Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(40)

The search was making her nauseous. It was getting late. A thirteen-year-old American girl in some of these places attracted attention. It was only a matter of time before she became a curiosity or, worse, a target. Maybe General Patton was right. Her job was done. It was crazy for her to try to take this any further in such a strange and dangerous environment. Especially since she had no way of knowing which of Casablanca’s hundreds of taverns she sought.

Her eyes fell on the very last neon sign on the winding street:


Her mind raced back to the Morse code message: Torch is more than it seems.

She had always interpreted it as a reference to Operation Torch. But it could just as easily have meant: Torch is more than the name of the invasion; it marks the location of the bull’s-eye.

The Torch Singer Café seemed busier than the others. That might have been because it was long and narrow, more like a hallway than a tavern. It had a tiny stage for a lone performer, and — she checked very carefully — no dartboard.

Disappointment. She’d been so sure.

And then she noticed the back door, partially hidden behind a trolley piled high with dishes. A fly-specked window overlooked an isolated alley. The dark courtyard was dominated by a large bronze sculpture of some kind of animal.

She strained for night sight, taking in the stout, powerful body and curved horns.

A bull.

Bull’s eye — not the kind on a dartboard but the actual eye of a bull!

She pushed the trolley out of the way and heaved at the sticking door, which came open in a shower of ancient paint chips. Examining the statue up close, she spotted it instantly. One eye was a rounded piece of green glass. The other socket was empty.

“They beat us to it,” said a deep voice from the shadows.

Grace wheeled. She didn’t recognize him at first in tan slacks and a pale blue shirt — civilian clothes. But there, out of uniform, stood George S. Patton.

“General — what are you doing here?”

Patton smiled grimly. “Same as you, my dear. You’re a true Cahill, Grace, sneaking out under the noses of my entire staff. You’ll be a great asset, even though you’re not much for doing what you’re told.”

She could not be distracted. “What happened to the bull’s eye? Who beat us to it?”

The general raised his eyebrows. “The Vespers, of course. They always seem to be a step ahead of us.”

Grace was skeptical. “We Cahills are the most powerful family in human history.”

“We are, we are,” Patton said quickly. “But the Vespers have one advantage over us. They’re not a family. They recruit only the best and the brightest — ruthless geniuses of diabolical brilliance. While we Cahills are held back by infighting among the family branches, the Vespers can be completely and perfectly united behind their goal:” — his steely eyes gleamed — “world domination. Yes, they’re our rivals, but there is much to admire about them.”

“No,” whispered Grace, devastated. She had come so far, risked so much — and at that, she was luckier than poor Drago. How could Patton just give up? Cahills didn’t do that!

“But this Vesper agent” — she persisted — “he could still be in Casablanca. He might have only beaten us by five minutes! We have to find him! You’ve got a whole army at your command. We could catch him, and search him — it’s a ring he took, right?”

“I admire your spirit, cousin,” Patton told her. “Don’t worry about a thing. When I leave Casablanca, I guarantee that I’ll have the ring. Now, come along. My jeep is waiting.”

As he turned to take her arm, Grace caught a glimpse of his breast pocket. It bulged, concealing something just about the size of the bull’s empty eye socket. With a manufactured sigh, she slumped against him, making sure to brush the mystery object beneath the fabric of his shirt. Hard, probably metal, with a rounded band.

Holding in the shock and rage she felt, she followed him out of the alley and got into the back of his jeep. The general had no way of knowing that this slip of a girl had discovered his secret.

Yes, the Vespers had beaten the Cahills to the ring. And, yes, Patton would not leave Casablanca without it.

How was that possible?

The Vesper was Patton himself.

Grace’s first challenge: bury her anger. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with her thinking.

In the next suite of rooms, she knew, Patton was asleep for the night, enjoying the double triumph of a successful invasion and a Vesper victory. The importance of the ring had to be colossal. Operation Torch had three landing points. Patton must have persuaded the entire US Army to choose Casablanca as one of them just to get himself to the bull’s eye. Ruthless geniuses, he had called the Vespers. It was all too true. And Old Blood and Guts was the most ruthless of the lot.

But this wasn’t over yet.

Once again, she left her room via the window, this time shuffling along the narrow ledge that circled the house. Moving her bare feet an inch at a time, she edged toward the balcony that was outside the main bedchamber — the general’s suite. It was a warm night and the French doors were open. She slipped inside, walking lightly. To her right, she could hear Patton’s deep breathing. To her left was the dressing room, with the general’s uniforms hanging in military precision.

She found the pale blue shirt he’d been wearing last night and reached eagerly for the pocket.