Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  “Because of the map? What was that man even talking about? There’s no map in any of the paintings.”

  “The Vespers believe that there are hidden symbols in the altarpiece that, when translated correctly, identify a number of secret locations around the world. Hiding places for something of great value.”

  Matheus tilted his head to the side. “A treasure?”

  Father Gerard gave him a sad smile. “If only that were it.”

  Matheus closed his eyes as the terrible image he’d been struggling to banish took root in his mind. His mother lying on the floor. Whatever the Vespers were looking for, they couldn’t be allowed to find it. Matheus would see to that.

  A soft wind blew through the tower, and the air streaming across the bell created a whistling sound, like ghosts of last night’s ringing. No, Matheus thought as he listened closer. It sounds like a voice. He could almost hear the bell whispering to him. He craned his head up to look at the brightening sky, and mouthed a silent good-bye.

  Massachusetts, 1945

  Grace Cahill held the two envelopes in her hand: one beige, one light blue. She stared at them for a moment before crumpling the blue envelope into a ball and tossing it into the crackling fireplace — the one redeeming feature of the dreary senior common room at Miss Harper’s School for Girls. It didn’t matter that the blue letter had been sent all the way from Paris. She was done with all that.

  That Grace Cahill didn’t exist anymore.

  All she cared about was the second envelope, which bore a US Army stamp and a label that read Passed by Army Examiner. Grace had received a few similar envelopes ever since her favorite teacher, Mr. Blythe, or rather, Captain Blythe, had joined the army. Although an old football injury had left him unfit for normal military service, the government had made an exception when they recruited for some top secret project involving stolen works of art. And so, three years after the United States entered the Second World War, Mr. Blythe resigned from his art history post and shipped overseas.

  Grace slid her finger under the seal and carefully opened the envelope. The letter inside was scribbled on very thin stationery, and there were all sorts of stains and fingerprints around the edges from the censor assigned to screen it for security breaches. Grace trembled as she ran her finger over the wrinkled paper. It almost seemed to have battle scars of its own.

  Grace grasped the arm of the couch as the room began to spin. She tried to force herself to breathe, but her chest seemed to be tightening, collapsing the space between her rib cage and her heart.

  It wasn’t just the shock of seeing Mr. Blythe’s distinct handwriting. It wasn’t fear that the army was unearthing her family’s deepest secrets.

  It was because Mr. Blythe was dead.

  Grace leaned back against the couch, oblivious to the metal springs jabbing her spine.

  Three weeks ago, during morning convocation, the headmistress had made the grave announcement. “I regret to inform you,” she’d said stiffly, “that Mr. Blythe was killed in action during a secret operation in Germany.” She placed the emphasis on odd words, like an actor reading a script for the first time, and for a moment, the meaning hung in the air. But then the chapel filled with the wails of girls — some genuinely distraught, some exaggerating their grief for the young, well-liked teacher.

  Unlike the other faculty members at Miss Harper’s School, who doubted whether girls really needed to know much more than etiquette and dancing, Mr. Blythe had considered it his job to challenge his students. He’d taken a special interest in Grace and told her she was destined for “great things.”

  He had no idea.

  By the time she’d met Mr. Blythe, Grace had already flown a plane into the middle of a battle. She’d even found one of the 39 Clues that her family — some of the most powerful people in history — had spent centuries looking for.

  It’d been easy to risk her life when she thought she was protecting the Clues from the power-hungry Cahill branches, or the mysterious Vespers. But over the past year, as news from Europe came streaming in through somber radio reports, chilling newspaper photos, and casualty lists, an unsettling realization began to fray the edges of her fantasy. The Cahills weren’t saving the world — they were going on an insane treasure hunt while the world burned around them.

  This was why Grace had been ignoring the blue envelopes. They were from a Cahill at the Louvre museum in Paris, who wanted Grace’s help tracking down a painting — something to do with the Clues, no doubt. A year ago, she would have been intrigued by the challenge, but now the thought made her ill. She could only imagine the ways her more ruthless relatives had found to exploit a war that had already claimed millions of lives.

