Double Vision (23 page)

I saw Françoise's eyes dart, looking for a way out. But there was nowhere to run, and there was no way we could take out Agent Fullerton. Unless …

“You know, I want to thank you,” I said to Agent Fullerton as I watched him try to lift the box and hold the gun at the same time. Behind him, Madame Basque stood with her back against the storage racks, looking afraid and angry all at once. “That short training session with Henry was really great,” I went on.

“Was it now? From what I remember, your study efforts weren't exactly stellar out there at the Ventura Hacienda.” He gave me a smug smile.

“But I did learn something,” I said, stepping closer, hoping Agent Fullerton wouldn't shoot me before I could move. And I tried to remember what Henry had said.

The key is to be smarter
.

So I leaped forward and swooped Agent Fullerton's legs. Knocking him off balance, making him drop both the painting box and his gun. I did a Henry—and very successfully so for my first time, if I do say so myself.

Ben grabbed the gun, and Madame Basque jumped up behind Agent Fullerton, who was now on his knees. She lifted her right arm. And whacked him on the head with a big, heavy replica of the Eiffel Tower.

Françoise grabbed the box before it could fall. “Nice job, Madame Basque.” She glanced at me. “You, too. And Ben.” Agent Fullerton was on the floor, sprawled and bleeding slightly from the head.

Madame Basque straightened her dress and touched her beehive hair. “Thank you, Françoise. Give me the gun, young man,” she said to Ben. He reluctantly handed it to Madame Basque, and she took it like it was a dirty tissue. “You kids should go. I'll make sure the police take care of this man here.”

We thanked Madame Basque again and exited the way we came in, after I got my backpack from coat check, then up the stairs and out through the glass pyramid. No Drake on the plaza this time. We made our way out of the Louvre courtyard, and to the street (Rue Whatever) along the Seine.

We found the evil
Mona Lisa
! The mission was a success, despite a crooked Agent Fullerton and pain-in-the-neck junior agent Benjamin Green.

And it wasn't any junior agent handbook or fake Benjamin Green that saved the day. I got the evil
Mona Lisa
back by solving clues with Françoise and doing crazy stuff, like throwing the Tickstick in a fountain and pulling a fire alarm. And taking down a crooked secret agent with the Henry.

Linc disasters had saved the world from bad guys. If only I could tell my friends back home.

Home
. It was one o'clock. What would Drake do with Grandpa now that he didn't get his evil
Mona Lisa
?

“Hold up,” I called after Françoise and Ben. I reached inside my pocket for my cell phone, and fumbled to dial my home number.

It rang five times. It might as well have been an eternity.

Finally, someone answered. “Hello, Linc?”

“MOM?”

“Hi, Linc.” She sounded sleepy. “Why are you calling at four in the morning?”

“Sorry, Mom. You know boot camp. We get up early.”

“How's boot camp?”

How's boot camp? Who cares—how's Grandpa?
That's what I wanted to yell into the phone. But instead I asked, “Is Grandpa around?”

“What, you don't want to talk to your mother?” Mom sounded hurt. “Grandpa is asleep.”

“You're sure?” My heart was pounding.

“Yes, of course I'm sure.” Mom sighed.

I let out a deep sigh, too. Grandpa was okay! But how …?

“He made my life miserable yesterday. We were so lucky to get a last-minute appointment for his hearing aid with this new company, D.E. Health Services—on the night before Thanksgiving no less!”

Lucky us. “So where did they take him?”

“Oh, nobody took him anywhere. Your grandfather,” Mom went on, like our family relation made his behavior my fault somehow, “decided that the hospital taxi driver was a criminal. A hoodlum, he called this man.”

“How did Grandpa know he was a bad guy?” I asked before I could think.

Thankfully, Mom didn't catch on. “Something about his car being too nice, and his shoes weren't right—you know how Grandpa watches those crime shows all day. He thinks he's a criminal profiler.”

I laughed. “So what did he do?”

“When this poor driver tried to put him in the taxi, Grandpa hollered so loud, half the neighborhood came outside to see what the fuss was about.” Mom groaned. “And he kicked the car—apparently, it was some sort of expensive German model. Then he elbowed the driver …”

Go, Grandpa!

“Mrs. Henderson next door called the police, thinking something fishy was going on. They called me at work. The driver left before the police got to the house, though—I hope he's not going to make us pay for the body damage on that car.”

“But Grandpa is okay?”

“Of course, you know he's a tough guy. But I think he misses you.”

After telling Mom I was on my way, I went to catch up with Françoise and Ben. They were trying to hold onto the evil
Mona Lisa
box and walk, but it was awkward, and we were tired.

“We need a taxi to get this home,” she said. There were about a million other people along the street with the same idea, trying to flag down a cab.

But then I heard a car honk. And at the far end of the taxi lane, there was a giant hand with the flame tattooed on the wrist, waving out of a taxi's window.

“Guillaume,” I said with a big grin on my face.

“Wait.” Ben shoved me with his free arm. “We can't trust just any cabbie.”

“He's a friend,” I said, pushing Ben aside and grabbing the box. Françoise and I hurried to Guillaume's taxi and crawled in the back, holding the evil
Mona Lisa
box awkwardly across our laps. Ben joined us reluctantly.

“Good afternoon, my young friends!” Guillaume called, giving me a high five. “I heard about the alarm of fire, and I think: this is my friend Lincoln, causing problems at the Louvre.”

“Thanks.” And I meant it. Even if I was a trouble magnet, this time it was for a cause.

“And you have a twin.” He shook Ben's hand.

“We're not twins, actually,” Ben started, but Guillaume had already turned around to put the cab in gear.

