Seven Wonders Journals (3 page)

Osman put his hand through the opening and pulled off one more great hunk of plaster. Our eyes met and we each grabbed the lip of the hole. I counted, “One, two, three!” We pulled together, and a square meter of the bottom of the wall came loose in a shower of dirt. There was an opening just high enough for us to crawl through—and a large, dark tunnel beyond.

Osman got on hands and knees, gathered Safi up into his jacket, and crawled through the tunnel opening. A blast of cold air hit me as I stood, shining my flashlight around. We followed this tunnel in a curved path until we reached a grand, ornate chamber, much bigger than the one we'd just left. The walls were adorned with statues of warriors on horseback, Greek gods with spears flying from their hands, and fantastic monsters. “How many rooms are there?” I asked.

“This one seems familiar,” Osman said.

That was when I smelled coffee.

I switched off my flashlight. A line of bright light, like a yellow gash, shone into the room from our left. “Is that moonlight?” I asked.

“Is that coffee?” Osman said.

We ran across the chamber toward the sliver of light. It was coming through the crack of a doorway. Osman pushed it open, and the first thing I could see was a breathtaking view of Fethiye harbor. And not twenty meters away sat our father with Gencer. My heart nearly stopped when I saw who was with them—Feyyaz the Cyclops.

The men were warming their hands over a small fire, brewing coffee in an old tin pot. Father saw me first. “My chilrrren!” he said, staggering to his feet, smiling too broadly, walking too unsteadily.

I gave Osman a look. Drunk, I realized. They all were. Feyyaz must have brought a bottle. “You've found a way through!” Father continued, his eyes darting back toward the other men with fear and anticipation. “And of course you've brought me . . .”

His voice trailed off as Feyyaz approached. The man was easily twice my father's size. He was dressed in a cream-colored silk shirt and had several rings on his fat fingers. He wore no patch over his missing eye, which was permanently closed by an angry white scar.

“The jewel?” Feyyaz's voice was surprisingly high-pitched and hollow for a man his size, but his one good eye was trained on me like a gun. “The ring?”

“My children were guided by Safi!” Father blurted. “Whatever they accomplished or didn't was determined by the limits of Safi—”

“Dear Safi has no limits, isn't that right, my beautiful
kouklaki
?” Feyyaz's face suddenly twisted into a frightening, sour expression that may have been his version of fondness. He held out his arms toward the ferret.

Safi poked her head out of Osman's jacket and leaped to the floor. She began twitching and made a horrid hacking noise.

Feyyaz's eyes widened. He grabbed Father by his shirt front. “If those brats of yours have harmed my Safi, Khalid, you're a dead man!”

Safi gave an especially violent heave. Then she puked up the body of a mangled spider onto the floor of the tomb.

I picked up the spider, shaking with anger. I don't know what possessed me to do this, and looking back on it, it could have been suicide, but Most Girls don't usually witness their father being bullied and threatened by dangerous gangsters. Without a second thought I placed the spider in Feyyaz's outstretched hand. My voice was calm. “This is all we found, sir.”

He squealed like one of my schoolmates and dropped it.
I grabbed Osman's hand and walked off, leaving my father and Feyyaz gawking.

Thursday, 8:03
A.M.
, in a Jeep (forgive the shaky handwriting, Diary)

“G
ET UP
, A
LIYAH.
”

Father.

“Osman! Up, up, up!”

Why was he whispering? I blinked my eyes open. It was still dark, my nose was cold. But at least I was alive. So was everyone. I guess Feyyaz wasn't in a murderous mood last night. He was preoccupied with Safi's health, nursing the little critter with mysterious, foul-smelling medicines that only seemed to make her worse. He fell asleep in the tent I'd pitched before the rest of us were even done setting up camp. He slept, snoring, with Safi in his beefy arms.

As Father shook us awake, I knew that was what he was thinking, too.

I could see Father's breath as well as smell it. He'd obviously stayed up most (or all) of the night, drinking with Gencer. I opened my mouth to speak, but Father put a finger to his lips. His eyes were red and watery, and kept flitting to the opening of our raggedy tent. “Let's go, children. Lots to do today,” he said, trying to sound cheery.

