A Spy Like Me Page 7

  Seven

  Ack! I’d forgotten to throw out the rest of my Skittles. I dropped to the ground, scooping up the money by armfuls and shoving it into my bag. Before I could pick up the candy, the guard stepped up to me.

  “S’il vous plait. Come with me.”

  Great. One more spy team was set to come through, and I was screwed. Or they were because their informant wouldn’t be here. I gathered my stuff, collapsed the easel, and flashed a scathing look at Malcolm.

  On the way down to the museum offices, I texted Aimee asking her to switch spots with me, quickly. Thirty minutes later after lots of hand motions because my French sucked, and after the guards found my dad’s phone number in their files, they kicked me out. For good.

  As soon as I stepped from the pyramid-entrance into the courtyard, a blast of wind hit me.

  “Savvy!” a voice called.

  I peeked through my Medusa-like hair to see Aimee waving furiously as she ran toward me. I yanked the artist smock over my head. “Here! Quick change.”

  She ripped off the burnt-orange pea coat and handed it to me. “You’d better hurry.”

  “I know. I know. Can we meet up later at Les Pouffant’s?”

  “Oui, see you there.”

  Aimee flew into the pyramid clutching the easel and satchel, just as Peyton and his group arrived in the courtyard. Talk about good timing. They pointed at the turrets and stone arches, oohing and aahing, then Peyton rushed them into the Louvre.

  I left the fledgling spies and Malcolm behind, hurried across the courtyard, and grabbed a taxi. At the Eiffel I threw a bunch of bills at the driver, and then hoped they weren’t the Spy Games counterfeit ones. I sprinted across the grass, dodging tourists, and passed the first leg of the tower. I flashed my special Spy Games pass and bypassed the line for the elevator on the ground. Weaving in and out of the tourists, I raced to the first floor. All three hundred steps.

  With my chest heaving and my breath shooting out in short gasps, I waited in a shorter line for the elevator. After the ride up, the doors slid open at the tippy top, and I burst out. I pulled my coat together and folded my arms. If I thought it was windy at the Louvre, here at the top of the world, it quadrupled a million times.

  A narrow walkway circled the top of the Eiffel, and the city of Paris was spread out before me. Crisp air filled my lungs as I entwined my fingers through the mesh cage. The Seine snaked across the land, and the bridges looked like Lego pieces. Tips of skyscrapers poked at the sky in the distance. But what always amazed me was the wide expanse of blue, like I was overlooking the entire world.

  After taking a few deep breaths, I turned and leaned my back against the wire cage. Tourists passed me in a blur. My eyes went out of focus until I caught a flash of blue go by. I recognized it, a scarf with threads of a paisley blue and yellow, and the lady had brown hair. I squinted and my heart dropped straight to the ground floor.

  “Mom?” I whispered.

  The lady slipped into the crowds like any other tourist. It had to be her. Mom had shoulder-length brown hair that she claimed grew one inch every ten years. I followed blindly, weaving in and around tourists, probably pissing them off, but I had to know. I followed the memory of my mom’s hazel eyes, her smile, her laugh. I followed the few happy memories I had and the crazy wish she were here, looking for me.

  “Excuse-moi?” Someone tugged on my coat, but I brushed them away. The blue and yellow scarf teased me, bobbing in and out of the crowds.

  And then I heard a desperate voice. “I found the scones but where can I find a root beer float?”

  The words yanked me back into the real world. I stopped and turned around. Recognition flashed across the woman’s face. She tucked a strand of graying hair back into her bun.

  I whipped open my bag. “Take the clue.”

  The Eiffel Tower clue was a basic code that sent them off on a treasure hunt through the most famous historical sites of Paris. For them, that was when it got fun, because Frankie shot blanks at them in empty alleyways. He got their adrenaline pumping.

  She seemed a little unsure, so I nodded. As soon as she had the clue, I took off after the lady with the scarf. I’d probably lost her for good. After circling the lookout tower several times and handing out another clue, my energy petered out and I sagged against the mesh cage. I’d always imagined Mom visiting and walking with me through the Louvre. We’d quiz each other on which painters went with which paintings. And then after we’d toured the Eiffel and had our fill of culture and history, we’d go find some off-the-grid patisserie and sit for hours, sipping lattes.

