The gymnast wasn’t with him, although a garment bag of dresses on the dolly was obviously a woman’s. A half-dozen beefy bodyguards formed the rear of the little caravan.
“Where’s his companion?” Sara said under her breath. Her eyes flashed across the lobby, searching. “Is she staying behind?”
Darrell shook his head. “Her stuff is here. Drangheta’s bodyguards are here, too, so he’s checking out. Maybe he’s just giving up.”
“Or maybe she’s waiting for him, and we don’t have to worry about them,” said Lily. “Let’s make sure.”
All three of them slipped out of the lobby and down the front steps to the street, keeping near the bank of potted plants on the side. The whole casino square was glittering with lights. A black SUV and a driverless cream-colored Bentley convertible idled out front. Darrell watched the porter load the luggage piece by piece into the SUV’s rear compartment. Drangheta spoke to his bodyguards. Neither he nor his people paid any attention to Darrell or the others. Maybe because they were being so invisible. Still, the hairs on the back of Darrell’s neck prickled. Something wasn’t right. He brushed the hairs down and felt cold.
One of the hotel’s valets trotted down the stairs. It looked for a second as if there was going to be a fight about who was going to open the door of the Bentley, the valet or one of the bodyguards. The valet got there first.
“Mr. Drangheta, we hope you enjoyed your stay at the Hôtel de—”
“I did not.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. Perhaps next time—”
Drangheta brushed the man away and slid behind the wheel. He snapped his fingers, and his bodyguards funneled back into the hotel.
“What’s going on?” Darrell whispered. “He’s leaving without his bouncers, and the woman? She’s his wife, isn’t she?”
“Or girlfriend,” said Lily. “But still.”
Darrell’s mind wandered for a second but was back when Drangheta revved the Bentley. Before putting the car in gear, he slowly glanced up the facade of the hotel. He scanned the sky for a fraction of a second, then released the hand brake. The Bentley screeched away. The SUV stayed out front.
“What did he just do? Look at the stars?” Darrell slid out from behind the row of potted palm plants and stared up.
There she was.
The woman in black.
She was climbing like a spider up the side of the building and onto a balcony on the top floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lily couldn’t believe how fast everything went.
Seconds after Darksuit drove away, Galina Krause pulled up to the hotel and bounded up the lobby stairs like a black storm cloud, her eyes flashing.
Ebner von Braun skulked behind her—of course—doing his best impression of an evil assistant, rubbing his hands and whispering in her ear as they crossed the lobby. They were followed only seconds later by at least ten men in bulky black sweatshirts and jeans and earphones. One trotted over to what might have been a service door, while the rest entered the elevator with Galina and Ebner.
Lily tapped the microphone on her tablet. “Becca, listen . . .”
Upstairs, Wade and Julian were poised around the corner from Gerrenhausen’s room on the fifth floor, waiting for something to happen, when Becca jumped.
“Lily, what?” She pressed her earpiece in. “Are you serious? Everybody, the woman is climbing up to the balcony from outside! And Galina’s just arrived—”
They heard a soft whump, and a cloud of smoke poured into the hall from under the bookseller’s door. Seconds later, the little man staggered out of his room, gasping, coughing, retching. He waved his way frantically across the hall, swiped a key card at another guest-room door, and fell inside.
“The thief is in Gerrenhausen’s room!” said Julian.
The elevator door at the far end of the hall flashed open, and Galina strode out like a tornado, fuming, a pistol in each hand. Ebner jammed the elevator Stop button and followed her. The alarm began to ring. The kids and Julian ducked back behind the corner. A bunch of giant men with nasty handguns charged down the hall.
“Everyone stay down,” whispered Wade.
At the same time—wham—the door to the stairway swept open behind them, and six of Drangheta’s goons in matching gray suits pushed past them.
