Double Vision (9 page)

Give Drake the painting.

Go home.

Simple, right? Across the bridge, I could see a giant cathedral with a big dome and ornate towers. I was pretty sure it was Nôtre Dame.

I walked along the Seine. The sightseeing boats in the water were nicely covered in glass to keep the tourists warm and toasty, and I wanted to stop to zip up my jacket, but there, about a hundred yards ahead, was the bridge.

Then there I was on the bridge. I looked around for the bad guy—Drake was supposed to be here, but there were no obvious suspects.

A couple kissing (yuck). An old lady on a bicycle, businessmen in a hurry, talking on the phone. Tourists snapping photos, but no slick-haired dude in a long coat—so no Drake. No Jacques Mégère. And he would be easy to spot with his nutty hair and all.

I sat on a sidewalk bench with the box on my knees, feeling sort of stupid. Freezing my butt off. I got up, started walking on the bridge again to stay warm, all the while keeping an eye on the crowd. Some big French man looked miffed when I bumped him with my painting box, so I apologized.

Where was this Drake guy? I checked my Ben phone, and saw it was five minutes before twelve. I walked back to my side of the bridge, to my frosty bench. Clutching Dad's compass, feeling paranoid. As I sat there, checking the phone again to see only a minute had passed, I had a scary thought.

What if Drake didn't show?
I needed this exchange to happen to save my family.

I was lost in thought, so when my phone rang, I jumped. Fumbled, almost dropping the thing. It took me a second to figure out which button to hit, and then I answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I waited a second. “Anyone there?”

“Did they give you this number?” An intense voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

“Who is this?”

“Who is
this
? I should be asking you.”

I looked around and across the bridge, but a large group of kids on some kind of field trip blocked my line of view. I was in trouble. And I realized that all this time I'd been sitting around, I never hooked up the translator Henry had given me. At least the person on the phone spoke English. “I'm here for the exchange,” I said, hoping that was the right answer. “Let's get this over with already.” I was trying to sound tough.

“Identify yourself,” the guy demanded.

“Benjamin Green.”

“Negative.”

“Actually, it's positive. Or whatever. I'm Benjamin Green.”

“Negative. You are not Agent Green.”

“Yes, I am.” I could do this all day.

A pause. “I have visual contact.”

“What does that mean—you can see me?” I stood up, dropping the box to the ground so I could glance around, behind me, even down to the Seine, in case the person on the phone was on a boat or something.

“I know that is a fake painting,” the person on the phone said.

“No, it's not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's not.” This was worse than arguing with Mom.

“It is.” A sigh. “Look across the bridge.”

I did.

And there he was. Benjamin Green stood with his legs shoulder width apart, like he was ready for combat.

I probably looked like I was ready for a shower and a good night's sleep. “You're not missing.” I sounded so dumb, but then I was trying to understand. Why was he right there?

“That is correct.”

“So why are you across the river?”

“Why am I?”

And then I got it. “Because you're with Drake.”

I LOOKED AROUND FOR HELP, KNOWING
there wasn't any.

“Who ordered your mission?” Benjamin Green's voice gave me a chill. “Was it Stark?”

I didn't answer.

“The resemblance is good, even if you are in poor shape.”

“Thanks.”

“I threw my phone in the Seine. Procedure,” Ben said. “But it looks like they reassigned my number.” He chuckled. “And the case, too.”

The guy was ticking me off now. “Where's Jacques Mégère?” I was still hoping to get him somehow so I could go home and everything would be all right. There would be no lawsuit, no expulsion, and I could just go back to my lame field trips with Mrs. Valdez.

Benjamin Green shook his head. “You can report back to headquarters, tell them to stop sabotaging my mission.”

“What mission? To join the bad guys?”

“Go home,” Benjamin Green said, ignoring my question.

I'd love to, but I wasn't about to tell him. “Says who?”

“The real Agent Green.”

I clenched my teeth and grabbed the box, ready to walk across the bridge and force this guy to give me Jacques Mégère. “Why are you even here if you know the painting is fake?”

“I have my orders from Drake.” Benjamin Green adjusted his feet.

“What orders? Shoot me on sight or something?”

He was silent.

I felt a cold breeze down my neck.

“Stay away from the Mégère bakery if you know what's good for you,” Benjamin Green said. Then he tossed his phone into the Seine and quickly walked off into the crowd.

But I wasn't about to let this smug copy of me get away. I rushed across the bridge, slowed by the tourists who blocked my path. By the time I made it across with my stupid bulky box, Benjamin Green was off in the distance, turning left, disappearing from my line of sight.

I had to catch up with him. So I left the box on the Pont Neuf and ran, watching him turn right down another street just as I turned the corner. Ben glanced over his shoulder but didn't see me.

Following someone is a lot harder than they make it look on TV, by the way. You have to stay back far enough not to get noticed, but that means it's also really easy to lose the person you're following (this would be the rabbit, remember?). After about twenty minutes, Ben went down a side street, and by the time I could safely catch up, he'd disappeared. I checked every narrow alley, every side street, but no Ben. I'd lost him.

Plus, I was also lost myself.

Agent Stark had given me some colorful euro bills that looked a lot like Monopoly money. On a piece of paper, she'd scribbled her phone number. “Call me,” she'd said before I'd left the Princesse Hotel. “Agent Fullerton's in the field and may be hard to reach.” But I wasn't about to call her, not to report this failed mission. She would just send me home. Pandora couldn't find the evil
Mona Lisa
without Jacques Mégère. And I needed him to get my family out of trouble.

