CHAPTER 38

Three sleds, each pulled by a team of panting huskies, glided across the ice toward us.

Every sled carried a driver wrapped in fur. As the sleds drew nearer, I noticed that the drivers were Eskimos, who, as I learned from Storm, I should actually call Inuit.

“Well, hello!” Tommy called out to the dogsled in the middle. “Thanks for dropping by. You’re the answer to all our prayers. Especially mine.”

Tommy wasn’t just saying this because the Inuit dogsleds had shown up in the nick of time. Judging by his frostbite-risking hair-smoothing, he’d already fallen in love at first sight with the pretty Inuk girl driving the middle sled.

“These are our local contacts,” Mom said to the Russian colonel, who was scratching his head in confusion. “They’ve discovered a few leads that might help us in our investigation. Please tell Minister Szymanowicz that we will contact him the instant we know more about the location of your stolen art.”

“You will contact him?” asked the Russian. “How?”

Mom held out her hand. “You will give me your satellite telephone.”

“That is unacceptable,” said the Russian. “We will accompany you and your so-called local contacts until you find the paintings.”

“Great,” I said, “you guys can be in charge of scooping the dog poop.”

“What?”

“Those sled dogs don’t run on oil,” said Beck. “They run on meat. They eat, they poop, they run, they poop. Get it, poop-head?”

“You children are disgusting!” said the Russian, scrunching up his face like he just smelled a bad batch of carbonated bread juice. (Seriously. That’s a thing in Russia. They call it kvass.)

“You think we’re disgusting now?” I said. “Wait till you spend some quality time with us.”

“Bick seldom bathes,” added Beck.

“Well, not when it’s freezing out.”

“You didn’t bathe in the tropics either!”

“Because when I am exploring the earth, I enjoy smelling earthy!”

“The earth doesn’t reek as bad as you!”

“Says who?”

“Me and half the people in China. They built that Great Wall to keep you and your stench out!”

Yep. We were really whaling on each other, big-time—battling like the most obnoxious brats in the world. When we’re in full-blown Twin Tirade mode, there’s not a grown-up on the planet who wants to spend more than ten seconds anywhere near us.

“Quick!” shouted the colonel. “Summon the helicopters. Initiate the extraction package.”

The radioman made a fast call on the satellite phone.