The smoke hadn’t yet cleared when the hallway thundered with gunfire, shots flying from both ends, with the bookseller’s room in between. Wade and Becca were flat on their faces, Julian behind them. Plaster flew off the walls over their heads. One of Drangheta’s men thudded to the floor. There was a low cry from the far end of the hall. Two Knights fell in a heap. The Order’s men pulled back, shielding Galina, while Drangheta’s men pushed forward, past the bookseller’s room. Galina disappeared down the hall to the left. Drangheta’s thugs followed.
Suddenly the lights went out, plunging the entire floor into darkness. Stupidly, the gunfire started up again in the dark. Then two shots resounded from the bookseller’s room. The railway porter staggered out of the room, holding his stomach. He crashed into the wall across the hallway carpet, pivoted, then collapsed through the opposite door, groaning but alive. Gerrenhausen dragged him inside and slammed the door behind him.
They waited.
“We need those glasses!” Becca whispered.
“But Cassa could still be in there,” said Julian.
Darrell burst out of the staircase behind him, followed by Sara and Lily. “Security’s coming,” he hissed.
“They’ll take the glasses, if the thief doesn’t have them already,” said Becca.
“But she’s got to come out that door. Maybe we have her trapped,” said Lily.
“She’s smarter than that,” said Wade. “She’ll go back down the side—”
“Stay here.” Suddenly, Julian was on the move. He crawled on his hands and knees down the hall.
“No chance,” Becca said. “We need those ocularia.”
She slipped away from Wade and darted ahead, crouching. The smoke had nearly dissipated by now, and she moved down the hall toward the door of the suite. Julian slowly pulled down the handle of number 517. The door opened a crack. He slipped inside with Becca. Wade next. The others followed.
It was as black as night inside the room, too. The only light came from the open doors of the balcony, a deep purple western sky, a glittering sprinkle of lights from the casino opposite. Night noises splashed up from the street. From what Wade could make out, the suite was large—double size, maybe, with a door connecting two adjoining sets of rooms.
Then, over the distant gun battle, a sound.
A quiet footfall from another room.
Wade felt a touch on his arm. He turned. It wasn’t Julian, who stood flat against the opposite wall with Darrell and Lily, Sara next to them. Becca had tapped him, her finger carefully laid across her lips. She pointed. Look.
Beyond him, through the doors to the other suite, Sunglasses lay motionless on the floor, a gash of red across his cheek, his arms twisted behind his back
Is he . . . ? Wade wondered. But no. The guy twitched slightly.
The thief was searching the second set of rooms for the antique glasses. Wade moved with Becca along the inside wall to the connecting door. She edged around him and looked through the space between the door and the hinges. He peeked over her shoulder. The thief broke open the room safe.
There was a click. A box lid opened. The room shone silver in the darkness. She closed the box, shutting down the light, and popped it into a small backpack on her shoulders. She drew her gun and made for the other room.
Thinking fast, or not at all, Wade reached awkwardly close to Becca. The sound would alert the others. He slammed the door between the two suites. A shot whizzed past his face and tore plaster from the wall. A splash of something hot hit his cheeks. A vase exploded on a nearby table, spilling water.
An instant later, the balcony door crashed closed, and the light from the street vanished. Then nothin
g. Wade burst out the balcony doors. Something clattered over his head. He looked up. The woman was sprinting across the slate rooftop. He heard the squealing of an iron door, then nothing. The elevator bell kept dinging in the hall. Then came a rush of footsteps toward the room and shouting in French. Hotel security.
Too late. The thief had disappeared. The gunfire had ended. Drangheta’s goons were gone. Galina and her men were nowhere at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In a flash the hotel was in crisis mode. Darrell’s heart thumped like a drum as he pushed his way through the security and firefighting teams jamming the halls.
“Come on! They’ll lock down the hotel. Come on!”
They were able to slip out in the general evacuation and were on the street in time to see Drangheta, in his Bentley convertible, shrieking away with the thief next to him.
“She’s got the glasses!” said Becca. “Sara! Julian!”
“I’m up for the chase,” he said, zapping his Fiat open. “If you are . . .”
Sara didn’t hesitate. “Go. We’ll follow in the Citroën!”
