Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile Read online

  4. La Buse’s (The Buzzard’s) Abandoned Pirate Treasure. Olivier Levasseur (1688–1730) was a pirate everybody called La Buse (The Buzzard) because of the fast and furious (not to mention ruthless) way he attacked his enemies. He also had a gnarly scar across one of his eyes. Very buzzardish.

  The Buzzard pillaged and plundered off the coast of Madagascar and East Africa for decades. When he was finally captured and sentenced to death, he stood on the hangman’s scaffold with a necklace dangling around his neck. On it was a square filled with a cryptogram—seventeen lines of secret code. He ripped the thing off and flung it to the crowd, saying, “Find my treasure, ye who may understand it.” Treasure hunters have been searching for his hidden booty ever since.

  Whatever treasure we decided to track down, we knew we were definitely going to Africa because we needed to swing by Egypt first.

  Why?

  Because that was where our mother told us to go.

  CHAPTER 9

  This is how incredibly amazing our mom is: Even though she was still being held by kidnappers over in Cyprus, she found a way to smuggle some secret instructions to us.

  How’d she do it?

  Through Dr. Louis Lewis, professor of Ancient Near Eastern Art and Archaeology at Columbia University in New York City. He had helped us on our last adventure. Now he found us at Chumley Prep to tell us he had actually seen Mom over in Cyprus and had brought back “her top-secret message”!

  Dr. Lewis agreed to meet us first thing Saturday morning in Central Park. We headed for the benches circling Cleopatra’s Needle, a foursided obelisk inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics that’s on a knoll right behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Professor Lewis, decked out in his rumpled tweed sports coat with patches sewn on the elbows, was feeding pigeons the crumbs left over from his bag of buttered bagels.

  “Ah! The Kidd brood. Thank you for meeting me here. It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “How’s our mother?” blurted Storm, who usually skips the chitchat and cuts to the chase.

  “Holding up as well as can be expected given that she is currently at the mercy of that merciless band of brigands.”

  “But she’s okay?” I asked. “She’s not dead or anything?”

  “Oh, no. Far from it. In fact, she’s still giving her captors plenty of what she calls ‘ ’tude.’ ”

  “So you were with her in Cyprus?” said Tommy, who’s usually a page or two behind everybody else—even if it’s a comic book.

  “Indeed, I was. Her kidnappers requested my presence once they took possession of the Grecian urn, which you children so expertly tracked down. I wholeheartedly supported your mother’s authentication of the priceless artifact.”

  “And they still wouldn’t let her go?”

  Dr. Lewis shook his head. “I’m afraid not. However, in exchange for my services, they did allow me to depart Cyprus with this.”

  He held up a slender thumb drive.

  “What’s on it?” I asked.

  “A video message. From your mother.”

  CHAPTER 10

  After we hurried back to Chumley Prep, Storm grabbed her laptop and we found a quiet room where we could watch the mysterious video in private.

  It wasn’t very long, but it was extremely powerful and moving.

  Because it was of our mom talking directly to the camera.

  “Hello, kids.”

  Mom smiled like she did every time she called us “kids” since, you know, we’re “Kidds.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I miss you guys and your dad. I heard about the trouble on the boat. Tommy? You’re in charge until your father and I return. You’ve always been brave. We know you won’t let us down.”

  “I won’t, Mom. I promise.” Tommy raised his right hand like he was making a solemn oath.

  “But, Tommy? Always listen to Storm—my beautiful, brainy daughter. She’s smarter than anyone I have ever met. And she will never forget the most important thing in the world—how much she loves her family.”

  Tommy draped his arm around Storm. She gave him a sideways look but let his arm stay on her shoulder anyhow.

  “And both of you—watch out for your little brother and sister. My terrific twins! Oh, Beck, how I miss your drawings. By now, you’re probably better than Picasso.”

  “Close,” muttered Beck.

