Mission Titanic

by Jude Watson

Wild cheers erupted. Nellie Gomez felt the waves of love pulsating from the audience. These were her people. Food people. She had introduced herself a week ago by saying “I love to eat. I love to cook. I once ate a fried grasshopper. My parents are totally pissed off I’m not at college right now.” From that moment, she’d been their favorite.

  This was her big break. Her own cooking show! She knew she could do it. She had saved her best recipe for last: her spicy crab cake soft tacos with lime yogurt sauce and mango salsa. Nobody had ever put crab cakes in a taco before, and it was genius. Her boyfriend, Sammy Mourad, had flipped over them. Her secret ingredient? Toasted pumpkin seeds.

  And charm. Loads and loads of charm.

  Nellie set to work chopping and mixing, keeping up a steady chatter that had the audience laughing and clapping. She handed her plate of pure, fresh deliciousness to the judges.

  She could tell by their faces that the tacos were a hit. One judge’s eyes closed and he almost fell off his chair.

  The judges leaned over to confer. Nellie’s nerves were now at a screaming point.

  She felt her cell phone buzz in her apron pocket. Three quick bursts. The Cahill emergency alert. She drifted back behind the counter and gave it a quick look. Her face flushed.

  “And now for the winner of our Glorious Kitchen Home Cook Competition! The judges have reached a verdict!”

  The spotlight ranged over the hopeful faces of the contenders.

  “NELLIE GOMEZ!”

  Pandemonium reigned as the audience stamped and howled.

  The spotlight roamed, hitting the losing contenders, searching, wavering …

  Nellie Gomez was gone.

  Paris, France

  The crowds had been gathering since daybreak. International movie star Jonah Wizard’s latest blockbuster film, Quick Exit, was having its European premiere. Fans crammed the bleachers. Signs waved: JONAH WIZARD EST FORMIDABLE! JE T’AIME JONAH!

  Photographers clicked and jockeyed for position as the costars arrived, one after the other.

  “I could use a burger,” Jonah said. He gazed out at the crowd from the backseat of an SUV parked across the street.

  “Get Mr. Wizard a burger,” a thin, tense woman said to a tall, muscular guy in jeans and an I BRAKE FOR STOP SIGNS T-shirt.

  “Dude, I’m his bodyguard, not his maid,” Hamilton Holt said in a genial tone. He had signed up for the tour to watch his best friend’s back, not wait on him. It was his first movie tour, and he was constantly floored by how Jonah’s every wish was granted. A glass of water, Mr. Wizard? Certainly. Still or sparkling? Ice or lukewarm? Lemon or lime? French or Italian? When Hamilton had added, Bathroom or kitchen? Jonah had cracked up. The publicist — what was her name? Mandy? Sandy? Andy? — had not.

  “I can wait,” Jonah added. “It’s just that I’ve been in interviews all day. I’m tired of cheese. They keep giving me cheese.”

  The publicist whipped out her phone and spoke into it in dire tones. “No more cheese for Mr. Wizard.”

  There was a knock at the window. It was time to go. The fans had been whipped up into the appropriate frenzy. The photographers were primed and waiting. Hamilton slipped into his leather jacket, the one that Jonah insisted he buy so he’d look like a kick-butt bodyguard.

  “Ready, dude?” Jonah asked Ham.

  “Ready, bro.”

  They exchanged a grin. Celebrities had a habit of complaining about premieres and adoring crowds, but nobody was having a better time than Jonah and Ham. Hotel suites, a private plane, free fruit! Awesome.

  No one had been more surprised than Ham when he’d become best friends with his famous distant Cahill cousin. Jonah was his polar opposite. He’d been a hip-hop star at thirteen, a legend at sixteen, and was now a movie star. He had enough electricity to power the City of Light. He was a Janus, the branch of the Cahills that was all about creativity and charisma. Ham was a Tomas — an athlete with a fondness for sweat and electrolytes.

  Ham exited first. He held the door for Jonah, who emerged with his publicist and started across the street. Ham followed, his eyes constantly moving behind his dark glasses, tracking every shift and turn, making sure nobody was breaking through the barriers and heading for them. Jonah and Ham had been through a lot together — almost died together on a mountain in the Bavarian Alps — so this was easy stuff. All he had to do was watch out for paparazzi.

  Jonah adopted the rolling, supercasual walk he favored when cameras were clicking. He waved at the crowd. Ham kept close but allowed a sight line for cameras.

  Jonah was stopped by a pretty journalist in a trim velvet coat.

  “Meester Weezhard, ’ow do you feel about premiering your film in Paris?”

  “I’m living the dream,” Jonah said. “My favorite city!”

  “And ’ow do you think French girls compare to Americans?”

  Hamilton felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. Three short bursts.

  Emergency signal.

  He could tell by Jonah’s face that he’d felt it, too.

  “One speaks French, the other speaks English,” Jonah said. He ended this nonsensical sentence with a chuckle of such dazzling charm that the reporter laughed and the audience applauded.

  Ham followed Jonah as he brushed by the microphones and photographers and made a beeline for the theater. The publicist tripped after them on high heels, trying to catch up.

  “There’s an exit down the right-side aisle,” Ham said. He’d already checked out the theater. Part of the job. “Leads into an alley. Metro station two blocks away.”

  “Mr. Wizard! Mr. Wizard! Your seat is in the third row! On the left! Not that way! Hello? Bodyguard, whatever your name is? You’re supposed to hover, not talk to the talent!” She caught up to them and leaned into Jonah. “You have to take your seat! You’re sitting next to the ambassador!” she hissed.

  “Sorry, Sandy,” Jonah said. “Gotta breeze.”

  Attleboro, Massachusetts

  Ian felt perspiration slip down between his shoulder blades. He never perspired under pressure.

  It was hard to regain your authority once everyone had seen you in your underwear.

  He had changed at lightning speed and now moved through the room, speaking a few words here and there, trying to connect with as many notables as he could, trying to pick up clues as to who was out to sabotage him. An overly warm greeting could be just as telling as a brush-off.

  Ian had already spotted Magnus Hansen, the new head of the Tomas. Whenever Ian headed for him, it seemed as though Magnus was suddenly on the other side of the room.

  Back in the 1990s, Magnus had won four Olympic gold medals in downhill skiing and smashed all speed records, and he was still a formidable athlete and a commanding presence. Tall, blond, incredibly fit in a navy sweater and blazer, he moved through the room as though he were the host, shaking hands and clapping backs. Ian had been surprised when Magnus had taken over the leadership of the Tomas. He had dropped out of sight for years. There had been talk that he’d been asked to leave after some kind of financial trouble with the Tomas treasury. Things must have been cleared up. Ian made a mental note to discover the details.

  He watched as Magnus kissed Patricia Oh on both cheeks. She was the grandniece of Bae Oh, the former head of the Ekats, who was now in prison. She had never gotten involved with the Cahill family much. Her home was in Singapore, and she lived to shop and go out to lunch. Word was that Bae had given her a large allowance to stay out of his hair.

  Then suddenly, this year she had become the Ekat branch leader.

  He watched Patricia as she touched Magnus’s arm and said something in his ear. She seemed to sense Ian’s eyes on her and flicked a glance at him. He smiled and nodded. Her nod was cool as she moved away through the crowd.

  Were they avoiding him?

  Mr. Berman appeared at the staircase. He struck a small gong three times. “Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed to the library,” he intoned.

  Ian walke
d down the grand hallway, already rehearsing his first line. Welcome, fellow Cahills. The spirit of Grace Cahill guides us as we meet in her beloved library….

  He had foiled an attack once today. He was prepared to hit back when challenged. His enemy would be expecting him to be slow. He or she would be thinking Ian would be at half power, and he’d be dialed up to ten.

  What was it that Hamilton always said? Bring it.

  He waited until silence fell, and pressed a button. The black screens that hung on every wall blazed to life. Cahill leaders from all over the world appeared: from India, Russia, Norway, Kenya, Morocco, New Zealand, Manila …

  And Cumbria, England. Ian gave a start. What was his father, Vikram Kabra, doing on-screen? Sure, he was a major Lucian, but ever since Ian’s mother, Isabel, had been disgraced and died, Vikram had been in seclusion, unavailable to everyone, including his own son. Which didn’t make that much of a difference, Ian thought, the tang of bitterness twisting his mouth. He was surprised he’d noticed at all. His father had only existed in his life to criticize and blame.

  “Welcome, fellow Cahills,” he began. “The spirit of Grace —”

  Suddenly, it was like someone had thrown a blanket over his head. The lights went out. Everyone sat politely, thinking it was planned.

  It wasn’t.

  Ian stabbed at the panel. Nothing happened. His power had been cut! The only illumination in the room was the faint bluish light from the screens as the Cahill notables waited.

  Ian jumped as the screen blazed to life and a voice boomed out of the speakers.

  “Good morning!”

  On the screen directly behind him, an old man was smiling out at the audience. His face was smooth and tight, his teeth white and perfect, but Ian guessed he must have been in his eighties. He could pick out the telltale evidence of a good plastic surgeon better than anyone — his mother had been addicted to nips and tucks.

  “Welcome, fellow Cahills.”

  That’s my line! Ian twisted back, still stabbing at his panel. He searched the room for Cara.

  “The spirit of Grace Cahill guides us as we meet in her beloved library. I am the Outcast. Sit back. I have a few things to say.”

  The room was eerily quiet. Everyone was riveted to the man on the screen.

  “Who am I? One of you.” The Outcast leaned forward. His power didn’t come from his erect posture; his big, gnarled hands; or his intense stare. It was something else, and Ian recognized it because he’d grown up with it. It was the ease of a man who knows he’s the one with the ace in his pocket.

  “I left the Cahills for a spell.” He knitted his hands together. “I had to come back, just to ask one question.”

  “Excuse me!” Ian shouted, but he was drowned out by the thundering voice.

  “Why are you letting children lead you?”

  Ian spotted Cara at the back of the room. He whipped his finger across his throat, telling her to cut the power. She waved frantically as if to say, I tried!

  Now that his eyes had adjusted, Ian quickly scanned the room. A Lucian was trained to read power shifts like surfers could read waves.

  Read facial expressions and postures, notice glances…. Look for the people who are relaxed, not tense, because they knew this would happen….

  Foreboding hit him like repeated blows from a hammer.

  The first two rows … sitting straight, not looking at each other, not puzzled. Just waiting.

  Patricia Oh. Magnus Hansen. Someone he didn’t recognize, a dark-haired, handsome man in his forties. He was keeping his head turned away slightly, and he wore tinted glasses. And was that man in black-framed round glasses Toby Griffon, the renowned architect? Next to him sat Melinda Toth, the Lucian billionaire businesswoman.

  And sprinkled around the room … others, too. They knew this guy.

  And his father. Still on screen. Vikram Kabra leaned back in his chair, as if he were lounging. Ian noted the sharp glint in his dark eyes. This was an ambush, and his father was part of it.

  Ian felt the surprise of hot tears behind his eyes. He was suddenly seven years old again. He thought of the times he’d run to his father for comfort. Before he’d learned not to. Young man, there is no need for sniffles. If you bleed, don’t look for sympathy. Get yourself a handkerchief and get on with it.

  “We have placed our destiny in the hands of amateurs!” the Outcast boomed. “Grace used to say, If your best instincts are your worst enemies, take your hands off the controls. Find someone else to fly the plane.” The Outcast clasped his hands together. “Grace believed in family, but she didn’t suffer fools. In this very room, Grace issued a challenge for a hunt for thirty-nine clues. The challenge was won by her own grandchildren.” He held up a hand. “I’m not here to suggest that there could have been double-dealing, even though it seems remarkable that children could win over the best minds, bodies, skills, and leadership of branch leaders.”

  A murmur ran through the room. Ian saw some heads nodding.

  “STOP!” Ian yelled.

  “Let him speak!” Patricia Oh called. “He is making a great deal of sense.”

  “The clue hunt was a sham! Because of it, we allowed the young, the untried to lead us! First Amy and Dan Cahill, until they got bored and walked away. And now their friend, a pampered boy!”

  The hairs stood up on Ian’s neck as he heard the sound of his father’s chuckle. That always meant a bit of cruelty was coming.