I took a left turn, and suddenly I saw a dragon painted on one of the windows of a bakery—a nice paint job in fine black brushstrokes. The dragon looked serious and a little sad. The rest of the building was painted a cheerful blue. The awning was red. There were baskets of French bread in the window and a really big pie on some kind of turntable. I'd found the Maison du Mégère—how 'bout that, Benjamin Green? I was about to go inside to spend some of those euro bills, when something hit me from behind.

Thud!

Some sort of stick (a baseball bat?) just missed my head, then hit me at the knees. I fell onto the cobblestoned street.

The Tickstick!

Trying to escape from whoever whacked me, I reached behind me but couldn't grab my backpack. I crawled, too afraid to look over my shoulder. If only I could reach Henry's weapon.

I made it to an alleyway, off to the left of the bakery, when someone kicked me in the side.

A very angry face hung over mine. Dark brown hair, a braid dangling with beads, making me dizzy.

Françoise Mégère.

“You,” she said in a tone that told me I was in trouble. I know that tone well. She pushed a boot into my stomach, and before I could move she waved a stick.

Then she clutched it in both hands, kneeled on my chest, and looked at me with a fire in her eyes that could only mean something bad was about to happen.

“Benjamin Green,” she said in a very mean, mocking tone, “I'm going to kill you.”

And she pushed the stick down on my throat.

ONE TIME IN KINDERGARTEN, I PUNCHED
a girl in the shoulder. Her name was Nora Maloney, and she took my apple bites with caramel sauce, which were my favorite (this was before I discovered foods that did not belong on the food pyramid). When I tried to snatch them back from Nora Maloney, she flipped her hair in my face, and I punched her. Not
that
hard, and just in her shoulder, but I got into big, big trouble. It was my first of many more trips to the school principal's office, and Dad made me promise never to hit a girl again.

As my head was being rammed into the Parisian cobblestones, I decided this was one of those times it was all right to break the rules. So I kicked Françoise in the shin—which shifted her just long enough for me to slide away, out from under her stick of death.

“Hold up, now!” My voice was hoarse. I rubbed my throat, which felt … well, like a scary girl had just tried to kill me with a stick. “Don't hurt me!”

She crawled away and stood up, wielding her stick over her head. Now I knew why I needed a backpack full of gadgets: to protect me from this crazy girl. “You lied to me!” She bit her lip. “You took my father.”

“I didn't take your father,” I said, pulling at my shirt. “I'm trying to get him back for you, okay?”

Françoise looked at my neck, then my face, then my neck again. She lowered her stick and stepped toward me.

“Stop!” I yelled in my most commanding Benjamin Green voice.

“You're trying to get my father back?”

I nodded.

She gave me a mean stare but kept her stick low, so I figured I was sort of safe. Françoise gently pulled at the collar of my shirt. Looked into my eyes. Squinted. “You're not Ben.” And she stepped back, giving me the once-over, like she was trying to figure all of it out.

I knew that I was supposed to be Ben and that I was not to let my cover slip. But since my not being Ben made Françoise stop trying to kill me, I told the truth. “I'm not.”

Françoise pointed to my neck. “Ben has a scratch on his neck.”

“Did you put it there?” I pulled at my collar.

“Hah. You're a funny guy, aren't you?” Françoise's English was perfect, but singsongy, like she was speaking French. I figured it wasn't the time to bring that up, though. “Your eyes are different from his, too,” she mumbled.

“How?” I stood up, clutching the strap of my backpack, remembering Henry's Tickstick. She shrugged. Then she tossed her stick aside in the alleyway. “So who are you, then? And why are you here? And where is that Ben?”

I tried to think of where to start, but fatigue and hunger were turning my brain to mush. “Is your bakery open?”

“Not for you.” Françoise stood there in the alleyway, like she was trying to make up her mind what to do with me. But then her face seemed to soften a little. “We have leftovers, usually. You tell me your story, and you can eat.” She wore a long necklace with a key on it, which she tucked back inside her jacket. Françoise went around me and farther into the alleyway.

I followed her past a Dumpster. Françoise used a key from a key chain clipped to her belt to open a white door with a black
M
written on it. We went inside, walking right into a commercial kitchen with stainless steel cabinets, marble counters, and a bunch of ovens lined up against the wall opposite the door. To my right, there was an open door that led to the bakery. I followed Françoise to the left, into a back room that was obviously the family dining and sitting room. The whole place smelled like fresh bread, making my stomach growl.

“Françoise?” an old woman's voice called from a hallway to the right of the sitting room.

“
Oui
, Nana,” Françoise yelled. She motioned for me to sit at the table, and I did. An old lady walked in, smiling when she saw Françoise. And then she saw me. Her smile faded, and she gritted her teeth. “Benjamin!” She spit the name at me. And she slapped me in the face.

“Hey!” I called, clutching my cheek. “What's up with you ladies in this bakery?” I asked Françoise.

When the old lady looked like she was ready to charge me, Françoise laughed. “Nana, stop! This isn't Benjamin—can't you see?”

The old lady looked confused. Then she leaned closer and boxed my ears.

“Hey, hey.” I tried to pull away, but let's face it: this lady was old. I wasn't about to push her.

The old lady frowned and looked into my eyes. She said something in French I couldn't understand.

“That's what I'd like to know,” Françoise said as she plumped down at the small dining table. “Who are you, really?”