Trapped!, Page 2

  “You think it’s safe to turn on the lights?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said tentatively.

  I found the switch and flipped it. As the lights turned on and my eyes adjusted, I realized that our “lucky” find wasn’t so lucky after all. We weren’t in a computer room. We were in a room full of books about computers. This was, after all, the world’s largest library. Books were everywhere.

  “Maybe it’s better to be smart than lucky,” I joked.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “At least he didn’t catch us.”

  “Should we keep trying to find the server?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No. He’s not going to stop looking. Or worse, he’ll alert security. I think we’ve got to get out of the building before someone catches us. We’re not going to be able to help Marcus if we get arrested.”

  “Good point.”

  We waited another minute to make sure he was gone, and then I opened the door.

  Or rather, I turned the handle to open the door, but nothing happened.

  “Stop messing around. It’s not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” I said. “It’s locked.”

  “Duh,” she said, shaking her head. “Because we locked it.”

  She reached over to the keypad and pressed a green button marked OPEN. But it didn’t respond. She tried again but had the same result. I jiggled the handle some more. Nothing happened.

  “Margaret,” I said nervously. “I think we may be trapped in here.”

  OBJECTIVE 3:

  Access Information in the Computer Server Room

  ESCAPE!

  Not surprisingly, we had to change our third objective. We were locked in a storage area half the size of a classroom. It was filled with books about the history of computers, manuals that explained how to build computers, and biographies of famous people in computer history. (If only we’d stumbled into the room with the books about lock picking and prison escapes.)

  We tried not to panic.

  “Maybe we should call our parents,” said Margaret. “They can come get us.”

  It almost certainly meant getting grounded for life, but she was right. That’s when we realized being trapped in the basement of a massive marble building filled with metal bookcases totally disrupts your cell service. No matter where we stood in the room or how much we waved our phones in the air, we couldn’t get any sort of connection.

  “Remember when we were pretending to be so stupid that we got locked out of a building?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “It turns out we are that stupid. Only, even stupider because we got locked in.”

  It was becoming harder and harder to keep calm.

  “It’s Friday night,” Margaret said, panicked. “What if no one comes back here until Monday?”

  And harder still.

  “Let’s not think that way. Let’s stay positive.”

  “You’re right,” she said with only slight believability. “We can figure this out.”

  I tried to flip the lock like they do in movies by sliding my school ID through the slot between the door and the jamb. After about ten tries, the lock remained completely unchanged, but my ID was mangled beyond repair.

  Margaret began typing codes into the keypad. She started with 0000 and then tried 0001, 0002, 0003 . . . well, you get the picture.

  “You realize there are ten thousand different potential combinations,” I said.

  She gave me the evil eye and asked, “Is that you staying positive?”

  “Sorry,” I replied sheepishly as I backed away. “Keep up the good work.”

  I started scanning shelves looking for anything about electronic locks or keypads, but I couldn’t make sense of how the books were organized.

  “Margaret, can you look at this?”

  “I’m kind of busy over here,” she said, focusing on the keypad and trying to make sure she didn’t skip a number.

  I took a book off the shelf and brought it over to her.

  “I don’t understand this,” I said, holding up the spine for her to see.

  She stopped and read the title. “Geek Mythology: The Real-Life Legends and Gods of Computer History.” She looked up. “What about it?”

  “I’m not confused by the title. I don’t understand the call number.”

  “QA76.16.W69.”

  “Exactly,” I replied. “I’ve never seen anything like that in a library before. Shouldn’t it be something like 791.43?”

  Margaret smiled when she realized why I was confused.

  “You’d think so,” she said. “But that’s because most libraries use the Dewey decimal system. The Library of Congress has its own classification system. We learned about it last year in English.”

  “Seriously? That’s so confusing. Why would they do that?”

  “I think the Librarian of Congress is upstairs at that gala,” she said. “As soon as I crack this code, we can go ask her.”

  I stared at the book, and my mind started piecing together the puzzle. I must have had a far-off look because Margaret reached over and touched my shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Let me see your phone,” I said urgently.

  “I’m pretty sure there still isn’t any cell service down here.”

  “I don’t want to make a call. I need to check your photo gallery.”

  She handed it to me, and I quickly swiped through all the pictures she’d taken during the case, their colors streaming by in a blur. There were two in particular I was looking for, and when I found them, I switched back and forth between them to make sure I was right. Even though I was, I didn’t know what it all meant.

  I closed my eyes, and the pieces of the case flooded through my mind. FBI, CIA, NSA, Russian spies, Library of Congress, Albert Einstein, Alistair Toombs, and then . . . books. There were so many books throughout the case. Rare books. Science books. Children’s books. Massive volumes of Shakespeare’s works. A book that belonged to Thomas Jefferson. And now Geek Mythology. Maybe the hashtag was right. Maybe it was “all about the books.” I remembered my mother once telling me, “No matter what you’re searching for, you can always find the answer in the library. The secrets of the world are hidden in books,” she’d said. “All you’ve got to do is look for them.”

