Operation Trinity

by Clifford, Riley

  Ian leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs forward. There was no reason to waste his energy waving his hand in the air like some trained monkey. The first bidder didn’t have a chance of winning the painting. While his suit appeared to be high quality, Ian could see the man’s car keys poking out of his pocket. If he had to drive himself to the auction, he’d never be able to afford a Van Eyck.

  He turned his attention to the woman, who after raising her bid to four million, leaned in to whisper to her companion. Her face had gone quite red. She would chicken out before long.

  Ian scanned the crowd, looking for the real players. A red-haired woman holding a Pomeranian looked promising. And the young man speaking discreetly into his mobile was surely receiving instructions from an absentee bidder. Ian removed his own mobile from his pocket and raised it up as if he were looking for a signal. The phone was custom designed for Lucian agents and contained a hacking application. He activated the program, and a few seconds later, a text transcription of the young man’s conversation began scrolling across the screen. He was authorized to go up to ten million pounds. Brilliant.

  “That’s six million pounds to the gentleman in the front. Do I have seven?”

  Ian’s mobile buzzed. He had a new text from his mother.

  WE’LL PICK YOU UP IN FIVE

  It was time to hurry things along. He used his mobile to access the banking information of his most promising competitors. Their most recent transfers would give him an idea of how much they were wiling to spend.

  “Seven million to the gentleman in the back. Do I have eight?”

  Ian made some quick calculations in his head, then raised his own paddle. “Sixteen point four million pounds,” he called out breezily.

  A silence fell over the room. The auctioneer blinked a few times. “Come again, sir?”

  “Sixteen point four million,” Ian said, rising to his feet. “Now, can we move it along? I haven’t got all day.”

  The auctioneer cleared his throat. “That’s sixteen point four million pounds going once . . .” Ian saw a few people shift uncomfortably in their seats, as if reconsidering their decisions. “Going twice . . .” The red-haired woman started to lift her paddle, but then lowered it quickly. “Sold to the young gentleman in the back.”

  Ian strode to the front of the room, ignoring the murmurs bubbling up from the crowd like clumsily poured champagne. The auctioneer smiled. “If you’ll kindly follow Mrs. Hatfield, she’ll arrange for delivery,” he said as two uniformed guards carefully removed the painting from the display.

  “I’ll take it with me now, actually.”

  The auctioneer’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Are you going to put it in your car?”

  His phone buzzed again.

  WE’RE OUTSIDE

  Ian spun on his heel, and beckoned for the guards to follow him with the painting. He made his way into the chandelier-lit hallway and down the marble stairs. When he reached the entrance to the auction house, the doorman held up his hand. “Just a moment, please, sir. There’s some sort of commotion outside.”

  But Ian pushed right past him and stepped into the street. Leaves and bits of paper swirled through the air as if a tornado had swept through London. Pedestrians were crouched behind mailboxes, or stood huddled in doorways.

  “Please, Mr. Kabra, wait!” Ian turned and saw the auctioneer standing beside him, gasping for breath. “You can’t treat a Van Eyck like a bag of takeaway fish and chips!”

  A shadow descended over the street and the wind picked up even more. There were a few faint screams as a sleek black helicopter came into view and lowered to the ground.

  Mummy had arrived.

  “That can’t be legal,” one of the awestruck guards muttered over the roar of the propellers.

  Ian rolled his eyes. Laws were for poor people.

  That’s why it was good to be a Kabra.

  Isabel Kabra smiled as Ian carefully placed the painting on the leather seat, and then sat down next to it. “Well done, darling,” she said, giving the portrait an appraising look.

  The helicopter rose into the air. Out the window, he could see pedestrians scattering like flustered pigeons. His eleven-year-old sister, Natalie, scowled from her seat next to their mother. “I think it’s horrid. I won’t have it in my room.”

