CHAPTER 15
The next morning, we were sitting in the living room of our hotel suite eating the black bread, porridge, blini, and oladyi—which are served with butter, sour cream, jam, and caviar—brought up by room service for breakfast. We were watching Good Morning, Russia on the state-owned Channel One.
We don’t usually watch much TV (we’re too busy having adventures), but Mom told us TV could be a valuable tool when attempting to learn a new language.
I guess. I still didn’t understand a word of what the giggly early-morning-TV people were saying or why they were dressed in aluminum foil.
Suddenly, a high-pitched beeping noise pierced all our eardrums.
“That’s my secure line,” said Mom, rummaging around inside her backpack.
She pulled out a pretty awesome-looking satellite phone. (I think Mom and Dad still get the CIA discount on all their supercool spy gear.)
“We’re on our way,” Mom said into her phone before she powered it down.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“There’s been a burglary,” she reported. “Next door. At the Hermitage art museum. Several masterpieces are missing—including a priceless Rembrandt.”
“No!” gasped Beck. “Not the Rembrandt! He’s my favorite!”
“Everybody go and grab your gear,” said Mom. “We’re heading back to the museum.”
“Do we have to pay the admission fee again?” asked Tommy.
“No, Tommy. We’re going back as official consultants. The Russians know we’re in town. They also know that, when it comes to finding stolen artworks, the Kidds are the best treasure hunters in the world!”
Larissa Bukova met us outside the Hermitage.
“It is a madhouse in there,” she said. “This is the most horrible crime against the Russian state and people since 1980!”
“What happened way back then?” I asked.
“The amateur United States hockey team defeated the far superior Soviet Union national team at the Lake Placid Winter Olympics,” said Larissa sourly.
“Woo-hoo!” shouted Tommy. Then he started pumping his fist in the air. “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”
Mom arched an eyebrow. “Thomas? Remember where you are.”
“Right. No patriotic fist-pumping allowed. ”
We hurried into the Hermitage. We were in the same wedding-cake room we’d been in the day before, only now the place was packed. I saw Russian police, reporters, tourists, the Russian army, and even Vladimir Putin.
A schlumpy little man in a trench coat waddled over to where we stood staring in horror at the blank spots on the walls. You could still see the outlines of the paintings that should’ve been hanging there.
“Zdravstvuyte,” he said. “I am Inspector Gorky. You are the world-famous Kidds, no?”
“That’s right,” said Mom. “And this is our tutor, translator, and tour guide, Miss Larissa Bukova.”
Tommy put his hand beside his mouth and whispered, “She’s also a hottie.”
Inspector Gorky clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “Zdravstvuyte, Miss Bukova. Ne yavlyayutsya li eti americanskie ‘ohotniki za sokrovishchami’ na samom dele inostrannymi shpionami?”
“No,” said Storm, “we American treasure hunters are not foreign-espionage agents.”
“If I may,” asked Inspector Gorky, “where is your world-famous leader, the renowned art historian and treasure hunter Professor Thomas Kidd?”
“He was called away last night unexpectedly,” said Mom.
Gorky cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Last night? Unexpectedly?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We weren’t expecting it. Neither was he. It was like a surprise party but without any of the good stuff like ice cream or cake.”
“I see,” said Inspector Gorky. “Tell me, then, is Professor Kidd still working for, how you say, the Agency?”
“No,” said Mom.
“Ah. Then who or what is he working for?”
“The good of humanity. Now then, Inspector,” said Mom, nodding toward one of the blank spots on the wall, “I believe we have work to do. What did they take?”
The inspector pulled a spiral notebook out of the inside pocket of his rumpled trench coat and read a list.
“Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna Litta, The Lute Player by Caravaggio, Giorgione’s Judith, and Danaë by Rembrandt.”
“No!” gacked Beck. “Rembrandt’s my favorite!”
“Yes,” said Gorky, rechecking his notes. “The Rembrandt.”
“This is unbelievable,” muttered Mom. “Thomas leaves to pursue the Enlightened Ones, and the very next day, this happens?”
“I’m sorry,” said Inspector Gorky, “you were mumbling. I did not understand.”
“Nothing,” said Mom. “Just that this has to be one of the biggest art heists in history.”
“Yes,” said Inspector Gorky. “It is big. Very, very big.”
Like Mom, I had a hunch that the despicable Enlightened Ones were somehow involved. They’d probably already submarined all four of the missing paintings to their secret volcano treasure vault.
That’s why they sent Dad that coded clue.
They wanted the cat to go away so their sticky-fingered mice could come to the art museum and play.
And by play, I mean steal!