CHAPTER 49
“I hope you kids don’t mind,” said Uncle Timothy as we just stood there gawking at him, “but I ate all the cheese straws in the minibar. All the M&M’s and Famous Amos cookies too. Breaking out of the most secure federal penitentiary in America really makes you work up an appetite.”
He touched his ear.
“Roger that,” he said to whoever was on the other end of his communication. “The lambs are in the pen. I’ll run the canary trap. Set up the dead drop and organize an OP for the OPO.”
“Timothy?” said Mom.
“Hang on,” he said to his earpiece. “Yes, Sue?”
“I was with the CIA, remember?”
“Affirmative.”
“So I understand spy jargon.”
Uncle T touched his ear again. “Let me get back to you. Do svidaniya.”
“What are you doing here, Timothy?” demanded Mom. “And why did you just tell your new boss that we’re lambs and you’re going to run a canary trap to expose an information leak?”
“Because this operation is so classified, we can’t afford any leaks. Heck, I had to pretend to be a triple agent, get convicted of high treason, spend time in the Alcatraz of the Rockies, and make a daring escape through an extremely foul sewer pipe just to protect you and my four favorite little lambs!”
“Baaaah,” said Storm. Not because she wanted to sound sheep-y, but because she didn’t believe a word Uncle T was saying.
“I’m serious,” said Uncle Timothy. “Everything has been leading up to this one single extremely crucial operation. Everything: The search for the Grecian urn. The trek through Africa. Your time in China. The recovery of the art stolen by the Nazis. Every illegal art dealer that you—Tommy, Storm, Bickford, and Rebecca—have taken down so far, all the treasure you’ve recovered, it’s all small potatoes compared to the big fish behind this Hermitage heist.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” said Storm. “Potatoes don’t swim in water.”
Uncle Timothy probably gave Storm a dirty look. I couldn’t tell for sure. His sunglasses were so mirrored I didn’t know what his eyes were really doing behind all that shiny silver.
“Timothy,” said Mom, “do you have a lead on who stole the art out of the Hermitage?”
“I might.”
“Good. Because so far, we’ve got nothing.”
Interesting. Mom didn’t share the latest E-1 clue about the culprit being a local with Uncle T.
“All right, children,” said Uncle Timothy, “kindly give us the room. Your mother and I need to talk. This is strictly an adults-only conversation. No children allowed.”
“So,” I said, “how come you get to stay, Uncle T?”
My sibs cracked up. Mom too. We were laughing so hard, we were holding our sides.
Uncle Timothy whipped off his sunglasses, a move he made only when he wanted to glare at you to show how serious he was.
“I’m serious,” he said. (See? I told you.)
“Like a chess master, I’ve been running an extremely long game against the most cunning, clever, and crafty art thief in the world. He is the mastermind behind this recent rash of museum smash-and-grabs.”
“Is it the Enlightened Ones?” I asked.
Uncle Timothy chuckled. “You read too many comic books, Bickford. The Enlightened Ones are a myth. They don’t really exist.”
“Then why did they send us so many clues about their stolen-art warehouse?” demanded Beck.
“Because the real culprits wanted your father out of Russia and out of the picture. But that was all part of my master plan too. With your father gone, the top dog would lower his guard. Giving your mother and me a very slim window of opportunity to swoop in and nab him.”
Mom was furrowing her brow. She didn’t trust Uncle Timothy any more than the rest of us. But I could tell she wanted to hear him out.
“Go to your rooms, guys,” she said. “Uncle Timothy and I need to talk.”
“In private!” added Uncle Timothy.
“Fine,” said Tommy. “Just don’t eat all the cashews too.”
Uncle Timothy grinned. “Already have.”
I just shook my head. Of course he had!
Because Uncle Timothy was a cashew-, cheese-straw-, and cookie-snitching creep!