He grabbed Amy by the arm and began to tow her through the swishing black robes, ducking reaching arms. When it became clear that they were about to escape, the monks' agitation grew. A hand grasped Amy's sleeve, and Dan shouldered it away like a pro football player. Amy leaped over a would-be tackier, and the Cahills fell into a broken-field run for the exit.
Nellie fretted in the Fiat, checking her watch every thirty seconds. Where were they? She should never have let them go into a place where one of their slimy Cahill relatives was prowling around. If that lousy Alistair Oh did anything to hurt Amy and Dan, she was going to feed him his walking stick wrapped in barbed wire.
She turned to the backseat, where the cat lounged, no longer scratching. "They're half
an hour late, Saladin. Where can they be?"
And then she spotted them, moving fast through the milling crowd of tourists. Running, even. Looking kind of disheveled -- and scared. Her eyes focused beyond the Cahills to the wave of black that was gaining on them. Dozens of robed figures -- monks – were chasing Amy and Dan across the abbey grounds. She started the car and threw open the passenger door. "Get in!" The parchment thieves did not have to be told twice. They barreled through the gates and piled in, a tangle of arms and legs. "Get us out of here!" Dan gasped.
Nellie stomped on the gas pedal. The car was already squealing forward as Amy pulled the door shut. Dan stared into the side mirror, watching the enraged monks grow smaller as the car accelerated.
The au pair was bug-eyed. "What happened back there?"
"It's not our fault!" Dan babbled. "Those guys are crazy! They're like mini-Darth Vaders without the mask!"
"They're Benedictine monks!" Nellie exclaimed. "They're men of peace! Most of them are under vows of silence!"
"Yeah, well, not anymore," Dan told her. "They cursed us out pretty good. I don't know the language, but some things you don't have to translate."
"We found a clue," Amy explained breathlessly, "and they didn't want us to take it. I'm positive it's something important!" She thrust the parchment into Nellie's arms. "Can you tell us what it says?"
"Why don't we put some distance between ourselves and the abbey first," the au pair advised, wheeling through the narrow streets of Salzburg. "How'd you like to have to explain to the rental company that their car was trashed by an army of deranged monks?"
Dan was impatient. "We'll buy the rental company and the abbey, too! This time, we scored the big enchilada!"
By skirting downtown, Nellie was able to avoid most of the traffic and get over the bridge quickly. They made a few twists and turns and pulled over on a quiet street. "Okay, let's have a look at this 'clue.'" She picked up the parchment. "We think it might be some kind of formula," Amy put in excitedly. Nellie pored over the calligraphy, her eyes widening in amazement. "Oh, my God! I can't believe it!" Dan grinned. "That good, huh?" "But what's it the formula for?" Amy persisted.
The au pair read the page again and again, as if trying to convince herself that it really was what she knew it to be. "You boneheads! This isn't a clue -- it's the recipe for Benedictine!" "Benedictine?" Amy repeated. "You mean the drink?"
Nellie nodded miserably. "It's an ancient recipe known only to the Benedictine brothers for centuries.
That's why they were chasing you!" The Cahills were devastated.
"We almost got killed in there," moaned Dan. "And it was all for nothing."
"No wonder the monks were upset," Amy lamented. "It must have seemed like we stole
the most important thing they own."
"Well, maybe it isn't a clue," Dan tried to console himself, "but at least that parchment
will look cool in my collection."
"Dan!" Amy exploded. "We have to give that back."
"Good luck." Dan was bitter. "If we set foot in that abbey again, those men of peace will rip our heads off."
Amy was adamant. "We can't keep it. Maybe we can mail it to them."
"I can't wait to see the address -- third cave on the right, go through fifty tunnels, turn left at the stalagmite. In German."
He climbed over the seat and joined the cat in the back. "I'm going to sit with somebody who isn't nuts -- what's up, Saladin? Hey, he stopped scratching."
"I was going to tell you -- before I had to play getaway driver from the Christian brothers. While you were at St. Peter's, I took Saladin to a veterinary clinic." "Was it fleas?" asked Amy.