  “And Bick—before I fall asleep every night, I tell myself one of your stories. They make me smile, no matter how bad my day’s been. You should write them down so everybody can enjoy them as much as I do.”

  There was a slight pause. Mom’s eyes darted to the right.

  “Oh-kay. My, um, hosts just said I need to speed this up a little. So pay very close attention to what I’m about to say. As you can see, I’ve lost all track of time. But please go visit my aunt Bela Kilgore. She’s in Cairo. And remember, kids—winter, spring, summer, and fall, my aunt Bela loves Julius Caesar and the number thirteen most of all. Also, if you ever meet a man in an eye patch with a pencil-thin mustache who happens to be wearing a French Foreign Legion hat, run away! Tell Aunt Bela to run away, too. His name is Guy Dubonnet Merck and—”

  A shadowy figure stepped in front of the camera lens and grunted something like, “Enough. Turn it off.”

  The screen went black.

  So did my brain.

  Because I was totally confused.

  CHAPTER 11

  What was all that mumbo jumbo about Aunt Bela, Julius Caesar, the number thirteen, and a nasty man named Guy in a French Foreign Legion hat with an eye patch?

  “Okay,” said Beck. “That was, like, totally random.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said, not really in the mood for another Twin Tirade. “What if Aunt Bela is the same as Uncle Timothy?”

  “You mean she’s a guy?” said Tommy.

  “No,” said Beck. “Guy’s the one with the funny hat who’s missing an eyeball.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said. “Uncle Timothy is Mom and Dad’s CIA handler, right? Well, what if Aunt Bela is another CIA boss?”

  “Oh,” said Tommy. “Cool. Way to figure junk out, Bick.”

  “Thanks. And, if Bela Kilgore is CIA, too, she might know what we need to do to rescue Mom.”

  Storm shrugged. “Maybe. By the way, Mom also lost her watch.”

  “Huh?” said Tommy.

  “When Mom said she’d ‘lost all track of time,’ did you notice her right wrist?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “She wasn’t wearing her Breitling Superocean Heritage Chronograph.”

  “Huh?” said Tommy. Again.

  “Her dive watch. With a suggested retail price of close to seven thousand dollars, it was likely stolen by the kidnappers.”

  With her photographic memory, Storm not only notices every tiny detail (like Mom’s missing watch), but she can recite catalog information about it, too.

  “We need to be in Egypt,” mumbled Tommy.

  Yes, for the first time since forever, we were all about to disobey one of our parents’ direct orders to study hard.

  None of us were very focused on our schoolwork.

  In fact, we were all about to become prep school dropouts.

  CHAPTER 12

  That night at zero-dark-thirty (that’s spy lingo for thirty minutes after midnight), the four of us met underneath the portrait of Cornelius Chumley down in the prep school’s central hall.

  Each of us had packed a quick Go Bag. I’d stuffed some clothes, my journal, a book I’d been reading, half a Snickers bar, a dollar fifty in loose change, Mom’s thumb drive, and Dad’s old rain slicker into my backpack. Beck packed Dad’s leather bookmark, as well as her pen set and sketchpad. Tommy probably loaded his whole duffel with hair products and Axe body spray.

  All of us were dressed in our best stealthy commando outfits: all black-on-black clothes with rubber-soled running shoes. Beck had even dabbed some black India ink under her eyes, so she sort of looked like
a football player.

  “You guys ready to do this thing?” Tommy asked in a whisper.

  “I was born ready,” said Beck.

  “Me too,” I added.

  “I know,” Beck shot back. “I was there.”

  “True,” I said. “But I was there first.”

  “By two minutes.”

  “First is first, Beck.”

  “Which is why you’re a first-class freakazoid, Bick.”

  We were about to erupt into Twin Tirade No. 461 when Storm raised her hand.

  “Yeah?” said Tommy, our fearless leader.

  “Where exactly are we escaping to?” Storm asked.