“I take you to the Maison du Mégère,” Guillaume said as he yanked the steering wheel and pulled into traffic.

“Thanks for helping us,” Françoise whispered.

Guillaume winked at her. “It is my honor. Sometimes, the dragon needs his protectors to spit fire.”

“Wait, what's this business about the dragon and the protectors?” I felt like I was inside one of those big fat fantasy books all of a sudden.

Françoise smiled as she clutched her end of the box. “My great-great—well, my grandmother centuries ago had that nickname—the dragon. And it became the family name. But the name Mégère really means more like a nag or a pain-in-the-neck, to be honest,” she added with a laugh. “Like Grandma.”

No kidding.

“But who are the protectors?” Benjamin asked, stealing my question.

Guillaume had arrived at the bakery now. “We are simply friends of Françoise's father. Here to help him when needed.”

“Like Pierre at the restaurant in Montmartre and that lady in the gift shop, Madame Basque,” I said. “The flames—that's your trademark or whatever.”

Guillaume nodded as he parked.

“One of the protectors called me, to tell me you were arriving, Lincoln. So I found you at the airport.”

“The protectors? That was never in our intel reports,” Ben said, crossing his arms. “We'll have to vet this information against our sources.”

Françoise and I rolled our eyes at the same time.

“There are procedures, Baker. Protocol.” Ben opened his door. “We'll take the box back to the Princesse.”

“We're keeping it,” Françoise said.

Ben shook his head. “You have a very dangerous weapon in that box. The U.S. government will have to destroy it.”

Just when I thought Ben and Françoise might get into an actual fistfight over the Dangerous Double, another car pulled up behind us.

Trapping Guillaume's cab in front of the bakery.

“No!” Françoise clutched the box. “This is art—a historical artifact. Papa didn't trust me to find the painting, only for you to destroy it.”

THE PASSENGER DOOR OPENED, AND
there was—Françoise's dad? Agent Stark followed, jumping out the back. Albert Black was right behind her (just a lot slower), and Henry, too.

“Papa?” Françoise hesitated only a second, but then left me with the evil
Mona Lisa
. While Françoise was hugging her dad, I got out with the box and caught up with Henry.

“I did it!” Henry poked me in the ribs, beaming with pride as he shook a spray bottle with some green liquid in it.

“You're not going to spray me with that, are you?”

“Her,” Henry said. “I'm spraying her.”

For a moment, I thought he was talking about Françoise, but then I realized he pointed at the box with the evil
Mona Lisa
inside.

“I call it the Gaze Glaze.” Then Henry went on about it being a special film to negate the refracting of light caused by the sfumato glazing, blah, blah science talk. I'd like to tell you exactly how it works, but it's Henry magic—that's all I can say. The short version: the Mégère family would get their
Mona Lisa
back, minus the evil power.

“How did you guys find Françoise's dad?” I asked.

“Because of you!” Henry slapped me on the shoulder as we watched Françoise talking with her dad. “I built another tracking device. So we found the Drake guys' rental car—remember how you stuck the sticker in the trunk of that car?”

How could I forget?

“And Mégère—turns out he was staying at a friend's house just outside the city,” Henry said. “We went to get him as soon as I finished work on the Gaze Glaze.”

“Nice job, Henry. And you, too, Baker,” Ben said, nodding, looking serious as always. As much as I wanted to roll my eyes, I figured I should shut up and take the compliment this time.

So with all this good news, we did what all super top-secret, Dangerous Double–hunting government operations do.

We had a bakery party. After Henry sprayed the evil
Mona Lisa
with his Gaze Glaze, we celebrated the mission's success. There was French bread, cheeses, this stuff called pâté that had to be the best thing I ever tasted, chocolates, croissants—I know, your mouth is watering, right? Us kids had orange juice to drink and the adults had wine. Françoise's grandma was making sure there was plenty to eat while yelling at Albert Black in French for trying to light a cigar in the kitchen.

“I guess this means no more secret agent life for you.” Françoise refilled my orange juice.

“I'm okay,” I said—and I was. I mean, on paper it might seem cool to jump from a plane and run from bad guys, but in reality it's dangerous. And tiring. “I'm not exactly Benjamin Green over there.”

We both looked across the room, where Ben was flipping through some sort of file.

“Well, I'm glad you're not him,” Françoise said. “If it weren't for you … Well, thanks.”

“For putting the sticker inside your dad's jacket?” I shrugged.

She was about to say something, but then her father joined us and shook my hand. “Thank you, Lincoln. For taking care of Françoise.”

Françoise rolled her eyes and walked away to help her grandmother.

“She doesn't need any help, Mr. Mégère,” I said. Maybe Françoise's dad had not seen her wield a stick. “So how did you manage to get away from Drake—I mean your brother, Jules.”

Mégère smiled. “They were so busy fighting, I simply made a run for it when we landed. Then I called one of my friends, to hide out. But thanks to your friend Henry, I didn't have to hide out for long. The Pandora agents came to find me, and told me that Henry had found a way to make the dangerous painting safe.”

“That Gaze Glaze is pretty genius.”

Mégère talked about bringing back the artifacts into the Vault, or maybe loaning them out to the Louvre so people could enjoy them. Except for the evil
Mona Lisa
—the Dangerous Double had to stay a secret. We all toasted with juice and wine, and after cleaning out the Mégère pastry supply, Pandora took off to catch a plane.

So that's how it all went down. How I went from Chicken Boy, expelled middle school eighth grader and all-around troublemaker, to junior agent. Even if it was for less than a week. I told you it was life changing.