The Kenyan Expedition

by Steve Stevenson

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Original Title: Agatha Mistery: Missione Safari

  Text by Sir Steve Stevenson

  Original cover and illustrations by Stefano Turconi

  English language edition copyright © 2015 Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Original edition published by Istituto Geografico De Agostini S.p.A., Italy, 2012 © 2012 Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., Italy

  International Rights © Atlantyca S.p.A.—via Leopardi 8, 20123 Milano, Italia

  foreignrights@atlantyca.it—www.atlantyca.com

  Published in 2015 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Printed in the USA.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-698-41220-0

  Version_1

  Contents

  Map

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Eighth Mission Agents

  Destination

  Objective

  The Investigation Begins . . .

  At Portobello Market

  The White Giraffe

  A Pit Stop in Nairobi

  Masai Mara

  A Series of Unfortunate Clues

  Worried Cordelia

  A Race Against Time

  Double Rescue

  Mystery Solved . . .

  Special Excerpt from Agatha's Next Mystery

  EIGHTH MISSION

  Agents

  Dash

  Agatha’s cousin and student at the private school Eye International Detective Academy

  Agatha

  Twelve years old, an aspiring mystery writer; has a formidable memory

  Watson

  Obnoxious Siberian cat with the nose of a bloodhound

  Chandler

  Butler and former boxer with impeccable British style

  Haida

  Short-haired and athletic, manages the Outer Limits Safari Agency

  DESTINATION

  Kenya

  OBJECTIVE

  Retrieve a rare white giraffe, mysteriously vanished from the Masai Mara National Reserve, in the wild savanna

  In a central-London penthouse packed full of high-tech devices lived Dashiell Mistery, an aspiring detective with a passion for technology. He was not an organized person, and pieces of his collection often met with unfortunate ends: an MP3 player frozen in the freezer, a laptop drowned in the bathtub, a video-game controller liquefied in the microwave . . .

  Only one object was worthy of Dash’s full attention: his EyeNet, a valuable tool that the Eye International Detective Academy—Dash’s school—provided for its students. The EyeNet was a mass of futuristic features encased in a titanium shell, and the young Londoner kept it hanging above the sofa so that it was never out of his sight.

  One Saturday afternoon in late April, Dash was busy tinkering with an old radio with bent antennae. The floor was already a chaotic mess of electronic components, wires, transistors, and other materials recovered from unused appliances. While carefully removing the internal circuits and putting them on the carpet, he continually flicked his gaze at the EyeNet to check that it was in its place. It was two o’clock. Dash put the old radio aside to hurriedly scoff down a sandwich before moving on to his next project.

  The previous week, he had taken a videoconference course in Subterfuge and Escapes, a discipline detailing techniques for getting oneself off the hook using only talent and whatever tools were at hand. The instructor for the course, code name GC43, was nicknamed MacGyver in honor of the famous television series.

  Dash had subsequently thrown himself headlong into the study of electronics and a frenzy of new projects. With the radio dismantled, Dash’s main task for today was to record the notes from his electric guitar directly onto his computer using wiring of his own invention. He completed the final steps and hoisted his gleaming red guitar by the neck, adopting a rock-star pose.

  He inserted the plug into the computer. Squinting at his monitor to check the frequencies, he positioned his hands on the strings and launched into a Led Zeppelin solo.

  SBRANGGGGGG!!!

  The speakers let out a noise so loud that it made the glass in his fifteenth-floor windows vibrate. The shock wave threw the slender boy across the room, and a stunned expression covered his face. “I for-forgot to unplug the st-stereo system!” he exclaimed to himself.

  As if that weren’t enough, a piercing alarm suddenly sounded, followed by a panicked shout. He had frightened the other inhabitants of Baker Palace nearly to death!

  “I have to do something!” he cried, pushing a mess of electronics under the table. “If they figure out it was me, I’m done for!”

  He covered the jumbled pile with a sheet, barely a moment before there was a knock at the door.

  “Dash Mistery!” someone called. “It was you—that noise came from in there!”

  “Get out here and face the music!” someone added.

  Judging from the angry voices, it seemed that a line of protestors had filled the hallway.

  Dash ran his hands through his disheveled hair and approached the door with cautious steps. “Who is it?” he asked innocently.

  A chorus of complaints sounded from outside. Dash released the security chain and peered out just enough to see at least twenty people crowded near his door. He gulped. “Did you feel that terrible earthquake, too?” he asked. “It’s all over the news . . .”

  “Don’t mess around with us!” shouted the landlord of the building, a gray-haired lawyer wearing a suit of the same color. “You’re in enough trouble as it is!” He waved a piece of paper under Dash’s nose. It could only be an eviction notice. “This is the last straw, Mr. Mistery,” he added sternly.

