Peril at the Top of the World

by James Patterson

  We had an armed escort, of course—Uncle Timothy and those six Zolin soldiers. One of the guys from the ship kept trying to spook us.

  “Accidents happen in Saint Petersburg too, Mrs. Kidd. To pipes. To people. Pipes get broken. Noses too.”

  “You realize, of course,” said Storm, “that you used that same basic threat on us when we were at the North Pole.”

  “So?”

  “You need some new material, man,” said Tommy. “You’re like barely even trying…”

  The thugs shoved us into room number forty-something.

  I have to admit that Zolin’s ten-story apartment was pretty incredible. All the toilets were basically gold thrones. There were more paintings than you’d find in most museums. Unfortunately, all of them were stacked in piles on the floor. The walls themselves were white and barren except for all the giant video screens hooked up to gaming devices.

  Hey, if you were a thirteen-year-old billionaire, you’d probably have an Xbox or PlayStation in every room too.

  “Wait a second,” said Beck, staring at a Picasso on top of what could’ve been a Monet or maybe a Manet. I always get those two guys confused. “That’s Picasso’s Naked Woman on the Beach!”

  “Where?” said Tommy, suddenly interested.

  “That’s the same stolen painting we saw in the art gallery in China!” said Storm, accessing her vast memory banks. (I wrote about that in our last book, if you haven’t read it yet. What are you waiting for?)

  Beck turned to Uncle Timothy. “You know, the one you sold to the cultural minister while you were pretending to be a triple agent working for him.”

  “And then,” said Uncle T proudly, “I helped Viktor steal it from the Chinese.”

  I had to admit, I was sort of impressed. “Wow. You really are a quadruple agent!”

  Uncle Timothy took off his mirrored sunglasses so he could blow on them, fog ’em up, and give ’em a quick polish. “What can I say, Bickford? I’m good at what I do.”

  “You mean selling yourself to the highest bidder?” said Mom sarcastically.

  “It’s what we all do, Sue. You find a sunken treasure chest, you take bids from museums. I find a spare Picasso, I auction it off. It’s simple economics. Supply and demand.”

  “And,” said Zolin, “as you have seen, with Timothy’s help, I have amassed one of the largest art collections in the world. But it’s not enough. I want more. More!”

  “What do you plan to do with it?” asked Mom. “Open your own museum?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll leave that to those silly fools at the Hermitage. No, your nosy brats are correct. Art killed my parents. In return, I intend to kill art—all that I can get my hands on. Soon, this Picasso and Monet and the four paintings I removed from the Hermitage will be sent downstairs to the boiler room. Oil is such an expensive way to heat a house. But I have found an even more expensive fuel: oil paintings!”

  “Dude,” said a stunned Tommy. “You’re seriously going to burn them?”

  “Yes! All the paintings and their fancy wooden frames. They will heat the bubbling water in my fourteen hot tubs!”

  “You can’t do that!” I said because Beck was too busy hyperventilating in horror.

  “Oh yes, I can! In fact, I must. As you know from your psychological profile, I am an extremely twisted teenager.”

  All of a sudden, he started bawling again.

  “Because I miss my mommy and my daddy!”

  Tears were sputtering out of his eyes like he was a human lawn sprinkler.

  Mom wasn’t buying it.

  “You’re faking.”

  Zolin suddenly smiled. “Right again, Mrs. Kidd. It’s a gimmick I use. Gives me an advantage when negotiating deals.” He gestured toward a large conference room where the walls were, of course, white, blank, and bare. “Speaking of deals, I would like to negotiate with you.”

  “For what?”

  Uncle Timothy answered for Viktor Zolin (maybe he was paid to do that too): “The art Thomas found when he stumbled on the Enlightened Ones’ secret treasure trove.”

  “How’d you know about that?” asked Tommy.

  “Easy. I tapped your mother’s watch and her satellite phone.”

  Beck shook her head in disgust. “You’re a snake, Uncle Timothy.”

  “It’s just business, Rebecca. You’ll understand one day.”

