“Dr. Cooke,” the professor continued, “you beat me to the Aztec treasure at the lost temple of Montezuma. You beat me to the Egyptian treasure ship filled with Nubian gold at the bottom of that—how do you say?—shark-infested reef in the Red Sea. But now it is finally my turn.” Ragar stepped forward, his cane tapping on the stone floor. He plucked Atahualpa’s key from Uncle Nigel’s grasp and held it aloft in one gloved hand so that it flickered in the golden yellow gleam of the flashlights.
Molly glanced at Addison behind the stone sarcophagus. She mouthed the words, What do we do?
Thoughts tumbled through Addison’s head like circus acrobats. He and Molly could try to put up a fight . . . but Addison counted six giant guards, plus Ragar, and he didn’t love those odds.
Calling the police seemed a Nobel Prize–worthy idea. But if he and Molly tried sneaking out of the office, Professor Ragar’s men might discover them. There was nothing for it; they were stuck. Addison looked back at Molly and simply lifted a finger in the air, signaling for patience. They kept listening.
“I heard you were serving time in a Siberian prison,” Uncle Nigel said behind clenched teeth, as Ragar’s men shoved him roughly into a chair.
Professor Ragar nodded. “I was arrested in Bukhara. I tried stealing the Jewel of Trust from the Tower of Kalyan.”
“Really? What happened?”
“My men betrayed me.”
Uncle Nigel paused to considered this. “You used to be a great archaeologist. What happened?”
“There’s no money in it.” Ragar gestured to the worn elbow patches on Uncle Nigel’s threadbare jacket. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“For a thousand years, the Bukharans tossed criminals from the top of the Kalyan Tower, and you thought you could just waltz right in. Prison is better than you deserve.”
Professor Ragar silenced Uncle Nigel with a hard slap to the face. “You are playing for time. Is there something you’re not telling me, Dr. Cooke?”
Uncle Nigel did not answer.
Ragar slowly circled Uncle Nigel’s desk and spotted his still-smoldering pipe. He placed the pipe between his own yellow teeth, drawing a luxuriant puff of smoke and smiling thinly in the gloom, his face still masked in darkness. “If there was anyone else in the museum, you would tell me, yes?”
“I’m alone here tonight,” said Uncle Nigel firmly.
Behind the sarcophagus, Molly felt a sneeze coming on from the pipe smoke. She plugged her nose. Addison held his breath.
“Vladimir, you don’t understand the Incan treasure or its value to history,” Uncle Nigel continued, struggling to keep his voice steady.
“Seven hundred and fifty tons of silver, gold, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls. I understand its value perfectly,” Ragar hissed. He stepped forward into the crossing beams of the flashlights. His skin was as bone white as a vampire’s; his piercing gray eyes flashing with anger. “Ten years I rotted in that hole. Ten Siberian winters.” Ragar tapped his dress shoe with his silver-tipped cane. “I lost half my foot to frostbite. But I found my men.” Ragar lifted the cane to gesture to the thick-browed men crowding the room. “Russian vory, all of them.”
Uncle Nigel studied Ragar’s mercenaries, prison tattoos peeking from their shirt collars and shirt cuffs. Skulls, iron crosses, and strange Cyrillic script inked on their necks and knuckles. He nodded. “Russian Mafia.”
“Ten years we hunted rats in our cells to keep from starving. Ten years we licked ice from our prison bars to keep from dying of thirst. Together, we survived horrors you cannot imagine.”
Ragar leaned close to Uncle Nigel, his face finally visible in the flickering light. From her hiding place, Molly stifled a gasp. The left side of Professor Ragar’s face was marred by a savage burn scar. His jaw and cheek were a boiled, mottled red. “We have suffered enough. We have earned this treasure.”
Uncle Nigel held Ragar’s gaze and stared him down. “Atahualpa’s treasure belongs to the South American people. You have no right to it.”
Ragar tucked Atahualpa’s key in his chest pocket and turned to his men. “Tie up the doctor.”
