Addison Cooke and the Treasure of the Incas (15 page)

Addison tilted his chin so he could look down his nose at the guard. “We're the a cappella group,” he said imperiously. Addison was still a bit stung that the choir ploy
hadn't worked at the Cathedral of Lost Souls, and he was determined to give the scheme a second shot. He patted the guard on the cheek. “I assume dinner is included with our fee.” Without waiting for a response, Addison snapped his fingers at his friends who trailed him inside.

The guard eyed them suspiciously. He spoke rapid Spanish into his walkie-talkie. A team of guards circled in, handguns bulging under their blazers. They followed Addison's group into the party.

•   •   •

Addison strolled into the most magnificent party he'd ever seen. A massive tent, as big as a circus big top, covered the entire courtyard of the castle. The tent arched over a stage where the band hammered out a rhythmic rumba. Guests in black-tie formalwear glided around the dance floor. Waiters passed glittering platters of pricey beluga caviar, fried calamari, and oysters on the half shell. Addison had to hand it to Don Miguel—he must be pretty good at his job to foot the bill for a wedding this posh.

The nine-foot wedding cake stood on a gilded pedestal. Addison spotted the bride shaking her fists and shouting at the wedding photographer. The poor photographer was having trouble fitting both the cake and the bride into his photo.

Don Hernando Miguel greeted guests with a double
kiss, greasing their cheeks with his oiled mustache. Puffed up in a tight tuxedo, his black hair slicked tight against his scalp, Don Miguel looked every bit like an overfed penguin.

Addison carved a path through the crowd, smiling, waving, shaking hands, and aiming finger guns at guests as if they were old friends. “I love a good wedding,” he said again, to no one in particular. Eddie's eyes swam as they reached a buffet table piled high with French cheeses, Italian meats, and Swiss chocolate strawberries.

“Harika,”
Eddie gushed. “They even have Turkish kebabs!”

Addison helped himself to a shrimp cocktail. “Finally, a civilized environment where one can relax.”

Molly pointed a finger across the crowd. “There's Professor Ragar!”

Addison nearly choked on a shrimp. His eyes followed the line of Molly's finger.

Sure enough, Professor Ragar swaggered into the party, surrounded by his men. Ragar leaned heavily on his silver-tipped walking stick and adjusted his cocked derby hat. In the midday light, his mottled burn scar had the crimson hue of barbecued ribs.

“This is bad news.” Addison grimaced. “Ragar must have cracked the last clue. He knows the key is in this castle.”

“It's also good news,” whispered Molly. “It means Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel are close.”

Addison spotted Ragar's black limousine, all bulletproof glass and armor plating, idling in the driveway. The chauffeur circled the massive car around to the parking lot. Addison squinted hard at the dark-tinted windows but couldn't catch a glimpse to see if his aunt and uncle were trapped inside.

“Well, Don Miguel won't be happy when he discovers Professor Ragar crashing his party.” Addison watched in dismay as the professor kissed Don Miguel on both cheeks, murmured a few words in Spanish, and then embraced him like a long-lost brother. “Guy Fawkes! Ragar is smooth as silk!”

Guadalupe sized up Professor Ragar's group, noting their tattoos. “Russian Mafia, right?”

Addison looked at her, impressed. “You really know your gangsters.”

Guadalupe only shook her head. “Those guys don't mess around.”

Addison noted, with growing alarm, the wedding security guards whispering to Don Miguel and pointing toward Addison's group. Professor Ragar's piercing gray eyes lit up and scanned the crowd. By the time he glanced over at the buffet table, Addison's team had vanished. With a flick of Ragar's hand, bodyguards fanned out and began searching the party.

Addison's team squatted uncomfortably underneath the buffet table, Raj peering out from the folds of the tablecloth. “I don't think he saw us.”

“Good,” said Addison. “Keep a lookout.”

It was dusty under the table and Molly found herself gearing up for a sneeze.

“What's our move?” asked Guadalupe.

Addison reached out a finger and thumb and pinched Molly's nose, stifling her sneeze at the last second. “We find the Incan key before Ragar.”