  “She already understands that there are more important things than money,” Mom snapped. “Like friendship and loyalty.”

  “And family,” said Beck.

  Zing! Even Uncle Timothy couldn’t come up with anything to say to that, because he knew they were right.

  CHAPTER 61

  “Tell me, Mrs. Kidd,” said Zolin, “where exactly did your husband find the Enlightened Ones’ secret cache of precious paintings?”

  “We don’t know,” said Mom.

  “And did your husband receive a cash reward for all the treasures he liberated from the Enlightened Ones?” Zolin asked.

  “He will,” said Mom. “The art museums the pieces were stolen from and their insurance companies will be very pleased when the artworks are safely returned to their proper homes.”

  “Pocket change compared to what you fools could get by selling the paintings to us,” snarled Uncle Timothy.

  “I’d rather be a fool than a skeevy sleazeball!” snapped Beck, who was furious. As the artist in the family, I think she was the one who was the most horrified by Uncle Timothy and Viktor Zolin’s art-destruction plans.

  “Enough!” said Zolin. “You are professional treasure hunters. Money talks, everything else walks. I will double whatever the museums and their insurance companies are offering you!”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy. “Double?”

  Zolin shrugged. “I just have to pump oil a little faster up in the Arctic Ocean. If some spills on a walrus or turns a polar bear into a brown bear, who cares? I will make money, money, money! Some of which I will give to you.”

  Mom nodded slowly. Thoughtfully.

  I couldn’t believe this. Was she actually considering creepy Viktor Zolin’s oily offer? Would she let Uncle Timothy destroy everything the Kidd Family Treasure Hunters stood for? We weren’t just about the money. We were about trying to make a difference in the world and returning beloved art treasures to wherever they really belonged.

  “I need to contact my husband,” said Mom. “Arrange a few details.”

  Zolin smiled. “Please do.”

  Mom tapped her wristwatch. We heard Dad’s receiver ringing.

  Mom started humming while she waited for Dad to pick up.

  “Hello?” said Dad.

  Mom kept humming.

  He hummed something too. Then Mom picked up the humming. Then Dad took over. It was like a humming duet!

  Or something far more clever.

  I glanced at Storm. She shot me a sly wink.

  We both knew that Mom and Dad were communicating in some kind of secret musical code—the same one they’d used before in our adventures.

  “Hey—” Uncle Timothy cut in.

  But before he could continue, Mom stopped humming and said into her watch, “Honey, I think I may have found a new buyer for the stolen artworks the Enlightened Ones had in their storage space.”

  “But,” said Dad, “the museums and their insurance companies will pay—”

  “Half of what I will pay!” shouted Zolin. “Name their price and I will double it.”

  “Is that you, Mr. Zolin?”

  “Yes! I’m a billionaire oil baron! I can buy anything and everything I want! Anything, I say!”

  “Very well,” said Dad.

  Zolin raised his fists in triumph, then looked over at us. “And you Kidd kids agree to this as well? I do not want any of you changing your minds.”

  Storm spoke up. “If Dad says we’re in, then we’re in.”

  The rest of us nodded. We didn’t know what Mom and Dad’s plans were, but we trusted that they knew what t
hey were doing.

  “I’ve already crated the paintings,” said Dad. “But I haven’t alerted the museums.”

  “Good move, Thomas,” said Uncle Timothy.

  “Hello, Timothy. I can assume that, in my absence, you are looking out for my family?”

  “Like always. I’m also looking out for you. I brokered this deal.”

  “Does that mean you want a share of the profits?”

  “Nothing outrageous, Thomas. Twenty-five percent would be fine.”

  Beck groaned in disgust. It was hard to believe how slimy Uncle Timothy was, even though he’d shown us time and time again.

  Dad didn’t seem to mind. “Make it fifteen and we have a deal,” he said.

  Zolin flicked his wrist at Uncle Timothy. “I’ll make up the difference.”

  “Deal,” said Uncle Timothy.

