Agent q or the smell of.., p.1
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       Agent Q, or the Smell of Danger!, p.1
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           M. T. Anderson
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Agent Q, or the Smell of Danger!


  AGENT Q,

  OR THE SMELL OF DANGER!

  YOU MAY NOT HAVE GASPED AND

  FAINTED WHILE READING THESE

  OTHER THRILLING TALES

  OF PALS IN PERIL

  Whales on Stilts!

  The Clue of the Linoleum Lederhosen

  Jasper Dash and the Flame-Pits of Delaware

  BEACH LANE BOOKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2010 by M. T. Anderson

  Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Kurt Cyrus

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  BEACH LANE BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  The text for this book is set in Stempel Garamond.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  0910 MTN

  First Edition

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Anderson, M. T.

  Agent Q, or the smell of danger! / M. T. Anderson ; illustrations by Kurt Cyrus.—1st ed.

  p. cm.—(A pals in peril tale)

  Summary: As Lily, Katie, and Jasper try to return home after their adventures in Delaware, they face a protoplasmic monster, sleeping gas, a runaway rice cart, sentient lobsters, and spies of the Awful and Adorable Autarch of Dagsboro.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8640-9 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Spies—Fiction. 3. Humorous stories.

  4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Cyrus, Kurt, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.A54395Age 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009051199

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5609-4 (eBook)

  With deepest affection,

  this book is lovingly dedicated to

  [NAME OMITTED FOR SECURITY PURPOSES]

  VBNGOOM GONE

  They came from the heights of the mountain, a long procession winding their way between the cracks and steeples of stone. The peak was hidden in fog. Through the ravines and over the hunched backs of granite the men padded, barefoot, all in a line, one after another, silent in the morning. They walked through the high, barren places where the ancient wind had licked the limestone into pillars and pits, caves and crevasses. There were two hundred boys and men, all dressed in flowing robes of green; and each one carried a small piece of a dismantled white van.

  They marched through hollows carved by howling storms and mazes formed by no human hand. The largest men carried the van’s white doors, their heads sticking through the open windows, or they hefted a roof-panel between them. Others carried the exhaust pipe, the dashboard, the brake pads. The littlest boys—six or seven years old—carried single bolts cupped in their hands. The procession was led by two silent youths, frowning, walking side by side, both cradling the headlights in their arms. The line of them wandered through the bitter karst.

  They were the monks of Vbngoom, called the Platter of Heaven, the most powerful monastery in the whole State of Delaware. They filed along dinosaur curves and great stone mounds.

  Only three of the people in this solemn parade of broke-down van did not wear green robes and did not have their heads shaved.

  Lily Gefelty, a slightly stocky girl whose bangs flapped down in her face or blew backward in a burst, depending on the wavering breeze, carried the crankshaft timing gear. Her eyes—when they appeared through her hair—were bright, and she greeted each new vista with mute delight. She loved the mountain above them and the green forests down below. She loved that she was here with friends, and that they were on their way home after a satisfying adventure. She was very ready for home.

  Behind her was Jasper Dash, Boy Technonaut. He wore a pith helmet and kept squinting into the haze, trying to make out the Delaware Canal or the smokestacks of far Wilmington. Unlike Lily, he was used to mountaintops, monks, and danger, having appeared in his own series of adventure books in which he pedaled blimps through the air, socked ruffians, and rode buffaloes bareback. Still, he also wanted to get home to his mother and his own bedroom and laboratory.

  Katie Mulligan, behind him, wore the van’s fan belt around her neck. She was used to adventure too, because she starred in a series called Horror Hollow, in which she unwound mummies, taught werewolves to heel, and heavily salted leech invasions. Under other circumstances, she would have been grumpy about yet another adventure—she was getting tired of being bitten, stomped, and slimed—but on this particular day, she was in an extremely good mood, because right behind her walked Drgnan Pghlik, a young monk of Vbngoom who had agreed to go to the school dance with her.

  It is unusual for monks to go to school dances—usually they spend their free time chanting in Latin, speaking in riddles, drawing cherubs in old books, and slapping themselves with stinging nettles—but Drgnan was a very unusual monk. For one thing, he was being trained as one of his monastery’s Protectors and taught martial arts so that he could rove around the country, doing good and making sure that no pirate or plunderer threatened his sacred order and their secrets.

  The monks climbed down the mountain. They were leaving their home. Or, to be more precise, their home was leaving them.

  They all gathered to rest on a little plateau with pillars of limestone like a fallen palace of wax. Lily sat down and took out her water bottle. She unscrewed the lid and took a deep swig. She watched the monks carefully. She could tell something was going to happen, but she didn’t know what.

  She knew that it was time for a few of the monks to leave their home so that they could go out into the world—across the forbidden border of Delaware—to collect those sculptures and gold-bound manuscripts that had recently been stolen by gangsters.* The monks would give Lily, Katie, and Jasper a ride home to Pelt, their town.

