Free The Golden Vendetta by Tony Abbott Page A

couldn’t see her eyes.
    â€œEverything okay?” he asked, being sensitive.
    â€œSure. What are we looking at out here?”
    â€œFrance,” he said. “Strange you don’t know that.”
    â€œHa. Ha. Did you hear what Wade and Becca found? It’s big.” She brushed her cheeks.
    â€œI know,” he said. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
    â€œI’m good,” she said in a way that ended that line of conversation. “So, this is France, huh?”
    â€œThe French Mediterranean,” said Becca, coming out onto the terrace with Wade behind her. Both of them were glowing about the discovery of Copernicus and Leonardo and the silver-armed pirate.
    â€œAll the way to the right is the rest of the French Riviera, then Spain,” Becca went on. “On the left is more France, then Italy. Straight ahead on the other side of the water is, if you can believe it, Africa. Africa! Where the Barbarossa brothers lived their pirate life.”
    â€œBarb One and Barb Two,” said Lily.
    â€œExactly,” Becca said. “Of course, every bit of this was Roman Empire at one time. There are Roman ruins and a famous amphitheater not far from here—”
    â€œBringggg!” said Lily. “History class is over. I actually like what Darrell said better. This is France. And you know what? We should eat French food at a French restaurant. It’s practically dinnertime. Somebody ate the absolute last croissant, there’s nothing left in the fridge except cheese, and I’m hungry for more than cheese. I’ve never been so hungry. Madame Cousteau didn’t shop today, and all I can think of is the food they give you on the train, which is not actually food but a kind of recycled wood chips with gravy, and of course you eat it because you don’t want to starve to death in your compartment, but then later—like exactly later enough to be the farthest away from any kind of bathroom—you realize that wasn’t food, but it’s already way too late. Right, Bec? I mean, I’m right, right? You didn’t like your wood chips, either, right?”
    Becca stared at her. “I did not.”
    Maybe the phone call was all right after all, thought Darrell. Lily’s up, happy, maybe a little over the top, but that’s so much better than not having her here at all. Holy cow, what would that be like?
    Sara insisted that they go to the downstairs restaurant and bring the charming housekeeper with them. “We’ll be down a little later, as soon as Roald finishes this last phone call. The café is open in front,” she said,“so you can see the square, but it has a back room where you can eat privately.”
    â€œAs long as they have French food,” said Lily.
    â€œThey do,” said Roald, cupping his hand over his phone. “Look, the Teutonic Order will know by now that we didn’t continue to Rome. You know what to do.”
    They did. It was a way of life now. The kids took the public elevator with the housekeeper, who seemed to be liking them less with each passing hour.
    The Place du Palais de Justice, which the apartment overlooked, was a public square free of cars. On three sides were restaurants, on the fourth an imposing classical building that could have been anything from a library to a bank but turned out to be the Palais de Justice.
    The café in the building was exactly as Sara had described it. The back room was secure, but it had a full view of the square outside through a wall of mirrored glass. Madame Cousteau stood guard at the doorway like a statue.
    â€œThis is the life,” Becca said, relaxing into a chair next to the two-way mirror. “I can’t believe we’re actually here. Two days ago, Lily and I were in a motel in Florida. Look at us now, about to order French food in France.”
    A waiter in a long white apron slid between the tables to them. “Oui, messieurs,