The 39 Clues: Cahills vs. Vespers Book 2: A King's Ransom

by Jude Watson

  What she didn’t understand was that he didn’t care.

  The darkness was just … there. Sometimes it scared him. Sometimes it made him angry. An anger he didn’t know he was capable of, something bottomless. Seeing Nellie wounded and scared had seared him. Just days ago he’d held a dying girl in his arms, a stranger who had trusted Vesper One.

  Amy didn’t realize that you had to fight with everything you had. Not just your nerve and your courage, but the secret, hard, dark places inside you.

  He plugged the next address into his GPS. He had found a place, a chemistry supply company willing to sell mercury and phosphorus. He hopped on a tram and took it to the outskirts of the city, an industrial area with warehouses and office buildings.

  He found the address and rang the bell on the steel door. A moment later the door opened. A man, probably in his twenties, peered out and asked him something in German.

  “Guten morgen,” Dan growled.

  “Oh, you’re American. And a Yankees fan.”

  Dan touched the bill on his cap nervously. “I’m the one who contacted you about the …”

  “Yes. Come in.”

  He was led into a small office. The man held up a glass vial. Dan saw the molten mercury.

  “Toxic,” the man said. “You know this? You must be careful how you handle it.”

  “I know,” Dan said. “You wouldn’t have liquid gold, would you?”

  “Colloidal gold? Yes … how much would you need?”

  “Quarter ounce should do it.”

  The transaction was completed in minutes. Dan shifted as he counted out the bills. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

  “So. You must be a New Yorker,” the man said. “I love New York. The Lion King — excellent show!”

  Dan turned to go.

  “I don’t think I caught your name,” the man said.

  “I didn’t throw it,” Dan said.

  He left the place and walked quickly back to the tram stop. On the way, he tossed the Yankees cap into the trash can. Too many questions. The guy was probably harmless. But he couldn’t take a chance.

  Vesper Two read the text message and smiled.

  Dan Cahill had made several interesting purchases while in Basel. Sending out that alert to all chemical supply houses had been a brilliant stroke. Amazing what the promise of a little money could do. If someone comes asking to buy odd items, please let us know. We will make it worth your while.

  So, just as Vesper Two had thought. He was collecting the Clues, thirty-nine ingredients for the serum.

  The serum could change everything. And the only one who had the formula was Dan Cahill.

  Vesper One didn’t have to know just yet. He wasn’t convinced that Dan could be turned. Not yet. He didn’t realize completely that the ties of blood could work in their favor.

  Not yet. But soon.

  Amy leaned back and rubbed her eyes. She had window after window of research stacked on her computer. She’d spoken to Evan and Ian and Sinead. They’d thrown theories at each other, random facts, odd bits, wild guesses, hoping something would stick. Nothing did.

  “Talk to me, Jane,” she said aloud. “You were a rich girl, used to comfort. London was being bombed. Why did you stay? Why did you stay in Germany so long in the thirties? Who are you?”

  She typed in Jane Sperling and World War II and scrolled through the results. She clicked on a page called Down Easterner, a small-town paper in Angel Harbor, Maine. Amy quickly scanned the article, an obituary for Jane Sperling. She had died at age ninety-two. The obituary documented her early life, her studies at the University of Chicago, and then the war years.

  “Yes, I stayed in London during the Blitz. Oh, heavens, I was never heroic. Just a secretary for the OSS — I translated documents and things from German to English. Because I’d lived in Germany before the war. I never look back. The things I did are done now. All down the drain.”

  “OSS,” Amy muttered. She did a quick word search. The Office of Strategic Services was the spying arm of the American government during the war!

  Amy clicked back to the research Evan and Ian had sent. Professor Hummel had turned out to be one superbad Nazi. He’d risen to major and had been involved in a group called the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, which, as Evan put it, was quite a mouthful for “dirty despicable thieves.” They were also known as the ERR, Hitler’s special group that stole art and artifacts and property from Jewish families. The artworks were shipped to Paris and stored at a museum called the Jeu de Paume. There, the art was cataloged, inventoried, and crated, then sent to Germany. Hundreds of thousands of looted treasures from world-famous artists: Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Van Gogh. Hummel was a high-ranking officer in charge, valuable because of his knowledge of medieval art.

