Seven Wonders Book 3 (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

C
ODE
R
ED

ERROR
.

Aly's monitor beeped at her for what seemed like the dozenth time on the flight to New York.

She pounded on the screen and sat back in her seat. “I need a nap . . .”

“Whoa, another new tower on Fifty-Seventh Street near Seventh Avenue,” Cass said, his face plastered to the window. “Construction on the West Side Highway, too—and check out Williamsburg, on the horizon!”

“Will you stop that, Cass?” Aly said, rubbing her forehead. “They're buildings, that's all.”

Cass spun around. He looked hurt. “Sorry, Aly. I geek out over this stuff.”

“Apology accepted. Wake me when we're there.” Aly's head lolled back in her seat. By the time it clonked against the window, she was fast asleep.

I glanced at Dr. Bradley. She had a newspaper unfolded in her lap, open to a crossword puzzle. But she was ignoring that now, staring intently at Aly.

As Brunhilda began her descent, Torquin yanked the steering mechanism this way and that in an attempt to do tricky moves. Dad was radioing the Marine Air Terminal for runway instructions. Cass was grinning out the window like a little kid.

Aly let out a sharp snoring sound. Her head began to slide downward. As she slipped off the seat, I realized she hadn't fastened her belt.

“Aly?” I said.

She thumped to the carpet, her legs twitching.

Dr. Bradley was already on the move. She lifted Aly, swung her around to the back of the plane, and deposited her on the reclined seat that had once held Professor Bhegad. “Someone take the phone from my purse!” she shouted.

Aly's chest lurched up and down. A
cccchhhh
sound came from her mouth, and her eyes rolled back into her head. I knelt by Dr. Bradley's purse and fished out the phone.

Cass's face was bone white. “She's . . . she's not due for an episode . . .”

“I have the phone!” I shouted.

“Do exactly as I say,” Dr. Bradley said. “Send a text to one-four-two-eight-five-seven. Two words. Code red!”

Dr. Bradley was holding Aly's arms down. Trying to keep her from flailing. From hurting herself. My fingers shook as I tried to follow instructions.

C
ODE RESD
.

Steady. Backspace . . .

C
ODE RED
.

I jammed my thumb on send.

“No phone now!” Torquin bellowed. “Give treatment!”

“I would if I could!” Dr. Bradley shouted. “I don't have my equipment! I may be able to sedate her briefly, but that's it!”

Aly's face was turning blue. Dr. Bradley's hand was in Aly's mouth, trying to keep her from swallowing her tongue.

The phone vibrated. I nearly dropped it.

Its screen now glowed with a string of characters:

1W72PH4

“What the heck does this mean?” I said.

Cass was out of his seat, staring over my shoulder. “It's an address,” he said. “Number One West Seventy-Second Street. Right off Central Park. Not sure about the last part—PH four . . .”

“Penthouse four!” Dad said. “The apartment on the top floor, most likely. Is this where we're supposed to go?”

“Who are we seeing?” I asked.

“Never mind that!” Dr. Bradley said. “And don't even think of calling nine-one-one. We have no time. We need to land now.”

“We're third in line for landing clearance!” Dad said.

Torquin yanked hard on the throttle. “Now we are first.”

 

The taxi screeched to a stop in front of 1 West 72nd Street. Dad had pulled some sort of strings to get us through customs in no time. He also promised the cabdriver double pay if he got us to the address on Dr. Bradley's phone in twenty minutes. He made it in eighteen fifty-three.

Torquin, Dr. Bradley, and Aly were in another cab. It pulled to the curb directly in front of us.

The building loomed overhead, a brick urban castle surrounded by a black cast iron fence festooned with carved angry faces. In a dark, arched entranceway, two guards stood, hands folded. Cass gazed at them, a spooked look in his eyes. “This is exactly where John Lennon was shot and killed,” he whispered.

“Will you stop it?” I said.

As Dad paid the fare, a man darted out of the archway toward the first cab. He wore a wool cap, dark sunglasses, jeans, and a black leather jacket, and he had something shiny and metallic in his hand.

“What the—?” Dad murmured.

The man leaned into the open back window of Aly's cab. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but when he backed out, his hands were empty.

Before we could do a thing, he was pulling open the back door of our cab. “To the river!” he shouted to the taxi driver, yanking open the rear door and squeezing into the backseat with Cass and me. “And step on it.”

In front of us, Torquin was lifting Aly out of the other cab. I caught the flash of silver as her arm flopped limply down.

“Sir,” the cabdriver said meekly, “I must discharge these passengers—”

“I said go!”
the man barked.

As the taxi squealed away from the curb, Dad whirled around. “I beg your pardon!” he said. “We have urgent business in that building.”

