by Paul Aertker
Ekki and Goper supervised a team of Curukians toting paintings from the train to the waiting truck. Within a quarter of an hour the job was finished. Ekki locked the back doors, and the moving van rumbled away.
A few minutes later Bleach, Ekki, and Goper burst into the café car.
“Lucas is missing,” Goper announced.
“Where did he go?” Ms. Günerro asked.
“We don’t know,” Bleach said.
Ekki said, “Hircus ate Lucas’s ropes.”
“If he jumped from the train,” Bleach said. “Then he’s probably—”
“Oh how dreadful,” Ms. Günerro said. “That would be tragic.”
“What if Lucas is still alive?” Goper said. “You know he’s proven to be persistent.”
“You’re right, Goper,” Ms. Günerro said. “Search the train one more time, and if you can’t find him, then let’s put our guests in the hotel basement with our artist friends.”
Ekki, Goper, Bleach, and her clique scoured the train. When they came up empty-handed, they began lining up everyone to go to the hotel.
The city of Granada was mostly still asleep when the Good Company Security team marched the New Resistance kids through town. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the smell of fresh-baked bread drifted along the cobblestone streets.
Half an hour later the group crossed a tiny bridge and marched up a rock path to the back of the Alhambra.
A woman wearing a pilot’s cap opened the gate for them.
“Buenos días,” she said.
“Good morning,” Goper said back in English. “We’re going to the Good Art Institute of Granada.”
“Yes,” she said. “I heard.”
The Alhambra was a former Moorish royal palace, a geometric fortress with a maze of courtyards and gardens filled with flowering bushes, cypress trees, and reflecting pools.
When they entered the gardens, the sun was just starting to rise. The bright yellow light sprinkled across the tops of the trees, and the birds sang.
Bleach and her Curukian girls didn’t seem to care about the beauty of the place. Like mindless people, they did their jobs without thinking. They marched the remaining New Resistance kids—Astrid, Jackknife, Travis, Kerala, Nalini, and Alister—across the grounds, around a grove of young trees protected by green fencing, and to the hotel.
From there they descended the stairs to a cool and dark basement. Blue and yellow tiles covered the walls as they weaved deeper into a network of hallways. They passed through a door decorated in a white mosaic. Down a few more steps the walls turned into a maze of mirrors, and suddenly they were in a dark and dank corridor. As they marched down this hallway, the sound of their shoes clopping on the stone floor echoed.
Goper opened a wooden door leading into a cell. “Put them in here,” he said.
Bleach asked, “What about the artist monks?”
“They’re behind the gate in the next cell,” Goper said. “Ekki and I will watch them both. You get back to the train with Ms. Günerro.”
“But—” Bleach said.
“No buts,” Goper said. “I am going to be head of Good Company Security. Soon. So you better get used to taking orders from me.”
Bleach and her girls left.
Goper closed the door behind the New Resistance kids and locked them in the cell.
Alister raised his briefcase. “I can pick these locks,” he whispered. “And look at this.” He slid two barrel bolts on the door. “We can actually lock them out.”
“We don’t need to keep them out,” Astrid said. “We need to get ourselves out.”
The kids looked around the room. The jail had cots and bathrooms and a little kitchenette. It was like a hotel room with a connecting door to the next cell—except there was a gate with metal bars separating the two rooms.
A murmuring sound came from the other side.
The New Resistance team huddled in front of the gate and peered through the bars. The boys in yellow robes they had seen getting on the Thimblerig on the video were in a circle, meditating.
Travis put his face to the bars. “Psst,” he said into the other room.
One of the boys rose and came to the gate. He had black hair and a round face. He smiled broadly.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” Travis said. “You guys from Burma?”
“Yes,” said the boy in English. “It’s called Myanmar now.”
“So you’re the artists?” Travis asked.
“No.”
“What do you mean?” Astrid asked. “You all have easels.”
“And giant canvases,” Kerala added.
“We are not creative artists,” the boy said. “We have technique. We copy. Very fast. Very good.”
“Sounds like an artist to me,” Alister said, poking his head into the conversation.
Kerala asked. “Do you work for Ms. Günerro?”
“Yes, no,” the boy said. “We are forced to work for her. It is not our choice.”
“Let me get this straight,” Travis said. “You’re here to copy the stolen paintings. Right?”
The boy nodded. “We must or Ching Ching will make our families pay.”
“Why don’t you just escape?” Jackknife asked.
“Because,” said the boy, “Ms. Günerro and Ching Ching would find us, and I don’t want to think about what they would do.”
Travis moved ahead with his questions. “How long does it take to copy a painting?”
“When we work together, we are much better.”
“Travis?” Nalini asked. “Where are you going with all of this?”
Travis smiled. “Trust me,” he said. “Getting the paintings copied is the key to getting out of here.”
HUBRIS
Travis’s idea didn’t seem to make any sense to anyone. Astrid, Nalini, Jackknife, Alister, and Kerala stared at him.
“Getting the paintings copied,” said Astrid, folding her arms, “will only keep us locked in here longer.”
