by Paul Aertker
“From Magnus,” Lucas said.
“Charles Magnus?” Coach asked. “Head of Good Company Security? Where did you see him?”
Astrid pursed her lips. “He and his goons dressed up as fake butlers and broke into room 701, and they were trying to get us to tell them about this secret message.”
“Wait a minute,” Coach said. “Did our new butler, Rufus Chapman, not come up to your room?”
“No,” Lucas said. “We never met him.”
Coach asked, “So where’s Magnus now?”
“Lucas and Jackknife blasted them with a fire hose,” Astrid said, “and then locked them in 701.”
Coach Creed shook his head. “What is Ms. Günerro up to now?”
“It’s not her,” Astrid explained. “Magnus is trying to break away from Ms. Günerro, and he’s trying to get to this treasure before she does. He’s quitting the Good Company.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Coach said. “A lot of grown-ups end up hating their jobs.”
“What do you think?” Lucas asked. “Is there really some priceless treasure?”
“First off, I don’t know about this message,” Coach said. “And secondly, you’ve got to dig deep on that question of priceless.” He paused to make sure the kids were listening. “Priceless is subjective, meaning it’s from your point of view. We have to figure out what was priceless to your mother, or more importantly what she thought it would mean to you.”
No one said anything. Lucas had a sense of what he thought priceless might be, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
From the side of the hotel, Travis Chase banked a skateboard around the pool man, who was now pushing a trash cart. The Californian rolled past the giant water slide and up to the group. He popped his board up into his hand.
“Looks like you guys are going someplace,” he said. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”
“Hey, Coach,” Jackknife asked. “Can we ask the pool guy if he can take us scuba diving? What’s his name?”
“Cesar Vantes,” said Astrid.
“Coach?” Lucas asked. “Can we?”
Overhead a dozen birds squawked loudly. They were black-and-white magpies that stormed in and landed in the grass by the pool. The birds hopped around in a circle, fighting over a chunk of bread. Suddenly the brawl broke up, and they took off over the hotel and into the blue sky.
Coach Creed looked around. “I need to deal with Magnus and his men first, and I have to find out what happened to Rufus Chapman.”
Lucas stood straight and loaded up his arguments. “If we don’t find that treasure first, then Ms. Günerro will.”
“I know,” Coach said. “And the Good Company will be right back on top.” He put his hands on his head and sighed. “Dr. Kloppers is going to be furious about not starting school.”
“That’s okay by me,” Jackknife said.
“Dr. Kloppers is still in Las Vegas,” Lucas said. “She’ll never know.”
“Exploration,” Travis said, “is a form of learning.”
“I just don’t want to send you out alone,” Coach said.
Astrid argued for the group. “Each one of us has more than a hundred dives logged in our books, and Travis is one test away from being a master diver. This would be our education today.”
“Please,” Jackknife begged. “I mean, what could go wrong?”
Coach breathed deeply. “Can I trust you kids to go straight to the dive site and return immediately?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
“We’ll be back before lunch,” Astrid said. “It’s a forty-five-minute dive, at most.”
Coach pointed toward the man cleaning the pool. “Okay. Cesar can take you in his boat. He knows exactly where the container is.”
“Great,” Travis said. “We’ll get ready.”
“What about breakfast?” Jackknife asked. “I’m hungry.”
“Cesar should have some food in the scuba van,” Coach said. “Get your suits on and get out of here. Quick.”
THE NEWEST WEAPON
A crowd had gathered outside the Good Hotel Barcelona. Speaking English to a group of tourists, a young guide pointed out the odd-shaped buildings around the square that were designed by the famous architect Gaudí. She stopped speaking, and everyone turned toward the front doors of the hotel.
Siba Günerro was wearing a luxurious ivory-colored silk dress that shimmered in the midmorning light. Her high heels clomped down the marble steps, and the tourists moved out of her way.
Walking a half step behind their boss, Ekki and Goper were wearing green shorts, short-sleeve security shirts, and high-top tennis shoes.
At the top step, Andrés stopped them. “Your uniforms look great.”
