Get Smart-ish (3 page)

OCTOBER 22, 11:03 A.M. BAE HEADQUARTERS. LONDON, ENGLAND

Barren. Cold. High-tech. These were Jonathan's and Shelley's first impressions of the lobby of the Bureau of Adolescent Espionage.

“Operatives 2397 and 2398 reporting for duty,” Randolph said to one of the many guards standing at attention.

“Follow me,” a gruff-looking man barked, and then led Jonathan and Shelley to two large metal-and-glass boxes in the corner of the room. “Step inside. We're scanning for tracking devices and bugs, as well as logging your features for our facial recognition software. At BAE we do not believe in identification cards, as there is always a chance that they can be counterfeited. A face, however, cannot.”

“Talk about high-tech,” Jonathan mumbled as the two stepped inside the boxes.

“Sure beats climbing through a fridge of pork products,” Shelley said, thinking of the League of Unexceptional Children's headquarters hidden behind Famous Randy's Hot Dog Palace.

Following the scans, Randolph led Jonathan and Shelley to a door marked
SOUTH CORRIDOR
while explaining, “Rogue operatives are dreadful for office morale, so we thought it best to set up our central command away from the others. After all, we needn't flaunt Operative Mitford's betrayal.”

“Maybe it's just me, but traitors actually lift my spirits; they make me feel better about myself. Like, it suddenly doesn't seem so bad that I cheated off Stefan Lindeman in math class and still managed to fail the test,” Shelley rambled as Jonathan smiled, relieved that Randolph couldn't hear her soft voice over the white noise pumping through the halls (a security measure to stop operatives from eavesdropping).

“It's basic, but it will have to do,” Randolph stated as he opened the door to a stale, windowless room at the end of the corridor with wall-to-wall gray carpeting, a couple of desks, and a map of London.

“So it's just Shelley and me working the case?” Jonathan asked as he looked around the empty room. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Shelley cleared her throat and then grabbed hold of Randolph's arm to make sure he was listening. “Please ignore my partner. Acting insecure is part of his cover.”

Jonathan sighed and thought,
If only that were true
.

“You needn't worry. The others are on their way,” Randolph responded to Jonathan. “Now, in regards to your backstories, President Arons has requested that no additional BAE operatives, outside of Vera and Felix, whom you worked with in America, be told of your true identity as members of the League of Unexceptional Children. So we have told the team that you are spies from America—no more, no less.”

“Got it. Now, what kind of gadgets are you tricking us out with? Because I should tell you, I'm kind of a tech whiz,” Shelley bragged as Jonathan shook his head.

“After reading your files, we have decided it best to limit your exposure to technology. To be honest, we weren't even sure we were going to give you cell phones at first,” Randolph explained as he motioned for the two to take seats.

“I'm reading between the vines here, but it was because of our accents, wasn't it? You didn't want to be forced to listen to a couple of Americans on the phone.”

“Shells, it's reading between the
lines
, not the vines,” Jonathan clarified.

“No, it's
vines
, as in it's hard to read something covered in vines,” Shelley explained.

“I'm afraid Jonathan is right on this one. And I can assure you the issue was not your accents, but rather your track records,” Randolph stated as he pulled up a file on his iPad. “It appears that you, Shelley, have lost a total of eighteen phones, twelve of which were landlines—as in phones that plug into the wall.”

“You know, I want to say you're wrong. But something about this sounds vaguely familiar,” Shelley acknowledged.

“And as for you, Jonathan. You have only destroyed two phones in your life. But both times resulted in fire. I believe the first incident involved you sticking a slice of bread in your pocket and your phone in the toaster—”

“And the second a frozen burrito in my backpack and my phone in the microwave,” Jonathan interrupted.

“So it was nothing short of a miracle that I was able to convince the powers that be to trust both of you with mobiles,” Randolph said as the sound of a door opening distracted Jonathan and Shelley.

Confident, striking, and exceptional—these were Shelley's first impressions of the trio of operatives entering the room. Everything from the manner in which they walked, dressed, and stood silently communicated that they were nothing short of espionage royalty. The faint voice in the back of Shelley's mind, the one she always tried her best to ignore, suddenly erupted.
These kids know what they're doing! Run! Get out as fast as you can! They're going to see straight through you!

But just as Shelley prepared to dart from the room without so much as an explanation, another voice appeared. Only this one played fast and loose with the truth, thereby tricking Shelley into feeling important, strong, and confident. A surge of adrenaline whipped through her body as she listened to the voice list her many “talents.”
Best puppy cuddler in the United States, sampler of Korean food, break-dancer, air guitar master, snoreless sleeper…

“Where are Vera and Felix?” Jonathan asked as he looked over the unfamiliar faces.

“Unfortunately, they had to take a slight detour to rural Mongolia. They're our only operatives fluent in the Khalkha dialect, so we had no choice but to send them,” Randolph said.

“What a shame! I was really looking forward to seeing good old
Ver
and
Fel
again,” Shelley said, turning to the three operatives. “We had some crazy times with them last week. Wait until you guys hear about it—”

“Shells, it was a top secret mission, which means we can never, ever talk about it,” Jonathan stated, raising his eyebrows in an effort to drive the point home.

