Because Grace wanted you to, she thought. She had a plan. And she was not a Tomas.
Or was she? Amy realized that besides her and Dan, Grace was the only Cahill whose family branch she didn’t know.
As the lights dimmed, Dan slid into the seat next to her and the play began. Mr. Malusi, who was sitting one row in front of them, looked at his watch and glared disapprovingly at Dan.
To the rhythms of a musical group in traditional dress, the play told the life story of Shaka. It was brutal and realistic, climaxing in the Ndwandwe-Zulu battle, with hundreds of actors sweeping away each other’s shields with grand gestures, then driving spears into each other’s chests. Amy closed her eyes.
“Ew,” Nellie murmured.
“It’s not real,” Dan whispered. “I don’t think.”
When Amy opened her eyes, the actor playing Shaka was shoving a screaming older woman into a hut. Her face was covered in bluish-brown makeup, her eyes solid white. She was chanting to the heavens, causing a burst of stage lightning. From upstage came three realistic-looking, slavering jackals. Mr. Malusi turned in his seat to face them. “Shaka was great but ruthless,” he explained eagerly. “He believed that the mother of Zwide, the Ndwandwe king and his main rival, was an evil sangoma whose spirit had magically entered the Zulu kingdom and slaughtered his people. So when he captured her, he fed her to the —”
“AAAHHH!” came a scream inside the hut.
Amy couldn’t take it. She leaped up and ran.
“A Tomas with a weak stomach?” Mr. Malusi said to Dan. “We have training for this, too.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Dan said.
He found her outside the theater, pacing back and forth. “Let’s go,” she said. “I want to get out of here, Dan. I hate this place.”
“You are brilliant,” Dan said, taking Amy by the arm. “I was trying to figure out a way to leave the theater with you, but you did it for me. Hurry.”
“Where are we going?” Amy said.
“I wasn’t in the bathroom,” Dan said. “When we came down the escalator, I noticed a pod that was different than the others. So I went and looked at it….”
He led her to the center of the hive. There, inside a chamber of ivy-covered glass walls ascending toward a skylight that seemed miles above them, was a sun-drenched quadrangle with grassy, twisting paths. Exotic cacti with brightly colored shoots obscured what looked like a stone monument inside.
“It’s, like, two acres,” Amy said.
“Come,” Dan said. “We’re allowed. We’re Tomas.”
Amy followed him into the huge pod and along one of the paths, until they were standing at the monument. It was shaped like a circular Zulu hut with a pointed thatched roof. In front was a statue of Shaka Zulu, holding a body-sized shield.
At the center of the shield was the Tomas symbol.
“This was the shield stolen from the Durban museum!” Amy whispered.
Dan was looking at a series of plaques on the walls of the hut, each in a different language. “Dutch … Afrikaans … Zulu …” Dan read. “Xitsonga … Xhosa … Sesotho … Setswana … SiSwati … Shangaan … Venda … Tsonga … English. Okay. Read this.”
“Dan, is this …?” Amy asked.
“A crypt?” Dan’s face was so alive with emotion it looked like it was going to crack. “Okay, this building is at the location of Churchill’s coordinates — and he wrote ‘Tomas ingredient in the ground with Shaka.’ The legend says Shaka was buried in Durban, but no one has ever been able to prove it. This is it, Amy. We found the real burial place of Shaka Zulu!”
Amy looked down. The soil was dry and hard, the base of the monument choked with cactuslike plants.
When she looked up, Dan was holding a spear. “What are you doing with that thing?” Amy hissed.
“It’s not a thing, it’s an assegai,” Dan said. “They’re all over the place here. I hid one in the vegetation.”
He pointed it toward Amy and plunged it down.
“Hey!” Amy shouted, lurching aside.
The spear sank with a solid thunk into the dirt, splitting a cactus plant. “I can do this,” Dan said. “But I’ll need cover. How long will that play last?”
“Mr. Malusi isn’t going to be fooled for long!” Amy insisted. “This is suicidal. I am putting my foot down, Dan. This will not happen.”
