City Spies Page 6

  “But we know she’s a thief,” he replied. “We can’t just let her join the team with this mission coming up. How many different ways can that go wrong?”

  “You’re right,” said Rio. “We’ve got to tell him, even if it means getting in trouble.”

  8. Haystacks

  MOTHER AND SYDNEY WERE ON the upper level of the Scottish National Gallery admiring a painting of haystacks when Sara came up behind them.

  “Found you,” she said with an easy smile.

  Mother checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. “You were supposed to find us twelve minutes ago.”

  She cringed. “Does that mean I failed?”

  “No … you passed … but only just,” he said. “Remember: Bad guys never wait, so good guys can’t be late.”

  “Catchy,” said Sara.

  “Motherisms,” said Sydney. “You get used to them.”

  “Let me guess,” Sara said, pointing at the painting. “You picked haystacks because finding a rendezvous point’s like finding a needle in a haystack?”

  He laughed. “No, but I wish I had. You’re very clever, Sara.”

  “Not everybody likes that about me,” she said sheepishly. “In some of the houses where I’ve lived, being clever was considered a bad thing.”

  “Fear not,” he replied. “We’re quite fond of cleverness on the farm. Now let’s get you there so you can see for yourself.”

  Sara walked toward the exit, but changed direction when she noticed Mother and Sydney going the opposite way. As she hurried to catch up, she asked, “We don’t actually live on a farm, do we?”

  “That’s just what we call it,” answered Sydney. “You’ll understand when we get there.”

  Mother led them down a hallway of offices before stopping at an elevator marked STAFF ONLY. He pressed the down button.

  “Is this another test?” asked Sara. “Because I don’t think we’re supposed to use this elevator.”

  The door opened with a ding, and Mother and Sydney got in. He turned and asked, “Why not?”

  “Because it’s only for employees.”

  He pointed at an ID badge clipped to his belt. “I am an employee.”

  Sara couldn’t believe it. She stepped in and asked, “How many fake IDs do you have?”

  “I’ve not counted, but it’s quite a lot,” Mother said with a chuckle. He pushed a button, and the elevator lurched into motion. “Although this one’s legit. I really work here.”

  Sara studied his expression. “I don’t know how to tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m a consultant specializing in art of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. You know that Monet painting of the haystacks?”

  “What about it?”

  “I helped the museum acquire it last year. I’m quite proud of that.”

  Downstairs they exited the building into a small employee parking lot and headed straight for a sports car that looked like it belonged in a James Bond movie. It was sleek, with tinted windows and a matte black paint job. As she walked toward it, Sara wondered if it came fully loaded with secret weapons and an ejector seat. She was just about to run her fingers along the body when Mother called her.

  “Sorry, but that’s not ours,” he said.

  She turned to see that he and Sydney had stopped at an oldish Volvo station wagon that looked more mom than Bond.

  “Contrary to what you’ve seen at the cinema, spies have practical cars that don’t attract attention,” he said. “Driving that would spoil the whole secret part of ‘secret agent.’ Besides, we’ve got too many people. We need more seating.”

  “And room for groceries,” added Sydney.

  “Excellent point,” said Mother. “The boys are voracious eaters.”

  “You can have the front seat,” Sydney said, holding open the passenger door. “You’ll get a better view.”

  Before they drove off, Mother leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “There is, however, one special feature, if you’d like to press that button.”

  He pointed at a button on the dashboard.

  “Really?” Sara said.

  “Just make sure everyone’s got their seat belts on.”

  She clicked her seat belt, checked the others, and then cautiously reached for the button. When she pressed it … the engine started, and Mother let out a cackle.

  “Okay,” Sara said, grinning but a bit embarrassed. “You got me.”

  “Forget the movies,” he said. “The life of a spy is nothing like 007.”

  They pulled out of the gravel car park and drove north out of the city.

  “So in addition to being a spy you’re also a museum consultant,” she said. “Any other jobs I should know about?”

  “I’m caretaker of a small airfield,” he said. “It’s a little grass runway next to the farm. During World War II it was an RAF base, and now it’s open a few days a week for use by private planes.”

  “And MI6 is okay with all these side jobs?”

  “They can’t really complain,” he answered. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m dead.”

  Sara gave him a curious look. “It just gets stranger and stranger with you.”

  “And you’ve only scratched the surface,” Sydney chimed in from the backseat.

  “Officially speaking, I died in that fire,” Mother explained. “I was double-crossed by our own agents, none of whom know Paris rescued me. So when I contacted my superior and told her what happened, my instructions were to lie low and disappear. Meanwhile, she convinced French police to report that the body of an unidentified man had been found in the factory. Internally at MI6, it was understood that I was that body.”

  “That way any agents passing information to Umbra told their handlers that Mother was no longer a worry,” Sydney added.

  “The thinking is that a dead agent can accomplish more than a living one,” said Mother. “That’s why they hid me in the middle-of-nowhere Scotland. There are only a handful of people inside the Service who know I’m alive, which means they can’t pay me without attracting attention. The museum and airfield jobs let me earn a salary without anything leading back to MI6.”

