Mabel Opal Pear and the Rules for Spying Read online

  For my mother,

  whose love of books shaped my life.

  I miss you every day, Mom.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Preamble to Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Preamble to Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  Life as an undercover agent can be stressful, lonely, and dangerous. These rules were written by an agent-in-training to help guide you when you feel out of sorts. They’re not meant to replace your Academy training. Use Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent to remind yourself how to act in difficult situations. Like Rule Number 15 says, “Be in control.”

  All the rules are important — some more so than others, depending on the situation. The most important rule of all is Rule Number 3: Trust your instincts. Unless your instincts are often wrong. If that’s the case, Number 29 is a good rule to keep in mind: Anticipate surprises.

  Also remember that Murphy is always correct and you’ll be fine (Rule Number 17). Rule Number 12 will get you out of sticky situations: Always have an escape plan.

  Your country thanks you for your service. While your name will never be known, your actions reflect upon all of us secret agents, for better or worse. Sometimes, you might feel a bit dreary, toiling away in anonymity. On the bright side, no one will ever know if you make a mistake. Unless you start a war. Don’t start a war, unless explicitly directed to by your commanding officer. Then double-check to make sure he/she is not being controlled by the enemy (Rule Number 4).

  Trust no one and have a great day!

  Compiled and written by Agent-in-Training

  Sunflower, age ten.

  1

  Live in a quiet and remote small town where everyone thinks they already know the real you. Don’t give them a reason to change their minds.

  — Rule Number 1 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  The first hit on my window was tentative, like maple leaves tapping against the glass during a gentle rain. The second thud was harder. The third sounded like someone had thrown a rock wrapped in a sock — soft but with force. Since it didn’t seem like the barrage was stopping anytime soon — thunk — and might actually crack the glass, I dropped my book, The Fulton Sisters’ Adventure, Number 87, and got up from my bed. Samantha and April Fulton would just have to stay stuck swirling around their mysterious wormhole until I got back to them.

  I pushed the window open and a pinecone whizzed by me. “Who’s there?” I called as I looked through the branches of the old wild apple tree. The gold and red leaves blocked part of the view of my backyard, but movement on the left caught my attention.

  “Mabel, what are you doing?” Stanley Brick stepped out from between two huge Douglas firs and dropped a pinecone.

  “What are you doing?” I said before I remembered exactly why he was using my window for target practice. Recently Stanley had gotten tired of knocking on my front door, since no one ever answered it. It was hard to hear the knocking from my room, and my parents weren’t home often, so I’d suggested we try something new. “The signal! You’re doing the signal.”

  He nodded.

  “And I’m supposed to give the counter-signal.”

  “That was our plan.” Stanley picked up a different pinecone and tossed it from hand to hand, as if testing it to see if it was ready to launch.

  “Sorry. I was reading Adventure Number Eighty-Seven,” I said.

  “Have you gotten to the part where Samantha and April meet the waitress who is secretly a ninja who rescues lost children?”

  “No.” I covered my ears. “Don’t say another word.” Stanley nodded again, this time in understanding. A clean-enough hoodie was on top of a clothing pile, so I put it on. “OK. Ready now!” I called out before closing the window.

  Stanley threw the next pinecone. Thunk.

  I flipped the lights on and off twice — my counter- signal — and headed downstairs. Six giant cinnamon buns sat on the kitchen counter. I sighed and thought, Pity buns for breakfast. Again.

  I know — most people would be happy to find homemade goodies in their kitchen on a Saturday morning. And I was — sort of. Aunt Gertie made the cinnamon buns because she knew they were my absolute favorite treat. But it was the third time she’d baked them this week, and the fact that she’d made them again meant that my parents were still away, saving the world on one of their top secret missions. Good for the world, lonely for me. There’s a limit to the amount of self-pity that can be wiped away by sugar and cinnamon. I hadn’t reached it yet, but if my parents didn’t come home soon, I might.

  I was lucky to have Aunt Gertie stay with me. That was our family’s protocol whenever my parents were away (protocol: rules for how to get things done in certain situations). Aunt Gertie had left hours ago to open the Star’s Tale, her café and knickknack shop, where she served coffee and pastries to the hordes of day-trippers and hardcore backpackers making their way to Mount Rainier for one last fall hike.

  I ran through the kitchen, sliding across the wooden floor, and opened the back door to let Stanley in. He was in full hiking gear even though we were only going to our favorite tree grove, about a forty-five minute walk from here. Though he’d never been a Boy Scout, Stanley was always prepared. The pockets of his forest-green vest bulged with maps, a compass, and a tube of sunscreen. In his backpack, he kept a variety of items like sunglasses, snacks, water, extra clothes, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, matches, and a pocketknife. Before I could join him outside on the porch, the rich aroma of cinnamon and sugar had lured him inside.

