by Tony Abbott
“This is great,” Becca said. “We can almost pretend we’re tourists.”
“Almost,” said Wade. “We should blend in, but be alert to everything.”
Lily knew this was true. They were seriously the furthest thing from being tourists. None of what they saw, heard, or thought about was what a tourist saw or heard or thought about. Everything meant something on their quest for the relic. After all, would this strange place, so far from everything they were learning in Russia, give them the vital information they sought?
She hoped so.
The vaporetto slowed and sidled into the dock. They emerged by a series of walkways and ramps into the Piazza San Marco—Saint Mark’s Square.
Now that it was midafternoon on a warm day, the area was thronged with tourists. It was almost too much for Lily not to run over and talk to fellow Americans, but it was out of the question, as the inspector kept telling them.
“We are undercover,” he said, “as much as a Russian inspector and three American teenagers can be undercover.”
The immense domed Basilica di San Marco loomed over the square on one end. Adjacent to it was the Doge’s Palace, a colonnaded structure with rose-shaped cutouts and a long gallery of pointed arches. Everywhere else were outdoor cafés and stalls selling postcards and scarves and every kind of souvenir. Pigeons constantly fluttered up and settled here and there across the stones. And then there were the canals: wide avenues of water between blocks of buildings, and narrower inlets down the side streets, alleys, and passages.
“So beautiful and warm,” said Wade, making notes about the sites in his notebook. “Strange sensation. My fingers don’t actually ache.”
“Going back will be hard,” said Lily. “Mostly on my toes.”
When they entered the plaza between the twin pillars of San Marco and San Teodoro, Becca stopped dead. Against one side of the piazza stood a tower whose main feature was a giant twenty-four-hour astronomical clock. The face of the clock was brilliant blue, the numbers around its face—Roman numerals, of course—were gold, and at the center stood an unmoving, dull-colored globe representing the earth.
“It is pre-Copernican, is it not?” asked the inspector.
“It is,” said Becca. “The earth is in the center of the clock, as if the sun were revolving around it.”
“Kind of my line,” said Wade, nudging her. “But exactly right.”
“The tower is called the Torre dell’Orologio. Saint Mark’s Clock Tower,” Lily said. “Built in 1497.”
The fiery, smiling face of the sun was mounted on the hour hand. The face was divided into several concentric discs, which, they guessed, turned at different speeds to reflect the movement of the sun and the moon around the earth. The moon was an orb sunk halfway into its circling disc, and turned on its own axis. Half the orb was blue, the other half gold, and when it revolved, the golden half illustrated the phases, from new moon to full and back again.
“It’s so beautiful,” Becca said. “It makes you think that astronomy—and Copernicus—are everywhere.”
“They are everywhere,” the inspector whispered as he scanned the piazza. “But Galina is here as well. Let us lay low until the opera.”
That brought Lily and the rest of them back to reality. They weren’t tourists. They had never been tourists.
After finding reasonably priced clothing shops, where they bought a few scarves and a necktie each for Wade and Inspector Yazinsky, they hid out the rest of the day.
At twenty minutes before nine, under stars glittering like jewels against the blue Venetian sky, they arrived at the old opera house, hoping to peel away yet another layer of the onion.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Saint Petersburg
Near the intersection of Rimskogo-Korsakova and Sadovaya Streets stood Saint Petersburg’s Central Railway Museum.
To Darrell it was a world of dust. A bright young man who looked like he did everything from cataloging ancient maps to mopping the floors ushered them into a large, frigid room known as the Cherepanov Archives. The collection included virtually untouched and unexamined historical and topographical maps from the last one hundred sixty years of railway exploration.
Narrowing their search was Isabella Mercanti’s vague but vital clue—“Greywolf”—along with a surprise lead the detective Paul Ferrere had brought from Paris: an unidentified private jet had been tracked into the wastelands north and east of the city.
One hour earlier, Paul had met them at the train station and introduced his colleague. “My right-hand operative, Marceline Dufort,” he said.
