Double Vision (7 page)

I started laughing, but then I realized agents Stark and Fullerton weren't—they were dead serious.

“Back in the sixteenth century, when Leonardo da Vinci originally painted the
Mona Lisa
, it wasn't uncommon for artists to do a painting twice—make a double, basically. That way, if one got destroyed or stolen, there would be another,” Agent Stark said.

Henry started nodding now. “I heard about this. It's an original; there are just two of them, like a twin. Da Vinci did this with some other painting of this lady—”

“Virgin on the Rocks,”
Agent Stark said, finishing his sentence.

I'll save you the boring parts of this slide show, where Agent Stark was talking about Leonardo da Vinci, his paintings, and how he used this glazing technique, blah, blah. I zoned out for a while, until she started talking about the night da Vinci had this party to show all his friends the
Mona Lisa
.

Agent Stark's face darkened. “One of the guests said something like, ‘Who wouldn't you kill to own this beautiful painting?' Then all of da Vinci's friends looked at the
Mona Lisa
, mesmerized by her eyes, her captivating smile.”

“They were hypnotized,” Agent Fullerton added.

Agent Stark continued, “How long they stood there, no one knows for sure. But that evening, da Vinci's friends turned into a murderous, crazy mob. Several people died that night.”

“Because one of them suggested they should kill?” I asked.

Agent Stark nodded. “This evil
Mona Lisa
has hypnotizing power so strong, it can create mass hypnosis—or like that night, mass murder.”

“It's a weapon,” Henry whispered, shocked by the story.

“Exactly,” said Agent Stark. “Look at this evil
Mona Lisa
, and whoever whispers in your ear at the time has complete control of you. When you consider how many people can gather around a painting …”

“Hundreds,” I mumbled, feeling a sense of dread. “I'll bet every bad guy in the world wants it.”

“Thankfully, Leonardo da Vinci realized this, too, and after that horrible night he boxed the painting and found a safe place for it. He didn't want it to be lost, but he didn't want it to hurt anyone either.” Agent Stark clicked back to the slide of the pastry shop. “This is where the evil
Mona Lisa
has been kept, in the storage cellar of the Mégère patisserie.”

“Really?” I asked, thinking the shop looked too ordinary.

“Would you ever think to look for it there?” she challenged.

Henry and I both shook our heads.

“Right. It's a very clever hiding place.”

We had a bumpy patch of air and jolted around a bit before the plane settled and she clicked to the next picture. It showed a grumpy guy, rushing down a street, his back hunched. His graying wiry hair was all over the place, long and wild, like he'd just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.

“Who's this, Albert Einstein?” I joked.

“Meet Jacques Mégère, the owner of the pastry shop. His family has hidden the evil
Mona Lisa
for generations.” Agent Stark paused. “Until a few weeks ago, when both Mégère and the painting went missing.”

Agent Stark flipped to another slide. There was a guy in a long coat, slicked back hair, sunglasses—but you couldn't really tell much else. The picture was hazy. “An organization led by a man with the code name Drake kidnapped Mégère. This man is believed to be their leader.”

Agent Stark droned on for a while, about intel this and classified reports that, but I'll skip past the boring stuff for you. Here's the short version.

This bad dude Drake sells the evil
Mona Lisa
to some super-powered European terrorist group for five hundred million dollars. But he doesn't actually have it.

So Drake goes to steal the painting from the bakery—how he knew it was there, no one knows. When he realizes Mégère hid it, Drake kidnaps him instead.

But Mégère isn't talking. Drake needs to deliver the evil
Mona Lisa
by 1 p.m. Thanksgiving Thursday.

“The clock is ticking,” Agent Stark said after she went through a few dozen slides. “Before Mégère gives up the location of the evil
Mona Lisa
, we need him back.”

Agent Fullerton leaned closer, like someone might overhear. Even though we were on a private plane, I looked around. “We made contact with Drake, and told him we have the evil
Mona Lisa
.”

“But you don't.” Henry smiled. “Nice bluff.”

Agent Stark said, “Benjamin Green was supposed to trade the phony evil
Mona Lisa
for Jacques Mégère in an exchange with Drake. The deal is so big, Drake's coming himself.”

“Why Ben?” I asked.

“He's a kid,” Fullerton said, like it all made sense.

“They're less likely to shoot him,” Henry added as explanation.

Fullerton looked at me. “That's where you come in as our Benjamin Green double.”

I felt better already.

Agent Stark turned the projector off. “Your objective is to get Jacques Mégère back. And that's your
only
objective. Once we have him, we'll get him to tell us where the Dangerous Double is, so we can neutralize the threat.”

“How do you do that?” Henry asked.

Agent Stark got up. “There's only one way. We destroy the evil
Mona Lisa
.”

TIME: TUESDAY, 7 A.M.

STATUS: JETLAGGED

RIGHT AFTER OUR BRIEFING, HENRY WAS
whisked away to his lab on the other end of the plane, to invent tech stuff for me to use. Whatever that was. The agents were busy pounding the keys of their laptops or talking on the phone. The only thing I had to keep me busy was a classified file of Ben facts with funky-tasting lasagna and a turkey sandwich for dinner or lunch, depending on the time zone you chose.