  “Are your parents awake?” Stanley whispered as he made a beeline for the buns. I’m pretty sure I heard his stomach growl.

  Dodging Stanley’s question, I shrugged, grabbed a bun, and started eating. Though it was a pity bun, it was warm, gooey, and made with love, and that made my belly happy. I zoned out, thinking about what my parents might be up to at this very moment.

  The truth was, I had no idea whether my parents were awake, or even what time zone they were in. My parents worked as top secret agents, a special type of spy known as “Cleaners.” They would go into really bad situations around
the world to clean up messes made by other spies. One time my parents had to erase video footage of the original spies sneaking into a forbidden area and walking out with documents clearly marked “Top Secret.” Sure, the actual Cleaners’ work only took twenty minutes or so — my mom was a whiz at hacking video surveillance systems — but my parents had to physically remove the hard drive containing the back-up video. According to Dad, he was in and out in fewer than seven minutes. The real time-eater was the flight to the other side of the Earth: sixteen hours and five minutes — each way. My parents never gave me too many specifics, but spy work of any kind sounded dangerous and fun, and more exciting than their cover stories.

  On the surface, my parents sounded boring. Even their names were snore-inducing: Fred and Jane Pear. My father maintained old telephone lines that run through Mount Rainier National Park and Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. He also repaired cell phone towers. Sometimes Mom went to keep him company. At least there was one exciting thing about his cover job: He got to pilot small planes. Mom could pilot too — just not for her cover job. My mother was the curator for our family’s private museum, Le Petit Musée of Antique Silver Spoons. She spent her days looking at old stuff — mostly spoons — and filling out paperwork. Lots of paperwork.

  Why a spoon museum? It’d been in our family for generations. My great-great-grandfather used to travel a lot. He would bring my great-great-grandmother a commemorative silver spoon from wherever he was. When the kitchen drawers were stuffed with more than a thousand spoons, my great-great-grandma bought the house next door, put the spoons on display, and charged admission. She called it Le Petit Musée because she thought it sounded sophisticated. She didn’t know the French words for “old silver spoon.”

  “Is it OK if I have another bun?” Stanley asked, breaking into my thoughts. I nodded as I continued to uncoil mine, its sugar and cinnamon melting on my tongue with each bite.

  The spoon obsession was odd, I’d admit, but it was a harmless enough hobby. My great-grandparents collected spoons until they died. Then my grandparents added to the collection. When Mom and I did inventory last summer, we counted more than two thousand spoons on display. Some of the spoons were rare, some had gemstones or gold handles, and all had to be dusted and polished on a regular basis. And when Mom and Dad were out saving the world, who do you think had to clean all of those spoons? I only got a measly five dollars for the job, even if it took all afternoon.

  At least when I help Aunt Gertie, she pays me in pastries and cash, I thought as I savored my last bite. I decided against another bun and washed my hands.

  When Stanley finished, he took two cups from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator, looked inside, and said, “You’re out of milk.” He continued to poke around the fridge, behind the yogurts and take-out containers from Mai’s Diner. If we hadn’t been best friends since practically birth, I wouldn’t have noticed his grunt of irritation. He was used to my kitchen being fully stocked at all times. We had an unspoken agreement. He never mentioned my parents’ bizarre schedules, and I never mentioned that he’d practically lived at my house ever since his dad had left and his mom had to start working two jobs.

  Stanley closed the fridge door and, with his pointer finger, tapped the photo he had given to my parents of the red-winged blackbird. The bird was perched on a nest of woven reeds and cattails, his scarlet and yellow shoulder patch standing out against his sleek black feathers. Stanley had shot the photo on a camping trip we’d taken in late spring. He smiled every time he saw it on the fridge door, which was practically every day.

  I couldn’t very well tell him that my parents had been gone almost ten days, much longer than anticipated. While Aunt Gertie was a marvelous baker, she totally flaked out on normal grocery shopping.

  “We can get milk from the café,” I said as Stanley put the cups away.

  We went out my front door, past the spoon museum, and walked into Aunt Gertie’s shop. The three buildings — my house, the museum, and the café — took up an entire block on Main Street, which was only four blocks long. The only other buildings of note were the old jail, which now doubled as a tourist info station, and Mai’s Diner.

  The Star’s Tale was packed. Stanley and I elbowed our way to the front of the line, flashing innocent smiles and exchanging nods of greeting with the regulars. Like usual, the café was a mess. Scented candles propped up guidebooks on shelves with jewelry strewn about. Packets of dried fruit and nuts sat between wool socks. In the middle of it all, the café served coffee, hot chocolate, sandwiches, and pastries. Luckily, Aunt Gertie could find anything within ten seconds, so the wacky, mixed-up system worked for her.

