not yet crowded. The only other visitors in the room were a young couple with Norwegian flags on their backpacks.
Amy waited for the Norwegians to move on. Her feet barely touching the floor, she approached the slumbering Alistair. Slowly, she reached out with the transmitter. His arm lay across his chest, pressing his blazer closed. There would be no margin for error
A sound halfway between a snore and a hiccup burst from his throat. Amy froze as he stirred, resettled himself, and went back to sleep.
This isn't going to work. The slightest touch will wake him....
Her eyes fell on the walking stick leaning against the bench by Alistair's knees. She scanned the cane for a nook or cranny where she could plant the chip.
Dan was in the doorway, gesturing with both hands. She regarded him impatiently. What do you want, dweeb?
At last, she recognized the twisting motion of his fists. She grasped the head of the cane and turned. To her delight, the tip began to unscrew.
Perfect -- the top contained an opening where the diamond had been set. It was just the right size for Amy to insert the transmitter.
She was about to replace the piece when she noticed that the walking stick itself was hollow. Why not just solid wood? Unless ...
She picked up the bottom of the cane and squinted inside. There was something in there! A paper, tightly rolled to fit in the narrow tube. This was Alistair's hiding place!
She pinched a corner of the page and drew it out. The document was brittle and brown with age -- although not as ancient as the recipe they had taken from the Benedictine monks. Hands trembling, she unfurled it. The printing was not in English. But the name jumped out at her, unmistakable:
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
It was all she recognized, but she knew in a heartbeat that this was what they'd been searching for in the tunnels of St. Peter's Archabbey.
So you bear us to it, she reflected, regarding the dozing form on the bench. Maybe we underestimated you.
A gurgle came from Uncle Alistair, and his eyelids fluttered.
Working quickly now, she screwed the cane back together and returned it to its leaning spot against the bench.
Alistair slumbered on, completely unaware that his front-runner position had been stolen right out of his walking stick.
CHAPTER 11
Another vital document; another foreign language. "It isn't German," Nellie announced.
"No?" Amy was flustered. "I just assumed, because we're in Austria -- uh, what is it
then?"
Their Salzburg hotel room was small and not very nice. Dan was convinced that the management used low-wattage lightbulbs so that the guests wouldn't notice what a dump they were staying in.
The au pair squinted at the document. "Italian, I think. Not one of my languages." The Cahills regarded her blankly. This was the first time Nellie had been unable to act as their translator.
"So how do you know it's Italian?" asked Dan.
"Spanish and Italian aren't too different. And this word --Venezia.
I'm pretty sure that's Venice, which is in Italy."
Amy indicated the date -- 1770. "Mozart would have been fourteen years old. Don't you remember the museum exhibits? He performed all across
Italy around then. His father took him on tour."
"So this is" -- Dan frowned -- "an eighteenth-century concert poster, starring Mozart?" "In Venice," Amy finished. "That's where the next clue must be hidden." Nellie grinned. "I always wanted to go to Venice. It's supposed to be the romance capital of the world."
"Sweet," put in Dan. "Too bad your date is an Egyptian Mau on a hunger strike." The au pair sighed. "Better than an eleven-year-old with a big mouth." The drive to Venice took more than five hours. Sharing the backseat with Saladin, Dan nearly went out of his mind. He wasn't a fan of long car rides to begin with. And the frustration of begging the cat to eat was infuriating and worrisome at the same time. They had so little left of their grandmother. They owed it to Grace to take proper care of her