Disappearing Act

by Jacqueline Harvey

  Mr Reffell guided the group along the Via del Babuino to the stunning Piazza del Popolo with its twin churches and ancient Egyptian obelisk. Surrounded by neoclassical buildings, the enormous square was practically empty compared with other parts of the city. A trail of senior citizens on segways zipped past while three mounted policemen stood guard in the centre of the open space. The children bounded about, taking loads of photographs and trying to spot the differences between the two adjacent Santa Maria churches, which, upon closer inspection, were not identical at all. Mr Reffell pointed out numerous other landmarks, including the Villa Borghese gardens, which they would visit later in the week along with the Villa Medici on Pincian Hill.

  As the obelisk cast long shadows from the afternoon sun and the temperature began to fall, several of the children were shivering and the decision was made to turn back for the hotel. Max walked along beside Carlos and Dante, who were talking excitedly about their upcoming visit to the Colosseum.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get to walk inside the Hypogeum, where the gladiators and animals were held underground?’ Carlos asked. ‘I read that it was two levels and there were thirty-six trapdoors that they could burst out of into the arena at any time. Imagine standing there and all of a sudden a lion jumps on you or a gladiator. Which do you think would have been scarier?’

  ‘Lion,’ Dante replied emphatically. ‘What about you, Max?’

  But the boy’s thoughts were elsewhere. Ever since they’d arrived in the city, he’d been thinking about his parents and wondering if that cryptic message on Christmas Eve had really meant anything. What were they looking for – or hiding from? And Max was almost certain the skyline they’d glimpsed while speaking to Fitz yesterday was of Rome, so it was entirely possible they were all here. Among the thousands of tourists, though, it didn’t seem likely that he and Kensy would find them. Earlier, he’d spotted a bald, broad-shouldered man in the crowd and, for a fleeting moment, Max had thought it was Fitz. Then the man turned to reveal a thin moustache and coal-coloured eyes. Max glanced over at his friends. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  But Carlos and Dante had moved on and were talking about whether or not there might be ancient bloodstains in the arena. They were going to see if Mrs Vanden Boom had a DNA kit with her.

  The group took a different route this time, heading down the Via del Corso, past shops and restaurants, hotels and more monuments. Restauranteurs shouted from doorways, urging diners to choose their establishment. As they neared another piazza with yet another central memorial, this time celebrating the victories of Marcus Aurelius, the shouting intensified and the friendly tones grew harsh.

  ‘Oh, good heavens,’ Mr Reffell said. ‘The Italians do love a protest, don’t they?’

  Up ahead, an angry mob surrounded the stone column, chanting and holding aloft placards. There was a long line of armed carabinieri standing in front of an imposing building while a throng of photographers gathered as close as they dared to the giant front doors.

  ‘What are they upset about, sir?’ Inez asked.

  ‘I gather they are protesting the price of wheat and the shortages of grain,’ the man said. ‘That’s the Palazzo Chigi, where the Italian Prime Minister lives.’

  ‘And they’re calling her a lying swine,’ Dante added.

  ‘That’s a bit insensitive considering her son is missing,’ Max said.

  Several of the children looked at him blankly. ‘How do you know that?’ Lola asked.

  ‘There was the front page of a newspaper on the wall outside the hotel. It said he’d run away and was last seen on Christmas Eve,’ Kensy chimed in.

  ‘The boy has been acting out since his mother remarried and she became Prime Minister,’ Lottie Ziegler added, noting that she’d read that in the paper too. The truth was, the information had come through from HQ that morning. After a quick assessment, Nico Vitale’s disappearance had been downgraded from an international incident to a mere case of a flighty boy with a penchant for tantrums.

  A soaring Christmas tree sparkled in the centre of the palazzo, its crystal ornaments catching the light like millions of tiny stars. Suddenly, the crowd’s chanting intensified as a black Mercedes Benz zoomed into the square and screeched to a halt outside the front doors. A woman dressed head to toe in black walked out of the building, accompanied by a suave-looking man in a suit. Ignoring the hordes of photographers and journalists jostling for her attention, the Prime Minister hopped into the back of the car. Seconds later, it sped past the children, the photographers chasing after them, their flashbulbs like tiny explosions in the chilly evening air.

