Samantha Smart (28 page)

When the cleanser program was done, she took out the CD and put it into her little lockbox, locking it securely. Now she only had to think of an excuse to go out one more time so she could check the vital email that awaited her from a safe, random location. Even if she left, she figured, if there were agents watching her they would follow her to the café she planned to go to on Seventh Avenue.

She did, however, have a plan brewing in her head. She went out to the living room and hung out for a while with her mom, then feigned going to bed around 10:30. Cindy had to work tomorrow, so she would most likely be asleep soon. She would probably encounter Agent Stiles in the morning at the museum, but Samantha couldn’t worry about that now.

At midnight, she snuck out of bed, shushing Polly, and down to the basement again, her laptop computer tucked neatly under one arm in its stylish, nylon traveling bag. At the opposite end from the laundry machines there was a grate in the floor; it drained to the city storm sewers and had been put in many years ago by a handyman whom her father had called when their basement had had troubles with flooding. She and Marvin had gone down it one day, as nine-year-olds (well, Marvin had been older), and found that it led into tunnels that ran underneath the entire neighborhood. It had been scary, and Samantha did not relish the thought of going down there again, but necessity demanded it, so she pulled off the grate and descended into the cold, wet underworld of Brooklyn.

She had been smart enough to bring along a flashlight, and turned it on as her feet hit the bottom of the tiny tunnel. The first hundred feet or so was the hardest: she had to crawl on her hands and knees through a tunnel that was barely wider than her, especially now that she was almost twelve and had grown considerably since her last adventure through this maze of brick and old stone. Luckily, she was still very thin, and the journey wasn’t as bad as it could have been, though the tunnel’s floor was coated in a thin sheet of December ice. She doubted that Marvin could have traversed the passageway at his current size.

She reached the larger tunnel that ran beneath Twelfth Street and extracted herself from the smaller one, finally able to stand. She turned right and began walking, keeping her flashlight pointed down lest some alert agent notice it through a street-gutter grate. The storm sewers were absolutely frigid and ice crunched beneath her feet. Under the ice was, of course, freezing cold water, which promptly soaked her new boots and made her fairly miserable and most unlikely to enjoy the trip back.
At least there are no rats,
she thought to herself, trying to look on the bright side of things, which was difficult in a dark, wet, freezing cold sewer.

She passed under Eighth Avenue and continued on; she could hear cars whizzing by above her and caught the occasional glimpse of the city above through grates. She kept moving, faster now as the sounds died away, and in about five minutes had reached Seventh, she thought. The sounds were busy and she came to a spot where she could see lights through a grate above her. These signs also corresponded with another crossroads in the tunnel, and she chose to turn right, which she was pretty sure was North, or at least toward Flatbush Avenue anyway. The cyber-café was down around Ninth Street, and she hoped that in the three blocks in between she might encounter a manhole with a ladder, or at least stepped grooves cut into the stone below it.

Almost immediately, she found one. An alcove was visible off to the left about a half a block down, and she made for it. The semi-circular well beneath the manhole cover was layered in graffiti; obviously she wasn’t the only one who had been down here. She slung her laptop over her shoulder, put her small, two-battery flashlight between her teeth and set to climbing the worn grooves in the old concrete wall.

When she got to the top, she stuck the flashlight, facing up, in her back pocket, so she still had some light to operate by. The manhole cover was very heavy and she almost despaired when she found that her arms could not lift it. Her small size had been an advantage up until now, but at this moment it betrayed her, and she felt quite helpless. She was not one to give up easily, however, and in an instant had wedged herself between wall and manhole, her feet on the highest notch in the subterranean concrete and her back pressed hard against the iron cover above her.

It was enough. The manhole cover rose slightly from its hole and slid some inches to the side. Worming her body into the crescent-shaped space she had made, Samantha flexed outward and edged the cover away from the hole as much as she could. It took her breath and she relaxed after her effort, though suddenly realized she was staring straight into an oncoming army of cars and quickly dropped back down below street level, holding onto the hole’s rim with only her fingers. She sort of dangled there, wincing as the horn-blaring cars zoomed over her; she was certain at least one would crush her fingers as they sped by.

