Phoenix vaulted upward and tumbled through the wall opening and onto a cold tile floor.
He sprang to his feet, blinded momentarily by the fluorescent lights overhead. He was in a long room lined with file cabinets. “We did it, Reagan!”
Reagan jumped into the room, landing in a crouch. “Don’t just stand there — get ’em!”
She raced past Phoenix. He blinked away the brightness. At the far wall, two people sat at a bank of computers, facing away from them.
Phoenix followed, his blood pumping. The people weren’t moving. Now he could see over their shoulders, to the monitors. Each was divided into multiple views: the two prison rooms below. The corridor outside the cell. The dumbwaiter shaft.
His stomach sank. They’ve been watching us all along!
That was when he realized that another image on the screen was this room — Phoenix and Reagan running toward a camera like a mirror.
The two Vespers rose calmly and turned. They were wearing gas masks.
“Stop, drop, and roll!” Reagan shouted, throwing herself to the floor.
Phoenix nearly barreled into her. Plumes of smoke swirled out of gas jets in the wall, surrounding them both.
And all went black.
“I smell sheep, no?”
The voice came from just outside the cell door, high-pitched and lilting. Amy opened her eyes and realized she’d fallen asleep. All she could manage was a groggy “Huh?”
A gray-haired woman appeared outside the door, silhouetted in the harsh fluorescent light. “You have been consorting with sheep earlier this day.”
Amy suddenly remembered they hadn’t had a chance to change since their encounter with the Wyomings. “Um, yes, sort of.”
Dan rose from his thin mattress. He stared uncomprehendingly at the shadowy woman. “Don’t tell me. The Ghost of Christmas Past?”
She opened a shapeless cloth coat and pulled out an ID card. “Amato,” she said. “Luna Amato. Interpol. Perhaps you heard of me? I asked your friends to give you a message. A large boy. And one who is into the rapping music. No? Ah, well, no matter. We meet anyway.”
Amy cocked her head curiously. The woman had a brusque, matter-of-fact manner, but there was a glint of kindness in her eyes.
Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
“If you came to yell at us, too late,” Dan said. “Milos Vanek beat you to it.”
“I come to transfer you. I trust you will not miss these chambers?” Amato pulled a key and two sets of handcuffs from her coat pocket. She unlocked the door and cuffed herself to Dan and Amy. “Come.”
She began walking down a long hallway, the opposite way from which they’d come. “Ms. Amato, my brother and I are innocent,” Amy pleaded. “Victims of blackmail. I know it sounds far-fetched, but if we don’t travel tomorrow, a family member will be murdered!”
She looked at Dan for support, but he looked hopeless.
Amy had to admit, the explanation didn’t sound airtight.
Luna Amato led them silently through a door at the end of the hall, and then down a flight of stairs into a moldy cellar. The halls were narrow, lit by bare bulbs. Battered metal file cabinets lined the walls.
“Wh-where are you taking us?” Amy said.
“Andiamo,” Amato barked, picking up the pace. She led them past a set of small offices and up a short flight of steps to a tiny metal door.
Amy was gripped with panic. Solitary confinement?
Luna Amato extracted keys from a hidden pocket, unlocked both cuffs, and pushed open the door. Cool air swept in. Moonlight shone through distant branches.
“Follow me quickly,” she said. “Do not look back.”
“Mrrrp?”
To anyone else in the Cahill universe, the high-pitched sound of the pet Egyptian Mau had a hundred different meanings: the playful mrrp, the I-want-red-snapper mrrp, the that-wasn’t-enough-red-snapper mrrp, the thank-you-for-the-meager-portion-of-red-snapper mrrp. And on and on.
But to Ian Kabra’s ears, each was the I-hate-you-with-all-my-soul mrrp.
As far as he was concerned, the feeling was mutual.
At least this time, the fickle feline was keeping a distance, behind him and blessedly out of sight. With Sinead taking a power nap and Evan off to do homework, he had the place to himself.
