Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(31)

“As I suspected, you have nothing to say for yourself,” Madame Fourchette told her sternly. “Since you cannot seem to write your essay, you will instead write five hundred times ‘I must complete the schoolwork assigned to me.’ At once, s’il vous plaît.”

Grace felt a headache beginning to gather behind her eyes. The thought of all that mindless scribbling when there was important work to be done made her both angry and depressed.

As she descended the spiral staircase, she heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the entrance hall. Fiske, no doubt, destroying yet another priceless piece of art. Where was Giselle? The answer came from the radio in the parlor — music from the BBC in London. The governess enjoyed English programming much more than she enjoyed trying to control a one-year-old wrecking crew.

Grace sat down at the table and scribbled out three quick lines. Great. Only 497 more to go. She was about to begin line 4 when the music stopped in mid song.

“We interrupt this program for a news bulletin. The Allied invasion of North Africa has begun. Yesterday morning British and American troops landed at Algiers, Oran, and Casablanca in a three-pronged attack known as Operation Torch. The Casablanca force, under the command of American general George S. Patton …”

The report went on, but Grace had heard enough.

George S. Patton — GSP!

Operation Torch. And Casablanca — that was Spanish for white house! The Morse message hadn’t been about the White House in Washington at all! Father was being sent to Casablanca to seek out General Patton, who was commanding Operation Torch!

It was bizarre, and yet from a Cahill point of view, it made perfect sense. If Ben Franklin, Napoleon, and the Russian royal family could be Cahills, why not George Patton? And surely the general would be able to decode the rest of the message — the Vs, the bull’s-eye, and the ring.

Her heart pounded with the exhilaration of discovery, but the feeling soon turned to despair. Father was completely out of reach. By the time she could pass this information on to him, Operation Torch would be in the history books. Could she get in touch with General Patton? How? Through the American embassy maybe?

Oh, sure. The US military will put an invasion on hold and call up a general on the say-so of a thirteen-year-old girl.

The dilemma nearly tore her in two. Now that it was clear that the Morse code message was connected to Operation Torch, who knew how vital Father’s mission might be? If the Cahills were as powerful as Grace had heard, it could turn the tide of the entire war! And then millions would be spared the kind of suffering Grace’s family had known.

The world needed Father, and he was nowhere to be found.

She stopped short, frowning. No, that wasn’t quite true. The world needed a Cahill — and Father was not the only one. Grace was a Cahill, too.

What am I thinking? I’m not in charge of saving the planet! I’m thirteen years old! I’m not even allowed out of the house without permission!

Casablanca was hundreds of miles away, across the Mediterranean. It was difficult to reach under the best of circumstances. Right now the place was under attack. She’d never get there. And even if she did, she’d probably be killed.

The feeling that came over her at that moment caused her to put down her pen and stand up behind the mahogany table, shoulders squared. It was the deep sense that, against all logic, she belonged in this fight. It was her place to be there, no matter what the consequences.

She had no way of knowing it, but members of her family had been answering that call for nearly 450 years.

Monaco to Casablanca.

Overland, it was a journey of more than a thousand miles, across defended borders, through countries in conflict. And then she’d still need to traverse the Strait of Gibraltar to get to Africa.

Travel by ship would be more direct, but the Mediterranean was dangerous during wartime. More to the point, boats were slow. By the time she reached Casablanca, General Patton might be gone. And the opportunity — whatever it was — would be lost.

An airplane, then. Maybe, just maybe, a lone plane could carry her to North Africa without attracting the attention of all the warring powers.

Grace’s brow darkened. If the warring powers weren’t going to be thrilled about this, Beatrice was going to be even less thrilled — not to mention Giselle and Madame Fourchette. And somewhere, when the news of Grace’s disappearance reached Father, he was going to blow a gasket — if James Cahill even remembered the family he’d left stranded in Monte Carlo.

Well, there was simply nothing for it. Cahills had been changing the world for centuries. If there was ever a world that needed changing, it was this one.

Grace’s suitcase lay open on the bed, empty but for one item — her passport. The future she was heading into was so completely unknowable that she couldn’t think of a single necessary thing to pack. Fresh clothing? Where would she find a place to change? A toothbrush? Was there running water on a battlefield? In the end, she pocketed the passport and stuffed the suitcase back in her closet. The only thing that seemed fairly certain was that she would be running for her life. Luggage would only slow her down.

What was really required here was money. Cash opened doors and greased palms and hired planes. There was plenty of it in Father’s safe, but only he had the combination. This was not for lack of trying. Many times Grace had scoured the house for a hint of what the numbers might be. Not that she intended to steal from her father. She’d always had a sense that access to the safe might come in handy one day. And, she reflected ruefully, she’d been right.