"Mr. Solomon, please, what's going on?"
And then his hands were back on my shoulders. "Cammie, you have to follow the pigeons."
"I . . . I don't understand."
"Promise me, Cammie! No matter what, promise me you will follow the pigeons."
It didn't make any sense - not the words or the look in his eyes or the way my best friend's parents stood staring as if the moment they'd been dreading for days was finally here.
A siren sounded, and I felt suddenly unsteady on my feet as if the earth was moving.
"Mr. Solomon," I spoke slowly, calmly, "maybe you should come with us . . . We'll call my mom and she'll explain that you're a teacher and that there's been some kind of mistake and . . ."
But then I couldn't finish because the earth was moving. The siren was growing louder; spectators were beginning to call out from the riverbanks. In a terrible flash, I remembered that Tower Bridge is a drawbridge, and Mr. Solomon and I were standing in the center.
The bridge lurched and Bex yelled, "Cammie!" but her mother held her back. I grabbed at the rail as the bridge rose higher and steeper, and Mr. Solomon reached for my shoulders, holding me, steadying me.
"Cammie, you have to promise me!"
"Okay, Mr. Solomon. Of course. I promise."
"Thank you, Cammie." He relaxed his grip and lowered his head. For the first time, he seemed to breathe as he sighed, "Thank you."
"Okay, Joe" Mr. Baxter inched closer. "You talked to Cammie. You got your promise.
Now, come on. Let's go get this settled."
But Mr. Solomon was backing away, his gaze still locked on me.
"The pigeons, Cammie."
"The pigeons," I said.
And then one of the greatest spies I've ever known ran toward the rising edge of the bridge and propelled himself over the top, flying falling. Bex's parents rushed after him, but I was already there, staring into the Thames.
And Joe Solomon was already gone.
Chapter Four
During winter break of our seventh-grade year, Bex helped her parents expose a double agent who had been working inside M16. The summer she turned fourteen she swears she disabled a bomb beneath the royal family's box in the bleachers at Wimbledon. But as Bex and I sat in the back of an M16 van with the words "Handy Helpers House Painting Service" painted on the side, I knew no Gallagher Girl had ever brought a story quite like this one home from school vacation.
I tried recounting the facts for myself - how the first agent to reach us was left-handed and had green eyes, how the phone number on the side of the van had a Surrey exchange.
I remembered all the details - every single one. After all, Mr. Solomon had trained me well. And that was the problem, really.
Mr. Solomon had train me.
Mr. Solomon had taught me.
And then Mr. Solomon had dragged me onto that bridge and jumped into the cold, dark waters of the Thames. So I sat quietly with Mr. Baxter on one side of me, and Mrs.
Baxter on the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning in the wrong direction.
But, of course, for all Rebecca Baxter's talents, waiting totally isn't one of them.
"What was that?" Bex exclaimed as soon as the van doors slammed.
"Quiet, Rebecca," her mother ordered.