  “Do you even know anything about the art of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries?”

  “I have an MA in art history from the University of St. Andrews,” he said proudly. “My cover as an agent was posing as a black-market art dealer.”

  “But what if you cross paths with someone from the art world who recognizes you?” asked Sara. “Won’t they find out you’re alive?”

  “Paris saved me from the fire,” he said. “But I was badly burned and needed surgery. When they operated, they altered my appearance.”

  “How much?” asked Sara.

  “If she were alive today, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me,” he said. “And sometimes I’m still a bit surprised when I look in the mirror and see who’s there.”

  They drove north along the coast through farms and fishing villages like nothing Sara had ever seen. She especially liked looking out at the dark storm clouds forming over the North Sea. Finally, she asked the question that had nagged at her since Mother told her about the fire.

  “What about your wife?” she asked cautiously. “She was one of the agents who double-crossed you, right?”

  “Clementine,” he answered. “We worked together for fifteen years and were married for twelve. I have no idea how Umbra corrupted her, but they flipped her to their side and she helped set me up.”

  He said this without emotion, but Sara knew it had to be devastating.

  “What happened to her?”

  “After the fire, she disappeared with Annie and Robert.”

  “Are they other agents?”

  “No.” He paused for a moment. “They’re my children. Our children, I mean. Mine and Clemmie’s.”

  “You have kids?!” She said it more as an exclamation than a question.

  “Yes,” he said
. “Annie’s fourteen and Robert’s eleven.”

  “And you don’t know where they are?”

  He shook his head. “No. At MI6, Clementine’s specialty was vanishing assets.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sara.

  “Say a Russian spy flipped sides and joined forces with the British, she would erase all trace of his previous existence and create an entirely new identity. There’s no one better at scrubbing a trail than Clemmie. She’s certainly done a good job hiding Robert and Annie. I know, because I’ve been looking.” He paused for a moment. “But no one knows her methods better than I do. I will find them.”

  Soon they reached a sign reading WEATHER STATION and AIRFIELD. An arrow pointed them down a dirt road to a squat air traffic control tower next to a grass landing strip. RAF AISLING was painted in faded letters on the side of the tower along with the blue, white, and red roundel that symbolized the Royal Air Force.

  “This is where you work?” asked Sara.

  “And where I live,” he said. “I’ve got a little flat—an apartment—in the tower.”

  “Luckily, our home’s a bit more grand,” Sydney added with a laugh.

  Sara laughed too when she saw what Sydney was talking about.

  Just beyond the airfield was a sprawling three-story stone house overlooking the sea. It had a turret on one side, and Sara wondered if it might technically be a castle.

  Curiously, the roof and surrounding yard were filled with scientific equipment. There was a radar tower, wind turbine, antennae, and various other weather instruments. Mother parked the station wagon in front of the house, and Sara noticed a sign that said THE FOUNDATION FOR ATMOSPHERIC RESEARCH AND MONITORING.

  Mother turned to her and smiled. “Welcome to FARM.”

  9. FARM

  THE FIRST THING THAT GREETED them inside the house was a portrait of a large, jowly man with a pencil-thin mustache and thick glasses. In the painting he was standing next to a globe and holding an anemometer, a device for measuring wind speed.

  “Who’s this?” Sara asked.

  “The twenty-fourth baron of Aisling,” answered Sydney. “But we just call him Big Bill.”

  “It was thought that the twenty-third baron had no surviving relatives,” said Mother. “But, right before he passed away, a successful industrialist and distant cousin named William Maxwell was discovered living in Los Angeles. As the only heir, he inherited all of this.”

  “If he inherited it, why are we here?” asked Sara.

  “He didn’t want to leave sunny California for gloomy Scotland,” said Sydney. “And since he was already rich, he decided to use his inheritance to create the Foundation for Atmospheric Research and Monitoring. That’s how an old Scottish manor house become a state-of-the-art weather station and research center.”

  “You’ll have to memorize all this for the tours,” said Mother.

  “Tours?”

  “Weather Weirdos,” Sydney said, shaking her head. “They knock on the door at all hours and ask to look around.”

  “I prefer the term ‘meteorology enthusiasts,’ ” said Mother. “And we’re happy to welcome them. It’s all part of our mission as defined by the baron. He thought the study of ocean and weather patterns was vitally important. The fact that this house overlooks the North Sea made it an ideal location to do both.”

  “So he turned it into a weather station, but he stayed in California?” asked Sara.

  “He made one visit,” Mother said. “During which he posed for this portrait and cut the ribbon at the grand-opening ceremony. He also gave a rousing speech about the importance of climate research long before it was fashionable.”

  “A shame nobody heard it,” said Sydney.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the grand opening was held on the second of June, 1953,” said Mother. “The same day as Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.”

  “Not surprisingly, most people chose to watch their new queen receive her crown rather than listen to some crackpot millionaire talk about the weather,” said Sydney.

  “I prefer the term ‘eccentric philanthropist,’ ” said Mother. “But, otherwise, yes.”

  “Why didn’t he just reschedule it?” Sara asked. “He had to know no one would come.”