  “So, Herr Hummel,” Amy murmured, “you were a thief.”

  Near the end of the war, as the Allies began bombing German cities, the Nazis got nervous. They moved the art to salt mines and caves and castles in the Bavarian Alps. It all would have worked except for a few inconvenient facts. One: The Nazis lost the war. Two: In 1943, a section of the Allied army was formed called the Monuments Men. After the invasion they traveled with the front lines, charged with finding the artworks and returning them to their rightful owners.

  “The Nazis were evil, but what made them so especially chilling is that they were really organized about it,” Evan had explained. “They kept records of everything they stole. So when the Allied armies moved in, they found everything — hidden caches of priceless paintings and artifacts… . If Hummel had the de Virga, there should have been a record of it. But there’s nothing. It’s another dead end.”

  “Maybe,” Amy murmured now to herself. She typed Monuments Men and Otto Hummel into the search engine. If the US Army was chasing stolen art, they must have known about Hummel.

  A document popped up on Hummel’s death. His body had been found by a group of Monuments Men as the war was ending. He had been shot and was still sitting in a gilt chair in the ballroom of Neuschwanstein Castle, the famous site built by King Ludwig II of Bavaria, often called the Mad King.

  The Monuments Men had been acting on information from one American spy, code name Sparrow, who had traced thousands of artworks looted from Jewish families all over Europe to Neuschwanstein Castle.

  Amy read through a record of a soldier who had served there. “We had a strong suspicion that Sparrow had killed Hummel,” he said.

  Amy rubbed her forehead. Everything was jumbled together in her head. Spies and stolen art, Nazis, heroes, victims. A medieval map. How was it all connected? Was it connected at all?

  She just knew the answer was here.

  She contacted Attleboro again. Ian answered.

  “Can you help me out with some research?” she asked. “I need to know the identity of a spy at the end of the war called Sparrow. He might lead us to Jane.”

  “You know,” Ian said. “That’s a funny coincidence… .”

  “What?”

  “Sparrow is Sperling in German,” Ian said.

  “Of course!” Amy sat up. “It’s Jane! It’s got to be! We need confirmation.”

  “I’m on it,” Ian said.

  Amy checked her watch. Where was Dan? He’d been gone for way over an hour. Just as she had the thought, he walked in.

  She examined him briefly as he tossed his backpack on the floor. That mask was there. He had gone deep inside himself. Whenever she saw it, it chilled her. It was like she had lost her brother.

  “I think we found the connection between Jane Sperling and Hummel,” she told him. “I think she killed him!” Quickly, she explained that she thought Jane Sperling had been a spy for the OSS.

  “Sparrow was chasing Hummel. I think she was still tracking the de Vi
rga. What if the de Virga was at Neuschwanstein Castle? They were both there at the same time — that can’t be a coincidence!” Amy insisted.

  Ian broke in. “We just got a confirmation from a Cahill in the field — our government source. He’s confirmed that Jane Sperling was Sparrow.”

  “Yes!” Amy exclaimed.

  “Neuschwanstein Castle is a Janus stronghold,” Sinead said. “We can definitely get you a schematic of the interior and send it to your wrist GPS.”

  “And we’ll send Hamilton and Jonah in for backup,” Ian said. “They’re already in the air flying back to Europe. We’ll have them fly into Munich.”

  “I don’t know about this, Ames,” Evan said. “You’re building a case just based on guesses.”

  “Not guesses,” Amy said. “Instinct.”

  “And I trust Amy’s instincts,” Dan said. “I say we go.”

  “Dan’s right,” Sinead said. “We trust you, Amy.”

  Apprehension suddenly bloomed in Amy. Despite their confidence — or maybe because of it — she was afraid.