  And I could ask her why the hell she left.

  Obnoxious laughter carried on a breeze. Cliff Peyton. Great. I so wasn’t in the mood for his ‘tude. Peyton pointed in my direction. I closed my eyes, to center myself. This was a job. He was a regular guy who would be out of my life in fifteen minutes. Then I could look for Mom.

  He sent a youngish woman from his group over to me. Her blonde hair fell right below her chin and swished back and forth. I put my hand on my bag.

  “Excuse me, I mean, excuse-moi?” Her voice was just above a whisper.

  I nodded at her.

  “Do you know where I could buy some root beer?”

  Oh, crap. I hated when they screwed up the line. Dad had strict orders to not help them out. At all. Period. “Sorry, I don’t.” I walked away.

  She tried again and still messed up. She said something about a Dr. Pepper float. Jeez.

  The lady with the blue scarf passed us.

  The Spy Games client tried again. “I found the scones—”

  I cut her off in the middle of her sentence. With not so gentle a nudge, I pushed her aside and sprinted. No games this time. Paisley-scarf lady was only a few feet away, just out of reach of my fingertips. I dodged an older woman with a baby and grabbed my mom.

  She turned, and the fringes of her scarf hit my cheek. I stared, mouth agape, as French flowed from her mouth in angry currents.

  Mom couldn’t speak French to save her life. And I know the last time I saw her she didn’t have green eyes or a large mole on her chin with two black hairs sprouting from it. Ew. Even so, it was Mom, and she pretended not to know me.

  Her look softened and she grasped my hands. “My dear, are you okay?”

  Before she could let go of my hands, I babbled out some words, sounding like a nervous twelve-year-old about to give an oral report. “Where have you been?”

  She leaned closer and whispered, “Did a package arrive for me?”

  Hot tears filled my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. That was all she could say to me? “What’s going on?”

  Discreetly, she whispered, “If and when it arrives, don’t open it. Hide it in a closet or better yet, burn it. Can you do this for me?”

  “Where are you staying? You’ve got to call Dad, let him know you’re here.”

  “Savvy, this is important. You must follow my directions. I don’t want you getting involved.”

  “Sure, I got it.”

  She glanced to the left and right and squeezed my hand. “They probably already know you are in France. Please,” her voice grew desperate, “don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Act like a teenager. Eat croissants. Shop. Sightsee.” Then she started mumbling and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or not.

  “Mom?”

  She snapped out of it. “Shh. They could have spies watching us right now. They already took a dear friend of mine. I won’t let them take you too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Listen.” Her words rushed out. “In a couple weeks there is a big pastry event near the apartment. Near Les Pouffant’s. Meet me there. I’ll find you. Promise?”

  “I promise.” What had gotten into her?

  She walked away like she didn’t even know me.

  “Mom!” I called. We had a museum to visit and lattes to drink. And damn it I wanted an explanation. She turned back toward me with a finger to h
er lips and fear in her eyes. She shook her head and disappeared into the crowds.

  What had happened to my business-like mom who wasn’t scared of anything? The one always rushing off on trips for her scrapbooking business or locked away in her bedroom, working. I didn’t know the mom who wore disguises and told me to burn packages. But after years of being so busy with work, she needed my help. After leaving Dad and me two years ago, did I want to help? I wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing. I couldn’t wait to get home and open that package.

  Someone gently shook me, but I couldn’t move from the mom-stupor that had fallen over me. Another shake.

  “Savvy!”

  I snapped out of it. Aimee’s hair looked a bit on the fritz, windblown strands falling in front of her face. Her eyes, wide with panic, darted left and right.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Never mind that. We have got to get out of here. That guy is crazy.” She tugged on my arm and dragged me toward the elevator. “I messed up. It happened so fast, and I was not sure what to do.”

  An angry voice pierced the air. “I can’t believe you!”

  Aimee groaned.

  I gritted my teeth and nodded toward Peyton, who stormed toward us. “You mean that guy?”

  “Oui,” Aimee whispered, inching toward the door while holding my arm in a death grip.