The Medusa Plot
The Ilario may have offered luxury, but for two fugitives, there was no luxury like being invisible.
“Well, it’s done.” Dan stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a forlorn expression. Thick tortoiseshell glasses — the lenses clear — dominated his features. A New York Yankees cap was pulled down low over his brow. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tarnished mirror. “I’m a dork. No, worse — I’m a Yankees fan! Don’t they have Red Sox hats in Italy?”
“You think I’m thrilled about it?” Amy shot back. She, too, had changed her appearance with a voluminous platinum blond wig. “I look like an escapee from the eighties, not Interpol.” She held up a jar of Insta-Tan. “We can darken our complexions with this stuff. Every little bit helps.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just, you know, get arrested?” Dan caught her sharp expression. “I’m kidding!”
“We’re really close,” Amy told him. “The drop-off should be today. Once the hostages are safe, we can work on figuring out what the Marco Polo manuscript means.”
“If the Marco Polo thingy is what Vesper One really wants,” Dan mused, “maybe we should give him that, too.”
“No way,” Amy said evenly. “Not till we understand the importance of that epilogue.”
“It’s in some crazy dead language,” Dan protested.
“Surely Atticus isn’t the only one who can read it. We’ll hire a translator.”
Dan was uneasy. “If Vesper One finds out we’re keeping it from him —”
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Amy insisted.
“That manuscript holds the key to what the Vespers are up to. I’d bet my life on it.”
Dan did not reply. He wasn’t interested in the other Vespers, but he had declared war on Vesper One the instant he’d seen the video clip of Nellie’s shooting. As soon as the hostages were free, he was going to devote himself to finding the rest of the thirty-nine ingredients to Gideon Cahill’s master serum. That would be the only weapon he needed.
Their attention was focused on the Vesper phone and its rapidly dwindling power bars, so the Cahills were taken aback when the ringtone sounded from Amy’s cell.
Dan read the small screen. “Grace’s house? Isn’t it, like, four A.M. in Attleboro?”
Amy picked up the handset. “What’s up?”
“There’s been an incident,” came Ian’s clipped accent.
“At the DeOssie factory?” Amy asked eagerly. “Were the hostages there?”
“No. And as of now, neither is the DeOssie factory. And it’s all because of the Tomas and his Cheez Doodles —”
“Amy, it’s Sinead,” a businesslike voice broke in. “Let me give you the scoop.”
Amy set her phone on speaker, and she and Dan listened to the tale of the assault on the factory in upstate New York.
“A trap!” Dan breathed.
“Definitely,” Sinead finished. “So please tell Hamilton to calm down. It wasn’t the Cheez Doodles. Those fire bombs would have gone off for Fritos, too, and maybe even Pop Tarts. The whole place was wired to blow. Something would have set it off.”
“The good news is we scored your cell phone charger,” Jonah put in. “I’m sending my pilot with a bunch of them.”
“I hope you’re wasting your money,” Amy told him honestly. “We’re waiting to hear from Vesper One about how to deliver the ‘Medusa.’ With any kind of luck, this will be all over before your plane lands.”
“Ames,” came a timid voice. Evan. “Are you okay?”
She smiled in spite of herself. It felt good to be someone’s top priority. Perhaps that was selfish with seven hostages in danger, but at that moment Amy was too exhausted to care. “I’m fine, Evan. Just a little — blond. Like Lady Gaga. Don’t worry, it isn’t permanent. Oh, yeah, and Interpol is after us. We’ll have to explain later. The Vesper phone just beeped.”
She cut the connection and joined Dan at the DeOssie unit. They waited as the message downloaded and appeared, flickering alarmingly, on the now-dim screen.
What fun to visit the circus — especially when you sit in section 5, row W, seat 11. All the world loves a clown!
You are now out of time. Bring the merchandise. This is your last chance.
Cotton candy is optional.
Vesper One
An advertisement appeared for the Circo di Milano, performing in the Piazza dei Cinque Fratelli at eight o’clock that night.
