Her voice echoed eerily. She imagined it floating out of the observatory and over the graves, amusing the dead. “Keep the volume down,” she added.
“What’s the next part?” Dan whispered, peering at the poem. “‘What of this work of Ulugh Beg, / Who dared to count infinity? / His catalog, though vast in scope / Yet of divisions had but three.’”
“His catalog of stars numbered one thousand eighteen,” Jake said. “But that can only be divided into two numbers — two and five hundred nine.”
Amy stepped to the top of the stairs leading down the sextant. She pulled aside a rope gate and said softly, “We never got a chance to look closely at the walls. That was where he recorded the stars. Maybe the numbers are there.”
She descended the sextant steps, looking closely for the numbers two and five hundred nine. Jake fell in quickly behind her, shining the light on the wall. “Amy, the stuff eroded away long ago. There’s nothing here.”
Amy nodded. He was right. “Read the rest of the poem, Dan,” she said.
Without any light, Dan recited, “‘When listed in descending rank, / The Fakhri apex as a start, / Descend and rise, descend again, / And stand thee o’er my ruler’s heart.’”
“How do you know that?” Jake asked.
“Good memory,” Dan replied.
“‘Descend and rise’!” Atticus exclaimed. “Like the sun or the moon! Is there any kind of sun or moon symbol you can recognize?”
“Ssssh.” Amy grabbed the flashlight from Jake and began shining it around.
“Guys?” Dan said, walking down the steps. “The sun and the moon are not the only things here that rise and descend.”
“The stairs!” Atticus exclaimed. “Dan, that’s amazing. Maybe those numbers mean the number of steps!”
“But there aren’t five hundred and nine steps,” Amy said.
Atticus frowned. “Oh.”
Amy thought hard. One aspect of the poem was bugging her. “I don’t get something. Why does the poem say, ‘of divisions, had but three’ — when it’s obvious the number of stars has only two factors?”
“Maybe division was done differently back then?” Dan said.
“Or maybe the number of stars is wrong,” Jake surmised.
Amy nodded. “Yes. When we went on that tour — didn’t Umarov say there were other scholars, other estimations . . .”
“One thousand twenty-two!” Dan shot back.
“What?” Jake said.
Dan’s fingers were pressed to his forehead. “Trying to remember . . . His exact words were ‘Well, some scholars say one thousand twenty-two, but who’s counting?’ Yes, that’s it! Try that number!”
Atticus let out a whoop. “That is an awesome memory!”
“SSSHHH!” Amy said, shoving the flashlight under her chin and pulling out her smartphone. In a moment, she had the answer:
1,022 = 2 x 7 x 73
“Three prime factors,” she said.
Amy quickly read the last section of the poem:
“When listed in descending rank,
The Fakhri apex as a start,
Descend and rise, descend again,
And stand thee o’er my ruler’s heart.”
“Descending rank,” she said. “So we start from the highest number — meaning seventy-three first. . . .”
“The Fakhri apex would be the top,” Jake said. “But the left or the right?”
“Try them both!” Amy replied. “Down seventy-three, up seven, down two.”
“Atticus and I will do it!” Dan grabbed the flashlight. As he and Atticus descended the left side, they began counting the steps. Seventy-three got them to the bottom. They rose seven steps, then descended two. “Now what?” Dan murmured.
Jake and Amy raced down to meet them. Amy knelt. She noticed the steps were actually made of small, oblong stones — like piano keys, or fingers. She pulled on each one. Jake sidled to the right side and pulled on those.
“They’re solid,” Amy said. “This is hopeless.”
“Atticus — I need the light!” Jake cried out. His neck was bulging as he pulled on one of the stones. “I . . . think . . . this one’s loose. . . .”
Atticus put the flashlight down, angling it so it illuminated the stone. He knelt beside his brother and pulled. Amy joined them.
The stone didn’t budge.
As Amy was about to let go, a low thrumming sound began. At first, she thought it was her own stomach rumbling. Then she felt her body shift. Rocks began to rain down from the wall.
