About the Author
James Ponti is the New York Times bestselling author of four middle grade book series: The Sherlock Society following a group of young detectives; City Spies, about an unlikely squad of five kids from around the world who form an elite MI6 Spy Team; the Edgar Award–winning Framed! series, about a pair of tweens who solve mysteries in Washington, DC; and the Dead City trilogy, about a secret society that polices the undead living beneath Manhattan. His books have appeared on more than fifteen different state award lists, and he is the founder of a writers group known as the Renegades of Middle Grade. James is also an Emmy–nominated television writer and producer who has worked for many networks including Nickelodeon, Disney Channel, PBS, History, and Spike TV, as well as NBC Sports. He lives with his family in Orlando, Florida. Find out more at JamesPonti.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Billionaires’ Row 1. Billionaires’ Row
IT WAS DARK, AND AS Paris looked out at the traffic, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window. There was nothing remarkable about his face. No feature or quirk someone would notice or remember. He’d been born in Rwanda, grew up in Paris, lived in Scotland, and was now in London. And in each of those locations, he’d learned to blend in and disappear. This was an important quality because Paris wasn’t just a schoolboy. He was also a spy. Blending in was essential.
Unlike spies in movies, whose modes of transportation ranged from jet packs and mini-submarines to bulletproof Aston Martins tricked out with rocket launchers, he was headed to his latest mission on a city bus. The number seventy to South Kensington to be precise. That was the problem with being undercover and underage—you always needed somebody else to give you a ride.
“This is pathetic,” he said, turning to Kat, who was sitting next to him. “Absolutely pathetic.”
“What is?” she asked.
He looked around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned in to whisper, “We’re about to break into one of the most expensive homes in London to steal a priceless work of art, and our getaway car is a bright red double-decker bus that does a max speed of five miles an hour.”
Kat laughed, which only frustrated him.
“First of all, we’re not stealing it, we’re returning it,” she answered in an equally hushed tone. “Or have you forgotten about the little treasure that’s been sewn into the lining of your jacket? Second, once you’ve put it back, why would anyone bother to chase us? Logic dictates that our getaway vehicle is irrelevant.”
He nodded reluctantly and admitted, “Okay… you may have a point there.”
“Of course I do,” she replied. “Your problem is that you think being a spy is like being in an action movie.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s like eating in the lunch hall at school.”
“How do you figure that?” Paris asked.
“You pretend you belong and hope nobody notices you while you figure things out,” she said. “Not to mention there’s a decent chance the food’s been poisoned.”
He chuckled and saw that they were nearing their stop at Notting Hill Gate. “Finally, this is us.”
He stood up to leave, but she stayed put, blocking his way.
“I’m not moving until you say it,” she said firmly.
Paris was the alpha, which meant he was in charge now that they were in the field. It also meant he was the one who was supposed to say the phrase that officially started the mission. It was as much a good-luck ritual as it was an operational command.
“Here?” he replied. “On the bus?”
“Don’t knock the bus,” she said. “James Bond was named after one just like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Ian Fleming was writing the first Bond book, he lived out in Kent and had to ride the bus back and forth to London,” she explained.
“And?” he replied, not getting the connection.
“The bus from Kent to Victoria was number double oh seven.”
“You’re joking,” he said.
“No. That’s where he got the name. And if the bus is good enough for Ian and James, it’s good enough for you and me.”
“Well, if you put it that way.” He flashed a sly smile and said, “This operation is hot. We are a go.”
Paris and Kat were part of the City Spies, an experimental team of five undercover agents, aged twelve to fifteen, who MI6 used when they had a mission in which adult agents would stand out. In this instance, they were about to crash the sweet sixteen party of a London socialite named Tabitha Banks.
The British Secret Intelligence Service wasn’t really interested in the birthday girl, but they were fascinated by her father. Reginald Banks was a multibillionaire whose business dealings sometimes involved nefarious underworld characters and shadowy figures from foreign intelligence agencies. MI6 desperately needed to get an agent into his home, and this party offered a rare opportunity to access the highly secure mansion located on Kensington Palace Gardens, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the world.