“Dufort?” said Roald as they headed for a taxicab. “Are you related at all to—”
“I am Bernard’s sister,” she said.
Like Isabella’s husband, Bernard Dufort was another original member of Asterias, and a Guardian. His murder in Paris had led directly to the death of Heinrich Vogel—Uncle Henry—which had then led the Kaplans to become involved in the relic hunt.
“Wow, we’re pleased to have you with us,” said Darrell. “Thanks for helping.”
At the museum, Marceline located a large map from 1852 and spread it out on one of the many worktables in the main map room. “Let us begin with this.”
Paul traced his finger across it, north from Madrid. “The jet that Galina Krause flies is a Mystère-Falcon,” he said. “On a full tank, the Falcon has a flying range of two thousand kilometers. If she flew from Madrid to here, she would have to refuel, most likely in Berlin, where we know she has a private airstrip. Assuming that she did not refuel again, a straight flight from Berlin to the Saint Petersburg area would have landed her no farther than this area.”
He circled a two-hundred-mile region of forests and hills to the northeast of the city. “Because we believe the fortress was a former headquarters of the KGB, and thus within heavily monitored airspace, no present-day satellite map we could find shows its exact location. That is why our search of old maps may provide our only real evidence of Greywolf’s existence.”
Darrell felt upbeat for the first time in days. “We’re getting closer, Dad.”
“I think so, too.”
They each took a different group of maps and scoured the region, with, at first, little luck. Then Darrell found something. He thought he found something. While searching a crusty French map from 1848 of the forests of the Republic of Karelia—in the center of Galina’s flight zone—Darrell found himself squinting at the tiniest inked writing he had ever seen. Inside a series of concentric circles meant to designate a hill were six almost invisible letters.
Chât. L.G.
“What does chat mean in French?” he asked.
Marceline smiled. “It means ‘cat.’ Where do you see this?”
He pressed his finger on the map. Marceline saw what he was pointing at, and her smile dropped. “No, no. Chat means ‘cat,’ but chât with a period and an accent like this means it is an abbreviation. It could mean château. ‘Castle.’”
Roald was by his side now, bending over the map. “What could the initials LG mean?”
“Ah!” said Paul, sharing a look with his colleague. “Your son has found something. LG are not the initials for a person. LG very probably means loup gris.”
“Dad?” said Darrell.
Roald instantly put his arms around him. “Loup gris is ‘grey wolf.’ You found your mother, Darrell. You found her!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Venice
The Gran Teatro opera house was a simple stone box with four columns separating large, dark-paneled entry portals.
Now that they were hiding behind the base of a large statue of a man in armor, knowing that Galina would soon be there, Wade was a mess of nerves. His senses were raw. Everything meant something. Nothing meant nothing, and he needed to take in every detail.
“Let us wait and watch,” the inspector whispered. “Once everyone enters, we will lose ourselves in the crowd.”
“I feel so out of place,” Becca said.
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“No way,” said Lily. “We’re as important as anybody. More important, I’d say. Just think about what we’re doing. Who else in this crowd is after an ancient relic and a murderer and is a Guardian and is going to see a famous opera? Nobody but us. Not that anyone will ever know, because real heroes don’t seek the spotlight, but we’ll know.”
“You’re starting to talk like Darrell now,” Wade said.
“He must have infected me,” she said.
At ten minutes before nine, four boys in feathered costumes descended the stairs, ringing hand bells. This was the signal that it was time to enter the opera house.
“That is our invitation,” the inspector said. “Let’s find our box. Be alert.”
Weaving into the crowd, the four ascended the stairs and were greeted by two smiling attendants in muted uniforms. Presenting their ticket, which was apparently good for up to eight people, they entered the lobby. A wide and tall flight of carpeted stairs stood ahead of them. It led to the upper seats.
“Box Three-Seventeen is on the third tier, halfway up,” Becca said, holding Boris’s ticket. “I feel like we’re approaching the scene of a crime now that Boris is . . . you know.”