The man put a hand into his jacket pocket. “If you know what's good for you, you will do exactly as I say.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

H
ACKED?

I
F YOU EVER
wondered what it was like to ride down a New York City street in the backseat of a taxi whose driver is whimpering “We are going to die, we are going to die, we are going to die,” I'll tell you: it's not fun.

He was careening from side to side. He sideswiped a parked minivan, then cut across two lanes and nearly collided head-on with a baby-supplies truck driver with a potty mouth.

The car screeched to a halt at a red light on Columbus Avenue. “I said go, not kill your passengers,” said the man in the leather jacket. He was holding a leather wallet, which he had just pulled from his jacket pocket. “If you expect a tip, I recommend you drive in a sane manner and deposit us alive at Riverside Drive.”

The driver looked warily over his shoulder. “This is not a stickup?”

“What? Of course it's not.” The man sighed and sat back, removing his hat and then his sunglasses. His hair was silver and thick, swept straight back like a marble sculpture. His eyes were a cold blue-gray, set into a rocklike face that was tanned and deeply cragged.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“Your dream come true,” he said. “Dr. Bradley did well. By calling a Code Red, she was following KI protocol for emergencies.”

“You're a part of the KI?” Cass said. “But the KI was destroyed!”

“Correction—the island was occupied,” the man said, “but the Karai Institute still exists. For reasons of security, the leader of the KI is never on-island. All Code Red messages go directly to the central office. We have satellites in many places, one of them here.”

Number One.

Omphalos.

Professor Bhegad had told us about a Karai leader, someone who he took orders from. But not much. Not even a name. “Is that who Aly is seeing?” I said. “Bhegad's boss?”

“Your friend is in very good hands.” The man leaned forward. “Driver, let us off at the far corner, end of this block.”

We climbed out on Riverside Drive, at the entrance to a park. Just beyond the jogging path flowed a wide, silver-blue river. “The Hudson,” Cass said. “And that's New Jersey on the other side —”

“Quickly,” the man said, ushering us past a low stone gate. He was shorter and older than my dad. Under his leather jacket was a white turtleneck shirt that revealed a little paunch. “You were followed to New York.”

“We couldn't have been,” Dad said. “We were in Turkey. And before that—”

“Mongolia, yes, we know this.” Reaching into an inner pocket, he took out two thin, silvery bracelets. “Put these on. Iridium bracelets. Aly has one, too.”

I took one and turned it over in my hand.
Iridium
. These bracelets were replicas of the ones given to us at Massa headquarters in Egypt.

“This is the only substance that blocks our trackers—the ones you implanted in our bodies on the island,” I said.

“Why do we have to wear them now?” Cass asked.

The man looked at Cass stonily. “The Massa are on high alert. They have access to your trackers—which means we have just led them here, away from your friend Aly. Once you put yours on, the signal becomes a dead end.”

I shook my head, remembering Aly's antics in Building D. “No. Aly disabled the KI's tracking machines. Fried them with an overload of electricity.”

The man's rocklike expression twitched.

“You . . . have this much confidence in her ability?” he said.

“If you knew her, you would, too,” I said.

The man nodded. “So if they're not tracking, how did they find you?”

Cass and I exchanged a look and shrugged.

The man took our arms. He pulled us toward Seventy-Second Street, back the way we'd come. “Tell me who exactly you met in Turkey.”

 

“What do you mean they
hacked
you, Canavar?” I barked into the speakerphone.

We were back in the KI meeting room in the New York City headquarters, in a sprawling corner apartment in the castlelike building. Dad was glaring at the silver-haired man, still upset about the way he'd hijacked the taxi.

Canavar's reply squeaked through the tiny speaker. “Perhaps I have not used the proper terminology. It appears that early this morning thy dreaded nemesis the Massa made several phone calls. They reached out to each vicinity that is home to one of the Seven Wonders—including our museum at Bodrum. My employer. Naturally by that time, I had, well, mentioned our exploits to a discreet friend or two . . .”

The back of my head hit the seat's leather headrest. “That's not hacking, Canavar,” I said. “That's a big mouth. You weren't supposed to say anything!”

“But . . . an experience so momentous!” Canavar said, “of such singular archaeological interest!”

“Canavar, did you tell them where we were headed?” Cass demanded.

The phone stayed silent for a long moment. Then a tiny, “Mea culpa.”

The gray-haired man pressed the off button. “That's Latin for ‘my fault.' We have our answer.”

He sat back in his thick leather seat, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. The room fell into a tense silence. Cass gave me a kick under the table. His hands still in his lap, he pointed to our companion.

Omphalos
, he mouthed.

I don't know if it was a question or a statement. But I felt a shiver up my spine.

Was it possible?