Nellie shook her head. "The doctor took off his collar and
This popped out." She reached into her pocket and produced a miniature electronic device about the size of a thumbnail.
"He figures the corners were digging into the skin. That's what all the scratching was
about."
Amy frowned. "But what is it?"
Dan was disgusted. "Don't you ever watch TV? It's a homing device. You plant it on somebody when you want to keep track of where he's going." Nellie was confused. "Who keeps track of a cat?"
Light dawned on Amy. "Not the cat -- us! Our competition did this! That's why we can't get ahead in the contest. Wherever we go, someone else always knows about it." "This has the Cobras written all over it!" Dan growled. "Leave it to a couple of rich kids to buy a hightech way to cheat because they're too dumb to get the clues on their own."
"Or Irina," Amy reasoned. "This would be kid stuff for the KGB. It could be any of them -- even Mr. McIntyre. Remember -- he had Saladin while we were in Paris." "So what do we do with the transmitter now?" Nellie asked. "Smash it?" "Drop it down the sewer," Dan suggested. "Let the cheaters go scuba diving for it." Amy turned serious. "You know, this could be a golden opportunity to put the competition off our scent. We shouldn't waste it on a joke." Dan scowled. "You never let me have any fun." "Oh, this'll be fun," his sister assured him. "Listen... "
Alistair Oh trudged heavily through the parlors of the Mozart Wohnhaus, putting more weight than usual on his diamond-tipped walking stick. He already knew the location of the next important Clue. Still, while he was here in Salzburg, it made sense to visit the Mozart family's home, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. One could never be too careful.
But as he made his way through the eighteenth-century musical instruments and furniture, weariness pressed down on him. He wasn't as young as he'd once been, back when he'd made his fortune as the inventor of the microwave burrito. Exciting times --alas, all in the past.
He sat down to rest on a visitors' bench. The money was mostly gone now, and so was his youth. The last thing he needed was a globe-trotting marathon after Grace Cahill's pot of gold. But what a pot of gold: fabulous wealth, limitless power. A return to the glory of his burrito days and beyond.
He'd barely slept at all last night. In truth, his conscience was bothering him over the incident in the tunnel yesterday. No one had told him the small explosive would trigger a cave-in. The plan had been merely to scare Amy and Dan away. Yes, they were adversaries, and adversaries had to be defeated. But he'd never forgive himself if anything terrible happened to Grace's grandchildren.
He'd been up past two a.m watching TV news. If there had been an accident involving two American children, surely he would have heard about it. Curse Grace and her contest for setting them at each other's throats
He never finished the thought. Fighting fatigue and lack of sleep, he allowed his eyes to close -- just for a moment -- and slumped back on the bench, fast asleep. "Another Mozart house. Oh, joy."
"I didn't pick it," Amy told her brother sharply. "Uncle Alistair did." Nellie had called every hotel and guesthouse in Salzburg to determine where Alistair was staying.
After two pungent hours hiding behind a dumpster in the alley beside the Hotel Amadeus, Amy and Dan followed their elderly rival to the Mozart Wohnhaus. Now they lurked in the shadow of a magnificent fortepiano, peering through the antique French doors at the tall figure on the bench.
"Well, there you go," Dan said bitterly. "A million-year-old guy who probably wasn't the life of the party eve
n when he was young. Hey, how come he isn't moving?" Amy watched as Uncle Alistair's head lolled back on his shoulders, jaw slack, mouth open. "I think he's dead."
Dan goggled. "Really?"
"Of course not, stupid! He fell asleep. Maybe we can slip the transmitter into his pocket without waking him up." "And if he does wake up?" Dan challenged.
Amy pulled the tiny homing device out of her jeans. "We'll have to chance it. Wait here."
Cautiously, she slipped through the doors. It was early, and the museum was not yet crowded. The only other visitors in the room were a young couple with Norwegian flags on their backpacks.
Amy waited for the Norwegians to move on. Her feet barely touching the floor, she approached the slumbering Alistair. Slowly, she reached out with the transmitter. His arm lay across his chest, pressing his blazer closed. There would be no margin for error
A sound halfway between a snore and a hiccup burst from his throat. Amy froze as he stirred, resettled himself, and went back to sleep.