“Dan? Amy?” Nellie called out from the corridor. “Yo, where are you guys?”
Amy whirled around, and the door swung open.
The man in black hated airports. So much waiting, so much security.
He looked up. His surveillance had indicated enemy arrival at any minute. But flights were crowded today. Schedules would be disrupted, landings postponed. They could be circling for a long time. Or, heaven forbid, sent to another airport.
But Lucians had a way of sneaking up on you, and the man in black was nothing if not patient. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone approaching the circular landing pad. An airline employee. He lowered the magnification lens over his sunglasses and waited for a clear frontal view of the face.
There. Using the high-res telephoto cam in his glasses frame, he captured the image, uploading it to his portable surveillance device. He waited .7 seconds for a facial recognition check against the master database.
He was a Lucian operative. A Fixer, no doubt. Very well paid these days, as it had become so difficult to infiltrate airlines.
The man in black smiled. The two men were waiting for the same arrival. But for very different reasons.
A distant familiar noise cut through the airspace above. The Lucian lackey looked up, his face a rigid mask of efficiency.
As the man in black began to move forward, a large silk handkerchief came down from behind, in front of his face. His hand darted upward, catching the scarf before it could make contact with his neck.
Hermès. Silk.
Whirling around like a skater, the man in black lifted the scarf, and with it, the arms of his attacker.
He brought the scarf down around the neck of Alistair Oh.
“Arrrgglllchh …” Alistair sputtered.
“Alistair,” said the man in black, “I would have thought that at your age, with your experience, you would know better than to make such a serious mistake.”
Dan stood stock-still against the Shaka monument, holding his breath.
“Yo, Amy, Dan — Mr. Malusi is looking for you!” came Nellie’s panicked voice from the direction of the courtyard-pod door. “Where are you guys?”
“I’ll take care of this,” Amy said to Dan. “I’ll go back to the theater and make up some excuse to Mr. Malusi about where you are. Hurry!”
She ran to the door. With a soft thump, it shut.
Dan made a quick circle around the monument. Where to start? The cactuslike plants were thick and stubbornly hard to move. He yanked the stalks aside as best he could, examining the smooth stone at the base of the monument, hoping for some hint.
Just under the statue of Shaka, the stone was gouged in about three or four places, as if someone had banged it with blunt instruments. A thick shovel could have done that. It was as good a place as any to start.
Dan dug in with the blade. The soil was packed thick, but he hacked away, sending up little explosions of dirt. An assegai may have been a great spear, but it was a terrible shovel.
Outside he could hear a commotion, a rumble of voices. He plunged harder, a rhythmic chuck … chuck … chuck … echoing ever louder against the surrounding walls.
A voice filtered in from outside, growing closer. “I know he is only a boy—but he is a Tomas boy, and I expect a Tomas sense of responsibility!”
Mr. Malusi.
CHUCK … CHUCK … CHUCK …
Sweat dripped into Dan’s eyes. It stung.
“Can you show me the women’s m-m-martial arts?” Amy was saying.
THOCK.
Dan stopped and knelt. The arrowhead had hit something solid. He brushed aside loose di
rt. This wasn’t a root or a rock. It was metal.
Dan placed a hand near the assegai blade and steadied the shaft with his other hand, scraping away the dirt until he made out the edges of a square.
He dug down the four sides. It seemed like he was cutting through more plant life than soil. The network of roots was so dense it looked like an army of dead snakes. Finally, he shook the thing loose and pulled it out.
It was a small metal cube, hinged halfway down and held shut by an ancient, dirt-choked lock.
Wiping away the soil, Dan saw the word Shaka carved into the face of the box. He tugged at the lock, but it wouldn’t budge.
Dan’s heart pounded. Churchill’s message had said in the ground with Shaka.
This had to be it.
He stood, scraping the dirt back over the hole. He shoved broken plant shards over the mound, tamping it all down with his feet. Tossing the assegai into a thicket, he swung his backpack around and opened it.