  “That was the intent,” answered Mother. “Fewer attendees meant fewer questions and fewer chances to blow his cover. You see, the twenty-third baron of Aisling really didn’t have any surviving relatives. Big Bill wasn’t a successful industrialist; rather he was a small-time Hollywood actor who specialized in portraying successful industrialists. He was hired by MI6 to play a role because in addition to studying the ocean, this house was perfectly situated to study the Soviet Union.”

  Sara’s eyes opened wide. “I wondered how MI6 figured into this.”

  “This is the part we don’t mention on the tours,” said Mother. “FARM was a covert listening station throughout the Cold War. All the equipment that studied the climate was specially designed to also eavesdrop on our Russian counterparts. The upstairs was turned into a dormitory able to house up to eight spies.”

  “Spies who posed as scientists working at the weather station?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Although it wasn’t just posturing. They spied and conducted scientific research. FARM continues to be a working weather station to this day. That’s the key to its cover and the reason why meteorology enthusiasts”—he shot a look at Sydney— “come knocking on the door. But with advancing technologies and changing politics, the eavesdropping component went away. That’s when MI6 converted it into a cryptography center.”

  “But if its cover’s still as a weather station,” said Sara, “how do a bunch of kids living here not ruin it?”

  “We’re part of the FARM Fellows Program, which engages talented but disadvantaged youth from around the world and helps us become the next generation of climate scientists,” Sydney said, as if reciting from a brochure. “That’s also part of the tour.”

  “FARM Fellows?” Sara asked.

  “Just flows off the tongue, doesn’t it?” said Sydney. “At Kinloch they call us the farmers, and they don’t mean it as a compliment.”

  “You may be farmers,” said a voice with a pleasant Scottish accent, “but they’re just farmadach.”

  Sara turned to see a woman in her midthirties with dark red hair down to her shoulders. She wore black jeans, a thick sweater, and a pair of boots known as “Wellies.”

  “Farmadach?” asked Sydney.

  “It’s Scottish for jealous,” replied the woman. “They’re envious because they’re stuck in that fussy old school and you get to live here with me.”

  “You must be Ms. Montgomery,” said Sara.

  “Call me Monty.” She shook Sara’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “We were telling Sara all about Big Bill and FARM,” said Mother. “I was just going to explain how—”

  “Sounds riveting, but I’m sure it can wait,” Monty interrupted. “This poor girl’s had an arduous forty-eight hours. The least we can do is let her catch her breath.” She turned to Sara. “You must be knackered.”

  Sara gave her a confused look.

  “Exhausted,” explained Monty.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it, but yeah,” she answered. “I’m … knackered.”

  “Why don’t I show you to your room,” said Monty. “You can relax. Maybe even take a short nap. I’d recommend that, actually. It helps fight the jet lag.”

  “Sounds good,” said Sara.

  “But I haven’t even gotten to the part where MI6 sent Paris and me to live here,” Mother said.

  “You mean the day the circus came to town,” Monty replied with a playful laugh. “As I said, it can wait.”

  Just beyond the portrait of Big Bill was a grand staircase, and Sara followed Monty up to the second floor. “Who’s my roommate? Sydney or Kat?”

  “Neither,” answered Monty. “Everyone has a room to themselves.”
<
br />   “Really?”

  “It’s not very big, but it’s all yours,” she said.

  Upstairs was a long hallway with four rooms on each end. Monty pointed to the right and said, “The boys live over there, which explains the assortment of odors.” She headed the other way. “You’re down here with Kat and Syd. The three of you have your own loo, which you’re all responsible for keeping clean.”

  “Got it,” said Sara.

  “You also have some chores,” she added. “Nothing drastic; laundry, Hoovering, that sort of thing. It’s a secret facility, so we can’t exactly hire staff to clean up.”

  “Of course.” Sara pointed at a padlocked door. “What’s with that?”

  “Kat’s still working on some sharing issues,” Monty said. “She’s rather protective of her privacy.”

  “I’ll make sure to remember that,” said Sara.

  As they reached the end of the hall, Monty said, “And here we are.”

  Sara opened the door and couldn’t believe her eyes. In spite of Monty’s warning about its size, the room seemed huge to her. There was a bed along one wall, a desk and chair next to the window, and a tall dresser with a mirror. Best of all was the view of the sea. It was spectacular.

  “This is mine?” she asked, stunned.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never had a room of my own.”

  “You can do it up however you’d like,” said Monty. “I know Sydney got you some clothes in New York, and this morning I picked up some more. Just a few basics to hold you over.” She motioned to the closet where the clothes hung neatly. “Soon as we get a chance, you and I can go into Edinburgh and start filling out your wardrobe. The shops there are stellar.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  “Now, you take a wee nap,” Monty told her. “I’ll call you for dinner in a few hours. Tonight’s my night to cook, so I’m making roast beef. It’s my specialty.”

  “Yum.”

  “Everyone will be home by then, so we can do some proper introductions and Mother can tell you even more about Big Bill and FARM.”

  Monty went to leave, but Sara took hold of her arm. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you so much.”