Ends of the Earth (4 page)

A blast of November chill gusted through the window as it finally opened. Leaning out, Cinnabar spotted an escape route, along the narrow ledge to the nearest pillar, then down its jutting stone
doodads to the ground.

Wyatt joined her at the casement and whistled. “We're lucky.”

“How do you figure that?” she said.

“Lucky thing we didn't sleep any later. Lucky thing we didn't pick one of those all-glass office buildings to sleep in. Lucky thing we're only on the second
floor.”

Cinnabar smirked. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Brekkie Boy.”

A short climb and a long walk later, they entered a grimy neighborhood of row houses and shabby little shops. For several blocks now, Cinnabar had had the feeling that they
were being followed, but each time she spun around, she spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Paranoia and spies, she thought, shaking her head. Must be an occupational hazard.

She and Wyatt rounded a corner, and the smell of mold, cooked cabbage, and industrial-strength coffee wafted along the street to greet them. The latter aroma came from the building standing
before them.

It was an all-night coffee shop, its pink and green neon lights extinguished for the day, and its ancient Egyptian–themed storefront mural faded and peeling in the morning light. The neon
tubes above the red door spelled out
THE EYE
, and in smaller script,
ALWAYS OPEN
.

Cinnabar's mouth went dry. They were taking a calculated risk by coming here. The café was a hangout for spies of all persuasions, and while she and Wyatt might find the information
they sought, they might also attract the attention of someone from LOTUS.

She smoothed back her wiry hair and straightened her shoulders. It was a risk they had to take.

“I dunno,” said Wyatt, oblivious. “Looks like a regular coffee shop to me. Common as fleas on a dingo.”

Cinnabar lifted an eyebrow. “How long have you been at the School for S.P.I.E.S.?”

“Two years now.”

“And you still don't know not to judge based on appearances?”

Wyatt grinned. “Sure I do. For instance, I notice that although you may look smart, you're actually—”

She swatted his arm. “Yuck it up on your own time. These people are serious.”

Wyatt seemed abashed, but she knew he wasn't really. Honestly, he and Max were so keen on their little jokes, sometimes you could scarcely have a straight conversation with them.

Gritting her teeth, Cinnabar pushed open the heavy door. She tried to act casual, but visiting The Eye was her last hope for getting a lead on Max's whereabouts. All her other ideas had
struck out. If the information broker didn't come through, she wasn't sure what she'd do—except maybe regret that she'd gone after Max instead of rejoining her sister,
Jazz.

Instantly, she chided herself. For once, Max needed her more than Jazz did.

They stepped inside. The smell of toast, eggs, and triple-strength espresso was so robust, it was almost a physical thing. It enfolded them with breakfast-y goodness as they stepped through the
doorway. But their welcome from the enormous caramel-skinned man wasn't nearly as warm.

“No firearms,” he said in a bored growl. His massive body was the size of a small planet, dwarfing the tiny hostess stand and nearly filling the cramped entryway. His small teeth
were the yellow of stale cheese.

“We don't have any weapons,” said Cinnabar. She held her arms away from her sides for the man's rough pat-down.

Wyatt sent her a sidelong look. “A coffee shop with a bouncer?”

The huge man snorted. “This ain't your granny's coffee shop, grasshopper. Now raise your arms.”

Cinnabar said, “We want to talk with Tully.”

Cheese Teeth finished frisking them and grunted, “Tully's busy.”

“But we—” Cinnabar began.

He hooked a thumb toward the door behind his right shoulder. “Take a seat.”

Cinnabar's gaze darted past his other shoulder to the plush burgundy curtain that concealed Tully's office. But nothing short of a squad of marines with flamethrowers and tanks could
get past Cheese Teeth—and even then, it would be a close thing. She pursed her lips and edged around him into the coffee shop, with Wyatt trailing behind.

