39 Clues : Cahills vs. Vespers [01] The Medusa Plot

by Gordon Korman

  “Is it Italian?” asked Dan.

  “Maybe,” his sister replied. “It could be Latin, too. We can’t be sure unless we have all of it.”

  Dan reached for his cell phone. “I’m going to text it to Atticus.”

  Amy stared at him. “Your online buddy? The little kid? What would he know about it?”

  “You talk like he’s still in diapers. At eleven, he’s already forgotten more than you and I will ever know. He speaks, like, ten languages — including Italian and Latin. If anybody has a chance of understanding this, it’s Atticus!”

  “Okay,” Amy conceded reluctantly. “But be careful what you say. If this kid is half as smart as you think, he might get a sense of what we’re up against and call the cops because he thinks he’s helping.”

  Dan laughed out loud. “That’s the beauty of Atticus. When it comes to school stuff, he’s a major prodigy genius dude. But at everything else, he’s clueless.” He texted the cryptic letters from the back of the shield and added the message:

  need to borrow your great brain. this came in hw assignment. can you fill in blanks? think it might be italian or latin. should be right up your alley. everything is – dan

  He hit SEND.

  Amy was nervous. “I hope you know what you’re doing. The last thing we need is to let outsiders in on what we’re up to.”

  Her cell phone rang, and she checked the small screen. “It’s Attleboro. Let’s pray they’ve got good news about the charger.” But when she answered the call, the voice on the other end of the line belonged to —

  “Hi, Ames, it’s me. Guess where I am right now!”

  No. Impossible.

  What was Evan doing in the comm. center?

  “I know you’re in my house, Evan,” she replied carefully. “Uh — which part, exactly? I’m trying to get a mental picture.”

  “I’m in the attic. This comm. center is wild! You have your own satellite?”

  No … no … no!

  “Only a little one,” Amy managed. “It’s not really a comm. center. More like a den. For kicking back, watching TV—”

  Ian’s upper-class English accent replaced Evan on the line. “Amy, he knows.”

  “He knows what?” She was still hoping for damage control. Get Evan out fast, and never bring him upstairs again. Over time, maybe he could be convinced that what he saw was a kind of high-end home theater.…

  “He knows everything,” Ian supplied. “He’s been fully briefed about the Cahills. It’s all right —”

  “All right for you, maybe!” Amy cut him off. “I left specific instructions to keep my personal life out of this. And what do you do? The polar opposite of that!”

  “It’s William McIntyre, Amy,” announced an older, dignified voice. “Sinead is here as well. You’re live in the comm. center.”

  “Wonderful,” Amy said sarcastically. “What’s the point of throwing a hissy fit without friends and family on hand to hear it?”

  “We had every intention of respecting your wishes about Evan,” the lawyer apologized. “But that was before he recognized the Vesper phone.” He explained how DeOssie ultra-secure smartphone systems were only sold to the military and spy agencies. “Ian decided — and we all agree — that Evan’s knowledge of this technology and this company could help us investigate the identity of Vesper One.”

  “It’s our best lead so far,” Sinead put in.

  “What about the collar tag of the guy with the crossbow?” Amy asked.

  “We’re on that, too,” Ian promised. “But this is bigger. If this mobile phone is so restricted that you need to be secretary of defense to buy it, how did Vesper One qualify? Is he a former military officer or ex-spy? At minimum, there’s a Vesper on the DeOssie client roster somewhere. And for all we know, the whole company is controlled by the Vespers, and our people are being held somewhere in the DeOssie factory in upstate New York.”

  “Maybe you can get customer details or shipping addresses,” Amy mused. “Tap some of our Cahill connections in government and the military.”

  “Your young man was correct when he told us of the smothering secrecy surrounding this entity,” McIntyre said sadly. “Our contacts at the state department could not unearth a single DeOssie client. Ian’s Lucian friends at CIA were likewise stymied. The Tomas have a three-star general, and even he lacks the necessary security clearance. It’s possible that, given time, we could acquire the information —”

  “Time is the one thing we don’t have,” Amy agreed grudgingly. “I’m going to Skype you from Dan’s laptop, so we can all talk about this.”

