Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  By the time Grace reached the village, her heart was thudding so loudly she was surprised the army hadn’t been called in to investigate the commotion. Unsure what to do, she sat on a bench and tried her best to look Austrian. Whatever that meant.

  The clip-clop of hooves caught her attention and she looked up. A bony gray horse was pulling a large wagon covered with a tarp. Although the driver looked like a normal farmer, Grace gasped when she saw the three men walking beside the wagon.

  With their long coats, shiny tall boots, and red armbands, there was no mistaking them. They were members of the SS — the most elite — and deadly — unit in Hitler’s army.

  The SS had been one of the keys to Hitler’s rise to power. They arrested people in the middle of the night. They tortured anyone they thought had useful information. Anyone who posed a threat was taken into a dark alley and shot. It didn’t matter that Grace was only seventeen. That she was a girl. If she were caught, she’d been treated like a spy.

  She’d be tortured.

  Then killed.

  “Alles in Ordnung, Fräulein?”

  Grace looked up and found herself facing one of the officers. He had a curved scar that stretched from the corner of his mouth to the tip of his ear. His expression was inscrutable. He might have been commenting on the weather, or accusing her of treason.

  “Ja,” she croaked, praying he’d only said “How are you?”

  The officer stared at her for a moment. The he nodded, spun on his heel, and began marching back toward the wagon.

  Grace half exhaled, half sobbed, burying her face in her sleeve. She had to get out of here. There was no way she was going to find the altarpiece. The only thing to do was try to escape with her life.

  Grace looked up and saw the wagon turning a corner. The tarp didn’t stretch all the way down, allowing her a glimpse of the cargo. It was dynamite.

  It was true. They were going to blow up the altarpiece.

  If she was correct about the dynamite, then chances were that wagon was heading to the secret storehouse. This was her best shot.

  Grace leaped to her feet and scurried after the wagon. When the SS officers were looking the other way, she lifted the tarp and scrambled underneath it.

  She was a mouse diving headfirst into a snake pit.

  A mouse delusional enough to think it could save the world.

  This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, Grace admitted to herself as she rocked back and forth with the movement of the wagon, struggling to keep her balance while sitting on a pile of fused dynamite.

  After climbing steadily for about twenty minutes, the wagon stopped. The officers began barking orders in German, and she heard the clomp of approaching boots. Grace tunneled deeper under the mound of explosives, praying that they weren’t planning on unloading it all at once. There was a flurry of shouting and activity, and Grace could feel the top layer of dynamite being carried off the wagon.

  With every movement, the soldiers came closer to discovering her.

  She didn’t think her heart could race any faster, but then she felt a breeze brush against the back of her calf and realized her leg was exposed.

  A strange numbness passed over her, as if the faster her heart beat, the slower the rest of her body became. In just a moment, it would stop forever. She was sure of it.

  Would it hurt? Or would the soldiers just shoot her in the head and be done with it? She braced against the bottom of the wagon, waiting for the crack of the gun followed by . . . whatever came after.

  “Halt!” a voice rang out. The movement in the wagon stopped, and she heard the sound of footsteps growing fainter. Whoever had been unloading the wagon seemed to have moved away. Grace sat up slowly and crept to the edge. She took a breath and then peeked around the side.

  To her surprise, she wasn’t in the town. She’d assumed the art would be hidden in a fortified villa, or perhaps a discreet-looking warehouse. But the wagon had stopped halfway up a steep hill, next to the entrance of some sort of cave, or perhaps a mine. There were soldiers rushing in and out, giving orders to the workers carrying stacks of dynamite inside.

  She ducked back behind the wagon as two long lines of soldiers marched by in rigid formation. The clomp of their boots could have been used as a metronome. They weren’t wearing the elaborate uniforms of the SS officers, but they all had red armbands emblazoned with large black swastikas that made Grace’s stomach churn with revulsion.

  Something was definitely going on. Grace was no military expert, but she knew that you didn’t send what looked like more than forty soldiers to guard a mine. Unless there was something important inside.

