Double Vision (11 page)

“Actually, I know exactly what that's like,” Amy said, her voice trembling. “There's always Secret Service everywhere—and now there's someone who wants my family dead.” She was scared after all.

“Threats to the president are normal,” Smith grumbled.

“This time is different.” Amy told him about the bomb and how the bad dudes were planning to use the Dangerous Double. I probably could've stopped her from sharing top secret information. But I figured Smith was so paranoid and secretive, he'd never tell anyone. And he seemed to know everything anyway, so I decided just to show him all my cards. “We need your help finding the George Washington coat. Before these bad guys do.”

“Frank at the fish market told us you could get us in touch with the Culper Ring.”

Smith didn't talk for a long time. “I never thought this day would come,” he said eventually.

“What day?” I asked.

“The day I would give up the Culper Ring book.”

“THERE'S A BOOK?” I ASKED
.

“No more talking!” Smith barked. “I'll tell you nothing else, not until we're safe.”

Amy looked behind her through the grimy window. “They're not following us anymore.”

“Oh, they're not far behind, believe me. The agents always find you if you don't keep moving.” Smith tapped his temple and stepped on the gas. “They get into your head.”

We drove straight for a while longer, until the truck lurched right and Smith took an exit off the highway and got on a narrow road into the woods.

Me, I was just hungry, and I was trying to avoid breathing
in the stinky truck. Amy seemed down and a little scared. John Smith kept humming a tune to himself—“Three Blind Mice.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” I asked after nothing but dense forest zoomed by for about twenty minutes. Mom would freak if she knew what I was doing: in a strange truck with an even stranger dude, riding to the middle of nowhere.

But I was on a mission.

“I would take you to where you need to go,” Smith said, “but I gotta pack up my stuff and clear out with my trailer. Before they catch up with me.”

“Who?” Amy asked. She grabbed my arm as the truck barreled over rocky gravel. We needed to leave this crazy train.

Smith slowed down and pulled into a deserted campground. He drove all the way to the farthest spot and backed the truck up to a lone trailer. It was an Airstream—like a silver submarine on wheels. They were huge in the fifties and sixties. I know, because Grandpa used to own one.

Smith shut the engine off. It sputtered a fat cloud of black smoke and was quiet. He checked his watch. “I figure we have ten minutes to get out of here. Before those agents catch up. You kids can go now if you want. There's a bus stop three clicks east of here.”

“Three clicks?” Was that crazy spy-speak for something?

“That's three kilometers,” Amy whispered. “About two miles.”

Two miles of walking? No thanks. Plus, I had to see this
through, creepy guy or not. “You promised to help,” I said as we all got out of the truck. “I want to hear about the Culper Ring and this book.”

Smith didn't answer. Instead he started to whistle. A scrappy little terrier came running for us, barking like a mad dog.

I jumped in front of Amy. But then the dog mellowed out. He sat down at my feet, wagging his tail.

“Take it easy, Nixon.” Smith rubbed the dog's head and pulled a treat from his pocket. “Don't worry about him,” Smith said to me. “I got Nixon as a guard dog, but so far he's just loved people to death.”

Amy was already all over Nixon, and he was happy to make a new friend.

“We just left Steve hanging back there,” I whispered to her. “Is that going to get you in trouble?”

Amy shook her head. “He'll be too embarrassed and worried about getting in trouble himself. I'll send him a text to tell him I'm okay.”

Smith grabbed a wrench from a toolbox in the truck bed, gave me a set of pliers, and motioned for me to follow him. “We can talk while I hook the trailer to the hitch.”

“So who's part of this Culper Ring?” I handed Smith the pliers. He leaned over the hitch and undid a pin.

Smith wore a key on a chain around his neck. It dangled as he pulled the trailer and hooked it to the truck. Then he put the pin back in, securing it.