“They do,” Goper said, “Thank you for cleaning them and delivering them to us.”
“Where are you guys going?” Andrés asked.
“It’s a secret,” Goper said, as he put an earbud into one ear.
“If this secret doesn’t work out,” Ekki whispered to Andrés, “we’re going to a museum in Madrid.”
Goper and Ekki followed Ms. Günerro as they descended the stairs. Ekki took the other earbud, and the two men danced as they trailed Ms. Günerro down the steps and through the streets of Barcelona.
Ms. Günerro strolled across a plaza and up a wide avenue as if she owned the city, the guards boogying behind her. They cut diagonally across the famous Eixample neighborhood filled with elegant restaurants and expensive shops.
In about fifteen minutes they arrived at the Casa Batlló with its colorful walls and balconies that resembled theater masks.
Ekki and Goper gawked at the apartment building that looked like it had come from another planet.
Tourists gathered outside taking pictures.
Next to the metro stop and across the walking path, a dozen girls sat on twelve mopeds.
In their matching yellow rompers, they resembled schoolgirls in uniform. But their long hair, white on one side and black on the other, gave them an evil, skunklike look.
Ms. Günerro flicked her wrist, and in seconds the girls lined up in front of her and stood at attention.
“These girls,” Ms. Günerro said to Ekki and Goper, “are the newest weapon in the Good Company arsenal.”
“But,” Ekki said, “they’re girls.”
“No duh,” Goper said.
“But girl Curukians?” Ekki asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Günerro said. “I think girls are smarter than boys.”
Goper asked, “Isn’t it that people are judged more on the content of their thinking ...”
“Yeah,” Ekki said, scratching his head. “I was thinking that too.”
Ms. Günerro shook her head at Ekki.
Goper tried to change the subject. “What about Mike Mar?”
“Mike?” Ms. Günerro asked.
“The Burmese kid with the scar on his neck,” Goper said. “He’s a boy and a smart Curukian too.”
“Burma is now called Myanmar,” Ms. Günerro said. “My friends overthrew the government there in a coup, and we—I mean, they—changed the name of the country.”
“Oh,” Ekki said.
“Myanmar,” Ms. Günerro said. “I like things that start with me or my or I.” She paused a second. “So anywho . . . Mike Mar from Myanmar. I just sent him on an errand, but I didn’t know his name. We must have changed it for him. To answer your question, Goper: Yes, he’s been well trained.”
“How do you know for sure?” Ekki asked.
Ms. Günerro cut her eyes toward Ekki. “The scar on Mike’s neck came from when Ms. T drove a motorboat over his head. The kid was snorkeling in the Andaman Sea just off the coast from our school there. Nearly frightened the little devil to death.”
She chuckled.
“Speaking of the—Ms. T,” Goper asked with a stutter. “Where is she exactly?”
Ms. Günerro said. “Ms. T has been busy training these new terrific Curukian girls.”
“So the T in her name doesn’t mean torture?” Goper asked. “It really means terrific?”
“Yes, more points for you, Goper,” Ms. Günerro said. “Ms. T is terrific, and as you can see from these fine girls, Ms. T’s name also stands for Top Teacher.”
“Some teachers,” Ekki said, “are terrible.”
Goper shook his head.
“Good, good, good,” Ms. Günerro said. “I’m glad you like Ms. T, because she’s in the hotel basement setting up shop.”
“Why?” Ekki asked.
“In case,” said Ms. Günerro. “In case Lucas Benes and his friends need some teaching of some kind.”
“Oh,” Ekki said, knocking himself on the head. “That’s right! She’s a teacher. I get it now. I get it. Teachers teach.”
“Be quiet,” Ms. Günerro said. “Just close your mouth. Would you?”
“Oh, yes.”
Ms. Günerro turned and looked directly at the girl in the middle, whose hair was 100 percent powder white. On her right cheek she had a black mole.
“Bleach,” Ms. Günerro said to the girl.
“Yes?” Bleach said, standing a little taller.
