Spy Mom (21 page)

I remind myself that accessing the network is a small victory. The USAWMD was not known for its commitment to an electronic universe. The most important information, the things that would make the average American cringe with distaste and perhaps be moved to rail against our methods of democracy, those things were loosely bound together by rubber bands, stashed in cryptically labeled boxes, and stored in the belly of an undisclosed mountain. They were also written in a code so irritatingly complex that I used to make things up to see if anyone bothered to really read them. My conclusion was no.

But background information, dossiers on individuals of interest to the Agency, sometimes showed up on the network. And today I just got lucky.

Professor Albert Malcolm is sixty-eight years old, unmarried, no children. He lives alone in a small house near the University. The attached photos indicate that the house has a perfectly manicured front lawn with a row of rosebushes along one side. Professor Malcolm has owned the same car for thirty years, a white Volkswagen Beetle. Hailing originally from Minnesota, Malcolm is considered a genius in his field of analytical chemistry. And because he is considered a genius, his obvious insanity is dismissed as eccentricity. Isn't it cute that he wears the same clothes for twenty days in a row, not coming out of the lab except to use the toilet? Can someone please go in there and clear out the pizza boxes before we lose a student? Yes, we would, except no one knows the code for entry and the nutty professor is not about to answer a knock at the door. After a while, he would emerge but refuse to say what he was doing in the lab. His logs would be blank and his eyes would be spinning like saucers in his head.

His students hate him, at least those who have had the honor of actually having met the guy. Professor Malcolm believes teaching is for idiots. And I'm not drawing conclusions here. According to the writer, he actually said as much. “Teaching,” he pronounced in an academic journal, “is for idiots with nothing better to do with their time. If the university wanted a teacher, they should perhaps hire one of these idiots I'm speaking of and be done with it.”

Shortly thereafter, the university issued an apology to teachers everywhere on behalf of the professor. Of course, he was not involved with the apology; no one expected he would be. So Professor Malcolm's teaching assistants conduct his classes while he hides out in the lab. And the university looks the other way, thinking that it's probably safer for everyone involved if he stays away from the fresh young minds of the students.

Which is not to say that Malcolm doesn't have his followers. There is a group of students who appear to worship at his lab door. He is deeply critical and insulting of these particular students, which only fuels their desire to please him. Impressionable youth. I smile. It will make it far easier for me to scare the shit out of them and get some actual, usable information.

I lean back in the desk chair as far as I can without falling over. What I really want to know is how Blackford met Professor Malcolm. I want to know about the very first time they laid eyes on one another. Did Malcolm find Blackford or the other way around? How long have they been working on this little project together and, most importantly, when is it going to be done? But I somehow doubt the answers to any of these questions are going to show up in Albert Malcolm's file. And that can mean only one thing: I have to go on a field trip.

Downstairs, Agent Nanny Pauline has shed her blazer, rolled up her sleeves, and kicked off her shoes. Theo is busy showing her the proper way to set up the Thomas the Train tracks so there is a jump for the train to sail off. Pauline has obviously accepted her beta role and is nodding her head agreeably. She looks almost happy.

“Hi, kids,” I say. They both startle.

“Hi, Mommy,” Theo says. “Pauline is helping build jumps for Thomas.”

“Yes,” I say, “I can see that. Do you mind if Mommy goes out for a little while and you stay here and play with Pauline?”

“Nope, I'll stay here and play with Pauline,” he says, as if struck by a brilliant idea. “When you come back, we go to the park.”

“Deal,” I say. “I'll be gone two hours at the most. Don't be scared.” But that does little to chase away the look of fear on Pauline's face. “You'll be fine. My cell number is on the table. Call me if you need anything or if anything happens. Okay? Okay. Good. I'll be back.”

I grab my bag off the table and realize it is not actually necessary to lug twenty pounds of wipes, toys, sippy cups, crackers, and other kid paraphernalia with me on my student-stalking mission. Feeling oddly liberated, I pull out my wallet, stick my cell phone in my pocket, and head out the door.

