The Cross of Sins (32 page)

"Some fishermen. They found him tangled in their nets."

"What happened to his arm?"

"Evidently it was already missing."

The head surgeon lifted the sheet and looked at the twisted mangled stump that protruded from the man's left shoulder. "That would've hurt—a lot. He's obviously no stranger to pain. And nobody knows who he is?"

The assistant surgeon checked the file and shook his head. "No ID. No reports of a missing person. No eyewitnesses to any accidents. It's as if he fell straight out of the heavens."

At that moment, there was a blip on the heart-rate monitor.

"Did you see that?" the head surgeon asked suddenly, looking strangely at the patient.

"See what? Doctor? Are you all right? What was it?"

With a shake of his head, the surgeon said, "Nothing, I'm fine. It's just that, when you said he'd fallen from heaven, for a second there, I could have sworn he just—smiled."

The adventure continues in...
The Riddle of the Sands

The Amazing Adventures of Elsa Strauss:
The Dame of Notre Dame

Paris, France

It wasn't their intention to steal the tapestry.

And it certainly wasn't their intention to get caught.

All they had to do was take a photo of the
Tapisserie de l'Arc
—click one clear, hi-res snap of the tapestry—and upload it to the Professor's files. Then, get the hell outta there!

But things didn't run quite as smoothly as the Professor and his men had hoped.

American businessman Lawrence Vanderbilt had owned the
Palais d'Automne
—located twenty minutes south of Paris—for almost a decade now, and had adorned his 16th century, 48-room French residence with a priceless array of French art, both old and contemporary, including the
Tapisserie de l'Arc
, an intricate tapestry depicting the last battle of Joan of Arc. Hanging now on a wall of the palace library, the tapestry was 6 feet high and 14 feet long, woven in the year 1585 and said by some to contain a map leading to a place lost in history—

—the true location of the sword of Joan of Arc.

A symbol of righteousness, faith and courage against all odds and expectations. A weapon that defied both tradition and tyranny.

According to the Duke of Alencon, the sword was destroyed in Saint Denis, and over the years the story of the map woven into the tapestry became just that. A story. A legend. A myth. Until—

Dressed in tuxedos and bow ties, Jake Stone, Eden Santiago, Shane Houston, Luca da Roma, Will Hunter and Professor Maximilian Fathom handed their invitations to one of the many suited guards manning the palace, and then made their way through the exquisitely-attired, champagne-sipping crowd filling the
Palais d'Automne
to attend Lawrence Vanderbilt's annual Autumn Ball.

As Jake and Shane took six champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed them to the others, the Professor spoke softly to his men, the sound of a nearby string quartet preventing anyone else from hearing his voice.

"According to Herr Schroder, the tapestry is in the library in the east wing. There is a single gold thread running through the tapestry. That's the map. If we can get a clear shot, digitally we can wipe out everything else and all we'll be left with—"

"—will be the sword of Joan of Arc," Jake smiled.

The Professor turned to his men and said, "Go now."

As they quickly dispersed, the Professor heard a voice behind him.

"Max!"

He turned and a hand reached for his, shaking it firmly.

"Lawrence, how good to hear your voice."

"It's damn well time you finally accepted one of my invitations, Max!" said Lawrence Vanderbilt, a distinguished gentleman in his early fifties.

"Oh, you know me. Always waiting for the right moment to leave my mark."

Vanderbilt gave a mock laugh, and then took the Professor by the shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. "And you know me. Art everywhere. Guards everywhere. If you're thinking of trying anything, Max, I have a dungeon in the basement that could use a little company." At that moment, Vanderbilt became curious and looked around him. "Speaking of company, where did your friends go?"

The five boys had made it to the library and found the tapestry hanging on the wall. They had one digital camera between them.

There was nobody else in the room.

Meanwhile, all five boys tussled over who would take the photo.

Jake was the first to try to snap the tapestry.

"You missed the edge of it," Eden told him.

"It's a good shot," Jake defended himself.

Eden grabbed his hand, trying to pull the camera free. "No, Jake, it's not! Do you want to trace the map or not?"

"Here, give it to me," Luca stepped in. "I know art—"

"—and none of you guys know how to use a camera properly," Will interjected, grabbing it from Luca. "No offence, but you're all too old. Not enough Facebook time. The way to capture a moment is to—"

The flash went off.

A split second later, outside the stained glass windows of the library, thunder clapped and lightning cracked open the sky. Rain began to pour down.

Shane, who was keeping guard at the door, quickly turned to the others. "Guys! We got company!"

But he was too late.

A guard suddenly hurried into the room. He instantly saw the camera in Will's hand.

"Gentlemen. I'll have to ask you to hand that camera over immediately. And then to please leave this room and return to the—"

CRASH!

Shane, who was now behind the guard, suddenly smashed a vase over the top of the guard's head.

As the man collapsed to the floor, Shane grimaced at Jake. "That was Ming, wasn't it?"

Jake bit his bottom lip and nodded back. "Never mind! Forget the damn camera anyway!"

He raced up to the tapestry, grabbed the edge of it, and then pulled it from the wall.

Eden's eyes shot open in shock. "Jake! What are you doing?"

"We're taking the fucking thing with us."

"What?"

Jake kept pulling the ancient tapestry off the wall. "I said we're stealing it! Now are you gonna help me or what?"

"I'll help you!" boomed a voice from the library doorway.

All five boys, including Jake, turned to see Lawrence Vanderbilt standing in the doorway—with no less that twelve armed guards.