  “You look good, Amy,” Evan said in a quiet voice when the comm. center appeared on the screen.

  “You, too.” Amy was surprised by the surge of emotion. The video link only seemed to underscore the thousands of miles that separated her from a normal life. She had never felt farther from home.

  But this was not the time to be distracted. Between Attleboro and the Gulfstream jet, a plan was cobbled together. Jonah and Hamilton would return to the United States to join Ian and Sinead on a nighttime expedition to check out the DeOssie factory. It was to be a spy mission, searching for client lists, shipping orders, service contracts — anything that might lead them to the identity of the Vespers and where they might be found. However, at the first sign that the hostages were there, it would convert to a rescue attempt.

  “We should be with them, Amy,” Dan urged. “This is more important than keeping Vesper One happy.”

  Amy looked at him. “Until we have our hostages safe and sound, nothing is more important than keeping Vesper One happy. We can’t be an ocean away when the message comes in to hand over the ‘Medusa.’”

  “If the Vesper phone hasn’t already died by then,” added Hamilton. “What’s the word on a new charger?”

  Evan spoke up. “Sinead and I are on it. She’s got the coolest electronics lab in the guest house —”

  “There’s nothing cool about what we’re doing, Evan,” Amy interrupted. “It’s deadly serious — and I mean that literally. That wasn’t a Nerf gun Nellie got shot with.”

  “Amy,” McIntyre said gently. “Evan has been enormously helpful. He deserves our gratitude.”

  Amy relented. “I was trying to keep the Cahill stuff separate from us, Evan. Sorry you got mixed up in this mess.”

  “I want to be mixed up in this mess.”

  “You don’t. Honestly.”

  “Ames, if this is part of who you are, then I need to be in on it,” Evan said earnestly. “This whole side of you is really different. Not better, exactly, but — you know—impressive.”

  Amy sighed. The clue hunt was impressive, too. Until the body bags started to pile up.

  She broke the connection only to have a new ringtone fill the Gulfstream’s interior.

  “Mine,” Dan announced. The caller ID read: Rosenbloom, A.

  He picked up the handset. “Atticus?”

  “Dan — I got your e-mail!” Although Atticus was less than two years younger than Dan, there was a juvenile excitement in his voice that made him seem childish. “You won’t believe this! Your homework—I’m standing less than a mile away from it!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The word puzzle,” Atticus explained. “It is, in actuality, the Porta Sanavivaria.”

  “Which is …” Dan prompted.

  “At the Colosseum — the Roman Colosseum? My brother’s doing a semester in Rome. Dad’s on sabbatical in India, so I went with Jake. We walk past the Colosseum every day!”

  “So the Porto San —” Dan’s tongue twisted.

  There was hysterical laughter on the line. “A Portosan is a portable toilet. The Porta Sanavivaria was, in actuality, how you left the Colosseum if you were spared by the emperor. It’s Latin for the Gate of Life.”

  “Roman Colosseum — Gate of Life,” Dan repeated with a meaningful look at his sister. “Hey, if your brother’s taking classes, what do you do all day?”r />
  “I’m taking classes, too,” the younger boy replied. “I didn’t want to be bored in Italy, so I finished high school online in my spare time. But I also teach a seminar on dead languages. My students aren’t very motivated,” he finished in a disappointed tone.

  “Kids these days,” Dan commiserated. “Thanks for the info, Atticus. Let’s get together when you’re back in Boston.” He hung up and turned to Amy. “So now we know—the name of a Roman Portosan is written on the back of the ‘Medusa.’ Why would the Vespers care about that?”

  “I don’t know,” Amy admitted, “but we’re going to find out. Change of plan —” she called to Jonah. “Can you drop us off in Rome?”

  “Yo, am I a movie star or a taxi service?” Jonah grumbled from the depths of the script pile.

  “Technically, you’re neither,” Hamilton puffed, lifting weights again. “I mean, you’re a star and you’ve made movies …”

  Dan had a concern. “What if the text comes in to deliver the painting? We’ll be in Rome, not Florence. And we won’t have the plane after Jonah and Hamilton head back to the States.”