  “We’ll make room for it in the gallery,” Isabel said, fishing through her purse for her ringing BlackBerry. “Hello?” She held her free hand out in front of her to examine her French manicure. It was flawless, as usual. “Yes, this is she. . . . Ian wasn’t in history class this afternoon?” She placed her hand over her mouth in an expression of mock horror, and then grinned at Ian. “Of course he wasn’t. He’s ill, the poor dear. . . . I completely forgot to ring you, I’m dreadfully sorry. . . . Yes, I’ll make sure he gets his assignments. . . . I quite agree, the French Revolution is very important. . . . Thank you, Ms. Wilcox. Good-bye.” Isabel smiled as she placed her phone in her lap. “As if that spinster could possibly teach you anything about the French Revolution.”

  Natalie shuddered and brought her hands to her neck. Marie Antoinette and her husband, King Louis XVI, had been Lucians, of course. But they’d unfortunately lost their heads because some uppity peasants had decided they were bored of being poor.

  “Stop being so dramatic.” Ian rolled his eyes. “That wouldn’t happen today.” The Lucian branch controlled the governments of nearly every superpower on earth. His mother could mobilize an army faster than most mums could make one of those vile things poor people liked to eat. Sandwiches.

  “Quite right, darling,” Isabel said as she scrolled through her e-mails. Her face lit up and she read something on the screen. “That’s marvelous,” she muttered.

  “What’s marvelous, Mummy?” Natalie asked, leaning over to look at Isabel’s phone.

  Isabel slipped the BlackBerry back in her purse. “It looks like Ian won’t have the great pleasure of listening to the next installment of Ms. Wilcox’s French Revolution lecture after all.”

  Natalie clasped her hands together. “Are we going on holiday?” she squealed.

  A mischievous smile played across Isabel’s lips, and Ian felt a flutter in his stomach.

  “Are we going on a mission?” he asked, working hard to maintain the slightly bored tone he’d learned from his parents. He and Natalie had been training for the Clue hunt their whole lives. When most children went to football practice or ballet class, Ian and Natalie were studying cryptography, or learning how to skydive. Yet while they’d accompanied their father, Vikram, on a midnight “visit” to the British Museum, and distracted the Chinese ambassador while Isabel copied his hard drive, neither Ian nor Natalie had ever been sent on a solo Clue-hunting trip.

  Natalie didn’t even try to contain her excitement. She knelt on the seat and leaned toward Isabel. “Tell us, Mummy,” she said, bouncing up and down slightly, oblivious to the wrinkles she was creating in her pink dress. Although an eleven-year-old girl who favored ruffled frocks wasn’t the most obvious choice for a secret agent, Ian knew his sister would be up to the task. She had deadly aim and could take down any target with either a tranquilizer gun or a cutting remark about their outfit.

  However, it was important that she knew who was in charge. “Calm down, Natalie,” he said, making a show of leaning back in his seat. “You look like one of Granny’s terriers begging for a treat.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t care.” She smirked. “You’ve probably already decided what to pack in Mr. Buttons’s traveling trunk.”

  Ian opened his mouth to reply, but then saw his mother raising her eyebrow. According to Isabel, it was unbecoming to bicker like peasant children.

  “We’re leaving for Belgium early tomorrow morning,” Isabel said. “An Ekaterina at the University of Ghent is developing a tool for art restoration that your father and I believe will be quite useful.” She paused and then smiled. “You two are going to fetch us
the plans from his computer so our engineers can build a model.”

  Natalie squealed, and Ian felt his stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the helicopter’s sudden descent. After years of preparation, and countless hours of training, he was finally going on a real mission. “Are you going to brief us this evening?” Ian asked.

  The helicopter banked to the left, and the vast green lawn of the Kabra estate slid into view. “Irina’s waiting for you in the library. She’ll explain everything.” Ian saw Natalie scrunch up her face. Neither of them cared for Irina Spasky, the high-ranking Russian agent who was sent on all the most important missions. Irina might think he and Natalie were being given special treatment because of their parents, but they’d prove her wrong.

  Ian wasn’t just the son of Vikram and Isabel Kabra. He was a Lucian, through and through.

