The Case of the Bug on the Run (4 page)

Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb are security officers who work for the Smithsonian Institution. Sometimes we help them out with detecting. Since the National Zoo is part of the Smithsonian, I was pretty sure I knew what our appointment had to be about—a certain mysterious bug on the run.

As for the news coverage—what was Granny talking about? It couldn't be that the news guys cared about Hooligan and the Ks' minor misbehavior at a formal White House dinner. I mean, could it?

The Treaty Room is across the Center Hall from our bedroom. Sometimes my mom uses it as a second office or for meetings. When Tessa, Nate and I walked in, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb were sitting in comfy chairs drinking coffee. As usual, they were wearing rumpled gray suits.

Granny and Mom were also waiting for us in the Treaty Room. If Mom was there, that meant our mystery must be important.

Mom stood up, ruffled Nate's hair and gave me and Tessa each a squeeze.

When she sat back down, she was all business. “Mr. Morgan? Could you go over what you told my national security advisor this morning?”

Tessa was wearing her pink sparkly ball cap, the one she always wears for detecting. I had my pen and notebook, and now I got ready to write.

“Briefly,” said Mr. Morgan, “as of twenty-oh-seven
hours yesterday, a government sensing device detected a new radio signal in the White House residence—specifically the East Bedroom.”

“Twenty-oh-seven is seven minutes after eight o'clock at night,” Nate said.

“We know, Nate,” Tessa said.

“And the East Bedroom is our bedroom,” I said.

“I know that, too,” said Tessa. “And there aren't any signals there, I mean, unless it counts as a signal when the Ks purr. Maybe the device heard the kittens?”

“Impossible,” said Mr. Morgan.

“Yeah, Tessa,” said Nate. “Because if you remember, at eight-oh-seven last night, your kittens were causing chaos at a White House formal dinner.”

“Right!” said Tessa. “Please continue, Mr. Morgan.”

Mr. Morgan did. “In fact, we do believe the signal is coming from one of your pets—the newest one, the bug you named James Madison.”

Tessa waved her arms. “Oh, fine. Whatever happens, blame the bug.”

“I like bugs, actually,” said Mr. Morgan. “I had an ant farm as a child.”

Tessa's eyes lit up. “Granny? Can we get—”

Granny said, “Don't even think about it.”

“Specifically, we believe the signal is coming from an audiovisual transmitter affixed to the bug,” said Mr. Morgan.

I looked up from my notebook. “You mean our bug
is shooting video?” I said. “And recording what we say?”

Tessa squealed. “You mean our very own bug is a
spy
?” She smacked her forehead. “And to think all this time we trusted him!”

Mr. Morgan did his best to calm Tessa down.

“Your bug could hardly have bugged himself,” he said. “Therefore, your bug is not the spy. Instead, it appears some other spy is using him for his or her own purposes.”

I looked at Tessa. “So whoever stole him yesterday afternoon must've attached a transmitter before they brought him back.”

Granny raised her eyebrows. “I don't recall anyone telling me the bug had been stolen.”

“That's because you said you didn't want to hear it,” said Tessa sweetly. “Remember?”

I explained before Granny could reply. “We noticed the bug was missing at, uh . . . about sixteen-forty-five. He was back when we came in from Mr. Amaro's dinner at, uh . . . twenty thirty hundred hours. That's four-forty-five till eight-thirty in regular-people time, not quite four hours.”

Mr. Morgan nodded. “And presumably he had been
returned by twenty-oh-seven when the device picked up the signal from your bedroom.”

“But wait a second,” Tessa said. “We've seen our bug since he came back. There's no camera attached to him. He just looks regular.”

Mr. Morgan nodded. “With miniaturization technology, the transmitter could be very tiny. It may also have been camouflaged—painted to match the cockroach.”

Mom cleared her throat and looked at her watch. “If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Schott and the joint chiefs five minutes ago. What is it you want the children to do, gentlemen?”

Mr. Morgan said, “Find out who bugged the bug.”

Mr. Webb nodded.