  She glanced down at the letter and felt her stomach twist.

  And now one more.

  Grace ran her finger over the paper. Mr. Blythe must have written it a few days before he died. The envelope had traversed the war-ravaged landscape, avoiding bombs and bullets, in order to find its way to her.

  It had survived, while the man who had written it had not.

  She folded it in half carefully and tucked it into her bag. The war might not have stopped the Cahills, but they would have to carry on without her.

  She was done.

  By the time she arrived at the lecture hall, everyone else was seated. Grace had just slid into a seat by the door when Miss Harper, the headmistress, swept inside, followed by a woman she’d never seen before.

  There was a faint rustling as the students hurried to straighten their papers, smooth their hair, and readjust their skirts so the hems draped gracefully over their knees. The headmistress cleared her throat. “Mrs. Prentice has taken ill and will be unable to teach for the rest of the semester.”

  That was odd. Just yesterday, Grace had walked past the faculty lounge and caught a glimpse of the sprightly Mrs. Prentice showing the chemistry teacher how to foxtrot. She certainly hadn’t seemed ill then.

  “Fortunately, we were able to find a wonderful substitute, Mademoiselle Hubert.” The headmistress pronounced the name “Oo-bear,” contorting her mouth as if forcing her reluctant lips to wrap around the foreign-sounding syllables. “She recently arrived from Paris to study . . .” She glanced at Mlle Hubert.

  “Nineteenth-century American painting,” the other woman said, her French accent coating the words like a glossy veneer. “I spend most of my time in Boston, but I am happy for the chance to teach a few days a week.”

  Grace had trouble believing that Mlle Hubert harbored a deep desire to teach. With her sleek bobbed hair, dark red lips, and elegantly tailored suit, she looked like she should be posing for a photographer in front of the Eiffel Tower instead of locked in a musty classroom, trying in vain to convince Mary Atkinson that Monet and Manet were two different people.

  However, that wasn’t the only reason Grace had trouble taking her eyes off Mlle Hubert. She looked vaguely familiar, yet Grace couldn’t remember where she’d seen her. Perhaps their paths had crossed at one of the Boston museums. Over the past few years, she’d spent a good deal of her free time wandering around the Museum of Fine Arts. She’d even taken her little brother, Fiske, with her a few times. Although he’d never get to meet their mother, Grace could show him the paintings that had meant so much to Edith. Grace knew it was silly, but it was a comfort to drink in the same images her mother had loved.

  “Lovely,” the headmistress said quickly. She clasped her hands and smiled at the class. “I suppose that’s all. Be good for Mlle Hubert, girls,” she said as she headed toward the door.

  “Well then,” Mlle Hubert said, addressing the students. She smiled, and the corners of her ruby lips spread across her pale cheeks like a ribbon of blood. “Today, we discuss the Northern European Renaissance.”

  Arlene Swenson, a nervous-looking girl with shortly cropped curly hair, raised her hand. Mlle Hubert nodded at her. “Yes?”

  “We’ve been studying the Impressionists, miss —” Mlle Hubert raised her eyebr
ow. “I mean, mademoiselle.”

  “Bah. I cannot stand zee Impressionists.” Mlle Hubert waved her hand dismissively. “All those silly dots.” She took a breath. “Non. The Renaissance painters were the real masters. I show you.” She sauntered over to the wall, switched off the lights, and slipped a slide into the projector. An image of a dour-looking man in a floppy black hat flashed onto the screen at the front of the classroom. “Voilà. Here we have very important work . . . erm, ‘Man in Hat.’ ”

  Arlene cleared her throat. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but isn’t that Rembrandt’s self-portrait?”

  “Ah, yes, that is the more . . . colloquial title.”

  She switched slides and a new painting appeared — a richly colored Madonna and child. “And another . . . very famous . . . masterpiece. ‘Lady in Long Dress.’ ”

  “Hold on. Isn’t that —”

  Mlle Hubert changed the slide before Arlene had a chance to speak.

