CHAPTER 31
“You work for Viktor Zolin?” I said.
“Da. But now, we are here on what you call summer vacation. Forget Mexico or the Bahamas. We like to take cruises to more frigid climates.”
More snickers from the three thugs. Their parkas were so poofy they might’ve been hiding weapons under their coats. Heck, they were so poofy they might’ve been hiding walruses.
“Well,” said Beck, who really isn’t afraid of anything or anybody, “we’re only on this tub because your boss, the teenage billionaire, recommended us for this mission.”
“What mission do you mean?” said one of the Russians. “Taking home movies of glaciers?” He held out his hand to Mom. “Give me the camera. Now.”
“Excuse me?” said Mom.
“Viktor Zolin owns that glacier. He does not like people taking pictures of his property.”
This time, Mom just laughed.
“You’re joking, right?”
The Russian shook his head. “No joke. Putin sold it to him.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Nikita. My name is Nikita.”
“I’m sorry, Nikita, but Vladimir Putin does not own the Arctic Circle.”
“Oh, really? Try telling him that!”
Mom was starting to lose her patience with Nikita. “Look, sir, many countries have laid claim to the Arctic Circle, not just Russia—Canada, Norway, Denmark, and the United States.”
Storm took over with the details. “Each country is allowed to explore potential oil reserves within two hundred miles of its coastline.”
“Ah,” said Nikita, “but several years ago, we Russians very cleverly sent a mini-submarine to the floor of the Arctic Ocean and planted our country’s flag underwater. So the ocean is all ours!”
“Ha!” said Storm. “The United Nations tossed that claim out years ago.”
“It does not matter. You may not take photographs of that iceberg without the express written consent of Viktor Zolin. Give me your camera, Mrs. Kidd, or you will force me to take it.”
Mom did as she was commanded.
Probably because she realized the goons weren’t packing walruses under their parkas.
Plus, Mom knew the four of us had snapped the same photographs and videos on our smartphones—the ones that were now cleverly hidden deep inside the pockets of our four parkas.
“You’ve got Mom’s camera,” said Tommy, “now back off, Nikita. We’re the good guys, remember? We came all this way to find the four famous paintings stolen from your art museum in Saint Petersburg.”
“You funny!” howled Nikita.
“No,” I said. “That’s an entirely different book series starring Jamie Grimm. He funny. We Kidds. We treasure hunters.”
“We’re not just treasure hunters,” said Mom. “We’re also people who are extremely worried about what’s happening to the Arctic environment.”
The three Russians stopped laughing.
Nikita reached inside his pocket. I heard a click.
Oh yeah. He was definitely packing.