Double Vision (8 page)

We went upstairs, down a hall to the left, and into the kitchen. It looked pretty standard with white cabinets, but nice—not like the Baker kitchen, but more like my friend Sam's. Then I spotted Ben. He was already sitting at the table.

I turned around and faced Amy. “You invited
him
?”

Amy shrugged. “Mom said I should.”

“That's okay,” I lied.

“He came in through the West Wing so we wouldn't blow your cover,” Amy added.

I faced Ben and forced a smile as I sat across from him at the kitchen table. “How's the mission coming along?”

“Good.” He clenched his jaw. “I'm making great progress.”

“Using your manual.”

“That's correct. How about you, Baker?” Ben asked. “Are you having fun riding your little skateboard around?”

“We're doing fine,” Amy said.

I kicked her under the table. “What Amy means is
Linc
is doing fine. I have a lead already. Two leads, actually,” I said, thinking of Ben's package. “How about you?”

“I have a mission plan,” Ben said. “A good agent needs only one lead.” Like a package.

Isn't he just full of it? The good news was that I was about to steal his one lead right from under him. “Well, nobody can
be as good as you, Ben,” I said.

“Maybe we shouldn't talk about the mission,” Amy mumbled.

“Apologies.” Ben took his knife and fork.

“I'm sorry, too.” I guess we were being kind of rude, what with us being dinner guests and all.

“This looks delicious,” Ben said as he took a plate of tacos from the chef.

“I hope you weren't expecting something fancy,” Amy said. “For Taco Tuesday, I like to eat in the kitchen with Mom. That way it feels more like normal, you know?”

“We have dinner in front of the TV a lot,” I said as I took my plate. The mini-tacos were arranged in a perfect star pattern, like each one was a point. “My mom's a nurse, and she's going to school, too. Most of the time it's just me, Dad, and Grandpa.”

“My parents are usually working late,” Ben said. He was trying to cut his taco but only managed to make a big pile of crumbs, meat, and salsa.

Amy laughed as she picked up a taco. “You should eat with your hands.”

Ben blushed but then took her lead. I guess they don't teach tacos at the junior agent boot camp.

“Shouldn't we wait for your mom?” I asked Amy.

She shook her head. “No. She's coming, though. . . .” Her voice trailed. “Just a little later than expected.”

I still felt weird about messing up that perfect plate. But once Amy started eating, making a mess and all, I dug in, too. “These are the best tacos ever.” They really were, no lie. If you ever get to visit the White House, I highly suggest you order the taco plate.

I was about to ask if I could have more when President Griffin walked in. Now, that will make you choke on your dinner, let me tell you.

Ben jumped up, like he was at attention or something.

“I'm so sorry I'm late.” President Griffin kissed Amy on the head. “This presidential ball . . . Never mind. I wasn't going to miss out on Taco Tuesday.”

“I can see why,” I said. “I'm ready for seconds.”

“Good. And you can sit down, Benjamin.”

Ben sat back down, looking a little lost. “Ma'am.”

President Griffin pulled up a chair, and the chef brought her a plate like ours along with a glass of water. “You can call me by my first name, guys. I'm Dorothy.” She rolled up the sleeves of her crisp white blouse. “I'm off duty for the next half hour.”

Amy looked really happy with that.

“I love Taco Tuesday.” President Griffin (I couldn't call her Dorothy, come on now) took her first bite of taco and closed her eyes as she chewed.

Ben and I got seconds while Amy and her mom argued over the latest episode of some show I didn't watch. It was like our dinner table, only we were at the White House. It was weird. Ben and I mostly listened.

By eight o'clock, President Griffin folded her napkin and placed it on her empty plate. “I have a few more briefs to go
over,” she said with a sigh.

“Yeah, of course.” Amy tried to hide her disappointment, but no one was buying it. “Thanks for coming, Mom.”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“You guys should have a Waffle Wednesday,” I joked, trying to cheer Amy up. Ben frowned—that guy just didn't know when a good lame joke was the perfect dessert.