  And then everything went dark, and I saw the answer right in front of me. I opened my eyes and looked at Margaret.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I realized that a while ago. That’s why I’m typing ten thousand different codes.”

  “No, I mean, we’ve got to get out of here because I may have just solved the case.”

  “Really? How?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said. “But the first thing you have to understand is that Geek Mythology changes everything.”

  2.

  Toastbusters

  One Week Earlier

  I PROMISE I’LL EXPLAIN HOW Geek Mythology changed everything. But for it to really make sense, I first have to explain what everything is. That means going back one week earlier. It was a Friday afternoon, and the FBI wasn’t treating Marcus like a criminal; it was awarding him one of its highest honors. And Margaret and I weren’t trapped in a room beneath the Library of Congress; we were going head-to-head in an epic battle of Toastbusters.

  The object of the game was to see who could uncover the most hidden details about people using nothing more than the Theory of All Small Things. Normally we played in the school cafeteria or at one of the Smithsonians, but those locations weren’t particularly challenging because the two easiest groups of people to read were kids and tourists. This match was different. We were at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in a room full of FBI agents who dressed alike, had matching haircuts, and were specifically trained to avoid detection.

  This was our Super Bowl.

  “The guy with the red tie getting punch,” Margaret said, trying her best to talk like a ve
ntriloquist without moving her lips. “I think he’s recently gotten divorced.”

  We both turned to Kayla, who was standing between us and serving as the official scorer. She was an agent and the “unofficial” fourth member of the team. Since she worked at the Bureau, she was able to tell us when we were right or wrong. A correct observation was worth two points; an incorrect one meant minus one. I could tell from her expression that Margaret had scored again.

  “About a month ago,” Kayla whispered. “How’d you know?”

  “There’s a pale stripe on his finger where his wedding ring used to be. And he keeps going back to the hors d’oeuvres table like he hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

  “Very nice. That’s two points.”

  “Which means the game is tied,” Margaret added with a little fist pump.

  “Not for long,” I replied. “So enjoy it while you can.”

  I carefully scanned the room, which was one of the nicest at FBI Headquarters. It had marble floors, two massive stone fireplaces, and large paintings depicting famous moments in American history. It was used to welcome visiting delegations and hold special events. Today it was hosting the reception for the Bureau’s annual awards ceremony. We’d come to see Marcus receive a Director’s Award for Excellence, which was a huge honor. He was still in the auditorium posing for pictures, so we’d taken a spot near the dessert table, which gave us plenty of opportunity to observe people. (And, you know, eat lots of dessert.)

  “I’ve got one,” I whispered. “The tall guy in the pin-stripe suit munching on carrot sticks.”

  “Okay,” Kayla said. “What can you tell me?”

  “He’s recently lost between thirty and forty pounds.”

  She was impressed. “That’s two points for Florian.”

  Margaret gave me a curious look and then studied the man to see how I figured it out. “His jacket,” she said, realizing. “It’s too big.”

  “And even though he’s only eating carrots, he keeps staring at the dessert table like he’s going to tackle it.”

  “That’s a good one,” Margaret admitted.

  “And it means I’m back up by two.”

  “Yes, it does. . . .” She took a deep breath as she considered her strategy. “Which is why . . . I’m going for a three-pointer.”

  Three-pointers were rare. To get one, you had to first identify the person and then give your opponent a chance to steal. It was risky because not only could it cost you points but you’d also lose your turn.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “There’s a man with a beard sitting in the far corner. He has a slice of chocolate cake and is drinking a bottle of water.” She turned to Kayla. “Do you know him?”

  “I do. We were in basic training together at Quantico. Florian, you’re on the clock.”

  I had sixty seconds to make an observation about him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had sixty minutes. I looked for anything interesting, but he seemed absolutely unremarkable.

  “I’ve got nothing,” I admitted reluctantly. “What is it?”

  Margaret paused for a moment to increase the drama. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “He works in the field as an undercover agent.”

  “Okay, wow!” said Kayla. “You’re not supposed to know that. In fact, almost no one in this room knows that.”

  Margaret beamed with pride. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

  I was stunned. “How could you possibly . . . ?”

  “It started with his fingernails,” she said. “I noticed them when he was getting the cake.”

  “What’s significant about his fingernails? That he has ten of them?” I asked.

  “Most agents keep theirs neat and short. But his are long and kind of dirty. Add that to his hair, which needs to be cut, and his beard, which could use a trim.”

  “And you get someone who’s messy,” I suggested.

  “But he’s not messy,” she replied. “Look at his suit. Tailored and pressed. It’s impeccable. His natural instinct is to be sharp. That tells me his subpar grooming is a job requirement, not a personal choice. And the only requirement that makes sense is that he’s undercover. It’s so he can blend in better out on the street, where a manicure and crew cut would make him stand out.”