“Goper is smart,” Ms. Günerro said, “wise, even, to bring up this boy with the scar, Mike Mar. Do you know him?”
“We trained together at the Good Trade School in Bangladesh,” Bleach said. “He’s very crafty. I don’t trust him.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Ms. Günerro said. “In the end Mike is trustworthy. He’ll do anything I ask, and more importantly, he’ll double-cross Lucas and the New Resistance.”
“Yes,” Bleach said. “I understand.”
“I don’t want to take any chances right now,” Ms. Günerro said. “You know about the sunken container?”
“Yes, I do,” Bleach said.
Ms. Günerro leaned forward and looked Bleach directly in the eyes. “I want you to take a team to the dive site. My guess is that you’ll be lucky and Lucas Benes will show up. If he does, I want you to find out if he knows anything about this secret message from his mother. If he doesn’t . . . well then, accidents do happen.”
“Accidents don’t happen,” Bleach said. “They are caused.”
Ms. Günerro glanced at Ekki. “You see, that is why these girls are smart.”
“Get your scuba gear,” Ms. Günerro said to the girls. “It’s time for you to get your feet wet and put Ms. T’s training to good use.”
I’M WATCHING YOU
Dressed in swimsuits decorated with the flags of their countries, Lucas, Astrid, Travis, and Alister came out of the dressing rooms, ready to go diving.
Robbie Stafford was a fifth-year senior from Australia who was essentially head boy of the New Resistance. The eighteen-year-old was wearing a tan poplin suit with a red tie, and he and a group of New Resistance kids had gathered outside the waiting scuba van.
Robbie approached Lucas. “Here,” he said, handing over a white plastic pad. “Take this.”
“What’s this?” Lucas asked.
“It’s a wrist slate,” Robbie said.
“What’s it for?”
“Writing notes underwater.”
“Cool,” Jackknife said, looking over Lucas’s shoulder.
Robbie handed Travis a camera, and he spoke to the group like a school principal sending kids on a tour.
“Your instructions are to dive to the container, take a few pictures of this supposed secret message, and come right back. There is no treasure hunt. After you return, we’ll make plans based on what you learn. Is that clear?”
They all nodded.
From the side of the hotel, Nalini came through a pair of glass doors, wearing sandals and a colorful sarong over her Indian-flag swimsuit. She was still pushing Gini in the stroller.
Kerala followed wearing no makeup and a black sundress over her black swimsuit.
“Wait for us!” Nalini called out.
Robbie shook his head. “Nalini, you’re not taking a baby on a dive.”
“It’s no wonder you’re in charge,” Nalini said as she handed Gini over to Robbie. “You’re such a doll. Thanks for taking care of her. Cheers!”
Tier One—Lucas, Astrid, Jackknife, Travis, Kerala, Nalini—and Alister climbed into the back of the old van. In their flag swimsuits, they looked like Olympians preparing for a race.
Terry Hines stuck his buzz-cut head through the group of waiting New Resistance kids.
“I want to go too,” he said.
“No,” Robbie said. “You’re not Tier One.”
“Alister’s not Tier One either,” Terry argued.
“Alister can pick locks,” Astrid said. “And he speaks Catalan like Cesar.”
“How did you know Cesar spoke Catalan?” Lucas asked.
“It was in our homework papers that Dad left in our rooms, which I’m sure you didn’t read.”
Lucas thought about giving an excuse, but he knew it would only make him look even dumber.
“Terry,” Robbie said, “you cause too many problems. Every time you go on a mission something goes wrong.”
“That was a long time ago,” Terry said.
Lucas leaned on the van’s door. “Let him come along,” he said. “Terry can help Cesar with the equipment in the boat.”
The others in the van nodded in agreement.
Robbie adjusted Gini on his hip. “Okay,” he said to Terry. “But you don’t get in the water. Understood?”
Terry saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Gini poked Robbie in the eye. “Eye,” she said.
The van started with a loud clatter and Terry closed the doors.
