The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night

by Clifford, Riley

  “Very. Very badly behaved,” said Dr. Woolsey. “Never seen such badly behaved students.”

  “Come on,” said the major. “We don’t have a lot of time. Doctor, I’m sorry, but we’re going to ruin your hard work.” The major picked up a chair and prepared to throw it at the laboratory setup.

  “Oh!” The doctor threw his hands up over his face and cowered.

  “Wait!” said Rupert, grabbing the chair from the major. “You can’t just go and do that. You have to think about things first. Two of the chemicals could explode if they touch each other. Doctor, what’s here?”

  “A spot of tea, I think,” said Dr. Woolsey. Rupert doubted that.

  “Marie, you said they’ve started making the gas here?” said Rupert. “And before that, it was, what? A dying factory?”

  “Oui,” said Marie.

  “Quickly, Davenport, quickly!” said the major.

  Rupert was going to go as fast as he could. But delicate things took time. You couldn’t just crash a bunch of things together and hope they didn’t create toxic fumes, or fire, or both. And it didn’t help that he didn’t understand any of Dr. Woolsey’s notes or labels. They were scrawled in something that looked like spider tracks, and half of them were in German.

  One white powder was labeled nATRIUM and another vial had KOHLENSTOFF scribbled onto it. A beaker of orange liquid was oRANGENSAFT.

  “Time, Davenport. We haven’t got time for this!” said the major.

  “None of this makes any sense!” said Rupert. “Marie!”

  “I don’t know these kinds of words,” she said. Except she pointed to the orange beaker. “That is orange juice.”

  Rupert took a deep breath. His hands were shaking and he could feel himself begin to sweat. He knew they didn’t have enough time. But they couldn’t leave the setup — even if no one else knew what Dr. Woolsey’s scribbles meant, it was still too dangerous. And they couldn’t destroy everything without first making sure they wouldn’t destroy themselves in the process. It took only seconds for chemicals to mix, for toxic gases to seep out into the air and up into the brain, the blood. And Rupert did not come this far to be taken down by sheer carelessness.

  A bowl of green leaves on the table caught his eye. “Strychos?” said Rupert, turning to the doctor. “They’re making you work with strychnine?”

  “What’s that?” asked Marie.

  “Don’t touch it! Strychnine will kill you in minutes. Mix it with hydrochloric acid and you could kill everyone in a two-hundred-fifty-meter radius. Is this what they’re making you work on?” he asked the doctor. “And what are these?” he said, running over toward a pair of large vats in the center of the room. They were cold to the touch, with a thin layer of frost wrapped around their metal casings. The vats were sealed — and when Rupert went to lift the vent on one, Dr. Woolsey came running and yelling. Rupert stumbled backward.

  “What is it?” he asked, but the doctor couldn’t answer him. Something cold, something sealed, something in a factory used to make gas. “Chlorine! There’s liquid chlorine? In both of these?” That much chlorine could wipe out half the armies on the Western Front. Rupert balled his fists in his hair, staggering backward.

  “What, Davenport?” said the major. He picked up a chair. “We don’t have time for this.” And he lifted the chair to smash a table of beakers and pipettes.

  “No, wait!” said Rupert, looking up. A great water pipe ran overhead — the water could neutralize the chlorine. They had to take the doctor away, and fast, but they couldn’t leave the Germans with such a stockpile of gas.

  “Davenport, you have to hurry. You have to do this now.” The major looked at his wristwatch. “They’ll have figured it out by now. They’ll —”

  The alarm began to wail.

  “Major, you need to climb up and cut the water line,” said Rupert.

  “Major, you are hurt again! You are bleeding again,” said Marie as the major ran over to the rickety service ladder that ran up to the water and steam pipes.

  “I’ll be fine for now,” he said, though his face was pale and taught. “Let’s go, Davenport.”

  “Marie,” said Rupert. “You find hydrogen peroxide — like for cuts and scrapes — and sulfur. Something with sulfur. You know those words?” She nodded and went to find things. “Doctor, you wait by the door. Go!”