Dan looked uneasy. “If the Vespers are willing to burn down a whole factory, who knows what they’ll do to a circus.”
“If they burn us, they burn the ‘Medusa,’” Amy reasoned. “Anyway, we’ve got no choice.”
Piazza dei Cinque Fratelli was a huge open space, well south of the Arno. Right in the center towered Circo di Milano’s big top, surrounded by smaller tents housing minor exhibits, food stalls, and carnival games.
“You know,” said Dan as they took their place in line behind a group of excited children and their parents, “this almost feels like normal life. We’re going to the circus.”
“Only this time, we’re carrying a stolen masterpiece in a green garbage bag,” Amy reminded him.
“And we’re wanted by the cops,” Dan added, inclining his head in the direction of a uniformed officer standing watch over the main entrance.
The Cahills kept their faces downcast as they approached the ticket window. Yes, their appearance was different now. But it was possible that their pictures had been circulated all over the world. They were a boy and girl of exactly the right age and nationality. And some people were observant enough to look beyond blond hair, phony glasses, and Insta-Tan.
With a sinking heart, Amy realized she would have to betray her American accent in order to buy tickets. Was the officer close enough to hear?
Dan stepped in front of her, slapped a fifty-euro note onto the counter, and held up two fingers. He smiled at the policeman as he accepted his change. The cop smiled back.
Inside the big top, they knew another tense moment — what if Vesper One’s seats were already occupied? They needn’t have worried. Row W was high up in the stands, and most of the audience wanted to be closer to the ring. Amy took number 11, the wrapped “Medusa” held firmly on her lap.
“How do you think the drop-off is going to happen?” Dan wondered. “You can’t get a motorcycle gang up these stairs.”
Amy shrugged nervously. “I’m not looking forward to it.” At that moment, she knew, she would be face-to-face with an enemy—an agent of the Vespers, who very well might take the package with one hand and with the other plunge a knife into her chest. “I just hope it goes smoothly and the hostages are all okay.”
“Especially Nellie,” Dan added.
As showtime approached, the grandstand began to fill, and excited chatter rose in the big top. At last, the circus began, as most circuses do, with a troupe of clowns.
Amy sat forward suddenly. “‘All the world loves a clown,’” she quoted.
“I don’t,” Dan commented. “My favorite part is when the guy in the white glitter suit steps in the elephant poop.”
“No — I mean from Vesper One’s message! I’ll bet one of the clowns will come up here for the handoff.”
They watched the clowns closely, squinting into faces, trying to determine if any of them were staring up at section 5, row W, seat 11. But soon the troupe was backstage, replaced by the first act, a tightrope walker.
She was followed by show horses, a lion tamer, a trapeze act, and a trick motorcycle rider. Throughout all this, the clowns came out and meandered around the ring, juggling and performing comedy routines. They entered the stands occasionally but never in the Cahills’ direction.
“Are we sitting in the right place?” Amy wondered. “What if we misread the instructions?”
“I’m not the forgetting type,” Dan reminded her.
Next was the human cannonball. They could tell that he was one of the biggest stars in the show. He received a standing ov
ation, and the proceedings paused while he stopped to sign autographs for some of the younger children in the front rows. At last, he donned his helmet, waved to the crowd, and slipped inside the mouth of the cannon in the spotlight’s glare. Another spot — this one clear across the arena — shone on the net where the brave performer would land.
The boom was deafening. In a blast of flame, the human cannonball sailed across the big top, landing safely in his net. At that very instant, one of the trapeze artists swung down above Amy, hanging on by her feet. For an instant she was right in front of them, backlit by the cannon’s flash — young, dark-haired, and resplendent in a spangled blue costume. A split second later, she snatched the “Medusa” right out of Amy’s grasp and rose skyward with it.
CHAPTER 26
Amy and Dan looked up, but by then the trapeze artist was just one of dozens of figures in the spaghetti of ropes and ladders high above the ring. Of the dark bag with the Caravaggio, there was no sign.