The inside of the van was a mess, with tools and scuba equipment scattered everywhere. Lucas moved to sit up front, but the passenger seat had stacks of books and manuals so tall that they had been strapped in with the seat belt. He plopped down behind the passenger seat on an empty air tank. A few scuba regulator hoses dangled from the ceiling.
Cesar Vantes wore a white shirt and shorts with sandals, and a seashell necklace and bracelet. With his wrist flapped over the steering wheel, he craned his head into the back of the van. Tufts of blond hair stuck out of a knitted ski cap, and a smile stretched behind a scruffy beard.
“Ready?” he said in Catalan.
“Yes,” Alister answered in Catalan. “You know where to go?”
“No worries. I speak your language too,” Cesar said in English with an accent. “Let’s go to the beach!”
All the kids yelled in Spanish, “¡Vamos a la playa!”
Cesar put a cassette tape into the stereo and dropped the van into gear.
Tier One got ready. The kids tried on masks and fins and wet suits, tossing them around the back of the van.
“So, Alister,” Travis asked. “Why do you speak Catalan?”
“I’m Scottish,” he said. “Some Scots, like myself, think we should break away from the United Kingdom. Likewise, some people want Catalonia to be free from Spain. So it’s a hobby of mine to learn the languages of countries that want to be independent.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, guys,” Jackknife said. “But there’s some food in here that I’d like to make ... um ... history.”
Behind the driver’s seat there was a long, glass refrigerator sitting on the floor. The fridge was full of little pans of food—red peppers, garlic shrimp, squid-ink black rice, octopus, calamari, and little potato bombas.
Not exactly breakfast food, Lucas thought, but when you’re hungry ...
Alister leaned between the two seats and spoke Catalan. “Coach Creed said we could eat this food. Is that okay?”
“It’s for the hotel restaurant,” Cesar said, “but we don’t have many guests. You can have it.”
Alister translated by giving a thumbs-up.
The kids dove into the food. Lucas stabbed a forkful of shrimp and scooted between the two front seats.
As he peered out of the van, Lucas could feel he wasn’t quite ready to go on another missi
on. Part of him wanted to just stay at home, at the hotel, and sleep or just veg in front a game or a TV.
Another part of him was curious and suspicious about this message that his mother had supposedly left inside the container.
Why didn’t I look inside the container when we were on the ship? he thought. Is this a Good Company trap?
Lucas spotted his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hazel eyes widened. He checked the side-view mirrors, and his internal GPS booted up. If he was going to be successful, he would have to focus. Lucas Benes began to move beyond seeing what was in front of him and began observing everything.
The van followed cars and bikes and mopeds as they motored down the cobblestone streets and deeper into the old quarter.
“Camp Nou over there,” Cesar said in accented English. “We take a detour because Real Madrid is playing Barcelona today.”
With a mouth full of black rice, Jackknife called out, “You mean today’s match is El Clásico?”
“Exact,” Cesar said, as he turned the van away from the stadium and headed east through town.
“We should go!” Jackknife said, but no one paid him any attention.
The kids ate, and Lucas, Travis, and Jackknife leaned into the front of the van. They motored past apartment buildings, shoe shops, and pharmacies. The side streets splintered into a maze of tiny neighborhoods.
Cesar slowed as they came to a traffic circle where cars zipped around the Plaça d’Espanya.
On the other side of the Plaza of Spain stood a giant round building.
“Oh look!” Travis said. “That’s a bullfighting ring!”
“It is a shopping mall now,” Cesar said. “Bullfighting is banned in Barcelona.”
“That’s better,” Nalini said, testing a scuba mask.
“What?” asked Travis. “The mall or the bullring?”
“No,” Nalini said. “The ban on bullfighting is more humane.”
“Why?” Jackknife said. “I think bullfighting sounds awesome.”
“To kill animals for the fun of it?” Nalini said. “I’m sure it’s not awesome for the animals.”
This conversation ended quickly as two windowless minibuses eased up on both sides of Cesar’s van. Small satellite dishes shaped like a human eyeball and an ear spun on the top of each bus. In Spanish, English, and Catalan the tagline said exactly what they didn’t want to see: