Peril at the Top of the World Read online

  “Cool,” said Tommy. “So when people call 911, are you the guy who answers?”

  Mom cleared her throat. Shook her head.

  Tommy blushed a little. “Sorry, sir. My bad.”

  “Actually,” said the ever-unhelpful Larissa, “Mr. Szymanowicz’s department’s official name is Ministry of the Russian Federation for Affairs for Civil Defense, Emergencies, and Elimination of Consequences of Natural Disasters.”

  Szymanowicz gave Larissa Bukova the Russian stink-eye.

  Snap! She shut right up—just like that! It was absolutely amazing. Szymanowicz definitely knew how to deal with natural disasters, including ones named Larissa.

  “I am most alarmed by the art theft at the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg,” said Minister Szymanowicz. “It is indeed a national emergency.”

  “We agree,” said Mom. “And we’ll do anything we can to help you recover your lost treasures.”

  “Except eat more of that meat-and-gelatin mold they served for lunch,” said Storm. “That stuff was just gross.”

  “I apologize for your recent imprisonment,” said Minister Szymanowicz, bowing slightly.

  “We’re just happy to be free,” said Mom.

  “We’re Americans,” added Tommy. “We’re used to living that way.”

  Our Russian host pretended not to be insulted. “Tell me,” he said, “where is Professor Thomas Kidd?”

  “Away,” said Mom. That’s spy talk for None of your business.

  “I am very disappointed your heroic husband is not here to help us in this hour of extreme national need.”

  “I’m sorry too,” said Mom. “But, trust me, it was an emergency.”

  “Oh yes. I am certain it was. Where exactly did he go?” Szymanowicz pressed. Apparently, he didn’t speak spy.

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Is that so? Is he searching for some other treasure?”

  Mom grinned but she didn’t answer.

  Szymanowicz kept pushing. “Is anybody else searching for the same treasure your husband seeks?”

  Mom was a pro at handling interrogations. She just kept on smiling. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes said, I ain’t talking, pal. Move on.

  “So,” said Minister Szymanowicz with an exasperated sigh, “can you at least tell me where you think we might find the purloined paintings?”

  “Certainly,” said Mom.

  And everybody (except me) said: “The North Pole.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “The North Pole?” said Gage Szymanowicz with a rumbling chuckle. “Do you suspect Santa Claus is the scoundrel who stole our missing masterpieces?”

  “Minister,” said Mom, trying to silence his laughter, “have you ever heard of a shadowy underground association whose members call themselves the Enlightened Ones?”

  He shrugged. “I have heard the rumors, of course. They say the Enlightened Ones are a fiendish cartel of super-rich billionaires who are attempting to seize and hoard all of the world’s greatest treasures. But I do not believe in these rumors, the same way I do not believe in Santa Claus or, as we Russians call him, Ded Moroz—Grandfather Frost.”

  “You don’t believe?” said Tommy. “Did Grandfather Frost forget to bring you a bicycle or something one year?”

  Mom shook her head again. “Thomas?”

  “Sorry, sir. My bad. Again.”

  “The Enlightened Ones have been sending us clues pointing toward the North Pole as the hiding place for all their looted booty,” said Storm. “It’s almost like they’re drawing us a treasure map made up of riddles instead of dotted lines.”

  “Is this so?” said Minister Szymanowicz, arching one bushy eyebrow.

  “Well, that’s one way to interpret the clues,” I said.

  Now Mom was giving me the stink-eye.

  So I added, “And right now, it’s probably the best way too.”

  “May I see these clues?”

  “Only if you buy a copy of the book I’m going to write.”

  “Proshu proshcheniya? I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re putting the clues in the book we’re doing about our adventures in Italy, Russia, and wherever else we end up on this treasure hunt,” explained Beck. “When the book comes out, I’m sure you’ll enjoy my drawings a ton more than Bick’s writing.”

  “Will not,” I countered.

  “Will too.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Will!”