  The major was quick like a cat, and at the top he gave the pipe a great whack with the cutters. And then another, and another, until the pipe popped out of place and a great rush of water spilled down into the room. The major skidded down and ran to the door, hefting the doctor over his shoulder.

  “Go, Major! Take the doctor and get a head start,” said Rupert. The major didn’t need any more instruction than that; he dashed out the door.

  Rupert swiped his arm through the growing flood on the floor and pressed the wet cloth against his nose and mouth. He figured he had about fifteen seconds. He lifted the vent on one chlorine vat, and then the other. A thick yellow-green gas rolled out, like a miniature storm slinking across the floor. The gas mixed with the water, and the water pounded it down and sucked it out of the air. But Rupert’s eyes still started to water, and he ran.

  “Come on,” he said to Marie, who was beginning to cough even by the door. Rupert poured the hydrogen peroxide over the sulfur, threw it, and slammed the door shut. Just outside the door, the bound and gagged German guard was beginning to come to. Rupert grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him down the hall, despite the guard’s muffled protests. The major was right. They’d not kill a person on Christmas Eve, even just by proxy. They had only moments until a great explosion knocked Rupert and Marie to the floor. The door blew off of its hinges and the wood shattered all over the hallway.

  For Rupert, it was like being in no-man’s-land again. He shot to his feet, grabbed Marie’s hand, and they ran to the stairwell. The major and the doctor had come and gone. Rupert and Marie ran down the stairs as the alarm screamed and called the soldiers to action; Rupert hoped that this stairwell wouldn’t be one used by all of the other people with guns rushing to see what the commotion was about.

  Or the Madrigal. He didn’t know where the Madrigal had gone to.

  In the basement, water from the broken line was seeping down the walls. The two Cahills ran to the boiler room, and down through the grate. This time, they didn’t care about splashing or making noise. The major and the doctor were waiting for them just outside. There, the air was cold and clear and clean and Rupert gulped deep breaths of it.

  On the other side of the factory, chaos had swept in. A chemical fire raged in the laboratory, sirens wailed, and angry shouts in German echoed all up and down the riverside. Black smoke poured up toward the clouds, and great tongues of fire leaped into the air. The sight of it made Rupert shiver.

  But they were outside. They were past the river. They were hiding in the shadows on the French side of the water, pausing for the doctor to catch his breath. Rupert sat down, too, and as soon as he did, he let out a great breath. He was shaking again, from cold and from nerves and from the shock of the explosion. But he was here and he was whole and so were the other three.

  “Almost there,” said Rupert. “Let’s get going. Doctor, let the major help you. Come on.”

  He stood up, and the four Cahills headed through the snow and back toward the front lines. It was still dark out; it was still Christmas Eve. They only had to cross the trenches again, and they would be safe. So they hoped for just one more miracle.

  At the trench lines, the Christmas gathering was still happening. A massive game of football had broken out. It seemed that the concept of sides had vanished and no-man’s-land was full of fifty or so young men, all chasing one football. Some of the officers were sharing cups of hot coffee, and Rupert even saw one of the British soldiers giving a German man a haircut.

  “Do you think this means the war will be over soon?” asked Rupert. It was hard enough to kill a person when you knew just small things ab
out them. No one could do it after playing football, after singing carols, after sharing so much goodwill. “They can’t fight after this.”

  A little farther on, a man was standing before a small crowd. He was speaking in English, but with a thick German accent.

  “Is it Mass?” asked Marie. The major said he didn’t know, but he took his hat off anyway.

  “Peace,” the man said. “Let there be peace upon this earth. Let there be peace upon these hearts. On this night, let us remember that man was not made to wage war. Man was not made to carry the burden of hatred. Man was made for love, for goodness and kindness. Man was made to help his neighbor, to live with a soft heart and open arms. Let us forgive, let us come together. Let us walk in peace with those who are different from us. Let us give the world as much beauty and kindness as we can offer — and, my friends, we can offer so much. We are all one,” he said. “German or English or French. We are all brothers. We are all family.”

