Secret of the Forbidden City

by James Patterson

  Storm was going green again—all the way to Level Kermit.

  “Stop this van!” she shouted.

  “What?” said the driver.

  “Tíngzh zhè mìan bāo chē!” Storm screamed in angry Mandarin.

  The driver did as he was told. I think. I don’t speak Mandarin.

  Anyway, he slammed on the brakes.

  “I memorized the Beijing street map,” Storm said when we were safely parked at the curb. “And you, sir, are purposely taking us on a ridiculously serpentine route, hoping to justify your outrageous fare.”

  Now Snake Face smiled. Two of his teeth were extremely pointy.

  “Fine,” said Storm. “You’ll get your money if you take us to the Forbidden City. Now. No more twists, no more turns. And watch out for the potholes.”

  “No problem.” The driver slid the transmission into drive. We rumbled forward, in a straight line, for, like, thirty seconds.

  “Here you are. Forbidden City.”

  Storm yanked up the handle on the sliding door. “Pay him, Tommy.”

  Tommy peeled five crisp bills off his money roll.

  “What?” said the driver. “No tip?”

  “Sure,” said Beck. “Here’s a tip: Don’t ever mess with my sister again.”

  CHAPTER 36

  We were so close.

  The Forbidden City.

  3:50 PM.

  Only ten more minutes and we’d be reunited with our dad.

  The four of us stood together, smiling like crazy in the massive plaza, which was packed with hundreds of tourists, all of them snapping phone pics of what used to be the imperial palace for all the emperors of China—from the Ming Dynasty to the end of the Qing Dynasty.

  (That last factoid courtesy of Storm, who, of course, had a billion of them.)

  As interesting as Storm’s tour-guide trivia was, none of us was really listening to her fun facts to know and tell. I don’t think Storm was even listening to Storm.

  We were going to see Dad!

  It was 3:59. Any second now.

  Any second.

  He should be walking across the plaza.

  In a minute.

  Maybe he couldn’t find a taxi or van. Not even an illegal one.

  Maybe he got stuck in traffic.

  Because, pretty soon, it was 4:05.

  Then 4:10.

  Still no Dad.

  I wondered if he stopped by one of the souvenir stalls to pick us up a small gift like so many dads do when they go away on business trips.

  Beck tried texting him, but she just got an error message that said “Not delivered.”

  We watched the tourists swarm into the palace museum.

  We watched them swarm out.

  We nibbled on candied lotus root.

  We listened to Storm’s endless tour-guide spiel.

  “… It took a million workers fourteen years to build the palace. It is called the ‘Forbidden’ City because no one could enter or leave the palace without the emperor’s permission… .”

  After about thirty minutes, our disappointment (and total boredom with Storm’s blah-blah-blahing) was too much to bear. That’s when Tommy proved, once again, why it’s okay that he’s our big brother.

  “Hey—do you guys remember that time in Mexico when we were little. Mom and Dad found all those Spanish helmets?”

  “And we wanted to play conquistador?” I said, remembering.

  “I got to be Montezuma,” said Storm.

  “I was an angry Aztec,” said Beck.

  “And then that archaeologist came along,” said Tommy, “the snooty lady from the big-deal college.”

  “And Dad stood up for us,” said Storm.

  We all smiled. It was a sweet story.

  It was also pure Dad.

  Of course, Dad made sure we never broke any antiques. But he always let us Kidds be kids.

  Storm started humming that tune Mom had hummed in her video message.

  “Dad hummed a very similar lullaby to me once,” she said. “When I was a baby. In my crib. The notes were slightly different.…”

  Storm started humming.

  Yep. Our big sister’s photographic memory goes way, way back.

  Especially if the memory is one she never, ever wants to forget.

  CHAPTER 37

  Pretty soon, it was five o’clock.

  We’d been waiting for Dad for over an hour.

  Just as Tommy said, “Well, maybe we should… ,” all four of our cell phones started buzzing and binging.

  It was another text message.

  Apparently, he had a lot to say. The little cartoon balloons kept scrolling up our screens:

  im ss.

  I wsh I cud b there

  ik hw mch dis must hurt u guys

  it hrtz me 2

  bt duty calls

  Then, all of a sudden, he stopped using texting abbreviations, like he wanted to be sure we understood exactly what he was trying to tell us.

  Push on with your plan. You have earned the urn.

  Uncle T. will help seal the deal.

  Keep going, Treasure Hunters.

  Remember, the most important clues often seem small and insignificant.

  A bird in the hand is often hiding the one in the bush.

  Visit Bavaria.

  The pretzels are lovely this time of year.

  Safe travels. Sicheres Reisen.

  The four of us kept staring at our phones, each of us hoping that Dad would start making sense.

  But the texts stopped.

  “It’s code,” said Storm. “Clues. Those last two words mean safe travels in German.”

  “So what’s up with all the German stuff?” said Beck. “What’s our next treasure? A dozen Bavarian cream doughnuts? And that bit about Uncle Timothy? Dad didn’t send this. Uncle T. did.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s from Dad.”

  “It’s a trick,” hollered Beck.