“Whoa . . .” Dan gasped.
In the center of the track, between the two long ribbons of curved stone, a trap door was opening. Two massive stones moved apart diagonally from each other, like hands pivoting at the wrists.
Amy fell back. She scrambled toward the center, gazing down into the hole.
Utter blackness.
Now Jake was beside her, shining the flashlight. It caught the edge of a large box, blackened with soot and dirt. “What the heck is this?”
Together they pulled upward, but the box wouldn’t fit through. Atticus dug into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. He wedged the can opener under the top of box and pulled upward. With a loud squawk, the top pulled off.
Amy reached inside and wrapped her fingers around a thick disc of heavy, solid brass. As she lifted it out, Jake shone the light on its fretwork of finely tooled metal. Complex symbols were carved on the outer rim, and on the inside were circular patterns and intricate designs. Through the middle ran a lever like a clock hand, attached at the center.
“It’s like a giant watch,” Jake said.
“This is the thing Ulugh Beg thought would match the power of the sextant?” Dan asked.
“This is the thing Vesper One wants,” Amy replied.
She looked at her watch. 10:31. “Nineteen minutes! We beat the deadline!”
“No! No, we didn’t!” Dan was racing up the stairs.
“What’s wrong, Dan?” Amy called out.
Dan held up his phone. Even in the dark, his eyes shone with fear. “I have zero bars.”
Amy’s insides lurched. If they had no reception, Vesper One wouldn’t be able to reach them. He wouldn’t know they found the astrolabe.
Cradling the instrument, she bolted up the stairs.
Jake barreled past her. At the top, he yanked Dan back. Whirling him around, he put his finger to his lips.
A voice crackled outside. “What’s that?” Amy whispered.
Jake forced Dan’s shaking hand to shine the flashlight on his face.
He mouthed one word.
Police!
Dan switched off the light. The voices were quickly coming closer. Amy could hear the crunch of gravel beneath footsteps. “What are they saying?” she asked.
“How sh-should I know?” Dan hissed. “I don’t speak Uzbek!”
“Get back!” Jake whispered.
Dan looked terrified. “B-but . . . Uncle Alistair . . . !”
“Get to the bottom — now!” Jake shoved him. Dan’s hurtling body nearly toppled Amy, but they both managed to climb to the bottom with Atticus.
Jake was still on the stairs — and now he was climbing!
“Ja — !” Amy started to yell, but Atticus clamped his hand over her mouth.
His footfalls echoed loudly. Outside, voices were coming nearer.
Amy tried to run up after him, but both Dan and Atticus pulled her back. “He’ll get hurt!” she whispered.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Atticus replied firmly. “If he told us to stay, that’s the best advice.”
Now the tunnel ceiling was coming to life with reflected flashlights. It seemed like a cruel imitation of the night sky, a mockery of Ulugh Beg’s precise measurements.
Voices rose as men entered. They were yelling at Jake in Uzbek, and as he answered in English, Amy could make out words: police . . . trespass . . . arrest . . .
Footsteps came closer to the railing over their heads. �
�There’s no one else!” Jake was saying. “Just me!”
But now a flashlight beam was swinging down the rutted wall, outlining the steps on the other side. . . .
“Come back here!” a thick-accented voice bellowed from above, booming through the vast tunnel.
Suddenly, the lights were gone. Footsteps were racing away, out the door again. Amy heard Jake’s voice yelling, but the sound was outside.
Jake had run off, slipped away.
“He’s creating a distraction,” Amy said. “Let’s go!”
The railing area above, crowded a moment earlier, was now empty. Amy took the steps three at a time. At the top, she ran for the door and carefully peered out.
Jake had somehow made his way across the plateau. An officer had caught him by the collar and was slamming him against a car. There were two cars, four officers, all of them with their backs turned.
Amy’s breath caught in her throat. She fought the urge to run after him. But she knew that would only ruin what he’d set out to do.
