Double Vision (16 page)

“This way,” Amy mumbled, poring over the map.

I followed her along a road that looped between the mansion and a giant field in front. Snow caked around the trees, but the field itself was free of snow.

Guys were gathered on the grass, talking, laughing. Looking ridiculous in their 1700s wigs and pants. They were getting ready to have some sort of battle, with rifles at their sides. There was a horse, too, tied to a tree, and about a half-a-dozen cannons lined up.

But then I froze. There was a guy in a blue coat with cream trim, looking a lot like George Washington. “Could that be the Dangerous Double?” I whispered as I pulled Amy's arm.

She looked at the guy. “I don't know.”

We walked closer to the group, but as we did, my hope faded. There were no marks from the bullets, and the cream trim looked way too clean and new.

“Not it,” Amy and I said at the same time.

“I guess we should try the mansion.” I was trying hard not to sound panicked, but I was feeling the pressure. What if Sorenson didn't have the coat? Watching the fake George Washington made me realize how hard it would be to spot the Dangerous Double if there were lots of people wearing replicas at the ball tonight. We had to find it so it would never make it to the event.

Amy pulled out her map. “Let's hope Mr. Sorenson knows we're coming.”

“Smith said that the Culper Ring wants to hand over the coat,” I said.

We walked past the stables and the washhouse. “Wow,
there's a whole house devoted to laundry? George Washington must've been a messy guy,” I joked.

“Hold up.” Amy pulled my arm. She pointed at the clothesline behind the washhouse—you could just make it out through the trees. “The Culper Ring used laundry.”

“For what?

“To send a message.” Amy smiled. “This is Agent Seven-Eleven, telling us where he is.”

“I TOLD YOU ABOUT THAT WHEN WE WENT
to the International Spy Museum, remember?” Amy said.

“Huh?” I looked where she was pointing. There was an old-fashioned skirt and two handkerchiefs blowing in the wind. “I bet they just did that as part of the whole reenactment day.”

“Maybe,” Amy mumbled. But she slowly walked closer to the washhouse and studied the clothes that were blowing in the wind. “During the Revolutionary War, one spy would bring information by horse and another would row across the Long Island Sound to bring it to Major Tallmadge. Did you know that they had female spies deliver these messages? Nobody suspected them, because women weren't expected to
have a political opinion of their own.”

“Amy, I don't have time for a history lesson!”

“Just gimme a minute.” Amy pulled the Culper Ring book from her coat pocket. “During the Revolutionary War, the woman spy would let the spy on the horse know in which cove to meet the guy with the boat—and she'd use the laundry on the clothesline to send the message. The code is written in here.” She flipped through the book until she got to a page with drawings of laundry on it. “The petticoat tells you he's arrived. . . .”

“So what's it all mean?” I asked, hoping she would focus already.

“There are two handkerchiefs—they're just there to indicate position. And the petticoat is in the third spot, so that means the spy is in the third cove.” Amy put the Culper Ring book away and looked at her map. “Only it means something else than a cove.”

“What if it's number three on the map?”

Amy and I pored over the map. “The blacksmith shop!” we both yelled at the same time.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is
not
to run when you know you're not supposed to? It would be bad to sprint past the mansion, since everyone would wonder what was up. So we run-walked until you could smell the burning coals and hear the banging of the blacksmith's hammer.

There was a small crowd, gathered to watch the blacksmith work. He was a skinny older guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses and an apron that looked too large on him. The
blacksmith had a hot piece of iron between tongs, and he was beating it into shape with a hammer.

“So you think he's our guy?” I asked Amy. We both hung back a little. As much as I would like to think that our code-cracking skills were awesome, I had to admit: We could be totally wrong. And he looked like just a regular dude: kind of scrawny and not spy-like at all.

“Let's just ask him.”

“With all these people?” Amy glanced around. There were about a dozen tourists clustered around the blacksmith, and they weren't going anywhere. I guess she had a point.

Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long. The guy finished making some swirly-looking napkin ring, and we all applauded.

“I shall take a break now,” he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. I noticed it was the same type as hung on the clothesline. “More at the hour of one.” The dude was really into the whole old-speak thing.

People hung around another minute to look at the horseshoes, napkin rings, and other blacksmith-type stuff that was displayed on the table. But after a short while, we were the only ones left.

“Sir?” Amy called.

The guy turned around. His glasses had drifted down his nose, and he pushed them up. “The show is over now,” he said, no longer sounding like he was from the 1700s. “But I'm back at one.” He'd already half turned to leave the shop.

But then I said, “Are you Bill Sorenson? Agent Seven-Eleven?”

Bill stopped, turned around, and looked at us both. “They sent kids?”

I smiled. “Least likely to be suspected, just like the original Culper Ring agents during the Revolutionary War.”

He liked that. But he looked nervous. “Did you make sure you weren't followed?”

We both nodded. “My driver, Steve, did have to shake a tail, though,” Amy the Blabbermouth said.

“So you were followed?” Bill looked like he was about to bolt.

“No, no!” I stepped away from Amy to block his exit. “Just us.”

Bill wasn't buying it. “I'll need to see the book.”

I nodded and motioned for Amy to show it. Bill took the book and stared at it for so long, I thought my head was going to explode.

“We're on a deadline here,” I said. Literally—if we took too long, lives would be lost.

Bill nodded. “I guess this is as good a proof as I'm going to get. Come with me.” He motioned for us to come to the back of the blacksmith shop, and we followed him to the door, where there was a duffel bag and a fancy-looking box. Bill picked it up, like there was china in there. It looked just like the hatbox my grandma used to keep her old photos in.

“This is it?” Amy whispered.

Bill nodded. “Best not to open it, considering its powers.” He sighed. “I only looked at it once when it was handed down to me by the last Seven-Eleven.”

I took the box. It felt heavy, for having just a coat inside.

“We'll make sure the Dangerous Double gets to the president and that it gets stored in a safe place,” Amy said.

“Please do.” Bill looked sad. I could imagine it was like me giving up Dad's compass. Or harder—I mean, the coat could be used as a weapon.

“How charming,” I heard behind me. “Two kid spies and a blacksmith.” I turned around and stared at—

“Steve?”

STEVE LOOKED ALL SWEATY AND AGITATED
. “I have my own mission to complete.” He waved a gun, motioning for me to hand him the box.

You know I wasn't about to give him the Dangerous Double. But Bill obviously didn't know that, because he grabbed the box from my hands. “You'll have to get past me first,” he said, clutching the box to his right side. Bill inched his way past the hot blacksmith oven in the middle of the shop.

He reached behind him with his left hand, grabbing one of the metal bars. Held it in the fire until it was bright orange. And he threw it at Steve.

But blacksmithing doesn't make you a good pitcher, it turns out. Steve just stepped aside and let the hot bar clank on the shop floor.

“Pathetic.” Steve shook his head. Then he pointed his gun toward the ground. And he shot at Bill's feet.

Bill screamed. He let the box slip. It fell to the ground—and as much as Amy and I tried to rush to grab it, it was no use. The lid flew off the top, and the coat fell out of the box like a sad present.

Steve grabbed the coat. “Thank you, Mr. Blacksmith. Or should I call you by your code name—Seven-Eleven?” He smiled. “You're one pitiful George Washington.”

Bill looked heartbroken. His feet were fine—Steve had just shot at the ground, not actually at his feet, but Bill was obviously not used to this kind of action.

“You won't get away with this,” Amy spat. “My mom will find you.”

Steve smiled. “Oh, don't worry. I'll find
her
.” He draped the coat over his arm. Then he turned and sprinted out of the blacksmith shop.

“We have to catch him!” Amy rushed outside.

I followed and saw Steve disappear around the washhouse, where the handkerchiefs were still blowing in the wind.