Now, a normal person living a normal life would secure the necessary references from a new babysitter and call each and every one. A normal person would ask a series of carefully crafted questions designed to uncover relevant information, such as whether the babysitter in question was a practicing ax murderer in her spare time. A normal person living in my city probably would go the extra mile and have a proper professional background check conducted as well. But no. Not me. I have my own approach.

Instead of hopping in my car and heading across the bridge for a rendezvous with Professor Malcolm, I creep around the house and slip into the kitchen through the back door. Nanny Pauline appears ten seconds later, a toy train in her hand, ready to cudgel me to death with it.

I tap my watch. “Ten seconds. Too long. What if I had a gun? You have Thomas the Train. Not really an equal fight.”

Nanny Pauline looks crestfallen. “I was told not to carry my weapon on the assignment.”

“And that is as it should be. But pick up something heavier.” I gesture to the cast-iron frying pan, still dirty, on the stove. “Like that.”

Pauline nods. “Yes. That would be better.” In comes Theo.

“Mommy? I thought you were leaving.”

“I am, sweetheart. Right now. See you soon.” I kiss his blond head. Then I look at Pauline and again tap the face of my watch. “Too long.”

She trudges out of the kitchen after Theo, looking like a puppy who has just been scolded for peeing on the floor.

This time, as I actually get in my car and drive toward the bridge, I try very hard to think about Professor Malcolm. But it's not easy. My heart is beating too fast, the rushing blood echoing in my ears. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my fingers are white. I can feel the wheel growing slick with sweat. Theo is out of my sight. I try counting backward from one hundred, but that does nothing to alleviate my panic attack. Finally, I dial Simon.

“Listen,” I bark into the phone. “She better be the very, very, very best thing the Agency has produced in a decade because if anything happens to Theo it's your head. And I mean the part about the head.”

“Calm down there, Sally. It's not as if I sent you someone fresh out of school. She's done some things. I have great hopes for her.”

“You're full of shit,” I say.

“Am I?”

“I meant the thing about the head.”

“I know. I heard you the first time. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“But you are in the car.”

“So what? Information is on a need-to-know basis,” I say and hang up on him. He dials me back several times, but I've tossed the phone into the backseat, where I won't be tempted to answer it. I practice my deep yoga breathing for a few minutes. After what seems like forever, my pulse begins to slow and steady. This will be fine. It has to be. I will accept no alternative.

And now, back to Albert Malcolm. He publishes when he must, but mostly he hides out in his lab like a mad scientist. People give him the benefit of the doubt because he has been labeled a genius. But why do we assume that because someone is a genius they are up to something lifesaving or revolutionary, such as inventing a cure for cancer? Why don't we assume that the reason the professor keeps his door locked is because behind it he is messing with unspeakable evil?

The campus is beautiful, landscaped, and blooming. It looks exactly like it does in the brochure. I think about the cold gray of my own college experience and wonder why it never occurred to me to transfer somewhere warm with beaches and palm trees. I mean, chemistry 101 is still chemistry 101 even if it is 75 degrees outside with blue skies and sunshine, right?

I park my car in a visitor lot and head toward a campus café known as a science major hangout. How do I know this? I thank my anonymous USAWMD writer for giving me at least one useful tidbit of information. The place is mobbed with students chugging double lattes and scarfing trans fat in the guise of donuts and pastries. Caffeine and sugar. Who needs drugs? I work my way up to the counter and order a single decaf, much to the shock and horror of my barista.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Decaf?”

“Yes,” I say, “and hurry. I'm feeling light-headed.” Coffee in hand, I find an empty seat and watch the college kids move in and out. I try to decide who is who. Who are the cool kids? The geeks? Who is most likely to be in Professor Malcolm's inner circle? Being as I don't actually know the professor, this is harder than it might appear. Using my master sleuthing techniques, honed over years of hard-won experience, I turn to the guy next to me and say, “Do you happen to know anyone who studies with Professor Malcolm?” The kid, no older than twenty, lifts his head from his textbook for a mere second and points to a table in the corner of the café. “The Disciples,” he says, “they usually sit over there.” He returns his head to the book.