  “I’ll need a little time,” said Dad. “I have to call in a few favors to arrange a cargo plane. Then it’s at least an eleven-hour flight from where I am to Pulkovo Airport there in Saint Petersburg…”

  I could see the wheels in Storm’s head turning already. Which places were an eleven-hour flight from us?

  “We will wait for you,” said Zolin. “And until you arrive with all of my new masterpieces, do not worry—your family will be my houseguests.”

  He sliced his finger across his throat, signaling Mom to end the call.

  “Got to run, hon,” she said. “Love you.”

  Zolin clapped his hands. His minions pulled out that arsenal of weapons they’d been concealing.

  We weren’t really going to be houseguests until Dad showed up.

  We were going to be hostages.

  CHAPTER 62

  We spent a very long day and night in Viktor Zolin’s apartment.

  Even though the walls were lined with TV screens hooked up to awesome, super-high-tech gaming devices, it wasn’t a fun sleepover. Video games have never really been our thing. Beck and I had spent three-quarters of our lives living on a ship. We were having too much fun going on real adventures to let avatars made out of pixels have all the fun for us.

  Mom suggested that we all do our best to keep Zolin “extremely busy.”

  “If you guys keep bugging him,” she whispered when we had ten seconds alone in a seventh-floor bathroom (one of at least fifty in Zolin’s ten-story apartment), “he won’t have time to drag any major masterpieces down to the furnace before your father gets here.”

  “Then what’s the plan?” I asked.

  “When your father arrives—”

  Mom couldn’t finish her answer. Our armed guards found us.

  “Here you are!” said one of the unmasked goons who had menaced us on the icebreaker trip north. “Viktor wants you upstairs in the game room. I think he wants to play with you some more.”

  We did as we were told. But we also filled Viktor’s day with a lot of stupid and annoying diversionary tactics.

  For instance, Beck and I did three Twin Tirades. In a row.

  Storm bored Zolin with more Russian tour-guide trivia.

  And Tommy broke the thumb controllers for Zolin’s prototype PlayStation Six playing Batman: Arkham Knight.

  Then, finally, a full twenty-four hours after Mom and Dad’s phone call, Mom’s wristwatch chirped.

  “He’s here,” Mom announced.

  Dad was back in Saint Petersburg.

  I had a feeling things were about to get extremely interesting.

  CHAPTER 63

  Zolin opened a window and leaned out to survey the street below.

  “I don’t see a truck. Has Professor Kidd brought the artwork? If I don’t see some new paintings soon, I’m going to start weeping again!”

  “Relax, Vik,” said Uncle Timothy, joining Zolin at the window. “Most likely he parked around back to avoid drawing too much unwanted attention. He’ll use the service entrance.”

  “No, Timothy,” said Dad, striding into the room. “As you might recall, I always prefer the front door.”

  “Dad!” we all cried. But Zolin’s goons wouldn’t let us go to him.

  “What?” said Zolin. “How did you enter my apartment building without the doormen downstairs alerting me?”

  Dad shrugged. “It seems they all fell asleep ten seconds after I waltzed into the lobby.”

  Tranquilizer darts!

  Did I ever tell you guys how good Dad is with a blowgun?

  “Well played, Thomas,” said Uncle Timothy, who, once upon a time, was Dad’s handler at the CIA. “You always were one of my best undercover operatives.”

  “Did you bring me my paintings?” said Zolin. “I want to add them to the four I stole from the Hermitage Museum. My oil-burning furnace needs a lot of oil paintings for fuel.”

  “Ah,” said Dad, acting impressed, “so you were the mastermind behind the theft of the missing da Vinci, Caravaggio, Giorgione, and Rembrandt paintings.”

  “Yes! It was simple, really. Those so-called guards in the gallery? Their loyalty can be easily purchased for a few rubles. Although that one lady was tough. She demanded euros because she wanted to buy a new 3-D television set in Germany. She likes Masha and the Bear. But enough bragging about my criminal genius. Where are the paintings the Enlightened Ones were hoarding that you tracked down?”

  Dad grinned. “Not so fast, Mr. Zolin. First, you show me my money. Then I’ll show you the paintings.”