  Hence the procession and the auto parts. The monks had dismantled the gangsters’ white van. There was no road on this side of the mountain. They were carrying the van down the mountain to reassemble it near a road. Then Katie, Jasper, Lily, and Drgnan would drive with a few of the senior monks toward the border of Delaware. They would make their way to Pelt and reclaim the artifacts illegally sold to the Pelt Museum.

  But Lily didn’t understand what the rest of the holy men were doing there, or why they seemed so sad.

  One of the most revered of the monks, a forty-year-old man with a clever face and an uneven grin, came over to her and her friends. His name was Grzo, and he was in charge of the Scriptorium, the room where manuscripts were copied by the monks. Usually, he spent all his days there, in a hall silent but for the squeak of quill pens and the laser-y mouth-sounds of young monks drawing angelic wars.

  Brother Grzo pointed up the slope, to where the monastery could still be seen through the thinning haze. He said to Drgnan, “Look up the mountain. There you see Vbngoom upon the top of Mount Tlmp for the last time.”


  Drgnan nodded. Lily, Jasper, and Katie looked confused and surprised. Brother Grzo explained, “Do not fear, children. You may someday see our home again, but not in this place. For two hundred years, Vbngoom has sat among the Four Peaks. It has moved among the mountains in the fog, shuffled like a pea among four nutshells to fool those who would seize upon our treasures and our sacred flames. But now that the gangsters of the World-Wide Lootery are in the hands of the government authorities, there is too much danger that we shall be found. Too many people know where our monastery is hidden. Too many roads lead to our mountaintop. Too many Delaware spies have asked too many questions. No longer can the monastery of Vbngoom hide in the clouds atop the Four Peaks. No longer is a jungle filled with kangaroo-riding cannibals and lisping serpent-men enough protection. Vbngoom must move farther away. Go and sit while we pray.”

  Katie, Lily, and Jasper crawled up into a small nook worn into the stone. Katie passed out sandwiches. They ate. They looked up at the towers and walls of the place they had grown to love. They watched the monks form a great circle. Some stood on rough pedestals. Out of backpacks they drew pipes and rings that they fitted together to make horns and trumpets. A few trumpeters stood aloof on pillars, awaiting a signal.

  An age was coming to an end.

  The abbot of the monastery, an ancient man who walked on wooden crutches, began whispering a prayer. The others joined in, each in his own time. The plateau murmured, muttered. For a long time, this went on. An hour passed. The sun moved in the sky. The shadows on the monastery walls fell crooked, then straight. The pine trees around its base wriggled in the midday sun.

  And all at once, the whispering stopped—the horns came up—a great, triumphant chord echoed through the mountains, blasting away at the mirage of what was.

  In the silence that followed, Lily’s ears rang. No monk spoke. The abbot shuffled out to the middle of the ring of monks. He looked up at his home. He raised his palm and lay it beneath his lips. And he blew.

  That tiny breath traveled up the mountain-side—hit the pine trees like a gale—and the monastery began to unravel as if it was made of dry sand. Away flew a turret—and now walls were sifting off in clouds, blowing through the sky, brilliant, glittering—all of it—the trees on the peak, the volcanic crater, the cloisters, the bridges, the chapels, the banners—all of it swarmed through the air, locustlike, and tumbled off to the north.

  Vbngoom migrated through the sky.

  Lily cried at it shimmering in the noonday light.

  Then there was no more monastery there—in fact, no more peak. Suddenly the monks were only a quarter mile from the top.

  The kids were sad that Vbngoom could no longer stay atop Mount Tlmp, but glad it would be safe elsewhere.

  Drgnan came to their side, wiping his eyes. The musicians were unscrewing their trumpets and dismantling their pipes and stowing them in backpacks. The rest said quick prayers and picked up their automotive parts.

  Then the procession set off again, holding high their tappets, their clutch, their shocks.

  Vbngoom was gone.

  * As lovingly described in the previous volume, Jasper Dash and the Flame-Pits of Delaware.

  A SPY IN THE SALAD

  As every schoolchild knows, Delaware, the Blue Hen State, located between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New Jersey, is ruled by a tyrant known only as His Terrifying Majesty, the Awful and Adorable Autarch of Dagsboro. He is crazy and cruel. He has a large, starched mustache like a Prussian general of the nineteenth century. He sits in his palace just outside of Dover and frets about how he can ensure that he will rule the state for all time. His spies, sent out by the feared Ministry of Silence, peer into every living room and squat under tables at every bar, listening for talk of rebellion.*

  And in that city of Dover, amid the narrow alleys and the temples and the towers, one of those spies, Bntno, came home after a long day at work. His flip-flops dragged on the flagstones.

  Bntno worked as an informer. This meant that he took out-of-state tourists on trips and spied on them for the Awful and Adorable Autarch of Dagsboro. He reported to the Ministry of Silence. It was not always an easy job. He had to conceal from the tourists that anything was rotten in the State of Delaware. That morning a couple from Texas had noticed that all the newspapers had articles cut out of them. In the afternoon, a group of Idahoan senior citizens had asked why all the kids at one school were shackled together in a line. They did not believe that the children were happy, even though all the children wore paper smiley faces.

