by Paul Haven
liver, Alamai, and Zee spun around to see a pale figure walking toward them, the light from the lan tern at Zee's feet dancing across his face as he approached. He had slicked- back gray hair and a thin smile, and his footsteps were slow and deliberate.
He was holding a small black revolver in his left hand, his long fingers gripping it loosely. He looked from one child to the next, keeping his gaze on each of them for a few uncomfortable seconds.
“Thank you for coming,” said the man, his voice both pleasant and sinister at the same time. “I thought I was going to have to chase you all the way around the palace. It's very considerate of you to find your way to our little den on your own. Of course, I did leave the light on for you.”
The man took another step toward them, sticking the gun firmly into his belt. He was tall and thin, with polished penny loafers and an expensive- looking button- down shirt that he wore tucked into his trousers. Silver cuff links peeked out of the sleeves.
He had a long, narrow nose, curved eyebrows, and a wide forehead. His skin was smooth and tight, with just a few wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.
“I see you've found our unfortunate Mr. Haji,” he said. “A most ungrateful guest, I must say. We have offered him money. We have offered him freedom. But nothing is enough for him. I certainly hope we don't have as difficult a time with you three.”
The man was just a few paces from them now. He gently wiped a spot of sweat off his brow, and for the first time Oliver got a good look at his hands. They were as pale as a ghost's, and the candlelight lent them a gelatinous quality, like the tentacles of a squid.
“Hugo Schleim, at your service,” said the man, bowing slightly. “But, of course, you already know that, or you wouldn't be here.”
Oliver, Alamai, and Zee stared up at him, glued to the spot.
“Let them go!” shouted Mr. Haji. “The children have nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” replied Schleim, wagging his finger in the air. “I believe they have everything to do with it, my dear man.”
Just at that moment, the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and a dim light seeped into the cellar. They heard the sound of soft footsteps. Schleim glanced over his shoulder, before returning his gaze to his captives.
“I'd like to introduce you to someone,” he said. “Just so we all know each other.”
A short, stocky man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He crossed the room casually, one hand holding a lantern above his head and the other stuffed into his pocket. He was wearing a brown shalwar kameez and he had a gray turban on his head, but he was definitely not Baladi. He had wild blond hair and piercing blue eyes, which he struggled to open past the halfway point.
“This is my associate, Suavec,” said Schleim. “I must warn you not to upset him. He has a bit of a temper.”
Oliver recognized the man at once.
“You're the guy from the Thieves Market,” he said. “You're the one who's been following us!”
“That's right, kid,” said Suavec, wiping his nose. “Busy day you're having, too.”
Suavec turned to his boss.
“You get the key yet?” he asked.
“Patience, patience,” said Schleim. “We were just coming to that.”
He turned toward Zee, a half smile crossing his face.
“I believe you have something for me, Mr. ul- Hazai,” said Schleim. “Would you be so kind as to hand it over?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Zee, shrugging his shoulders and flipping his hair back as casually as he could.
“The key is on a chain under his kameez,” said Suavec bluntly. “I heard them talking about it at the kebab stand.”
Oliver glanced at Alamai nervously, and she stared back at him, her eyes flashing with anger. Suavec walked over to Zee, grabbing his arm.
“Let's go, kid,” he said. “Give it here.”
Zee swiped Suavec's hand away with his free arm and tried to spin away, but the man was quicker and stronger. In an instant, he had Zee's arms pinned behind him. He spun him around to face Schleim.
“Oh no,” groaned Mr. Haji.
“You're not going to get away with this,” hissed Zee.
Schleim stepped forward so that he was standing directly in front of Zee. The light from the lantern was just beneath them now, casting Schleim's face in a devilish light. He reached forward, his long, icy fingers groping Zee's neck until he found the chain. He drew it up sharply, and the iron skeleton key popped out.
Schleim's eyes opened wide as he stared down at the key, and his mouth twitched with excitement. Silently, he ran his fingertips over the shank, then up the bow of interlocking serpents.
“At long last,” he whispered.
Zee tried helplessly to wriggle out of Suavec's grasp.
“You've got no right to take that!” he shouted. “It belongs to my family.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Mr. ul- Hazai,” Schleim hissed. He took the thin chain in both hands and snapped it in two with a quick tug. “Nobody has more of a claim to this key than me. If it were up to you and your kind, it would be sitting in a box on top of a bookshelf for another five hundred years.”
“So it was you who broke into our house. It was you who paid Hassan to betray us, you scoundrel!” said Zee.
“Well, not me personally,” said Schleim. “But I did hear from Suavec's men that your father has quite a nice collection of Malenite swords. It was all they could do not to take a couple with them. But we had to stay focused on the larger prize.”
Schleim turned and walked slowly over to the table. He struck a match and lit a lantern next to the wooden chest. Then he undid the latch and reached inside. When he returned, he was carrying a heavy key ring with six iron skeleton keys on it.
Schleim added Zee's key to the bunch.
“Not since the reign of Agamon the Great have these seven keys been held on a single chain,” said Schleim. “Amazing, really, when you think about it. And to think that it is I who have brought them together.”
