Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(32)

Stealthily, she crept into her father’s study. She could hear Fiske in the kitchen, demanding a cookie in English, and Giselle arguing with him in French. Grace smiled in spite of herself. As if a baby would understand or even care. She had little doubt that her brother would win his cookie. He rarely took no for an answer. She felt a sharp pang at the sound of his shrill voice. She was about to abandon him — just as Father had abandoned them. She had every intention of coming back, but the mission she had planned for herself was fraught with so many risks that she couldn’t wrap her mind around them all. And those were just the hazards she could foresee.

She was not like Beatrice, the eternal doom-crier. But she had to admit to herself the very real possibility that this journey might turn out to be a one-way trip.

If I die, who will be here to love Fiske?

She shook herself and returned to business. The safe.

She already knew the first number to try — 39. Whatever it meant, it was central to the legacy of the Cahill family. She was convinced that her father would use Cahill references in his combination. Mozart’s birthday, perhaps — James was a huge admirer of their composer cousin. January 27.

Holding her breath, she twisted the dial. 39-1-27.

Locked.

Abraham Lincoln, then. February 12 — 39-2-12.

Locked.

She tried Howard Carter — May 9; Emperor Puyi of China — February 7; and the Grand Duchess Anastasia — June 18. By now, beads of perspiration stood out on her brow. It was sinking in that there were hundreds of famous relatives — and dozens of numbers associated with each of them — dating back to the fire that destroyed Gideon Cahill’s lab in 1507.

Wait a minute! 1507! 15-07!

She turned the knob — 39-15-7. Fingers trembling, she reached for the handle.

Her face fell. Locked.

She’d known from the start that she might fail in this adventure.

But not before I get out of Monte Carlo! Not before I even get out of the house!

All at once, her downcast features rearranged themselves into a quizzical expression. She tried the numbers again, this time in a different order.

15-7-39.

There was a metallic click, and she swung the heavy safe door open.

Wow.

It was more money than she’d expected — a lot more. Stacks of bills bound with rubber bands — French francs, British pounds, Italian lire, German marks, and American dollars. There was even a canvas bag of gold coins. She took a leather briefcase with her father’s initials and stuffed in as much as would fit. In normal times, it would have been enough to take her to the North Pole and back. But this was war. Everything was different now.

“I’m going out for some air,” she called to whoever might be listening. The lump in her throat as the door shut behind her was larger than she’d anticipated. This wasn’t home, really. But it was the last place Mother had lived, and every memory was precious.

She got on her bicycle and started off down the shore road. It would have been comical if the situation hadn’t been so grave — pedaling off to war with a fortune balanced in the wire basket of your bike. She had an insane desire to ring the bell.

Their villa was not far from the airfield because nothing was far from anything else in a country that was smaller than one square mile. Monaco was a perfect jewel, with its cathedral and medieval palace perched on a rocky promontory on the coast. She had always considered it the loveliest place on earth. Now it would always be the place where Mother had died. Its beauty no longer existed for Grace. Its spectacular winding hills merely made cycling a chore.

She pedaled up to the airfield and left her bike leaning against a wall. The building was tiny, with a doctor’s office-style waiting room and a single counter. “Excuse me, monsieur,” she told the clerk, placing her open passport on the desk. “I wish to arrange transportation.”

The man looked down his long nose at her. “Where is your father, mademoiselle?”

Grace was not intimidated. “I am the one traveling, not my father. I need to get to Casablanca, in North Africa.”

The man’s shock turned to laughter. “Casablanca? Even as we speak, mademoiselle, Casablanca is under attack! It is no place for a little girl!”

“Luckily, I’m not a little girl,” Grace said coldly.

“Even so! There are no flights to Casablanca! No one is flying there except for the purpose of dropping bombs!”

“I realize that,” Grace conceded. “I’m here to charter a plane.”

“Presuming you are able to find a pilot reckless enough to go,” the clerk blustered, “he would demand a king’s ransom to risk his aircraft and his very life in this way.”

In answer, Grace set the briefcase on the desk and flipped it open.

The man’s jaw dropped so low that she half expected him to knock his teeth loose against the counter. “I will consult with the pilots!” he exclaimed in a strangled voice, and disappeared through a swinging door into a back room.

Grace snapped the case shut, suddenly self-conscious. She might not be a “little girl,” but she was a ripe target for robbery.

The clerk returned after barely a minute. “It is as I told you, mademoiselle. No one is willing to take you to Casablanca.”

Grace tapped the case. “There’s gold in here as well.”

He favored her with a full body shrug that was very French. “A dead man would have no opportunity to spend it. I am sorry, but this disappointment is probably prolonging your life.”