  ‘So that was the Prime Minister,’ Kensy said. ‘I wouldn’t fancy her job for all the money in the world.’

  Autumn shook her head. ‘I hope they find her son soon. She must be worried sick.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ Kensy said as they turned left into a side street.

  Autumn reached out and held her friend’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. At that moment Kensy’s watch vibrated on her wrist. It emitted a long beep followed by three short staccato bursts. Instinctively, Kensy pulled away.

  ‘I – I have to talk to Max,’ she said quickly, and pushed past the others to get to her brother, who was walking with his friends behind Mr Reffell. She hadn’t even reached him when she heard Max ask permission to run ahead to the hotel to use the loo.

  ‘I need to go too!’ she shouted, and took off after him before Mrs Vanden Boom could reply.

  The twins bounded into the building and hid in the business centre on the ground floor. With a pencil poised in her hand, Kensy only had to wait a few seconds. This time she scribbled the dots and dashes while Max watched on. When she’d finished, the children looked at each other and then at the page.

  In Rome. Following a lead. Will try to see you. Love, Mum and Dad.

  ‘Max,’ Kensy gasped, her eyes filling with tears, ‘they’re here.’

  Nico Vitale’s head was heavy – as if he’d been asleep for days. No matter how hard he willed his eyes to open, it was as though they were disconnected from his brain. He felt as if he was being carried somewhere, cradled like a small child. There was the smell of sweat mixed with cigarettes and cheap cologne. They were going downstairs. The air was colder – much colder than the cloying mustiness of the previous room. He just wanted to go home. Maybe that was where the man was taking him – to his mother and stepfather, to his warm bed and Trisola’s delicious meals. How could he have done this to his mamma? She was so busy and he just wanted her to notice him. To love him the way she used to before she met Lorenzo and decided that the whole of Italy needed her more than her own son. He didn’t even know if his grandfather would have wanted to see him – that was a fantasy, a distant memory of a man who had once loved him very much.

  Nico heard the squeaking of a door.

  ‘You will be safe here until your mother decides to do the right thing and then you will be allowed to go,’ the man said. ‘And I promise, if you attempt to escape, it will not end well.’

  Nico tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. The last thing he remembered before now was eating soup. It wasn’t as good as Trisola’s, but it filled his belly and almost straight away he’d become sleepy. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he recalled the tolling of church bells.

  The man lowered Nico onto a bed. This time the mattress was hard as a rock, but the blankets were warm and he snuggled down. If only he could wake from this nightmare, he would surely find his way back home.

  Max pushed back the covers and tiptoed to the window, which looked out over the Trevi Fountain. Even at half past two in the morning, there were still tourists wandering about taking photographs and tossing coins. He wished that his parents had said more. What was the lead they were following, and what – or who – were they looking for? Knowing they were here in Rome was almost worse than thinking they were thousands of miles away.

  In the room directly above him, Kensy was wide awake too.
She’d been going over the message, trying to make sense of it and wondering whether she and Max would get to see their parents. Autumn hadn’t asked her anything more about the watch, which she’d found surprising given that she wouldn’t have been able to help herself if the shoe was on the other foot. She wondered if Autumn was just being super professional or maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Kensy needed to talk to Max – he’d know what to say. Autumn was so clever – she’d probably worked out that it was Morse code. Kensy wished she didn’t have to keep it a secret any more. It would make life a lot easier.

  Kensy peered into the street below. A fancy Italian sports car was parked out the front of the orphanage. She loved Ferraris while Max preferred Aston Martins. Kensy thought Ferrari engineering was more interesting. While the twins had often joked that one day they’d both drive the cars of their dreams, that never seemed remotely possible until now. She could imagine the Ferrari was the sort of vehicle their Uncle Rupert would be very comfortable in. She couldn’t help thinking that he was something of a conundrum – moody one minute then bags of fun the next. Hopefully, she and Max would get to know him a lot better in the coming months and they’d find out who the real Rupert Spencer was.