  Dash’s legs turned to jelly. “But, I-I—” he stammered. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “The electric guitar!” interrupted the neighbor from the apartment directly below, a woman with a shrill voice who worked in finance. “I heard that demonic instrument just before the alarm went off!”

  “I wasn’t playing a guitar. I don’t even own one, trust me!”

  More complaints erupted. “He’s telling lies! The regulations prohibit musical instruments! Evict him!” shouted a chorus of the elegant building’s tenants.

  “We need proof,” the landlord interrupted, trying to calm tempers. “Let me in, Mr. Mistery. I would like to see for myself that you don’t have a guitar.”

  “Um . . . of course . . . come in.”

  The man entered and inspected the room with hawk-like eyes. “Where is it hidden?” he growled. “Under the sheet?”

  The young detective shrugged. “Take a look, if you like. It’s just a bunch of circuits and other equipment. I work with advanced electronics,” he said with indifference
, reclining on the sofa. The soft cushions hid the shape of the guitar.

  The search continued for several long minutes, but in the end the landlord had to give up. “Very well, Mr. Mistery,” he declared in disappointment. “Without the offending item, I can’t evict you.”

  “What did I tell you?” Dash grinned, gesturing toward the door from his spot on the couch. Just then, the EyeNet began flashing furiously. It was his school, signaling that he had a new mission!

  Dash grabbed the EyeNet, threw on a jacket, and slipped out past the other tenants, who were still grumbling on the crowded landing. He pulled the door closed tightly behind him and ran for the elevator.

  As he reached the elevator, he checked the EyeNet screen. “An investigation in Kenya?” he shrieked.

  Fortunately for him, he knew exactly where to find his cousin and incomparable companion in adventure, Agatha Mistery.

  A fresh breeze swept away the thick London smog. Agatha Mistery took a deep breath, feeling bubbly and energized. She was striding across Portobello Road, home of the world-famous flea market in Notting Hill, on her way to meet her favorite antiques dealer.

  Beside her stood Chandler, the Mistery family’s jack-of-all-trades butler. Chandler had once been a professional heavyweight boxer, and his imposing size helped to part the crowd of Londoners and tourists. The road was packed with colorful stalls and shops selling all kinds of wares: vintage clothes and spectacular hats, paintings of every style and era, gold and silver jewelry, old coffeepots, antique cameras with bellows, and all sorts of knickknacks. On every side of them, customers shouted at the top of their lungs as they admired the goods on display and tried to snatch up the best deals.

  “We really should come here more often,” said Agatha, swiveling her head to drink everything in. “Portobello Market has such a magical atmosphere!”

  “Do you really think so, Miss?” replied the butler, loosening his collar. “Don’t you find it a bit crowded and airless?”

  “It’s the biggest antiques market in the world,” said Agatha. “That’s why it’s so popular. Everyone’s hoping to find hidden treasures!”

  Chandler couldn’t wait to return to the peace and quiet of Mistery House. He picked up his pace. “I think I’ve spotted the stall you’re looking for, just up ahead,” he said. “The Shelves of Monsieur Truffaut, isn’t that it?”

  Agatha took his arm. “Good eye, Chandler,” she said with a grin. They’d been there many times before, but she knew the butler wanted to wind up their errand as quickly as possible. “Come on. Off we go.”

  It was already past four o’clock and the stalls would be closing soon. Agatha needed a new notebook, and Monsieur Truffaut specialized in early-twentieth-century bound books, produced by French craftsmen for Parisian stationery stores. The same style of notebooks had been used by great writers such as Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway, and Agatha wanted to become a great writer herself. To be more precise, she wanted to become a great mystery writer. That’s why the shelves of her bedroom were stuffed with notebooks she’d filled up with curious details, plot outlines, and character descriptions.

  She chose a notebook and showed it to Chandler, listing all its features. “Soft leather cover, ivory deckled pages, hand-sewn binding, rounded corners, ribbon bookmark, and an elastic band to keep it closed,” she said, beaming. “It’s perfect!”

  The butler nodded. “The best in the shop, Miss.”

  Agatha thanked the taciturn Monsieur Truffaut and left the store, inhaling the fragrance of paper with total delight. “I’m going to start working on a new story right away,” she said. “As long as I don’t get distracted by—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, she ran into two females, almost identical except for a slight difference in height. They both had platinum blond hair and wore designer jackets, short skirts, and high-heeled boots. It was her school friend, Jessica, and Jessica’s mother.

  “Agatha, darling, what a surprise!” chirped Jessica, giving her an exaggerated hug. “You’re shopping at Portobello, too! What have you bought? Any finds?”

  Overcome by the cloud of perfume around mother and daughter, Chandler turned away politely to cover a cough.

  Before Agatha could respond, Jessica pulled out the hats she’d just bought, gushing over each one as Agatha did her best to sound enthusiastic.

  Fashion was not one of the young writer’s interests.