The gang members yanked Uncle Nigel’s arms behind his back and bound his wrists. Uncle Nigel twisted and struggled. “What do you need me for?”
“You, my old friend, are going to help me solve the riddles to the three Incan keys and find the treasure.”
“You were an archaeologist once. You don’t need my help.”
“Incas were always your department, Dr. Cooke. You found the first key, no? And you will certainly help me if you hope to see your family again.” Professor Ragar reclined in Uncle Nigel’s chair, propped up his feet, and took another deep puff from Uncle Nigel’s favorite pipe.
“Why are these men loyal to you, Vladimir?” asked Uncle Nigel. “They must know you’re insane.”
“When I freed them from prison, they made me their pakhan, their boss. They are mine now.”
“It’s not too late to let me go.”
The professor shook his head. “You know how I escaped the Siberian prison?” Ragar leaned close. “Malazar. He rescued me. And I rescued these men.”
Uncle Nigel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. His face turned ghostly white. “You work for Malazar?”
Ragar nodded and slowly grinned.
From their hiding place, Molly looked at Addison. He shrugged. They kept on listening.
All the life seemed to have leaked out of Uncle Nigel, like air from a flat tire. He slumped in his chair, his head sinking to his chest. “Vladimir, you’ve made a deal with the devil.”
Professor Ragar drew himself up to his full, towering height. His cold gray eyes narrowed to gleaming crescents. “Take Dr. Cooke to the car,” he ordered his men. “If he gives you any trouble, knock him out. But do not kill him, not yet. Dr. Cooke is going to help us find the greatest treasure in the world.”
And at that precise moment, to Addison’s horror, Molly loosed a sneeze that was only slightly quieter than a sonic boom.
Professor Ragar’s six bodyguards spun to face Addison and Molly. A dozen angry eyes locked on their hiding place behind the sarcophagus.
Ragar snapped his fingers at his men.
All six bodyguards lunged for the siblings.
Addison turned to Molly. “Run,” he suggested.
And for once, Molly willingly accepted his advice. They flew down the dark hallway as if launched from a catapult.
Chapter Three
On the Run
ADDISON AND MOLLY GREW UP in the museum. They celebrated birthdays in the Ming dynasty court. They earned allowance tending the rooftop garden during summer vacation. When Uncle Nigel was out of town, they held impromptu jam sessions on Beethoven’s piano in the Hall of Musical Instruments.
When they were young, they played hide-and-seek in the Neanderthal exhibit and King of the Castle in the Aztec temple. When they grew older, they played Capture the Flag in the Roman gladiator arena and Frisbee Golf in the Hall of Crowns and Jewels. It was safe to say they knew every secret passageway and shortcut in the museum. Yet Addison and Molly never imagined this knowledge might one day be needed to save their lives.
Knowing where to go, and how best to get there, made them faster than the men chasing them. They tore through the medieval art wing, flying past tapestries depicting the entire blood-soaked history of the Crusades, zipping through the centuries in a matter of seconds. Addison’s dress shoes slipped and skittered on the slippery marble floors. Molly’s cleats clomped loudly.
“This would be much easier if Uncle Nigel would let us use Rollerblades in here!” Molly said.
Addison slid to halt in the main atrium. The bodies of the four night watchmen, bound and gagged with duct tape, lay piled on the floor behind the information desk.
Molly dropped to her knees. “Sam, Vinny, Carlos, Tom! Can you h
ear me? Are you okay?”
One man stirred; the rest were unconscious. Addison spotted nasty bruises swelling on their foreheads. He heard the pounding boot steps of Ragar’s guards echoing closer down the marbled halls. “We can’t help them right now, Mo. We’ve got to keep moving.”
Ragar’s men spilled into the atrium, barking commands in Russian.
Addison yanked Molly to her feet and pointed to three different archways. “Africa, Europe, or Asia?”
“Africa—it has more hiding places!” Molly tore through the central archway, vaulting up steps two at a time, racing to Sub-Saharan Africa.