Then he noticed the sharp ridge of the monument’s stone base jutting about a half inch from the statue of the hut. If he could bring the lock down on that, hard …
Letting his open backpack fall to the ground, he held the box high over his head. He brought it down, but it smacked against the stone, resounding dully in the courtyard.
He gritted his teeth and lifted the box again. With a loud grunt, he smashed it downward. The lock smacked against the edge and broke cleanly in two.
BWWWOPP! BWWWOPP! BWWWOPP!
An alarm sounded. Dan picked up the box and his pack and ran for the door. With a loud clank, it swung open.
Mr. Malusi barged in, with Amy and Nellie close behind. “Young man, what on earth are you doing?”
“AMY, NELLIE, RUN!” Dan shouted.
Mr. Malusi was racing toward him. Dan ran to the assegai, picked it up, and threw it toward one of the glass walls. The spear pierced the network of vines, shattering the wall in a deafening explosion.
Dan ran to the wall at full speed, leaping around the plants. He jumped through the hole and out of the pod.
The vast central room, with its winding pathways between pods, was in chaos.
“STOP HIM!” Mr. Malusi’s voice bellowed.
From the left.
Dan’s eyes scanned the area, and he sprinted right, clutching his backpack. Amy and Nellie were running toward him now. “Follow me!” he shouted.
A loud thrum permeated the complex. Bright emergency floodlights flickered on overhead, circling columns of blinding white light around the rooms. On all sides, Dan heard the thumps of closing doors.
“The escalator!” Nellie said.
Dan glanced upward. The door above the escalator had opened, and men in white suits were streaming in from the other building. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Come on. Let’s move to the outer wall and follow it.”
The dense network of overlapping pods made the wall the best place to hide. They crept slowly along it. In the chaos, Dan heard a high-pitched shriek above them. “Duck!”
They went down, but Dan realized it was a bird. It must have flown in through the gardener’s door.
The door.
Where was it? He glanced around frantically.
There. It was shut tight, way above their heads. Next to it was a metal-mesh cage. An elevator cage. “Follow me!” he shouted, sprinting to the bottom of the cage. The elevator was resting on the floor, its door open. Inside were two broken clay flowerpots and sections of garden hose. “Get in!”
When Nellie and Amy were inside, he shut the door and swung a metal dial to the ON position. The elevator rose slowly above the chaos. They shrank down against the soil-encrusted elevator floor, out of sight, unnoticed by the swarms of screaming Tomas below.
“STOP THEM!” a voice bellowed.
Almost unnoticed.
The elevator suddenly stopped. “Dan!” Amy screamed.
The top ten or so inches of the elevator door had risen into the frame of the old warehouse exit. It was big enough for a human body. Dan yanked open the elevator door, then cupped his hands. “We can do this. Amy, you’re first.”
“I can’t leave you!” Amy protested.
“Hurry, before they lower this thing!” Dan said.
He hoisted her up and she squeezed through the opening.
“You next, little guy,” Nellie said. “And don’t even think of arguing.”
She boosted him through. Dan tossed aside his backpack, leaned in, and reached down for Nellie. Together he and Amy grabbed Nellie’s arms and pulled.
The elevator creaked and juddered. It was sinking now. “PULL!” Nellie screamed.
She was halfway through, but the space was closing.
From behind them, a man’s arm reached into the elevator opening. The palm pressed upward against the elevator’s ceiling, while the elbow jammed against the ground.
The elevator groaned, then stopped moving. With his other arm, the man grabbed Nellie.
Dan stiffened. No time to wonder. No time to look.
“Heave-ho!” the man shouted.
“YEOOWWWW!” Nellie squeaked through, tumbling onto the grass.
Dan and Amy tumbled with her, as the elevator sank quickly out of sight.
“You dropped this?” a deep voice said.
Dan turned to face the man who had saved Nellie.
Mr. Bhekisisa held up the Shaka box. He was not smiling.
“Where did you find this?” Mr. Bhekisisa demanded.
“I didn’t mean to steal anything. I’ll give it back!” Dan said. “We — we can work this out together!”
“Come with me, all of you,” he said. “Now!”
He began running down the hill, away from the front door of Ubuhlalu.