Mom stood up. “All right, fine. Provided, of course”—she looked at Granny—“you think it's safe?”

“I think we can keep it safe, yes,” said Granny.

Mom nodded. “Good luck, muffins. You, too, Nate. I'll talk to you tonight.”

Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb stood up. Mom shook hands with each of them. When she was gone, Mr. Webb took a crumpled piece of paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Mr. Morgan, who looked it over.

“This is our plan of action,” Mr. Morgan said. “The first step is to disable the transmitter. However, I must warn you. Our technician cannot ensure your pet's structural integrity.”

Tessa looked at Nate. “Translation?”

“He means when they unhook the transmitter,
they might squash James Madison by accident,” Nate explained.

Tessa looked horrified. “That is not okay! And anyway, who cares what goes on in Cammie's and my room? We hardly have any secrets . . . I mean, unless you count the snack stash in Cammie's underwear drawer.”

Granny said, “What snack stash?” at the same time that I said, “How did you know about that?” and Nate said, “Anything good?”

Mr. Morgan wasn't interested in my snacks. “I think you underestimate the risks,” he said. “All sorts of people could be interested in something you girls say, or something your parents or grandmother says to you—a foreign power, a reporter, even the political opposition. You may not even realize what you know and what you talk about.”

“He has a point, Tessa.” I remembered how Mom had told us her worries over Mr. Schott's drone last night.

Tessa said, “But that doesn't mean you can just go squishing my pet!”

In our family, I am quiet, Tessa is loud, and Nate is smart. Now I thought of something that might be a good idea, but—not being either smart or loud—I felt shy about saying it.

“Uh . . . ,” I mumbled.

“Go ahead, Cameron,” said Granny.

“Well,” I finally said, “what if we leave the transmitter alone?”

Nate twirled his finger next to his head—
crazy
—and
pointed at me. The grown-ups shook their heads. Even Tessa looked doubtful.

Oh, fine. What else had I expected?

Still, I tried to explain: If we left the transmitter alone, the spy—whoever it was—wouldn't know we were investigating. On the other hand, if we took the transmitter off, the spy would see us doing it. And then he (or she?) would do his best to hide his tracks.

Mr. Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “Good point,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

There was more discussion. But Granny's vote was the one that counted. When she said we should try my plan, I—for once—felt smart.

“All right then, it's decided,” said Mr. Morgan. “But please remember this. You kids must be very careful what you say in front of the bug. Because we have no idea who it is that's listening, a single slipup could endanger not only you and your family but the entire United States of America.”

Before he and Mr. Webb left, Mr. Morgan asked us to do one more thing—take a look at our cockroach and see if we could spot the transmitter.

“What does a transmitter even look like?” Tessa asked.

Mr. Morgan said, “It will be the part of the bug that doesn't look like a bug.”

I scratched my head. Was that supposed to be helpful?

Granny told us to meet her and Nate for breakfast in the Family Kitchen in ten minutes. I should bring my notebook so we could get right to work detecting.

But first Tessa and I went to wash up and take a good look at our cockroach.

The two of us had been in our room about five seconds when I realized that life with a bugged bug was not going to be easy.

Challenge No. 1: How do you look for a transmitter without looking like you're looking for a transmitter?

Finally, I said, “Oh, Tessa. I am so worried about our cockroach, James Madison!”

I tried very hard to sound exactly normal, but Tessa squinted like I was acting weird.

“I mean”—I nodded at the tank—“didn't James Madison appear a teeny bit sick this morning? He might have a case of the sniffles. We had better look at him very closely to make sure he is healthy.”

Tessa said, “I don't think cockroaches get sniffles.”

Now I was exasperated. “Tessa, would you for gosh sake get with the program?”

“What are you talking—Oh!” Tessa finally caught on and tried to sound exactly normal, too. “Yes, Cameron. You are so correct. We had better look at James Madison closely. Also, you should get a tissue in case we have to wipe his nose.”

I got a tissue. Then the two of us knelt by the tank and stared. James Madison stared back. I thought of how some spying stranger was probably staring at us on a video screen, his version of Bug TV.