The Russian vory chased them, shouting gruffly into their walkie-talkies. Splitting up, the men circled in on the two young Cookes, cutting off their escape paths.
Dashing through the ancient Zulu gallery, Addison waved Molly behind some rawhide shields and a pile of war drums. He realized they were cornered.
Dark-suited thugs quickly blocked every exit, their alert eyes scanning the gloom. Slowly, they closed in.
Addison summoned all his brainpower, trying to conjure a way out of this delicate situation. “Don’t worry, Mo. I’ve got everything under control.” He searched the room in a feral panic. “Environment. Use your environment,” he reminded himself.
Addison snatched up a Zulu bow and arrow from a display case and surprised one of the men. “Halt!” Addison notched the arrow and drew the gnarled bow back to his cheek.
The ancient bow creaked, groaned, and snapped in two.
Addison stared in horror at the two pieces of broken bow in his hands. Now just a useless stick tied to a piece of string.
“You just broke a museum artifact!” said Molly, astonished. “Addison, you’re gonna get in big trouble.”
“We’re already in big trouble!” Addison pointed frantically at the advancing bodyguards.
The biggest gangster cracked his knuckles. He pitched his body forward like a linebacker, took a running start at Addison, and leapt. Addison was no star athlete, but he knew that given the choice, it was prudent to slink out of the way of leaping Russian convicts. Addison dove to one side at the last possible moment.
Airborne, the thug spotted the clear glass display case a little too late. To his immense regret, he found he was unable to change directions in midair. The man crashed through the display, knocking over a platoon of British Redcoats in the Battle of Ulundi. The mannequins scattered like bowling pins while the shattering glass triggered a deafening alarm. Emergency bells blared throughout the Zulu gallery.
Addison and Molly bolted into the Hall of Native Americans, the remaining bodyguards sprinting behind. Addison hefted up a metal trash can and began cracking the window displays protecting Algonquin masks and Apache tomahawks. More alarms wailed throughout the museum.
“Addison, what are you doing?” Molly shouted over the blasting alarms.
“The security alarms, Molly! They must be wired straight to the police station. This will call the police!”
More of Professor Ragar’s bodyguards poured into the gallery. With no other escape, Molly and Addison darted upstairs.
• • •
Addison and Molly hid in the medieval armor exhibit, behind a model of a destrier warhorse covered in plated steel. Addison panted for air, his heart thumping against his rib cage like a trapped woodpecker. He struggled to quiet his breathing. At this precise moment, he had the mental clarity of two ferrets fighting in a sack.
“This is a sticky wicket,” admitted Addison.
“What’s a sticky wicket?”
“An English expression about cricket.”
“Cricket?”
“A British game, like baseball, but slower and more complicated.”
“Addison, why are you telling me about cricket right now? Men are coming, and we should be going.”
“I was just making a helpful analogy.”
“I would like to remind you,” said Molly, “that we are being hunted by Russian convicts.”
“Yes, about that,” said Addison. “If you have any ideas, I’m open to suggestions.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” said Molly, “Ragar’s men are bigger than we are. But we’re faster.”
“What do you have in mind?” Addison hoped that perhaps Molly had conceived a brilliant plan.
“Running for it.”
“Ah,” said Addison. It was not the most ingenious plan he had ever heard, but it held a certain logic. “Well, at least the power is out. The darkness will give us an advantage.”
Professor Ragar’s bodyguards stormed into the room and immediately turned on all the lights.
“Seriously?” said Molly.
Addison smacked his palm to his forehead. “Backup generators,” he sighed. He ducked lower behind the warhorse.
The convicts fanned out across the gallery. The tallest of Ragar’s men took charge, spouting orders in a thick Russian accent. “Block all exits. Trap them in here.”
“Yes, Zubov,” grunted the bodyguards, executing their orders with military precision.
The tall gangster named Zubov wore a long black ponytail. His pockmarked face was marred with the clints and grikes of acne scars. His upper lip was crowned by a supremely unfortunate mustache. It looked like a rodent had curled up under his nose and died.