“Thank you,” I say, but he has already forgotten I exist.

The table in the corner has eight seats pulled up around it and they are all full. The students range in age from maybe twenty to at least twenty-five or -six. The Disciples appear to be grad students. They are not a particularly noteworthy bunch. One boy has on white socks and black shoes. The two girls look hipper, although one of them is so thin a strong gust of wind might carry her away. She reminds me of a whippet. Nervous and jumpy. She is my student of choice. I sit and wait for her to leave or to be left alone.

About a half hour later, she gets up, gives a kiss to one of the older guys at the table, collects her bag, and heads out of the café. I keep an even five paces behind her, and right before she enters the library, I pounce. Catching her by the arm, I spin her toward me with no effort at all. She is so tiny and frail, I worry my light grip will leave a bruise.

“Hey,” I say. She looks surprised to find a strange woman holding her arm.

“Hi,” she says. I let go. “Do I know you?”

“No, but can you tell me where I can find Professor Malcolm? I have an appointment with him and I'm lost.” I shrug. “Don't like to keep the man waiting.”

“Yeah,” she says, “he hates that. So rigid when it comes to his own schedule and nice and loose when it comes to other people's.” She rolls her eyes. Perfect. This woman is in the Malcolm circle because the guy she likes is in the Malcolm circle, not because of any personal loyalty to the man.

“I know,” I say, lying to keep the conversation going. “I was here to interview him once before and he didn't even show up.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Freelance.”

She nods as if that explains it all. “I wish I understood everyone's fascination with the old guy. Barry, my boyfriend, is obsessed with him, says he's on the verge of being able to program us all to act like zombies or something, which he thinks is totally cool. Not that I'm supposed to mention it. He'd kill me if he knew.” More eye rolling.

“You don't study with Professor Malcolm?”

“Me? Are you kidding? No way. I'm premed. Not even close to being smart enough to hang with the professor. He only lets a couple of people into his lab and if he suddenly decides he doesn't like you anymore, well, then you're out on your ass. Barry is one of his boys. Listen, I have to go. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Where is the Professor's office?”

“Jade Hall, second floor,” she says. “I'm Chloe, by the way. Good luck with your article. I hope he shows up.” With that she turns and heads into the library.

I find Jade Hall at the end of a tulip-lined flagstone path. It is an old building, planted oddly in front of a new state-of-the art research building named for the rich alumnae who made it all possible. I wonder why they bothered keeping the old building at all? Sentimentality? I check the directory for Malcolm and find him, indeed, on the second floor. There is a secretary guarding the entrance to five different offices. She informs me that Professor Malcolm is in the lab for the duration of the day and she doesn't expect to be seeing him tomorrow either.

“He rarely comes here,” she says. “Not even to get his mail.” I thank her for her time and head toward the new building. It is all under lock and key as I suspected it would be. I begrudgingly accept the fact that I will have to come back at night. However, sneaking out at night is not as easy as it once was.

As I stand outside the research fortress, I note the manufacturer of the security system. On television, when the good guy wants to break into the bad guy's lair and it is protected by some impenetrable security system, the good guy whips out a little zipper case of tiny tools and gets to work rewiring the entry panel so that it obeys his every command. All in about three minutes. And he doesn't get caught. Ever. But that is not really me.

And so I set out in search of Barry the Boyfriend and his magnetic entry cards. Barry doesn't know it but he's about to be mugged.

Barry is not quite good-looking enough for Chloe. Right now, he has his pointy-headed geek chic thing going for him, which will keep her interested until she finds a guy who changes his underwear more than once a week and drives a 1967 convertible Porsche. Then it's bye-bye Barry.