Ends of the Earth (23 page)

Waving Wyatt to the secretary's seat, Cinnabar took the visitor chair, folded her arms, and assumed an expression somewhere between bored and annoyed. Inside, her heart thudded like a
trip-hammer.

The door swung open to admit a slender gray-haired man with skin a shade darker than Cinnabar's, and a pale woman whose jerky movements reminded her of a chicken.

“
There
you are,” said Cinnabar, rising from her chair. “We've been waiting to see our MP for
ages
, haven't we, Waldo?”

“Mmm?”
said Wyatt, not realizing he was Waldo. “Oh, er, yes. Yes, we have, er, Cindy.”

Gray Hair stepped in front of Chicken Woman, as if to protect her from the ferocious teens. “How did you get in here? It was locked.”

Favoring him with a pitying smile, Cinnabar said, “I know. We locked it—for safety.”

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“We're, um, constituents,” said Wyatt.

Chicken Woman squinted at them. “But you're too young to vote.”

“
Children
of constituents,” Cinnabar corrected, “and we've been waiting donkey's years to talk to the MP about school funding.”

“But we were only gone for a—” Gray Hair began.

Wyatt tossed up his hands. “Clearly he doesn't value our vote—er, our parents' vote.” He stood, pretending to be upset. Unfortunately, his acting wasn't good
enough for a primary-school play, let alone the world of espionage.

“And after we came all this way too,” said Cinnabar, joining Wyatt. She took on an offended tone. “I guess an appointment doesn't mean what it used to.”

At the word
appointment
, Chicken Woman jerked her head around to stare at the computer. She bustled over to her keyboard. “You were on the schedule? I'll just
check….”

Cinnabar's breath caught in her throat. On the one hand, she wanted to peek at the MP's schedule. On the other hand, she wanted to flee, since she knew they weren't on it.
Peeking won. She wandered a step closer and watched the screen as Chicken Woman scrolled up and down the MP's appointments.

“And your family name?” the assistant asked.

“Brixton,” said Cinnabar, who'd always rather fancied the name. “Cindy and Waldo Brixton. We're, um, cousins,” she said, forestalling questions on the
differences in their hair and skin color.

“Brixton…” said the woman, searching through the schedule. “I don't see…”

And there—as Chicken Woman scrolled down far enough to reveal the evening's meetings, Cinnabar got what she came for. No official meetings at six, seven, or seven thirty. Either this
MP wasn't on LOTUS's target list, or tonight's gathering was unofficial.

Bumping Wyatt with her shoulder, she edged toward the office door. “Ah, forget it. We've waited long enough, and now we have to go.”

Gray Hair blocked their exit, arms crossed and wide mouth set in a frown. “You're not going anywhere until I hear some kind of reasonable explanation for your presence.”

Uh-oh. The man was bigger than both of them, and although Cinnabar and Wyatt might be able to take him out with their martial-arts moves, security would take
them
out of the
building.

They needed a distraction, and they needed it now.

The door swung open. “
There
you are!” chirped a jolly voice.

Stepping aside to see, Gray Hair revealed Simon Segredo standing in the doorway. The dapper spy wagged a finger good-naturedly. “I got worried when you wandered off.”

“And you are?” Gray Hair scowled.

“Their father,” said Mr. Segredo.

“Well,
my
father, anyway,” Wyatt put in.

Chicken Woman's eyebrows squished together. “Mr., er, Brixton?”

With a lightning glance to Cinnabar for confirmation, Mr. Segredo said, “That's right. Sam Brixton Jr.” His acting was
much
better than Wyatt's.
“So,” he addressed Gray Hair like an old school chum, “is your MP headed to that big meeting tonight?”

“Big meeting?” The man cocked his head.

“Sure. The one everybody's talking about?”

Gray Hair cocked his head the other way, like a befuddled beagle who's lost the scent. “Everybody?”

Mr. Segredo frowned playfully. “Ooh, sorry, old bean. Guess your guv'nor's not high enough up the food chain to wangle an invite.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” Gray Hair didn't know whether to be offended or concerned.

Max's father flapped a hand. “Forget I even mentioned it. Come along, children—your mum is waiting.”

As she and Wyatt sauntered past Gray Hair and out the door, Cinnabar couldn't resist a parting jab. “A shame about your MP. Guess that's what comes of not looking after school
funding.”

The man blinked rapidly, not entirely sure of what had just happened.

As they headed down the hall, Wyatt said, “Beauty move, Mr. S! That bloke didn't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his bum.”

Max's father waved aside the compliment. “He also didn't know about our meeting. Did you two learn anything?”

“Nothing on the appointment calendar,” said Cinnabar. She turned to Wyatt. “Tell me you got something from the computer.”

“I'm a hacker, not that guy from
The Matrix
.” Wyatt scowled. “Didn't even have time to crack the password.”

Mr. Segredo grimaced. “Hopefully we'll get another shot at it before the tour is over, or…” He didn't need to complete the thought. They all knew the consequences
of failure.

Hurrying down another narrow corridor, they entered a room the likes of which Cinnabar had never seen before. It seemed entirely dipped in gold, from the diamond-shaped tiles on the floor, to
the fancy filigree on the walls, to the chandeliers and the intricate ceiling above them. An enormous tapestry of something historical dominated one wall, while oil portraits of kings and queens
glowered down from all around.

“Ah! I
told
you they show up soon,” came Hantai Annie's voice. “And here they are.”

Cinnabar whirled to see her classmates and teachers enter the long hall through a side entrance, accompanied by Kevin Chopra. The aide wore a nervous frown.

“Really, Mrs. Wong,” he said. “They're not supposed to be roaming about unsupervised.”

“They weren't unsupervised,” said Mr. Segredo. “They were with me.”