Zubov’s gaunt face wore the steely calm of a cobra uncoiling from a snake charmer’s basket. He peered carefully about the room, never seeming to blink. He spun a butterfly knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade, and slowly tapped its metal edge against a suit of armor. “Come out. I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Zubov held one hand over his heart to signify his deep sincerity.
Safe in his hiding place, Addison held his breath. He listened to the tall man’s boot heels echoing across the marble floor, drawing steadily closer.
Zubov scraped his butterfly knife along the suits of armor. The scratching sound jangled the nerves in Addison’s teeth.
Molly grimaced and whispered to Addison, “I’m getting out of here.”
“Molly, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the lights are on. They’ll see you.”
“Better than waiting here doing nothing.” Molly darted across the gallery, ducking behind mannequins outfitted in suits of heavy plate mail.
“Hello, little one,” said the tall man, his accented voice grating like crushed gravel.
Molly poured on the speed. She threaded her way between suits of armor, ducking jeweled spears and jagged pikes. She visualized it like a soccer match. If she pushed herself, she thought she had a fighting chance of reaching her goal—the north exit. But Ragar’s bodyguards swarmed in, blocking every escape path. Molly quickly found she had nowhere to run. The men in dark suits circled in, grinning.
Zubov reached out a knife-scarred hand to grip her neck . . .
Addison, sneaking unnoticed across the gallery, silently thanked Molly for creating the perfect diversion. He seized this moment to shut off the lights again, plunging the room back into total darkness.
Molly did not hesitate. She ducked the groping arms of the guards and sprinted directly through the throng, threading the needle.
Guards hissed and shouted in the dark as they crashed into one another, toppling metal suits of armor with deafening clangs.
Addison knew Molly could navigate the museum as well as he could, even in pitch darkness. “Molly, the north hallway!”
Together, the young Cookes darted past the bodyguard blocking the north exit, slipping by him in the gloom. They raced up the north hallway at full tilt.
“Fine work with the diversion, young relative.”
“Yes, diversion, right,” said Molly, wiping sweat from her forehead. “That was totally my plan.”
“Well, don’t gloat over it. This is where we make a discreet exit.”
Professor Ragar�
��s men tore after them, their predatory eyes adjusting to the dim red light of the exit signs.
“Addison, where to?” asked Molly, fists pumping as she sprinted.
“The place we know best.”
• • •
Addison and Molly, well out of breath, bounded into the largest room in the museum . . . the vast atrium that housed the Aztec temple.
The giant ziggurat was built of limestone and granite boulders shipped in from Tenochtitlán, Mexico. Even at night, the structure was dramatically lit with floodlights. One hundred steep stone steps led to an altar, where ancient Aztecs once performed thousands of human sacrifices.
The temple was surrounded by a beautiful reflecting pool. Museum visitors often made wishes, tossing in pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. Once a year, Addison and Molly rolled up their pant legs and helped the museum staff collect the coins from the water to donate to charity.
Tonight, Addison thought he could use a little charity himself, or at least a bit of luck. He and Molly jumped into the reflecting pool with a splash. Soaked up to their knees, they sloshed across the moat to reach the temple. They climbed the base of the pyramid and watched the remaining bodyguards enter the atrium.
“I like staying with Uncle Nigel for the weekend,” said Addison. “Never a dull moment.”
“We’re cornered.”
“I will admit, this is a sticky wicket.”
Molly blew the stray strand of hair from her eyes. She knew that once Addison landed on an expression he liked, he stuck with it.
The bodyguards surrounded the moat. Zubov shouted at his men, “You afraid of getting your little shoes wet? Go after them!”
One by one, the bodyguards waded in, trudging through the knee-deep reflecting pool in their steel-tipped combat boots. They closed in on Addison and Molly like a slowly tightening noose.
Molly considered climbing the steps of the ziggurat, but they would have no retreat. “Any ideas, Mr. Wicket?”
Addison Cooke and the Treasure of the Incas Page 3