CHAPTER 61

“Tell me, Mrs. Kidd,” said Zolin, “where exactly did your husband find the Enlightened Ones’ secret cache of precious paintings?”

“We don’t know,” said Mom.

“And did your husband receive a cash reward for all the treasures he liberated from the Enlightened Ones?” Zolin asked.

“He will,” said Mom. “The art museums the pieces were stolen from and their insurance companies will be very pleased when the artworks are safely returned to their proper homes.”

“Pocket change compared to what you fools could get by selling the paintings to us,” snarled Uncle Timothy.

“I’d rather be a fool than a skeevy sleazeball!” snapped Beck, who was furious. As the artist in the family, I think she was the one who was the most horrified by Uncle Timothy and Viktor Zolin’s art-destruction plans.

“Enough!” said Zolin. “You are professional treasure hunters. Money talks, everything else walks. I will double whatever the museums and their insurance companies are offering you!”

“Whoa,” said Tommy. “Double?”

Zolin shrugged. “I just have to pump oil a little faster up in the Arctic Ocean. If some spills on a walrus or turns a polar bear into a brown bear, who cares? I will make money, money, money! Some of which I will give to you.”

Mom nodded slowly. Thoughtfully.

I couldn’t believe this. Was she actually considering creepy Viktor Zolin’s oily offer? Would she let Uncle Timothy destroy everything the Kidd Family Treasure Hunters stood for? We weren’t just about the money. We were about trying to make a difference in the world and returning beloved art treasures to wherever they really belonged.

“I need to contact my husband,” said Mom. “Arrange a few details.”

Zolin smiled. “Please do.”

Mom tapped her wristwatch. We heard Dad’s receiver ringing.

Mom started humming while she waited for Dad to pick up.

“Hello?” said Dad.

Mom kept humming.

He hummed something too. Then Mom picked up the humming. Then Dad took over. It was like a humming duet!

Or something far more clever.

I glanced at Storm. She shot me a sly wink.

We both knew that Mom and Dad were communicating in some kind of secret musical code—the same one they’d used before in our adventures.

“Hey—” Uncle Timothy cut in.

But before he could continue, Mom stopped humming and said into her watch, “Honey, I think I may have found a new buyer for the stolen artworks the Enlightened Ones had in their storage space.”

“But,” said Dad, “the museums and their insurance companies will pay—”

“Half of what I will pay!” shouted Zolin. “Name their price and I will double it.”

“Is that you, Mr. Zolin?”

“Yes! I’m a billionaire oil baron! I can buy anything and everything I want! Anything, I say!”

“Very well,” said Dad.

Zolin raised his fists in triumph, then looked over at us. “And you Kidd kids agree to this as well? I do not want any of you changing your minds.”

Storm spoke up. “If Dad says we’re in, then we’re in.”

The rest of us nodded. We didn’t know what Mom and Dad’s plans were, but we trusted that they knew what they were doing.

“I’ve already crated the paintings,” said Dad. “But I haven’t alerted the museums.”

“Good move, Thomas,” said Uncle Timothy.

“Hello, Timothy. I can assume that, in my absence, you are looking out for my family?”

“Like always. I’m also looking out for you. I brokered this deal.”

“Does that mean you want a share of the profits?”

“Nothing outrageous, Thomas. Twenty-five percent would be fine.”

Beck groaned in disgust. It was hard to believe how slimy Uncle Timothy was, even though he’d shown us time and time again.

Dad didn’t seem to mind. “Make it fifteen and we have a deal,” he said.

Zolin flicked his wrist at Uncle Timothy. “I’ll make up the difference.”

“Deal,” said Uncle Timothy.

“I’ll need a little time,” said Dad. “I have to call in a few favors to arrange a cargo plane. Then it’s at least an eleven-hour flight from where I am to Pulkovo Airport there in Saint Petersburg…”

I could see the wheels in Storm’s head turning already. Which places were an eleven-hour flight from us?

“We will wait for you,” said Zolin. “And until you arrive with all of my new masterpieces, do not worry—your family will be my houseguests.”

He sliced his finger across his throat, signaling Mom to end the call.

“Got to run, hon,” she said. “Love you.”

Zolin clapped his hands. His minions pulled out that arsenal of weapons they’d been concealing.

We weren’t really going to be houseguests until Dad showed up.

We were going to be hostages.