  Sometimes this felt so surreal, like she’d walked into an alternate universe. Maybe the real Amy was back in Attleboro, Massachusetts, a nerdy grind who got excited over research papers and whose idea of a big day was whipped cream on her chai.

  That Amy didn’t lay everything on the line and say we have to do this. And that Amy didn’t have a gut-wrenching fear staring her in the face every moment — that she wouldn’t be smart enough, or brave enough, to save the lives of the people she loved.

  Location Unknown

  “Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six …” Reagan rapped out. She wasn’t even winded.

  Nellie struggled with the next sit-up. Alistair had collapsed at seventeen. Fiske had kept up until forty. Natalie was humming to herself as she moved. Ted was concentrating, perspiration on his forehead. And Phoenix was following Reagan easily.

  “Sixty. Good job, people. Done for the day.”

  “Thank you,” Alistair breathed.

  “All right,” Reagan said. “Tomorrow we’ll tackle shoulders and arms. That means push-ups, people! And if you want to fit in some extra ab work after dinner, I’ll be cranking out some more crunches.”

  At the mention of dinner, Nellie’s stomach growled. “Please don’t mention food,” she said.

  Just then they heard the sound of the dumbwaiter shuddering down. Fiske went over and lifted the panel. “Cabbage and potatoes,” he said.

  Nellie shook her fist at the camera closest to her. “Hey, bozos!” she yelled. “Get a decent chef!”

  “Yelling doesn’t work, remember?” Fiske said mildly. He took out the casserole dish while Alistair set out paper plates. “The last time you complained about the food, we got bread and water.”

  “I know,” Nellie said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that … what I wouldn’t give for a poulet rôti aux herbes. With crispy frites. And I’d really like to see the look on the French waiter’s face when I ask for ketchup.”

  “I miss salad,” Natalie said.

  “Cookies,” Phoenix said.

  “Sushi,” Fiske said.

  “Bibimbap,” Alistair put in. “Or a chicken burrito with chipotle sauce.”

  “Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ted murmured. “With pickles.”

  Everybody stared down at the cabbage and potatoes on their plates.

  Fiske picked up his fork. He took a bite. “Delicious.”

  They all exchanged glances. There was nothing to do but eat.

  Nellie chewed the overcooked potatoes and the limp cabbage. The casserole dish was scraped clean. Their kidnappers were not generous with portions.

  The casserole dish …

  Someone had made a mistake. Their first mistake.

  The casserole dish was made of ceramic. Usually they sent food in plastic containers.

  Nellie noted that Fiske’s gaze had followed hers. She saw the same idea light up his eyes. Their gazes met.

  Me, Nellie silently asked Fiske … or you?

  Me. It had to look like an accident. With her shoulder injury, it just might work.

  She dropped the plastic spoon onto her empty plate, then stood. She walked over to the garbage in the corner and tossed them into the container — no recycling for these kidnappers. Then she picked up the casserole dish and started toward the dumbwaiter to return it.

  “Ow!” she suddenly cried, as though her shoulder had given her a terrible twinge. Her hand jerked, and she dropped the dish. She was sure to release it with force. It shattered, the pieces shooting across the floor. A huge shard skittered to a stop against Ted’s foot.

  “Sorry!” she called. She bent down and retrieved the pieces. Alistair got up to help, as well as Fiske, Phoenix, and Reagan. Only Natalie continued to eat.

  Ted casually put his foot on top of the shard.

  They dumped the broken pieces in the dumbwaiter, shut the panel, and returned to the table. One by one, they got up and threw away their plates. Phoenix cleared Ted’s, the way he always did.

  Ted’s foot remained on the shard.

  Things had changed. Now they had a weapon.

  Munich, Germany

  “Dude,” Hamilton Holt said.

  “Dawg,” Jonah Wizard said. They knocked knuckles. “We’re on the case again, bro.”

  They had just touched down at Munich Airport in Jonah’s private jet. Jonah had already rented a car; it would be fastest to drive to Neuschwanstein Castle, especially at the speed he could hit on the autobahn. It took only minutes for Jonah and Hamilton to pass through customs, load their luggage, and swing into the red sports car.