  When the coast was clear, Grace darted from the wagon and dove behind a large rock next to the entrance. She caught her breath for a moment, and then peered around. Some of the dynamite was being loaded into metal trolleys whose tracks seemed to stretch down into the mine. If the altarpiece was somewhere inside, the trolley would probably take her there.

  She watched the movement of soldiers and workers for a moment, waiting for a break in the flow. Her heartbeat was loud but had slowed considerably, as if it were counting down the moments before she made the riskiest move of her life.

  Three . . . two . . . go! Grace launched out from behind the rock, took a few flying steps, and leaped into the trolley, landing with a clank that shuddered through her whole body. She heard an officer bark another round of orders, and suddenly, the trolley began to move. She was heading into the mine.

  The light faded rapidly as she rolled down the tracks. For a moment, she was swallowed by complete darkness, but then the trolley swept around a bend and Grace found herself in a passage lit with flickering bulbs. She listened for the sound of footsteps or voices, but there was nothing but the buzz of electricity.

  Grace rose to her knees, wincing as she rubbed her elbows. Apparently, being a Madrigal meant spending your whole life black-and-blue. But as Grace looked up, her grimace collapsed into a gasp. This wasn’t just a mine; it was a sophisticated storage facility. Metal shelves lined the stone walls, interspersed with heavy hooks.

  But that wasn’t what took Grace’s breath away.

  It was the paintings.

  There were thousands of them hung in neat rows, stretching all the way down the passage until they disappeared into the darkness. Enormous oil paintings, smaller pastels, horizontal landscapes, and round portraits. She blinked, expecting the paintings to vanish, like the fragments of a dream fading in the sunlight. But there they were.

  The trolley stopped and Grace climbed out. She glanced over her shoulder and dashed over to where a canvas tarp draped over a ladder. There were noises coming down the passageway, angry voices and stomping boots.

  “What do you think you are doing?” a man whispered in English.

  “Warum sprechen Sie auf Englisch?”

  “I am speaking in English so that no one overhears me and panics,” the first man answered. Grace peered through a hole in the tarp and saw a tall officer with silvery hair gritting his teeth with frustration. “The Allies are coming. They are less than ten miles away.”

  The other man, also wearing an officer’s uniform, stared at him in shock. “What are our orders?”

  The first man scowled. “We stuff the mine with dynamite, and light the fuse.”

  The second man glanced around, bewildered. “Without removing the art?”

  “Ja,” the first officer spat. “Now go fetch your men. Schnell!” He spun on his heel and marched away. The second man muttered something in German and then followed.

  Grace felt her knees buckle as she grasped on to the cold wall for balance. She probably had no more than five minutes to find the altarpiece. But then what? She didn’t even have a gun. How was she supposed to keep it safe until the Allies arrived?

  She glanced around to make sure the coast was clear and then stepped out from behind the ladder. A light in the next passageway caught her eye — a faint sparkle in the darkness. She walked towar
d it, feeling the air grow cooler as she moved deeper into the mine.

  It was the angel Gabriel’s wing, painted with exquisite gold leaf, glittering from an enormous painting.

  It was the altarpiece.

  She’d found it.

  At first, she was simply mesmerized by the colors — vibrant hues she’d never even thought to imagine while looking at the black-and-white photos in her mother’s book. It was uncanny to see the faces she knew so well displayed on such a grand scale — like seeing a movie star walking down the street. Some of them looked so realistic that Grace had trouble focusing her gaze. It almost felt rude to stare.

  Grace looked around. The altarpiece was in a cave of sorts off the main passage into the mine. She rapped her knuckles against the stone wall. It felt strong enough to withstand at least a small explosion. But would that be enough to keep the “Lamb” safe if the Nazis lit the fuse?

  If there were a way to seal off the entrance to the cave, the altarpiece might survive a larger blast. She dashed out into the passage. The trolley was still there, full of dynamite. She grabbed an armful of sticks and ran back to the altarpiece, silently cursing the faculty at Miss Harper’s School for never teaching her anything useful.