  I was blown away.

  “That’s three points,” Kayla said, holding up three fingers as punctuation. “Three very impressive points.”

  “And Campbell takes the lead,” Margaret announced like a sportscaster.

  Like I said, this was our Super Bowl, and she was playing like a superstar.

  I used all my best spy tricks as I scanned the room, hoping to counter with something equally impressive. There was a woman who kept turning her head slightly as she talked to a friend, and I thought she might be deaf in one ear. And I wondered if a man with mismatched socks was color-blind. But nothing seemed particularly TOAST-worthy. And certainly none was as cool as unmasking an undercover agent.

  Then, when I swept the room again, I noticed we weren’t the only ones spying.

  “See the guy in that group over there with his back turned?” I asked, subtly motioning to where four people stood in a cluster about twenty feet away from us. “The one in gray?”

  “What can you tell me about him?” asked Kayla.

  “It’s not part of the game,” I said. “It’s just that he’s watching us. Very carefully. I noticed him earlier in the auditorium. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but now I’m sure he’s following our every move.”

  “How’s that possible if he’s facing the other way?” asked Margaret.

  “He’s using that mirror.”

  There was an ornate gold-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall over a table with two punch bowls and a large flower arrangement. When you looked in it, you could see his eyes and tell that his attention was focused on us instead of the people he was with.

  “I think you’re right,” said Kayla.

  “Any idea who he is?” I asked.

  “I’ve never seen him.”

  There was a moment of quiet, and then Margaret said, “That’s fascinating and all, but you don’t get any points for fascinating. So, is that your way of declaring me the winner? ’Cause I have a new victory dance I want to show you guys.”

  “Not yet,” I said defiantly. “Let me look a little bit more.”

  I tried to get back into the game, but I was too distracted by the man. I wondered why he was so interested in us. I still hadn’t spotted anything by the time Marcus came into the room. In the short distance from the door to where we were standing, he must have been stopped by at least a dozen people congratulating him with a handshake or a slap on the back. He seemed a bit embarrassed by all the attention.

  “Where are your parents?” Kayla asked him.

  “They had to go,” he answered. “They’re watching my sister’s kids tonight.”

  “You should’ve seen their faces when you were up there,” she said. “They’re so proud of you.”

  “We all are,” Margaret said as she gave him a hug. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” I added. “Can I see it?”

  He handed me the award, which was glass and shaped like a diamond on a base. The FBI seal was engraved above an inscription, which I read aloud. “ ‘FBI Director’s Award for Excellence presented to Special Agent Marcus Rivers in recognition of your outstanding contribution to our nation through exemplary service and dedication. With deepest appreciation.’ ”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Wow! It’s so well deserved.”

  “Where are you going to put it?” asked Margaret. “On a podium in your office with a little spotlight on it?”

  We all laughed.

  “I was thinking something a little more low-key,” he said. “Like the closet or at my parents’ house.”

  “Well, I’d go with the podium,” she replied. “But that’s just me.”


  “It’s a good thing you got here when you did,” said Kayla as she gave him a congratulatory hug. “Margaret just identified an undercover agent. A few minutes longer and there’d be no telling how many government secrets they might’ve exposed.”

  Marcus picked up a piece of cake from the table and ate happily as we walked him through the Toastbusters highlights. He was rightfully impressed by Margaret’s fingernail identification, and I decided to concede the match and declare her the outright winner.

  Her celebratory dance was surprisingly restrained.

  I was still laughing about it when the man who’d been spying on us approached Marcus. He was average height and built like a wrestler. (Not the ones on TV who break chairs over each other’s heads, but compact and muscular like the ones you see at the Olympics.) He had a thick black mustache and was bald on top with hair on the sides.

  “Congratulations,” he said, offering a powerful handshake. “The Director’s Award is huge. I hear you’ve closed some amazing cases lately.”

  “I think a lot of it was luck,” Marcus said modestly. “ ‘Right place at the right time’ kind of thing.”

  “Oh, no,” he said with an odd smile. “I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it.”

  He just stood there for a moment creating an awkward silence.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marcus. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Marcus Rivers.”

  “Dan Napoli,” he replied. “I’m with the organized crime division. I transferred down from the New York office six months ago.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dan.”

  Napoli turned to Margaret and me. “And who do we have here?”

  Even among agents in the Hoover Building we weren’t allowed to discuss our role with the Bureau. So instead of telling him that we were covert assets on the Special Projects Team, Margaret went with our standard cover story.

  “I’m Marcus’s niece, and this is my best friend.”

  I noticed she didn’t offer our names.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re proud of your uncle.”

  “Very much,” she replied. “And you’re right. Luck had nothing to do with the cases he’s closed. He’s just that good.”