CHAPTER 25

Minister Szymanowicz wasn’t done with his plot-thickening ingredients.

“You were recommended for this job by the famous billionaire Viktor Zolin.”

“The teenage weeper?” I blurted out.

“Da. Viktor is very emotional. He cries so much, he had to hire an extra bodyguard just to carry his tissue boxes.”

“Wait a second,” said Tommy. “Viktor Zolin is the one who told the cops to toss us in jail.”

Minister Szymanowicz nodded. “As I said, he is very emotional. Prone to mood swings. We apologize for any inconvenience caused by your recent incarceration. I assure you that you were never suspects in this crime.”

“Viktor Zolin is also worth several billion dollars,” added Larissa Bukova. “Most of it has come from his family’s oil and gas holdings. When his parents mysteriously died, young Viktor inherited everything.”

“What do you mean, mysteriously?” asked Storm, who was probably pegging thirteen-year-old Viktor as a prime murder suspect.

“It was a freak accident,” explained Larissa. “Viktor’s parents were visiting an artistic installation known as the Ice Palace that was erected in Saint Petersburg ten years ago. Viktor, of course, was only three years old at the time so his parents left him with his babushka—his grandmother—while they explored the magnificent sculpture created by master ice artists using three tons of ice blocks chiseled out of nearby lakes. The frozen building was a replica of the original Ice Palace built in 1740 to celebrate the Russian victory in the Turkish war and honor the tenth anniversary of Empress Anna’s reign. It was nearly thirty feet tall and incredibly beautiful.”

“So what happened?” I asked Larissa.

“The sun came out. It was highly unusual and unexpected in Russia. Especially for February. Viktor’s parents—and several other unfortunate frozen-sculpture lovers—were crushed under blocks of melting ice. This is why he weeps so much.”

Minister Szymanowicz nodded. “He once told a reporter, ‘I weep as the ice wept—right before it killed my mama and my papa.’”

“That is so sad,” said Beck.

“Totally,” added Tommy. “What a bummer.”

We all started sniffling a little. Our eyes were getting watery, like ice cubes in a tray that’s been sitting on a kitchen counter too long.

Except Storm. She seldom gets emotional or teary-eyed about anything.

“So,” she said loudly (so we could hear her over all the sobbing), “are we ready to hit the road here or what?”

“You honestly think you will find all of this stolen art at the North Pole?” asked Minister Szymanowicz.

“Given the clues fed to us by the E-Ones,” said Mom, shooting me another look, “it remains our best guess. And if we’re wrong? We won’t quit searching until we retrieve your treasures—no matter where the quest may take us.”

“And we’ll find all that stuff stolen from those other museums too,” said Tommy. “We’re very good at tracking down things everybody else thinks are lost forever.”

“Like our dad,” I added. “After a couple false starts.”

“Very well,” said Minister Szymanowicz. “My associates will put together everything you need for your expedition north. No expense shall be spared.”

“Spasibo,” said Mom.

“You’re welcome. These arrangements will, of course, take a little time.” He opened up a filing cabinet, pulled out five small shopping bags featuring his ministry’s snazzy official seal, and gave one to each of us. “Please, Kidd Family Treasure Hunters, accept these goodie bags with our compliments.”

I checked mine out immediately. There was all sorts of fantastic free stuff inside: one of those matryoshka nesting dolls, a big slab of gingerbread, Alyonka chocolate bars, a Russian fur hat, a USB thumb drive, a three-pronged phone charger, and dried apricots (yuck).

“We have booked for you and your tutor a block of rooms in the magnificent Ararat Park hotel,” the minister continued. “Enjoy your evening in Moscow. I hope you find the time to do some shopping, for soon you will need very warm, very heavy winter clothes. Tomorrow, you leave for the North Pole!”