“Ha,” the man in the coat grunted, slapping his newspaper on the table. “Lyle.”
“I will assume that’s your name.” Nigel held out his hand. “I am Hanscombe. I’m feeling a bit peckish, Mr. Lyle, can I get us, perhaps, some custom omelets—?”
“Facts first,” Lyle growled. “Greek authorities. Theft of antiquities.”
“Do you speak in sentences or have you given up verbs for religious reasons?” Nigel asked.
Lyle’s face flinched. “Wise guy. I don’t like being pulled into little jobs like this. Could take you in too.”
“Garçon? Coffee?” Nigel called out to a passing waiter as he pulled a sky-blue-cased phone from his pocket and pressed the Power button.
It was safe to do this now.
“As you no doubt know,” Nigel said, placing the phone on the table, “two of the children have been in the news regarding a rather spectacular recovery of a treasure left by Jules Verne.”
“Noted.”
“It would seem that they would have everything a child could need,” Nigel said. “But you know what they say about children, give them an inch and they take a mile.”
Lyle snickered. “Got two kids myself.”
“I’m sure the conversation at home sparkles.” The waiter filled both coffee cups, and Nigel leaned across the table. “To answer your question, I befriended these children in Greece. As an amateur archaeologist, I am appalled at their crime. Far be it for me to recommend tactics, but it wouldn’t be unwise to have a few eyes at the Kathmandu airport.”
“Do you have proof?” the man barked.
The phone was powered up now. Nigel entered the password, accessed Bitsy’s contacts list, and scrolled until he reached MAX TILT. Then he pushed the phone across the table toward Lyle.
“You recognize this name, no?” Nigel said. “The phone belongs to a friend of his. She dropped it. And according to common international law dating back to the Code of Hammurabi . . . loosely translated, finders keepers.”
“So?”
“So, let’s say Max receives a message from this phone asking ‘Where are you?’ He will answer truthfully, as he thinks he is texting a trusted friend. Simple, no?”
Sometimes you had to spell things out to these people.
Lyle nodded, his eyebrows tented way up. “Text him.”
“Brilliant idea indeed.” Nigel raised his index finger over the phone, then stopped. “Oh, by the way, you don’t happen to know anyone here with the name Armando?”
30
MAX plopped a gray-and-red Nepali hat on his head, and it promptly drooped over his face. Which wasn’t the disguise he’d intended.
He lifted it quickly, keeping sight of the airport concourse through the shop window.
“You flatten the top and crimp the two ends,” said the clerk with a patient smile, skillfully removing Max’s hat. “Like this.”
He held out the traditional hat to Max. Looking in the mirror, Max placed it on his head again. The hat surrounded his scalp above the ears, rising to form a front-to-back peak above his head.
“I’ll take it, and a scarf.” As the clerk moved to the cash register, Alex and Bitsy ran in. They were wearing patterned floor-length dresses, and colorful scarves around their heads. “And also whatever they bought.”
“Very stylish,” the man said as he rang them up.
Max wrapped his own scarf around his neck, covering the bottom of his face. In a moment, he, Alex, and Bitsy were out the shop door and walking fast through the airport concourse. By the gate entrance, Sergei was talking to two towering men dressed in blue blazers. He was gesturing like crazy.
“Who are they?” Alex asked.
“I don’t want to know,” Bitsy said, picking up the pace.
“Don’t run!” Max said. “It will attract attention.”
Together they walked swiftly to the ground transportation area. Alex glanced over her shoulder back into the terminal. “They’re still talking.”
“Good,” Max said. “We’ll have to lose them.”
Outside, cars were lined up, their grills to the curb, as drivers-for-hire beckoned to the departing passengers. Several of them were shouting to them: “You American? British?”
“So much for the convincing disguise,” Alex drawled.
“There she is!” Bitsy blurted, and she began running toward the end of the line of cars. “Ms. Munson! Hi!”
A petite woman in a cowboy hat stepped onto the sidewalk. At the sight of Bitsy she whooped and lifted off her hat, unleashing a cotton-candy spillage of straw-blonde curls. “Yeeeee-haw, well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, sweet sister!”