  “I hear our bold leader made great changes. He added mirrors to the master suite,” Vikram Kabra said.

  Ian heard laughter ripple through the room. His face burned.

  “This is insanity, my friends!” the Outcast cried. “We need to take our family back. It’s time for someone else to fly the plane.”

  “What are you suggesting, sir?” Ian shouted, trying to match the Outcast’s volume and strength.

  The Outcast smiled. It was a chilling smile, as though Ian had walked right into a trap. And he had. An amateur’s mistake. He had asked a question that he didn’t know the answer to.

  “I’m so very glad you asked. I propose a test for current leadership.”

  “Yes!” Toby Griffon agreed. “What do you have in mind?”

  Ian stared at him. You already know what he’s going to say. So does Magnus. And Patricia, and my father, and Melinda Toth. It’s written all over your faces.

  “We are behind many of history’s greatest triumphs,” the Outcast said. “But we are also behind some of the biggest disasters. I’ve chosen four of them to replicate.”

  The room was now completely still. Ian swallowed. His eyes raked the room, looking for allies. No one would meet his glance. They were all fascinated by the Outcast. Hanging on his every word.

  “And since children are so fond of riddles, we’ll start with one each time. Ready?

  “Your first disaster took place at sea

  It was sad — rich and poor died in agony

  Broke all records for calamity

  For those still clad in pajamity

  A collision caused the terrible losses

  In the Maritimes you’ll find the crosses

  On Mont Blanc rest the ones to blame

  Oh, to maim, blind, and kill, and have no shame!

  It will happen again if you can’t stop it

  At least the Cahill fam will profit!”

  His smile glittered with menace. “Cahill leadership has five days to guess the disaster and prevent it. No outsiders. If outsiders are brought in or consulted, the deal is off, the disasters take place, and the blood is on your hands.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ian said. No one heard him. “He’s crazy!” he shouted. Couldn’t they see the madness glittering in the man’s eyes?

  “I’m a fair man,” the Outcast continued, as if Ian hadn’t spoken. “So I’ll give you until sunrise tomorrow to start the clock. Ready, set, go!”

  The screen went black.

  The lights blazed on.

  “All righ
t, everybody,” Ian said. “Let’s calm down. The first step is to discover the identity of that madman.”

  But no one was listening. They were talking anxiously, buzzing with concern and questions and statements.

  Nobody was talking to him.

  “Fellow Cahills!”

  “I think we’ve had enough of you,” Magnus said, standing.

  As if responding to a signal, the entire first row of Cahills stood. They moved forward. Before he quite knew what was happening, Ian realized that they were flanking him and Cara. On either side of them were athletes from the Tomas branch, all lean, coiled muscle. One woman was famous for swimming the Bering Sea, and there was at least one pro football player who blocked the rest of the Cahills from interfering.

  “Just a minute here —” Ian started, but they force-marched him out of the room.

  “Hands off!” Cara shrugged off one of the men who had taken her elbow.

  “This is a coup!” Ian shouted. He cast one desperate glance back, but the rest of the Cahills either seemed frozen … or were part of the conspiracy.

  They marched Ian and Cara down the hallway to the front door. The cold February wind knifed through the doorway as Magnus flung it open.

  “Mr. Berman!” Ian shouted. “Help us!”

  He hung on to the doorframe, even though he knew it was undignified. “MR. BERMAN!”

  But Mr. Berman was probably frantically making tea and sandwiches. The pro football player picked him up like kindling wood.

  “You can either walk, or I’ll throw you out,” he said.

  Cara’s face was pale, but she tossed her hair and strolled out the door. “Come on, Ian,” she said in a cool tone. “There are better ways to fight.”

  Ian gazed into the iceberg eyes of Magnus Hansen.

  “Throw him out anyway,” Hansen said. “He needs a lesson.”

  The next thing Ian knew, he was flying through the air. He landed hard on Grace’s slate walkway. The shock of the landing rattled his bones. Tears sprang to his eyes from the pain.

  “Anybody got a tissue?” Magnus laughed. “Wipe your nose, crybaby. Grace’s house belongs to the grown-ups now.”