  “Cairo. Egypt.”

  Storm arched an eyebrow. “And which subway train do you recommend we take to get there?”

  “Look,” said Tommy. “We’ll figure out all the details later. Right now—”

  The lights snapped on overhead.

  “Where do you children think you’re going at this hour?”

  It was Mr. Norby, the night watchman.

  Tommy thought fast. “Um, out?”

  “We need pencils,” I added. “For, uh, school tomorrow!”

  And then we started running.

  Good thing Mr. Norby is old—like, in his nineties. He wheezes a lot and has hair growing inside his ears.

  We darted past him.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “No running! Running is against the rules.…”

  By the time we hit the front doors, Mr. Norby was winded.

  We dashed down Chumley Prep’s front steps and reached the New York City sidewalk. The fresh night air smelled like freedom!

  But there was a black town car parked at the curb. The driver’s window scrolled down.

  An Asian man was seated behind the wheel. “Go back to school, Kidds,” he said, although it could’ve been, “Go back to school, kids.” With our name, it gets confusing sometimes.

  “Your uncle Timothy would be most displeased,” the Asian man continued, “if you were to leave Chumley Prep before the school term is completed.”

  “Really?” said Tommy. “Then we’re definitely leaving!”

  And we ran even faster down the sidewalk, leaving the car stuck in New York City traffic.

  None of us were all that interested in what Uncle Timothy thought about our behavior. We were much more interested in finding Aunt Bela Kilgore (whoever she was) and rescuing Mom!

  CHAPTER 13

  The next day, we realized something: We should’ve spent a little more time planning our Great Escape.

  Like, maybe even ten minutes.

  Because running out of Chumley Prep with nothing but some clothes, a couple of personal items, and very little money was not the smartest way to survive in New York City, one of the most expensive cities on earth.

  To make matters even worse, we couldn’t even call Professor Lewis, our only friend in New York City, for a place to stay. We just had no way of really knowing if he’d make us go back to Chumley.

  So we aimlessly wandered the streets of Manhattan and ended our dreary day working the crowds outside Grand Central Terminal, the city’s major train station. The four of us were hoping to scrape up enough spare change to buy one big salty pretzel we could divvy up for dinner.

  While we were busy panhandling, I saw that same black town car that had been parked outside Chumley Prep.

  The car was slowly creeping up Forty-Second Street. The driver’s window lowered and, once again, I saw the man’s face.

  “You guys?” I said to my siblings. “It’s him!”

  “The Asian dude?” said Tommy.

  “Yep,” said Storm. “Judging by his facial features, his ancestry is most likely from the southern provinces of China.”

  “Hide!” shouted Tommy.

  Tommy, Beck, and I jumped behind a guy walking around with a sandwich board advertising FRIENDLY FOOT RUBS.

  Storm dived behind a hot dog cart.

  The car kept crawling up the block.

  We were okay. Uncle Timothy’s friend hadn’t spotted us. And, somehow, Storm had scored a hot dog with everything on it.

  “It fell to the sidewalk and nearly landed in a pile of dog poop,” she said, chomping a big bite. “The guy said I could take it. Free.”

  I guess we should’ve been grossed out, but we were too busy starving.

  “Was it on the ground for more than five seconds?” Tommy asked Storm.

  “Nope.”

  “Then let’s dig in, guys.”

  Actually, I don’t think the five-second rule applies when you’re outdoors—especially if you’re on the streets of New York.

  But that was how down and desperate we were after just one day.

  We split the dirty dog into four more bite-sized chunks and called it dinner.

  CHAPTER 14

  How down were we?

  How about all the way down to the subterranean bowels of Grand Central Terminal—down in the tunnels underneath all the other tunnels. Down where rats rule the rails. Starving and exhausted, we ended up calling it a day at the long-abandoned Waldorf-Astoria train platform.