“I’m betting she’s American, not British,” Max said.
By the time he and Alex reached the car, Bitsy and her friend were already inside. The moment Max and Alex closed the door, the car took off.
“Look at y’all with your beautiful outfits!” Ms. Munson said, turning toward them from the front passenger seat. “Bitsy calls me Ms. Munson, but I prefer Sal. Sal from Nepal! Our driver is a fine gentleman I’ve known since I got here. Still can’t pronounce his name so I call him by his initials, KB.” The driver flashed an easy smile in the rearview mirror as they sped to the airport exit.
“This is Max from Ohio and Alex from Quebec,” Bitsy said. “Ms. Munson was a teacher at my high school in London before moving to Kathmandu. From the States, you know.”
“Military brat. Mostly raised in Texas.” Sal gave Bitsy a probing look. “From your last message, I gather you’re not here to sightsee.”
Bitsy leaned forward. “We’re in a pickle, Ms. Munson, and you were the only one I knew to call. Please forgive me if I sound vague, but we need help solving a kind of mystery.”
“Honey, I was the one who taught you Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie,” Sal replied. “I’m all over mysteries. And I’m all ears for you.”
Bitsy handed her Alex’s phone, which showed an image of the list. “What if I told you that we needed to find something ‘derived from the black smear of eternity from Armando of Kathmandu’?”
Sal stared at her a second. “I’d say, give it up and let’s go have lunch! Haa! Just kiddin’, darlin’. I will confer with KB, who knows this place like the back of his hand.”
She took the phone and began speaking to the driver in Nepali, slowly reading the list from the screen.
KB the driver was now rolling up to the entrance of a jam-packed highway, where he stopped. There were no street lights, just a mass of cars, motorcycles, and crowded buses moving at insane speeds. People were weaving in and out, cutting each other off. It was the kind of driving that would make people scream and curse in Ohio. But all Max heard were the beeps of a few half-hearted horns.
Sal and KB kept up a steady conversation as he edged the car into the street, inch by inch. No one slowed down, no one moved aside, and there was no break in traffic. Max cringed. Another inch and they’d all be dead. Finally, as two motorbikes approached at top speed, KB jammed the accelerator.
Alex screamed. Bitsy hid her head in her hands. Max’s stomach jumped. A horn beeped so loud and close, Max thought it was in his hair.
Sal turned toward them with a sweet smile, as if they’d glided onto a sleepy suburban street. “So, y’all, KB and I have a good idea.”
“Passenger-side air bags?” Max squeaked.
“Is this how everyone drives?” Alex asked.
Sal waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, you get used to it. Now, KB has never heard of Armando of Kathmandu. I haven’t either. But it sounds like a company, right? Maybe fashion . . . makeup . . . hairstyling? I mean, I’m just imagining an advertisement—you know, ‘The finest shoppers I ever knew go to Armando of Kathmandu’! Something like that?”
“That sounds really dumb,” Max said.
Alex elbowed him.
“Yeah, it does,” Sal said with a sigh, “but we have to start somewhere. So KB’s going to take us to the Thamel district,” Sal said. “Very fa
mous for shopping and restaurants. If we don’t find anything, at least we’ll get something to eat.”
They sped down the main drag, passing columned buildings, warrens of small shops, gas stations, and billboards. It was crowded, drab, congested, and dirty. But in a park to the left, Max spotted monkeys climbing in a palm tree. And on the horizon to the right were the towering, snow-capped Himalaya mountains, peeking in and out of the smog and clouds like a trick of light.
KB maneuvered the car into the left lane and made a turn, nearly wiping out a bus, a motorbike, and two backpackers. He drove into a narrow, winding side road, where the din of traffic instantly dwindled. Shops and restaurants lined either side, and tourists meandered among tables neatly stacked with fabric, clothing, and trinkets. KB let them all out by the entrance to a parking lot.
As he drove in to find a spot, they walked up the street. Through the windows of different storefronts, Max could see jewelry counters, fast-food places, and shops selling artwork and shelves of fancy paper. “Welcome to Thamel,” Sal said. “If you have a minute, between you and me, the handmade paper here is to die for. Like nothing else in the world. But I know you’re after this Armando of Kathmandu. So I’m thinking maybe we start our search here.”
She gestured past the handmade-paper shop toward a small storefront, where three elegant women were applying makeup to tourists sitting on stools.
“A cosmetics store?” Max said in horror.
“Suck it up, old boy,” Bitsy said.
Max backed away. “I hear the handmade paper is to die for. I’ll meet you in the paper shop.”
Without waiting for a reply, he ducked next door. There, a wizened old man was laying piles of thick paper on a long counter. All it took was one touch, and Max knew why it was special. He loved the feel of the soft fibers. It was like fabric, with delicate designs that seemed to have been baked in rather than painted.
Behind him, a voice whispered, “I like this one best.”
He turned to see Alex holding up a sheet of paper with an intricately colored design around the edges. “What are you doing here?” Max asked.
Alex grinned. “I hate makeup.”
“Ah, young lady, that one is my prize creation!” the old man said, nodding with admiration to the sheet Alex was holding. He sounded creaky and fragile, as if his voice itself was filtered through paper. He walked with a stoop, and what was left of his hair formed two identical Nike swooshes on either side. “I mix the colors personally—Tyrian purples from shellfish and lichen, the reds from brazilwood and insect-derived cochineal, the amber-yellow from safflower, and this gorgeous color—” He ran his fingers along a thick strip of bluish black. “This is from a special black turmeric, only grown locally.”
“Cool,” Max said. “Can we get some? Evelyn would love these.”
As Alex paid up, Max heard the door open behind him. “Good news!” Bitsy’s voice cried out, as she ran into the shop. “We solved the riddle!”
Alex whirled around, the paper wrapped into a tube and tucked under her arm. As Sal led them outside, her face beamed. She held open a plastic bag and lifted out a small white tube labeled ETERNITY. Whisking off the top, she revealed a small black brush. “Ta-da!”
“What is that?” Max asked.
“Mascara, silly!” Sal replied. With a dramatic flourish, she stroked upward on her eyelashes with the brush. “‘Black smear of eternity’! Get it? What do you think? Do I make Agatha Christie proud?”
Max shook his head. This wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.
“No,” he said.
“No?” Sal’s smile drooped.
“It’s too easy,” Max said. “What’s the name of the manufacturer? Is it Armando? That’s a pretty important piece of the clue.”
Sal squinted at the fine print. “Um . . . Schweitzer Industries.”
“Well, it’s a start,” Bitsy said with a sigh. “OK, I don’t mean to be rude, but you mentioned—”
“Lunch,” Alex quickly added.
“Can we discuss this over a meal?” Bitsy said. “I’m absolutely famished.”
Sal thought for a moment. “I know just the place.”
She walked briskly out and down the block, her heels clacking loudly on the pavement. Just around the next corner, she stopped in front of a big yellow neon sign.
Max took one look at the sign and stopped in his tracks: The Yak Restaurant.
As the others walked in, he stood frozen on the sidewalk. Max loved yaks. They were hairy and awkward. They were like the unloved child of a moose, a camel, and a water buffalo. They had horns and grunted. They were odd. Ignored. Looked down upon compared to more classic beasts.
They were the Max Tilts of the animal world.
But . . . a yak restaurant? What was on the menu? Max’s mind danced with the possibilities. Yak burgers garnished with yak hair. Yak eyes floating in steamy brown yak soup. Yak salad with grated yak horn.
“I can’t do this . . .” he murmured, closing his eyes.
“Are you coming?” Alex shouted from the front door.
Max shook his head. “I don’t eat yak.”
“Max, it’s just a name,” Alex said. “I looked at the menu. It’s regular meat. They even have vegan options.”
She took Max’s hand and led him through the door. Behind the counter was a painting of a massive yak, its belly hair nearly touching the ground. “Gllrrp,” Max said.
“What?” Alex said.
“Nothing, just a little puke. But I swallowed it.”