Sometime during the flight, I used the phone in the armrest to call home so I could hear a friendly voice. But instead, I got Grandpa.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” I asked.

“You're mom's at work, and I think George is working on his shop finances. Listen, Linc, do you know how to turn the answering machine off? There's this fellow with that lawyer's office, whatsit—”

“Zachary Quinn.”

“I know his name,” Grandpa snapped. “He's been calling about our bank statements or some such, and I'm tired of hearing about it.”

“Just hit the off button, Grandpa.”

“Okay.” And he hung up on me.

After my call, I tried to nap, but all I could think about was evil paintings, Zachary Quinn, and this bad guy Drake.

What if Jacques Mégère caved and told him where the painting was?

And how bad was this guy Drake, exactly? Would he believe I was Benjamin Green at the exchange? What was going on at home with the lawsuit—now this lawyer wanted to see how much money Mom and Dad have? Definitely not a million bucks.

By the time we landed at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris that Tuesday morning, we'd been on the plane for over ten hours, and I was tired. Henry and Agent Fullerton left together so they could clear customs with Henry's gear and move his lab to the hotel. I got stuck with Agent Stark.

“Change your watch,” Agent Stark said as she fixed hers while we waited in line at customs. “It's seven a.m., Tuesday.”

“Wait—we lost a day?” I adjusted my watch. “What a rip-off.”

“Welcome to international travel.”

Lights in the arrival hall were way too bright. People were rushing everywhere, and they didn't seem one bit concerned about pushing me out of the way. Some kid in a hooded sweatshirt bumped into me without even apologizing. I turned to say something, but he took off too fast.

Agent Stark rushed down the airport hall to get outside. The November wind was cold, especially when you consider that I'm a California kid. I was about to dig into my suitcase of Ben stuff for an extra sweater when a taxi drove straight for me. I jumped out of the way. “Hey, now,” I said, too tired to yell.

The black taxi came to an abrupt stop, parked all crooked. “Bonjour!” A tall skinny man with a big nose got out of the small car. If it weren't for the
Taxi Parisienne
sign on the roof, I wouldn't have guessed it was a cab. “You need a taxi?”

“Yes,” Agent Stark said.

The cabdriver spread his arms and smiled big. “Welcome to Paris,” he said in a heavy French accent. “Where you go, I take you.”

Heaven help us. But he was already unloading our bags from the cart.

“Young lady, you do not work, you sit.” He guided Agent Stark to the cramped backseat of the cab before she could object. Then he loaded the heavy bags into the small trunk like they were nothing, and pushed my suitcase down hard to make it all fit.

“Get in, get in.” He waved me toward the passenger door. I spotted a tattoo of a red and yellow flame on his wrist.

“I am Guillaume,” our cabdriver said once I got seated. He popped the cab in reverse and pulled back without looking.

Agent Stark cringed and checked my seat belt, then her own.

Horns blared all around us. Guillaume rolled down his window and yelled something in French I couldn't understand, but I was pretty sure involved cursing. “Paris traffic, right?” He drove away slowly, making the other cars pass us. “What is your hotel?”

“The Princesse,” Agent Stark yelled. “Do you know where that is?”

“I know Paris like it is my garden,” Guillaume said with a big grin. I assumed he meant he knew it like it was his backyard.

He was driving painfully slow, occasionally asking a nonresponsive Agent Stark questions about where she was from and whether she was on vacation. Meanwhile, I tried my best to see some of Paris. Let's face it: the odds of me ever making it back to Europe were close to zilch. I had to take it in while I could.

The buildings were tall—three, four floors high—and often close together. I was used to California, where everything was spread out and horizontal. The trees were in winter mode, no leaves.

If only my family had come to enjoy it with me. Dad would've loved all the history. Mom would've loved the cafés, the cute shops with awnings. And Grandpa would—well, he'd probably just mope around most of the time, but I knew he'd get a kick out of being in Paris.

I looked out the back window and saw a compact red sedan behind us that zoomed past traffic on the shoulder. It was too far back for me to see in the car, but whoever they were, they were driving like lunatics. I nudged Agent Stark. “Is this guy following us?”

She turned, but just then, the sedan merged with traffic. “I don't see anything.” Agent Stark sat back in her seat. “Paris traffic is probably not like what you're used to.”

She had a point. Lompoc was a quiet place, with mostly farmers and slow-moving school buses on their way to chicken farms for field trips. Maybe. But then I saw it again: the red sedan, moving around another car to get closer. I was about to tell Agent Stark, when it disappeared from my sight.

Meanwhile, I tried to pay attention to the city. Everything seemed old and grand, like you were supposed to wear a tuxedo just to see the sights. Even the trees along the street were perfectly round and evenly spaced. I was pretty sure that was the Eiffel Tower off in the distance—

But there was the sedan again! I watched it zoom past traffic using the sidewalk, making pedestrians jump aside so they wouldn't get hit. “This red car is definitely following us!”

Agent Stark glanced behind us with a hugely irritated look on her face, but then she saw the red sedan, too. I could tell there were two dark figures in the front, but not much else. “You're right,” she mumbled to me. Then to Guillaume, “Can you go any faster?”

Guillaume grinned. “Faster? Of course I can.” He slammed the gas pedal and simultaneously yanked the steering wheel. We were on the sidewalk, too.