Well, almost.
“Mrrrp,” the cat repeated, more urgently.
“Yes, Saladin, you’re here, bully for you.” Ian stared intently into the electron microscope at a scrap of Lucian stationery. It was his only souvenir from the horrid explosion in the DeOssie factory — an investigation into the manufacturing source of the Vesper smartphone. “Now waddle away, dear Marquis of Mange, will you? I’m busy.”
Saladin coughed and made a sound like vomit. Lovely.
Oh, for the pets of his Kabra youth — each homing poodle with its own small estate, each thoroughbred in a private barn with Black Beauty running on DVD all day. Back then, Egyptian Mau was the label on a fur covering for a thousand-dollar pillow.
Where it belonged.
He glanced briefly at the list of names. They matched a portion of the list found on the body of William McIntyre. This was a major find — could there be a connection between the Vesper secret and the Lucians? It seemed preposterous. Having grown up in the home of the branch leader, Ian knew all the family secrets.
By rights, he should have shared the scrap with the rest of the Attleboro staff. But he had kept it to himself — because of one name on the list, one city.
Some things had to be examined in private first. For dignity’s sake.
He positioned the microscope over a nearly invisible speck. It was embedded in the carbon, and to the naked eye, it appeared to be a stray piece of ash. But something about this had caught Ian’s eye. Now, after scrubbing it with art-restoration fluid and putting it under the microscope, he saw the dot’s true colors.
Gold and red. Lucian red.
“Voilà,” Ian murmured. He pressed a button, and a chart popped up on the computer — a list of every chemical in that tiny speck.
Liquid gold. Just as he had suspected.
And one other familiar substance: Its chemical profile matched that of nail polish. Lucian red nail polish.
Red polish with intertwining gold-leaf snakes.
“Dearest Mother,” Ian murmured with a rueful smile. “Your fingers are in everything, aren’t they?”
“MRRRRP!”
The cantankerous cat was twining around his ankle. Ian was not in the mood. He gave it a swift kick across the room before it could scratch him.
He quickly accessed the UN website. He would need to pay someone a visit, someone he hadn’t seen since the hunt for the 39 Clues had changed his life.
His mother, Isabel Kabra.
As he reached for a pen to leave a note, the cat leaped onto the desk and deposited a dead mouse. “Get that thing out of here!” Ian shrieked.
But Saladin was already strutting out of the room, head high and hips swaying.
Looking away from the shredded little rodent, Ian took the paper scrap, turned off the microscope, and dashed off a note to Sinead on the back of an envelope —
Then he left before he would have to get sick.
Vesper Five extracted a long knife from a butcher block. It was rusted. Clearly it hadn’t been sharpened in years.
Horrible. Such sloppy housekeeping.
With slow, steady strokes, the Vesper slid the blade against a whetstone. Each metallic ssssshink gave a sharp echo in the small room.
The phone beeped, and Vesper Five put down the knife to read the message:
Have we achieved the goal?
Oh, dear. Vesper One was all about results. He had no taste for the art. The agent snapped the phone
shut, put it in a bag, dropped it on a small table in the other room, and returned.
The knife glinted, like a winking eye. Vesper Five raised it high and brought it down on the warm flesh. A wet, satisfying thump. A clean split.
Life’s tiny pleasures could not be denied. Vesper One’s answer would wait. Sometimes goals were best accomplished on a full stomach.
Luna Amato threw both halves of the chicken breast in a pan.
First, the children would be fed.
The shower water was rusty and smelled like sulfur. Dan had to touch an old-lady slip in order to untangle a towel from the rack. Luna Amato played Italian opera that sounded like the screaming of dying wildebeests, on a vinyl-record player that skipped. The house belonged to Luna’s Turkish friend, who apparently had grown-up grandchildren, because Dan’s “clean change of clothes” was a pair of baggy jeans and a musty *NSYNC T-shirt. He felt like a time traveler from 1999.
