Secret of the Forbidden City

by James Patterson

  “What about Uncle Timothy?” asked Tommy.

  “Timothy and I have nefarious schemes that require our undivided attention.”

  “Roger that,” said Uncle T., who wasn’t even pretending to be one of the good guys anymore.

  “Besides,” said Streckting, “Franz Hans enjoys working with children.”

  “Ja,” said Franz Hans, clicking his boot heels together. “Children und small dogs.”

  “What about Mom?” I snapped.

  Streckting smirked. “Find what I want and I will give you what you want.”

  “Okay,” said Tommy. “But, um, what exactly are we looking for?”

  “The greatest treasure in all of Germany, maybe the world!”

  “Could you be a little more vague?” said Storm sarcastically.

  Streckting ignored her. “Timothy? Time to go. Franz Hans? Mind the children.”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted Franz Hans.

  Streckting gave us one last piece of advice before departing: “Find me my treasure, Kidds. Or the next time you see your dear mother, it will be at her funeral!”

  CHAPTER 48

  The second Streckting and Uncle Timothy were gone, the four of us huddled together so our German nannies couldn’t hear what we were saying.

  “Okay, you guys,” said Tommy. “What’s the greatest treasure in Germany?”

  “Maybe the Amber Room?” said Storm.

  “Of course!” I said. “It was on Dad’s list!”

  The Amber Room was this huge palace hall made up of mirrors and amber panels covered with jewels and gold. They used to call it the Eighth Wonder of the World. A Prussian king gave it to Tsar Peter the Great. Prussia used to be a kingdom inside what is now Germany!

  “Wait a second,” said Beck. “The Amber Room was built in Germany but given to the tsar, who set it up in a Russian palace.”

  “True,” said Storm. “But, during World War II, the Nazis looted that palace and packed up the Amber Room panels in railroad crates to be shipped… somewhere.”

  “Maybe home to Germany,” I blurted.

  “That’s my hunch,” said Storm. “Estimated present-day value? One hundred and forty-two million dollars.”

  “Were there, like, bird decorations on any of the panels?” asked Tommy.

  “Huh?” said the rest of us.

  “Dad’s been dropping a lot of hints about birds,” Tommy explained. “If he wanted us to find the Amber Room, why didn’t he dress up like a mosquito when he waved at Bick in Beijing?”

  “Huh?”

  Yeah. We all said it again.

  “You know—from that movie Jurassic Park. Where the scientists find a mosquito that sucked dinosaur blood.”

  “Huh?” This time it was just me and Beck.

  “The mosquito is trapped inside fossilized tree sap,” explained Storm. “That’s what amber is—ancient tree sap that’s turned golden.”

  “It was an awesome movie,” said Tommy. “I loved the T. rex!” He started imitating the screech and tiny arm moves of a berserk dinosaur.

  That’s when Franz Hans Keplernicht and his musclemen made their move.

  CHAPTER 49

  We were shoved into the back of a van with Franz Hans Keplernicht.

  One of the other thugs locked the rear doors and thumped on the side of the vehicle, and we sped off.

  “Where are you taking us?” Beck demanded.

  Franz Hans grinned. “The Alps. Bavaria! Home of yodelers, funny pants, feathered hats, and oom-pah-pah music.”

  Tommy gritted his teeth. “Are you trying to torture us?”

  “Ja! Exactly!”

  We had a horrible sound track for our Alpine journey: tubas, clarinets, trombones, and accordions cranking out a polka waltz.

  “Please,” said Tommy, “I’m begging you. Find a new radio station!”

  “Nein! Soon you will tell me everything I want to know!”

  A few nightmarish hours later, the van came to an abrupt stop.

  “Out!” ordered the thugs who yanked open the back doors.

  We were parked on a rutted dirt road somewhere in the woods, surrounded by towering pine trees and cascading mountains.

  “Looks like the Bavarian Forest,” said Beck.

  “I’ve been here before,” said Tommy. He took in a deep breath. “Oh, yeah. I remember that clean, fresh scent.”