  Like explosives.

  Ten minutes later, Grace stepped back to survey her handiwork. It was an admittedly shoddy job. Her Ekaterina cousin Bae Oh would certainly have laughed at her. But she’d wedged a stick of dynamite above the entrance to the cavern — far enough away to seal the entrance to the cave, but leave the walls, and the contents, intact.

  If the explosion was too small, the guards would find her before she’d secured the “Lamb.” They’d kill her and then destroy the altarpiece.

  If the explosion was too big, it would destroy the whole mine — killing her and everyone in it. All those workers she’d seen filing in and out. They weren’t Nazis — they were just men struggling to support their families in the only home they’d ever known.

  Grace jumped as a shout rang through the mine. It was the officer. For all she knew, that could be his order for everyone to evacuate before they blew everything up.

  There was no time to lose.

  Grace pulled a matchbook out of her pocket and, with shaky fingers, extracted a match. She stared at it for a second before striking it against the stone wall. A tiny flame danced in the gloom. Grace took one last look at the altarpiece and whispered “Godspeed” before touching the match to the fuse.

  For a moment, she felt like she was running in slow motion. Then there was a bone-shaking boom followed by a wave of heat. The force of the blast knocked Grace to the ground. She felt a jolt of pain in her wrist that was quickly overshadowed by a burning sensation in her foot.

  She rolled onto her back, and saw that she was surrounded by thick black smoke.

  Grace scrambled to her feet, shrieking as a flame scorched her calf and began traveling along the hem of her skirt. She beat it out with her hand, spun around, and began running for her life

  She felt a wave of gravel and soot spray the back of her neck as she tore up the tracks. Halfway up, she found another empty trolley and dove inside, gasping for air as her body quaked from the effort. There was a chorus of shouts from above.

  “Sie sind hier!” a voice screamed.

  They’re here.

  “Zerstören das Altarbild!”

  Destroy the altarpiece!

  Grace heard some quiet mumbling, followed by a screech that practically seared her eardrums.

  “What do you mean, the cave is sealed?!”

  She couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled out of her. Grace turned and saw a soldier standing over the trolley, his gun raised directly over her head. And then everything went dark.

  “Miss . . . miss . . . Are you okay?” a voice called from somewhere far away.

  She sat up and was overcome by a wave of nausea. The world was a sea of wavy blue and green lines that refused to come into focus. “Lie back down,” the voice commanded as a large hand guided her head back to the ground. She blinked and saw someone standing over her. He was tall, and wearing a very dirty uniform.

  “Who are you?” Grace croaked. Her mouth felt like it was full of ash.

  “You’re American?” He lowered himself down to the ground and stared at her. “I’m Lieutenant Greene. What in God’s name are you doing in Austria?”

  “Is the altarpiece okay?” she asked, trying to sit up. The Allies had obviously arrived, but what had happened to the “Lamb”?

  “How do you know about that?” he asked, his eyes widening. “Who are you?”

  Grace ignored the question. “I . . . I . . . ” She inhaled sharply. “I think I might’ve blown it up.” Just saying the words was enough to start her body shaking.

  “Whoa! Calm down there.” Lieutenant Greene grabbed her shoulders. “It’s fine. We have a map of the storage facility — or whatever this thing is. The altarpiece was in its own cave that was somehow sealed off. It’s under some rubble, but our engineers think that it’s most likely intact.”

  Grace sighed, lowered herself back to the ground, and closed her eyes.

  “Just stay there,” she heard Lieutenant Greene say. “The medics are on their way. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back home safe.”

  Safe.

  The altarpiece hadn’t been destroyed. The Cahills still had a chance to learn what the Vespers were after and figure out a way to stop them.

  Someday, the word safe would mean something again.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine that punctuated the smoky air, and smiled. If you had to be lying half-unconscious somewhere, the Austrian Alps weren’t the worst place to be.