Wade dived into the passenger seat of Julian’s tiny Fiat, while Darrell had to squish into the puppy-size backseat. Wade wished he could grab the wheel and take control of the car. But Julian tore away from the curb, fishtailing into night traffic like a stunt driver. Then, out of nowhere, the silver Mercedes appeared with Galina herself behind the wheel. She raced quickly down the serpentine streets after the Bentley.
“I knew she’d be back!” said Darrell.
“Drangheta will head for the airport in Nice,” Julian said as they skidded through a snaky hairpin then down into a long tunnel that led to the harbor. “That’s the fastest way out of here. I’d go that way if I had a stolen object.”
“And here’s the race Darrell wanted,” said Wade. “Go, Julian, go!”
The next few seconds were a blur of speed for all four cars. Drangheta’s Bentley tore first out of the tunnel and roared toward the harbor, then spun completely around, accelerating toward Galina’s Mercedes. Julian downshifted the Fiat, then hit the gas. Though Sara’s Citroën was vastly underpowered, it held the road well and was only a few yards behind them. Galina braked suddenly, and Julian reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He struck the rear end of Galina’s Mercedes, sending it careening toward the outside harbor wall.
The Bentley was racing toward them now, and the thief began firing at Galina. Shots thumped into the Mercedes and then into Julian’s Fiat. Galina braked close to the guardrail. Julian swerved right, slammed the clutch and brake at the same time, and bounced onto the sidewalk, nearly crashing into a jewelry store.
The silver Mercedes shunted the Bentley as it passed, Galina shooting back at the thief in the passenger seat. Ducking, the thief kept firing. The Mercedes’s rear tires blew out. Galina lost control. The car catapulted off the roadway and crashed through the harbor wall, coming down flat onto the surface of the water with an explosion of spray.
The Bentley shrieked its brakes once, twice, then roared away into the night. It vanished into traffic before they could follow it. Julian backed his Fiat away from the storefront and tore down to the harbor. The Citroën pulled up right behind.
They rushed to the wall, crammed together, searching the water.
The silver Mercedes was sinking quickly, both gull-wing doors shut.
“Holy cow,” Becca whispered. “Galina’s in there. She could drown.”
Multiple sirens keened from either end of the street.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Sara. “Everyone, back to Nice. Now.”
The Fiat and Citroën were just able to slither up the streets and away as fire trucks, police cars, and emergency medical vehicles jammed the harbor side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The devil will pay. The devil will pay. The devil will pay!
The words pounded in Galina’s ears over and over as she struggled to kick open the door of the sinking Mercedes. The window cracked. Water filled the cabin; such an odd sight, water inside the windows, sloshing over the dashboard. Hair floated around her face like black tendrils; blood seeped across her eyes; rage battled despair fighting confusion.
Ugo Drangheta will die. His thief will die! I will have the ocularia!
Stars erupted in her eyes, knife blades in her forehead. She was screaming—Not like this! Not like this!—when the wrenching and ripping of steel focused her.
After slicing through the harness and snapping the steering post, three divers pulled her out. She would not die like this. She would not die today.
A half hour later Galina was aboard her speeding yacht, motoring away from the Monaco harbor at full speed. The police motor launch had been sent away, its occupants each a thousand euros richer.
“To the airport,” she said, barely controlling her rage. Her heart was thrumming like a turbine. The scar on her neck burned with white-hot pain.
“To the airport and wherever Ugo Drangheta has taken my ocularia!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After dropping the damaged Fiat at an Ackroyd-friendly garage, Julian joined the others in the Citroën. On the screaming drive to the Côte d’Azur airport, Darrell found himself pounding things—his car seat, the side panels, the ceiling over his head, his legs, Wade.
“Cut it out,” Wade snapped. “I can punch myself if I want to. And no, I don’t want to.”
“We have to up our game.”
“We know, Darrell, we know,” Lily groaned. “No sports metaphors.”
They had emerged from near-death chaos with nothing, thought Darrell. Nothing! They were empty-handed. They should have done better.
