CHAPTER 48

All Beck and I could figure out was that maybe the Enlightened Ones’ secret hiding place was somewhere in America because D.C. could be Washington, D.C. Then again, it could be some other D.C.—maybe direct current, which, according to our walking Wikipedia, Storm, is electricity traveling in one direction (not to be confused with the boy band One Direction), like you get from batteries or solar cells. So that might mean the bad-guy billionaires were stashing their stolen art in a battery factory. Or a solar farm.

Or maybe D.C. means that D.C. Comics is somehow involved. They’re the guys who gave us Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman and all sorts of evil villains.

As you can tell, all we had were guesses about D.C.

Same with H.H. We have absolutely no idea who or what those letters stand for. Mom suggested Horatio Hornblower. Probably because he was a sailor in a book, just like us.

Basically, we were getting nowhere, fast.

“Let’s focus on the part of the message about the missing Russian masterpieces,” said Beck. “We need to start somewhere.”

“Good idea,” I said. “It says:

According to the E-1s (and you have to figure billionaires like that have spies and paid informants everywhere), our art thief was a Russian local. Maybe even an “art hater” right here in Saint Petersburg.

“How can anyone hate art?” wondered Beck, our family artiste, as Inspector Gorky ferried us from the airport to our hotel.

“Maybe Picasso turned them into a cube or something,” suggested Tommy. “Or maybe they don’t like all those paintings and statues of people not wearing any clothes.” He paused. “You’re right, Beck. How can anyone hate art?”

Inspector Gorky dropped us off at the State Hermitage Museum Official Hotel. “Get some rest,” he advised. “Thaw out from your time at the North Pole. Tomorrow, your most important treasure hunt begins. Find the four missing masterpieces. There will be trouble if the cobbler starts making pies.”

We all just nodded. I figured it was another one of Inspector Gorky’s famous Russian sayings that I wouldn’t be saying to anybody anytime soon.

We picked up our keys at the front desk and went upstairs to our rooms.

Which weren’t exactly empty.

Someone was waiting for us.

And it wasn’t room service with a platter of Russian caviar.

It was despicable Uncle Timothy!