“Testing comms, one, two, three,” Paris said as they walked away from the bus stop. “Can you hear me?”
He was using a covert communication device that looked like an everyday earbud to speak with team members monitoring the situation from a nearby safe house.
“Roger that, we hear you loud and clear,” replied Mother, the MI6 agent in charge of the team.
“How about me?” asked Kat, testing her comms device.
“Perfect,” Mother replied. “We are ready to rock and roll. We’ve got Brooklyn on the computer, and Sydney is…” There was a pause as Mother turned to Sydney. “What exactly are you doing?”
She gave him a look as if the answer were obvious. “I’m standing by just in case,” she replied.
“We have Sydney standing by… just in case,” Mother continued. “Although, technically, she’s pacing more than standing.”
“Relax, Syd,” Paris said confidently. “We’ve got this.”
“She’s not pacing because she’s worried about the mission,” Brooklyn pointed out. “She’s pacing because she’s jealous that she’s not the one doing it.”
This brought a round of laughs, and Sydney didn’t even bother to disagree. She always wanted to be the alpha and hated it when she missed out on the action.
“Just remember that I’m here if you need me,” she offered. “Ready and willing.”
“Good to know,” said Paris.
“We’ve almost reached the guard gate at the end of the street,” Kat said. “Any last words of wisdom?”
“Yes,” answered Mother, who cleared his throat and paused dramatically before saying, “This mission is fraught, so don’t get caught.”
He liked to use rhyming couplets, nicknamed Motherisms, to remind the team of important elements of spycraft. This one left Kat and Paris completely uninspired.
“Seriously?” Kat replied.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” asked Paris.
“Well, I could’ve pointed out that if you get caught, it will not only involve the Metropolitan Police, but quite likely the prime minister, the head of MI6, the foreign secretary, the French ambassador, and the president of Nepal,” said Mother. “But I didn’t want to overwhelm you, and it’s exceedingly difficult to make all that rhyme.”
“Fair points all,” said Paris.
“Oh, there is one more thing, Paris,” interjected Brooklyn.
“What’s that?” he replied.
“Try to remember that your microphone is very sensitive,” she said.
“Okay, but why am I remembering that?”
“Because it will blow out our headsets if you squeal too loudly when KB5 take the stage,” she said, eliciting more laughter.
“You are so very funny,” Paris replied. “Trust me, if I scream, it will be because I’m in musical agony. Although, calling what they do music is an offense to everyone from Beethoven to the Beatles.”
KB5 was a British boy band whose heartthrob members had their pictures plastered on bedroom walls around the globe. Despite Paris’s opinion of their musical ability, they regularly performed in sold-out arenas bursting with screaming fans. Tonight, however, they were playing a private concert for Tabitha’s birthday. This was an advantage of having Reginald Banks for a father. Not only was he one of the richest people in the United Kingdom, but he also created KB5 and owned the record label that produced their albums.
“I like their music,” Sydney offered. “It’s not too late if you want to swap roles.”
“I would gladly do so,” said Paris, “if only Australia had built their embassy on Kensington Palace Gardens.”
Nicknamed Billionaires’ Row, Kensington Palace Gardens was home to business tycoons, royal family members, foreign embassies, and the residences of several ambassadors. It was a half-mile long and protected at both ends by guard gates with armed police officers. For any outsiders who still didn’t get the hint, there were even signs that read NO PHOTOGRAPHY.
Sir Reg, as he was known in the tabloids, couldn’t just hold a concert in his backyard without the approval of his very powerful and extremely private neighbors. So, he’d come up with a brilliant solution and opened up the celebration to all the young people who lived on the street. Since no parent wanted to face the wrath of a furious teen or tween who’d missed out on the party of the decade, permission was granted.
Invitations were also extended to the children of embassy workers, which is when MI6 saw an opportunity. As good fortune would have it, Kensington Palace Gardens was home to the ambassador of France and the embassy of Nepal, Paris and Kat’s home countries. Some favors were called in and their names were added to the guest list.
For Paris, this meant swapping identities yet again, something he’d done countless times during his five years with MI6. As he approached the guardhouse, he flipped a mental switch and became someone else, like an actor stepping onto the stage in a West End play. Until the curtain fell on this little drama, he’d be Antoine Tremblay, the fifteen-year-old son of the second secretary for cultural affairs.
