“He’s got a copy of the list,” Alex said. “Maybe he just felt like he had his chance now to get rid of us easily, so he can go off on his own.”
Max scanned the signs on the backs of the shops. He was hoping at least one would be in English, but no such luck.
At the end of the row of shops, they circled around to the front. The strip mall followed the curvature of the road, and from their angle the motel was not visible. But just to their left was a large lot with a half-dozen cars. “A car rental place!” Alex said. “Cousin, you are brilliant.”
“I saw it on the way in,” Max said, handing her the credit card. “I hope it’s open. One of you two can rent the car and get us to an airport. Alex, you should text Brandon now. Can he fly to meet us somewhere? The closer to here, the better. I don’t want to drive over those mountains again.”
“Aye, aye,” Alex said, pulling out her phone.
As Bitsy ran into the rental office, Max scanned the lot. There were only a couple of cars, a four-door sedan and a minivan. Either would do.
“Max—I got Brandon,” Alex said, staring at the phone. “He says we’re in luck. He’s able to get clearance at an airport in Kalamata, which isn’t too far from here. He’ll meet us there.”
“We can’t stop to pick up flowers.”
“Not funny, Max.”
Now Bitsy was emerging with a clerk, a young woman with wide eyes and a big smile. “Guys, this is Frangitsa. She just arrived to open the shop.”
“Three of you? Perfect!” Frangitsa said. “We have number two five five, two five six, two five seven. Please, let me show you.”
“We only need one car,” Alex said. “Not three.”
Frangitsa stopped at parking space 255. She put a hand on the seat of a beat-up silver Vespa motorcycle. Two others were parked in the spaces next to it. “Etsi!” she exclaimed.
“Is that like voilà?” Max said. “Because motorbike is not what we said. A car. Car. Aftokinito. Like one of those two.”
He pointed to the sedan and minivan, but Frangitsa grimaced. “One of those is mine,” she said. “The other is not working.”
“No cars in a car rental place?” Bitsy said. “Halfway between nowhere and nobody? How about a taxi?”
“My husband drives taxi. He can take you when he gets back. From Athens.”
“Athens is hours away!” Max said.
Alex was swinging her legs around the Vespa. “Guys, I’ve been wanting to do this since we got to Greece.”
“I haven’t!” Max squeaked. “I cannot ride a motorbike on a highway. I absolutely cannot.”
“You ride a bike, no?” Frangitsa chirped. “Then you can ride motorbike!”
“No,” Max said. “No no no no no no.”
Bitsy was eyeing the bikes warily. “I must say, I’m with him.”
“OK, no problem,” Frangitsa said. “Then you have one more choice.”
“Please say private helicopter,” Bitsy asked.
“No,” Frangitsa said with a laugh. “Walk.”
21
AS the old man pulled into the parking lot of the Kalamata Airport, he noticed the gas gauge had slipped below zero.
He smiled. What timing. It had been a quiet ride, no mountains necessary, no youthful chattering. And look—it just happened to be the perfect amount of fuel! A lucky end to a lucky few days.
Stepping out of the car, he rubbed his eye. With his limited vision, too much driving was always a strain. He silently cursed the young pilot of the private plane—Brendan, Brant, whatever his name was—for having flown them all into Athens in the first place. The drive over the Peloponnesian mountains had been exhausting. The airport in Kalamata was rather small, but it was a lot closer.
He quickly dug his phone out of his pocket, where a series of texts glared up at him:
Do you have it yet?
Where are you?
Please respond.
DO YOU HAVE IT??
Dear Nigel, are you dead?
Some people could be so impatient.
With a sigh, he quickly typed a response:
Yes. Airport. Responding. Again, yes.
No, but thank you ever so much for asking.
Will deliver ingredient to courier,
then proceed to K. River.
He sent the message, then opened the rear door. On the seat was a new backpack he had purchased at a roadside shop. Shoddy construction, really. But when you weren’t in England, you had to make do. Time was of the essence, after all.
