McIntyre stared. There it was, affixed as a lapel pin to the statue of Mozart in the center of the square.
A strong hand on his shoulder spun him around. It was Alistair Oh, in a towering rage.
"So it's you!" the elderly man accused. "I don't appreciate your meddling in this contest! Where is my clue?"
The lawyer shrugged, bewildered. "I have nothing of yours."
"There was a clue from the tunnel at St. Peter's," Alistair said coldly. "When I went to retrieve it to have it translated, I found it missing and your homing pin in the head of my cane. Your explanation, if you please." "I have none."
"So you confess that you're trying to influence this contest." His eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps your plan is to hijack it entirely and take the prize for yourself." McIntyre rose to his full height. "I resent that. You may well have been bamboozled, but not by me. You ought to know that, with the stakes this high, treachery is to be expected. And Cahills are capable of almost anything."
"You haven't heard the last of this. When I win the contest, I'll see to it that you never work again!" Alistair spun on his heel and stalked away.
With a sigh, McIntyre retrieved the homing pin from Mozart's lapel -- it had been affixed with chewing gum. Pocketing it, he exited the square and walked three blocks to an outdoor cafe in a secluded courtyard. He seated himself at a quiet table, across from a man dressed entirely in black.
"You won't believe it," the lawyer announced in a despairing tone. "They found the homing device under the cat's collar and planted it on Alistair Oh." The man in black stroked his furrowed brow. "So what you're saying is we've lost the children."
McIntyre nodded glumly. "It's more like the children have lost us. It's possible that they are more resourceful than even Madame Grace had imagined." High above their table, the vapor trail of a jetliner left a white ribbon in the clear blue sky, heading east.
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