“It does seem,” Nalini said, “a tad bit counterintuitive.”
“That’s the point,” Travis said. “One thing we know about the Good Company is that you have to turn the tables on them.”
“Every day,” said Kerala, “is opposite day.”
“Okay,” Jackknife said. “What’s this grand plan?”
“This idea will work perfectly with a little hubris,” Travis said.
“What’s that?” Jackknife asked. “Can you eat it like hummus?”
“Hubris,” Travis said, “is too much pride or self-confidence.”
Alister said, “Thinking you’re better than everyone else.”
“I know a lot of people like that,” Nalini said.
“I still don’t follow your plan,” Astrid said.
“Watch this,” Travis said.
A small window with tiny bars in the main door provided the only opening to the hallway. Ekki and Goper were sitting in plastic chairs, rocking on the back legs. Travis peered out and banged on the wooden door.
“Hey, Goper,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Do you really think you’re going to be made head of Good Company Security?”
“I’ve got a pretty good feeling about it,” Goper said. “Ms. Günerro sees my potential, and I know I’m more than perfect for the job.”
“Well of course you are,” Travis said. “But how long do you think you’ll have to wait?”
“I shouldn’t have to wait,” Goper said. “Mr. Magnus has been arrested, and the spot for head of Good Company Security is officially wide open.”
“My man Goper,” Ekki said, “is number one!”
“If he’s number one,” Travis said, “the best of the best—”
“Yep,” Ekki said.
“—then why,” Travis asked, “hasn’t Ms. Günerro given him the job already? What is she waiting for?”
Astrid seemed to pick up on Travis’s game plan. She tippy-toed and spoke through the
tiny window.
“What did Ms. Günerro just say to you on the train?” she asked. “I believe she said, quote, ‘You’re right, Goper.’”
“Yep,” Ekki said. “I remember that!”
Jackknife joined in. “I heard Magnus waited decades for that position.”
“Decades?” Goper said.
“Goper is not waiting no stinking decade,” Ekki said. “That’s like ten years.”
“Of course he’s not waiting,” Astrid said.
Travis added, “You’re more than qualified right now.”
“You bet I am,” Goper said.
The mop-headed Good Company guard leaned forward and dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor. Ekki did the same, and they both stared at the kids crowded around the cell-door window.
“Well,” Travis said, “Astrid and I were just talking with these artists that you’ve brought over from Burma, and they said that they were inspired to paint.”
“So,” Ekki said.
“They’re inspired right now,” Astrid said, pushing her face into the tiny window.
“What do you mean ‘right now’?” Goper asked.”They want to start working right after breakfast?”
Ekki said, “I like taking naps after breakfast.”
Nalini nudged her way in. “You know,” she said softly, “Picasso once said that inspiration exists, but it must first find you working.”
“Well,” Ekki said, “Picasso was one smart cookie.”
“He was and so is Goper,” Travis said, pausing for effect, “the next head of Good Company Security.”
“I like the way that sounds,” Goper said with an enormous grin.
“Me too,” said Ekki.
“I’ve got an idea,” Travis said. “If you open the doorway between these two cells, then we can help the artists copy the paintings.”
“Go ahead,” Goper said. “I’m listening.”
“If we get the paintings copied quickly for you,” Travis said, “then Ms. Günerro will see your power, your attitude, your leadership, and she will be forced to make you head of Good Company Security.”
“That’s a good idea!” Ekki said.
“You’re right,” Goper said, standing. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“It was your idea, Goper,” said Travis.
“Get the keys,” Astrid said.
“Wait! I’ll give the order here,” Goper said. “Ekki, get the keys.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Travis said. “You have to bring the stolen paintings into our rooms so we can copy them.”
“I know that!” Goper said. “Ekki, get the keys and the paintings. Now!”
“Need some fans too,” Alister said. “A lot of paint smells, you know.”
“I’m not stupid,” Goper said as he marched off. “I’m nearly head of security.”
By midmorning the door between the two cells was open, and the artist monks had toted the stolen paintings into their side of the dungeon.
Goper and Ekki took up their positions on the plastic chairs out in the hallway while the New Resistance kids helped the monks.
With the fans whirring at top speed, the Burmese boys began copying the artwork.
Nalini gathered the New Resistance kids.
“This is great that we have the paintings,” she whispered. “But we have to get them and ourselves out of here, and having Alister pick the locks is not going to get us very far.”
“Maybe Hervé will show up again,” Astrid said.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Kerala said.
“Lucas is alive,” Jackknife said, “and he’ll be here in a little while.”
“You think?” Alister asked.
“He’s our friend,” Jackknife said. “And you can count on him.”
CAFÉ CON LECHE
Lucas’s eyes sprang wide open.
For a second he didn’t know where he was. He lay still and let his mind fill with data and ideas. He replayed the previous day hour by hour. An art heist at the Reina Sofía. A scary train ride.
And now he was in a cottage in a vineyard in Andalusia in southern Spain. As his brain fully booted up, he figured it was 8:37 in the morning. Five hours of sleep would have to do.
The whole place smelled of freshly boiled eggs and coffee. Sunlight came through a dirty glass window.