By now the police would be interrogating the children. Nothing would come of it, of course. The poor things would be set free with a scolding. They were bright. They were well funded. They’d be back on his trail in no time, seeking the ingredients. But he had one of those ingredients now. Meanwhile, he would take advantage of the distraction and the extra time. And continue the search on his own.
He recalled his instructions.
Follow them, he had been told. Make no waves. Let them find the ingredients in their own time. We will help you take possession upon your return.
But really. What was the excitement in making no waves? He had the list now. He had been waiting for this all his life. As had his father, and his grandmother before that, and so on. No more waiting. And no more relying on other people.
From the moment the accident cut short his dancing career, life had been a slow sink to the bottom.
Until now.
He picked up the new pack and checked inside—one, two, three vials. Such an eerie, bloodlike red they were. He wrapped them carefully in a fistful of napkins he’d pinched from the diner. Then he zipped up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. But as he began to shut the door, he spotted a small, shining rectangle on the floor. With a sky-blue case.
“Well, well . . .” he murmured, feeling his soul instantly lighten.
It was Bitsy’s phone. The girl had dropped it, poor thing. Whatever would she do for fun while in a holding cell at the police station?
He looked around for a trash can, then stopped. No, he wouldn’t throw it out. The children were young. And crafty. They would play on the sympathies of the police. Claim they were double-crossed. Throw shade to the droopy-eyed old man who had chaperoned them. If their gambit worked, they’d be after him.
But he could use the girl’s phone to play with them a bit.
Oh, this would be jolly fun.
He closed his eyes, recalling the movement of her fingers on the screen as she opened her phone. He had watched them all do this. It was the easiest way to pick up passwords. No one ever suspected. With proper practice, it wasn’t that difficult.
Four-five-four-five. That was it. Yes.
He punched in the numbers and the phone came to life. He scrolled through her Contacts list, stopping at M. For MAX TILT.
With a giggle, he poised his thumbs over the screen. A little misdirection would be fun. Slow them down a bit. A wild goose chase to lighten the day.
He thought for a moment, until the perfect plan came to him. And he began to type:
Helo, I am tring to find oner of ths fon . . .
“Ha!” he hooted, as he crafted a long note with many mistakes. Oh, this was going to be perfect. No one would suspect it to be him.
It took only a moment to finish, but he didn’t want to send it now. The timing was off. He would do it later, when it made more sense.
He pocketed the phone and headed for the entrance. Departures and arrivals all on one level. This was the sort of airport he liked.
The next location was a bit remote. It would take time to get there. An old man needed a head start.
As he headed to the departing terminal, he leaped over the fire hydrant. A graceful little jeté, like the old days. At the sidewalk just beyond the parking lot, a smiling young flight attendant applauded.
Nigel bowed.
At his age, he had to take what he could get.
22
ALEX didn’t care about the dust, or the fact th
at her helmet was too small and kept pulling her hair. None of that mattered when you were alone on a highway roaring up the Máni peninsula.
“Woo-hooooo!” she shouted.
For the thousandth time, she checked her rearview mirror for police lights.
Nothing. She, Max, and Bitsy were lucky.
To her right, the Mediterranean was a blaze of blue. Sailboats dotted the water like paper napkins, and flocks of seagulls circled hungrily overhead. She leaned into turns, dipping just a bit farther each time. The road had been pretty empty for a while, but two trucks and a car had just approached from the opposite direction. Not too far in the distance was a small collection of white domes—Greek churches, at the edge of a beach village. A village called Gythio, according to the sign. Civilization.
Breathing in a mouthful of salty, cool air, Alex decided she could live in this kind of civilization. If she weren’t dead set on catching the human slime known as Nigel Hanscombe.
She slowed a bit, checking her mirror again. Bitsy was a speck, and Max was nowhere to be seen. Also, the road was clear. She sped up and leaned hard. To the left. Into the center of the road. Making a circle. A donut. She had always wanted to do a donut.
Too wide . . .
