Trapped! Read online

  She cut me off and said, “If you’ll please hold your questions for now, things will move smoothly. You’ll have a chance to ask whatever you want later.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “This is not a formal deposition, and we are not recording the conversation,” she said. “However, we are going to take notes. It’s my understanding that Mrs. Campbell is an exceptional attorney, so if any legal questions arise, I’m sure she can assist you.”

  One thing that struck me as odd was that none of them introduced themselves. She’d skipped over that part when she started talking. I tried to remember the names from the sign-in sheet in the anteroom as she continued. I also wondered if they had her do the talking because they thought we’d feel less threatened by a woman.

  “Earlier today we spoke to Admiral Douglas, and he implied that you two do some kind of work for the FBI. Could you please explain the nature of that work?”

  “No,” said Margaret.

  “No, you don’t work for the FBI?”

  “No, we’re not allowed to tell you about it,” she said. “The work we do is secret.”

  Moretti scoffed and shook his head, but he still let the woman run the meeting.

  “I assure you that our security clearance is more than high enough for you to share any ‘secrets’ you may have,” said the woman.

  I looked to Mrs. Campbell, who nodded that it was okay for us to talk.

  “We’re classified as covert assets and work on the Special Projects Team with Special Agent Marcus Rivers.”

  She paused for a moment. “You do understand why that’s virtually impossible for us to believe?”

  “Yes, I do,” I answered. “But your lack of understanding doesn’t make it untrue.”

  She smiled at this, and I began to get a sense that she somehow liked us, although that may have just been a technique she’d been trained to develop. The skill of making the people you’re questioning think you’re a friend or ally.

  “Well, Admiral Douglas says it’s true, and so does my boss, so I guess I’m just going to have to accept that for now and move on to more pressing issues.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I also want to assure you that neither of you is in trouble. Nobody thinks you’ve done anything wrong. We just need some questions answered, and the important thing is for you to be honest with us.”

  “How honest?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, thrown by the question.

  “How honest would you like us to be?”

  “You’re either honest or you’re not,” she said. “There aren’t varying levels of truthfulness. The best thing for you to do is tell us the complete unfiltered truth. I’m certain that’s what Special Agent Rivers would want you to do.”

  “If you want us to be honest, then how come you lied to our parents?” I asked with just the right level of accusation in my voice.

  “I’m sorry, Florian,” she said, confused. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. None of us have lied to your parents.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really,” she answered firmly.

  “You told them that we were being questioned by the joint task force,” I said.

  “That’s exactly what’s happening,” she said. “I am the leader of that task force.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I answered. “But the task force is made up of representatives of three agencies: the National Security Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division. You’re with the CIA. He’s with the NSA,” I said, pointing to the man to her right. “And he’s FBI,” I said, motioning to the third agent at the table.

  “And how do you know that?” she asked.

  “It’s pretty easy,” I said, not so much to show off as to disrupt her flow. “He’s the only one of the three of you that doesn’t have a visitor’s badge. That’s because his office is here in the building. Which means he’s FBI.”

  “And the two of us?” she asked.

  “When you signed in, you had to list your address,” I said. “You live in Virginia. He’s from Maryland. The CIA is based in Langley, Virginia, and the NSA at Fort Meade, Maryland.”

  She smiled. “And how do you know that I don’t live in Virginia and drive to work in Maryland? They’re right next to each other.”

  “You said that Admiral Douglas told you that we consulted for the FBI and that your boss confirmed this,” I said. “We haven’t done any work for the NSA, but earlier this year I uncovered a spy ring that was operating out of a Chinese restaurant and spying on CIA employees. Your boss would certainly know about that.”

  Now she was truly impressed. “That was you?” she said, stunned.

  “So, when you told our parents that we were being questioned by the joint task force, you were only talking about the three of you,” I said. Then I pointed at Moretti, who was still sitting with his back against the wall. “Why did you leave him out?”

  Moretti adjusted his chair and leaned forward.

  “I’m also with the FBI’s counterintelligence team,” he said.

  “You’re a terrible liar, Agent Moretti,” I told him. “You’re with the organized crime division. If you want us to be honest on this side of the table, then you should be honest on that side. Don’t you agree?”

  The woman across the table smiled at me. “I’m beginning to see how it’s possible that you consult with the FBI.”

  “Why don’t we start over?” I suggested. “My name is Florian Bates. This is my best friend, Margaret Campbell. We’re seventh graders at Alice Deal Middle School, and we consult for the FBI. Who are you?”

  22.

  Gordian Knot

  THE MOOD IN THE ROOM changed significantly after my little TOAST display. The four people across the table introduced themselves and gave their agency affiliations, including CIA agent Melinda Dawkins, who was in charge of the joint task force, and Michael Moretti, who was the SAC, or special agent in charge, of the FBI’s Balkan transnational organized crime department. He made a point of saying the full name, and I assumed that was his way of trying to rattle me.