Across the room the old man was talking on a telephone that was attached to the wall, a long curly cord connecting it to the receiver. Lucas listened, but he couldn’t quite understand what the man was saying. A minute later he hung up.
“Buenos días,” the old man said.
“Good morning,” Lucas said back in Spanish.
“Do you want coffee?”
Lucas had never had coffee before. He had always considered himself a hot-chocolate man. He could ask for a chocolate caliente, but Lucas figured that since he was a guest and the man was being so nice he should bend a little and maybe try something new.
“Yes,” Lucas said. “I would like some coffee.”
The man poured black coffee in a round bowl and added lots of sugar and milk.
“Café con leche,” he said, putting the coffee with milk on the table.
The drink was delicious. Lucas sat on a stool and devoured his bread-and-butter breakfast.
After a few minutes the caffeine in the coffee kicked in, and Lucas felt like he was ready to rocket to the moon.
“Wow!” he said, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “No wonder people like this,” he said in English.
The old man smiled at the boy.
Once the coffee had coursed through his veins, Lucas calmed down a bit and began to lay out his day.
“I have to get to Granada today,” Lucas said in Spanish. “Is there any possible way you could give me a lift?”
“I don’t have a car or truck on the farm,” the man said, “but I have horses. Do you ride?”
“I trained at a dude ranch in Montana two summers ago.”
“English or Western?”
“Both,” Lucas said. “My father insists that we prepare for anything that might come our way.”
“Your father is a smart man.”
Lucas and his host went into the barn. The old man paced back and forth in front of the stalls, carefully choosing the right horse. He stopped and put his boot on one of the gates.
“I know who you are,” he said.
Lucas gulped. “You do?”
“You work with a group called the New Resistance—isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Lucas said, hoping this wasn’t a bad thing.
“I spoke with a friend on the phone this morning,” the man said. “Her name is Aleta, and she flies for the Spanish Civil Guard. All the farmers out here know her and her grandson.”
Lucas didn’t quite understand why this man was telling him this.
“Aleta lives on the grounds at the Alhambra, and she told me this morning that your friends were taken to the Good Art Institute of Granada, which is located at the Alhambra.”
“That’s a good thing,” Lucas said.
“Depends,” said the old man. “Aleta tells me that it’s also an old torture chamber that is in the basement of the hotel there.”
“What about the paintings?”
“A Van Gogh Art Movers truck pulled into the hotel just before sunrise this morning. The stolen paintings are presumably there with your friends.”
“Did she call the police?”
“Yes,” said the man. “They came and found nothing.”
“But does your friend think they’re still there?”
“Yes,” he said. “No question.”
“How do I get in?”
“You want to break into a torture chamber?”
“I want to help my friends,” Lucas said. “And find the stolen paintings.”
“Very well,” said the old man. “Aleta tells me the New Resistance is very strong. I trust her.”
“We try.”
“This may help
you then,” explained the old man. “The hotel is made of stone and it is very old. On the south side, underneath the trees, a portion of the original construction built by the Arabs in the thirteenth century is now aboveground. You might find an opening there.”
The man took some horse-riding clothes from a peg on the wall and handed them to Lucas.
“These belonged to my son many years ago,” he said. “You are about the same size.”
While Lucas changed into the clothes, the old man saddled up a beautiful black Andalusian stallion.
Now wearing a campera jacket, caireles pants, and a Cordoba hat, Lucas looked like an authentic Spanish cowboy.
“Vaquero,” the man said, handing Lucas the reins.
Lucas loved being called a cowboy in Spanish. He fixed himself in the saddle and patted the horse on the neck.
“What’s his name?” Lucas asked.
“Amigo.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t know your name,” Lucas said.
“Romero.”
The old man handed Lucas a hand-drawn map. Lucas glanced at it and memorized it.
“There is food in the saddlebag,” Romero said.
“Thanks,” Lucas said. “What do I do with Amigo when I get to the Alhambra?”
“Leave the horse with Aleta,” he said. “She, too, is your friend.”
Lucas clucked and said giddyup in Spanish, “¡Arre!”
The horse turned and walked out of the barn. They cantered through the vineyard and down a dirt road and into the Spanish countryside.
Amigo and Lucas traveled all day past almond plantations, sunflower fields, and pueblos blancos—small, whitewashed villages that reflected the sun.
Around three in the afternoon, Lucas stopped at a creek to water Amigo. He found dried sausage and bottled water for himself in the saddlebag. Under a shade tree the horse and the boy took a nap, a true Spanish siesta. When the heat seemed less, Lucas hopped back on Amigo, and they rode well past sunset until they arrived at the Alhambra.
The horse’s hooves clomped up the stone walkway. At the back gate Lucas slid out of the saddle and rang the bell. Soon a woman with long hair appeared.
“Buenas noches,” she said in a whisper. “Good evening. I’m Aleta. We’ve been expecting you.”
NO PLAN
The next morning Lucas opened his eyes, and again for a moment he wondered where he was. He had slept in so many different places that he was almost getting used to it.
