Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(29)

“And we lost our mother,” Grace put in.

Beatrice pointed an accusing finger at her brother. “Thanks to him!”

Grace hugged Fiske, shielding him from the acid in their sister’s words. Could Beatrice blame a baby for what had happened to their mother? Or was it that the older girl was so miserable herself that she had to make everybody else miserable as well? The sisters had never been close. Yet since Edith Cahill’s death, the chasm between them had grown even wider.

Didn’t Beatrice see that Grace was suffering, too? That Grace would have given anything to reverse the events of the past year — to bring Mother back, to undo the pain that was tearing the family apart and had already driven Father away? The one thing she wouldn’t change was Fiske. How could Beatrice not love this bundle of giggles and mischief? Motherless — and basically fatherless, too. James Cahill hadn’t bothered to name his only son. He had left that to Beatrice. Fiske. It was Beatrice’s secret revenge on her brother, condemning him to a childhood of fistfights and taunting.

Grace ran her fingers through the little boy’s fine blond hair. This hellion was the only good thing that had happened to them in a long time.

Fiske repaid the sentiment with a kick to her stomach that sent her reeling. His feet were already pumping like pistons by the time she dropped him. Teetering unsteadily, he ran out the door to his croquet hoop and who knew what other dangers.

With an apologetic glance at her sister, Grace followed.

Sleep did not come easily to Grace these days. It had started with the bombing across the border in France. They were safe — Monaco was neutral so far, and even France had quieted under German occupation. But slumber continued to elude her.

Clad in her nightdress, she gazed out the window at the dark Mediterranean. From the nursery in the next room came the buzz saw of Fiske’s snoring. Another quality Beatrice found so endearing. Enlarged adenoids.

Grace frowned. There was a second sound — a low rumble — distinct from her brother’s.

An outboard motor? She remembered the times when pleasure craft dotted the sea, day and night. Now it was too dangerous. France was under German control, and Italy was only ten miles away.

Yet when she squinted into the gloom she could make out a small boat a few hundred yards offshore, almost directly opposite their villa. A weak flicker was coming from the wheelhouse.

Are their lights not working? Grace wondered. And now they’re lost in the dark?

During wartime, wandering off course could be a fatal mistake.

And then she recognized the pattern of short and long flashes. Her eyes widened. This was not the product of any guttering lamp. It was something she’d learned from her father several summers ago.

Morse code.

It took a moment to decipher the opening salvo of dots and dashes.

JC

James Cahill! The message was for her father!

She scrambled for pencil and paper, converting the dots and dashes into language as she expertly transcribed the message. She’d been only seven or eight when he’d taught her, yet she didn’t miss a single letter. Beatrice received high praise and high marks from their private tutor, but Grace was the sister whose quick and nimble mind was capable of occasional brilliance. This wasn’t boasting; it was simply the truth.

VS KNOW ABOUT BULLS EYE ... GO TO WHITE

HOUSE AM … FIND GSP ...

A pause. Was that all of it?

The Morse code resumed:

TORCH IS MORE THAN IT SEEMS ...

She peered out, waiting breathlessly for the rest. More flashes came, and her wrist jumped to action. But no — it was merely the message repeating.

At last, the motor swelled and the small craft began to move off.

Come back! she wanted to scream. What does it all mean?

A final burst of code:

PROTECT THE RING AT ALL COSTS

“What ring?” she said aloud. But the boat was gone.

She had no idea what any of it meant, but one thing was certain: The people on that boat believed they were communicating with James Cahill.

Grace had not lived to the ripe old age of thirteen without realizing that there was something special about Father’s family. Her parents had told her and Beatrice how Cahills had shaped human history for centuries. Some of the most famous people of all time were cousins — Shakespeare, Mozart, Abraham Lincoln, and even Babe Ruth. Secret words had passed between her parents in whispers — Lucian, Janus, Tomas, Ekatarina, and one that seemed especially mysterious, Madrigal. There was also a number that kept coming up — 39. It had been Father’s football number at Harvard, but Grace suspected it meant much, much more.

Grace didn’t know the specifics of Cahill business — just that James and Edith Cahill had been up to their necks in it. But now she suspected that when Mother died, James had abandoned his Cahill responsibilities along with his children. The people on that boat were trying to communicate with an agent who had dropped out. Another vital role was going unfulfilled.

She stared at the cryptic words on the pad. The message made as much sense to her as Fiske’s childish burbling. VS — somebody’s initials? No, then it would be VS KNOWS. This was VS KNOW. So the Vs had to be a group of people. But who?

BULLS EYE — a direct hit. In a war, that could mean almost anything. GO TO WHITE HOUSE. Surely not the one where the president lived?

AM — as in morning? Or that could be initials, too. Also GSP. Were these people or things? More confusing still, TORCH and RING — two random items.