  Glancing at her diamond watch, Jessica’s mother interrupted impatiently. “Hurry up, Jessica! You’ve got to get ready for the gala tonight and we’ll need at least three hours for makeup and hair!”

  Agatha jumped at the chance to end the conversation. “I’d hate to make you late,” she told Jessica with a wry smile. “See you at school!”

  “Oh, school!” grumbled Jessica’s mother. “My daughter apparently thinks it’s an haute couture fashion show.”

  Annoyed, Jessica picked up her bags and got ready to leave. But first she asked, “Agatha, sweetie, what’s that cute cousin of yours called again? Rush? Flash?”

  “Dash,” Agatha corrected her. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him about half an hour ago at the market entrance. He said he was looking for you!”

  “Really?” Agatha snapped to attention.

  Jessica let out a giggle. “He was ‘dashing’ around like a maniac,” she said. “He’s got such adorable hair . . .”

  Agatha did not answer. In a flash, she and Chandler had disappeared from the mother’s and daughter’s view, burrowing into the crowd.

  “He must have a new mission!” Agatha exclaimed. “Thank goodness I told Dash last night we were going to Portobello!”

  Chandler planted his feet, taking advantage of his height to survey the crowd. “How will we find him in all this confusion, Miss?” he asked.

  Agatha bit her lip and began thinking out loud. “Well, if he arrived half an hour ago, he’s probably been up and down the whole market at least once,” she reflected. “Knowing how lazy Dash is, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was already taking a break . . .”

  “But where? I don’t see any benches!”

  “You’re forgetting his sweet tooth,” said Agatha with a laugh. She looked around, then pointed at a sign. “I bet he’s sipping hot chocolate in that café over there!”

  They both took off through the obstacle course of stalls. The market was closing at five, but the crowds hadn’t thinned. As soon as they reached the café, they peered in through the window.

  Inside, Dash was hunched over a steaming cup of cocoa in a corner of the room. Looking lost and forlorn, he bit into a doughnut and checked his EyeNet with a sigh.

  Glad her assumption had proven correct, Agatha rushed to his table. “Never fear, cousin dear! We’ve got your back!” she said, greeting him with a smile.

  Dash swallowed quickly, nearly choking with surprise. Chandler had to give him a couple of quick karate chops between his shoulder blades. As soon as he could breathe again, Dash jumped to his feet like a spring.

  “A mission in Kenya, can you believe it?” he cried. “The plane leaves at six. We don’t have a moment to lose!”

  He was shouting so loudly that everyone in the café turned to stare. “You’ve got to stop playing those spy video games,” Agatha said, covering up Dash’s outburst. She and Chandler ushered him to the door with embarrassed grins.

  Once they were safely outside, she lowered her voice. “How do you think we could get to the airport in less than an hour? We have to go back to Mistery House, pack our suitcases, put Watson in his cat carrier, and study the files on the mission!”

  “Master Dash, did you check to see if there’s a later flight?” Chandler asked.

  The young detective was always panicked about school assignments, and the realization that he was about to miss his plane was the nail in the coffin. He stood paralyzed, staring at t
he colorful terrace houses on Portobello Road, ignoring the crowds milling past.

  Agatha sighed and passed a hand in front of his eyes. “Earth to Dash, anyone home?” she joked. “Check your EyeNet for flights leaving later tonight. There’s no point getting upset if there is another.”

  Dash whipped out the EyeNet and began clicking away. “Nope,” he moaned after a few moments of searching. “It’s no use . . .”

  “Let me see,” said his cousin.

  Agatha immediately saw that there were no more flights to Nairobi, Kenya’s capital, until the next morning. She tried calming Dash down. “We’ll sleep at my house and catch the five a.m. tomorrow, nice and refreshed!” she said cheerfully.

  Chandler raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Five in the morning?”

  Agatha gave him a warning nudge, then took Dash by the arm and led him toward the underground garage where Chandler had parked. “Aren’t you excited about going to Africa?” she asked her cousin. “The scenery will be breathtaking, and we’ll be able to see lions and leopards up close!”

  Unfortunately, she’d overlooked the fact that Dash was terrified of cats, and she had to endure his vast repertoire of moans, groans, mumbles, and grumbles all the way home.

  It was just before dinner, and Agatha stared out the window at the storm that had suddenly rolled in. The patter of rain on the lavender roof of the Victorian manor mingled with the crackling fire in the fireplace, creating a cozy and peaceful atmosphere.

  “According to the nature magazines I read, the rainy season just started,” she murmured.

  Standing beside her, Dash said, “Aren’t you being a little dramatic? It’s only a drizzle . . .”

  Agatha laughed. “Actually, I was talking about Kenya,” she said. “We’ll need appropriate clothes for wildly different temperatures during the days and nights, along with waterproof boots and some other precautions.”