Wade nodded. “Me, too. Everybody, keep your eyes open.”
“And ears,” said Lily. “This is an opera, after all.”
“Well said,” added the inspector.
They were finally shown to scatola del teatro 317 by a woman in a maroon suit. She unlocked the door and let them into a narrow room opening up to the inside of the theater. A heavy velvet curtain hung from the ceiling of the box, separating the hallway door from the seats.
When Wade gently pulled the curtain aside, he gasped. “Are you kidding me?”
From the square outside, the plain facade of Gran Teatro La Fenice gave little hint of the opulent and enormous theater inside. The walls were painted gold. Sconces of spherical lights outside each box shone like fairy bulbs on the orchestra-level seats below. Dozens of boxes on five levels were filling up, while hundreds of people moved about in the aisles below. The orchestra pit was peopled by black-suited musicians, tuning, playing scales and melodies, chatting, or calmly waiting for everyone to sit.
Their box opened onto the hall like its own stage, while the box itself was luxury Wade had never experienced before. Beside the velvet-covered railing were eight tufted armchairs aimed at a precise angle to the stage. The chairs were gold and white and reminded him of the furniture in Terence’s apartment in New York. As if the theater weren’t showy enough, a heavy crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, bathing the hall in brilliant, warm light. It blinked once, twice, and they sat down in the shadows of the box and waited.
Wade knew Mozart, of course, though Bach, being so mathematical, was his favorite composer. Still, he was eager to hear The Magic Flute and wished Darrell were there with him to appreciate it. On the other hand, he wanted to be discovering the location of Greywolf with Darrell and his father in Saint Petersburg, too. He decided to phone his father. It went to voice mail. He tried Darrell and that too went to voice mail.
Five minutes passed. No one entered the box from the hall. The lights dimmed. The last remaining guests took their seats; everyone quieted.
“I hope they find where Greywolf is,” Wade whispered.
“They will,” said Becca.
“I believe so, too,” said the inspector. “Let me tell you, I will be happy to get you back together with them as soon as I can. I am far out of my comfort here. But hush now. It begins. Eyes open.”
The conductor waved his baton several times, and the audience’s quiet turned to utter silence. It was an amazing moment, but nothing like the one that followed, when the conductor flicked his baton up.
Coming from such profound silence, the initial chord of the overture was thunderous and deep, a call to attention and an invitation to the mystery to follow, as if to say, Wake up! Listen, and you’ll hear a fantastic story . . . !
From that instant on, Wade was hooked.
Whenever Becca heard a piece of music that touched her somehow—and The Magic Flute’s overture was exhilarating and deeply moving—she wanted to share it right away with her sister. Maggie was far more musical than she was. As soon as she made it back to Austin, and everyone was safe again, Becca would share this, too.
The overture ended with booming chords, kettle drums, and bright strings, and the audience applauded wildly. This lasted several seconds, until the conductor raised his baton high once more, and the hall quieted again.
With intimations of danger, the stage curtain lifted on a scene of stylized rocks in a wilderness of mountains. A man named Tamino came in singing urgently. The insistent strains of violins rose and fell behind him. Still singing, he pulled an arrow out of a quiver and shot it offstage.
The arrow reminded Becca that they were looking for Galina. She scanned the rows of spectators below. But would the leader of the Teutonic Order be sitting among them? No, she’d be moving around like a cat, in the halls, maybe in the high seats, searching.
The children in the audience shrieked with delight. A green, scaly, outrageously horned, and slightly comical serpent appeared. A serpent, of all things!
With human feet obviously visible below the scaly hide, the serpent opened its mechanical jaws. It belched out a cloud of red smoke, as if it were breathing fire. It lunged awkwardly at the man, who shot more arrows. Then the serpent wounded the man. He fell. At the same time, three cloaked figures emerged from behind one of the strange rock formations. They carried spears, and—singing, of course—they stabbed the serpent, who fell over in a heap, which set the children cheering once more.