  “This is where VIPs used to park their private train cars so they could sneak into the hotel upstairs without anybody seeing them,” said our underground tour guide, Storm. “That train car over there? That was for Franklin Delano Roosevelt when he was president. It was big enough to carry him and his armor-plated Pierce Arrow automobile.”

  “Cool,” said Tommy. “But who’s she?” Turns out, we weren’t the only ones hiding out underneath Grand Central.

  In no time, Tommy flirted his way to friendship with a cute, teenaged runaway named Mildred.

  “My friends call me Millie,” she said.

  We all nodded but, at that moment, none of us really cared. We were too busy staring at the Dunkin’ Donuts box. Well, all of us except Tommy. He was staring at Millie.

  “I went Dumpster diving earlier,” Millie explained. “You guys hungry?”

  Hot dogs plucked off the sidewalk and doughnuts scooped out of garbage cans. New York City has some of the finest food in the world if you’re famished.

  Actually, it was really sweet of Millie to share her dinner.

  “So where are you guys running away from?” Millie asked while we wolfed down her doughnuts.

  Tommy gave Millie a grin. “Nowhere. See, we’re the Kidds. We don’t run away from anything. We run to action, adventure, and, of course, danger.”

  “Really? That’s awesome. I’m from Plattsburgh, and nothing exciting or dangerous ever happens in Plattsburgh.”

  Tommy wiggled his eyebrows. “So maybe you’d like to go on an adventure with me to Cairo?”

  “Really?” gushed Millie. “Cairo? In Egypt?”

  “Is there any other?”

  “Yes,” said Storm. “Cairo, Illinois.”

  “Egypt would be soooo totally amazing!” Millie gushed.

  Beck and I exchanged a glance.

  It was time to school Millie and, simultaneously, save our big brother. From himself.

  CHAPTER 15

  “You know, Millie,” I said, “dangerous adventures aren’t for everybody.”

  “In fact,” said Beck, “they can be downright scary.”

  “Like this one time pirates kidnapped Beck and nearly made her walk the plank.”

  “Another time,” said Beck, “Serbian thugs didn’t like us digging up a treasure chest—”

  “So,” I said, picking up the tale and embellishing it, “they jumped Tommy and tortured him with toothpicks they shoved under his fingernails. Then there was the time our boat was hijacked by masked Malayan marauders—”

  “You guys?” said Tommy, hoping we’d stop scaring his new girlfriend.

  But I kept going. “Look, Millie, I’m sure Plattsburgh has plenty of nice, safe adventures that’d be totally cool for you. But, if you come with us to Cairo, you’ll probably end up with a deadly scorpion inside your shoe. At the very least.”

 
“Don’t forget the spiders,” said Beck. “The spiders in Egypt are the size of rats.”

  I nodded. “Only fuzzier and with a lot more legs and poisonous fangs.”

  Millie’s eyes were about to explode out of her face.

  “Then, of course,” I said, “there are the camel stampedes.”

  “C-c-camel stampedes?” stammered Millie.

  “Oh, yeah. They happen two or three times a day in Cairo. They call it ‘Hump Hour.’ And it’s so crowded there’s not even room to get out of the way, so you have to just stand there and hope the camels don’t trample you.”

  Millie had heard enough. “I gotta go!”

  Tommy looked heartbroken. “What? Where?”

  “Home!”

  Millie took off running into the darkness, shrieking every time a rat squeaked at her.

  “Why did you guys do that?” grumbled Tommy.

  “Because your girlfriends are bad news,” said Beck.

  “Don’t forget,” added Storm, “we lost the Twins and all that sunken treasure to Nathan Collier because of Gina, your redheaded friend in the polka-dot bikini.”

  “So zip it,” said Beck.

  “Okay,” sighed Tommy. “You’re right. Besides, I’m too tired to chase after Millie anyway.”

  “We should get some sleep,” I said. “Tomorrow we need to scrape together enough cash to buy four airplane tickets to Egypt.”