  She had a feeling she was going to end up in much stranger places before this thing was over. She wasn’t going to hide from it any longer — the Clues or the fight against the Vespers.

  The Vespers had been right to send Mlle Hubert after her. Grace was a threat.

  And she was just getting started.

  London, 2008

  Ian Kabra took a sip of espresso and grimaced.

  A flash of annoyance crossed the young woman’s face. “Is it all right, sir?” she asked, raising an over-plucked eyebrow. She was probably an art student who thought interning at an auction house meant cataloging Monets, not serving drinks to fourteen-year-olds.

  The espresso was perfectly revolting, but the auction was about to begin, and Ian needed to focus on bidding strategy. Besides, just looking at the girl’s acrylic blend cardigan made his skin itch. Why anyone would wear anything other than cashmere was beyond him. “It’s fine, thank you.”

  She smirked. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather a hot chocolate?”

  “I am quite accustomed to drinking coffee . . . Fiona,” Ian said, glancing at the girl’s name tag. “Only this tastes like it was brewed with the liquid that collects at the bottom of my horse’s trough.” Ian gave her the smile he normally reserved for attractive people — or very, very rich homely ones. “It’ll have to do, though. Now run along and go back to texting your no-doubt captivating friends, or whatever you thought was more important than making a proper espresso.”

  Fiona opened her mouth to reply, but shut it quickly as an elegant older woman came gliding toward them. She clasped Ian’s hand warmly. “Lovely to see you, Mr. Kabra. I trust your parents are well?”

  “Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Hatfield. Mummy sends her regards. She was unfortunately held up in Paris.”

  “Oh, dear. How inconvenient,” she said mildly. Ian knew Mrs. Hatfield was imagining his mother trying on scarves at an expensive boutique, or perhaps sipping champagne in an exclusive restaurant. But Ian’s parents weren’t just fabulously wealthy art dealers — they were the heads of the most elite branch of the Cahill family, the Lucians, and they were currently spearheading a plan to find the remaining 39 Clues — the key to the family’s historic power. The other branches tended to call the Lucians’ talent for blackmail, sabotage, and the odd
assasination “ruthless,” but that was just because they didn’t have what it took to win.

  Ian smiled. “She sent me to have a look at your Van Eyck.”

  “Ah, yes of course,” Mrs. Hatfield said rather breathlessly. “It is a very special piece. Although” — she glanced around the room, which was filling with men in dark suits and women in black dresses and high heels — “I have a feeling the bidding is going to be rather lively.” She placed her hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I hope your mother won’t be too disappointed if you don’t manage to win it for her, dear. This sort of thing takes some practice, you know.”

  Ian broadened his smile as he shrugged her hand away. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The first portion of the auction was horrendously dull. Ian flipped through the latest issue of Horse & Hound while a few middle-aged ladies squabbled over paintings of fruit and chubby angels.

  “And that’s lot number fourteen, ‘Still Life with Poppies,’ sold for four hundred, seventy-five thousand pounds.” The auctioneer banged his gavel on the podium. “Next, we have lot number fifteen, ‘Self-Portrait of the Artist’ by Jan Van Eyck.” A murmur rippled through the audience as the display case rotated to reveal the painting. Works by the fifteenth-century Flemish master rarely came up for sale, and this piece would be the crowning jewel of any collection.

  Ian didn’t particularly care for the painting of the scowling old man who looked like he could benefit from teeth whitening. But he knew that if his mother wanted it, it probably had an important connection to the Clue hunt.

  “The bidding will start at” — the auctioneer looked down at his notes — “two million pounds.”

  The woman next to Ian whistled. “Not exactly chump change, is it?” she said in an American accent. “What is that? About a million bucks?”

  Ian gave her a tight smile. “Try four million.”

  “Do I have two million?” the auctioneer drawled. A man in the second row raised his numbered paddle. The auctioneer nodded. “That’s two million. Do I have two point five?” A woman standing off to the side raised hers.