I looked at the ground, the dirt under my feet. My board was no use here on the loose dirt and caked snow. And they obviously had Secret Service guys train for marathons or something, because Steve was so fast, I'd already lost sight of him.

“He's going to get away!” Amy yelled, running a couple of feet in front of me.

We reached the giant field in front of the mansion, and I felt my stomach drop. There were close to a hundred soldiers, split on two sides, with cannons pointed at each other. Two dudes were on horses right in the middle, with white wigs—one of them was the guy wearing the fake George Washington coat.

“Where's Steve?” Amy asked me, like I could see something she couldn't.

“How am I supposed to know?”

But then I saw him, running behind the crowd of Revolutionary War soldiers. Steve was wearing the Dangerous Double now, so he blended in just enough for no one to take notice.

“There!” I called. I began running toward Steve.

Steve wasted no time pushing his way to the middle of the field. “Off!” he yelled, waving his gun at the George Washington dude on the horse.

The guy slid down the horse and raised his hands. And Steve got on.

Then I saw Henry, sprinting across the field. His face was beet red, his glasses crooked on his nose as he ran as fast as he could. Agent Stark was by his side, looking downright livid.

They figured out Steve was the mole.
Stark and Henry hurried toward Steve.

But it didn't matter. Steve was on the horse and looked like he'd been riding all his life. He was probably trained by the Secret Service. The horse resisted, but Steve wasn't taking no for an answer.

Stark came up behind the confused Revolutionary War guys and pulled her gun.

“There's no point,” I yelled at her. “He's wearing the coat!”

Steve gripped the reins of the horse and saluted us. “Thank you very much for your help, agents!” He spurred his horse with his heels.

And then he galloped away, like an evil double of George Washington.

THE MISSION WAS AN EPIC FAILURE. I
didn't just lose the Dangerous Double—I practically handed it to Steve. And here I was, so busy trying to stick it to Ben. Now the presidential family was in even more danger than before we got here.

I was the worst secret agent ever.

From what Stark told me, Henry figured out Steve was the mole by matching the opening of the email message at a White House computer to the location of Steve's Secret Service phone or something. Then they tracked Steve to Mount Vernon. Not that it mattered—we'd all been fooled by him. And now he had a bomb
and
the Dangerous Double.

Amy looked pale as we found a bench to sit on. “This is . . .” She tried to think of a word but then just shook her head.

“We'll get it back,” I said, hoping I sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

The truth? I had no idea what to do now. We'd lost the coat, and it was after ten—making the ball less than nine hours away. Steve would go to the ball, set off the bomb, and get away in the Dangerous Double.

“We'll get it back,” I mumbled again.

“No, we won't.” Amy sounded like she was about to cry. “I'm really scared, Linc.”

I was scrambling to come up with something to say. Some promise or plan to fix it all.

But then I looked up and realized it didn't matter. There was a group of about half-a-dozen guys in dark suits and sunglasses—Secret Service. I felt Amy freeze up next to me. And behind them stood the guy who would put an end to our whole operation.

The director of National Intelligence. Sid Ferguson himself.

We locked eyes for a split second, but then he looked away.

I won't bore you with the details of the drive back. I ended up in a gloomy SUV alone, driven by some Secret Service guy. Amy was going to be grounded “indefinitely”—at least, that's what I heard her mom yell at her on the phone before Secret Service came over and whisked her away. I was pretty sure President Griffin would get a restraining order against me or something—no more Taco Tuesdays at the White House in my future.

The driver took me to the White House visitor center, where he just stopped like I was on the bus or something. No lowering the window or telling me to get out. Steve was the bad guy, but at least he bothered to make conversation.

At the visitor center, Agent Stark was waiting by the elevator. I expected her to let me have it, but she simply pushed the button to go up.

Stark walked me to the conference room, passing Henry's lab in room 418. I saw there were just a half-a-dozen boxes. Taped up, stacked, ready to go. It wasn't too hard to figure out what that meant.