  Mom cleared her throat again. (She has to do that a lot when we’re out in public.)

  “Twins? Settle down. We don’t have time for one of your tirades. We have art to rescue.”

  “This is true,” said Minister Szymanowicz, getting back on track. “Now, how do they say this in the movies? Ah, yes. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to save art and, in so doing, save civilization. Without art and culture, what are we humans? Nothing but bumbling barbarians with no beauty in our lives! Even our prehistoric forefathers knew this. Why else would they decorate their cave walls with primitive paintings?” Szymanowicz asked.

  “To be more specific,” said Szymanowicz, “I want you, the Kidd Family Treasure Hunters, to go find the art that was stolen out of the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg as well as the priceless paintings recently stolen from the Louvre in Paris, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and the Saatchi Gallery in London. We are certain there is a connection among all these thefts.”

  Wow. That earned a collective gasp.

  Who knew so many artistic treasures had gone missing?

  Larissa Bukova, that’s who. She launched into another one of her scholarly (make that boring) monologues.

  “None of these thefts have ever been reported in the press. However, due to the superiority of our Russian intelligence agencies, our fearless leaders know all about them. For we are the champions of culture and civilization.”

  “This is very true, Larachka,” said Minister Szymanowicz, smiling.

  Weird. The way he said that, I got a funny feeling that the Russian minister of emergency-type stuff knew our tour guide.

  But that wasn’t possible.

  Or was it?

  CHAPTER 25

  Minister Szymanowicz wasn’t done with his plot-thickening ingredients.

  “You were recommended for this job by the famous billionaire Viktor Zolin.”

  “The teenage weeper?” I blurted out.

  “Da. Viktor is very emotional. He cries so much, he had to hire an extra bodyguard just to carry his tissue boxes.”

  “Wait a second,” said Tommy. “Viktor Zolin is the one who told the cops to toss us in jail.”

  Minister Szymanowicz nodded. “As I said, he is very emotional. Prone to mood swings. We apologize for any inconvenience caused by your recent incarceration. I assure you that you were never suspects in this crime.”

  “Viktor Zolin is also worth several billion dollars,” added Larissa Bukova. “Most of it has come from his family’s oil and gas holdings. When his parents mysteriously died, young Viktor inherited everything.”

  “What do you mean, mysteriously?” asked Storm, who was probably pegging thirteen-year-old Viktor as a prime murder suspect.

  “It was a freak accident,” explained Larissa. “Viktor’s parents were visiting an artistic installation known as the Ice Palace that was erected in Saint Petersburg ten years ago. Viktor, of course, was only three years old at the time so his parents left him with his babushka—his grandmother—while they explored the magnificent sculpture created by master ice artists using three tons of ice blocks chiseled out of nearby lakes. The frozen building was a replica of the original Ice Palace built in 1740 to celebrate the Russian victory in the Turkish war and honor the tenth anniversary of Empress Anna’s reign. It was nearly thirty feet tall and incredibly beautiful.”

  “So what happened?” I asked Larissa.

  “The sun came out. It was highly unusual and unexpected in Russia. Especially for February. Viktor’s parents�
��and several other unfortunate frozen-sculpture lovers—were crushed under blocks of melting ice. This is why he weeps so much.”

  Minister Szymanowicz nodded. “He once told a reporter, ‘I weep as the ice wept—right before it killed my mama and my papa.’”

  “That is so sad,” said Beck.

  “Totally,” added Tommy. “What a bummer.”

  We all started sniffling a little. Our eyes were getting watery, like ice cubes in a tray that’s been sitting on a kitchen counter too long.

  Except Storm. She seldom gets emotional or teary-eyed about anything.

  “So,” she said loudly (so we could hear her over all the sobbing), “are we ready to hit the road here or what?”

  “You honestly think you will find all of this stolen art at the North Pole?” asked Minister Szymanowicz.