  It was time to show the world what he could do.

  As they made their way from the landing pad up to the house, Ian saw a gardener duck behind the thick hedge. Isabel was strict about the staff keeping out of sight, especially on the grounds. She said nothing ruined a lovely view like a wheelbarrow being pushed by an unattractive man in coveralls.

  And it was a lovely view. Ian had seen enough of the world to know that the Kabras’ London residence was truly extraordinary. The mansion had been built in the eighteenth century for the Duke of Hampshire and, from the outside, there was nothing to suggest that that the present owners had spent millions of pounds transforming it into a state-of-the-art command center — the center of operations for the most powerful group of people on the planet.

  The door swung open, revealing their butler, Bickerduff. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in the hushed, reverent tone that always reminded Ian of a funeral director. “Would you care for some tea?”

  “Not now. Did the Chanel people deliver my gown for the benefit?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And did the documents from the prime minister arrive?”

  “I took the liberty of placing them on your desk, madam.”

  “Thank you, Bickerduff.” She turned to Ian and Natalie. “Now run along, darlings. Irina is waiting.”

  Ian handed his jacket to Bickerduff and then strode toward the massive marble staircase that divided the east and west wings of the house. Natalie scampered after him. “What do you think they want the tool for?” she asked, bounding up the steps two at a time in order to keep pace with Ian.

  “I don’t know,” he said, doing his best to sound like his whole body wasn’t buzzing with nerves and excitement. But he couldn’t keep himself from speeding up as they passed the landing. Natalie darted ahead, swerving to avoid the enormous urn Isabel had found during a mission to Greece.

  Natalie waited for him at the top of the stairs. She probably didn’t want to go into the library alone. They turned down a long hallway lined with portraits of famous Lucians throughout the centuries. During the day, Ian barely noticed the paintings. But at night, the light from the flickering lamps cast strange shadows on the wall and created the illusion that the figures’ eyes were following him.

  Halfway down the hall, a door opened and Ian’s father emerged from his study, followed by a man he’d never seen before. Vikram was smiling, but the stranger appeared somewhat ill, and his wrinkled, sweat-stained shirt looked particularly grubby compared to Vikram’s perfectly pressed gray suit, complete with a red silk pocket square.

  “Ah, and here they come now,” Vikram said as he caught sight of them. “The most expensive stocks in my portfolio. Andrew, this is my son, Ian, and my daughter, Natalie. Children, Mr. Pringle.”

  Ian reached out to shake the man’s hand, but all Mr. Pringle did was flinch.

  “I heard you did splendidly today,” Vikram continued, ignoring his guest’s strange behavior. He turned to Mr. Pringle. “Ian just picked up a rather marvelous Van Eyck at auction. Shall we go have a look before dinner? I’d quite like to hear your expert opinion.” Mr. Pringle paled slightly but followed wordlessly.

  As their footsteps faded away, Ian and Natalie continued down the hallway and stepped into the library. The late-afternoon light streaming through the tall windows made the room look almost cheerful despite the rows of animal heads mounted along the far wall. Ian glanced over at Natalie and saw that her eyes were pointed toward the maroon carpet. Although she’d never admit it, she hated having to look at the dead animals.

  Ian wrinkled his nose. The unpleasant but familiar smell of old books was punctuated by another scent — industrial strength hair spray.

  Irina was sitting on the leather couch, restlessly tapping her fingers on an antique globe. Her long red nails were boring into Iceland and Norway like heat-guided missiles.

  “Stop that,” Ian said, walking toward her. “You’ll ruin it.”

  Irina’s glare intensified. “Your parents have already ruined you.” She seemed to take it as a personal offense that he and Natalie hadn’t grown up standing in bread lines, shivering in the bleak Soviet snow. “Such disrespectful children, I have never seen.”

  Ian rolled his eyes at Natalie. “Yes, well, so sorry to disappoint. Now what is it you’re supposed to show us?”