The man was no-nonsense. Steely. Smart. Cagey. Hadn't answered when we'd asked his name. He kept his cool, said exactly what he meant and no more, and understood Latin. He didn't draw attention, yet he could strike fear with a glance or a gesture. The perfect profile for a leader.

And this realization made my heart sink.

Because he was no longer the KI's best-kept secret. He was here with us, on the ground. Pulling antics in a cab. Totally misunderstanding how we were tracked. Taking unnecessary risks. Revealing his weaknesses. To me, it was a sign. This centuries-old organization, the KI, was on its last legs.

The Massa were out there. Somewhere. Stronger than ever. About to win the game.

I gazed through the window. Below us, tourists wearing green-foam Statue of Liberty crowns were heading into Central Park. Some of them were tossing flowers onto a colorful mosaic that spelled out one word:

I
MAGINE
.

I turned away.

I didn't want to.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

L
OSING
I
T

D
R.
B
RADLEY'S LATEX
gloves snapped as she pulled them off her fingers. Her face was lined and haggard. “Aly will be all right for now. Thanks to my New York colleagues. They are lifesavers.”

Cass and I stood in the doorway of the makeshift operating room, watching the two other medical personnel carefully unhook electrodes from Aly. Her mouth moved slightly. I could hear a soft moan. As the KI doctors left with the silver-haired man—Number One, aka the Omphalos—we shook their hands. Torquin sat quietly on a stool, which barely contained him. “No ukulele . . .” he said sadly to no one in particular.

“This is amazing news, Dr. Bradley,” I said, “because we were just told we have to move Aly right now.”

She shook her head. “She'll need some recovery time. I told that to Number One.”

Cass gave me a quizzical look.

“When did you talk to him?” I asked, puzzled.

“I didn't. Not directly.” She pointed to a monitor on the wall. “He texted us, on that.”

“Sneaky guy,” Cass said. “I didn't even see him take out his phone, did you, Jack?”

“Take out his—What are you talking about?” Dr. Bradley asked. “You've seen Number One?”

“We took a cab ride with him,” I said.

Dr. Bradley dropped a length of IV tubing. “You
what
?”

Before we could answer, our taxi companion came running up the hallway. “They're onto us. The Massa. We were hacking into their text messages and they just went dead cold.”

“Do you know where they are?” Dr. Bradley asked.

“Unclear whether they've landed in New York yet,” he replied. “If the girl isn't ready, the other two must get to the museum now.”

“Not two,” Torquin grunted. “Three.”

Behind us, the monitor on the wall beeped. A message instantly materialized:

NOT SO FAST.

Cass jumped back. “Who's that?”

The response crawled quickly across the screen:

GREETINGS, CASSIUS. YOU WILL EXCUSE ME FOR NOT SPEAKING. ANONYMITY IS KEY. YOU AND JACK LOOK WELL, FOR TWO WHO HAVE SURVIVED THE UNDERWORLD.
A
ND THE INCOMPETENCE OF MR. KRAUS.

The silver-haired man's face lost its composure. “The iridium bands were an honest mistake.”

“Wait—you're not the Omphalos?” Cass said, slowly looking from the silver-haired man to the screen. “And
that
is?”

SECURITY HAS BEEN COMPROMISED AT ALL LEVELS. THE KARAI INSTITUTE WILL BE OFF-LINE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE WHILE WE RESTRUCTURE. MR. KRAUS WILL COMMENCE ERASING ALL EVIDENCE OF OUR EXISTENCE.

“I have a patient!” Dr. Bradley said. “She needs to recover. There will be more episodes. We will continue to need emergency protocols.”

“I—I'm good,” Aly said, rising groggily from the bed. “Maybe not ready for a marathon right this minute, but I'm good.”

BRAVA. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED TO CONTINUE YOUR MISSION. PORTABILITY IS NECESSARY. I AM ASSEMBLING A HANDPICKED COMMITTEE OF OUR ABLEST REMAINING SPECIALISTS. WE WILL REPORT WHEN WE CAN.

“What does this mean for us?” Dr. Bradley blurted out. “What good is the KI if you disappear?”

A TRANSPORT WILL ARRIVE FOR TORQUIN IN EXACTLY 20 MINUTES AT THE TRUCK DOCK ON WEST 68TH BETWEEN BROADWAY AND COLUMBUS. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WILL AWAIT. TILL THEN, TAKE HEART.

Torquin stood abruptly, knocking over his stool. “Leave Select? Cannot. Will not!”

The screen glowed again as words formed.

I COUNT ON YOU TO BE THE CORNERSTONE OF OUR PHYSICAL REBUILDING. AND PLEASE BE AWARE, THERE ARE CONSEQUENCES FOR DISOBEDIENCE.