  “Given the clues fed to us by the E-Ones,” said Mom, shooting me another look, “it remains our best guess. And if we’re wrong? We won’t quit searching until we retrieve your treasures—no matter where the quest may take us.”

  “And we’ll find all that stuff stolen from those other museums too,” said Tommy. “We’re very good at tracking down things everybody else thinks are lost forever.”

  “Like our dad,” I added. “After a couple false starts.”

  “Very well,” said Minister Szymanowicz. “My associates will put together everything you need for your expedition north. No expense shall be spared.”

  “Spasibo,” said Mom.

  “You’re welcome. These arrangements will, of course, take a little time.” He opened up a filing cabinet, pulled out five small shopping bags featuring his ministry’s snazzy official seal, and gave one to each of us. “Please, Kidd Family Treasure Hunters, accept these goodie bags with our compliments.”

  I checked mine out immediately. There was all sorts of fantastic free stuff inside: one of those matryoshka nesting dolls, a big slab of gingerbread, Alyonka chocolate bars, a Russian fur hat, a USB thumb drive, a three-pronged phone charger, and dried apricots (yuck).

  “We have booked for you and your tutor a block of rooms in the magnificent Ararat Park hotel,” the minister continued. “Enjoy your evening in Moscow. I hope you find the time to do some shopping, for soon you will need very warm, very heavy winter clothes. Tomorrow, you leave for the North Pole!”

  CHAPTER 26

  The Ararat Park Hyatt was an amazing hotel, maybe five minutes from the Kremlin, Red Square, and Saint Basil’s Cathedral.

  It was also pretty close to Moscow’s extremely famous Bolshoi Theater, which would’ve been even more exciting if any of us (besides Mom) liked ballet. We grew up on a ship. Nobody wears tights and leaps around like that unless he’s Peter Pan being attacked by pirates.

  “We have your three rooms,” said the uniformed guy behind the front desk.

  “We only need two,” said Mom.

  “But Minister Szymanowicz specifically reserved—”

  “Two will do.” Mom turned to face Larissa Bukova. “You’re fired.”

  “Excuse me?” said Larissa.

  “Your tour-guide and tutorial services are no longer required. You are terminated. Vy uvolyonnye s raboty—dismissed from employment. No more talking, just get walking!”

  Mom didn’t explain her actions because (a) moms don’t really need to do that and (b) Russian eyes and ears were everywhere!

  When we got to our rooms, Mom put a finger to her lips.

  Something was definitely up.

  Mom gestured toward our goodie bags with the Ministry of Disasters and Bad Stuff emblem stickered to them.

  Without saying a single word, Mom ripped the sticker off her goodie bag, went into the bathroom, tossed the paper wad into the toilet, and flushed. Then, she pulled the phone charger and USB thumb drive out of the bag. Those, she dumped in the trash bin. She nodded and gestured to us to indicate that we should all do the same.

  So we did.

  After the final flush, Mom finally broke her silence.

  “The goodie bags were bugged,” she told us. “There was a very thin, miniature microphone hidden inside the ministry’s official seal. The phone chargers and thumb drives were meant to tap into our e-mails, text messages and phone calls. The Russians executed a similar goodie bag espionage ploy during the G-Twenty summit held in Saint Petersburg back in 2013.”

  “They’re spies!” said Beck.

  “Yes,” said Mom. “But, then again, so were your father and I.”

  “What about the rest of the goodies?” I asked, eyeing the chocolate.

  Mom shook her head. “Sorry, Bick. They could have laced the food with something to make us sick. You can keep the hat and the dolls, though.”

  Great.

  Tommy raised his hand. “Um, why’d you fire Larissa?”

  “She is also a spy. Probably for the Russian police. Maybe Minister Szymanowicz.”

  “That’s most likely why he called her ‘Larachka,’” said Storm, who, don’t forget, remembers every word anybody ever says. “Use of her nickname indicates that Minister Szymanowicz and Larissa have known each other for a long time.”

  I was right! I had a hunch those two were pals!