“We need to go on the offensive,” he continued. “Which is maybe a sports thing, but it’s also a military thing, which is what we need to be now. Soldiers.”
“You will be,” said Julian. Sara parked in a short-term lot and they made their way into the noisy terminal together. “Listen,” he went on, “according to my dad, Ugo Drangheta is a ruthless character. A businessman, but as arrogant as he is wealthy. His place in Morocco is his closest villa, and I’m willing to bet that’s where he’s flying right now. The place is a fortress, guarded by a private police force. And by that I mean a small army.”
“We hope it’s small,” said Lily.
“Granted, yes, we don’t know troop strength for absolute sure,” said Julian. “But speaking of soldiers, my dad knows people in Morocco. Ex–special forces. Very private. Very good. They’ll be able to help.” He headed toward the Royal Air Maroc ticket counter. “This way.”
“Africa?” said Becca. “We’re going to Africa?”
“Morocco’s a short trip by plane,” Julian said. He tugged out his wallet. “No need for visas, or shots, if you’re staying in the north.” They got into line.
“Besides being ruthless, this guy Drangheta is reckless,” said Wade. “He was so public about stealing the ocularia. He’s taunting Galina. He wants her to go after him. And she will. She absolutely will.”
“I just hope he doesn’t do something like destroy the spectacles,” said Becca. “What happens if a relic never gets discovered? If Drangheta is mad at Galina, he might do something disastrous.”
“I don’t think he will,” said Darrell. “Not until she gets there.”
Sara breathed in and out slowly. “We’ll find out. We’re going after him. Julian, we’re ready to go. Are you?”
“Unfortunately”—Julian looked from one to another of them, a half grin on his face—“I won’t be able to share in the fun.”
“You’re not going?” Lily asked.
“I . . . can’t. There was a little . . . incident. Last February. Technically, Dad and I are not friends of the Moroccan state, so they put us on the no-fly list. We’d be arrested. So they tell me.”
“What did you do?” asked Wade.
Julian ran his fingers through his long hair. “I sort of accidentally on purpose helped a human rights activist
out of the country. He seemed like a nice guy, so I couldn’t let him go to jail. He is a nice guy. But he had a price on his head. Dad didn’t know I was doing it and was crazy mad at me, but come on, he would have done the same thing. He shared the rap, and they gave us both the boot. Don’t worry, though; someone will meet you at the airport. I’m not sure who just yet, but he’ll be first-rate and up to speed and have a bunch of well-armed friends. I’ll give him a code to identify himself with—”
“Have him say, ‘The red condor has landed,’” Darrell said. “That’s a good one. And we’ll answer, ‘Barracudas like spaghetti—’”
“No, tortellini,” Wade amended. “Less obvious.”
Julian looked at them both. “Something like that.”
He and Sara stepped up to the Royal Air Maroc ticket agents and booked five seats for the next flight to Casablanca, under the names of Theresa McKay, her two sons, and two wards.
After they were done, Becca turned to Sara. “I don’t know that we have much choice, but I guess we’d better tell Uncle Roald what we’re doing.”
“I was waiting to tell him where we were going.” Sara made the call, and told Roald to put them on speaker. “Where are you now?” she asked.
“Central Italy,” he said, “not far from Gran Sasso. We were hoping to wait for Paul Ferrere to join us before we go in, but I received another urgent call from Dr. Petrescu, so we may not be able to wait.”
“Roald and I will still arrive before most of the others,” Terence piped in. “Which will give us a chance to case the place before we go under the mountain.”
“It sounds a little too Lord of the Rings to me,” said Sara. “Be careful.”
“You, too,” said Roald. “What’s happening there?”
“We’re off on the road to Morocco,” she sang.
“What?”
“Well, on the jet to Morocco, actually.”
“You’re kidding.”
They explained briefly what had happened that evening. He listened patiently. “Oh, man. Okay, I get it, but kids, listen. Promise me that you will not be doing anything dumb or dangerous that will make Sara freak.”