She slammed on the brakes. The bike’s wheels screeched. Her wheels dug a groove in the opposite shoulder before she zoomed back onto the road. It was a terrible attempt. The tire marks were more like an egg shape. So she did another. And another.
“Alex!” Bitsy’s voice interrupted her. She was approaching quickly, perfectly upright in her seat, as if she were on a horse.
“Is this awesome or what, Bits?” Alex shouted.
“Reckless would be my word!” Bitsy yelled. “We are fugitives from the law, Alex! What if someone sees you and reports you to the authorities?”
“I think it’s siesta time,” Alex said. “Or whatever they call it here. Nobody’s on the road but us maniacs.”
Bitsy veered onto the shoulder and stopped. She took off her helmet and strapped it to her handlebar. Her voice was clipped and breathless. “I have a problem. While you were speeding on ahead like Evel Knievel’s granddaughter, I had to stop to help your cousin. He’s thirteen, you know, and hasn’t quite got the hang of this. Anyway, I figured I’d grab my phone to call you, but . . .” She sighed heavily. “Well, call me Bitsy the klutz. It’s gone.”
“Oh, wow,” Alex said, rolling her bike to the shoulder. “Do you want me to call the motel? They can mail it to you.”
“I did call them, on Max’s phone,” Bitsy replied. “House cleaning had just finished, and they found nothing.”
“Maybe you dropped it on the—”
“No. Listen to me, Alex. I’ve been thinking. Retracing my steps. I took it out of my pocket yesterday afternoon, when we were in the car. I think it’s still there.”
“With Nigel?” Alex said.
“Yes. And I’m pretty sure it’s on. With power. If you catch my drift.”
Alex nodded. “If it has power, it’s sending a signal . . .”
“Exactly!” Bitsy said. “Do you have any reception in this godforsaken backwater?”
Alex quickly checked her phone. “Three bars.”
“Then give it to me. I’ll sign in to your locator app with my account. We may be able to find him.”
As Bitsy took the phone, Alex shaded her eyes and looked up the road for Max. He wasn’t far now. He also wasn’t too steady on the bike. As a truck passed him, he wobbled a bit.
“You’re doing great!” Alex called out.
Max picked up speed. When he finally puttered up to her on the shoulder, he had a hint of a smile. “I was scared at first,” he said. “But it’s not hard, if you follow the rules of the road. People are nice. And I think I’ve figured out exactly how much throttle pressure you need, to keep the ride smooth. Who made those tire marks in the middle of the road?”
“Never mind that,” Alex said.
“What’s Bitsy doing?”
“She left her phone in the car, and we’re trying to track down—”
“Found him!” Bitsy screamed.
Alex and Max ran to her side and looked over her shoulder. At the center of her screen was a red dot, glowing at the Kalamata Airport.
Nigel’s car was empty.
Alex had seen it first. In the small parking lot of the Kalamata Airport, it hadn’t been hard to find. He had left it parked diagonally across two spaces, and he hadn’t bothered to lock the doors. Bitsy and Alex were inside, rooting around for her phone, while Max checked the airport flight schedule.
“Terrible parking job,” Max remarked absently, looking up from his phone.
Bitsy backed out of the car and shrugged. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t find anything either,” Alex said. “He must have taken the phone with him. What are you finding, Max?”
Max scrolled down on his phone screen. “There’s a flight leaving for Moscow in twelve minutes,” he replied. “Nothing that matches any of the other destinations on our ingredients list.”
He pocketed his phone, and they all ran toward the airport entrance. The lobby had only one ticket counter, with two attendants. They both eyed Max with smiles as he approached.
“Old man!” he shouted. “Eye! Droopy!”
The ticket attendant closest to him was a raven-haired woman with a severe ponytail and intelligent-looking eyes. But she clearly had no idea what he was saying, so Max yanked down on his own left eye. “Droopopoulos!”
“Am I to understand,” she said, “you’re attempting to describe a passenger?”
Before he could answer, Alex ran up from behind. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re looking for a man, maybe mid-sixties, flyaway gray hair, moves like a dancer, with an injured eye that droops. We think he may be on a plane to Moscow.”