He desperately wanted to talk to Amy. They would need a plan of escape. Amato was Interpol. She would not make it easy for them.
As he transferred the contents of his pockets, Dan found his phone. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t taken it.
What kind of Interpol officer is she?
Dan quickly tapped out a text to Attleboro.
We r out of jl. In trky. Still w Intrpl agnt, L Amato. Vanek w be on tail. May need extraction.
“Daniello!” Luna’s voice called out.
Quickly Dan pressed SEND. As he left the bathroom, the aroma of pasta sauce and garlic was overwhelming. “Wow, nice,” he said.
Luna looked up from the stove, where a freshly showered Amy was helping out. Although his sister was silent, her eyes were broadcasting Let’s get out of here. “Before I am Interpol,” Luna Amato said, “I am Italian. A simple dinner while we discuss your future. Pasta. Chicken with rosemary. Do you like rosemary?”
Dan was about to sneer but stopped. Rosemary was a serum ingredient.
“Totally,” Dan said. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Take some,” Luna Amato said, waving toward a pile of pine needle–like sprigs. “And take silverware to the table, too.”
Dan gathered up forks and knives. He stuffed the rosemary into his pocket as he moved into the living room. Fifteen ingredients now. Twenty-four more to go.
The living room had a long wooden table and patterned wallpaper, faded with age. He heard a sudden tap from the window and nearly jumped.
It was only the rustling of branches in the wind.
“Do not worry, Vanek is not coming,” Luna Amato called out. “He does not know I stay here.”
Dan gulped. It was as if she’d seen him through the wall.
Within minutes, the table was groaning with steaming pasta, chicken, garlic bread, a salad with slices of ham and stinky cheese, and plates of olives and peppers and other pickled things Dan didn’t recognize.
As fast as Dan and Amy could eat, Luna kept forcing more.
“Daniello, you do not like the bread? Eat! . . . Per favore, have some more pasticcio di gnocchi alla boscaiola!”
“As long as you don’t ask me to repeat the name,” Dan replied.
Luna Amato chuckled. “Charming boy.”
“Handsome, too,” Dan said.
Amy gave him a swift kick under the table.
Amato poured Dan another glass of grape juice. “You must dine fast before your sister gets the other ankle, no?”
Luna took a few bites, then wiped her mouth. “Ahh, bene, I finally have lost the taste of that prison in my mouth! Please forgive my mysterious ways. You must wonder why you are here, no? I will tell you. It is because of Vanek.”
Dan looked at Amy. She had stopped chewing.
“Behind his back we call him Milos the Monster. I have seen him do things. . . .” Luna looked away and sighed. “Well, perhaps not a topic while we eat. I took you from him because I know the fate you would other-wise suffer.”
“Thank you,” Amy said. “But . . . what are you going to do with us?”
Luna looked at her sharply. “Were you telling the truth? About being blackmailed?”
“Yes!” Amy said. “We just . . . we’re not at liberty to say why.”
Luna nodded. She took a sip of water and adjusted her glasses. “I am not certain what to do with you yet. I will keep you overnight and decide.”
She fell into a long silence, as if remembering something sad. Dan began counting wrinkles on her face but stopped. Something about the old woman seemed familiar. Not a resemblance, exactly. It had to do with the set of her jaw, the softness of her eyes. Her expression changed the atmosphere in the room. It said, Take your time; I am listening, but not in a squishy, aren’t-they-cute way. She was someone who took you seriously. Even though she was the enemy, she made you feel like the most important person in the world.
Despite her plainness, rumpled clothes, and thick accent, Luna Amato reminded him — just a bit — of Grace Cahill.
Amy sat back in a padded armchair. Her stomach pressed against the waistband of her jeans. The dinner had been sumptuous, the conversation friendly. Now she and Dan were alone in the den before the fireplace, with hot cocoa and Turkish cartoons on TV. The lingering smells of the dinner made the room feel cozy and warm.
