Halfway to the train station, Max locked his bike at a crowded public rack near the metro, hoping to throw off the police. It was after seven now, and bikes and cars jammed the streets; two days after the attacks, people were back at work and school, but parts of the metro were still closed, and Max had a feeling that many people were still too afraid to take public transportation. In the bathroom of a Starbucks, he and Ahmed changed into the Scout uniforms, then continued to Bruxelles-Midi station on foot. It was a slow trip; they had to keep changing their route to avoid the soldiers and police who patrolled outside the metro entrances, shopping centers and government buildings.
But there was no avoiding them once they reached the station. Camouflage army trucks encircled Bruxelles-Midi, and a long line of passengers waited in front of the central entrance, which was flanked by soldiers with assault rifles.
“What’s going on?” Max asked a man in a business suit scrolling through his phone at the end of the line.
The man barely looked up.
“Security checks, delays. What a nightmare!”
The man’s phone rang. “I’m trying to rent a car to drive down to Paris,” he barked into it.
Max’s chest tightened. What if they couldn’t get out of Brussels? The train station was practically on lockdown. Max looked at Ahmed’s watch. “Our train is supposed to leave in thirty minutes. We may not have time to buy tickets. And if they’re checking IDs—”
Max didn’t finish his thought, but he knew that Ahmed understood where he was going with it. Fontaine had likely alerted the entire security force to a Syrian boy terrorist and his American accomplice on the loose. But hopefully they wouldn’t be looking for Scouts. And there was also a chance that the security forces at the station hadn’t received the alert. Max remembered what Madame Pauline had said about the police—how with nineteen different forces, they were notoriously bad at sharing information.
Ahmed grabbed Max’s sleeve and pointed to a small group of people waving tickets in the air. “Look. I think people selling their tickets. If we buy from them, we need not show ID.”
“Good idea! Keep our place, and I’ll check it out.”
Max ran to where he could hear what the ticket sellers were saying:
“One Thalys ticket to Paris!”
“Three tickets to Aachen.”
“Two ICE to Cologne.”
The high-speed Intercity Express train to Cologne continued on to Frankfurt. Max focused in on the seller. He was an old man, standing beside a gray-haired woman Max guessed was his wife.
“I’ll buy them!”
The old man looked Max over. Max had the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to figure out how old he was. He braced for a bunch of nosy questions. But the man merely handed him the tickets.
“Free to a Scoot and his mom,” he said in French. “Or is it dad?”
“Dad,” Max mumbled. “Thanks.”
“Tell him you’re welcome. And have a good trip.”
As soon as the old man and his wife left, Max rejoined Ahmed in line and showed him the tickets.
“We might actually make it out of here after all.”
Ahmed flashed a tense smile. “If we get through soldiers.”
As he and Ahmed shuffled closer to the entrance, Max could see the soldiers pulling passengers out of the line and asking to see their ticket or ID or both. He hunched down and smiled, trying to look as innocent as possible. But when they reached the entrance, a hand instantly grabbed Max’s shoulder and pulled him to the side. Max found himself standing in front of a tall soldier bulked up by a bulletproof vest. He yanked Ahmed out of the crowd too.
“Where are you boys going?” he demanded in French.
“Scoot trip,” Max said. “Our group’s already inside. We’re late.”
The soldier took in their faces. Max was certain he was putting it all together—how one of them looked Middle Eastern and the other was white, how Max spoke with an American accent, how they were traveling alone. He had to do something to distract the soldier before he demanded their IDs, something that would convince him they were just harmless Scouts.
Max began to sing.
“Scoot from elsewhere, Scoot from here,
You are my brother, my friend,
For today, for tomorrow—”
Ahmed mouthed along, pretending to know the song. But the soldier was too busy staring at Max in surprise to notice.
Then, with a self-conscious chuckle, he joined in.
“All united in a common project
Of justice, respect,
Home and fraternity.”
The soldier gave them the three-fingered Scout salute.
“Hurry up, boys. Not good to be late, today especially.”
Max forced himself to smile in Scoot solidarity. But his legs felt numb as they rushed away.
“Good idea, the Scouts,” Ahmed murmured when they were out of earshot.
They were in, tickets in hand, with ten minutes to departure! But Max knew they couldn’t relax till they were on the train and the train was on its way out of Belgium. He stopped in front of one of the electronic monitors inside the station. “Looks like we’re boarding on platform 21.”
This meant walking to the other end of the station, past more soldiers and police officers with Malinois, the Belgian police dogs that were more compact versions of German shepherds. The dogs’ mouths hung open, revealing sharp teeth. Max could feel the officers’ eyes pass over them. He made sure to talk to Ahmed in a friendly, animated way, even to link arms—to demonstrate that he was harmless. Ahmed seemed to understand; he grinned at Max and pretended not to notice the guns and dogs. But Max knew, from the way he tightened his grip on Max’s arm, that he did.
By the time they reached the gate to platform 21, Max’s Scout uniform was damp with sweat. But all they had to do now was board.
The sleek high-speed train was already filling up, mostly with business travelers to Cologne, men and women in suits stowing their briefcases and raincoats above. The sounds of people talking in French and German into cell phones filled the train car; several people talked about the attacks or remarked on the crowds and security. But to Max’s relief, no one seemed to take any notice of two boys in Scout uniforms as they slumped in their seats and took out their books. Still, Max was only pretending to read Boy Heroes; his stomach clenched as he waited for the train to depart. Ahmed’s eyes also kept flickering away from The Calculus Affair to the window, as if he expected one of the police officers or soldiers to come running down the platform and drag them off the train.
A mechanical chime rang out; with a jerk, the train began to move and pulled out of the station. Max took a deep breath, resting his head against the window. The train rocked back and forth, picking up speed; electric transformers whirled by and the colorful town houses of Brussels flew past, jumbled unevenly against the horizon like in one of Magritte’s crazy pictures. The feeling of needing to get away from Brussels receded, and Max was filled instead with affection for the strange, mixed-up city of languages and people that had become his home. He wished he could tell his parents that they had made the right decision to bring him here, that he would be okay, not just over the next several days, but in the future they always seemed so worried about.
He guiltily realized he had never left them a note. He instinctively reached into his pocket for his phone, then remembered he hadn’t brought it. It was just as well. Surely they wouldn’t believe Fontaine’s crazy claim that Ahmed was a terrorist, but they would still be furious with Max for lying to them and running away. As for Claire, he certainly wasn’t going to make her life any easier by checking in. He hoped she felt terrible. But knowing her, she was probably too busy pretending she’d known nothing about Ahmed and that Max was the family screwup.
“Max,” Ahmed whispered.
Ahmed had swiveled around to stare down the aisle. Max followed his gaze. A burly, black-clad police officer with an assault rifle slung over his chest had entered the car and was checking documents. Max slid back down in his seat and looked at Ahmed. They were in serious trouble.