Peril at the Top of the World Page 2

  CHAPTER 7

  The grinning goon leaned forward.

  “Tell me, Professor, have you ever heard of the Enlightened Ones?” He rapped his knuckles on the table.

  “I have heard certain rumors about a shadowy group of criminal conspirators who call themselves the Enlightened Ones,” said Dad, cool as a cucumber.

  The bad guy balled up his fist.

  “It is no rumor, Professor. They are very, very real. As real as the ink in my skin.”

  “You cannot work for the Enlightened Ones unless you take a vow,” added his colleague. “And get your knuckles tattooed. That’ll hurt.”

  “What sort of vow?” asked Dad.

  “Omertà,” said the tough guy. “A code of silence. We will tell you nothing. We swear this on our honor.”

  “Interesting,” said Dad with a slight grin. “I always heard there was no honor among thieves.”

  “You heard wrong, signore!”

  “Do not worry, Professor,” sneered knuckle man. “Even though we two will remain mute, you might soon hear from the Enlightened Ones themselves. They are professors and intellettuali, much like you. They like to play, how you say, mind games. It is very amusing for them to toy with eggheads and do-gooders. So keep your eyes and ears open, Dr. Thomas Kidd. We will tell you nothing. But the Enlightened Ones? Who knows? They may soon drop you a very clever clue.”

  After about thirty more minutes of questions, very few answers, and all sorts of tattooed-knuckle table knocking, Dad wrapped things up with the two pawns and came into the observation room to join us.

  “Their code of silence is unshakable,” he said. “They’re not going to tell us anything.”

  “Most likely because the repercussions if they did would be severe,” said Storm, slicing her finger across her throat like a dagger. Yep, Storm can be kind of blunt like that. But we love her anyway.

  “Who are these Enlightened Ones?” I asked.

  Dad turned to his daughter with the photographic memory. “Storm?”

  Storm cocked her left eyebrow and waited a half a second. That’s the look she gets on her face whenever she’s flipping through the random-access memory device in her ginormous brain.

  “The Enlightened Ones are rumored to be a small band of criminal masterminds and art thieves,” said Storm. “They consider themselves the new Medicis. The Medicis, of course, were a powerful family who lived here in Florence centuries ago. They sponsored Renaissance artists and therefore owned the most spectacular collection of paintings, sculptures, and art objects in the world. But unlike the Medici family, who paid for the art, the Enlightened Ones prefer to steal their masterpieces.”

  Dad and Mom were nodding.

  “Remember that list of the world’s greatest unfound treasures that I used to keep in the Room on the Lost?” asked Dad. “I’ve often feared that this mysterious underground group of master art thieves might’ve already found a few of them.”

  “You mean things like the missing Kruger millions, the lost Fabergé eggs, and King John the Bad’s treasure?” I blurted.

  “That’s right, Bick. If the Enlightened Ones are real, they might very well be hoarding treasure worth billions and billions of dollars in some top secret hidden location. They might also be actively hunting more treasure.”

  “Then we need to get busy,” said Tommy. “Beat them to the punch! Find the rest of those super-treasures before they do.”

  “Exactly,” said Dad. He glanced at his dive watch. “Anybody else hungry? I’m in the mood for those eggs Bick just mentioned.”

  “Yes!” Beck and I said with a double arm-pump. Dad wasn’t talking about a late-night snack. He meant we were going on another treasure hunt: to find the lost Fabergé eggs!

  “Next stop, Russia,” said Dad. “This family has definitely earned a vacation. And vacations are always more fun when you spend them together… hunting treasure!”

  CHAPTER 8

  We jetted north to Russia.

  Saint Petersburg, to be exact.

  “Saint Petersburg is the second-largest city in all of Russia,” said Storm on our taxi ride into the city. “It is located on the Baltic Sea’s Gulf of Finland.”

  Tommy scratched his head. “I thought we were in Russia, not Finland.”

