Jude Watson: A King's Ransom

She felt a sharp elbow in her ribs. Dan thrust his phone in her face. He had imported the photograph into a sketch program on his phone. He’d colored the bright blond hair brown and the eyes dark. He’d added a beauty mark above Cheyenne Wyoming’s lip.

Amy gasped. It was Vanessa Mallory!

She quickly told the others what Dan had figured out. “But why was she tailing us?” she wondered.

“Vesper One wants to keep tabs on us,” Dan said. “What else?”

“Remember, it’s in his best interest to keep you two out of jail,” Evan pointed out. “Maybe he sent her to make sure you got over the border.”

“It’s still creepy,” Amy said.

“Speaking of creepy, she probably knows where you are right now,” Evan said. “I’ve been looking at the manuals for the Vesper phone. I’m guessing that there’s a GPS embedded in it, too.”

Amy shivered as she glanced at the few pedestrians walking by. Was Cheyenne watching them right now? Was Casper?

“Can we dismantle it?” she asked.

“You don’t want them to know that you know it’s there. But you can learn how to turn it off and on. You’ve got to be careful – it’s got to look like satellite disturbance.”

“Let Dan do it,” Amy said. “He’s better at these things than I am.”

She handed Dan the Vesper phone. Dan tossed his apple core into the bushes. He pried off the back of the Vesper phone and listened to Evan.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Then what do I … oh, gotcha. Cool. Awesome! Take that, V-One!”

“Can we turn it off for a bit?” Amy asked.

“I think you can get away with it,” Sinead said. “Just get to Lucerne as soon as you can. There’s an auction at three. That can give you cover.”

“Got it.” Amy snapped the phone shut. She almost wished she didn’t know about the GPS.

That meant that Vesper One could get to them anywhere. Anytime.

Lucerne, Switzerland

Milos Vanek was tired. He was always tired. He relied on coffee to keep awake. Coffee and duty. He sat in the cafe on an upscale street in Lucerne. He’d chosen it for its large windows. He watched the crowd. You never knew when you could get lucky.

Tracing criminals … sometimes it was like a seed stuck in a tooth. Something that nagged him, some small detail that wouldn’t go away. A crime would occur, a suspect identified, a search begun. Some were routine. And some were a seed in a tooth.

This brother and sister – Amy and Dan Cahill. He couldn’t figure them out, and that was bothering him. Rich brats out for kicks? Most likely. Yet he dug a little bit and discovered that although they were fantastically wealthy they attended a public school, had not exhibited discipline problems, were not featured in the tabloids, did not give interviews, did not appear in a reality TV program … none of the things he expected.

Yet suddenly they had dropped out of school and headed for Europe. There was a small item in a Boston paper about a fuel truck and a school bus and a possible attempted kidnapping. It was the lack of detail that bothered him. Small article, then nothing. Schoolchildren had been endangered. Usually, Americans went crazy over things like that.

And within a few days these two kids had stolen a priceless painting from the Uffizi. A theft so cool and daring it must have been done by professionals.

But it had been done by children.

Then there was the strange accusation from an American student that Dan and Amy Cahill had stolen the first edition of Marco Polo’s manuscript … a manuscript that didn’t even exist. The accusation had been buried in a file, but Vanek had found it, because he didn’t sleep much and he had a seed in his tooth.

They’d been on the Zurich train, he was sure of it. That’s why he had the train stopped at the border. Somewhere between there and Lucerne, they had gotten off. But where did they get off? And how did they get off?

Kids could disappear more easily than adults. People didn’t notice kids. And these kids were so … neutral. So bland in that American way.

His partner came out of the ladies’ room. Most women when they exited a bathroom appeared with newly brushed hair, a fresh swipe of lipstick. Not Luna Amato. She went in looking like a slightly rumpled Italian grandmother and came out looking like a slightly rumpled Italian grandmother. Gray hair curling around her face. Black dress, flat shoes, unfashionable jacket with a coffee stain on the sleeve. Sharp brown eyes that could look vacant, kind, or merciless, depending on the situation.

He’d never worked with her before, but he needed someone who could blend in. Someone who could approach the kids and not scare them. He knew they’d been close to their grandmother, Grace Cahill. He’d been betting that they’d be suckers for someone her age.

Amato sat down and fished an ice cube out of her water glass. She plopped it in her coffee. He’d worked with her for three days now and the only thing he knew about her was that coffee was always too hot for her taste.

She took a sip. “Zurich,” she said. “I think they went on to Zurich. They could have taken any number of trains from the station. The city is bigger. More places to fence the artwork. I say we head there.”

Vanek nodded. She could be right. It was logical, a good deduction. And yet …

The seed in his tooth. The nagging feeling that they were close.

“You could be right,” he said. “But first, let’s see what we can find in Lucerne.”

“I can’t do this,” Dan said.

Amy and Dan stood on an exclusive shopping street in Lucerne. Steps ahead they saw the stone front of the expensive boutique Ian had told them about. One item hung on a skeletal hanger in the window, something black and tiny that appeared to be a dress or a tunic, or maybe a shirt?

If she couldn’t even identify the clothing, how could she pass herself off as a fashionista?

“We just stole a painting and smuggled ourselves off a train,” Amy said, trying to sound confident. “And we can’t shop ?”

“Don’t make me.” Dan gave her a mute look of appeal. “Can’t you do it?”

“No.” Amy felt her phone vibrate. She held it up. It was from Ian.

DON’T ASK THE PRICE OF ANYTHING. DON’T SMILE. DON’T SAY “DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING CHEAPER?” DON’T

Amy shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Just pretend to be Ian,” she told Dan. “Come on, the auction is in an hour.”

They pushed open the frosted glass door. There appeared to be about ten garments in the whole store, each separated by a foot of polished stainless steel rod. Amy stopped, confused. She was used to the cheerful jumble of fabrics and colors at the stores at the mall. But mostly she shopped on the Internet, finding one sweater she liked and ordering it in a couple of colors – usually navy, black, or gray. Last Christmas, when the Kabras had visited, Natalie’s eyes had flicked over her sweater and skirt and said, “Is this a holiday, Amy, or did somebody die?”

When they had been enemies, Natalie would have punctuated the remark with a cruel smirk, but this time, she’d just shaken her head and laughed. And given Amy a beautiful wool scarf in a heathery blue for the holiday that Amy had worn every day.

Of course, a month later Amy had received the bill.

Dan was doing his best Ian Kabra impersonation, looking around the store as though inspecting it for cockroaches. Amy tried to turn her snort of laughter into a cough.