“Turkey Thursday,” Amy said with a smile.

“Falafel Friday,” President Griffin added with a laugh, too. “You're right, Linc—we need to have dinner together every night, not just on Tuesdays.”

I was about to tell them about my mom's spaghetti and meatball dinner when Wilson rushed into the kitchen. “Madam President,” he said, sounding out of breath. “There's been a development.”

Ben jumped up again. “The mission?” he asked.

Wilson nodded. “You kids better come with us.”

“Me too?” Amy asked, practically bouncing out of her seat.

President Griffin got up and gave Amy a sad smile. “Not you, sweetheart. You need to stay safe.”

I felt bad, but we had to go. I grabbed my backpack.

Amy slumped in her seat as we followed Wilson. It felt wrong, leaving her sitting at the kitchen table by herself, but I wasn't exactly in charge.

So I tried to shrug off the bad vibe as we raced through the tunnel and to the clubhouse beyond the metal door. I was nervous, clutching my dad's compass on my backpack. There
was no excitement at all this time around—we knew that bad news was waiting for us.

Black and Stark greeted us and passed several copies of a printed email. It took me a second to scan the page:

I raised my hand like I was in class. “Um, what's a Babushka?”

Stark glanced at President Griffin, who still had her eyes glued to the paper.

Ben looked confused, too—the guy didn't know everything after all.

Stark took a breath before she said, “A Babushka is an extremely dangerous explosive device.”

The bad guy had a bomb.

“THIS BABUSHKA IS BAD NEWS,” AGENT
Stark said with a quiver in her voice. “It's a Russian-made bomb, and when it is triggered—”

“Can we just focus on a solution here?” President Griffin said, interrupting Stark. She folded the printout, and I saw that her hands were trembling. “We're talking about my daughter's safety. Do we know that this bomb threat is even valid?”

Stark nodded. “We checked the inventory, ma'am. A Babushka went missing from one of our military installations a few days ago.”

President Griffin nodded, looking defeated.

“But the bad guy still doesn't have the Dangerous Double,
right?” I said, trying to look on the bright side. “So if we find it first, he won't be able to go forward with his plan.” I was about to add “and blow up the White House,” but stopped myself.

“How is the search for the coat going, kids?” Black asked.

“I'm waiting on something, but I have a plan,” Ben said.

“I have a solid lead, too,” I added, hoping I sounded confident. “Two leads, actually.” I was counting Ben's package and the spy contact.

“How about the search for the mole?” President Griffin asked Black and Stark. “Are you any closer to uncovering the traitor's identity?”

Stark looked flustered, which I took as a bad sign. “This Dagger person used staff computers to send the emails. So far, it's proving hard to find a trail.” Her voice faded

“We're working on it, Madam President,” Black said. “But in light of this escalated threat, you may want to reconsider canceling the ball.”

“No,” President Griffin said resolutely. “Celebrating America's History has been planned for months—there are events at the Smithsonian, Mount Vernon. I'm scheduled to give a speech at the Lincoln Memorial for festivities on Friday.” She handed her printout to Stark. “I won't be terrorized—and what's to say this Dagger person won't strike next week, or next month?”

We were all silent, because everyone knew she was right. We had to catch the bad guy, and that meant going ahead with the ball.

President Griffin looked at Black, then to Stark. “Find the
mole and the Dangerous Double.” She looked at her watch. “You have just over forty-six hours.”

Ben, President Griffin, Wilson, Stark, and I went back down the tunnel to the White House after Albert Black assured the president we were on the case.

“How's your search for the Dangerous Double coming?” Ben asked behind me as we walked. I tried hard not to seem like we were together. Stark, President Griffin, and Wilson were in deep conversation about the hunt for the mole.

“Good. Great, actually,” I said, thinking of his package. “How about you? Any new clues get delivered yet?”