  “Tommy, did you keep up with your geography homework while I was being held hostage in Cyprus?”

  “Chya. Of course I did, Mom.”

  She gave him her patented you’re-not-fooling-me look. It’s like a superpower that only moms have.

  Feeling the force of it, Tommy glanced down. “A little. Some.”

  Mom kept giving him her look.

  “Okay, not at all,” Tommy admitted sheepishly. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “Well, Thomas,” said Dad, “there’s no better way to learn about geography than to actually visit the landmasses and seas you are studying.”

  “Um,” I said, “I thought this was supposed to be our summer vacation?”

  “It is. Nine whole days. But that doesn’t mean our brains need to take a break too.”

  “Actually,” said Beck, “in America, kids get, like, two or three whole months off.”

  “They play a lot of video games over the summer,” I added. “Then they ride their bikes, go swimming, go to camp, play some more video games, and eat a ton of hot dogs, toasted marshmallows, and ice cream.”

  “A couple of them read too,” said Storm. “The ones with good summer-reading programs.”

  “If you ask me,” said Dad, “summer vacations at American schools are far too long. Three months? That’s ridiculous. It might be the reason so many American kids forget everything they’ve learned during the school year.”

  “Summer vacation can also create bad work habits,” said Mom.

  “Like what?” asked Beck, who was sketching the onion-like domed roof of the Cathedral of the Resurrection, the coolest building in all of Saint Petersburg.

  “There’s no structure,” said Mom. “No routine. Summer vacations are just too loosey-goosey.”

  Yep. That’s our mom and dad. Even though our constant globe-trotting meant we couldn’t attend a real school, they always made sure we were keeping up with our studies.

  “So, even though we’re on vacation,” announced Dad, “there will be no Kidd family summer slide. We’ve hired a tour guide and tutor for our time in Russia. Ah, there she is.” He tapped on the divider window to get the taxi driver’s attention. “Pozhaluysta, ostanovite zdes’,” said Dad.

  The cab came to a stop in front of that awesome cathedral.

  “Spasibo,” Dad said to the driver. “Come on, Kidds. This is going to be our best, most exciting summer ever!”

  We stepped out of the cab and met our tutor, Larissa Bukova.

  The second Tommy saw her, I’m pretty sure he started having his best summer ever.

  CHAPTER 9

  After touring the cathedral, we visited the Grand Palace, Palace Square, the Winter Palace, and the Catherine Palace.

  Yep. There are a lot of palaces in Saint Petersburg, and Larissa Bukova told us absolutely everything about each and every one of them.

  “The Catherine Palace, built in the flamboyant rococo style, was the summer residence of the Russian czars…”

  Blah-blah-blah.

  Mom and Dad were soaking it up. Tommy too. He was definitely falling hard for Larissa Bukova (that’s one of the reasons Mom and Dad call him Tailspin Tommy—he nosedives into a love spiral every time he meets a new girl).

  Storm, however, did not seem happy. In fact, I had never seen her look so sad.

  Larissa Bukova’s knowledge of Saint Petersburg, and everything else (including how to make Herring under Fur Coat, a Russian dish with layers of salted herring and cooked vegetables topped off with a frosting of grated beets mixed with mayo), totally dwarfed Storm’s knowledge, which we’d all thought was undwarfable.

  “The Catherine Palace was also the last known location of the Amber Room, which was built in
the early 1700s,” said Dad with a sigh. “It disappeared in World War Two.”

  “Yes,” said Larissa. “I was just about to mention that.”

  “Me too,” said Storm.

  Larissa kept going. “The Amber Room was so named because it was lined with panels decorated with six tons of amber and gold, and it was considered the Eighth Wonder of the World. We suspect the Nazis took the room’s priceless panels back to Germany during World War Two, but they have never been found.”

  Dad nodded and stroked his chin.

  I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was: Had the Enlightened Ones found the stolen panels from the Amber Room? Did they have a headquarters with a ballroom made out of gold-encrusted amber walls?