  It was Fritz. It was the Madrigal. It was the Madrigal who stood up in front of these people and proclaimed a spirit of peace and goodwill. Rupert didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how the Madrigal could say such things with such conviction, as if he actually believed them. He made Rupert believe them. Confusion and anger boiled in Rupert — he wanted to yell out, to demand an explanation for all of this, to call the Madrigal out as a liar and a cheat.

  The Madrigal turned then, and looked Rupert in the eye.

  “Merry Christmas,” said the Madrigal. “And may there be peace on earth.”

  The three Cahills took Dr. Woolsey to the nurses, where the major explained that he was a British prisoner of war, just rescued. He was to be tended to, but not questioned; he was in a very delicate state. The nurses took him in with their white aprons and soft voices.

  “We’ll let him sleep tonight,” said the major. “Tomorrow we’ll see if he can give us any more information on what he went through.”

  “They — someone — Major,” said Rupert. “Major, it would have — Hydrochloric acid and strychnine make an ugly pair. You get just a little bit of it and it — it kills you, within minutes. If they were to, I, I don’t know, use it like the gas — they could kill everyone. Within minutes. Just minutes.” Rupert shook his head. No one needed to be able to do that. Not Madrigals, or Cahills, or Germans, or the V people — whoever they were.

  “But we stopped it,” said the major. And Rupert nodded. “You did good work. You’ll sleep well tonight.”

  But he couldn’t get the Madrigal out of his head. Why would a Madrigal preach peace? And why did a Madrigal let him and the others into the guarded room? Rupert wondered if it was the Cahill version of a Christmas truce — we’ll stop hunting you long enough for you to enjoy a sweet. But Rupert looked at Marie and the major and thought that maybe this, too, was a sort of Cahill Christmas truce.

  “Mes cousins,” Marie said. “You will come to my home for Christmas dinner. We have a small goose. It will be very good. I will tell my maman and papa about it.”

  “That would be delightful, Marie,” said the major. She took both of their hands and kissed their cheeks and disappeared out into the night like a ghost. The major looked Rupert up and down with a strange look. “Let’s get you a new uniform before the goodwill wears off.”

  “Good plan,” said Rupert, remembering that he was dressed as a German soldier. He tried his best to cover up his regimental patches as they made their way past sleeping soldiers, men writing letters, and another group of carolers to get to the supply tents. There, Major Thompson found a standard British uniform for Rupert.

  “Here you are, Special Officer,” said the major.

  “Thank you,” said Rupert. But something didn’t sit right. “Major Thompson?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve a confession to make.”

  “You’re not Special Officer Albert Davenport,” said the major. “Or rather, Second Lieutenant Albert Davenport.”

  “No,” said Rupert.

  “And you’re not even quite officially a part of His Majesty’s armed forces.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It’s not hard to tell a trained soldier from an untrained one.”

  “But you didn’t say anything,” said Rupert. “You just let me carry on like, like I was a part of it. You didn’t say anything.”

  “It’s like I told you before,” said the major. “You’ve got to see things up close sometimes, and adapt to what you’re given. So you weren’t Albert. Well, who knows what your brother — I’m assuming that’s your brother — would have done in your place. Maybe he’d have done a bang-up job and we’d have gotten this done last night. From what I’ve heard of him in battle, I doubt it. Rumor says he whined throughout the battle of the Marne and wouldn’t stop until a general came around giving out commissions like candy.” Rupert tried not to smile at that. “Or maybe you’re the ace, kid, and he’d have walked out of my sight as soon as he found out I wasn’t just like him. Who knows?”

  Rupert fingered the rough material of the uniform.

  “I’m putting you on a train back to the Channel and then over to Mother England tomorrow night,” said the major. “Don’t open your mouth to complain. You came, you had your adventure, and now you’re going to go back home and ease your parents’ minds and go back to school and then, maybe when you’re old enough, you can join up for real. The army in peacetime isn’t a bad gig. But you’re going back to England — is that understood?”