“The drop-off!” Amy rasped.
“While we were watching the human cannonball!” Dan added in wonder.
And then, in the midst of the applause for the last act, every single light in the big top went out.
It was different from the various lighting effects of the show. This was a total power failure — suffocating blackness. It took seconds for the smallest children to panic. As they began to run around, the danger became very real. Soon adults began chasing after their kids, and there was the sound of bodies falling. Cries rang out as the chaos escalated.
“Let’s get out of here!” Dan urged.
“Right!”
Dan had perfect recall of the route they had followed to their seats. Even so, the path was treacherous, as alarmed patrons were tripped up by darting children and stumbling parents. Somewhere on the floor, the ringmaster was shouting instructions. But without his microphone, no one could hear him.
They reached the bottom of the grandstand, where the pushing and shoving was worst. Dan took an elbow to the jaw and ducked down below the level of the flailing arms, pulling his sister with him. They crawled under the bleachers toward the main entrance, free of the struggling throng. It was Amy who spotted the emergency exit — really just a tent flap held in place by ropes and pegs. They wriggled out through the hole, finding themselves in a dimly lit alley on the periphery of the Piazza dei Cinque Fratelli.
The Cahills got to their feet, dusting themselves off.
“Man,” marveled Dan. “Vesper One may be a jerk, but you’ve got to give him props for setting up a clean drop-off.”
“I don’t give him ‘props’ for anything,” Amy growled.
A piteous moan reached them, almost at their feet. They looked down to see a petite brunette in a sequined blue costume lying on the pavement.
Dan recognized her immediately. “The trapeze artist!” He held out a hand to help her up. She made no move to take it. Her expression seemed bewildered, eyes wide, lips parted. She tried to speak but could summon no sound.
“It’s okay,” Amy reassured her. “We know why you took the package. We understand.”
“Amy —” Dan exclaimed in hushed horror.
She followed his pointing finger to the smashed glass syringe on the pavement beside the trapeze artist. A mark on her neck, bleeding slightly, told the tale. Minutes ago, she had performed a service for Vesper One. And this was her reward.
“Who did this to you?” Amy asked urgently.
The girl — barely conscious — tried to raise herself up, but she could not find the strength. Her lips moved, but very little sound came out.
Amy and Dan leaned closer.
With effort, the dying acrobat ran a hand along her bare arm. “Bru — bru — ciato,” she barely whispered.
“Bruciato?” Amy repeated, tense with discovery. “I know that word! Bruciato means burned or seared.”
“Burned?” Dan echoed. “You mean the guy who did this. He had a burn on his arm?”
“She needs a doctor!” Amy leaped up and started for the mouth of the alley. But before she could call for help, the trapeze artist gave a slight shudder.
Then the young woman seemed to collapse in upon her own tiny frame, eyes still open yet suddenly lifeless.
Dan choked on a rush of terror. “Is she —?”
“Somebody call an ambulance! Ambulanza!” Amy was aware that she was screaming, but she couldn’t stop herself. She could feel hysteria rising. Another innocent person dead, thanks to the Cahills! When would it end? “Help! Somebody help!”
Dan grabbed her and hustled her out of the alley. “Cut it out! The last thing we need is to be interviewed by cops! If anybody runs our names through a computer, the Interpol warrant will come up!”
“We need to get her to a hospital!” Amy wailed.
“No hospital can help her, Amy! She’s dead!”
It came as a shock in spite of the fact that Amy already knew. “We killed her! Oh, God, Dan, what did that poor girl ever do to us?”
“We didn’t kill her,” Dan said sternly. “The Vespers did. They kill a lot of people. If that bullet had been three inches to the right, they would have killed Nellie, too.”
“At least Nellie knows what she’s part of!” Amy blubbered. “This girl was nobody! So she took a few euros from a guy with a burn on his arm to pluck a package out of somebody’s lap! She didn’t deserve to die for it!”