The space was narrow but deep, with a lofty ceiling, colorful wall hangings, and a curved mahogany bar. At this hour, only a handful of the café tables hosted customers, mostly people who
seemed like they'd been up all night. Lazy bossa nova music drifted from hidden speakers, transforming the muted conversations into a garbled purr.

Taking a stool at the bar, Cinnabar fished a tiny green change purse from her overcoat pocket. She gnawed her lip. Only a handful of bills remained.

“Enough for a hot cocoa?” asked Wyatt hopefully.

“You know, you could chip in something too,” she said.

He spread his palms. “Hey, if I'd known we were gonna flee for our lives, I would've brought my wallet and a boxed lunch or three. But as it is…”

Cinnabar rolled her eyes and ordered them a couple of hot chocolates from the pretty Asian barista. She eyed the menu longingly, but who knew how long their small stash of money would have to
last?

Wyatt sneaked glances at the café's other patrons. “Reckon there's any famous spies here?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Cinnabar. “That's Mata Hari over in the corner, having tea with James Bond.” But she was only half paying attention.

Her thoughts had flown, as they always did, to her older sister, Jazz. It troubled her that for the past two days, nobody had answered the phone at Merry Sunshine Orphanage, where she'd
left her sister when they accepted this mission. Cinnabar wanted to catch a train back there and see what was happening, but once again, she rationalized her choice. Jazz had Mr. Stones, Madame
Chiffre, and others to take care of her. Max had nobody.

Her jaw tightened like a vise. Nobody besides that skanky bottle blonde, Vespa, who had probably betrayed the entire S.P.I.E.S. operation.

“You all right?” asked Wyatt.

“Never better,” she said. “Why?”

His eyebrows lifted. “No reason. Just that you snapped your cinnamon stick like it was somebody's neck.”

“If only,” she muttered, glancing up into the mirror over the bar.

At a table behind her left shoulder, a hatchet-faced Pakistani man suddenly dropped his gaze and busied himself with his cell phone. Cinnabar frowned. Had the man been watching them?

“Right, then,” rumbled a voice from the bottom of a barrel. “Tully will see you now.” Cheese Teeth loomed over them, one anaconda-thick arm pointing toward the door.

Cinnabar and Wyatt picked up their mugs and followed The Eye's bouncer back into the cramped entryway. He stood aside and jerked his head at the burgundy curtain. “In you
go.”

A squadron of butterflies fluttered in Cinnabar's stomach. Taking a calming breath, she brushed aside the velvet hanging and stepped into the lair of the information broker.

WYATT'S JAW DROPPED
. Had he somehow died and gone to heaven without the whole dying part? This was a tech geek's paradise. An entire wall
of monitors dominated the room, hooked up to an array of the latest and fastest computers. There were comfy chairs and a sofa, a range of video games, even a mini-fridge.

“Sweet sweetness,” he murmured. “When can I move in?”

Cinnabar's sharp elbow poked him in the ribs.

“What?” he said.

The generously curved woman on the sofa chuckled. “Cinnabar Jones, I don't believe I've met your friend.”

Wyatt ran a hand over his unruly blond curls. “Wyatt Jackaroo, madam. Love your lair. Absolutely sick.”

The woman offered a Mona Lisa smile. “Thanks. I think.”

Her walnut-hued cheeks looked creamy enough for a skin-care ad, and her wise amber eyes twinkled. “I am Roxana Tülay Ochsenfrei. You may call me Tully.”

She invited them to sit on the armchairs. Wyatt glanced hungrily at her half-eaten plate of sausages and fried eggs, which rested on the side table. It felt like ages ago that he'd snarfed
down that Kit Kat from the office.

“Now, what brings you back here?” Tully asked.

Cinnabar cleared her throat. “Our friend Max Segredo was captured by LOTUS after they attacked our safe house. We're trying to find him.”

Tully arched a dark eyebrow. “And you're wondering…what? If I can tell you where LOTUS has taken him?”

“Yes, please,” said Wyatt. “That, and what happened to Hantai Annie and the rest of our team. If you don't mind.”