  “Vesper One gave us ninety-six hours,” Amy reasoned. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. So if we go to the Colosseum in the morning, we’ll have plenty of time to get back to Florence at night to make the drop-off on Friday. It’s usually less than three hours by train or car.”

  “Unless the guy changes his mind,” Dan added nervously.

  “He may be psycho,” Amy replied evenly, “but he hasn’t lied to us yet.”

  Dan nodded in grim agreement. Vesper One hadn’t lied, all right. He’d promised consequences.

  And look what he’d done to Nellie.

  CHAPTER 20

  The fever was back.

  It had been moderate yesterday, but now Nellie was wracked with chills. She lay shivering on the cot, her face deathly white, her lips dry and cracked. She had pushed her jumpsuit off her shoulder, revealing an angry wound, raised, purple, and hot to the touch.

  She was in bad shape, she was pretty sure, because she’d had no appetite since yesterday. When Nellie couldn’t eat, something was seriously wrong. And even if she didn’t understand it herself, she could see the urgency of the situation reflected in the faces of her fellow captives. Especially Phoenix, poor kiddo.

  Fiske and Alistair consulted in whispers so the patient would not overhear.

  “The situation is dire,” Fiske admitted. “That wound is deeply infected, I fear. If the bullet is not removed soon, she could very well die.”

  Alistair was distracted with worry. “We could appeal to our jailers’ humanity, but I honestly believe they don’t have any.” His cane hand twitched so badly that he rarely removed it from his jumpsuit pocket. “Is this sport to them, to inflict a minor wound and then to watch like spectators as it festers into something mortal?”

  “We cannot allow it to happen,” Fiske said firmly. “We must find a way to get through to our captors.” His eyes fell on the remains of their most recent meal on the table. The plastic bottle of ketchup caught his attention. He smoothed out a paper napkin and wrote, squeezing out thin red lines:

  SHE’S DYING

  PLEASE HELP

  He intercepted a look of wide-eyed horror from Phoenix and cursed himself for not being more careful with the message. The youngster had become quite attached to Nellie, and her condition terrified him.

  It terrified all of them.

  Fiske placed the napkin in the dumbwaiter and closed the door. A moment later, they heard the device creaking its way up out of the cell.

  Nellie’s feeble voice came from the bedroom. “Can somebody crank the heat in this meat locker?”

  There were no more blankets, so Reagan yanked an armload of jumpsuits off the rack. She and Phoenix raced in and began to pile them on the patient.

  Nearly twenty agonizing minutes had gone by before Fiske noticed the dumbwaiter rattling its way down again. He caught Alistair’s attention and the two exchanged an anxious glance. In a few seconds they would have their answer, and it would literally be a matter of life and death.

  They snatched the door open and stared in bewilderment. There on a stainless steel surgical tray sat a scalpel, tweezers, a bottle of alcohol, and a sterile bandage.

  “Yes, but where’s the doctor?” Alistair exclaimed impatiently.

  Fiske took a deep breath. “There will be no doctor.”

  “Then what on earth could be the point of—” Light dawned on Alistair. “Absolutely not! If this is their idea of sick entertainment, I’ll have no part of it.”

  Fiske regarded him gravely. If Nellie was to be saved, they would have to remove the bullet themselves.

  It was a 50,000-seat stadium in the center of Rome. But this stadium — the Colosseum — was nearly two thousand years old, and most of it was still standing. It was the most impressive building of the Roman Empire, and one of the greatest tourist attractions in the world — as evidenced by the long line of visitors snaking through the velvet cordons stretching most of the way to the Arch of Constantine.

  In the middle of this line stood Atticus Rosenbloom and his eighteen-year-old half brother, Jake.

  Jake was not in a good mood. “I know you, Atticus. You don’t care about seeing the Colosseum again. You’re just looking for an excuse to call Dan Cahill and tell him where you are.”

  Atticus was defensive. “You’re turning your nose up at one of the world’s true wonders?”

  “No,” Jake retorted, “I’m turning my nose up at standing in line for an hour to see something I’ve already seen every inch of. Seriously, Att, what is it with you and that Cahill kid? How much could someone like you have in common with someone like that? He’s a mental midget compared to you.”