  The door to the orphanage swung open and a woman walked out. She had long dark hair and wore skinny jeans and a tight leather jacket with heels so high Kensy marvelled that she could even stand upright in them. Kensy watched as a man in a pinstriped suit got out of the black sports car and embraced her. There was something vaguely familiar about him. He then walked around to the passenger side of the car while the woman hopped into the driver’s seat. The engine revved loudly and in a second they were gone.

  From the floor below, Max had also seen the car. It was gorgeous. He wondered when he and Kensy would get another opportunity to test their driving skills – with any luck, the car wouldn’t try to kill them next time. At least there hadn’t been any mishaps during the past few days. But if there was one thing Max had learned since entering the world of Pharos, complacency was a trap he wasn’t about to fall into.

  ‘No!’ Mr Reffell held up his shield to defend himself from the hordes of tourists trying to take a photograph with him. ‘No more pictures, please. We’re in a hurry!’

  The man extricated an old lady from his waist and wriggled free from another’s grasp.

  ‘Do you really think it was a good idea to dress up as a Roman centurion, sir?’ Alfie said.

  Monty Reffell straightened his helmet and threw his cloak over his shoulder. ‘Yes, it’s a perfectly good idea and you’ll thank me once we get to the Colosseum. You’ll see. There’s method in my madness.’

  ‘I thought there was just madness in his madness,’ Autumn whispered to Kensy, who giggled.

  ‘You should’ve charged all those people who’ve been stopping us for photos, sir, you’d have made a fortune,’ Dante said.

  Elliot Frizzle smirked in agreement. Unlike Monty Reffell, whose choice of outfit fell squarely into the category of fancy dress, Elliot looked rather sharp this morning in a raspberry-coloured suit paired with navy suede shoes and a matching fedora. He could easily have passed as one of the stylish locals, which Mr Reffell might have been aiming at but only if it were a thousand years ago.

  Monty rolled his eyes and bustled forward, picking up the pace in the hopes that they’d be able to tackle the last kilometre without any further disruptions.

  Romilly Vanden Boom had almost choked on her cornflakes when the man arrived at breakfast, though that extra suitcase that clanked and thumped each time it had been moved now made complete sense. She did concede it was a magnificent costume and even better than the one he’d worn while promoting the trip at the school assembly. Lottie Ziegler was very glad he hadn’t conned her into dressing up this time too – she didn’t mind it at school, but in public was a whole other ball game. You never knew when you might meet someone interesting or madly handsome.

  The walk from the hotel to the ancient amphitheatre should have taken around half an hour, however, with all the interruptions, it was almost twice as long before they rounded the corner near the magnificent Altare della Patria, which commemorated Victor Emmanuelle, the first unifying leader of Italy. With its bronze horses and winged chariot drivers atop the giant semicircular marble structure, the children couldn’t help but gasp.

  ‘That building is seriously stunning,’ Sachin mumbled, to the nods of his classmates.

  ‘And that one is even more amazing!’ Yasmina pointed down the road at the Colosseum in the distance.

  ‘Rome is like taking a trip in a time machine.’ Inez sighed. ‘It’s everything I’d hoped for and so much more.’

  The smile on Monty Reffell’s face couldn’t have been any wider as they continued along the road, past the temples and ruins and the incongruous new metro station. Being a lover of history, and knowing that his students had caught the bug too, was incredibly gratifying.

  ‘Why don’t they fix more things up?’ Lola asked, sweeping her arm in a wide arc. ‘It’s all so old and crumbly. You’d think they’d want it to look nice for the tourists.’

  Monty blanched. ‘Lola, these buildings and monuments are constantly under repair.’

  ‘Well, they don’t do a very good job then,’ the girl replied.

  Misha shook her head vigorously. ‘No, not a very good job at all,’ she parroted.