This isn't going to work. The slightest touch will wake him....
Her eyes fell on the walking stick leaning against the bench by Alistair's knees. She scanned the cane for a nook or cranny where she could plant the chip.
Dan was in the doorway, gesturing with both hands. She regarded him impatiently. What do you want, dweeb?
At last, she recognized the twisting motion of his fists. She grasped the head of the cane and turned. To her delight, the tip began to unscrew.
Perfect -- the top contained an opening where the diamond had been set. It was just the right size for Amy to insert the transmitter.
She was about to replace the piece when she noticed that the walking stick itself was hollow. Why not just solid wood? Unless ...
She picked up the bottom of the cane and squinted inside. There was something in there! A paper, tightly rolled to fit in the narrow tube. This was Alistair's hiding place!
She pinched a corner of the page and drew it out. The document was brittle and brown with age -- although not as ancient as the recipe they had taken from the Benedictine monks. Hands trembling, she unfurled it. The printing was not in English. But the name jumped out at her, unmistakable:
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
It was all she recognized, but she knew in a heartbeat that this was what they'd been searching for in the tunnels of St. Peter's Archabbey.
So you bear us to it, she reflected, regarding the dozing form on the bench. Maybe we underestimated you.
A gurgle came from Uncle Alistair, and his eyelids fluttered.
Working quickly now, she screwed the cane back together and returned it to its leaning spot against the bench.
Alistair slumbered on, completely unaware that his front-runner position had been stolen right out of his walking stick.
CHAPTER 11
Another vital document; another foreign language. "It isn't German," Nellie announced.
"No?" Amy was flustered. "I just assumed, because we're in Austria -- uh, what is it
then?"
Their Salzburg hotel room was small and not very nice. Dan was convinced that the management used low-wattage lightbulbs so that the guests wouldn't notice what a dump they were staying in.
The au pair squinted at the document. "Italian, I think. Not one of my languages." The Cahills regarded her blankly. This was the first time Nellie had been unable to act as their translator.
"So how do you know it's Italian?" asked Dan.
"Spanish and Italian aren't too different. And this word --Venezia.
I'm pretty sure that's Venice, which is in Italy."
Amy indicated the date -- 1770. "Mozart would have been fourteen years old. Don't you remember the museum exhibits? He performed all across
Italy around then. His father took him on tour."
"So this is" -- Dan frowned -- "an eighteenth-century concert poster, starring Mozart?" "In Venice," Amy finished. "That's where the next clue must be hidden." Nellie grinned. "I always wanted to go to Venice. It's supposed to be the romance capital of the world."
"Sweet," put in Dan. "Too bad your date is an Egyptian Mau on a hunger strike." The au pair sighed. "Better than an eleven-year-old with a big mouth." The drive to Venice took more than five hours. Sharing the backseat with Saladin, Dan nearly went out of his mind. He wasn't a fan of long car rides to begin with. And the frustration of begging the cat to eat was infuriating and worrisome at the same time. They had so little left of their grandmother. They owed it to Grace to take proper care of her beloved pet.
To add to his discomfort, there was also a long, severe lecture from his sister, reminding him of the grave importance of their quest and how much was at stake. "The wisecracks aren't helping, Dan! You have to grow up and take this more seriously!" "Seriously?" he echoed. "We're already up to our ears in serious! What we need is to lighten up a little! The next clue could be right in front of your nose, but you don't see it because you're too busy being serious!"
"Cut it out!" Nellie bellowed. "You're going to put us in the ditch! They drive the speed of light on these autostradas!"
"You drive the speed of light backing out of the driveway," Dan countered.
"I'm not kidding! As long as I'm babysitting" -- she glowered at Dan -- "au pairing
-- you two are going to have to get along. I can handle the craziness; I can handle your nut-job relatives; I can even handle you disappearing for hours on end. But not the fighting. Understand? You're on the same team. Act like it."
Silence fell, and the argument was over as abruptly as it had begun. With the peace came a release of the tension of their Salzburg adventure. Nellie could almost feel the siblings rebooting, steeling themselves for the dangers that might lie ahead. They were Cahills, all right. Probably the only two decent human beings in the whole brood. Finally, they approached Venice and the coast. But before they'd even reached the city limits, traffic on the autostrada slowed to a crawl.