  “Wait!” Isabel Faust called out. “Can you go back? I didn’t get to finish my notes.”

  “No time,” Mlle Hubert said brusquely. “We have much to do.” The next slide appeared, a chilling depiction of Christ’s crucifixion. “How charming.” She clicked through the next four paintings so quickly Grace didn’t have time to register what they were.

  “Ah, here we are,” Mlle Hubert said, as a new image filled the screen.

  Grace inhaled sharply as a flood of long-forgotten memories swept through her. It was “The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb,” Jan van Eyck’s masterpiece, and her mother’s favorite work of art.

  “Sadly, the altarpiece disappeared a few years after the start of the war.” Mlle Hubert’s voice pulled Grace back from her thoughts.

  “How can something that size disappear?” Arlene asked, a hint of skepticism coloring her tone.

  “It is a tragic story.” The teacher sighed dramatically. “After the war began, the altarpiece was brought from Belgium to France for safekeeping. The director of the Louvre had arranged for important pieces to be hidden throughout the country, away from the fighting. But the ‘Lamb’ was seized by the Germans and has not been seen since.”

  Although the crowded classroom was stuffy and warm, a chill passed over Grace. It was like hearing someone had died. She knew it was silly — the people in the paintings weren’t alive. They didn’t care whether they stood in the sun-drenched cathedral or in the dank basement of some Nazi art thief.

  The altarpiece was another casualty of war, just like Mr. Blythe.

  Grace tried to put it out of her mind, but an idea had formed that she couldn’t uproot.

  The altarpiece had been in the Louvre’s care when it went missing. The woman writing her from Paris — Rose Valland — worked for the Louvre. Could that be what she wanted Grace to find? She instinctively reached into her bag to run her fingers along the edge of Mr. Blythe’s letter. His section was in charge of tracking down missing works of art. A wave of nausea passed over her. Had he been looking for the “Lamb” as well?

  Grace held on to the edge of the desk as the room began to spin. For centuries, the Cahills had been using the military for their own purposes. Napoleon sent the French army to invade Egypt to help him find a lost Clue. What if Mr. Blythe’s department had been set up by Cahills searching for the altarpiece?

  We could be the ones who sent him into danger.

  We killed him.

  “Ahem.” She looked up and saw Mlle Hubert staring at her.

  Grace swallowed, trying to suppress the bile rising up from her stomach. “Can you repeat the question?”

  The teacher pursed her red lips. “I was explaining that Van Eyck hid a number of messages in the work, and I was hoping that you would be so kind as to locate one on the slide.”

  The other girls all turned to stare at Grace, but her eyes were automatically drawn toward one of the figures in the background. She knew that there were Hebrew letters painted onto the band of his hat, but something about Mlle Hubert’s expression made her hesitant to mention it aloud.

  “I’m not sure . . . sorry.”

  A flash of irritation crossed Mlle Hubert’s face. “You look at one of the most beautiful, complex works of art in the world and think nothing? C’est dommage.” Mlle Hubert shook her head. “Perhaps you are more interested in whatever is in your bag?”

  Grace glanced down and saw that her hand was still inside her satchel. She snatched it back and placed both hands in her lap. “No, mademoiselle.”

  The teacher took a step forward and extended her smooth, slender arm. “Give it to me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I am not going to ask you again.”

  Grace reached into her bag and removed the envelope, the sweat from her palm seeping into the paper.

  The clack of Mlle Hubert’s high heels echoed through the room as she strode toward Grace and snatched the letter out of her hand. “From a boy, I assume?” She smirked. “It is best that I take it. You obviously cannot afford to be distracted from your studies.”

  As Mlle Hubert sauntered back toward the projector, Grace felt a fresh wave of grief pass over her. But then her pain hardened into anger. She might not have been able to save Mr. Blythe, but she could certainly save his last letter.

  Mlle Oo-bear had no idea who she was dealing with.