Osman groaned. “What time is it?”

“Shhh!” Father said. “Uncle Feyyaz is still sleeping. He's had a rough night. Let's leave him in peace.”

Uncle Feyyaz? Yes, Diary, that is what he said. Does Father think I don't know who Feyyaz is? Honestly, I've learned to let Father think he's fooling me. Sometimes it makes it easier to get what I want. But it was time for him to stop treating us like babies. “
Baba
, come on, you don't really think—” I began.

Osman slid out of his sleeping bag, yawning.

“Enough. Follow me now, before the Cyclops wakes.” Father scooped up my sleeping bag with a shushing noise and hurried out to his old Jeep, leaving me sitting alone, on the ground, my mouth hanging open. It was the first time I'd ever heard him use that nickname.

And that is how I ended up here.

And why my handwriting is so shaky.

I must stop now. I shouldn't have written so much. More tomorrow. I am getting Jeepsick . . .

Thursday, 11:41
P.M.

C
AN
'
T SLEEP AGAIN
,
Diary. Maybe it was the lingering effects of that horrible Jeep trip. I never want to ride in that godforsaken vehicle again. Gencer and Father sat in front, in the only seats, while Osman and I bundled with the bedrolls and equipment in the back. The roads seemed
like they hadn't been paved since Harpagus's empire. When we got out, Osman rubbed his back and groaned like an old man. “That really is a rattrap,” he grumbled.

Father still looked pale, glancing backward as if Feyyaz might mysteriously fly toward us.

“Don't worry, Khalid, that one-eyed fool will forget the whole thing the moment he wakes up,” Gencer said, flicking another cigar impatiently to the ground. “Now, let me borrow this rust bucket for a few hours. I've got something I have to do.”

“Borrow the Jeep?” Father said wearily. “Why?”

“It's called sharing—or am I supposed to buy a Cadillac from what we made yesterday?” Gencer replied, holding out his hand. “And, oh yes, I will need to buy gas, Khalid, unless you plan to push.”

I glared at the old moocher, but Father just nodded, digging into his pocket.

As Gencer drove off, he grinned and stuck his tongue out at me, the creep. “Why do you let him boss you around like that?” I said. “Some bravery.”

Osman glared at me, then put his arm around Father's shoulder and walked with him into our shack.

Diary, I felt terrible.
What are you doing, Aliyah?
I scolded myself. Father was tired. Defeated. I was not helping him by asking embarrassing questions! Feeling guilty, I went inside and fixed some lentil soup and bread. I served them
to Father, but he merely nibbled on the bread quietly and left his soup untouched. Finally he stood up and headed for the door, wiping his mouth. “Thank you, but I must go out. For . . . a meeting.”

“You'll be back soon, right,
Baba
?” Osman asked, eyeing him warily.

“Of course. Take care of your sister,” Father said as he pulled on his coat. Then his eyes briefly met mine. “You take care of your brother, too.”

We watched him go. Again. To yet another mysterious “meeting.” We were so used to this that it didn't seem strange at all. But I felt angry and confused. What kind of meeting does a tomb robber go to? Or was he just meeting up with Gencer and his friends at the tavern? Osman and I exchanged a glance without words. I don't know about other twins, but we can communicate with our eyes.

Once again, we had been the ones who had done the work. We had been in harm's way.

I sighed, turning back to do the dishes. For a change, Osman pitched in to help. “Do you think our luck will change?” I asked. “We haven't found much of anything in almost a month.”

Osman shrugged. “It could be worse. We could have to go to school.”

He had a point. In some ways I don't mind the life we lead. It's been ten months since I last went to school, but all
I did there was argue with my teachers. They called me insubordinate, which means disobedient, but that is just not true. I am very respectful. I just speak up when people are wrong. I call that strong. And I can't help being that.

Anyway, now I like being able to explore the city, finding odd books to read, dodging truant officers. My life must seem pretty special to a normal schoolkid. But truly, Diary, if it meant I could have Mother back, I'd gladly go to school seven days a week and never talk back to a teacher ever again.

Friday, 12:26
A.M.

