"Oh, it's you again," said the security agent posted outside the BOB.
I was back at the Big Office for my second "playdate." O'Cyrus had even arranged for me to get out of my homework so that I could resume my mission as early as possible. He'd met me at school, given me a quick debriefing, then put me on the Metro down to the Big Office.
There was a crowd at the security checkpoint again—a new gaggle of agents and aides—but today the security agents recognized me. They all seemed quite surprised I had returned. "I thought Jason didn't like you," said the one manning the magnetometer. "Seeing as he got you thrown in the holding cell yesterday."
"That was just a prank that got out of hand," I explained. "He didn't realize you guys were going to lock me up. He felt really bad about it, so he invited me back today."
That was the cover story. The truth was that the Little O had called up her uncle and aunt after hearing what Jason had done. (After all, it had derailed the mission designed to locate his potential assassin.) Jason's parents had been told that if he didn't play nice with me, his winter break in Florida would be canceled in favor of volunteering to dig latrines in Haiti. As further punishment, Jason was no longer allowed to hang out in his room playing video games until I arrived. Instead, he had been ordered to greet me personally at the BOB—with Oranda making sure it happened—which meant I was getting priority service. All the agents and aides had to let me pass through security first.
I was quickly checked off the official list, issued my Big Office ID card, and hustled through the magnetometer. However, the dogs didn't understand protocol. Once again, they went nuts when they smelled me, barking and snarling like mad. The canine agents, Oboe and Oryx, reacted with annoyance.
"Why are you wearing that stupid jacket again?" Oboe asked me angrily. "You know the dogs don't like it."
"It's the only warm jacket I have," I said truthfully. "And I washed it last night, I swear." After I'd returned to campus, I'd used one of the two balky washing machines in the dorm to clean the jacket, and even combed through the pockets for any rogue pieces of beef jerky. The best I could figure was multiple trips to my father's meat locker over the years had ingrained the smell of meat in it far more than any human could detect.
"Yeah, right," Oryx said skeptically. "My brother doesn't even know what a washing machine is. They've worn the same clothes so many times in a row, the clothes could probably walk around on their own by now."
The dogs were still snarling at me, teeth bared, saliva dripping ominously from their lips, signaling that they'd happily maul me if given the chance. "Can you get them to back down?" I asked nervously.
"If you don't like the attention, maybe you should've gotten a new jacket," Oboe replied. He seemed to find my fear amusing.
He probably would have happily kept me there a lot longer if one of the X's behind me in the security line hadn't spoken up. "Can you move things along, please?" she asked. "Some of us have actual things to do here!"
"Sure you do," Oryx mumbled sarcastically. But he jerked a thumb toward the BOB and said, "Move it, meat boy." As though I had been the one stalling.
I hurried toward the building.
"Next time you visit, wear something else!" Oboe yelled after me.
Oranda and Jason were waiting on some benches right inside the doors, where it was still warm. Jason was slumped over a ShmumberPad, playing another video game. Oranda leapt to her feet with a big smile, while Jason made a point of ignoring me.
"Hey there, AJ!" Oranda said warmly. "It's good to see you! Jason was really happy to hear you were willing to come over again after how awfully he treated you yesterday, weren't you, Jason?"
Jason didn't even look up.
Oranda kicked his bench to get his attention. "Jason, your friend is here. I'm sure your cousin would like you to treat him nicely today." She then whispered, "Unless you like digging latrines."
Jason looked up and pasted a fake smile on his face. "Hi, AJ. I'm so glad you're here," he said, in a way that made it very clear he wasn't.
"That's better." Oranda started through the BOB toward the Big Office. I fell in beside her, while Jason plodded along behind us, returning his focus to his ShmumberPad once again.
"I am sooooo sorry about what happened with Jason yesterday," Oranda whispered to me. "And so is the Little O. SHe's well aware what a"—Oranda paused to think of the proper word—"rascal her cousin can be. She's hoping that a nice, well-behaved kid like you might be a good influence on Jason."
I figured this was the cover story the Little O had given Oranda to explain why he had gone through so much trouble to get me back there. "I'm just hoping Jason doesn't send me to jail again," I said.
"Oh, he won't," Oranda assured me. "The Little O asked me to stay closer to you today to ensure we don't have any more unpleasantness. But there are lots of fun things for you and Jason to do together. How would you like to check out the bowling alley?"
If I had really been there to hang out, with a person who actually liked me, I would have immediately said yes. But I wasn't there to hang out. And O'Cyrus had given me explicit orders to avoid the bowling alley at all costs. "It's the worst possible place to keep an eye out for suspicious characters," he had told me that afternoon. "It's way down in the basement, and you won't see another soul down there. Plus, the pinsetter never works properly."
Then again, O'Cyrus didn't want me getting stuck in Jason's room watching him play video games all afternoon either. So he'd suggested something that would put me in the midst of everything. "Would it be possible to get a tour of the Big Office?" I said.