"Gentlemen, seize the camera. Then, please escort Max's men to the dungeon! Before they try to steal anything else!"

The second Lawrence had walked away in search of the boys, the Professor pulled the phone from his jacket.

In their suite at the Hotel Descartes back in Paris, Elsa jumped up as soon as the phone rang.

She had been fussing and fretting, cooking in the large suite's kitchenette, washing and cleaning, unfolding and folding all of the Professor's clothes, when suddenly, the Professor himself was on the other end of the phone line.

The second she heard his voice she began to melt into hysteria. "Oh, Professor! You know how much I worry about these
excursions
of yours!
Mein Himmel
! I've been so stressed I've baked strudels to last a lifetime! Please tell me you and the boys are all right!"

"Actually, no. Elsa, I need you to listen very carefully. I fear the boys may have been caught trying to find the tapestry. Lawrence Vanderbilt has gone in search of them, and he—"

The Professor paused.

Elsa panicked. "He what?"

"He intimated that he has a dungeon ready for us."

Elsa shrieked down the line. "
Mein Gott
! I need to bake more strudels!"

"No, Elsa. You need to do something more important than that. If we are to be put in Lawrence's dungeon, you need to get us out!"

"How!"

"The main entrance is covered with guards; you'll never get past them. I need you to find another way in; you have to find the dungeon."

"Find the dungeon!"

"Yes, but the only way you can do that is to get your hands on the original blueprints of the palace. This place is 16th century. France was a bloody place back then. No church or monastery or palace in France was built without a tunnel system, everyone had an escape plan up their sleeve. I need you to get inside the Notre Dame Archives; it's a chamber beneath the cathedral. That's where all the hidden architectural records of France's cathedrals and palaces are kept. Look for the
Palais d'Automne
and you'll find another way in."

"Professor, are you crazy!" Elsa was sitting on the bed in a state of distress now, clutching the phone with one hand and fanning herself frantically with the other.

"Elsa, you can do this. The archives chamber will be manned. All you have to do is distract the attendant with—" The Professor faltered.

"With what!" Elsa asked, incredulous. "Beef goulash!?"

Elsa could almost
hear
the Professor shrug over the phone. "I was thinking more along the lines of using your feminine charm."

Elsa shrieked.

Suddenly, she heard a stern American voice down the line. "Max! I think you'd better come with me! I intend to enjoy my party. You on the other hand, will enjoy a night in—"

Suddenly, the phone went dead.

"The dungeon!" Elsa gasped in fear.

She didn't know what to do.

All she knew was the Professor needed her.

The boys needed her.

And strudels were burning in the oven!

Ten minutes later, Elsa Strauss was anxiously muttering to herself in the backseat of a cab that raced through the stormy Parisian night. As the driver pulled up outside Notre Dame Cathedral, Elsa peered timidly out the window.

A bolt of lightning shot across the sky, illuminating the bell towers, accompanied by a gothic chorus of thunder.

For a moment, Elsa thought of staying in the cab. She was seconds away from telling the driver to keep driving.

Instead she took a deep breath, stepped out of the cab and watched as her umbrella instantly turned inside out with a blast of wind. Rain pelted down. The cab sped off, leaving her alone to face the storm. Thunder rocked the night again, and Elsa battled forward, using her inside-out umbrella as a shield against the wind.

She reached the relative safety of the doorway to the cathedral and stopped a moment to catch her breath. Through the pouring rain she saw a small sign that read
Notre Dame de Paris Archives
pointing around to the side of the building.

With a single step back out into the tempest, Elsa's umbrella twisted into a modern French sculpture and was snatched from her hands. She shrieked as it became a spindly wire tumbleweed before disappearing into the Seine.

It didn't matter, she supposed. She was already drenched and too anxious and terrified to care anymore. With all the speed she could muster, she hightailed it around the side of Notre Dame until she found a small concealed door halfway along the north wing of the cathedral.

"Oh, thank Heaven!" she breathed, relieved to find the door was unlocked.

She ducked inside quickly, her clothes dripping, and cautiously made her way down a stone spiral stairway that led her deeper and deeper into the bowels of the cathedral.

Elsa descended the stairs for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, they leveled off into a corridor, at the end of which was a door simply marked:
Archives
.

Warily, she opened it.

The door squeaked as it swung, beckoning her inside.

The first thing she saw was a little bald man with a pencil thin mustache in what looked like a cage.

"Can I help you!" he demanded sternly. He seemed just as surprised to see Elsa as she was to be here, as though he didn't get many visitors down here in the Archives chamber.

Quickly realizing that the little man was not in a cage but was in fact shut inside an attendant's booth, Elsa smiled, putting on as much charm as she could manage. "
Bonsoir
!" Her eyelids fluttered. "Is this the Notre Dame Archives?" She had already noticed the padlocked door to her left with a sign that read
Archives Entrée
.

"
Oui
, can I help you!" The little man eyed Elsa narrowly. Suspiciously. "This department is not open to the public."

"I'm looking for some information," Elsa said, stepping closer to the little man's cage.

"If you want to access any of the archives, you'll need papers. I need to see signatures. It takes at least three weeks to get everything processed through the Cathedral archives, and after that there are numerous approvals and forms of consent that will need to be stamped and verified and—" The man's annoying, prattling voice trailed away for a moment as Elsa leaned forward and peeled off her coat.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind, I'm dripping wet. I'll catch cold if I don't get rid of these wretched clothes."

The little bald man with the pencil thin mustache cleared his throat, distractedly staring at Elsa's ample bosom as she let her coat fall to the stone floor.