  Grace hit the ground silently. It had been six months since she’d gone for a midnight training run — six months since she’d resolved that her days as a Madrigal agent were over. But she hadn’t lost her knack for balancing on the sill, leaping for the tree branch, and then dropping lightly onto the spongy grass below.

  She wasn’t going to allow Mr. Blythe’s last letter to molder away like some forgotten prisoner.

  She was going to get it back.

  Grace jogged across the lawn toward the back gate, passing Kendrick Hall, the ivy-covered building that housed the teachers’ offices. A light on the second floor caught her eye and a dark figure passed in front of the glowing window. Grace recognized the elegant silhouette.

  It was Mlle Hubert.

  Grace ducked behind a tree.

  The window went dark, and Grace exhaled with relief. A minute later, a figure emerged from the building and hurried down the path, away from Grace.

  When Mlle Hubert disappeared from sight, Grace darted out from behind the tree and ran up to the front door of Kendrick Hall. She turned the handle. It was locked. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Grace dashed around to the side of the building. She stood there for a moment with her back pressed up against cold brick.

  She surveyed the lawn one more time, then turned around. The large bricks were old and uneven, which made it easy to find a foothold and hoist herself off the ground. Grace reached up, feeling the bricks for more cracks, and pulled herself even higher. A gust of wind rushed by, twisting the hem of her dress around her calves. Grace tightened her grip and shook her legs free one at a time. After flying an airplane into the middle of a raging battle and dodging bullets in the Tower of London, sneaking into a second-floor office was a piece of cake.

  Grace rested her knee on the windowsill, braced one arm against the wall, and pulled up on the sash. It was unlocked. She lowered herself onto the floor, wrinkling her nose. Mlle Hubert had only been here one day, and already the room had changed. Mrs. Prentice’s office had always smelled like coffee and gingersnaps, but now the still air was saturated with the scent of perfume and cigarettes.

  The room was dark, but the dim moonlight that filtered through the glass provided just enough illumination to poke around. Grace crept over toward the desk, scanning the jumble of papers, books, ashtrays, and teacups with red lipstick stains on the rims, but the envelope was nowhere to be seen.

  A noise from downstairs sent Grace diving under the desk. She couldn’t afford to be caught breaking into a teacher’s office. Her father had warned her that she was one suspension away from being sent to live with distant relatives in Siberia. Not that the school would even be abl
e to get hold of James Cahill if they caught her. Last she heard, he was in Brazil. Or was it Finland?

  Grace tucked her legs in and braced for the sound of approaching footsteps. But none came. Sighing, she leaned back against the table leg and winced as something dug into the space between her shoulder blades. Grace twisted around and saw a raised seam running partway down the leg of the desk, as if a section had been replaced. She ran her finger along the edge, feeling it wiggle slightly, then dug her nails under the seam and pulled. A chunk of wood slid out, revealing a cylinder of tightly rolled paper.

  Grace crept out from under the desk to where there was slightly more light, ignoring the thud of her heart against her chest. Had Mrs. Prentice done this? Or had her replacement been redecorating?

  She removed the top paper and spread it out on the floor, holding the edges down to keep it flat.

  It was a telegram sent from Berlin to Paris, dated a few weeks back. But it wasn’t written in any language she recognized. Certainly not German or French. She lowered her head for a closer look. The letters were all familiar — it was just the order that didn’t make sense. It almost looked like a code, but what sort of art history teacher was in the habit of hiding encrypted messages?

  She ignored the prickle of fear in her stomach. There was no reason to jump to conclusions.

  Not until she cracked the code.

  Grace stood up and rummaged through the desk clutter for a pencil and a piece of paper. The message looked like it could be a substitution cipher, and since the letter V showed up a number of times on its own, that meant it probably stood for either I or A. If V stood for I, then it made sense that W would stand for J and so on. She started to scribble, her brow furrowing as a stream of nonsense appeared. She crossed it out and tried again, this time, with V standing in for A.

  This time, the words looked familiar. The message was written in French! Grace knew the language well enough to translate.