  “The Germans call the Bavarian Forest their ‘air spa,’” said Storm.

  “We drove up here with our neighbors the Pichelsteiners,” said Tommy, sniffing the air again. “Good times.”

  Franz Hans came around the van. “I hope you children enjoyed the ride.”

  “We didn’t,” said Storm. “Or the music.”

  “Ja? Well, perhaps you would prefer something a little more classical?”

  “Sure,” said Tommy. “Beyoncé would be cool.”

  Franz Hans chuckled. “Nein. I was thinking…”

  He took a big pause.

  (If this were a movie, you’d be hearing the “Da-Da-Daaaaa!” music right about now.)

  “Opera!”

  CHAPTER 50

  Seems our German hosts had set up a terrible torture chamber in the basement of their cuckoo clock chalet.

  They tied our hands behind our backs and duct-taped us into stiff wooden chairs.

  “Soon, Thomas,” said Franz Hans, “you will tell me everything you remember about your childhood in Germany.”

  “Ha!” Tommy laughed. “Never.”

  Franz Hans sneered. “That is what they all say until I play my special music. Then they all start singing like canaries!”

  The opera started up on a scratchy record.

  “Noooooooo!” cried Tommy.

  His agonized screams were soon drowned out by the music.

  Oh, the music.

  Hour after hour of twittering opera warblers shrieking at one another in German while tweeting high notes that could shatter Coke bottles. All I caught was a couple of names like Sieglinde and Siegmund. I think one was a guy, the other a girl. It’s hard to tell when they’re both screeching like demented monkeys.

  “It took Wagner twenty-six years to write this thing,” Storm hollered.

  “Nooooo!” screamed Tommy. “I can’t listen to this for twenty-six years!”

  And suddenly the music stopped.

  “Now we eat!” said Franz Hans. “Unless, of course, you are ready to talk, Tommy?”

  “Ha,” scoffed Tommy. “Bring on the grub. I’m starving.”

  “Fine. But I must warn you: It is German food!”

  “Noooooo!”

  CHAPTER 51

  I think the food was worse than the music.

  First came the sauerbraten, which, Storm explained, was traditionally made with vinegarsoaked horse meat. Next up was schwarzsauer, a German stew made of goose giblets, blood, more vinegar, and peppercorns.

  The all-you-can-choke-down buffet wouldn’t end.

  We were forced to feast on some kind of white sausages that resembled a biology project about goat intestines, followed by braunschweiger—a slimy, spreadable meat goop unlike anything you’ve ever seen inside a shrink-wrapped box of Lunchables.

  “Dig in!” said Franz Hans as the armed thugs brought out more platters of greasy sausages, potato pancakes, currywurst, hackepeter, and kartoffelpuffer.

  When we couldn’t choke down another bite, they took our iPhones, checked out our playlists, and sang all our favorite songs at us.

  Off key.

  They even danced.

  Oh, the horror.

  Then they brought in a big, fluffy German shepherd named Munch and wouldn’t let us pet him.

  “Munch is working,” said Franz Hans. “His job? Terrifying you!”

  CHAPTER 52

  With all that food still stuffed in our stomachs (and Munch nipping at our heels), the bad guys wrapped ropes around our ankles and hoisted us up to the ceiling.

  “Bad idea,” I burped. “I think I’m going to h
url.”

  (Great. Beck wants to show you me hanging by my heels. Again. I reminded her that you already saw that, way back at the beginning of the story, but she says she’s going to add a few more gory details. Obviously, I’m not going to do that.)

  While we were dangling, Dionysus Streckting walked into the Bavarian basement. Uncle Timothy wasn’t with him.

  “That is enough, Franz Hans,” said Streckting. “I think Tommy is ready to talk.”

  “Yes,” said Tommy. “I’ll tell you all about my childhood in Germany.”

  “Excellent. Lower the children.”

  The goon squad did as Streckting commanded, then tied us back into our chairs.

