Double Vision (13 page)

He swooped around and looked at me. Dark eyes—almost black. He had ruddy, acne-pocked skin, like maybe his parents couldn't afford the creams or something. And a military-type buzz cut under the hoodie, as far as I could tell. He clenched his teeth, pulled his arm away.

And pushed me hard with both hands. Sending me flying, with only my backpack to break my fall.

“Hey!” I called, but he was already making a run for it. I watched him head back to the traffic circle, where a dark sedan with tinted windows pulled up and let him in.

He was gone. Along with our paper with the code on it.

Françoise helped me up. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said, even if my back felt a little sore. “But this kid just ran off with our next clue.”

“At least I deciphered the Morse code.” She smiled. “It said ‘Montmartre.'”

“What's that?”

“It's not
what
, it's
where
,” Françoise said in her usual snappy tone. She pointed to the right, where you could see this bright white cathedral on the hill, practically glowing as the sun was setting. “That's Sacré Coeur basilica. And that hill is Montmartre, where the artists used to live.”

“That looks far away. It's pretty late.” And I was starving, with me skipping lunch and all. It was nearly five. Didn't this girl need to eat?

Françoise shrugged. “We can take the Metro, but it's not so fast from here. That thief in a hoodie might get there before us.”

I dug into my pocket. “I have a way to get there fast, if you don't mind a little bumpy ride.”

As it turned out, Guillaume was parked just around the corner from the arc, so he was there in a jiffy.

“Lincoln,” he said, winking. “You bring your girl this time?”

“I'm nobody's girl,” Françoise snapped at Guillaume as she got in.

“Sorry,” Guillaume said to Françoise, but then he tossed me another wink. “Where are we going?”

“Over there,” I said, pointing to the hill. “What's it called again?”

“Montmartre,” Françoise said.

“Ah, it's beautiful.” Guillaume cut across traffic to make a turn. “My cousin has a restaurant up there. Moulin de la Galette.”

Françoise leaned forward. “That's where my father makes deliveries for the bakery. The owner, Pierre, is his best friend. He's your cousin?” Françoise asked.

“It's a small world, right? Walt Disney said so.” Guillaume laughed. “Maybe you can take our Lincoln there to get a meal, okay?” Guillaume said. “Be sure to check out the menu.”

“Sure, yeah.” Françoise sat back, which was probably a good thing. Guillaume ran a red light to make a left. It was a miracle we didn't get into an accident, and I was glad Mom wasn't here to see me in the cab.

“So where in Montmartre do we go?” I asked Françoise.

She thought about that awhile. “I'm thinking Papa wants me to go to Sacré Coeur. We used to visit the gardens near the basilica sometimes, after making deliveries.”

Guillaume came to an abrupt stop. “Here you are. Take the cable car up,” he said, pointing at the hill. “Or the stairs, but it's a long way.”

I paid Guillaume, and Françoise got out. I hurried to keep up.

“Say hello to Pierre!” Guillaume called before he sped away.

I followed Françoise to get in line for the cable car—the very long line. People seemed to move extra slow, as if they knew we were in a hurry.

Then I saw Hoodie Guy. He was looking out the big square window at the back of the cable car. He smiled and waved the piece of paper he'd taken from Françoise. “Look,” I said.

The cable car was still filling with people, but there was no way we would make this one.

“Let's take the stairs,” Françoise said. We started running, taking two, three steps at a time—well, at least Françoise was taking three steps at a time. “Come on, Lincoln!”

“I'm trying, I'm trying!” And I was failing miserably. The stairway was crazy long, hundreds of steps it seemed, with trees and pretty lanterns lining it. I tried to make my legs move as fast as possible, feeling Dad's metal compass bouncing against my back as I did.

I watched the cable car begin its climb down below. Françoise was ahead of me a good dozen steps. And all I could think about was how Benjamin Green wouldn't be this slow. He would be ahead of Françoise already, and he'd probably have some supersmart plan to take down the enemy. Me, I had no idea what I would do once I got to the top of this never-ending stairway.

I had to think like Benjamin Green. What would he do, other than run a lot faster?

I thought of my backpack. The gadgets Henry had given me. I could blow up the cable car with my Tickstick! I looked at the people inside the car that was inching its way up the hill—okay, so maybe that was a bad idea. As much as I wanted Hoodie Guy stopped or even hurt, those other passengers needed to stay safe.

The cable car was now just over halfway up the hill. Françoise was at the top, and I wanted to kiss the ground when I reached her. I felt like my lungs were going to explode.

“Now what?” I asked her, looking around. It was like one of those French paintings: old shops with striped awnings, merchants selling fruits and cheeses, necklaces, and touristy stuff in the marketplace. There was even a plaza with a fountain in the middle, right in front of the cable car stop. Nearby, one of the merchants had set up this little fenced area with—you guessed it—chickens roaming around, probably about two dozen of them.

I laughed at the sight of them—I mean, chickens. Seriously? But then I heard the cable car screeching to a halt. We only had seconds to stop Hoodie Guy.

What would Ben do to stop him?
I had no idea.

“Bawk,”
one of the chickens seemed to say to me.
“Baaawwwkkk. Bawk.”

Let's face it: there wasn't time for me to come up with a great, government-approved plan to stop Hoodie Guy. I had to improvise. Reaching into the front pocket of my backpack, I pulled out Henry's Tickstick.

Then I stopped. What was it again? Was I supposed to take off the cap?

I looked at the cable car that was now unloading its passengers, with Hoodie Guy trapped in the back, waiting for some family with twins in a stroller to get off.

I inched closer to the market, and to the fountain and the chickens. I opened the little gate, but the hens didn't even move. These were happy French chickens. I actually felt a moment of guilt as I thought of what I was about to do.