  “So that means you investigate crime families with connections to that region of Europe?” I asked, even though I was fairly certain of the answer.

  “That’s correct,” he said. “Which among others includes Albania, Bulgaria, Kosovo, and Romania.”

  He stretched out the last one for emphasis, and now I knew why we were there. In some form or another, this involved Nic the Knife.

  “Before we continue, I would like to know how you knew my name and identified me as part of the organized crime division,” said Moretti. “I want to make sure that no one outside this room has provided you with information about what we’re doing in an attempt to influence your answers.”

  “You mean Marcus?” I said.

  “Yes, I mean Agent Rivers,” he said.

  “Special Agent Rivers,” corrected Margaret.

  “You two sure seem to know a lot for a pair of twelve-year-olds who just walked into the room.”

  My guess was that he suspected Marcus was somehow involved in organized crime. How he reached that conclusion baffled me, but it was the only thing that made sense. According to Kayla’s WAR technique, the second option for defending yourself was to anticipate your attacker’s plan so that you could disrupt it. I saw where he was going, and I decided to change the direction of the conversation.

  It was time for a little showing off.

  “First of all, your name was written above mine on the visitor’s log for this room, so it doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure that out,” I said. “As for your accusation about Marcus giving us information about you, I don’t need him to tell me anything to know that, even though you have an Italian last name, you’re Irish. That you grew up in Boston playing hockey and worshipping the Bruins. Or that you miss your kids, who are back in New York with your ex-wife. So, I certainly didn’t need
him to tell me that you were with the organized crime division. We do this because we’re good at it. Not because we’re kids playing a game.”

  “Boom,” Margaret added as an exclamation point.

  “You see, I know that you’re Irish because you’re wearing a claddagh ring,” I said, pointing at his hand. “The heart’s pointed outward, which means you’re single, but when you handed your cell phone to the guard, the wallpaper was a picture of you with your kids. That’s how I knew you were divorced. Your Boston accent’s a dead giveaway, especially the way you pronounce Kosovo. My dad’s from Boston, and you sound like my uncles. The puck-sized scar above your eye and the four false teeth give away the hockey in your background.”

  He instinctively reached up to his mouth to check his teeth.

  “Your phone number has a 212 area code, which is how I knew you’d lived in New York. And when I thought about that, it reminded me where I’d seen you before. Last Friday night you were at Texas Tony’s with Dan Napoli, who also transferred from New York and is a member of the organized crime division.”

  The room was quiet for a moment while everyone waited for Moretti to respond, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Okay, then,” said Dawkins, trying to suppress a smile. “That was very impressive, Florian. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get started. Are you familiar with the term ‘Gordian knot’?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a legend from ancient Greece. The knot was so tangled and intertwined that it was virtually impossible to untie. It was prophesized that whoever could undo it would one day rule all of Asia. After unsuccessfully attempting to untie the knot, Alexander the Great realized there was a much simpler solution and chopped it in half with his sword.”

  “Very good,” she said. “And I believe we have several different cases that have become entangled and need to be undone. Hopefully, you and Margaret can use some of that brainpower you just displayed and play the role of Alexander for us.”

  The first thing they wanted to know was about our encounter with Andrei Morozov. We told them about running into him at the library and recounted how he chased us to the school. When we were done, Dawkins asked, “Was that the last time you saw him?”

  Margaret and I answered at the same time, but while Margaret said, “Yes,” I said, “No.”

  Margaret gave me a confused look.

  “Which one is it?” asked Dawkins.

  “Margaret never saw him again,” I explained. “But I did.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Margaret.

  “He showed up briefly at the soccer game on Wednesday afternoon,” I said. “He was only there for a few minutes, and then he left.”

  “Yes, he did,” said Dawkins.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Margaret under her breath.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” I said to her. “I’m sorry. I should have said something.”

  “As you are aware, the task force had someone following Morozov,” she continued. “Would you be surprised to know that in addition to that day at the soccer game, he also drove by the Campbell house at least three times, or that on Tuesday he parked by your school and spent twenty minutes watching while you were both in PE class?”

  “Really?” said Margaret with a flash of panic.

  “Needless to say, we were a bit worried about him and your safety,” she said. “So imagine our surprise last night when the embassy sent Morozov home to Russia. No warning or announcement. Just a simple notification to the State Department that he was being permanently recalled.”

  “So I don’t have to worry about him anymore?” Margaret said, relieved.

  “Not unless you find yourself in Moscow sometime soon,” said Dawkins. “The problem magically took care of itself.” She looked at me. “The soccer game is one of the places where our cases began to get entangled. You see, we on the special task force are very interested in Mr. Morozov, while Agent Moretti and his colleagues on organized crime are very interested in another man who was at the game named Nicolae Nevrescu. Do you two know him?”