  “Start talking,” said Streckting.

  “Okay,” said Tommy. “After all that torture, I definitely remember some stuff from my childhood.”

  “Good. Tell me.”

  “I had a tricycle.”

  “What?” said Streckting.

  “It had three wheels. And streamers on the handlebars. I clothespinned a baseball card on it so the spokes would make motorcycle noises. I also remember this girl I met in kindergarten: Ilsa. She had curly blond hair and liked to eat her own boogers.”

  “Silence!” screamed Streckting. “This is not what I need to know! You miserable children will tell me where your father, the great treasure hunter Professor Thomas Kidd, has hidden the information I so desperately seek or my minions shall shoot you.”

  Okay, the “shooting us” thing was new, but, otherwise, it was the same-old same-old. And he still didn’t tell us what the heck he was looking for.

  “Do as I say or none of you will ever see your mother or your father again!”

  “Dude,” said Tommy, “what exactly are you looking for?”

  “Yeah,” said Beck. “Just tell us what we’re supposed to find.”

  Streckting turned to Tommy. “You are such a fascinating boy. So, so interesting.”

  Tommy grinned. “That’s what all the ladies say.”

  “I happen to know—and this comes straight from your father, who told it to your uncle Timothy—that you, Tommy, are the brains of the Kidd family.”

  Tommy? The brains?

  You know those mass quantities of greasy food stuffed into our stomachs?

  We almost lost it all when we busted a gut laughing.

  CHAPTER 53

  Wild, borderline-insane laughter erupted from the three of us.

  “Tommy?” Beck was having trouble breathing, she was laughing so hard. “The brains of the family?”

  “Uh, hello?” I said. “Earth to Streckting. Mom and Dad called him ‘Tailspin’ Tommy for a reason.”

  “Indeed,” said Storm. “Typically, Tommy goes into a nosedive when presented with a complex intellectual challenge.”

  “See?” I said. “Storm is the brains of this operation, not Tommy.”

  “I would, however, suggest that Tommy is the heart of our family,” said Storm. “He is also, when necessary, the muscle.”

  “And his brain is the thickest muscle in his head,” added Beck. “Even if he never exercises it.”

  More gales of laughter. We were doubled over in our chairs, stomping our feet on the floor, whooping wildly.

  Well, not Tommy. He was making a sad, puppy-dog face.

  “Ease up, you guys,” Tommy said. “Mr. Streckting is correct. I am, you know, brilliant. If you guys don’t believe me, just ask Dad.”

  “Um, we can’t, Tommy,” said Beck. “He isn’t here.”

  “Oh. Right. Duh. Forgot about that.”

  Yes, our beloved big brother, Tommy, proved our point by sounding like his usual numbskull self.

  It was so funny, it even cracked up Tommy. Now all four of us were laughing so hard we sounded like hysterical hyenas watching funny cat videos.

  When we finally quit yukking it up, Streckting moved closer to Tommy.

  “You, Thomas, are brilliant in one very important way: You know more about your family’s previous activities in Germany than any of the others.”

  “That’s true,” said Tommy. “Storm was just a baby when we lived here. Bick and Beck weren’t even born. I remember our neighbors. The Pichelsteiners. They had a daughter, a little older than me. Her name was Petra. Petra Pichelsteiner. I also remember the pretzels.”

  “Excellent, Thomas. Now try to remember something useful. I want the treasure your father and mother were hunting when you lived here in Germany.” He whirled around and barked at his minions. “Untie them.”

  Franz Hans and the other goons did as they were told.

  As Tommy rubbed the duct tape goo off his wrists, Streckting grabbed hold of his chair and leaned in.

  “Where did you live in Germany, Thomas?”

  “Uh…”

  “Try to remember. Frankfurt? Cologne?”

  “No, it was… Munich!”

  “Good boy!” Streckting said, as if to a dog. Munch looked a little jealous. “Go to Munich. Take the van. Find me my treasure.” He tossed Tommy a set of keys. “And Kidds?”