I saw Torquin's fists flex. I nudged him. In the hall outside was a man I hadn't seen before—a man almost as big as Torquin, with a serious-looking pistol hanging from his belt.

Torquin's fists uncurled.

Mr. Kraus wiped his forehead and gave old Red Beard a sympathetic look. “Brother, trust me, you don't have much of a choice.”

 

Seven minutes later we pulled to a stop at a sprawling building with broad stone steps.

“Who's the dude on the horse?” Cass said, gazing out at a statue of a heroic-looking horseman with a Native American standing by his side.

“Theodore Roosevelt,” Dad said as he stepped out of the taxi, clutching the bag with both Loculi. “He and his father played huge roles founding this place.”

We left the cab and began climbing the steps, passing a school group about my age. They were taking selfies near the Roosevelt statue, making faces and goofing off. One of the girls looked at me and turned away, giggling. She was annoying, but she was
normal
. For a moment I imagined Dad and me as normal people visiting the museum. The thought of it was . . . well, amazing.

Fat chance that would ever happen now.

I looked left and right. I didn't know what I was looking for. The Massa could be anybody.

“Buddy, dollar for a cup of coffee?”

I gasped and jumped away from a stringy-haired man in tattered clothing, who was standing at one of the top steps, holding out a cup to us. “Easy, Jack,” Aly said, fishing coins out of her pocket and dropping them in his cup.

“Bless you,” the man replied, then winked at me. “And take care of that anxiety, kid. It'll kill you.”

Easy. Aly is right.

Dad led us into the front hall of the museum, which contained a gargantuan skeleton of a dinosaur raised up on its hind legs. “Looks familiar,” Cass murmured.

I nodded. It resembled a slightly smaller version of the skeleton in the Great Hall of the House of Wenders, back on the island. As we stepped to the end of a long, snaky ticket line, I craned my neck up to see its head.

I almost missed the man wearing a dark robe, who disappeared into the exhibit hall behind the skeleton.

I jabbed Dad in the side. “Look!”

“Massa?” Dad asked.

“Where?” Cass said.

“You are too hyped up!” Aly said.

“Normal people don't wear robes!” I shouted.

I bolted toward the front of the line, barged past the ticket taker, and raced into the exhibit hall. It was a high-ceilinged room with a balcony, and in the center was a circular display of enormous elephants. The floor on all sides was crowded with families and school groups. I ran to the right, leaping to see over people's heads.

There.

I caught a better glimpse of him now, his robe swinging as he walked. I thought he was heading out the other side, but he seemed to change his mind. Picking up speed, he made a full circle and headed back out the exhibit entrance.

Had he seen me?

“Excuse me . . . sorry . . .” I pushed my way through, nearly trampling a two-year-old in my path, and stumbled into the hallway outside the room.

Elevators lined both walls, but only one car was open—and it was closing, jammed with people. I saw a bearded face, a flash of the robe's material, before the door shut.

A “down” arrow lit up. Behind me was a set of marble stairs. I nearly fell trying to run down. I got to the next level just in time to see the door shut again. A crowd had exited, but the Massa was not among them.

I ran to the next floor. The bottom. I could smell burgers from a food court behind me. A sign pointed to the subway entrance. I heard the ding of the elevator, but it was a different door. A different car. I'd missed the one I'd been chasing.

“Pardon me, young man,” said an old lady with an American Museum of Natural History hat. “Are you lost?”

“I'm looking for a guy in a robe,” I said.

She nodded cheerily. “Ah yes, I just saw him.”

“Do you know where he went?” I blurted.

“Of course.” She pointed to a room with two wood-paneled doors, just beyond the food court. The guy was disappearing inside. I sprinted after him. “Yo!” I yelled as he entered the room. “Stop!”

A million words welled up from my gut and collided together in my brain. I was breathing so hard and fast I could barely speak. “I don't know . . . how you got here, but you . . . will never . . .”

The man turned. He was wearing thick glasses, a clerical collar, and a long black beard. “How I got here? Why, I took the C train. There is an exit from the platform—so convenient. Do you need directions, son? Have you lost your parents?”

That was when I noticed a name tag just below his collar:
REV. JONATHAN HARTOUNIAN, MID-ATLANTIC ARMENIAN ORTHODOX COUNCIL
. On a blackboard in the room behind him, someone had written
GLIMPSES OF ARMENIAN RELIGIOUS CULTURE IN MODERN ARCHAEOLOGY.
A crowd of bearded, black-robed guys turned in their seats, all staring at me with placid smiles.

“Um, sorry,” I said. “So sorry . . .”

I backed into the hallway. Two kids were staring at me, holding tightly to their mom's hands. The old guide was approaching me with a curious expression.

Without a word, I turned for the stairway and ran.

I was losing it.