Amy had no intention of following this guy into … what? “Where’s he going?” she asked.
“Do you need an invitation?” Mr. Bhekisisa said.
“Come on,” Dan said. “He has the box!”
As Dan, Amy, and Nellie raced after him, Mr. Bhekisisa called out, “They have not had a security breach like this. You are lucky. I told them you had found the secret tunnel network. That will occupy them for awhile.”
“Wait … you’re —” Dan said.
We do have a spy within, but to achieve anything against these people, you practically need an army…. That’s what Mr. Mondli had said.
“You’re a spy!” Dan blurted.
Mr. Bhekisisa was moving fast. “I was … a Tomas,” he said breathlessly. “Now … I am as I was born. A South African. Hurry. There are more of us waiting.”
“More?” Nellie said. “How did they know?”
“Hurry!” Mr. Bhekisisa headed down the slope, toward the woods. There, a group of men and women were trudging upward toward them.
Dan ran after him, with Amy and Nellie close behind. His eyes were focused on the man in front. He was instantly familiar, his face etched with wrinkles and a long scar, his eyes gray-green. His khakis and button-down shirt were a much tidier outfit than the peddler garb he’d been wearing before.
Do you need a car service? Or can spirited young people like yourselves navigate South Africa on your own?
“You!” Dan said. “You’re the guy at the airport—the one who gave us the card!”
The man was wiping the sweat from his brow. “What happened up there, Bhekisisa?” he asked urgently.
Mr. Bhekisisa held up the box, smiling broadly. “They are very smart children.”
The other man’s jaw dropped. “Good God, have you really found the Churchill clue?”
“Your hint …” Amy said. “Constitution Hill …”
“Yes, and Church Hill,” the man replied, his words clipped and quick. “Pardon my creative misspelling on that one — a bit of poetic symmetry. I am Robert Bardsley, professor of music. These are my students.” He gestured behind him but kept his eye on the box.
Amy gasped. Dan jerked his head and followed her gaze toward the edge of the group, where a tall, brown-ha
ired boy was standing, grinning.
“Kurt?” Amy said, her eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”
“I sing with Professor Bardsley’s class sometimes. He said he was taking us on a field trip.” As Kurt stepped forward, his eyes moved over to Mr. Bhekisisa, who was panting as he clutched the box. Kurt’s excited grin faded into a look of concern as he turned back to Amy. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Professor Bardsley clamped his hand down on Kurt’s shoulder. “You children know Kurt? A fine singer — I only wish he could come from Emalahleni more often.” He smiled at his student, then turned back. “The clue. Is it in there?”
Mr. Bhekisisa held out the box to Dan, who took it. “I will let the brother and sister have the honor. But we must move out of sight.”
“Come, then,” Professor Bardsley said. “Quickly.”
He began rushing toward the trees. Kurt grabbed Amy’s hand and followed, with Nellie on their heels.
But Dan froze. Whatever you do, avoid the trees.
“Wait—we can’t go there!” he cried out. “Remember what Mr. Mondli said!”
“We can’t worry about that now!” Amy shouted back. “These guys must know the area!”
Dan sprinted downhill and caught up to Nellie, Amy, and Kurt, who were running with Professor Bardsley.
“Who’s chasing you?” Kurt said as he helped Amy over a fallen branch.
“She’ll explain later,” Nellie said breathlessly. “So, Bhekisisa is not a real Tomas. You guys are with Bhekisisa. You’re here to rescue us. You know about the thirty-nine clues. And you’re a professor who happened to be traipsing through the trees with his chorus?”
Professor Bardsley spoke fast, his eyes constantly darting back over his shoulder. “Most of us were once Tomas. We know the training pods. We know the townspeople here, too, and the way the Tomas have exploited them. I am a South African. I have long been weary of exploitation.” He smiled. “Music happens to be my profession. So, like it or not, those who join in the resistance must agree to sing.”
“Your name … Robert …” Amy said as they began down a decline. “Back at the museum, Mrs. Thembeka asked us if Robert had sent us.”