  “We are officially on celebrity time,” Jonah said, adjusting the side mirror. “No lines for the Wizard.”

  Hamilton awkwardly folded himself into the passenger seat. “Couldn’t you get something bigger?” he asked as he banged his knee against the dashboard.

  “We’re supposed to be a diversion,” Jonah said. “Got to make an entrance. Can’t do that in a minivan, Giganto Boy. Can’t do much of anything in a minivan except look about as uncool as it gets.”

  “Hey! My dad drives a minivan.”

  “Snap.”

  “I guess I get your point,” Hamilton said as Jonah floored the accelerator. Eisenhower Holt was not known for his hipness. He was known for smashing the family recyclables into neat little piles. With his head.

  “I took a racing car driving course from a NASCAR dude for my movie,” Jonah said. “I spent a week learning defensive and offensive driving.” He squealed around a corner.

  “That’s great,” Hamilton said. “But can you drive like you’re not trying to kill me?”

  They zoomed onto the autobahn. Jonah slipped a CD into the player and the sounds of “Your Love Makes Me So Fly (More Than Money)” came booming out. Hamilton had to restrain himself from reaching for the earplugs he’d worn on the plane. Jonah’s music was loved by millions all over the world, but it was a mystery to him. It sounded like noise with a bass line.

  He endured three CDs before they were zipping closer to the foothills of the Alps, through scenery that even Hamilton had to admit was stunning. He appreciated power shakes and great football tackles and the way you feel after a forty-mile bike ride. Scenery wasn’t there to be admired, it was there as a backdrop for climbing, running, rowing, and picking up large objects and throwing them. But these mountains were so beautiful that he didn’t even think about how it would feel to drive a piton in them with a hammer.

  Up ahead they saw a yellow BMW pulled to the shoulder and a tall red-haired girl sitting on the bumper. She waved her arms at them.

  “We should stop,” Jonah yelled over the music.

  “No way,” Hamilton said. “We’re on a Cahill mission.”

 
; “We have time to give her a lift to the next gas station,” Jonah said. “C’mon, Ham — she’s a damsel in distress. Where’s your Samaritan spirit?”

  “I don’t think — ” Hamilton started, but Jonah was already crossing a lane of traffic and pulling over.

  The girl slid off the bumper as they came closer. Her jeans were tucked into soft leather boots. Her sweater fell alluringly off one shoulder. Hamilton gulped. Her hair, skin, and teeth were perfect. Her eyes were a vivid green.

  “Nice ride,” Jonah remarked. He paused, as though waiting for the girl to recognize him.

  “Eet would be nicer if it had le gas,” the girl said in a French accent. “I’m on my way to Salzburg for a shoot.” Her gaze flickered past Jonah, and Hamilton saw surprise on his face that she didn’t instantly recognize him.

  “Shooting what?” Hamilton asked. “Ducks?”

  “A tire catalog.” She shrugged. “Not so exciting. But eet pays the bills when you’re a model.”

  “You’re a model? Never would have guessed,” Jonah said in a lazy, teasing voice that caused Hamilton’s head to swivel. He’d never seen Jonah flirt before.

  The girl tilted her head. The glossy hair spilled down one bare shoulder. “Un moment … you look familiar.”

  Jonah grinned. “Yeah?”

  “’Ave we met?” Are you an ’airdresser?”

  “A hairdresser?” Jonah choked out.

  “Guys, we’d better get going,” Hamilton said.

  “The name is Jonah,” Jonah said, pronouncing his name carefully. He waited for a sign of recognition.

  “Nicole.”

  “Jonah Wizard.”

  Nicole squinted at him. “You are a wee-zhard? Like the Harry Potter, non?”

  “I’m Hamilton,” Hamilton said, even though nobody asked.

  Nicole looked at her watch. “I am so very late now!”

  “Let’s bounce,” Jonah said. “We’ll give you a ride to the next gas station. So, where are you from, Nicole? I’ve been all over France.”