  “Wait a second,” said Tommy. “Are you sure? Because I think she really dug me.”

  “I’m sorry, Tommy,” said Mom. “You can’t trust anything she says or does.”

  The doorbell rang.

  As our muscle, Tommy opened it. A very pretty room service waitress was standing in the hall, holding a silver platter covered by a dome.

  “Zdravstvuyte,” she said.

  “Well, zdravstvuyte to you, too,” said Tommy, giving the waitress the flirty look he practices in the bathroom mirror every morning. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Inna.”

  “Riiiight. Inna. That must be Russian for ‘Angel.’”

  We were all rolling our eyes.

  The waitress? She just laughed and handed Tommy the tray.

  “Enjoy your time in Moscow,” she said, and then she turned on her heel and sashayed away.

  “If you’re here, don’t worry—I will!”

  The waitress just laughed again and kept on walking.

  “Tommy?” said Mom, indicating with hand signals that Tommy should bring the tray into the room and close the door.

  “And lock it,” said Storm.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because,” said Beck, “nobody ordered room service.”

  She was right.

  So what was underneath that shiny silver dome?

  CHAPTER 27

  Mom raised the lid and discovered—you guessed it—another envelope with a wax E-1 seal.

  “I’m going to send this clue to your father.” Mom tapped the message into her high-tech watch.

  Then she showed it to us.

  CHAPTER 28

  “We’re still talking North Pole!” insisted Storm.

  “No way,” I said.

  “Way,” said Storm. She seemed much happier since Mom fired Larissa. “The Arctic Circle is home to what has been billed as ‘the coolest marathon in the world’—the North Pole Marathon.”

  “Seriously?” said Beck. “Who’d want to run twenty-six point two miles in the freezing cold?”

  “Marathoners who can reach their personal best only when being chased by hungry polar bears,” said Tommy.

  “Last year,” said Storm, “forty-five runners from twenty-two different countries participated. They helicoptered up to an international North Pole camp, dashed across the floating Arctic ice shelf, and enjoyed subzero temperatures averaging minus twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The entry fee for the event is approximately fifteen thousand dollars. However, you do get a free T-shirt.”

  “What’s the winner get?” asked Beck. “A frozen icicle wreath to wear on her head?”

  “Chya,” said Tommy, who sounded like he was seriously considering signing up. “Plus bragging rights for a whole year.”

  “You guy
s?” I said. “You are seriously jumping to conclusions. There are all sorts of weird races in the world.”

  “Maybe,” said Storm. “But we have to put this third clue together with the first two.”

  “The North Pole fits all three,” added Beck.

  “So might someplace else,” I muttered, because nobody was really listening to me.

  “We need to go shopping,” said Mom.

  “Running clothes?” asked Tommy. “For the marathon?”

  “No. Thermal underwear. Parkas. Ski pants and goggles. Pack those furry Russian hats. I also want each and every one of us to be carrying a compact, high-definition video camera of some sort. We need to record everything we see on our journey north.”

  “So we can show everybody exactly how we didn’t find the treasure?” I said sarcastically.

  “Bick?” said Mom. “I know you have doubts but I need you to put those aside. We are going to the North Pole. We have serious work to do and priceless treasures to save! I suspect we might discover a real disaster when we reach the Arctic…”

  Beck gasped. “You mean all the stolen artwork might’ve frozen into sheets of ice that somebody dropped and that Rembrandt shattered into a million tiny pieces?”

  Mom didn’t answer but she had that mysterious look on her face again. It’s the one she gets whenever she’s trying to hide a secret.

  Yep. That’s life with a CIA mom.

  So we all went shopping.

  While we hunted for winter clothes (always hard to do in the middle of the summer) and miniature video equipment, Beck and I discussed the situation. We were certain that Mom had some other reason for heading up to the North Pole.

  “Maybe,” I said to Beck as we tried on mukluks, “if you want to save the whole world, like Mom and Dad do, the best place to start is at the top.”