Read Online Double Vision by F. T. Bradley - Free Book Online Page B

showed me a photo of a skinny girl in faded jeans, with brown hair in a braid down her back.
    â€œThat girl looks worried.” I actually felt a little sorry for her. “Who is she?”
    â€œThis is Françoise Mégère, Jacques’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Her mother, an American, died when she was young.” Agent Stark sighed. “The reason we recruited Benjamin Green—a kid her age—was so he’d befriend her and she’d tell him the evil Mona Lisa ’s location. That didn’t work.”
    Thinking of how much I hated the guy, I was happy. “I take it Françoise and Ben didn’t become best buds.”
    Agent Stark pointed at Françoise. “You’ll want to keep an eye out for this girl. She’s very … determined to get her father back. She could mess up the exchange.”
    â€œHow?”
    Agent Stark didn’t answer my question. “Just keep an eye out for her.” She tucked away the photo, told the cabbie where to go, and wished me luck.
    I kept the box on the seat next to me and I glanced around, checking traffic. After being followed by that compact red sedan, I was feeling a little paranoid. But it was a quiet ride. The cabdriver dropped me off on a street corner south of the bridge, and that was it. I was on my own, with this weird box and my skateboard.
    This Pont Neuf was really something: white stone, huge arches, and ornamental carvings. Dad would’ve loved seeing it. Good thing the painting box banging against the back of my legs reminded me why I was here:
    Get Jacques Mégère.
    Give Drake the painting.
    Go home.
    Simple, right? Across the bridge, I could see a giant cathedral with a big dome and ornate towers. I was pretty sure it was Nôtre Dame.
    I walked along the Seine. The sightseeing boats in the water were nicely covered in glass to keep the tourists warm and toasty, and I wanted to stop to zip up my jacket, but there, about a hundred yards ahead, was the bridge.
    Then there I was on the bridge. I looked around for the bad guy—Drake was supposed to be here, but there were no obvious suspects.
    A couple kissing (yuck). An old lady on a bicycle, businessmen in a hurry, talking on the phone. Tourists snapping photos, but no slick-haired dude in a long coat—so no Drake. No Jacques Mégère. And he would be easy to spot with his nutty hair and all.
    I sat on a sidewalk bench with the box on my knees, feeling sort of stupid. Freezing my butt off. I got up, started walking on the bridge again to stay warm, all the while keeping an eye on the crowd. Some big French man looked miffed when I bumped him with my painting box, so I apologized.
    Where was this Drake guy? I checked my Ben phone, and saw it was five minutes before twelve. I walked back to my side of the bridge, to my frosty bench. Clutching Dad’s compass, feeling paranoid. As I sat there, checking the phone again to see only a minute had passed, I had a scary thought.
    What if Drake didn’t show? I needed this exchange to happen to save my family.
    I was lost in thought, so when my phone rang, I jumped. Fumbled, almost dropping the thing. It took me a second to figure out which button to hit, and then I answered.
    â€œHello?”
    Silence.
    I waited a second. “Anyone there?”
    â€œDid they give you this number?” An intense voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œWho is this ? I should be asking you.”
    I looked around and across the bridge, but a large group of kids on some kind of field trip blocked my line of view. I was in trouble. And I realized that all this time I’d been sitting around, I never hooked up the translator Henry had given me. At least the person on the phone spoke English. “I’m here for the exchange,” I said, hoping that was the right answer. “Let’s get this over with already.” I was trying to sound tough.
    â€œIdentify