She looked over her shoulder. Luna was puttering around in the kitchen, singing to herself. She had a sweet voice.
They were far enough away that she wouldn’t hear them talking softly. Amy eyed the windows and contemplated an escape plan. Dan had told her he’d contacted Attleboro, although he wasn’t sure they’d gotten the text.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to do this on their own.
“Luna’s softhearted,” she whispered. “Do you think we can appeal to her?”
Dan shrugged. His eyes were half closed. “Hey, Amy, is this what our house was like? Did we sit around and have hot chocolate and TV at night?”
“Sometimes,” Amy said.
“All I remember,” Dan said, “is that nine-inch black-and-white TV with Aunt Beatrice and her false teeth. Watching Wall Street Week and eating frozen dinners. Some family. Wouldn’t it be cool to have a real one again?”
Amy nodded. She wished Dan could remember their old life. “When we grow up,” she said, “we’ll have amazing families. Our dens will be better than this. Your kids and my kids will play together in a humongous room with every kind of toy and game.”
“Except I won’t have kids,” Dan said. “I’ll come over myself and play. . . .”
“Are you having fun?” Luna Amato called from the kitchen. “I must make a phone call. And then I will join you! I have a surprise!”
Before they could answer, Dan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. As he read the text, his mouth fell open. “What the — Amy, come read this!”
She jumped across the room and looked.
V-5 is Interpol agent Luna Amato. Repeat. V-5 = Amato. Reply at once.
Amy’s field of vision went white for a long second.
Luna . . . a Vesper?
“We weren’t rescued,” Dan squeaked. “We were kidnapped. Like Hansel and Gretel.”
Amy grabbed his arm. “We’re busting out of here — now!”
They slipped out of the den. Luna was chatting on the phone in the kitchen. On a table, Luna’s pink cell phone was lit up, sticking out of an open purse.
“How can she be on the phone in there,” Dan said, “if the phone is here?”
“She must be using a landline.”
Dan dug in Luna’s purse. “Car keys,” he whispered.
Amy looked at the back door. They’d have to run past the kitchen and hope she didn’t see them.
Luna was pacing now. Amy could see her moving shadow. “On the count of three,” she whispered. “And fast. One . . .”
>
Luna’s arm appeared in the entranceway. “I must return to my guests,” she was saying.
“Two . . .”
The arm was gone, the voice receding.
“Three!”
They raced to the door. Amy grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t budge.
“Heads up,” Dan said. He took a heavy porcelain mug from the sideboard and threw it through the door’s window. The glass shattered and he reached through to the knob outside.
“Dear heavens!” came Luna’s voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Dan snatched a massive pewter pitcher and hurled it at Luna. She twisted away, but not fast enough. The pitcher clipped her on the shoulder and she went down hard.
“Go!” he said. “Go, Amy!”
She raced through the door. Dan was heading for a blue car in the driveway. He tossed Amy the car keys. “Don’t drive like you! Make it fast!”
Amy caught the keys and climbed in. Dan slid in beside her. “Okay, Hansel,” she said, “how do we get to the airport? We didn’t leave bread crumbs.”
“Who needs bread crumbs,” Dan replied, “when you have a GPS?”
Nellie felt Phoenix Wizard’s neck. His breathing was steadier now. She tightened the tourniquet on his right arm. When they’d thrown his unconscious body down the dumbwaiter shaft, the poor kid had landed on a metal gear. And then Reagan had landed on him. The sound of the impact had been awful.
Why did I let them do it?
Nellie went over the sequence of events. She could not get it out of her mind. It was a stupid idea. She and Phoenix had talked it over as if it could work. She had convinced herself it was brilliant. Foolproof.
And then she had allowed a twelve-year-old to climb into the belly of the beast.
“How are his wounds?” Alistair asked.
“Bad,” Nellie said. “That was a hard fall. But thanks for ripping off your sleeve, Al. It’s stopping the flow. He’s going to need stitches, though.”
The Dead of Night Page 7