I couldn't help it. I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue.

Then I got serious. Was there anything different about our cockroach today? Maybe the government sensing device was wrong. Maybe there had never been a new signal.

But wait! Now that I looked harder, I did see
something: James Madison used to have two horns on his head, and now there was a third one—right between the others. Could it be a camera lens? Also, there was a narrow black band like a belt around his middle. Maybe attached to the band was a microphone? Maybe the microphone was painted cockroach orange?

I tried to imagine how the bad guy had attached the tiny equipment to Tessa's and my bug. Tiny belt buckles? Tiny Velcro? Tiny laces?

I knew Tessa had seen the same things I saw. I knew she was dying to point them out. But instead she said, “I have looked and looked but do not see a trace of cockroach snot, Cameron. Do you?”

“Not a trace,” I said. “He looks exactly as healthy as he did yesterday before he went on the run.”

“Phew!” Tessa wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead. “I am so relieved! Now, dear sister, shall we go and have a lovely breakfast with our grandmother and cousin?”

On our way to breakfast, we took a quick detour to the window above the North Portico. Only a few members of the Bug Liberation Front remained out front. I wondered where the other ones had gone.

Depending on how you count, there are at least three kitchens in the White House. Our family's is next to the second-floor dining room, just off the West Sitting Hall. When we walked in, Nate was pouring milk, Hooligan was dreaming under the table, Mr. Bryant was reading the newspaper, and Humdinger, Granny's canary, was doing a canary dance-and-song—
twee-twee-twee
—in his cage by the window.

Here's the best part: Granny was standing at the griddle, spatula in hand, cooking banana pancakes!

We said good morning to Mr. Bryant. For the past couple of months, he and Granny have been special friends, so I could be pretty sure she had told him already about our bugged bug.

Mr. Bryant said good morning back, then held up the front page of the
Washington Post
for us to see. On it was a huge picture of Fluffy sailing across the State Dining Room toward the sunflower arrangement at
the dinner last night. The headline said:
MEOW! WHITE HOUSE PETS OUT OF CONTROL
?

“Uh-oh,” said Tessa and I at the same time.

“Hmph,” said Granny. “The sooner those kittens of yours are gone, the happier I'll be. Now, who wants pancakes?”

I got milk and maple syrup from the refrigerator. Tessa got silverware from the drawer. As she and I set the table, we took turns telling everyone about James Madison's new horn and new stripe.

Granny served the pancakes and sat down. “I'll pass that information to Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb,” she said. “Now then, Cameron. While we eat, what if you share your notes with us? That way everyone can help.”

Between bites, I read my notes out loud. When you're detecting, the next step after you take notes is to identify anything in them that seems strange, important, or both.

Nate spoke first. “I have a question. Did you guys know when you went to the zoo that you were going to adopt a cockroach?”

“Nope,” said Tessa. “It was just a good idea I had when the zookeeper told me he had an extra.”

“In that case,” said Nate, “whoever bugged James Madison didn't have time to plan.”

“Write that down, Cammie,” Tessa said.

“I will,” I said.

“And he couldn't have come from the zoo already bugged,” Granny added. “It must have happened here at the White House.”

“Something else,” said Nate. “Our spy has to be an expert on technology, someone who knows about miniaturized microphones and cameras, not to mention how to attach them to cockroaches.”

“Write that—”

“I am, Tessa!”

Mr. Bryant took a sip of coffee, set his mug on the table and touched his napkin to his lips. “Perhaps this seems obvious,” he said. “However, I am struck by the fact that our culprit had access to the White House second floor. As you well know, the building is secure. Only select staff, family and guests are allowed upstairs.”

Ick! It was creepy to think a spy had been in our room! And even more creepy to think the spy might be someone we knew.

“What are the times again, Cammie?” Tessa wanted to know.

I turned back a couple of pages. “Whoever borrowed James Madison had to have done it while we were outside. So that means between about two o'clock and four-forty-five yesterday.”