Jake was taking one for the team now.
For Uncle Alistair.
Amy turned. Silently she pointed toward the far end of the plateau, away from the driveway. And she ran.
Atticus and Dan followed her to the edge. In the dark, all she could see was a sharp drop-off.
Amy glanced over her shoulder. The frame of the sextant’s entrance blocked them from the sight of the police. Dan flicked on his flashlight and shone it downward. The light traced a steep, rockstrewn path.
“Come on.” Amy clutched the delicate tool to her chest and stepped off. Her heel dug into the gravelly slope. With a loud sssshh, it slid about a foot. She let out a squeal.
“Go . . . go!” Dan said.
She carefully lifted her other foot and set it down sideways, trying to keep her balance. The gravel slipped again, and this time the ground gave way beneath her.
Amy’s back scraped against the soil. Her head hit it and then bounced back. She was sliding, head over heels, her arms hugging the instrument tightly.
“Amy!” Dan shouted, tumbling after her.
They collided at the bottom. Amy smashed backward into the trunk of a scraggly tree.
“Yeow!” came a cry to their left. Atticus.
Amy unfolded herself. Her chest throbbed. In the morning, it would have an indentation of the astrolabe.
She glanced at her watch — 10:49. “Dan?” she cried out. “How many bars?”
His eyes were as bright as a supernova. “Two!”
One minute left. Vesper One could reach them now. He was a stickler for promptness. Amy looked up. The police voices were coming closer.
“They must have heard us,” Atticus whispered.
Amy scrambled behind the thin trunk of an olive tree.
“Ow!” came Jake’s voice from above. “I twisted my ankle. I’ll sue! You’re going to hear from my lawyer!”
An eerie beep pierced the night air. Amy stiffened.
Dan’s phone glowed with a message. “He’s early.”
I’ve been waiting to hear from you. After all, you have the ability to contact me, don’t you? Counting the seconds . . .
“We have to use Luna’s phone!” Dan whispered.
Atticus’s face was a rictus of fear. “We have twenty seconds!”
Amy dropped the astrolabe. She fumbled in her pocket for the phone.
It was gone. “I don’t have it!”
“What?” Dan shot back. “What did you do with it?”
“I don’t know!” Amy grabbed the flashlight from her brother and shone it around the area. She didn’t care if the police saw it.
There. She had nearly missed the glint of metal at the base of the drop-off. The phone must have fallen from her pocket when she landed.
She scrambled to it but Dan got there first.
“One second!” Atticus said.
“Hurry!” Amy urged.
Dan hit REDIAL. He thumbed two words —
Got it
But his finger slipped on the way to the SEND key, typing another character.
Got it1
“Time’s up!” Atticus shouted.
“Press send, Dan — send!” Amy said.
“There!” Dan shouted, showing her the screen.
Sending . . .
Above them, the beam of light scanned the area. It swept across the tree where they’d just been. Amy, Dan, and Atticus pressed their bodies against the edge of the cliff.
Amy’s eyes did not waver from the screen.
The lights above them went away. The sound of shutting car doors punctuated the night. Then the dull roar of two car engines.
But the screen remained blank.
10:51.
“It can’t be. . . .” Dan shook the phone. “Something must be wrong.”
It couldn’t be. A slip of the finger. A microscopic bead of sweat causing him to press 1 instead of SEND.
“It’s my fault,” Amy moaned. “I didn’t mean to drop the phone.”
“I don’t care!” Dan said. “I just want to know what happened to Uncle Alistair!”
“That guy — Vesper One — he couldn’t have,” Atticus said. “He wouldn’t. . . .”
Dan wheeled on him. “Oh, yes, he would. And you know what? I will return the favor some day. I will kill him.” He raised his face to the sky. “Did you hear me? I will kill you, AJT!”
“Dan — ?” Amy said.
“I know what you’re going to say, Amy,” Dan said through a torrent of tears, “but I hate him. I hate our —”
“No, look!” Amy said, pointing to the phone in his hand. “Your screen just lit up!”