  “W-w-what?” whimpered Zolin.

  “It’s how we always do things, Vik,” explained Uncle Timothy. “Makes for a better exchange if both sides can see what they came for before they give up what they brought.”

  “Fine,” said Zolin. “I can write you a check or wire the funds into your account.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” said Dad. “This is to be a cash-only transaction.”

  “No paper trail,” said Uncle Timothy. “Smart, Thomas. Smart.”

  “Thank you, Timothy.” Dad coolly eyed the six armed goons ringing the room. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Nice of all six of you to join us. If you don’t mind, I have been away from my family for far too long. I’d like a moment to properly greet my wife and children.”

  “Go ahead,” said Zolin, giving us a royal flick of his wrist. “You have my permission. But hurry up. My furnace grows cold.”

  Dad flung open his arms at the center of the room. “Okay, guys. Group hug.”

  Mom quickly ushered us over to him and we all hugged it out.

  And that’s when Dad shouted, “Duck! Now!”

  CHAPTER 64

  We hit the deck.

  When Dad tells us to duck, we don’t ask questions!

  The second we were sprawled on the floor, about three dozen Russian politsiya officers in SWAT team combat gear stormed into the room, their weapons already trained on Zolin’s six armed guards.

  Because a few seconds ago, Dad had alerted them to how many bad guys were in the room!

  Uncle Timothy ran toward the open window. Quick-thinking Mom pressed a button on her watch and a thin cable slithered out. She whipped it around his legs before he could jump through the window and escape! With a thud, Uncle T face-planted on the floor; three soldiers instantly surrounded him.

  “Hands up!” shouted the woman leading the charge. “All of you!”

  Okay, you’re not going to believe this. The top cop? It was Larissa Bukova! That’s right. Our former tutor and extremely chatty tour guide. Only now she was dressed in a police uniform and bulletproof vest.

  “Viktor Zolin,” said Larissa Bukova, “you are under arrest for stealing four priceless masterpieces from the Hermitage Museum.”

  “Ha!” laughed the teenage billionaire. “You can’t prove that.”

  Four more cops marched into the room, carrying the four missing paintings. Beck was happy to see the officers were wearing white lint-free gloves like all good art handlers wear.

  “Here is your proof, Mr. Zolin,” said our ex–tour guide who was really an undercover cop. “Plus, we have your v
erbal confession here.” She pulled a digital recorder out of her bulletproof vest. “You are going to prison for a long, long time. But let us look on the bright side. By the time you are released, you will be old enough to drive. Actually, come to think of it, when you finally leave jail, you will be old enough to live in a home for senior citizens. Take him away!”

  “N-n-no,” the billionaire blubbered. “How much do I have to pay to make all of you forget about this?”

  “There are some things that can’t be bought, Viktor,” said Mom. “You’ll learn in jail that money doesn’t always talk.”

  Zolin quickly turned off the waterworks and looked defiant. He stomped his foot on the floor. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yes, Viktor,” said Major Bukova, “you did.”

  “But what about my doggies?”

  Inspector Gorky strolled into the room wearing his rumpled raincoat, even though it was sunny outside. “We’ll take good care of your wolfhounds,” he said. “But we will no longer allow them to poop on the floor in our art museum!”

  Zolin wept. For real this time.

  Now Gage Szymanowicz, the Russian civil defense minister, joined the crowd crammed into Zolin’s upstairs game room.

  “We thank you, Kidd Family Treasure Hunters, for your assistance in returning our national treasures.” He marched over to Uncle Timothy. “Now we will return one of your national disasters.”

  “Look, Gage,” said Uncle Timothy, “we can make a deal.”

  “No, we cannot. Our SVR intelligence agency has already made a deal with your CIA. You are going back to your cell in the super-maximum-security prison, with even more security on top.”

  “Thomas? Sue?” pleaded Uncle Timothy. “Do something! The beds at ADX Florence are made out of concrete!”

  “Sure,” said Mom. “At Christmas, we’ll send you a concrete throw pillow.”