“What she said,” Max added.
The woman held up a hand. “I’m sorry, there are privacy rules—”
“He’s our uncle, and he’s trying to kill my friend!” Max blurted.
The ticket taker to the right rose from her chair like an ancient Greek goddess, her hair falling about her shoulders like the snake tresses of Medusa. “Vre, Soula,” she bellowed to the younger woman, “we are here to help, no? This is small airport, we see everybody. Tell me, paithi mou, is thees a Breetish fellow?”
“Yes, Breetish!” Alex blurted.
“British,” Bitsy said.
The woman nodded, ignoring the poisonous stare of her younger colleague. “I saw him. He bought teeket to Moscow. Leaving in ten minutes.”
“We need to talk to him!” Alex pressed.
“Gate is closed to boarding,” the woman replied. “I can find seat for you on tomorrow’s flight.”
Max felt Alex grabbing him by the arm. “Thanks,” she said, “but we have a ride.”
Together they raced toward the sign that said Customs. Bitsy was still holding Alex’s phone, looking at it while running. “You just got a text from Brandon,” she said. “He says he’s ready. But he wants to know our destination. Wants you to call him.”
Alex reached for the phone and pressed Call. “Brandon? Hi! It’s me! OK, the place we’re going is called the Kozhim River—”
Max leaned toward her and shouted toward the phone: “Komi Republic! Near the Ural Mountains!”
Alex fell silent for a moment and then said, “Brandon’s laughing. He says it’s really far. He’ll have to stop in Moscow to refuel. But he’s here waiting for clearance to leave. The gate attendants will let us meet the plane.”
“Deal,” Max said.
In the nearly empty airport, customs took only a few minutes. Max, Alex, and Bitsy raced through the gate and onto the tarmac, where Brandon was waiting in front of the ladder. “Where’s the old guy?” he called out.
Alex took a deep breath. “Nigel—the old guy—he betrayed us. He’s trying to stop us from a search for a . . .”
“Medical breakthrough,” Max said.
“Medi
cal breakthrough,” Alex repeated. “We found the first ingredient we need. And he stole it.”
Brandon’s eyes widened. He pulled himself to his full height. His lip curled. “Not on my watch!” he said. “Get in! We’ll be there in four hours.”
As he stormed up the ladder, Bitsy raised an eyebrow. “My hero.”
As the plane crossed the Black Sea, Max stared at the next clue in the message: “tincture of coil dust.”
Despite the spotty Wi-Fi, he’d been able to do some research on the Kozhim River. The photos were beautiful, but nothing in the descriptions helped.
It also didn’t help that Bitsy was snoring in the seat next to him. “Can you kick her?” Alex asked.
“I’m a nonviolent person, except in my thoughts about Nigel,” Max said. “What’s your ringtone for me?”
“Some death metal band you don’t know,” Alex said.
“That’ll do.” He tapped Alex’s number on his phone. A deafening scream blasted in Bitsy’s pocket, and she jumped. “Dear Lord, what’s that?”
“My phone,” Alex said. “You still have it. Nice nap?”
“Until now, yes!” Bitsy fished the phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s from . . . Max?”
“It was either that or kick you,” Max said.
But Bitsy was staring at the phone intently. “Wait. I think we have his location!” she murmured.
“Of course you do. I’m right here,” Max said.
“Not you,” Bitsy replied. “Nigel. On the locator app.”
“What?” Max peered over her shoulder at a pulsing red dot in the middle of a map of Moscow. He squinted to read the fine print under the dot:
“Trans-Siberian Railway station . . .” Max said.
“He’s taking a train to the Kozhim River location?” Alex said. “Can you get the schedule?”
“I could fly you to the area a lot faster,” Brandon said. “There’s an airport in a place called Perm.”
“I want to walk up to that creep, see the look of surprise on his face, and slap it,” Bitsy said. “Then grab back my phone.”
“While I get back the vials!” Alex said.
80 Days or Die Page 11