"Aw!" Dan glared at the back of his sister's head in the passenger seat. Amy barely even noticed the slowdown. She was studying the Mozart concert announcement and had been since Austria. "What are you doing? Learning Italian by osmosis?"
She ignored the joke. "There's a name on here I can't figure out. Who's Fidelio Racco?"
"Another musician?" Nellie suggested.
Amy shook her head. "Mozart and his sister were a package deal. I never read anything about a third performer on their tours."
"Well, if it really is a concert poster," Dan mused, "maybe this Racco guy is like a promoter."
His sister thought it over. "It makes sense. Not a promoter like they have today. But back then, visiting musicians gave private shows at rich people's mansions. Maybe Fidelio Racco hosted Mozart and Nannerl. I wonder if we can find out where he lived." "No problem," Dan said sarcastically. "Just look him up in the 1770 phone book. Piece of cake."
"This is Italy," Nellie reminded him. "It's 'piece of tiramisu' here. Mmm, gotta get some. Our exit," she added, roaring off the highway, past a sign marked Venezia, onto a wide boulevard. They pulled up behind a television mobile unit with familiar markings.
Dan pointed. "Check it out -- Eurotainment TV. Those are the guys who threw that bash for Jonah Wizard in Vienna."
Suddenly, the Eurotainment van squealed left across two busy lanes and made a sharp turn, tailing a silver stretch limo. Nellie leaned on the horn and barked, "Maniac!" "Follow him!" Amy said urgently.
"Why?"
"Do it!" she insisted.
The wheel just a blur in her hands, the au pair managed to weave in and out of moving traffic, falling in behind the mobile unit. "Rock on!" cheered Dan. "Paparazzi chase!"
He was right. The limo was trying to get away from Eurotainment TV. But the van driver refused to be shaken. Behind this high-speed game of cat and mouse rattled the Fiat, passing cars, running lights, and swerving around hapless pedestrians.
"When I talked about seeing Venice, this was so not what I had in mind!" compla
ined Nellie, hunched over the dashboard. "I wonder who's in the car -- Brad and Angelina? Prince William?"
"Keep going!" urged Amy. "I have a sneaking suspicion I know exactly who it is."
It happened in the blink of an eye. The limo was speeding toward a bridge, with the mobile unit in hot pursuit. The car turned on a dime, bounced across the ramp, and accelerated down a side street. The van driver tried to follow, but he was hemmed in by traffic. Eurotainment TV disappeared over the bridge.
"Who do I follow?" Nellie demanded.
"The limo!" chorused Amy and Dan.
The Fiat veered away from the bridge and turned the corner. The stretch was traveling at regular speed now. Its passengers believed the chase was finished. Nellie kept well back.
They continued to tail the limo until it veered onto a ramp, climbing a long causeway that led out over a sunlit lagoon. "Now what?" asked Nellie.
"Don't lose him!" Amy ordered.
"Wait," said Dan. "I thought we were going to Venice. The sign says" -- he squinted --"Tronchetto. Smooth move, Amy. Now we're driving to the wrong town."
"I don't think so," put in Nellie. "Look!"
Before them stretched a magnificent sight. A gleaming skyline of domes and spires rose
from the sparkling water.
"Venice," breathed Amy. "fust like in pictures."
Even Dan was impressed. "Pretty cool place," he conceded. "Too bad that's not where we're going."
Nellie piloted them across the long bridge, making sure to keep a couple of cars between the limo and the Fiat at all times. At last, they began to descend toward Tronchetto. But instead of a town, they were approaching a low sprawling island, almost entirely covered with thousands of vehicles.
Dan was mystified. "A parking lot?"
"More like the great-granddaddy of them," Nellie amended.
"But who takes a limo to a parking lot?"
A large billboard loomed up on their right. Amy scanned the many languages, zooming in on the English at last. "I get it -- there are no cars allowed in Venice! You have to park here and take a ferry to the city."
Her brother frowned. "Then how do people get around?"
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