was a picture of the windmill on the back, plus its history. Someone had drawn a border around all this with squiggly boxes and dots, probably for decoration. Or maybe it was a message?

“Why another riddle? Why couldn't he just tell me where the painting is?” Françoise pushed her bowl aside. Is this girl forever angry at everyone or what?

Suddenly Françoise pulled on my sleeve. “Linc! Look outside.”

I glanced up, but the light inside the restaurant made it so I was looking at my own reflection in the window.

My reflection moved, but I didn't.

Then it gave me a stern stare down. Benjamin Green–style. He was right outside!

“I'll get you now,” I muttered. Tucking the menu in my back pocket, I ran for the street. Outside, the cold wind made my eyes water, and I blinked. Looking for my annoying double—and there he was! Standing right next to the puppet theater, under a streetlight. Like he wanted me to catch him.

But then he took off, disappearing behind a fruit stand. I sprinted after him, looping between the tourists, market stands, and painters. Had I lost Ben, again?

No, there he was! He stopped at a market stand that had leather purses on display. I rushed to catch up with him while he stood there, looking at the vendor.

And he grabbed three purses.

My double ran off. Away from the market, into an alleyway. Without the streetlights, it was so dark, I could barely make out where he was now. But then he jumped out in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Here you go!” Ben tossed me the purses. Before I could answer, he sprinted into the darkness with that same smooth pace I'd seen in the training videos.

You know when you get that feeling that the rug's been pulled out from under you? I had it, for just a split second as I clutched those stupid purses. Right before someone pulled me back by my left arm.

I turned to face a very stern set of dark eyes. I saw a blue uniform, a policeman's hat.

A cop.

“Is this him?” the policeman asked, glancing over his shoulder at a short, angry-looking skinny guy. The purse vendor.

He snatched his purses from my arms.
“Oui.”

I didn't need to know French to figure out what just happened.

I was busted.

AS I SAT IN A VERY CHILLY INTERROGATION
room, I was pretty sure of three things:

I'd been arrested. Again.

Ben had stolen those purses, so for once, it wasn't actually my fault.

This French policeman really hated my guts.

“Sssspeak!” he yelled at me. His hat was off now, and his thinning black hair stood up all over the place. Between that and his bulging eyes, the guy actually looked kind of funny, though I was smart enough to know this was not a good time to laugh.

“Admit it, young boy!” He leaned on the small table between us.

“I have no idea what you're saying,” I said for the umpteenth time. “
Oui?
I don't know.”

He smiled. And then he left the room, like I had given him what he wanted to hear. This was not good—in fact, this was really, really bad. The policeman left me sitting there for a long time, wondering what had happened to Françoise. Maybe she would come bail me out?

And I thought of my family, the lawsuit, and my chances of succeeding on this mission. Right there in that French interrogation room, I put my odds at roughly zero. Let's face it: Benjamin Green won. Agent Stark, Fullerton—they were right when they said I wasn't good enough to be a junior agent. I couldn't even keep my cover as Benjamin Green.

I was a junior agent failure.

The door opened, just as I was beginning to feel even sorrier for myself. I heard talking in French. Someone laughing—a woman.

Then Agent Stark walked in, still smiling and laughing with the cop. I couldn't believe my eyes: Agent Stark, actually laughing? But when she saw me, her smile faded in a hurry. “All right, let's go.”

We took a very quiet taxi ride back to the hotel. I actually missed Guillaume—he would've cheered me up. Agent Stark just sat there with her arms crossed, silent the whole way home. Not that she had to say anything. This was another Linc disaster—no need to point out the obvious.

The cab dropped us off in front of the Princesse. Agent Stark paid, and turned to look at me. “Perhaps we should have explained at the beginning of your assignment that you're not supposed to get into trouble with the police.”

“But I didn't!” I yelled, trying to defend myself. “Well, I did, but it wasn't my fault. It was Ben, he stole those purses and—”

Agent Stark raised her hand. Her face looked even darker than usual. “I don't want to hear about it. Right now, I have to find a way to convince my boss that your Montmartre stunt with the chickens was worth it.”

“You heard about that?”

She nodded. “Chickens again. Really?”

I shrugged.

“The boss barely went for your plan to follow those clues that Jacques Mégère left. Now I'll have to write a lengthy report, detailing what happened, accounting for the expenses.” She rubbed her neck.

We walked inside, and the receptionist greeted me with a smile. “Back so soon?”

I gave her a confused look—I mean, I'd been gone all day, right? Nothing soon about that. But before I could say anything, Agent Stark pulled me along. She pushed the elevator button. “I'm glad you're having fun with Françoise, but we're running out of time here. Retrieving the evil
Mona Lisa
is our mission—you understand?”

“Yeah.” I felt uncomfortable and disappointed in myself. Like I'd let Agent Stark down. The elevator rang its little bell, and we both got off.