The information broker wiped at her mouth and shook her head. “You don't want much, do you?”

“Only what's important,” said Cinnabar.

“And what's important is costly,” said Tully, extending a manicured hand to pull her laptop computer closer. She tapped a few keys. “Let's see…I do know
something about your team, although my listeners have overheard nothing of Max Segredo's whereabouts, nor of LOTUS HQ's location, for that matter.”

Wyatt sagged into the armchair's thick cushions. It had been too much to hope for. Now where would they go for answers?

“However, they did pick up one interesting tidbit about your friend,” said the information broker.

“What is it?” Cinnabar half rose from her seat.

Tully raised a finger. “Ah-ah-ah. You know the rules. What will you trade in return?”

Wyatt and Cinnabar exchanged a glance. She had told him that the woman swapped information for money, intel, or favors. Given the sorry state of their finances, money was clearly out of the
question. Owing a favor to a stranger sounded a bit dodgy. So that left…

“Intel,” said Wyatt.

Tully inclined her head. “Go on.”

“Um, three nights ago,” Wyatt said, “when LOTUS attacked our safe house, they stole a—” Cinnabar's warning glance cut him off. “Stole something very
valuable,” he finished.

“The electroneuromanipulator?” said Tully. “Old news.”

Wyatt gaped. “You know about that?”

“And you can pronounce it?” said Cinnabar.

A dimple appeared in the woman's cheek. “You'd be surprised. Come now, what else can you offer?”

Wyatt stared at Cinnabar. She gnawed her lip.

Tully scooted forward on the sofa. “Do you know, for example, what LOTUS intends to do with this mind-control device?”

Wyatt and Cinnabar shook their heads.

“Pity,” said Tully. “Now
that
would be worth something. Government intelligence would pay a pretty penny for…” She clacked some keys on her laptop's
keyboard and scowled.

“Something wrong?” asked Wyatt.

Tully typed again and cursed under her breath. “This wretched computer. Ever since yesterday, it's been having trouble accessing my VPN.”

Wyatt perked up. “Is it your router synching? Or maybe the security encryption protocol?”

She fiddled with her jewelry and raised her eyebrows at him. “This is a highly encrypted, private network—truly state-of-the-art. No offense, but how could a mere boy know what to
do?”

Wyatt grinned. “This particular boy has hacked half of the private networks in the country. If I may…?” He reached out for the computer.

With a dubious look, Tully passed it to him. “Very well. But I'm keeping a close eye on you. If you try to hack this, or if you damage anything, Chip will make you rue the day you
were born.”

“Chip?” he asked.

The information broker cut her eyes toward the doorway, where Cheese Teeth lurked, out of sight.

The corners of Cinnabar's mouth twitched. “That big scary bloke? His name is Chip?”

“Yes,” said Tully, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Cinnabar offered up an innocent expression. “Just curious.”

Wyatt, meanwhile, was hard at work diagnosing the computer's problem. A sudden lightness of heart buoyed his spirits. Here, at last, was something he felt equipped to deal
with—unlike the task of having to act like a superspy field agent when he wasn't one, or the needle-in-a-haystack challenge of finding his friend Max in a city of some thirteen million
souls. As he checked the security protocols, it seemed to him that Tully's MAC address was configured to change every couple of seconds. Could this be causing problems with the network
router…?

A growl like a Tasmanian devil in a bad mood rumbled from Wyatt's stomach, breaking his concentration. He glanced up from the screen and eyed Tully's breakfast plate again.
“Any chance of a sanger or a sausage?”

“Wyatt,” Cinnabar scolded.

The woman didn't blink. “If you can fix that, not only will I tell you what you want to know, but breakfast is on me.”

“Wicked!” Wyatt grinned. “A bloke could really get to like this information brokering.”

Fifteen minutes later, Wyatt handed the laptop back to Tully Ochsenfrei. “There you go,” he said. “It's as flash as a rat with a gold tooth.”