  Only one thing was certain: Dad’s treasure-hunting brain never, ever went on vacation.

  We left the Catherine Palace and moved on to the Hermitage Museum. Larissa Bukova, of course, went with us. Beck started calling her Krazy Glue because we couldn’t shake her. I didn’t like how sad she was making Storm feel by stealing all her thunder.

  “The Hermitage has more paintings than any museum in the world,” said Larissa.

  “Russian emperors used to live here,” said Storm.

  “The museum opened in 1852,” Larissa shot back.

  “Admission is free on the first Thursday of every month!” yelled Storm.

  Yep. They were having a nerd-off.

  “Larissa,” Dad cut in, “I was wondering—can you take us to the Fabergé Museum? I am very interested in the Easter eggs.”

  “I can take you there,” blurted Storm. “I’ve already mapped out the shortest route in my head.”

  “Wonderful,” said Mom. “Lead the way, Stephanie.”

  Yay, Mom. She could tell Storm was feeling bummed too.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Fabergé Museum’s top attraction?

  Nine priceless Easter eggs.

  “Only fifty imperial eggs were ever made,” reported Larissa Bukova. “And they were crafted right here in Saint Petersburg by the jeweler to the czars, Carl Fabergé!”

  “Was he, like, the jeweler to the stars in Hollywood too?” said Tommy, trying to be charming.

  “No,” said Larissa. “He was Russian. All of those fifty bejeweled eggs were given as Easter gifts by the last two czars to their wives and mothers.”

  Larissa and Storm led us to a display case filled with the sparkling, fantastical eggs.

  “How much are these baubles worth?” asked Beck.

  “In 2004,” said Larissa, “Viktor Vekselberg, one of Russia’s wealthiest business tycoons, purchased these nine eggs for one hundred million dollars.”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy, adding an impressed whistle. “That’s like eleven million dollars an egg.”

  “And,” I added, “he didn’t even bring home a whole dozen.”

  Tommy and I fist-bumped on that.

  When we did, a very stern-looking little lady marched over to have a word with us. So far in Russia, all the museum guards had been older women. They didn’t wear uniforms. They didn’t need to. They looked scary enough without them.

  “Are you, by any chance, Professor Thomas Kidd?”

  We all stared at her in surprise.

  Except for Dad. He’d been around long enough to expect the unexpected. “Da,” he said seriously.

  “This, then, is for you.”

  She stiffly handed Dad a sealed envelope.

  “Spasibo,” said Dad. “Thank you.”

  She sniffed and eyed Tommy. “No more whistling,” she said, wagging her finger at Tommy. Then she turned on her heel and, shoes clicking, walked out of the gallery.

  I checked out the envelope in Dad’s hand and gasped.

  It was sealed with wax. And stamped in the middle of the seal was a symbol I recognized!

  CHAPTER 11

  Dad carefully slid open the envelope and removed the crisp notecard tucked inside.

  Then he, Mom, and Storm studied it.

  (Well, with Storm, it was more like she was scanning it into her photographic memory for permanent storage.)

  “Do you need help translating the message?” asked the ever-helpful brainiac Larissa Bukova. “I speak fourteen different languages fluently.”

  “Is that all?” scoffed Storm. “Relax, Comrade. It’s in English. I think I can handle it.”

  “What the heck is it?” I asked. “Some kind of secret message?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mom.

  “I believe it’s a challenge,” added Dad.

  “This is just what those flunkies in Florence told us might happen,” said Storm. After taking half a second to rewind the digital tape in her enormous brain, she quoted: “‘Keep your eyes and ears open, Dr. Thomas Kidd. We will tell you nothing. But the Enlightened Ones? Who knows? They may soon drop you a very clever clue.’”

  Wow. We’d just been handed our first clue to—well, something!

  “So what’d they tell us?” asked Beck. “Is it about one of the missing treasures?”

  “Do they have the rest of the Fabergé eggs?” asked Tommy.