Ben squinted. “I'll have the artifact secured by the end of the day tomorrow, latest. I'm the top secret agent here.”

“We'll see.” I felt a little guilty fighting over some bet when Amy's life was on the line—even more so now that the bad guy had a bomb. Still, I couldn't wait to see what was inside the package. And I had to hurry if I was going to be on time to pick it up. “I guess we better get back to work.”

We came to the basement, where Ben split off with Stark. Wilson and the president went their way.

Leaving me with some buff Secret Service guy who escorted me to my ride. I passed through the giant pillars and was on my way out through the North Portico when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around and looked at a tall guy in a dark blue suit with a little shine to it. He smiled, flashing super-white teeth.

“Um, sorry,” I said.

“No need to apologize,” the guy said, and he stepped back. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

Uh-oh. “Really?”

“You're Benjamin Green, aren't you?”

WHEN SOMEONE IN A SUIT SAYS THEY'VE
been looking for you, it can only mean one thing. You're in trouble.

But I knew I was supposed to protect the whole double secret, so I rolled with the mix-up over who I was. “Yep, that's me. Benjamin Green.”

“I'm Sidney Ferguson, director of National Intelligence.” He dismissed the buff Secret Service dude who walked me out and motioned to the pillars behind us. “Take a walk with me.”

“Sure,” I said. I really had to go get the package, but Ferguson didn't look like the kind of guy who takes no for an answer. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to ask you how things were going,” Ferguson said. He had his hands clasped behind his back as we walked back the way I came between the white pillars.

“Great,” I lied.

He led me back to the Cross Hall and went right. “I hear you're Albert Black's top junior agent.”

“That's right.”

“How's that working for you?” Ferguson asked.

I shrugged. “Fine.”

“Hmmm.” Ferguson nodded, and he had a concerned look on his face. “You know, an agent's career often depends on the leadership they're under. If you want to get ahead, you need to . . . position yourself.”

Huh? What was he going on about?

“I worked with Albert Black, long ago,” Ferguson said. “And as you can tell, my career has progressed to director of National Intelligence.” We stopped in front of the East Room. Ferguson looked inside, like he was searching for something. Then we turned back around.

I was beginning to get what this was about. Ferguson was the popular kid in school—or in this case, at the White House. “You're saying Albert Black is a loser.”

Ferguson laughed. “You're a smart one, aren't you?”

“I'm Benjamin Green.”

Ferguson got all serious again. “All I'm saying is that Albert Black is not who he appears to be. I would hate to see a young promising agent like you get caught in his web of lies.”

We'd left the Cross Hall and were back in the North Portico. “Isn't Black on your team, CIA and all?” I asked.

Ferguson didn't answer my question. He dug into his pocket and took out a business card. “Albert Black may have used a favor to get himself inside the White House. However, he's not who he seems.” Ferguson handed me his card.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Call me when you find out the truth and decide to get on the right team.” He stepped closer. “I wouldn't mention our talk to anyone.”

“Why not?” Usually, when an adult tells you to keep a secret, it's bad news. Unless it involves a birthday present or something.

“For
your
sake, Agent Green.” And Ferguson turned around and went back the way we came.

I tucked the card into my pocket. That conversation was weird, right? The stuff he said about Albert Black.
He's not who he seems
. What did that mean anyway?

I walked outside, where Steve was waiting in his black SUV. I got inside and saw the dashboard clock: It was twenty minutes after nine. “Can you step on it, Steve?”

“Sure thing.” Steve raised the little window and drove me back to the Thrifty Suites in a hurry.

I couldn't relax. All I could think about was that package.

Maybe the key to finding the coat was inside. I would save the president from this bomb-toting Dagger. Be the hero, and leave Ben in my dust.

I'm pretty sure I set a skateboarding speed record, the cold DC air burning my ears as I whizzed down the street. It was
nine forty-five when I finally reached the address—not that it mattered. Because when I looked up, I saw the sign.