“Thank you,” said Molly, recovering. “What about Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel? They could be right outside.”

“Follow me like a ninja. Which sounds easier: finding the key, or rescuing Aunt D and Uncle N from two dozen armed men?”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .”

“Look,” whispered Addison, “Ragar said he'll keep them alive until he finds the treasure. So if we find the treasure first, Ragar has no reason to hurt them.”

Molly weighed the sense of this.

“Meanwhile, it buys us time to think up a plan for rescuing them.”

“All right,” said Molly. “So how do we find the key?”

“There's nothing to it, Mo. It's like falling off a log. We just nip about the old castle, nibble a few shrimp cocktails, steal an ancient Incan key, snag a few more shrimp cocktails, and tap-dance out of here.”

“You couldn't steal an ape from a chicken,” said Molly.

“It's true I don't have experience with nicking things,” Addison allowed. “There isn't a book on it. I've checked.”

“A book on stealing?” Guadalupe had been silent for a while. But now her face brightened with interest. “You don't need the book when you've got the author.”

Guadalupe crawled from the buffet table and snuck into an open door of the castle. The team hurried after her.

•   •   •

Addison's crew padded silently through French doors and into an ornate dining room. A thirty-foot-long oak table was laid with bronze candelabras and hand-painted porcelain.

“There must be good money in crime,” said Addison. “Don Miguel is doing okay for himself.”

“It's a growth industry,” said Guadalupe. “Smuggling, extortion, kidnapping . . . How else can anyone pay for a wedding these days?” She cased the joint like a professional. “Wow,” she said in awe, “I've never seen silverware that was actually
silver
.”

“C'mon, Guadalupe,” said Addison, “we're on the clock.”

Guadalupe stared longingly at the flatware before following the group into the library.

Now it was Addison's turn to stare in wonder. The library's wall-to-wall bookshelves were crammed with books. They were stacked two stories high, with a rolling ladder to reach them. The wood-paneled room was dominated by a giant oil painting of a young Spanish nobleman.

“There he is,” said Addison. “Diego de Almagro II. Otherwise known as El Mozo.”

“‘The lad?'” Eddie translated.

“That's right. Diego had the same name as his father, like me. So they called him El Mozo.”

The group gathered under the painting. El Mozo's hand rested on the pommel of his sword, a red plume blossoming from the steel helm he cradled in the crook of his arm. His skin was dark and his expression darker. He looked ready to draw his sword and skewer the portrait artist.

“He killed Pizarro?” asked Molly.

Addison nodded. “El Mozo's father and Pizarro were like brothers until they started fighting over the Incan treasure. Pizarro imprisoned El Mozo's father and cut off his head.”

Raj let out a low whistle. He smiled; he was getting better at it.

“El Mozo raised an army of rebels to avenge his father. They assassinated Pizarro. It makes sense to hide a key here. El Mozo wanted to ensure Pizarro's knights never found Atahualpa's treasure.”

“Seems like this castle would be the first place Pizarro's knights would look for clues,” said Molly.

“True. But a lot of them were killed or vanished during the civil war.”

Molly nodded solemnly. “Maybe it was El Mozo who hunted down Pizarro's thirteen famous knights and hid them in that cavern under the Cathedral of Lost Souls.”

“I can believe it.” Addison gazed up at El Mozo's fierce eyes glaring down from the portrait. “Let's keep moving.”

“Wait,” said Molly. She pointed to a grisly ram's skull with black horns painted on El Mozo's shield. “That symbol was carved on the shield door in the basement of the Cathedral.”

“Good eye, Mo.” Addison examined it closely. “It's the symbol for Supay. The Incan god of the dead.”

“Why would El Mozo paint the god of the dead on his shield?”

Addison was pretty sure he knew the answer. “Revenge.”

•   •   •

The team waited for an armed patrol guard to march past before sneaking out of the library and into the massive center hall of the castle. One grand staircase led to the higher floors. The other descended to the basement.

“So where do we find the key?” asked Eddie.

Addison recited the clue from memory.
“‘In a castle at the end of the world, the key is hidden closest to the gods.'”