“Um, I know, Johno,” Shelley covered poorly. “If you had let me finish, I was going to say, ‘
Wait until you guys hear about it…when we're all dead…because when we're ghosts, security breaches no longer matter
.'”

“Since your deaths are most likely some ways off—although in this line of work you never know—may I suggest we get on with the introductions,” Randolph said, and then pointed to a petite redheaded girl in a blue-and-yellow plaid dress. “Jonathan, Shelley, may I present Hattie Fleming.”

“Good afternoon, young lady and young gentleman, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” the girl offered in a staid, formal tone of voice. “As you will soon learn, I am something of an anomaly—a technology expert who prefers the simpler things in life, such as a fine cucumber sandwich or a weekend shooting clay pigeons.”

“As a recent convert to vegetarianism, I am staunchly anti–pigeon assassins,” Shelley declared, narrowing her eyes at Hattie.

“How recent was the conversion? You ate a sausage-and-egg sandwich with a side of bacon for breakfast,” Jonathan reminded Shelley.

“Darn it! Every time I'm hungry I forget I'm a vegetarian,” Shelley lamented, and then pursed her lips. “In light of what I just heard, I think it's best I retract the pigeon assassin comment…so please consider it retracted…like it never happened…even though it did…but now let's all pretend that it didn't.”

“They're
clay
pigeons, not actual birds. You do understand the difference, don't you?” Hattie asked.

“Yet another reason I'm glad I retracted my previous statement,
non
–pigeon killer,” Shelley said. “And just so you know, Jonathan hates cucumber sandwiches.”

“She grows on you,” Jonathan added quietly. “Sort of like mold on a piece of fruit.”

After a few seconds of awkward stares, Randolph pointed to a boy dressed in a beige corduroy suit, with dark brown skin and black curly locks that added an extra inch to the circumference of his head. “This young man is Oliver Lakeshore, although he prefers to be called Oli.”

The boy nodded hello to Jonathan and Shelley before clearing his throat. “I am a historian, which is quite useful in our field because, in the words of philosopher George Santayana, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.'”

“And those who quote other people are condemned to bore all those around them,” an extremely tall and muscular blond boy at the end of the line huffed. “I mean, what kind of spy is a historian? It's utterly ludicrous!”

“The prime minister doesn't think so,” Oli answered loudly.

“And this is our biochemical expert, Darwin Chapman. Equal parts intelligence and nuisance,” Randolph interjected.

“Come on, Teeth, I'm not that bad,” Darwin said with a wry smile.

“Do not call me Teeth!” Randolph snapped.

“And you thought it was bad when I called the prime minister PM,” Shelley whispered to Jonathan.

“Oh, come on, don't get your knickers in a twist. It's not like I'm calling you Eye or anything,” Darwin continued.

“People of my generation did not get braces. It simply was not done,” Randolph stated impatiently.

“So what are your specialties?” Darwin asked Jonathan and Shelley as he stepped forward, towering over the two.

“Mahjong,” Shelley exclaimed without thinking. “And backgammon,” she said, pointing at Jonathan.

Darwin shook his head and laughed. “You two are experts in old people's games? Why on earth would we need you to help us track Nina?”

“Dar? Can I call you Dar? Or would you prefer Win?” Shelley asked.

“I would prefer
Darwin
, as that is my name.”

“It appears there's a lot you don't know about Nina, because she was in fact a very dedicated and highly gifted mahjong-ist and backgammon-ist.”

“And environmentalist,” Jonathan said while pinching Shelley in an attempt to stop her improvising.

“Now then,” Randolph spoke up, “if we are finished with introductions, I would like an update on Operative Mitford.”

Hattie raised her left hand, cloaked in a pristine white glove, to indicate that she was prepared to speak first. “Such an odd bird, that Nina. She used the name of her neighbor's pet rabbit as the password for her e-mail, and we all know she doesn't even like rabbits. Not that she needed a difficult password; there's nothing to protect. The whole account has been wiped clean except for a few e-mails from her grandmother requesting cakes from a local bakery,” Hattie finished with a huff. “Shameful, isn't it? A grandmother who doesn't bake.”

Sensing that Hattie might be tempted to continue her condemnation of Nina's grandmother, Randolph spoke up. “And Operative Mitford's room at boarding school?”

“A dead end. No explosives residue. No interesting gadgets. Just a few ferns and a couple of pictures,” Darwin answered.

“And her cell phone?” Randolph continued.

“Turned off,” Oli jumped in, clearly eager to take part in the briefing.

“We've installed facial recognition software at Heathrow, Gatwick, and City airports on the off chance she tries to flee the country on a fake passport,” Hattie said.

“So what do we do now?” Jonathan asked.

“We wait,” Randolph answered.

“In the words of William Faulkner, ‘And sure enough even waiting will end…if you can just wait long enough,'” Oli stated with dramatic flair.

“Forget the waiting—the real question is, will the quotes ever end?” Darwin grumbled.

“I must admit they are a bit tiresome, Oli,” Hattie offered quietly.

“You mean like your stories about making blood sausage and Yorkshire pudding aren't?” Oli hit back.

“Dear boy, you clearly do not understand that blood sausage and Yorkshire pudding are an important part of the British culture! What's next, an attack on tea?”