  And, yes, right there, in the middle of the Forbidden City, even with all its buildings and arches dedicated to peace and harmony, Beck and I exploded into Twin Tirade No. 491.

  “Uncle Timothy is messing with our heads!” said Beck.

  “Why would he bother?” I shot back. “Yours is already totally messed up.”

  “Of course it is. I’m related to you!

  “And what about that bird-in-the-hand line?” screamed Beck.

  “It fits with Dad’s wing flapping in front of the art gallery.”

  “Which only you saw.”

  “Because I was the only one paying attention.”

  “You mean the only one spacing out and imagining things. And that’s another thing. Why was Mom humming that stupid tune?”

  “Because it’s a lullaby. Dad hummed one just like it to Storm. Probably us, too.”

  “Of course he did,” said Beck. “Don’t you remember?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yeah. It was sweet. Got us to stop screaming.”

  “Really?”

  “Worked every time.”

  “Huh.”

  Storm and Tommy hummed a few bars.

  And, once again, it worked like a charm.

  Beck and I stopped screaming.

  CHAPTER 38

  “We need to go see Uncle Timothy,” said Tommy as we hiked away from the Forbidden City and into a busy shopping district.

  “Uncle Timothy?” said Beck. “I don’t trust him.”

  “But Dad said…”

  “What if Beck is right?” I said. “What if Uncle T. is the one who sent us all those texts?”

  Tommy shook his head. “I don’t think so. That bit about the pretzels. When I was a kid, Mom and Dad were on some kind of treasure hunt in Germany. I remember loving the pretzels.”

  “What?”

  “They were big and chewy and smelled like fresh baked bread. Sort of yeasty.”

  “You remember pretzels?”

  “Hey, I may not have a photographic memory like Storm. But I th
ink I might have a ‘food-o-graphic’ one, you know? Like when we walked into that Chinese restaurant. Or Louie Louie’s Surf Shack down in the Cayman Islands. I never forget the scent of a good meal or delicious snack food item.”

  “You guys?” said Storm. “We’re being watched again.”

  In front of us, two Chinese men were pretending to read the newspaper while peering over the top of the pages so they could read us.

  A surveillance team.

  I turned around. Okay, there was another team tailing us. No, two teams.

  To our left? Surveillance team number four—a pair of those bulky bodybuilders with the tiny soul patches from the art gallery. It was really starting to feel like everybody in Beijing was watching our every move—and that’s a lot of surveillance.

  “Now what?” said Beck.

  “Easy,” said Tommy. “We go shopping.”

  Turns out, we had ended up in the unbelievably busy Wangfujing (try saying that three times fast) District—a stretch of cool shops that’s insanely popular with tourists and locals. We pretended to casually stroll along and check out the street grub stalls.

  “Anybody else want a meat kebab?” asked Storm. “Maybe some fruit on a stick? A bite of baodu?”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Quick-boiled tripe.”

  “And what’s tripe?”

  “The stomach lining of a cow or a sheep.”

  Storm. She really tells it like it is, even when you wish she wouldn’t.

  “You guys?” said Tommy. He gestured to his left and right, then his front and back. Yep. We were surrounded. The four surveillance teams were still tailing us and tightening their circle.

  “So,” said Beck, “this is like a pedestrian mall?”

  “Correct,” said Storm. “Cars aren’t allowed on this stretch of the street. It’s only for walkers.”

  “I think we’re done walking for today,” said Tommy. “Maybe we should run for it!”

  And we did.

  CHAPTER 39

  After some serious running, we wound up at the Beijing Zoo, which, Storm informed us as we all huffed and puffed, used to be called the Garden of Ten Thousand Animals.

  Beck tightened her grip on Dad’s top secret zhézhî project.

  “We can’t let these birds fall into the wrong hands,” she said.

  “I am so sick of all this surveillance,” said Tommy. “I mean, I like girls following me around all the time, but this is ridiculous.”

  Winded, we dashed past Monkey Hill and ducked into the Giant Panda Pavilion. We hopped the fence and hid in the woody stalks of bamboo while the pandas nibbled leaves.

  “Tommy?” I said. “What’re we going to do?”

  “We can’t stay in here forever,” added Beck.

  “True,” said Storm. “The pandas may want to eat us when they finish their bamboo salads.”

  Tommy had a pained look on his face. This is how he looks when he’s thinking. Like his brain hurts.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “Here’s what I think. Beck?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re the family negotiator. Can you make the swap—Dad’s detailed S.C.U.B.B.A. plans for the Ming vase?”

  “Definitely. But, we’re going to need Uncle Timothy. The high cultural minister won’t trade with me because I’m a kid.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t trust Uncle Timothy.”

  “We have to risk it,” said Tommy. “Dad wants us to move on.”

  “Germany,” I mumbled.

  “Germany,” said Tommy. “Land of the most awesome, freshly baked, jumbo-sized pretzels in the world.”

  “Is that seriously all you remember?” said Storm.

  Tommy shrugged. “I was little. Little kids like doughy, bready things.”