Wincing apologetically, Mr. Chopra said, “Still, I could land in a great deal of trouble for—”

Mr. Stones clapped the man on the shoulder. “Don't sweat it, Kev. No harm, no foul. Higgledy-piggledy-pop—they're back in a jiffy, and no one's the
wiser.”

The aide didn't look mollified, but he resumed his tour-guide spiel. From Max's and Nikki's expressions, Cinnabar judged that the S.P.I.E.S. team had had it with government and
history, and was spoiling for some proper action.

As the group shuffled into the next room, Max fell behind, edging up to Cinnabar. “Well?” he muttered. “Happy hunting?”

She shook her head.

He grimaced. “And they're going to boot us out of here in less than half an hour. Time for Plan B.”

“We have a Plan B?” said Wyatt.

“Always,” said Max. “But we need to be closer to the loo for it to work.”

“Oh,” said Wyatt. “
That
Plan B.”

Somehow, Cinnabar and her friends managed to grit their teeth and survive another fifteen minutes of Simon de Somebody's medieval parliament and the story behind the stained-glass windows.
At last, Mr. Chopra led them on a meandering course back toward the hall where they'd entered.

When they neared the bank of toilets, a series of significant glances took place: Annie to Stones, Stones to Tremaine, and Tremaine to Max. Then Mr. Stones approached Kevin Chopra with a
detailed question, maneuvering him so that his back was to Tremaine and Max. The older teen leaned against the wall by the fire alarm, blocking the view of the nearest security camera with his
broad back.

Max casually propped himself by Tremaine, like they were sharing some juicy gossip. Then he brushed back the Plexiglas cover and pulled the switch.

Ning-ning-ning-ning-ning!
keened the fire alarm, at a volume loud enough to give orbiting aliens a headache.

This part of the plan was easy. Like the rest of her crew, Cinnabar clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, running about like a flock of panicked turkeys. The aide tried unsuccessfully to
corral his tour group, which had no intention of being corralled. In no time at all, a river of people streamed down the hall from deeper in the building, making for the exit.

Taking advantage of the cover, the S.P.I.E.S. team members slipped into either the gents' or ladies' toilets. Cinnabar was one of the last to hide, and as she ran into the loo, she
nearly collided with a middle-aged woman running out.

The woman caught her arm and shouted something that was drowned out by the annoying alarm. Her grip was harder to break than a Chinese substitution code. When Cinnabar shook her head, making the
I-can't-understand-you face, the woman pointed at her, then at the exit.

Cinnabar nodded, mimed really having to go to the toilet, and held up an index finger as if to say,
One minute.
The woman shook her head again and began leading her away from the loo.
Cinnabar shrugged agreeably and accompanied her. When at last the Good Samaritan released her, Cinnabar slipped into the flow of people leaving the building and doubled back to the loo.

Unlike the men's toilet, which, according to Max, boasted a janitor's closet for easy concealment, this loo had none.
Thanks, Max
. After trying the first stall and finding
it locked, Cinnabar entered the second cubicle. She barred the door, closed the toilet lid on some unspeakable mess, and squatted atop it to wait, trying to breathe through her mouth. She
considered flushing, but didn't want the noise to reveal her presence.

The wail of the fire alarm kept up, like a wet baby seeking relief, for what seemed like ages. At last it cut off abruptly, midshriek.

“About bloody time,” was the comment from the stall beside her. Nikki.

“Shh!”
hissed Hantai Annie from the other side. “No noise!”

Through the metal partition, Cinnabar could picture Nikki's eyes roll, but the redheaded girl said nothing further.

Time passed.
Loads
of time.

The toilet door creaked open. “Anyone in here?” said a gritty female voice. “Hullo?”

A long pause, during which Cinnabar could hear breathing.

The door closed, and the woman went away.

It struck Cinnabar that eventually, the janitor would come in to clean the toilets, and they had no idea when that might be. After hesitating several times, she shared this thought with Hantai
Annie.

As it was already past five thirty, the spymaster agreed that it might be safer to hide in an empty office. After all, the team still had to locate the meeting where LOTUS would make their play.
Moving as quietly as ants crawling on cotton, Cinnabar, Nikki, and Hantai Annie left their stalls and crept to the outer door.

The spymaster cracked it open just enough to peer outside.

“Okay,” she said, after a long pause.
“Ikuzo.”

Cinnabar slipped out the door after Nikki and Annie.

“Freeze!” a rough voice barked. “Don't move a muscle.”

AS MAX SOON DISCOVERED,
the toilets
were
subject to surveillance after all. The cameras had simply been concealed behind mirrors so as not to
make visitors uncomfortable. He learned this helpful fact from the constables hustling them into the police van.

“You film people in the loo?” squawked Max. “What kind of pervs are you?”

“The kind that like to keep our politicians safe,” said one stone-faced cop.

Nikki punched Max's shoulder with her cuffed fists. “Thanks loads, Maxi Pad.”

Max protested, “It's not like we had time to properly check it out before we—”

“That'll do,” said Simon, with a meaningful glance at the officer handcuffing him to a roll bar.

“Your father is right,” said Hantai Annie. “Nobody say anything. I call lawyer from station.”

“But there's only ninety minutes left before—” Max said.

“I know,” said Annie. “I know.”

Following a short ride across the river, the S.P.I.E.S. team was marched into a brown-and-tan brick office building that seemed more like the home of an engineering firm than a police station.
Nevertheless, it still possessed that unique smell of burned coffee, flop sweat, and lies that marks police stations the world over.

The duty officer at the front desk (Sergeant Yee, by his nameplate) separated the adults from the teens, calmly ignoring Hantai Annie Wong's strenuous protests. As the constables hauled
off Annie, Stones, and Simon, Max's father called, “Don't worry, son. We'll get you out of here.”