  “In actuality, Dan’s very smart.”

  “Like his collection of photocopies of butt cheeks?” Jake challenged. “I hope you didn’t send him yours.”

  Atticus grinned appreciatively. “There are different kinds of smart. It takes brains to be funny — not that you’d know anything about that. Dan’s my friend. He’s cool.”

  “Kids your age think anyone older is cool.”

  Atticus regarded him pointedly. “Not necessarily.”

  Jake snorted. “You’re obsessed with the guy.”

  Atticus didn’t argue. He was obsessed with Dan — but for a reason his brother knew nothing about. It certainly had nothing to do with being funny. In fact, it stemmed from a memory that was one hundred percent unfunny — the death of his mother.

  Astrid Rosenbloom’s last word — barely a whisper, spoken to Atticus alone through a demented haze — had been Cahill.

  There had been more, but she’d been so weak, bestowing her final, tortured breath upon those two syllables.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Dan was important somehow.

  It had been Mom who’d directed Atticus to the gamers’ chat room where he’d first encountered Dan. The two had become fast friends — never mind that Atticus was there as a chess player, and video gamer Dan didn’t know castling from en passant. There was no question that Mom had sown the seeds of their friendship. But why? It was impossible to know. Soon after, she had become mysteriously ill and hadn’t been making a lot of sense.

  So Atticus had decided to be patient and hold on to the hope that her purpose would reveal itself in time. Besides, Dan was awesome. The eleven-year-old genius wasn’t such a social butterfly that he could afford to throw friends away. In actuality, Dan was his only one.

  Maybe Mom’s grand plan had been nothing more than that: to ensure that her son didn’t go through life as a brilliant hermit, isolated from the rest of humanity by his unique mind.

  “We’re almost at the entrance,” Atticus told his brother. “I’m going to give Dan a call. He’ll get a kick out of hearing where we are.”

  “Are you crazy?” Jake exclaimed. “It’s five o’clock in the morning in Boston!”

  “I have to catch him before he leaves for
school.” Atticus hit the number on his speed dial.

  Next, something strange happened. There were quite a few rings. Then Dan answered, “Hello?” and the voice came from two places — from the phone, and from somewhere close by, farther back in the line. Bewildered, Atticus wheeled. There, about fifteen feet away as the queue wrapped around where the ropes were strung, stood none other than Dan himself, larger than life!

  “Dan! Dan!” Atticus’s high-pitched voice cut across the crowd. “Over here!” He ducked under the cord and rushed up to his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in Rome?”

  “We just got here,” Dan admitted, embarrassed, as the two exchanged a high five.

  “Yeah, but why didn’t you say you were coming?”

  Dan shrugged. “It’s kind of a family thing. This is my sister, Amy. Amy—Atticus.”

  “Come on, we have a place in line up ahead,” Atticus invited. “You’ll meet my brother, Jake.”

  With the clock ticking down to the time when the “Medusa” had to be handed over, Amy was grateful to be moved ahead in line — even if it meant sharing the day with Dan’s oddball Internet buddy. Every minute was precious now.

  The brothers Rosenbloom could not have been more different. Atticus was slight and dark, with owlish eyes behind large round glasses. The curly hair inherited from his African American mother was tightly woven into shoulder-length dreadlocks. Then there was Jake. Amy had a Colosseum to explore, a drop-off to make in another city, and seven hostages to worry about, not to mention a boyfriend back in the States. All that disappeared for a few seconds while she took a moment to appreciate the splendor that was Jake. He was at least six feet two, fairer, with sharp eyes and chiseled features.

  “You’re full of surprises today, Att,” he accused, looking as if he smelled something ever so slightly unpleasant, something he could not quite put his finger on.

  Amy noted his lack of enthusiasm. “We’ll go off on our own as soon as we get inside. We don’t want to intrude on your day.”

  “Are you kidding?” Atticus crowed. “We’ll tour together! I know the Colosseum like the back of my hand. I’ll be your guide!”

  Dan shot Amy a look of unspoken communication. If Atticus could shorten their search …