  “So we’re going to Bavaria so you can eat pretzels?” said Beck.

  “Nope,” said Tommy. “We’re going there because, I’m pretty sure, that’s where Dad’s headed next.”

  “You guys?” said Storm, remembering something. “Those goons from the art gallery, they had German accents.”

  “You think they’re connected to why Dad wants us to visit Germany?” I asked.

  “If they’re not, it would be a very strange coincidence.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Let’s take our flock of folded paper birdies back to the hotel and ask Uncle T. to help us make the trade.”

  We said good-bye to the pandas, hiked out of the zoo, and made our way back to the hotel.

  And, of course, we were still being watched the whole time.

  Surveillance teams can be really, really irritating that way.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Where were you, children?” asked Jin Xiang when we waltzed back into our hotel room. “We were quite concerned for your safety.”

  “So were we,” said Beck. “Especially since you guys had so many scary-looking surveillance teams trailing us all over Beijing.”

  Yep. We Kidds can give as good as we take.

  Uncle Timothy strode into the room. As usual, he had one hand to his earpiece and was jabbering gibberish.

  Everybody in the room, including the Chinese, was kind of staring at him. Nobody understood a word he was saying. I sometimes wonder if Uncle Timothy even understands himself.

  Uncle T. jabbed his fists into his hips and started barking at Tommy.

  “Thomas? You’re the oldest. I expected more from you.”

  Tommy smiled and nodded like a happy puppy. “Thanks, Uncle T. Appreciate that.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. I expect you to keep your siblings in line. Especially when you are the guests of a foreign country. You’ve completely embarrassed our entire family.”

  “Um, we’re not really related,” said Storm. “Remember?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve upset your cultural attaché, Ms. Jin Xiang.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Tommy, wiggling his eyebrows again. “Maybe there’s something I can do to make it up to you. Do you like those seaweed fries at McDonald’s? My treat.”

  “Thomas!” screamed Uncle Timothy. “This is serious business.”

  “Oh, I’m serious. I’ll spring for a bubble tea, too.”

  “When you disappeared, Jin Xiang had no choice but to call the high cultural minister.”

  “Good,” I said. “Call him again. He’s the guy we need to see.”

  “Why?”

  “We know how his archaeologists can safely enter Qin Shi Huang’s tomb.”

  Jin Xiang and the guards, who had been whispering while Uncle Timothy ranted, suddenly got very quiet.

  “How?” Uncle Timothy barked.

  “It’s a secret.”

  “One we’re willing to sell,” said Beck, “for exactly one Ming vase. And we want our urn ‘to go.’”

  Uncle Timothy looked upset. “Did you four children retrieve something from one of your father’s secret safe-deposit boxes?”

  “Why, Uncle Timothy,” I said, pretending to be surprised. “Were you tracking us, too?”

  “I am still your legal guardian, Bickford. I was concerned.”

  My turn to smile. No wonder Dad had sent Ratso to pick us up. The way he drove, nobody could tail that maniac.

  “Uncle Timothy,” bellowed Storm, “it’s time for this surveillance to stop!”

  Yep. She was in full thunder Storm mode.

  “We’re heroes. Remember? China gave us an official parade. We don’t need babysitters.”

  “Now let’s go see that high cultural minister,” said Storm.

  “It’s late,” said Jin Xiang. “He may already be in bed.”

  “So? We’re bringing him something that’s definitely worth waking up for!”

  “And,” I added, “tell him to grab an ultraviolet light or two.”

  “Huh?” said Uncle Timothy. “Why?”

  “Because the cheap battery in that invisible ink spy pen you gave me for my birthday is nearly dead.”

  CHAPTER 41 />
  It was around 1 AM when we had our meeting with the high cultural minister in his office.

  As instructed, he brought along a bank of black lights on a rolling stand.

  Storm flicked on the ultraviolet lights, laid out Dad’s scheme, and explained how the whole S.C.U.B.B.A. contraption would work.

  “Your father’s plan is sheer genius,” the minister said through his interpreter when Storm had finished and the regular lights were back on. “We thank you, Mr. Timothy Quinn, for leading us to this most marvelous solution and incredible invention.”

  Uncle Timothy rocked up on his heels and, once again, took all the credit for something he had absolutely nothing to do with.

  “I told you, Mr. Minister,” said Uncle Timothy, sounding pretty full of himself, “anything you want, I, or my people, can find for you. Keep working with me and soon you will have enough treasure to make your new museum the envy of the art world!”

  Tommy tugged on Uncle Timothy’s sleeve. “Um, just to be clear, when you say ‘I’ and ‘me,’ you still mean America, right?”

  “Of course, Thomas. Now be quiet. I’m not done talking.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Beck.

  Storm scooped up the eight sheets of colorful paper and stuffed them back in the plastic bag.

  I pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap.

  It was time for Beck to close the sale.

  “If Bick dumps his water bottle into this bag,” she explained, “Dad’s entire idea will vanish. Poof! Gone! Now, Bick doesn’t want that to happen. And you guys don’t want that to happen.”

  “No!” shouted the interpreter. “We do not.”