The phone had turned liquid in Dan’s vision. He blinked and focused on the words:
Did I scare you? Don’t let it be said I don’t have a sense of drama.
And since you like the illusion of control, I will make the drop easy. Someone is coming to you.
Oh, yes. Congratulations. Your dear uncle is safe.
For now.
As the police car lurched, Jake Rosenbloom tried not to get carsick. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
One of the officers in the front seat turned to face him. “You were trespassing. Resisting arrest. We must file report.”
Jake slumped into the seat. He hoped that Dan and Amy had been able to make the drop.
The driver muttered something in Uzbek and yanked the steering wheel to the right. Another car had fishtailed and was now broadside across both lanes.
With a screech of tires, the car swerved off the road and into a ditch. Jake braced himself. Even though he was wearing a seat belt, his face smashed against the side window.
The police leaped out of the car, yelling at the top of their lungs. Guns drawn, they approached the other car. It was a long, black limo with dark windows.
Jake grimaced, reaching up to touch a gash on the side of his head. Blood trickled down his cheek. Too early to know how serious this was. But he felt okay. More or less.
He glanced back outside and saw the limo’s back window rolling down. Inside was a man wearing a black hat and sunglasses. He looked up slowly at the cops and shrugged, as if to say he didn’t understand. Which only made the cops shout louder.
Jake looked to the right. It was nearly pitch-black. He slid over to that side of the car and tried the door. It swung open.
He knew he didn’t have much time. He jumped out of the car, tumbling into the small ditch. A few yards beyond it was an open gate. He stood. His head throbbed, but he was mobile.
He raced through the gate at top speed.
Behind him came two quick shouts, then silence.
And the thudding of heavy footsteps in pursuit.
The sunrise came as a shock. Amy realized she had no sense of day and night anymore. It seemed only moments ago that Vesper One’s message had come through:
Change of plans. At the earliest light, enter the graveyard. Use the entrance near the Shah-i-Zindi, just before the Si
ab Dekhkhan Bazaar. At precisely 5:30 a.m., find Olga Sakarov by the base of the nearest hill. And say hi from me.
As she entered the graveyard, the tombstones looked like lost, frozen souls, glowing with a pale silver light.
She clutched tightly to the astrolabe, tilting her wrist to check her watch. 5:15. They were fifteen minutes away from the drop. Acting, as always, on Vesper One’s instructions. Like puppets, she thought.
“Let’s move,” Amy said.
Fiddling with his phone, Atticus nearly stumbled.
“Any luck?” whispered Dan.
“No response from Jake,” Atticus said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been trying for six hours.”
Amy looked left and right as she edged into the pathway. Her neck ached. Sleeping in the field had not been comfy. She and Dan had managed some uncomfortable shut-eye, but she was worried about Atticus. He hadn’t slept at all.
“I don’t see our contact person,” Dan said.
“Maybe it’s the wrong place for the drop,” Atticus suggested.
Dan angled the screen toward him. Amy stopped to read the message once again.
“Olga Sakarov . . . she even sounds like a Vesper,” Dan said.
A small animal skittered across Amy’s path. She stifled a scream, took a deep breath, and stepped carefully. Polished stone slabs of all shapes rose around her like road signs. They were etched with faces that seemed to glower with disapproval.
“These names are in Cyrillic,” Atticus said.
“They look like real stone to me,” Dan remarked.
“Cyrillic, not acrylic,” Atticus said. “It’s the Russian alphabet. Samarkand has a huge Russian population.”
Amy stopped at the foot of the hill. The distant birdsong sounded like screams of the dying. As the sun’s crown oozed over the horizon, a vulture hovered overhead. Amy checked her watch. 5:24. “She should be within sight by now.”
“She better get here before that thing gets us,” Dan said.
“It’s a vulture,” Atticus said. “They only eat carrion. Dead animals.”
39 Clues _ Cahills vs. Vespers [03] The Dead of Night Page 12