  “Yes?” we all said at the same time.

  “I will be tracking your every move, so act like your mother’s life depends on it. Because, guess what? It does.”

  CHAPTER 54

  On the drive to Munich, we tried to help Tommy remember something about Munich besides pretzels.

  We played car ride memory games.

  We did German license plate bingo.

  Nothing worked.

  “All I really remember are the pretzels,” said Tommy. “They were so delicious. A crisp crunch that gave way to delightfully chewy softness inside.” He sounded like a radio commercial. It was worse than oompah music. “I could smell them baking all day long.…”

  “And then there was the glockenspiel,” Tommy mumbled.

  “The what?” said Beck.

  “The glockenspiel. Since it was summer, it would chime at eleven in the morning, then noon, and then five.”

  “Go on,” I urged. “What else do you remember about the glockenspiel?”

  Suddenly it seemed as if Tommy was being flooded with memories of his childhood in Germany.

  “Tons of tourists used to gather in the square to watch it ’cause it had these awesome figurines that would swirl around and act out a story in time to the bells. There was even a joust with knights on horseback.…”

  While Tommy kept remembering behind the wheel, Storm, riding shotgun, started tapping on her iPad.

  “I had a bird’s-eye view from our apartment overlooking the square,” said Tommy. “I used to walk to the window and see all those people and the glockenspiel and the pretzel café.…”

  “Was it in the Marienplatz?” asked Storm.

  “No. I remember there was a statue of Mary on a tall column. Dad said the place was called ‘Mary’s Square.’”

  “That’s what Marienplatz means,” Storm explained. “That must be where Mom and Dad had their Munich apartment.”

  Tommy nodded. “We were on the second floor. Right above a bakery…”

  Finally. We were getting somewhere. And it fit with those clues Dad had texted us when we were still in China:

  Visit Bavaria.

  The pretzels are lovely this time of year.

  Storm tapped and swiped her fingers across the glass screen of her iPad.

  “Woerner’s Confiserie und Café am Dom,” she reported. “It’s a bake shop in the Marienplatz.”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Woerner’s. Man, Woerner’s was wonderful.”

  “Not as wonderful as you,” said Beck. “Way to go, Tommy.”

  We followed the road signs for Munich and weaved our way through the city streets. In no time, we were swimming with the swarm of tourists milling around in the middle of the Marienplatz.

  Tommy led the way into the residential part of the building.

  “I always felt safe when we lived here,” said Tommy, and we climbed up a set of stairs.

  “Why?” asked Beck.


  “I dunno. I guess because Dad called it a safe house.”

  “Uh, Tommy?” I said. “That’s spy lingo.”

  “Cool. What’s it mean?”

  “A safe house,” said Storm, “is a secret location where spies can safely hide contacts and informants whose lives might be in danger.”

  “Huh. Maybe that’s why Mom and Dad were always so worried about the Pichelsteiners and told them to keep their door locked at all times. Maybe the Pichelsteiners were Mom and Dad’s secret German contacts and informants.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Since Tommy learned how to crack open treasure chests when he was, like, six years old, he knew how to pick door locks, too.

  He jimmied a long, skinny file from his Swiss Army knife into the keyhole and—click!—we were inside Mom and Dad’s old apartment. The place was empty. Deserted. It felt like no one had lived in this safe house since Mom and Dad abandoned it to go hunt other treasures on the high seas more than a decade ago.

  But what were they looking for here in Munich? Did they find it? If so, could we find it again for Dionysus Streckting?

  Tommy flicked on the overhead lights.

  “Mmm,” he said, savoring the yeasty aroma wafting up through the floorboards. “Anybody else hungry for a quick pretzel break?”

  “First things first, Tommy,” said Beck.

  “I could go for a pretzel,” said Storm.

  “You guys?” I pleaded.

  “We’ll do pretzels after we find whatever kind of clues might be here,” said Beck.

  “Deal,” said Tommy and Storm.

  We fanned out around the apartment, searching in cupboards, drawers, and closets.