"A tour?" Jason looked disgusted, as though I'd suggested we spend the whole afternoon bashing ourselves in the heads with rocks.
"Yes." I looked to Oranda. "You told me so many fascinating things yesterday. I'd love to hear more."
Oranda broke into a huge smile, flattered by my praise—and thrilled to go back into tour-guide mode. "Why that sounds like a great idea!" she announced. "Is there anything, in particular, you're interested in?"
"Oh, I'm interested in everything," I replied. "The history. The architecture. The décor. No detail is too small."
"You've come to the right place!" Oranda exclaimed. "I know a million small details about the Big Office! For example, did you know that the building was first painted white in 1798? They used a lime-based whitewash to keep the stone from freezing."
Jason groaned. It seemed he was beginning to think that maybe digging latrines in Haiti over winter break would be preferable to a minutely detailed tour from Oranda.
We passed out of the BOB and across the blustery outdoor corridor toward the Big Office. I cased the area while pretending to sound interested in Oranda's recitation of each Big O's favorite type of tree.
Once again, the photographers and press were camped under their canopy. Sadly, I didn't have Orica's photographic memory, but it seemed to me that there were many familiar faces from the day before. Erica's explanation of the Bombay Boomerang came back to me. I wondered how many times each of those people had passed through Big Office security. Hundreds? Thousands? Did the platoon of Security agents around the property even bother to consider that one of those people might be a threat? If THE ORGANIZATION had turned any one of those reporters, they could probably access the grounds with little inspection. Or perhaps none whatsoever. After all, I was only on my second day here and I'd waltzed through security pretty easily. Someone who was there day after day after day might get waved right in. . . .
Something about this line of reasoning worried me, as though I'd hit on something important but hadn't quite grasped it. I glanced around the Big Office grounds, wondering what it was that had set me on edge.
At which point, Jason tripped me. He lashed out his foot for no good reason and sent me sprawling into a hedge.
"Jason!" Oranda yelled.
"What?" Jason asked innocently. "It was an accident!"
I staggered back to my feet and glanced at all the photographers. Most of their cameras were now aimed my way. They had recorded my fall, probably because they had little else to do. Looking at all the enormous lenses, I had an unsettling thought: A weapon could probably have easily been smuggled in with all that equipment on any given day.
"I'm so sorry for that," Oranda said, coming to my side. "Although, if you're curious, the seventh Big O planted that hedge you just fell into."
We continued on toward the Big Office. I locked eyes with Jason. He gave me a hateful glare that indicated I probably had many more stumbles to look forward to. I decided to not get anywhere near a staircase with him, then ran back over what I'd been thinking about before he'd tripped me, trying to pinpoint what it was that had worried me so much.
Two more security agents nodded obsequiously to Jason as we neared the Big Office, then held open the doors as we entered.
If anything, it was even more of a madhouse than it had been the day before. Staffers and aides were racing about, shuffling papers and calling people on cell phones. Each of them had an ID on a lanyard around their neck, each had probably come and gone from the Big Officee a hundred times or more, and each had probably stopped being scrutinized by the security force long ago. Any one of them would have been a perfect sleeper agent for THE ORGANIZATION, determined to kill the Little O—and me, should I get in their way.
"Did you know that every year Big Office staffers eat more than ten thousand bags of pretzels?" Oranda asked me.
"Big whoop," mumbled Jason.
I stopped in my tracks, suddenly struck by a terrifying thought.
"The staffers also use more than six million Post-it notes every year," Oranda announced cheerfully.
A second later, not far ahead of us, the door to the Little O's office opened. Everyone immediately fell silent. Every security agent snapped to attention as the Little O herself entered the warren of cubicles, accompanied by an entourage of aides. Orkney, the tough security agent who'd driven our car, was posted right behind her, like a shadow. The moment the Little O noticed Jason, she broke into a warm smile. "Jason!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing you down here?" If there was still any tension between her and Jason, she did an impressive job of hiding it.
On the other hand, Jason put his anger on display for everyone to see. "You know exactly what I'm doing here," he said acidly. "I'm having that stupid playdate you insisted on."
The Little O's smile flickered, then returned to its usual full strength. Rather than acknowledge Jason's comment at all, the Little O turned my way and greeted me graciously, pretending like we'd never met. "You must be AJ. I've heard so much about you. It's nice to meet you." She extended a hand to me.
I shook it, doing my best to act as though this was one of the most amazing things that had ever happened to me. Normally, it would have been—even if I hadn't spent private time with the Little O the day before—but now my mind was awhirl with terrifying ideas.
My security had been lax. I'd been hurried through the magnetometer, and the canine agents had allowed me through even though the dogs had gone nuts when they smelled my jacket. . . .
But I hadn't been lying when I said I'd washed my jacket. I had washed it, trying to remove whatever scent the dogs had picked up. And yet they'd still smelled something.