  “You can’t boss me around, you know,” said Rupert. “You’re not my commanding officer.”

  “No, that’s true,” said the major. “But I’m your older cousin. And what I say goes.”

  Rupert smiled.

  “Get some sleep,” said the major. “And happy Christmas Eve, Davenport.”

  “To you, too,” said Rupert. The major went to find a meal and a bed. Rupert was left standing alone, between the edge of battle and the beginnings of civilian life. Peace, the Madrigal said. And maybe he was right. With any luck, the war would be over by spring and they could all move on. They could disengage from the fear and the anger and the death and the war. Maybe there would be peace here. And maybe there would be peace at home. He borrowed a piece of paper and a pencil from a soldier nearby and sat down against a pile of supply crates.

  Dear Albert, he wrote. I hope you are safe at Christmas. It was a start.

  From the trench line, there came a shriek of laughter and then cheers as someone scored a goal. No, there wouldn’t be war much longer. There would be joy, and rest, and peace. Between England and her enemies. Within the Continent. And, perhaps, within one family spread across the whole of the world. It wasn’t as impossible as it seemed.

  And Rupert Davenport was never wrong about anything. Mostly.

  DAK SMYTH sat on his favorite branch of his favorite tree, right next to his favorite friend, Sera Froste. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon, he thought.

  Beyond the safety of the tree, there was plenty to worry about. The world was falling apart and the people in charge of things didn’t seem to care. But Dak decided not to let little stuff like that bother him now.

  Sera apparently agreed. “Feels good up here,” she said. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it sure does. Makes me kinda sad I wasn’t born a monkey. Then I could live in one of these things.”

  Sera laughed. “You’ve got the personality of a monkey. And the smell. That’s two-thirds of the way there, at least.”

  “Thanks,” Dak said, as if she’d just paid him a tremendous compliment.

  A soft breeze made the branches sway back and forth, just enough to soothe Dak into a partial trance. He and Sera climbed up the tree every so often when there was nothing else to do. It gave them a chance to talk, away from any distractions — distractions like adults, who complained constantly about taxes and crime rates and, in whispers, about the SQ. With all the mental static, it was a wonder Dak and Sera managed to get any thi
nking done. Fortunately, they were both geniuses . . . although in very different ways.

  “You excited for the field trip this week?” Sera asked.

  Dak looked over at her, slightly suspicious. Their class was going to a museum, full of history — which he loved — and not a whole lot of science — which was her passion. But the question seemed genuine.

  “Remember my last birthday?” he asked in return. “When I got that replica of Thomas Jefferson’s ascot?”

  “How could I forget? You came screaming down the street like a girl who’d just found a bucket full of candy.”

  Dak nodded, relishing the memory. “Well, I’m even more excited about this trip.”

  “Gotcha. That’s pretty excited.”

  They sat in silence for a while, Dak enjoying the breeze and the sounds of nature and the break from the rest of life. Gradually, though, he realized that Sera seemed far less relaxed. There was an unmistakable tension in her shoulders that had nothing to do with tree climbing. He followed her gaze across the yard to his front porch, where his parents had recently put up a new flag. The small flagpole affixed to the side of the house was usually used for seasonal displays — holiday flags in the winter, the forty-eight-starred U.S. flag in the long summer months.

  Now, for the first time, Dak’s parents had put up a stark white flag with a black symbol in its center. That symbol was a circle broken by a curve and a thunderbolt — the insignia of the SQ.

  “Don’t tell me your parents buy into all that,” Sera said, her voice solemn.

  “I don’t think so. They said it’s easier this way. They’re less likely to be bothered if they just put up the flag.”

  “The SQ — they make me sick,” Sera said. Dak had never heard such fierceness in her voice. “Someone has got to stand up to them eventually. Or someday it’s going to be too late.”

  Dak listened to her as he stared out into the woods beyond his house. All that green, all those animals. There were parts of the world where these kinds of places had disappeared entirely. He’d read enough history to know that where the SQ went, trouble followed. He suddenly felt his own little burst of determination.