It seemed, however, that luck was on her side. The wave of evening traffic passed over her without her sustaining a single injury. When the cars were all gone, she hoisted herself up, finding in alarm that she had surfaced smack in the middle of Seventh Avenue, which was almost as busy a thoroughfare as Flatbush at this hour. She scurried quickly to the sidewalk, clutching her laptop to her chest and breathing heavily.

To the credit of her sense of direction (something that Marvin claimed females “simply didn’t have”), she was more or less where she thought she would be. She brushed herself off and continued in the same direction, looking around as if she were still afraid agents were watching her. She walked quickly, (which she figured wasn’t suspicious as most New Yorkers tended to move along at a brisk pace), hoping that the F.B.I. hadn’t staked out the entire neighborhood.

Two blocks further she reached the café, looked quickly both ways and turned into the tiny storefront, her heart still beating fast with nervous energy. She smiled innocently as she purchased a hot cider from the attendant, who looked at her with some suspicion; it must have seemed a bit odd, a girl her age coming in alone after midnight. She sat down at an empty table and unpacked her computer, turned it on and let it locate the WiFi signal. There was only one other person in the café, a thirty-something man who looked bleary-eyed and over-coffeed, perhaps some kind of writer or web designer who was up late struggling to meet a morning deadline.

She accessed the Hotmail website and hurriedly typed in her ‘secret agent’ email address,
Timetraveler11
, which quickly yielded two new messages, one from The Professor and one from what had to be one of Marvin’s web alter-egos, ‘
[email protected]
. She opened The Professor’s first:

To: Samantha Smart

Re: Further Operations

S. - Communication is difficult. Surveillance is high. Our mission must, however, proceed. Alpha Team will meet in two days’ time, at 2:00 p.m. In the women’s bathroom in the 14
^th
Street subway station, on the middle level. Bring your wrist-communicator. Plans will be discussed at this time. Try to avoid being followed.

Yours,

A.E.S.

Samantha noticed The Professor had shortened his signature to just initials, an extra precaution, no doubt. She mentally filed away the new information and opened Marvin’s email:

To: Samantha Smart

Re: Observation

S. - What up, girl? You’ll probably get a visit from ‘the hawk’ tomorrow, and you can bet she’ll be rooting around in uptown basements as well. Not to worry! We’ve got it all figured out. Pressure should ease off a little by the time Alpha Team comes together. Hope you had a good Hanukkah. See ya soon, lady.

Peace

Dr. Mashizzle

She snickered at Marvin’s signature.
Always the clown,
she thought. Both messages contained post-scripts instructing her to delete them immediately after reading them. This she did quickly, after sending brief replies of acknowledgment to each. She packed up and headed back outside, flashing a smile at the young man behind the counter. He gave her a subtle nod, unhappily eyeing the slight trail of water that her soaking wet boots had left on the floor.

Samantha shivered as she walked back to her manhole. New York was a bleak sort of place sometimes in the winter, and she clearly hadn’t dressed warmly enough. The lid was still ajar when she reached it, and traffic on Seventh Avenue seemed to be conveniently stalled at a light a block down, so she took the opportunity to wiggle back in, pulling the cover behind her as best she could. The route back was familiar enough, and in short order she was crawling back through the hole in her basement.

She left her wet boots by the dryer and snuck quietly back up the stairs. It was a small miracle that Polly didn’t bark as she re-entered the apartment; it seemed the little dog was content to just greet her quietly at the door, thankfully with a minimum of sproinging.

Another five minutes saw her wet socks off and her computer stashed under the bed. She put on her flannel pajamas and crawled under her covers, inviting Polly and wondering fretfully what the morning would bring. Marvin had always taught her not to worry, though, that whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and so with only a little difficulty she slipped off into a warm, peaceful slumber.