  It had been a long day. Bntno trod wearily up the steps to his apartment. The building was made of concrete and stained with soot. Flies were caught in the windows, and they rattled.

  The informer let himself into his apartment and shut the door behind him. He locked three locks and a chain. For a minute he just stood, exhausted, in his dark living room. He wished he never had to talk to another out-of-state tourist again. Just a few days before, he had taken some very troublesome children, yes, very troublesome, all the way through the jungle to the Four Peaks. They had not even thanked him, not even when he pointed a gun at them. Very rude. Yes, troublesome children. They had escaped him. It made him tired.

  He headed for the kitchen to get a drink.

  He had made it most of the way across the living room carpet when he heard a noise. Not much—just someone shifting position. A slight rattle. Immediately, he looked around warily.

  He threw himself into the kitchen.

  No one. Sink. Drain. Counters. Cabinets. Stove.

  He bobbed back out into the living room. No one.

  But in the pile of the rug he saw footprints. Someone had been walking through his apartment.

  He frowned. He backed into the kitchen, against the refrigerator door. He decided to pretend nothing was wrong.

  Slowly, carefully, he opened the refrigerator, peering around, and reached for a cool bottle of Tyrant Splash.

  He jumped back in surprise. Secret Agent Mrglik was curled up in the fridge, writing notes.

  Agent Mrglik looked up from his work. “Ah, Bntno. I’m glad you could come.”

  “Ah—well—the gentleman spy is . . . in my kitchen.”

  “And my feet are in your crisper. Still, there’s work to be done.” Mrglik swung his legs out and stood. “Bntno, we at the Ministry of Silence are not very pleased with you.”*

  This struck terror into Bntno’s heart. Delaware’s Ministry of Silence was brutal and inefficient.

  Mrglik half turned and began whisking a leftover Caesar salad off his rump. “Last week,” he stated, “you led three out-of-state children north to try to find the monastery of Vbngoom, the Platter of Heaven.” Caesar dressing and anchovies splattered on the floor. Mrglik removed a few wilted pieces of lettuce from his pants and dropped them in the sink. “You were to report on the location of Vbngoom so that His Terrifying Majesty could sweep in with his army.”

  “Yes, sir. Very troublesome children. They gave me the slip.”

  “Well do we know!” cried a voice. “Well do we know of your failure!”

  Bntno looked around wildly. It wasn’t Mrglik.

  “Officer Blozcz,” explained Mrglik, opening one of the cabinet doors to reveal his colleague hunkered among the pots and pans.

  “Good day, Officer Blozcz,” said Bntno, clutching his hands together. “I hope you are well.”

  “I am not well,” said Blozcz, “when enemies of our glorious state are free.”

  “I apologize deeply to the gentlemen that I let the children escape.”

  “The children do not matter,” said Mrglik. “We do not seek the children, but the monks and their monastery.”

  Officer Blozcz said, “The monastery contains not only great riches, but also the mystical Flame-Pits where the soldiers of our jolly, friendly army could be trained to become psychic warriors. For the uplift of the thankful, happy people of this State.”

  “Psychic warrior-spies with the power,” said
Mrglik, making his hand float above his other hand, “of levitation and reading the minds and sending thoughts without words.”

  “What do you wish me to do, gentlemen?” said Bntno, backing up against the stove fearfully.

  A muffled voice said, “This morning we sent a plane . . . Mrglik?”

  Mrglik explained, “The excellent Commissar Dlvlo is in the lazy susan.” He swung the lazy susan open. Commissar Dlvlo slid into sight.

  “Thank you, Agent,” said Commissar Dlvlo, curled up, smoothing the sides of her tweed skirt.

  “My pleasure, Commissar,” said Mrglik.

  “Yes,” said Bntno, getting impatient. “Maybe it is time to show me everyone who hides in my kitchen?”

  Agent Mrglik looked to Commissar Dlvlo for approval. She nodded, and Mrglik went along the counter, opening all the cupboards. There were agents and officers crouched in each one.

  Commissar Dlvlo continued, “This morning we flew a plane over the Four Peaks, where the monastery of Vbngoom supposedly is hidden. You have told us the monastery is there. The gangsters of the World-Wide Lootery, who are in our prison, tell us that the monastery is in those mountains. But we could not find it—not head nor hair. It is nowhere to be found. So we must be clever, with our smart hats.” She tapped her head. “We believe that the out-of-state children you have met will seek to cross the border to return to their homes. And we believe that monks of Vbngoom will try to help them.”

  “We believe that two or three monks,” explained a man in the canned goods, “plan to leave the state to deliver the children home and reclaim the monastery’s treasures.”

  “But they cannot be allowed to slip away,” said a man in the snack foods. “Because they know the location of Vbngoom.”

  “And the location,” said Blozcz in pots and pans, “of all of the treasures that were plundered by the gangsters of the World-Wide Lootery.”

  “So they must be apprehended,” said snack foods. “They must be apprehended and questioned,” he proclaimed, almost wailing, rattling the Cheetos in agony like a vengeful ghost.

 
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