People began to stream onto the scene around the side of the tent, and a police whistle shrilled nearby. It jarred Amy back to reality. Falling to pieces would not bring the trapeze artist back. Nothing would.
The drop-off had been made. Next on the agenda: the release of the hostages. The ball was in Vesper One’s court now.
They left the Piazza dei Cinque Fratelli, crossing several streets as they put some distance between the circus and themselves. Amy had her arm up about to hail a taxi when the chime of the Vesper phone erased all other thoughts from their minds.
She pulled the device from her pocket, and they examined the screen.
Package received. You are too kind.
“That’s it?” Dan exploded. “What about our people, you murdering psycho?”
As if in answer, a second message came in. It was a photograph of the hostages in the Vesper holding cell.
Seven hostages, Amy counted. All seven, present and accounted for.
Nellie was propped up on the floor, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around her wounded shoulder. She looked pale and weak, her makeup smeared. Brown was now clearly visible at the roots of her dyed black-and-orange hair.
But she’s alive.…
Amy set aside her relief and read on:
Perhaps you notice that your loved ones continue to accept our hospitality. This is due to your previous treachery. They will remain our guests until you complete a few more tasks. The first of these will be in Lucerne, Switzerland. Get yourselves there immediately, lest the number of our little party dwindles.
It is a pleasure to continue to work with such talented young people. Although, Amy, I much prefer you as a brunette.
Vesper One
“We had a deal!” Dan was red-faced and shaking with rage. “Give me that phone!” He snatched the handset and began to thumb an angry reply on the tiny keypad.
Amy was as quiet as her brother was loud. “It’s no use. The texts don’t go through, remember?”
“Maybe this one will,” he snapped stubbornly.
As he typed, the small screen gave a final flicker and went dark. The Vesper phone was dead.
Amy tried to be encouraging. “We’ll have the new charger soon.”
“What if there’s a new message right now?” Dan raved. “Like, ‘Just kidding!’”
“We don’t know much about Vesper One, but we know this: He doesn’t kid. The guy is one hundred percent serious.” She looked around uneasily. “He saw me. He’s here somewhere. I’ll bet he murdered that poor girl personally, just for the fun of it.”
“Let’
s get him!” Dan roared, twirling about, scanning the streets.
“We can’t.”
“He’s got a burn on his arm and he’s carrying the ‘Medusa’ in a garbage bag! How hard can it be to find him?”
Amy put her hand on his shoulder to calm him. Inside, she was just as agitated and furious as her brother, but she had to think for both of them. Rash action would never succeed against a cold, calculating adversary like Vesper One. The only Cahill who’d ever come close to understanding the Vespers had been Grace.
Fine. She had to think like Grace.
What would Grace do now?
“Vesper One had this whole thing planned, from the kidnappings to the tiniest detail of tonight,” she reasoned. “There’s no way he’d leave himself open to being attacked in the street. And even if we could reach him, he’s still got our hostages.”
“Because he cheated us!” Dan seethed.
“We should have seen that coming,” Amy agreed.
“He won’t release them until we’ve got something he needs in return.”
“That was supposed to be the ‘Medusa’!” Dan argued. “And he still stiffed us. And these new tasks? He’ll just stiff us again! Why should we break our necks to follow his orders?”
“It keeps our hostages alive,” Amy explained. “And it keeps Vesper One believing we’re dancing to his tune.”
“We are dancing to his tune if he calls all the shots!”
“Maybe,” Amy replied. “But the Vespers aren’t doing this because they’re art lovers. They have a grand design — and the extra page in the Marco Polo manuscript is part of it. What’s the connection? We’ve got the full resources of the Cahill family researching the Vespers twenty-four-seven. When we understand what they’re really up to, then we’ll know what we can trade for our people. And we’ll be the ones in charge.”
Dan listened to his sister’s words, yet part of him was no longer paying attention. That Dan had left the streets of Florence and was descending to the dark place in the depths of his mind.