Smith gave me the pliers again. “I have no idea, to tell you
the truth. I only have bits of information. I'm just one link in the chain—you get what I'm saying?” He wiped his hands on an old rag. “But I can tell you where to find the information to help you find this person. You—” Smith froze as his eyes drifted to the distance.

“What?” I followed his gaze, but all I saw was the road to the campground and lots of trees.

“They found me,” he mumbled.

Amy joined us with Nixon. “What's wrong?”

Smith pointed. “Headlights, up ahead. We gotta go. Now!”

Amy, Nixon, and I jumped in the backseat of the truck, and Smith wasted no time punching the gas to get up to speed. Behind us, the trailer wobbled back and forth. Nixon moved to the passenger seat, looking confused over all the excitement.

“Now tell me about this Culper Ring book,” I said to Smith. We needed that information, whatever paranoid craziness was going on inside his head.

“Today's Culper Ring agents don't know each other—just like with the old Culper Ring during the Revolutionary War.” Smith stroked Nixon's head, and the dog settled down in the passenger seat. “But now, they do communicate with each other, unlike in the past—that's how you were able to get to me. There are just layers of security. So secrets can't be exposed by one bad link.”

“Where do I find the agent who has the Dangerous Double?” I asked, feeling like I was about to get my big answer.

Smith pulled onto the main road, and the trailer rocked violently behind us. “To find the name of the agent, you'll need the Culper Ring book. It has the numbers of the spies and their real names—the old Culper Ring used a similar book to keep track of agents. The new Culper Ring has one, too.”

“Where's the Culper Ring book?” Amy asked.

“A deep-cover agent found it some time ago. I heard he hid it,” Smith said.

“Where?” Amy and I asked at the same time.

Smith exhaled. “I don't think you'll be able to get to it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Smith smiled. “It's at Langley, CIA headquarters. In room 355, taped to the back of the bottom drawer of the far left filing cabinet. Right under their noses. But there's no way you—get down!”

“STAY DOWN!” SMITH YELLED
.

Amy and I slid to the floor. In the rearview mirror, I could see Smith's darting eyes, making him look like even more of a Froot Loop.

“What's happening?” I whispered.

“He's crazy, that's what,” Amy mumbled next to me.

“They're going toward the campground, those government pawns from before—I told you they were coming! The agents, Nixon,” Smith said. The dog sat up when he heard his name. His tail was wagging, slapping against the back of the seat. “They found us.”

Nixon would agree with anything. If you told him aliens were coming from Mars, he would wag his tail, too. He was a dog.

Smith sighed. “I know what you kids think. What everyone thinks.” He stroked his dog's head. “But when the doo-doo hits the fan, they all come talking to that wacko Smith.”

The guy was right. Here we were, crouched down on the nasty floor mats of his stinky truck—and Smith had been the best lead so far. Now we knew where to find the book that identified who had the Dangerous Double.

“Can we sit back in the seat now?” I asked. “My leg is cramping majorly over here.”

“Sure,” Smith said.

Looking at the old trailer in the rearview mirror, I realized something. “
You
hid the book at Langley.”

Smith hesitated, but then he nodded.

“Can't you just tell us who has the Dangerous Double?” Amy asked.

Smith laughed. “I told you kids, links in a chain. I never read it—that would give me too much information, here.” He tapped the side of his head. “You'll need the book to find the name. That's the only way.”

Through the grimy window of Smith's truck, I watched the trees fly by and tried to imagine how we'd get inside CIA headquarters.

“The Culper Ring knows someone bad is after the coat,” Smith said. “Whoever has the Dangerous Double will be expecting you and will be ready to give it to Pandora for safekeeping. But you'll need the book to show you're the good guys, you know what I'm saying?”

“Like the dollar with Frank,” I said. “So why is the CIA after you?” I asked Smith.

“Who says they're after me, Young Abe?”

“Young Abe?”

“He means Abraham Lincoln,” Amy whispered to me. “You know, the sixteenth president, and your name is—”

“I get it, Amy,” I said through gritted teeth.