*

As Samantha had expected, morning came violently. At what seemed like the crack of dawn, F.B.I. agents were banging on the front door. Cindy was not happy, throwing her robe on and eyeing the perfectly-put-together Agent Stiles with daggers as she walked through the door.

“Ms. Smart,” the intimidating woman addressed Samantha’s mom, “We have a warrant to search these premises, in connection with our investigation into the attempt on your life.” She held up an official-looking piece of paper and nodded to her two male subordinates, who began searching the apartment.

“What!?” Cindy shrieked. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing!? What, do you think I made this all up or something, now!?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Smart,” Stiles said calmly, almost appearing to smile. “It is actually my belief that you are indeed innocent of any crime. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that I can’t say the same for your daughter.”

“Samantha!? What are you, nuts? She stayed at the hospital with me every day! She rode in the ambulance with me! I’ve been a good mother to her for almost
twelve years
! No,” Cindy waved her hand, walking to the telephone. “You’re crazy. I’m calling the police.”

“Suit yourself,” Stiles shrugged. She walked over and handed Cindy the search warrant. “Just tell the desk Sergeant the number in the upper left-hand corner. He’ll be able to confirm the warrant’s validity.” Cindy scowled and dialed the number for the police.

At this point, Samantha was out of bed and dressed, and she loosed Polly, who was barking furiously, from the bedroom. The terrier ran out into the living room and growled fiercely at one of the agents, who was kneeling behind a low chair looking at something or another. Slowly, he looked up with a thin, slight smile on his face. Suddenly, Polly let out a little whine, laid down on the carpet and was silent. Samantha was shocked. So was Cindy. They stared in disbelief at the dog and then at the agent, who broke into a large grin and shrugged.

“Hello, Samantha,” Stiles greeted her icily. “Perhaps you’d like to end this little charade of yours right now and save yourself the trouble of putting your home back together.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Samantha lied. “I thought you were helping us.”

You don’t have to talk to her, Samantha,” Cindy snapped, on hold to speak with the local police.

“No, and you obviously don’t want to, either,” Stiles frowned. “All right, be difficult. Gentlemen, let me know what you find; I’m going to meet the other team over at the museum. Perhaps I’ll see you ladies there later?” She raised her eyebrow and turned to leave. This was obviously a rhetorical question, one that she didn’t really expect an answer to.

After she left, Cindy finally got a desk Sergeant on the phone and grudgingly acknowledged the legitimacy of the piece of paper she was holding in her hand. She sighed and looked at the remaining two agents, black-suited and sunglassed just like the familiar stereotype.

“Well, go on, then!” she barked, clearly unhappy. “But if you leave this place a wreck I’ll sue you from here to Jersey City.” Cindy could be intimidating, too, if she wanted to be.

The agents were thorough. They confiscated Samantha’s laptop, which made her very nervous. She had, of course, deleted all the possibly incriminating emails, but she knew that the ‘professionals’ had ways of extracting information from computers that you thought had been safely erased. She was actually surprised that The Professor hadn’t told her to re-boot the whole system to insure that anything on the hard drive would be wiped. It was unlike him to not have calculated in details like that; she was also a little angry at herself for not having thought of it on her own. In any case, it was too late now. At least they had promised to return it “as soon as possible.”

They had also found her lockbox and taken it. The ‘cleansing’ CD was still in it and Samantha kicked herself mentally for leaving it there. She hoped they wouldn’t be able to somehow trace it back to The Professor. Her one consolation was that the wrist-communicator was still in her pants pocket when she woke up, and this she transferred to her shoe in case the agents would be searching their persons as well.

She needn’t have worried, though, as they did not. They were most pleased with their finds of computer and CD, and had made her open the box with the little key on her keychain. Likely they, too were serious computer geeks, and couldn’t wait to get the stuff back to their lab to try to pry loose any electronic secrets they might find. After they left, Polly got a brief walk and then it was time to go. Even though it was Christmas Eve day, the twenty-fourth, Cindy needed to go to work and demanded that Samantha accompany her. Her own brand of interrogation began on the walk to the subway station.