  One reason for the traffic jam was obvious. At the table by the display of earrings, an older man lingering over coffee took up a four-seater. Dressed like an REI mannequin in a new green and blue plaid flannel shirt, new water-resistant pants, and new hiking boots, he was studying a topographic map of Mount Rainier. The tread on the man’s boots was not worn at all, so I could understand his caution before setting out for a hike. New boots meant possible blisters. Noticing details like that was part of spy training, so I tried to do it all I could. I wanted to tell the man to pick up a map of easy day hikes from the ranger’s station. But when I caught his eye — cold and watchful — the words stuck in my throat. Something told me he wasn’t looking for advice. I tried stepping back, but the crowd held me in place.

  A thought popped into my mind. It was the end of October, probably the last hike before many of the trails closed for the winter. Sure, someone might have a new vest, or even new boots. But an entirely new outfit? Early summer was typically when novice hikers would try their luck on the mountain.

  Dad always said that a good secret agent was constantly on the lookout for the odd sock — something or someone that was seemingly meaningless, but out of place. This man was an odd sock.

  Aunt Gertie’s long purple skirt twirled as she flitted from table to table, coffee pot in hand. When she saw Stanley and me, she didn’t miss a beat. She waltzed behind the counter, poured milk into to-go cups, waltzed back, handed the cups to us, and sneaked a kiss on my head. “You kids aren’t planning on hiking all the way to Tim Chamberlain’s warehouse, are you?” Aunt Gertie asked as she took in Stanley’s outfit. “There’s not enough time this morning.”

  “No, ma’am. That part of the path is gated off after Labor Day.” Stanley pulled out a paper map to show her our route, about halfway on a popular path to the abandoned warehouse. As they spoke, the odd sock leaned in ever so slightly, as if trying to eavesdrop.

  As Stanley folded up the map, Aunt Gertie bent down to plant another kiss on my head. She didn’t tell me I was going to have to work at Le Petit Musée at noon to maintain my parents’ cover story. She didn’t need to. It was protocol. She would unlock the museum, I would hang out in the Spoon, and if anyone asked, I’d say my mom had stepped out.

  “Did you have the chance to make that call?” the odd sock asked my aunt.

  Aunt Gertie raised her eyebrows and motioned around the bustling café. “Not yet.”

  “What call?” I asked. Maybe my spy sense had picked up on something.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Aunt Gertie gave me a kind smile and said, “OK, Moppet. Be home before eleven-thirty.”

  “Moppet?” Mr. Odd Sock repeated in disbelief. “You’re Moppet?”

  “It’s a nickname,” I said, caught off guard. “Moppet” was cute when I was six years old. It’s humiliating in the fifth grade. I didn’t appreciate being mocked by a total stranger — especially an overdressed, eavesdropping odd sock.

  “Who’s that guy?” I whispered to Aunt Gertie.

  “No one to worry about. He’s just someone who really enjoys my coffee. Fourth cup.” Aunt Gertie swooped in for another kiss. “Go on now, Moppet. Don’t waste your morning here.” She offered the man a refill.

  “Come on, Mabel
.” Stanley pulled on my sleeve.

  Something didn’t seem right. Twice my aunt told me to not worry, but I knew from experience that adults only said that when there was, in fact, something to worry about. I hesitated. “Do you want me to help this morning?”

  Aunt Gertie pointed to the door and said, “Go on your hike.”

  Once my aunt moved to another table, the man stared at me, holding eye contact. I felt as if I had done something wrong. Stanley yanked harder on my sleeve, but I could barely move through the thick crowd. Mr. Odd Sock smirked as if he had won some type of game. “You heard your aunt, Moppet,” he said in a low voice. I strained to hear him over the noise of the café. “Get a move on now.” Someone stepped in front of me, breaking our eye contact.

  I ducked under a flannel-clad elbow and grabbed on to Stanley’s backpack as he guided me through the hungry horde. Once outside, I chanced looking into the café. The odd sock’s smirk had morphed into a full-on grin, like he had just won some contest.

  In other words, I had just lost a game I didn’t even know I was playing.

  2

  Successful spying consists of 50 percent preparation, 30 percent inspiration, 20 percent perspiration, and 10 percent action, which adds up to 110 percent because a great spy gives it her all and then some.

  — Rule Number 35 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  “Stanley, have you ever seen the guy in the plaid shirt before?” I asked.

  “Half the people in there are wearing plaid.” Stanley drained his cup.

  “Never mind.” I finished my milk too. “Let’s just go.”

  We’d walked for about five minutes, just past the outskirts of town, when Stanley stopped, pointed to a spot about halfway up a Douglas fir, and quietly took out his camera. He started snapping photos. A small bird with yellow and black feathers flew by. Stanley’s face lit up. “That’s a yellow-rumped warbler! Or maybe a Townsend’s warbler.” He checked the pictures on his screen. “Definitely not an orange-crowned warbler. Their body feathers are completely yellow.”