“The agents are always out to squash the truth.” Smith banged his dashboard, making Nixon whimper. “Sorry, Nix.” He petted his dog.

“Well, thanks a lot for your help,” I said. I felt frustrated over the whole CIA headquarters business but knew I wasn't going to get any more answers from Smith.

Right then, my phone rang, and really loud, too. I scrambled to pull it from my coat pocket. I checked the number. It was Ben, calling from my Pandora phone—probably ready to read me the riot act on the prank phone call I made that morning.

I picked up. “Ben?”

“Baker,” he whispered. “You set me up!”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I fibbed.

“You sent me to the White House on a fake assignment and—never mind,” he hissed. “I caught on. Now I am at the Smithsonian. I need backup.”

Before I could answer, Smith reached back and pulled the phone from my hands. “You have a mobile phone?” he spat, like it was anthrax or something.

“Yeah.” I reached for it, but Smith was too fast.

“These things are beacons for the enemy, don't you get
it?” Smith looked like he was going to kill me.

“Okay, chill. I'll turn it off.” I grabbed it from him.

“It doesn't matter.” I thought Smith's head was going to explode or something. “They can track you with those things even when they're off. Don't you get why I live like I do—no phones, no computers, no credit cards?”

I was afraid to say anything.

“Off the grid,” Amy whispered.

“The grid is how they get to you. How they
own
you.” Smith pulled over. “You need to go, both of you. Now!”

I slid up on the seat to find that we were back in DC again, which was a good thing. “Fine. Thanks for the ride.”

Smith grumbled.

“How do we find you?” I asked as I got out.

“You don't.” Smith hesitated. “I'll be around a few more days. If you're in trouble, I'll find you.”

“Well, thanks.” I barely closed the door before Smith pulled away. The silver trailer rocked as he swerved back into traffic.

“That guy's seriously paranoid,” I said to Amy.

“I like his dog.” She waved to the truck as it disappeared, like Smith would actually appreciate her niceness. Then she sighed. “I should probably call Steve.”

“If he hasn't called in a SWAT team by now,” I joked.

But Amy wasn't smiling when she dialed his number. And I could hear him yelling even though I was a good ten feet away. Amy was in deep, deep trouble.

We met him in front of the Lincoln Memorial—at least it was a public place, so he couldn't make too much of a scene. Steve was about to blow up when Amy cut him off.

“I'm fine,” Amy said. “We just met up with a . . .
friend
.”

Steve ran his fingers through his hair. “I almost called in an Amber Alert, you know. Next time, I'm calling your mother! Forget this protection detail—you're impossible to keep safe.” He looked seriously miffed.

“I'm sorry,” Amy said, sounding nervous. Maybe she'd pushed Steve too far by taking off with John Smith. “I really am.”

After a long pause, Steve straightened his jacket. “Okay, apology accepted.” He pointed at her. “But this is the
last time
I'm covering for you, you understand?” He looked at me. “And you, too, young man.”

Amy smiled and brushed back her fake red hair. “Sure thing, Steve. Thanks for being so great.” She started walking toward the Lincoln Memorial, and I followed.

Things were back to normal. Steve trailed his usual distance of a dozen feet behind us, but this time he felt a lot like a dark cloud that was about to dump a bunch of rain.

Amy kept talking. “John Smith's right, you know.”

“What—about his anti-phone attitude?” I waited for years to get a phone. What's his issue?

“All the technology we use makes it very easy to find us,” Amy said. She buttoned her coat at the neck. There was dog hair all over it. “We shop on the computer, post our pictures, send messages. . . . It's like a trail of bread crumbs for
someone to follow if they want.”

Right then my phone—or Ben's phone, technically—started buzzing

“Ben's texting from the Smithsonian,” I said.

SOS.

FOR THE RECORD: I DIDN'T WANT TO SAVE
Benjamin Green. If it had been up to me, I would've let him wait it out. It was his fault he didn't take any of Henry's gadgets, right?