  “He’s a gangster,” said Margaret. “A member of EEL, which stands for the Eastern European League. Earlier this year he kidnapped Florian.”

  “Which is why we found it surprising that Florian and he sat together at your soccer game talking like old friends,” she said.

  All eyes were on me, and I had to be careful how I answered. I knew that the FBI followed Nic the Knife everywhere he went and would be able to tell if I lied. I just had to make sure I didn’t tell them everything.

  “Yes, he abducted me, but it was a misguided attempt to find out information about a case we were working on,” I said. “He’d been mistakenly identified as the mastermind of a robbery at the National Gallery of Art. Eventually, he wound up working with the Bureau and helped us solve the case.”

  “And that day at the soccer game?”

  “I was surprised to see him,” I said. “He was there because he’d donated the money to improve the field and install new bleachers and a scoreboard. We were talking when Andrei Morozov showed up. When I saw him, I was worried, and Nevrescu asked why I was worried. I told him that Morozov had been following Margaret and I was concerned about what he might do.”

  “And that’s when Mr. Nevrescu walked over and talked to Morozov?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “What did he tell him?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, it must have been something,” she said. “Because Morozov instantly left the field, went straight to the embassy, and a day later was on a plane for Moscow.”

  “Like I said. I have no idea what Mr. Nevrescu said to him.”

  Moretti interrupted and said, “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” said Dawkins.

  “Are there any other times that you’ve interacted with Mr. Nevrescu?”

  At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, but when I remembered, things started to make a lot more sense. “About a month ago Margaret and I went to his office.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “We were working undercover, and a friend of ours named Yin Yae had been kidnapped,” said Margaret. “We asked him to help us solve the case.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Moretti. “You’ve lost me.”

  “We were trying to figure out how the kidnapping may have been executed, and we went to him for his expertise.”

  “And did you solve the case?”

  “Yes, we did,” Margaret said proudly. “Along with Marcus.”

  “You see, this is the part that interests me,” Moretti replied. “Marcus has closed so many cases that he was just given a Director’s Award for Excellence. But it seems like all the cases he solves involve getting help from Nic the Knife and a pair of twelve-year-olds. So far you’ve already mentioned the National Gallery case and a kidnapping. It’s almost like he’s building his career with the help of a notorious criminal. Almost like organized crime wants to see to it that Marcus is promoted to a position of power.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” I said. “Marcus is the most honest person I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t break a rule, much less a law.”

  Moretti flashed a smile that was unnerving. “Agent Dawkins, why don’t you take it from here?”

  Dawkins got up and walked over to the cabinet, which she unlocked. She brought back two books, which were in evidence bags.

  “Do you recognize this book?” she asked, holding one up. It was antique with a dark blue cover.

  Margaret and I both said no.

  “It was delivered to my office by special courier. Turned in anonymously. And it has been identified as having been stolen from the Russian Imperial Collection of the Library of Congress.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I know about the collection, but I don’t recognize that book in particular.”

  “Me neither,” said Margaret.

 
“On Monday, did Marcus take you to the Rare Book Reading Room at the Library of Congress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Alistair Toombs show you around the stacks, including the bookcases that held the Russian Imperial Collection?”

  “Yes.”

  “At one point did he leave you alone with those books?”

  It took me a moment to remember because it hadn’t seemed significant. “Yes.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Lights came on in a different part of the stacks, and he wanted to see who was there,” said Margaret. “It turned out to be an intern.”

  “Okay,” she said. “This is where I need total honesty. This next question is the whole ball game. At any point did Marcus touch any of the books in the collection?”

  “No,” Margaret and I both said definitively.

  “Are you certain?” she asked. “Not even to point something out or show you one of the books?”

  “I’m certain,” I answered.

  “Cross my heart,” said Margaret.

  She held up the book again. “Then how do you explain how this book has his fingerprints on it?”

  Margaret and I recoiled. We had been certain we were providing him with an alibi, but in fact, we’d done the opposite. We’d made him look guiltier.

  23.

  Two Books

  MARGARET AND I SAT THERE and stared at the book in the evidence bag. It had a blue cover, red spine, and apparently Marcus’s fingerprints.

  “There’s an easy explanation,” said Margaret. “He picked up the book.”

  “But you just said he didn’t,” responded Melinda Dawkins. “In fact, you were adamant that he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t pick it up when we were there on Monday,” she said. “He did ten years ago when he was researching his PhD project.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mike Moretti. “You think his fingerprints are that pristine ten years after the fact?”

  “Yes,” said Margaret. “Those books are kept in ideal conditions and virtually never handled. How many people do you think have checked that book out in the last ten years?”

  “Special Agent Rivers offered the same explanation,” said Dawkins. “But he had no explanation for this.”