“Which embassy?” asked a guard.
“France,” replied Paris.
The guard motioned him to a row of tables marked with flags representing the different countries. Here, the young guests were screened to make sure no overzealous KB5 fans were able to sneak into the party. Paris went to the table with the French tricolor and smiled at the man dressed in a sharp black suit.
“Invitation and identification,” said the man.
Paris handed him two flawless forgeries: an official-looking invitation to the party, complete with a security hologram, and a French diplomatic ID for Antoine Tremblay.
“Bonsoir, Antoine,” the man said, slipping into French to test him. “Ça va?”
“Oui, ça va bien,” Paris replied naturally.
The guard checked his name off a list on a clipboard.
“Comment vous aimez KB Cinq?” asked the guard to see if he was excited about seeing KB5.
One of the keys to being undercover was not lying when it wasn’t necessary. The more honest you were about specific things, the more believable you were overall. So rather than pretending to be excited about a boy band he detested, Paris answered truthfully. “Disons, j’aime beaucoup mieux le gâteau d’anniversaire.” Let’s just say I’m more excited about the birthday cake.
The man laughed and handed him a red wristband. “Put this on now and don’t take it off until you leave for the night.”
“Merci beaucoup,” replied Paris.
At a nearby table, Kat answered similar questions in a mix of Nepali and English.
Unlike the other kids who eagerly hurried toward the party, Paris and Kat took their time as they walked down the street. They’d been trained to study the landscape surrounding any mission and make mental notes of key details like the locations of security cameras and the fact that one of the streetlights was out. They looked for escape routes and potential hiding places. They also marveled at the mansions.
“Wow!” Paris said when they reached the one belonging to Sir Reg. “It looks even bigger than I imagined. The pictures don’t do it justice.”
“No kidding,” said Kat. “You’re going to need GPS just to find your way around in there.”
The two of them had studied everything they could about the house, including photographs, blueprints, and video from a BBC show about London’s finest estates. The building was three stories tall and a showcase of Italian Renaissance architecture with thirty-eight rooms, including an indoor swimming pool, home cinema, and gymnasium.
It was also home to museum-quality art. There was a large Picasso that hung in the entryway, a pair of Van Gogh sketches in the living room, a Rodin statue in the garden, and an ornate Fabergé egg, known as the “Pearl of Russia,” that sat on the mantel above the fireplace in Sir Reg’s private office.
Or at least that’s what he thought.
In reality, it was a high-quality fake that contained a tiny hidden microphone British Intelligence had used to eavesdrop on his business meetings for nearly three years. The actual Fabergé egg—worth nearly five million pounds—was currently nestled inside a secret pocket sewn into Paris’s jacket.
The Pearl of Russia was one of fifty jeweled eggs handcrafted over a period of three decades for Tsars Alexander III and Nicholas II. Each year they’d given them as Easter presents to their wives and mothers. Paris’s assignment was to sneak the real egg back into the office and replace it before the fake was exposed. This was necessary because Sir Reg had recently announced that he was loaning it to a museum in Moscow, where it would no doubt be examined by experts who would uncover the microphone. MI6 couldn’t let that happen.
“We’ve arrived,” Paris announced to the others in the safe house.
“How are the access points?” asked Mother.
“The walkway gate is manned by staff directing everyone to go around the house to the party in back,” answered Paris. “But the gate for the driveway is wide open. The tour bus and equipment trucks for KB5 have blocked it so it can’t shut.”
“What about the house?” asked Mother.
“Two guards at each door,” said Kat. “Judging by the holster bulges underneath their jackets, I’d say they’re all armed.”
“If there was only one per door, you might be able to pull off a diversion and distract the guard long enough to slip in,” said Mother. “But with two, the main floor is a no-go. That means you’ll need to enter the house through the alternate route.”
Paris and Kat both turned their attention to the roof.
“Looks like someone’s going to be playing Santa Claus,” said Kat.
Paris gave her a raised eyebrow and replied, “Ho, ho, ho.”