Despite the opera’s comedic elements, Becca saw another story unfolding. The evil serpent was Albrecht. Copernicus was the archer, and the three mysterious helpers who slayed the serpent were none other than the Guardians.
Becca glanced over at Lily and Wade. Their mouths were open, their eyes fixed on the stage. She tapped Lily’s hand.
Lily turned to her. Her cheeks were wet. “It’s so . . .”
“It is!” Becca whispered.
The opera was performed in German, but the supertitles were in Italian. Either way, only Becca and, from the look of it, Inspector Yazinsky understood the story, though it was easy enough to grasp the action. After the serpent-slaying scene, there appeared a comical friend of the archer. This was the bird catcher Papageno, a scruffy-looking guy laden with birdcages. Birdcages! She thought of Boris again and grew sad. Though parts of the story were funny, it was hard not to see it as deadly serious. The story centered on a flute with magical powers, but its true meaning was in the trials of the young archer and a young woman who was the captive of a bunch of evil people. That, too, was like their life right now.
Sara was the captive.
After what seemed like a short while but was nearly an hour, Wade leaned over to her and Lily. He was frowning. “If no one’s going to show, maybe the message for Boris is hidden in the box somewhere. Or maybe we’ve been fooled—”
The hall door whooshed open behind them and the velvet curtain twisted aside. An older woman in a gown stood there, clutching the curtain, her face as pale as ice. Inspector Yazinsky rose instantly. “Madam, you are hurt?”
“Where is Boris?” she gasped. “Galina Krause . . .”
“Boris is dead,” Wade said, rising from his chair. “Galina killed him. Is she here—?”
The woman stumbled forward, tearing the curtain from its rings. She fell awkwardly toward the inspector, then slid to the floor among the chairs. The black handle of a knife protruded from her side.
“She . . . took . . . it . . . ,” the woman gasped.
“It? Boris’s message?” asked Wade.
The inspector bolted out the door into the hall. “I’ll follow Galina.”
“I’ll get a doctor!” said Wade, and he ran out of the box with the inspector.
“Help is coming,” Lily said to the woman as
she and Becca knelt next to her.
“I never knew what the message meant,” the woman mumbled. “Only Boris . . . the clock . . .” Her voice faded as the music continued.
“What clock?” asked Lily. “Did you have a clock for Boris?”
“Midnight . . .” The woman’s eyes glazed, and breath rushed out of her mouth.
“Oh no. Oh no.” Becca leaned over the railing. “Doctor!” she cried. “We need a doctor!” People in the neighboring boxes tried at first to shush her. “Medico!” she shouted. “Abbiamo bisogno di un medico!”
The music stopped raggedly. Faces stared up from the orchestra and the stage. The rear door of the box opened. Wade rushed in with a handful of medical personnel.
“Galina stole the message, a clock,” Lily said. “Where’s the inspector?”
“Following her. Come on!” Wade took Becca and Lily by the wrists and pulled them after him. “She’s escaping, but we can catch her.” They pushed against the crushing flow of people running to box 317.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Wade was out quickly enough to see Inspector Yazinsky racing after Galina down a set of stone steps leading to the water. Galina flew like a shadow around a corner and vanished. Wade panicked. She reappeared on the stone landing.
“Is she alone?” asked Becca “I don’t see—”
“Not likely,” said Lily. “Not if there’s a relic at stake.”
But is the relic here? Wade wondered as they tore down the steps to the inspector. Or was Galina in Venice only to intercept the message meant for Boris? And a message about what? From whom? Galina wouldn’t take this side trip from Russia by herself. Then where were the others? The Italian faction of the Order they hadn’t seen yet?
They reached the water just as Galina hopped into a waiting motorboat. The man at the helm didn’t look like an agent of the Order, but he gunned the engine loudly, and the boat roared away. The inspector waved to the boats, calling in Russian. They didn’t move.