  Irina sighed. “I still do not understand why Vikram and Isabel place future of Lucian branch in hands of children.” She sneered, revealing slightly discolored teeth. “Hands that do not know the meaning of work.” She got up from the couch and walked over to the long glass-top table at the end of the library. Ian and Natalie exchanged glances and then followed her.

  The table was covered with photos of a tall, modern-looking building and floor plans of what Ian assumed to be the inside. “Is that the university?” Ian asked.

  “Some spy,” Irina scoffed. “Perhaps you can post photo to Internet and ask your Bookface friends to confirm.”

  Before Ian had a chance to respond, Natalie piped in. “And perhaps you can stop wasting time and do your duty.” She raised her small chin. “I believe you’re meant to brief us on the mission. You may proceed.”

  Irina stared at Natalie for a moment, her face unreadable. Then she plunged the nail of her index finger into one of the photos. “This is physics lab at University of Ghent.” She turned to Ian. “That is in Belgium.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I know.”

  “Your mother believes one of the professors is Ekaterina and that his research has something to do with a Clue. She wants you two to break into lab, hack into computer, and copy his files.”

  He slid into one the chairs surrounding the table and motioned for Natalie to do the same. “So what do you have in mind?” Ian asked lazily, as if Irina were merely a shop assistant eager to sell him some new shoes.

  Irina stared at him, her eye twitching slightly. Another one of the agent’s irresistible charms. Then she pointed to one of the photos and began a rapid overview of the mission. Ian and Natalie were going to break in through the service entrance at dawn — there was a ten-minute window of time when the alarm system reset. Then they’d have to sneak up to the professor’s lab. “Here is entry code,” Irina said, passing Ian a slip of paper. “Memorize and destroy it.”

  “If it’s an Ekaterina stronghold, how did we get the code?” Natalie asked.

  Irina’s eye twitched as she turned away from them. “Your mother has her methods.”

  Something about her tone made Ian uneasy, but he pushed the thought aside. “Very well, then. Everything seems to be in order,” he said.

  Any rogue feelings of nervousness he might have had were swept away by excitement. By the time Ms. Wilcox began droning on about the French Revolution, he’d have completed his first real Lucian mission. He could already imagine the look on Isabel’s face when he and Natalie presented her with the Ekat files.

  Some children drew pictures for their parents. Ian and Natalie stole top secret information that would help them take over the world.

  He turned to his sister and grinned.

  This was going to be fun.

/>   There were still a few minutes left before dinner, so when Natalie ran off to IM her friends, Ian wandered into the control room next to his mother’s office. When he was younger, he used to spend hours in front of the wall of monitors watching live feeds from Cahill hot spots around the world. Some of the screens showed bustling activity, like the swarms of tourists buzzing around the base of the Eiffel Tower or at the entrance to Neuschwanstein Castle. Others looked more like screen savers; no matter how long he stared at the Bermuda Triangle monitor, all he ever saw was an endless procession of gray-blue waves. Yet they all filled him with the same giddy anticipation — these were all places he’d be sent to explore one day. It was like watching a film trailer for the rest of his life.

  Ian glanced quickly over his shoulder and walked over to the far side of the wall, crouching down to look at the screen in the bottom corner. There was rarely any interesting activity on this monitor but — he looked down at his watch — it was almost the end of the school day in Boston. He stared at the image of the dull apartment building flanked by scraggly trees, waiting for something to happen but not allowing himself to admit what he was waiting for.

  Just as he was about to turn around, a flash of color caught his eye. Amy Cahill was walking up the front path, her long auburn hair blowing wildly in the autumn wind. Her cheap green parka looked like it had come straight out of the discount pile. He leaned in for a better look. The color did bring out the reddish tones in her hair, but he was sure that was just a lucky coincidence. Whenever he saw Amy at one of her grandmother’s dreadful Cahill gatherings, she redefined the term walking disaster.

  Poor people were such an enigma. He knew that not everyone could afford to fly to Paris to get their hair cut, but surely there was someone in the state of Massachusetts who could keep Amy Cahill from looking like an Irish setter left out in the rain.