The entire room remained focused on us. Because when the Little O was around, people stopped to watch her. Even people who saw her every day. They were all looking at me expectantly, except for Jason, who was staring at his shoes, making a point of letting his cousin know how angry he was. I tried to say something appropriately deferential, like "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Little O," but I wasn't really sure what I said, because I was putting everything together and, at the same time, hoping it couldn't possibly be true.
THE ORGANIZATION never did what anyone expected. THE ORGANIZATION was always several steps ahead of us.
So maybe THE ORGANIZATION didn't just know that I'd been activated; maybe THE ORGANIZATION had wanted me activated all along.
I had the mortifying feeling that I was the Bombay Boomerang.
The Little O said something else to me that must have been funny, because everyone around us laughed, but I had no idea what it was.
My winter jacket was thick and heavy. If anyone had stuffed a small explosive inside, I probably wouldn't have noticed. And now here I was, right next to the Little O, easily close enough for a good-size blast to wipe her out.
Which would also wipe me out as well.
As I considered this, something clicked inside my jacket. Something very small. I barely felt it. If my senses hadn't been heightened, I would never have noticed it—and it was completely possible that I was so keyed up that I was merely imagining things—but I knew that if there was ever a time to trust my instincts, this was it, because if I didn't, then I wouldn't have much more time left, period. So even though almost every person was already looking my way, I had no choice but to behave like a total maniac.
I suddenly bolted past the Little O, shrugging off my jacket as fast as I could.
In any other building, I would have headed for a window, hoping to open it and toss the jacket outside. But I knew the windows inside the Big Office were made of near-indestructible glass and probably didn't even open for security reasons. Meanwhile, there were too many people between me and the door I'd entered through to return that way, so the only real option—the only place that appeared devoid of people—was the room that the Little O herself had just exited.
Her office.
There were security agents posted between me and the office, but they seemed perplexed by my sudden run, rather than concerned by it. After all, their job was to keep people from running toward the Little O and I was running away from her. So they, and pretty much everyone else, seemed to think I was sprinting toward the office because I desperately wanted to see it.
In their defense, this probably made much more sense than the idea that I was running there to dispose of a bomb that had been slipped into my jacket because I'd been used as a patsy by an international consortium of evildoers dedicated to causing chaos and mayhem.
So instead of tackling me or gadget-whipping me, they merely stepped into my path with their hands up, like school monitors. "Whoa there, pal," one said.
I didn't stop for them. I had my jacket mostly off by now—only my left wrist was still caught in the cuff—and I yelled, "Look out!" and plowed right through them.
"AJ!" Oranda yelled. "Come back! That room isn't on our tour!"
The security agents grasped at me as I slipped between them, then spun around after me.
My stupid watch was caught on the cuff of the jacket.
I arrived at the office itself, catching a glimpse of the famous desk.
It was smaller than I'd expected.
And yet it was still going to be a shame to blow it up.
At the moment, however, I was still far more concerned about blowing myself up along with it. My watch remained caught on the jacket. I yanked as hard as I could, ripping the jacket off my left arm, then flung it into the office, it landed right next to the juice bar. Then I slammed the door shut just as the security force grabbed me.
"Everyone get down!" I yelled, pulling free from them and diving behind a desk.
No one else took cover.
My jacket didn't explode, either.
Instead, there was an awkward, excruciating silence. Everyone, including the Little O, stared at me like I was a moron.
I had never been so embarrassed in my entire life.
Jason seemed even more mortified than I was, given that I was supposed to be his friend. "AJ has mental problems," he told everyone. "I've only invited him here as an act of charity. You know, to help the deranged."
At which point, the office exploded.
There was a deafening blast, and the walls trembled as though an earthquake had hit. The office door tore off its hinges and flew across the room, nailing both the security agents near me hard enough to knock them on their butts. A ball of fire rolled through the gap where the door had been.
Now everyone dove for cover. Four security agents tackled the Little O, knocking her to the floor.
The fireball sailed over their heads, scorching the furniture, setting memos on fire, and singeing our hair.
The sprinkler system came on, dousing everyone with water and shorting out all the computers. Several exploded in sprays of electrical sparks.
I glanced toward the Little O. Her face was blackened from smoke and one of her eyebrows appeared to have been charbroiled, but other than that, she was alive and well.
So was everyone else in the building.
Her Office wasn't doing as well, though.
The windows had blown out, the furniture was decimated, and despite the gushing sprinklers, a fire was blazing in the middle of the room.
People scattered every which way. Some were running for their lives, fleeing the burning building. Others were rushing toward the fire, hoping to help put it out.
Jason lay on the floor close to me, no longer anywhere near as cocky as he had been before the explosion. Instead, he was crying like a baby.
I got to my feet, but I'd barely been up for a second before a team of security agents flattened me. They shoved me right back down into the soaked floor and aimed a dozen gadgets at me at once.
"Stay right there," one of them warned. "You're under arrest."
A/N: How's that for a cliffhanger? Going to Washington DC tomorrow so there won't be any updates next week. Toodles! :)