The room was crammed with families laughing, chatting, celebrating. But Max’s eyes were fixed on a plate of ropy meat that a little boy was shredding with his bare hands.
In his mind, he heard a yak in pain.
“I need to use the restroom, be right back!”
Sprinting to the back of the restaurant, Max pushed open the door of the men’s room. He took a deep breath. And another. The place was empty, spacious, cool, and nice smelling. There were big, artsy black-and-white photos on the wall. He locked the door from the inside, put his back against the wall for support, and raised his head.
He needed to think of something else. Anything but yaks. He glanced at the photos to stabilize himself—a line of hikers summiting Mount Everest . . . the outline of the Himalaya looming over a farm . . . Nepali women carrying enormous baskets of farm crops on their backs . . . a food merchant with a groaning cart full of canvas sacks . . .
Max’s breath caught in his throat. But not because of nausea.
He moved closer to the last photo and squinted closely at the sacks. Some were labeled in Nepali script, others in English . . .
He zeroed in on one name. A small sack in the background, its print clear and sharp.
Whirling to the door, he yanked it open and hurried through the restaurant. In a table in the back, Sal was talking to a waiter while the others scanned the menu.
Max grabbed Alex’s arm. “Come.”
“I can’t. We’re ordering,” Alex said.
“It can wait. Come!”
He pulled her from her seat. Together they ran back through the house to the restroom. Max yanked open the door. “Max, this is not a gender-neutral bathroom!”
But Max was already inside, pointing to the photo.
Alex walked in slowly, taking in the black-and-white image . . . the cart . . . the big burlap sacks . . .
She gasped. “Oh. My. Beating. Heart.”
There, printed on the fabric of one of the sacks, was a label they both recognized.
ARMANDO
31
AS KB sped down the highway, the lights of Kathmandu faded into the distance. Traffic had thinned out, but occasionally Max saw buses so crowded that people sat on the roofs. The car drove past marshy fields, small villages, and entire mountainsides carved into long horizontal tiers. “Terrace farming,” Sal explained. “In hilly places like Nepal, they grow crops in those furrows along the mountains. When you don’t have flat land, you improvise!”
Soon the terrace farms became dull gray shadows, and the back seat was feeling more and more cramped. “I thought he was Armando of Kathmandu,” Alex finally said. “Not Armando of Halfway-to-China.”
Sal and KB exchanged a flurry of words in Nepali, and Sal turned. “Apparently this fellow Armando’s original farm was on the outskirts of the city. But as he expanded and got more successful, he moved to the countryside near a mountain stream. We’re getting close. KB says the owner lives on the place. Ought to be someone there to talk to.”
By the time KB turned off the highway onto a smaller road, a full moon hung swollen and heavy in the sky. In its silvery light, Max could see the silhouettes of grazing cattle. As some began to lope closer to the car, Max narrowed his eyes at their slope-blacked profiles. “Wait. Are those yaks?”
“You betcha,” Sal said. “Are you going to feel sick?”
“I love looking at yaks!” Max replied. “They’re so beautiful!”
“To each his own, I guess,” Sal said. “Heck, I’m partial to iguanas.”
This new road was solid-packed dirt, and KB drove carefully, avoiding potholes. The yaks stared at them with blasé expressions. Soon the road slanted upward, and the car seemed to go slower and slower.
Until finally it stopped.
KB shook his head. He muttered something in Nepali and let out a small nervous laugh.
“Does he have to pee?” Max asked.
“No,” Sal said. “We’re out of gas.”
“What?” Alex placed a hand over her face. “How much farther do we have to go?”
“That’s Armando’s farm on the horizon,” Sal said.
Max didn’t see any farm, just a tiny distant speck at the crest of a vast, sloping field. It looked miles away. “Great. What do we do now?”
KB jerked a thumb backward. Max, Bitsy, and Alex all turned to look through the rear window. Another set of headlights had appeared in the dusk, bouncing toward them along the rutted road. “I’ll be darned, what are the chances?” Sal said. “Well, now, don’t fret, we’ll just ask this person to fetch us some gas.”
80 Days or Die Page 15