I CAN
'
T BELIEVE
what just happened. My brain is racing. Father is back and he's fallen asleep for now, but I am worried for his life and I don't know what happened to Gencer or that horrible Greek man who—

Calm down, Aliyah.

One. Two. Three.

Okay.

Not long after my last entry, Diary, Father fell against the door and stumbled inside—right into the main room where my brother and I were sleeping. (Well, he was sleeping. I only pretended.)

I kept my eyes closed. I heard Father moving toward Osman and me. Behind my lids I could sense when he bent over me by the way the darkness got darker, if you
know what I mean. A faint whiff of wine made me want to sneeze, but somehow I held still until he turned away.

He sat down at the table with a deep sigh, and I opened my eyes a crack. He looked very tired and old, sitting there.

But he nearly leaped off the bed at the sound of a sudden pounding at the door. So did I.

“Khalid!” a deep voice shouted from outside.

Father sprang up and hurried to the door. “Who's there?”

There was another thunderous blow on the door. The cheap lock tore out of the wood and the door swung inward.

I slitted my eyes wide enough to see what was happening. A man pushed into the room, shoving Father aside with one hand. The intruder was short and thickly built, with a mustache so big it covered his mouth. There was a knife in his belt, but I got the feeling he could do plenty of damage with his huge fists alone.

A second figure followed him—a skinny, cringing, weaselly man who could only be Gencer. As I lay there my hands curled into fists. Whatever was going on, Gencer was at the bottom of it.

“Feyyaz is not happy with you, Khalid,” the man rumbled. “He knows what you did.”

“What are you talking about?” Father said. “Knows what? Who are you?”

In a flash, the knife was in the man's hand. My breath caught.

“Call me Vasily the Greek,” the man said. “Feyyaz believes you cheated him. Why else would you leave so suddenly? Your children found something in that tomb, didn't they? Feyyaz isn't so easily fooled.”

As Vasily stepped closer, Father backpedaled, his hands in the air. “There wasn't anything in that tomb!” he pleaded. “I swear!”

Vasily went on as if Father hadn't even spoken, backing him up to the wall. “That stunt the girl pulled with the spider? That almost got you all killed right there, you know. You should be on your knees, grateful that Feyyaz is a man of mercy!” In a blindingly swift movement, he grabbed Father by the collar and pulled his face close. “And you know what's even worse? Feyyaz's beloved Safi is ruined.”

“But—nothing happened to Safi!” Father said.

“She had the finest nose for precious metals of any ferret ever,” Vasily went on. “But now she's depressed. She's not eating. She won't even look at a mousehole. Feyyaz says she is traumatized.”

“A ferret—traumatized?” Father said.

Vasily nicked Father's cheek with the blade. I couldn't contain a gasp, but the man didn't care if I was asleep or awake. Father sank to the floor, his hand covering his face. “I—I will make amends!” he cried, as a tiny drop of blood ran down his chin. “I swear!”

“Yes, you will,” Vasily hissed. “In fact, Feyyaz is thinking
twenty thousand will cover it. Barely.”

“What?” Father blanched. “Twenty thousand lira is a lot of money!”

The man glared at Father. “Not lira. American dollars, you lowlife thief.”

Twenty thousand dollars was a sum I couldn't even imagine! I thought Father was going to have a heart attack. “Gencer . . . ?” he said.

Gencer, hiding in the shadows, began backing toward the door. “I'll, um, just be going, then . . .”

Vasily whirled and pointed the knife at him. “Oh, don't think you're off the hook just because you showed me where Khalid lives. You're the one who got Feyyaz mixed up with this fool in the first place.”

“Khalid begged me!” Gencer protested. “I tried to tell him Feyyaz was a busy man, but he wouldn't take no for an answer!”

“That's not true!” Father shot back.

As I lay there, watching, I felt my cheeks become hot. It was all I could do not to leap out of bed and start hitting Gencer with the broom. The spineless worm! The maggot! But to get to Gencer I'd have to deal with Feyyaz's hit man, and I'm not stupid. All I could do was lie still and try not to shake with rage. All I could think about was how Mother could make Gencer scuttle away like a frightened crab. I just know she would have handled
Vasily the Greek, that fat little gangster. But I am not Mother.