“‘
Closest to the gods.
' Which way's that?”

Addison pointed a finger at the first staircase. “Up.”

The team prowled up several flights of stone steps, past the second, third, and fourth floors, until they reached the attic. There, they found a landing with three wooden doors.

“One of these must lead to the top of the tower. The highest point in the castle . . . That's where I bet we'll find the key,” said Addison.

Guadalupe tried all three doors and pointed to the first one. “It's not that door.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it's unlocked. Any door that's unlocked doesn't have anything good behind it.” To demonstrate, Guadalupe opened the door, revealing a bathroom. It was a tiny room, with hardly enough space to swing a cat.

“Okay, that leaves two doors,” said Molly. “But even if you're right, Addison, how do we even know the key will still be here after so many years?”

“My guess is Don Miguel doesn't know there's an ancient Incan key hidden in his castle. I mean, if the third key is half as well hidden as the first two were, we have a pretty good shot.”

Guadalupe knelt down and peered at the two door
locks. “I can jimmy open the second door, but not the third. It's a dead bolt.”

“Okay, we'll start with the second door and see where it gets us,” said Addison. “Can you open it?”

“Who's got a knife?” Guadalupe smiled.

“We can use my lock-picking set!” Raj exclaimed, beaming as he dug through his backpack.

“I'm better with a knife.”

Addison drew Zubov's butterfly knife from his trouser pocket. He flicked it open. “Will this do?”

Guadalupe raised her eyebrows, impressed. “It'll do. Somebody count to ten.” She set to work picking the lock, her tongue curled in the corner of her mouth for concentration.

Eddie began counting,
“Uno, dos, tres . . .”

“Are you sure you don't want my lock-picking set?” asked Raj.

“Done,” said Guadalupe. And the wooden door creaked open.

The team stared down a musty hallway hung with old framed portraits of Spanish noblemen. The ceiling was rotted and mildewed. The red carpet was frayed and rat-chewed. Addison smiled; it looked promising. He stepped inside.

“Guadalupe, aren't you coming?” he asked.

“No thanks. I'll just keep a lookout here.”

“She's going downstairs to nick the silverware,” said Molly.

“Guadalupe,” said Addison, “we've got a mission to do!”

“It's not my mission. And I need some kind of reward for risking my life here. Besides, I'll be right back.”

“Ragar's men will be searching the castle, Guadalupe. Stay out of trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” Guadalupe looked deeply offended. She pulled her long hair back into a ponytail, rolled up her sleeves, and slipped on a pair of gloves she kept buttoned in her back pocket. She darted back downstairs, making a beeline for the dining room.

•   •   •

The rest of the group made their way down the narrow passage. The smell of rot assaulted their nostrils, and rats could be heard scuttling to and fro under the floorboards. Stepping into the hallway was as pleasant as rear-ending a hearse.

The corridor was lined with doorways revealing compact bedrooms furnished with simple cots. “Maybe these are for wedding guests,” Addison whispered.

“It could also be where the guards sleep,” said Eddie warily.

The crooked attic hallway meandered crazily back and
forth like a man who'd been beaned by a brick. As they rounded a bend, a bedroom door burst open, bathing the passage in light. Addison's group froze.

A handsome young man in dark glasses with slicked-back hair and a flashy suit strode down the hallway, flanked by security guards.

Addison had to admire the moxie of a man who would wear sunglasses in such a dark hall.

The man flicked off his shades and glared down at Addison.
“¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?”

“We were just looking for the bathroom,” said Addison.

“You're not allowed to be here!” the man answered in English. “This floor is off-limits.”

“Yes, if you could just point us toward the facilities . . .”

“This hallway is locked—how did you even get in?” The man waved to his security guards, who grabbed Addison and Molly, pinning their arms behind their backs. “Who are you?”

Addison puffed up his chest with indignation. “I,” he announced, “am Don Héctor Guzmán's son!” The words did not have quite the effect Addison was hoping for.

“You are lying,” said the handsome man with the slicked-back hair.

“How would you know?” asked Molly.

“Because
I
,” said the man, “am Don Héctor Guzmán's son.”