I grabbed Françoise's arm. “Walk closer to the guards,” I sort of whispered. “When stuff goes down, you tell them it was the guy who stole our clue. Hoodie Guy.”

“What stuff is going down?”

“Just do it.”

Françoise thought of arguing, but then she saw that Hoodie Guy was off the cable car. And she strolled over to the guard.

I looked at the Tickstick, and then I saw the seal—that was it. I was supposed to twist the cap to break the seal, and then I had a few seconds. But was it five seconds or ten? I really should've paid better attention when Henry told me.

Time to find out.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumbled and twisted the cap, hoping I still knew how to aim and throw a good pitch. I only had one Tickstick, one shot. So I'd better get it right. Otherwise, some happy brown chickens might get blown up, and even though my love for chickens was at an all-time low, cruelty to animals was not something I wanted on my record.

I reached back.

Focused. And I tossed the Tickstick, right in the deepest portion of the water in the fountain.

Setting off a muffled boom, followed by a huge spray of water. Disturbing the peaceful happiness of two dozen French chickens.

“Bawk, baaaawwwk! Bawk!”
They scurried in every direction, feathers flying.

Right into the crowd at the cable car stop.

NO CHICKENS WERE HARMED DURING
the making of this trouble, other than a few flying feathers. Chicken Boy had worked his magic—creating the chaos to set up Hoodie Guy. It was sort of fun, to tell you the truth.

The chicken farmer waved his fist in the air, yelling French stuff. He must've been a kind farmer (unlike Farmer Johnson), because most of his chickens flew only a few feet away. Meanwhile, Françoise nudged the guard and pointed at Hoodie Guy, who was trying to bolt. Making himself look extraguilty.

This was great! The chicken farmer decided to take action himself, stepping over his stressed-out chickens as he rushed toward Hoodie Guy. The guard had the kid by the arm now, and Françoise slipped away into the crowd.

I waved at Hoodie Guy and smiled. Then I quickly grabbed my backpack and hurried to catch up with Françoise.

“Nice one,” she said with a grin.

“Lucky pitch,” I said, exhaling. I'd fumbled my way out of trouble, but if there was one thing I knew, it was that when the chaos was your fault, you'd better scram in a hurry. It was only a matter of time before Hoodie Guy convinced them that the American kid had blown the water out of the fountain, and I really didn't want to call Agent Stark to tell her I'd been arrested again. I pulled Françoise's arm. “Let's go, all right?”

“This bomb, that was something your friend Henry gave you?” she asked as we made our way to the back of the crowd.

I nodded.

“I should talk to him sometime,” Françoise said. “I have some ideas for gadgets I could use.”

A crowd had gathered along the cable car platform, but we walked on, toward Sacré Coeur, passing a few stray chickens along the way. “Well, we lost that kid, at least for a while,” Françoise said as we sat on one of the benches near the entrance of the church to take a break.

“I know where I've seen him before,” I said, grateful to drop the weight of my heavy backpack for a while. “He bumped into me at the airport.”

“Here, in Paris?”

I nodded. “So they knew I was coming to Paris to take Benjamin Green's place. The question is: How?”

Françoise bit her lip. “I'll tell you how. You have someone who's working within your organization. A mole.”

“Ben?”

Françoise shook her head. “But it can't be him. He was already gone by the time the government found you, right?”

“Right. So the information about me coming to Paris that day had to come from the inside.” From Pandora. I felt really worried now. Who could I trust, really? Agent Stark? She was with me most of the time. It would be easy for her to pass information on to the bad guys, and she was always in a bad mood. Henry I could trust, that I was sure of. Agent Fullerton was the one who'd pushed to get me on the team, so he didn't seem a likely suspect.

“Empty your pockets,” Françoise said, pulling at my jacket. “Come on.”

“Why?” I asked, but I did anyway. There were some coins—both American and euro change, which looked weird together—and a black matchbook.

“There it is,” Françoise said as she took it between her thumb and index finger and opened it. She pulled out a small circular device that looked like a computer chip. She handed it to me.

“It's sticky on the back.”

“That's so you can easily leave it anywhere. They've been tracking you. That explains why that kid knew where we were: he was just following your signal.”

I was speechless. And I felt a little stupid, to tell you the truth. Why hadn't I noticed this matchbook before? Benjamin Green would've known—heck, even Henry with his so-so field agent skills would've found this tracker.

I looked around at all the tourists walking up the steps of Sacré Coeur. Then I saw the policeman, wearing bicycling shorts. He was chasing after a chicken. “Hang on,” I said to Françoise.

All right, so this part of the story has to stay between you and me, okay? See, ever since I helped catch all those chickens at the Johnson chicken farm, I've become something of a chicken expert. You have to be slow and relax. So I walked over, positioning myself opposite the policeman. He was making little clucking noises. Like the chicken would be stupid enough to go for that.

Careful to move slow and casual like, I looped around, and snatched the bird. I handed it to the cop before it could claw me. No more Chicken Boy disasters for me, thanks.

“Thank you,
merci
,” Bicycle Cop said. He carried the chicken over to the farmer, taking just long enough for me to stick the tracker under his saddle.

“Nice one,” Françoise said. “I thought you were going to feed the tracker to the chicken.”

“That would be animal cruelty. And I love chickens.” We watched the cop get on his bike and ride away. “This should keep Drake's guys entertained for a while.”

It was dark out now, and I was feeling the day in my legs. But there was no stopping Françoise. That girl was like one of those butt-kicking cartoon heroes—she never stopped. This mission was wearing me out, to tell you the truth, and my Benjamin Green boots weren't all that comfortable.