Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(38)

The door opened and two shiny boots hit the tarmac.

Grace stared dumbly. The officer who stood before her radiated confidence and command, from his ramrod-straight posture to his armor-piercing gaze. Although he had just finished masterminding and directing a three-day battle, his uniform looked clean and pressed. On his helmet gleamed two stars.

It was General George S. “Blood and Guts” Patton.

Bodies littered Casablanca’s beachfront, and spilled fuel burned in the waters of the harbor.

The battle was over.

The Vichy French defenders had surrendered, so the city was peaceful. The tranquillity belied the brutal reality of a bloody invasion that had cost nearly two thousand lives, more than a quarter of them American.

Grace rode into town in the staff car next to Patton himself. Although she was champing at the bit to tell him about the Morse code message, she kept quiet. The commander was surrounded by aides and bodyguards. There was no way to be sure who — if anyone — could be trusted to hear the top secret communication that had been meant for James Cahill. Her only option was to wait until she was alone with the general.

When they reached the building that had been selected for Patton’s headquarters, Grace was attended to by his personal physician. Her broken wrist was set in a plaster cast, and she was given food, water, and a room to rest in. She slept for the first time in more than thirty hours and awoke to find fresh new clothes ready for her. On the dresser sat her briefcase. A good sign — it meant the contents of the plane had been recovered, including the body of the pilot. She popped open the lid. There was the money, every dollar, franc, and mark. The soldiers of Operation Torch were men of honor. It brought her a measure of relief. She could trust the US Army to give Drago a proper burial.

The general came in to see her at 1900. Finally, Grace had what she was looking for — a private audience with General George S. Patton. She explained who her father was and told the general of the mysterious boat that had flashed its Morse code at the villa in Monte Carlo.

“GSP — that’s you, right? You’re one of the Cahills, like Abraham Lincoln and Mozart. White house is Casablanca, and torch is the invasion.”

He nodded, amazed. “And you tracked me down in the middle of my own war! You’re just a kid!”

She bristled. “I’m thirteen.”

“Well, the fact that you made it here is better identification than a passport and a blood test,” he said with a laugh. “You’re a Cahill, all right.”

“But what does the message mean?” she asked. “Who are the Vs?”

“There’s a group called the Vespers,” he explained. “They go back as far as the Cahills. We’ve been rivals for centuries.”

Grace nodded thoughtfully. “They must be the people we have to protect the ring from. But what ring? And what’s this bull’s-eye the Vespers know about?”

The general held up his hand. “Grace, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry about it anymore. You brought me the message. No one could ask you to do anything beyond that. What you’ve accomplished is a miracle. Leave the rest to me. I’m going to get you, your sister, and your baby brother home to Boston. And it may take some doing, but I’ll find your dad as well. You’ve got George Patton’s word on that.”

Never before had Grace met anyone so totally in control, so impressive. From the powerful set of his jaw to the forest of ribbons, medals, and decorations on his chest, he was the ultimate American hero.

She didn’t mean to cry, yet once the tears began, she couldn’t hold them back — the sheer relief of having so much burden lifted from her shoulders. She wept for Drago, for her poor parents, for the very world itself suffering under this awful war. How strange that now — when she was finally safe — the emotion should pour out.

The general’s legendary efficiency was evident in his plan for her. Tomorrow morning, she would be on a six o’clock plane to Lisbon; from there, on to London, where she would be joined by her family. Beatrice was going to have a lot to say about her disappearing act. But nothing could spoil the prospect of seeing Fiske again….

Yet there was something vaguely unsatisfying about the whole business. She had made an improbable journey at an impossible time; a man was dead, his aircraft destroyed. And now she was expected to walk away and forget any of it had ever happened.

That’s good news! she admonished herself. You have your life; you’re being reunited with your family; you’ve placed the message in the hands of the most competent, confidence-inspiring military man on the face of the earth. How could things possibly go any better?

Well, for starters, she reflected, the general could have been more specific about his strategy. He’d promised to handle it; what he hadn’t mentioned was how. Not that she didn’t have faith in him. But Cahill business wasn’t Patton’s top priority in Casablanca. He was the commander of a conquered city. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of urgent matters would require his attention. What if Grace’s message just slipped his mind?

Sure enough, the general was gone all evening, assessing casualties and equipment losses after the invasion. That left Grace to stew in her doubts, wandering around headquarters under the watchful eyes of officers and sentries.

The place was really a large mansion. Patton’s aide had told her that a wealthy Casablanca family had graciously offered their home to the US Army. She couldn’t help wondering how much choice the “gracious” owners had in the matter. Then again — she thought of Father’s many residences around the globe — the rich usually had someplace else to go. So many had sacrificed during this terrible war. Her sympathies were probably wasted on a single displaced millionaire.