Oliver glanced over at Haji, who was sitting slumped over with his head hanging low. Zee had stopped struggling, too. He and Alamai were staring at the set of keys in Schleim's hand, a mixture of awe and horror on their faces.
“How could you possibly have known about the keys?” said Zee. “Nobody knows about the Bro—”
Zee stopped short, feeling the heat of Alamai's glare.
“The Brotherhood? The Brotherhood of Arachosia?” said Schleim. “Indeed, few people have learned of its secrets. I would not be among them even now were it not for our friend Aziz Aziz.”
“Aziz Aziz?” said Oliver. “The man you kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped?” said Schleim with a laugh. He paused for a minute, as if he were about to say something. But instead he glanced down at his watch.
“Will you look at the time!” he said. “I've got to get a move on. It wouldn't do at all to be late for a farewell dinner in my honor, would it? Particularly one thrown by President Haroon himself.”
The archaeologist straightened his shirt and clasped the silver cuff links shut. Then he walked over to the table and grabbed a dark sports jacket off the back of the chair.
“Got to keep up appearances, at least for another twenty- four hours or so,” he said.
“If the president knew what you were up to, he would have you thrown in jail,” said Zee.
“Quite right,” said Schleim. “That's why it is a good thing he doesn't.”
He slipped the jacket on and handed the revolver to Suavec.
“My associate here will keep you company until I get back,” said Schleim. “And by the way, don't even think about trying to escape. Even if you were to get past him, I've got four more men waiting outside.”
He turned to Mr. Haji.
“Perhaps a few hours will help you think more clearly,” he said. He pointed a slender finger at Alamai, Oliver, and Zee. “But I'm warning you,
old man. Anything unfortunate that happens after that will be on your conscience.”
ilas Finch snapped his silver cell phone shut and put it down on the desk. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. It was nine o'clock in the evening, and Oliver still wasn't home.
“What did he say?” asked Scarlett nervously.
“Mr. ul- Hazai says Zee was dropped off at Mansur Street this morning and hasn't been heard from since,” said Silas. “His phone is switched off, and he hasn't called in. Whatever those two boys got up to, Oliver never went over to the ul-Hazais like he said he would.”
Silas took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the chair. He was dressed in a dark suit and blue tie, ready to go to a reception at President Haroon's official residence in honor of Hugo Schleim, but now he wasn't going anywhere.
“Mansur Street?” said Scarlett, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. “Isn't that near the Thieves Market?”
“Yeah,” said Silas. “It's right next to it.”
“Good God!” said Scarlett softly. “Oliver wouldn't have gone there! Would he?”
“I don't know,” Silas replied. “I honestly don't know.”
Silas and Scarlett stared at each other. Oliver had lied to them, and now questions and doubts rushed in to fill the terrible silence.
Why had he left the house in a shalwar kameez that morning, and why had he called up out of the blue to ask about Schleim?
The outfit had seemed innocent enough to the Finches, almost encouraging, considering Oliver's lack of interest up until then in Baladi culture. The question about Schleim had certainly been curious, but it hadn't raised any alarms at the time. Scarlett had just assumed he was recounting the story about the creepy kiss to Zee. It was just the kind of g ross- out story that boys love to tell each other.
Now Scarlett was sure that phone call was the key to her son's disappearance, and she blamed herself for not being more suspicious at the time.
“Mr. and Mrs. ul- Hazai are calling everyone they know, but so far nobody has seen them,” Silas said, his voice hushed. “They've tried ringing Mr. Haji's shop, but it is closed. Darling, they sounded very worried. They are calling the chief of police.”
Scarlett paced back and forth, her bracelets jangling as she walked. Back when they lived in New York, Oliver would spend long summer afternoons playing ball with friends in Riverside Park, and he would occasionally forget to call in to say he would be late. But this was not New York, and Scarlett was sure her son would have called in by now if he could have.
Silas bit his thumb and stared into the middle distance. He prided himself on being an easygoing sort of a father, but he had expressly forbidden Oliver from setting foot in the Thieves Market. Could his son have defied him? Could something terrible have happened to him there?
If he hadn't been so worried, Silas would have been furious.
“Silas, what in the world are we going to do?” said Scarlett, her voice breaking. “We can't just sit here.”
Silas reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his car keys.
“I'll take Raheem down to Mansur Street and start asking around there. One of the shopkeepers must have seen them,” he said. “You stay here and wait by the phone.”
He grabbed his cell phone off the table, then crossed the room and gave his wife a hug.
“Try not to worry, darling,” he said, though his voice wasn't nearly as reassuring as he had hoped it would be. “Oliver is a smart kid. He'll be all right.”
Scarlett nodded, her eyes wet with tears.
Just at that moment, there was a heavy rapping on the front door.
“Maybe that's them!” Scarlett cried. Silas rushed to the door and flung it open excitedly. What he saw made him stagger back in surprise.
“Holy smokes!” he exclaimed.
Standing on the Finches’ doorstep was a giant of a man. He had a thick black beard and a deep scar that ran across his face, and his left eye was covered by a pirate's black patch. He bowed slightly, placing his right hand across his wide chest.