  She was so convincing that Kensy almost told her off, which made her stop to wonder whether she should scold Misha in an effort to keep up the whole pretence. It was all a bit confusing. Kensy decided to leave it for another time.

  As the group drew closer to the Colosseum, they realised that the crowd was enormous. Against the backdrop of the imposing structure, it had been hard to tell exactly how many people were about. Romilly and Elliot disappeared among the throng to fetch their tickets. Meanwhile, the children arranged themselves in various configurations for pictures in front of the amphitheatre with their very own centurion.

  ‘So why did you dress up, sir?’ Alfie asked.

  ‘See those men there?’ Monty pointed at another group of soldiers. ‘They earn their living by harassing tourists, taking pictures with them and then demanding obscene amounts of money. I heard the going rate is fifty euros. It’s highway robbery!’

  ‘Wouldn’t they be upset with you encroaching on their turf?’ Max asked. He could see four men pointing their way and none of them looked very happy.

  ‘Too bad. I don’t mind if they harass everyone else, but I want them to leave us alone and my tactic seems to be working perfectly well.’ Monty nodded, feeling pretty pleased with himself.

  Except that it wasn’t working well at all. The four men had now become eight and they were clearly about to make themselves known.

  Carlos pointed over Mr Reffell’s shoulder. ‘Sir.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Rodriguez?’ The man turned and, before he could say another word, one of the burly gladiators jabbed a stubby finger in the centre of his chest.

  ‘Cosa fai?’ the man spat.

  Monty gulped. ‘Dressing up for the children,’ he replied. ‘It’s not against the law.’

  ‘That is our domain,’ another man shouted, waving his fist in the air.

  ‘Well, I don’t see I’m doing any harm,’ Monty said, right before the burliest member of the group grabbed him by the throat. Monty began to make choking noises, ostensibly in the hope that his attacker would release him. He wasn’t supposed to retaliate in front of the children, but if the fellow didn’t desist soon, he would be left with little choice – and there was a part of him that was itching to have a go. ‘Please,’ he coughed. ‘That is very unpleasant.’

  Kensy marched forward and stamped heavily on the perpetrator’s sandalled foot. ‘Let Mr Reffell go!’ she demanded.

  The man yelped in pain and released his grip, then began jumping around, clutching his injured toe. The rest of the children were stunned but mostly impressed.

  Monty Reffel
l drew his plastic sword. ‘I challenge you to a duel!’ he cried, and was met with laughter. ‘I don’t see what’s so funny. I am an excellent swordsman.’

  ‘Stupido,’ the shortest of the group said, chuckling.

  ‘I am not stupid, I can guarantee you that,’ Mr Reffell said, drawing himself up to full height.

  Max spotted a policeman and nudged Autumn. ‘I think perhaps we need to defuse this, don’t you?’

  Autumn nodded. ‘Good thinking.’

  They took off across the piazza.

  ‘Mi scusi!’ Max called to the uniformed man. Then, with a fair amount of arm-waving and grammatically incorrect Italian, he managed to tell the officer exactly what was going on – except that he might have left out the bit about his teacher dressing up as a centurion to try to outsmart the actors. ‘Those men over there are demanding a fortune for a photograph and we’re just innocent children,’ Max blurted.

  The policeman was off after them like a shot. Although the centurions weren’t doing anything illegal, as they were registered street performers, the constabulary were stationed around the building to protect tourists from being ripped off and it sounded as if the children were being held for ransom.

  ‘Allontanatevi dai bambini! Get away from the children!’ the policeman shouted, sending the centurions scattering.

  Mr Reffell rubbed his neck, wishing that just once he might be able to put all those years of martial arts training to good use. Unfortunately, it was against company policy unless absolutely necessary. A good old sword fight would have sufficed. He then spent several minutes trying to explain to the officer that he was with the children. Even then, it didn’t stop the policeman from issuing him an on-the-spot penalty for not having a permit to dress as an ancient figure in a public place.