  I jumped in too. “Did they tell you where they stashed the Amber Room? Because they’d need a really big storage space to hide that.”

  “Like they would tell us that in a clue,” Beck said.

  “How do you know?” I snapped.

  “Because that would be dumb, like you!”

  “You mean dumb like you!”

  Yes, we were about to launch into one of our famous Twin Tirades. This would’ve been number 607.

  But we didn’t. Mom and Dad were kind of glaring at us so we backed off.

  “We’ll all need to focus to solve these clues,” Mom said.

  “This is an extremely important hunt, guys,” said Dad. “Whatever this treasure is, if we can manage to find it, it belongs to the world.”

  “We’ll find it, Dad!” Tommy said.

  “Piece of cake!” said Storm.

  Mom looked at me and Beck. “How about you two?”

  Beck and I looked at each other and nodded. “We’re in,” we said together.

  Because that’s what twins do.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dad clapped his hands and rubbed them together the way he did when it was time to pull in the lines on the boat and shove off. “Okay, Kidds, we have work to do.”

  I raised my hand. “Um, I thought we were supposed to be on our summer vacation.”

  “We were,” said Mom, glancing at her watch. “For thirty-six hours.”

  “You’re counting the flight from Florence?”

  “They served you soft drinks and snacks, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Mom went on. “Do you have soft drinks and snacks every day?”

  “No. Only on vacation.”

  “I rest my case,” she said with a smile.

  Dad turned to Mom with one of those looks that says a lot without saying anything. “Sue?”

  Mom just nodded, “I agree, Thomas.”

  “I’ll leave tonight.”

  Time for me to raise my hand again. “Um, what are you guys talking about?”

  “Your father needs to take off,” said Mom.

  “Again?” said Beck. “We just found him, like, two weeks ago.”

  “This totally bites,” added Tommy.

  “Indeed it does,” said Dad. “But I think these clues from the art thieves who call themselves the Enlightened Ones will eventually lead us to the biggest treasure ever, anywhere, at any time—their top secret lair of stolen treasure!”

  “So why can’t we come with you?” asked Beck.

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “If this treasure is so big, you’ll probably need help carrying it.”

  “Because,” said Mom, “the five of us, with Larissa’s assistance, need to work the puzzle here, in Russia. After all, the message was delivered to us in a Russian museum by a Russian museum guard.”

  “Which means,” said Dad, “the Enlig
htened Ones are here in Saint Petersburg too!”

  CHAPTER 13

  We left the fancy-egg museum and headed to where we’d be spending our first night in Saint Petersburg: the State Hermitage Museum Official Hotel.

  Yep. Our five-star accommodations were part of the art museum.

  Dad and Mom went into their room and repacked Dad’s bag so he could take off in search of the Enlightened Ones’ treasure trove. I was guessing it was hidden inside an inactive volcano crater that could be reached only by submarine. Then again, I’d just watched a James Bond movie on the flight up from Florence.

  Storm set to work in her room poring over the clue that we received. Tommy was in the bathroom, busily scrunching his hair, something he hadn’t done “in like six hours!”

  That meant Beck and I were alone. In the living room.

  Despite our truce from earlier, Twin Tirade 607 had been simmering for several hours. We were totally ready to blow.

  Our tirades don’t actually fit the dictionary definition of the word tirade, which Mom made us look up during one of our English lessons: “A long angry speech. A rant, diatribe, or harangue.”

  Our harangues never lasted very long. They were more like sparklers. We’d shoot off all sorts of hot and sizzling silver sparks from our red cores for maybe a minute. Then we’d fizzle out.

  That day’s tirade topic? Dad’s plan to abandon ship.

  Again.

  Yes, Beck’s skills are much more visual than verbal. As the writer in the family, I am much, much better at name-calling.

  “I’ll tell you who I am, you cantankerous contrarian. I am your awesome twin brother and the author of our family’s adventure books.”

  “You also have a crusty booger inside your left nostril.”