“Please, don't be alarmed, Mr. Finch,” the man said softly. “My name is Hamid Halabala. I am hoping you can help me find my daughter.”
liver, Alamai, and Zee sat on the edge of a low wooden charpoy in the corner of the room next to Mr. Haji. Suavec had fetched the chair and lantern from the other side of the room and sat facing them from a short distance, an expressionless look upon his face. He was clearly a man used to waiting in situations such as these.
Oliver tried several times to catch Mr. Haji's eye, but he was looking straight down at the floor, his head hung in despair. Oliver was desperate to ask him why Schleim had kidnapped him in the first place. What did he want from him? Where was Aziz Aziz? And what did any of this have to do with the giant carpet in the corner of the room?
Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but Suavec's cold gaze made him think better of it.
His thoughts turned to his poor parents. They would be worried sick by now, and so would the ul- Hazais, not to mention Hamid Halabala, who had tried to warn them not to get involved. Not only had they gotten involved, they had gotten his only daughter in trouble, too. Oliver wondered whether his parents had called the police already, or if they were out scouring the city on their own.
One thing was for sure: if Oliver survived this, his father would definitely kill him.
Suavec barely moved as the minutes ticked by, his droopy eyelids half open the entire time, the gun resting on his knee. Despite the summer heat, it was cold in the cellar, and the hard frame of the charpoy dug into the backs of Oliver's legs. He pulled them up over the side of the bed and rested his back against the wall.
It was Alamai who finally got up the courage to say something.
“Mr. Haji,” she whispered. “What did that horrible man mean when he said you had to think more clearly? More clearly about what?”
Mr. Haji looked up slowly, as if from a bad dream.
“I still don't understand what they want with you,” said Oliver.
“And what have they done with Aziz Aziz?” said Zee.
“Oy!” said Suavec. “That's enough yammering. You're giving me a headache. And anyway, we didn't do nothing to Aziz Aziz. At least nothing he didn't want done.”
“You mean Aziz Aziz wanted to be kidnapped?” said Zee.
“Kidnapped?” snorted Suavec. “I guess if you count sitting on a beach in the Caribbean while you wait for your half of the world's biggest stash of treasure a form of kidnapping, then, yeah.”
“Treasure?” said Alamai. “What treasure?”
“Ah, that's the question, isn't it?” said Suavec, a grin spreading across his ruddy face. He glanced over his shoulder nervously before continuing. “The treasure of the Brotherhood. Let's just hope it's as big as the good minister says it is.”
Suavec leaned forward in the chair and put his elbows on his knees. He glanced from Mr. Haji to the children.
“About six months back, Aziz Aziz came to Mr. Schleim. He said there was a huge treasure buried in Balabad, a great stash that nobody had touched for centuries. He said that if we joined forces, there was enough loot for us all to retire as millionaires. That between what he knew and what we had found out, it would be a cinch.”
“What do you mean ‘what he knew’?” asked Zee. “How did Aziz Aziz know about the Brotherhood?”
“How did he know about it?” said Suavec. “He was in it. A descendant of one of old King Agamon's sons. He even had one of those big rusty keys, just like yours.”
“Aziz Aziz was in the Brotherhood?” said Oliver. “He was the one who told you where to find all of the keys?”
“The traitor!” hissed Alamai.
“Maybe,” said Suavec, shrugging his shoulders. “Seems to me that all depends on your point of view. Luckily for us, he wasn't as patient as the rest of you people. Five hundred years of waiting was enough for him. He wanted the money and who can blame him?”
“
But what about the rest of it?” said Oliver. “I still don't get what you want with Mr. Haji. What use is he to you?”
Suavec sniggered.
“I think that's for your friend Haji to explain for himself,” said Suavec. “Go on, why don't you tell them why you're here, old man?”
“That's enough,” said Mr. Haji, snapping his head up, his hands still twisted behind his back. “I can assure you I have no intention of being of any use to these criminals.”
ime is a strange thing, Oliver thought. It can go by so quickly when you are doing something fun like watching a baseball game, and it can seem so endless when you are doing something boring like sitting through social studies class. But you haven't felt time really stand still unless you've been held captive in the darkened cellar of an abandoned palace, waiting for an evil archaeologist to come back from a farewell dinner with the president.
It was well past midnight when the door at the top of the stairs finally creaked open and they heard uneven footsteps on the stairs. Schleim emerged from the stairwell, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said. “The reception dragged on. President Haroon really pulled out all the stops to thank me. It was quite touching, really.”
Schleim giggled.
“It almost made me feel guilty,” he said.
“So, Mr. Haji, I hope you've finally seen sense,” Schleim continued. “It seems unnecessary to keep these poor children locked up here any longer just to protect your own pride.”
“As I've told you time and again, I know nothing that would be of any use to you,” Mr. Haji spat. “I don't believe your story, anyway. This fantasy about a great treasure is ridiculous, and if such a treasure did exist, why on earth would Aziz Aziz come to a snake like you and blab about it?”
“A good question,” said Schleim. “Of course, few people on this planet can boast both my intimate knowledge of post- Parsavian history, and my, shall we say, flexible morals.”
The archaeologist stared down at the children, a loose smile crossing his face.
