The Star of India
Prologue
A man sat alone in his musty office. A courier packet lay before him unopened. Following the instructions he watched the silver face of his wall clock and waited the seven minutes till morning. Winter-quiet filled the museum, the kind of peace that visits Manhattan maybe twice a year following a heavy, cleansing snowfall.
The package was letter-sized and thick. He fingered the cardboard tag that would unzip it. There was nothing to stop him from opening it before the appointed time but his own conscience. He’d agreed to the terms of the letter by return post a week before. He had dealt with this donor before. The interaction was always anonymous and required trust on both sides. The items he received were sometimes lovely, sometimes strange, always mysterious and always rare. But this package did not contain a trinket or mere artifact, if his instincts were right, the contents of this package would change everything.
The tip of the long arm of the clock disappeared into the number twelve. The man tore the strip of cardboard from the package and gently removed a bubble-wrapped book. He placed it gingerly on his blotter. With trembling fingers he opened his desk drawer and ran his hand along its felt bottom. His fingers grasped a cold metal knife. Slipping the letter opener along the taped side of the bubble-wrap his excitement mounted. The bubble wrap unfolded.
Two hours later the Museum reverberated with the loud, insistent clanging of the fire alarm.
Chapter One
Alistair Frank slid his skateboard out of his backpack and dropped it on the pavement.
“You’re going to board there?” his younger sister Megan asked incredulously.
He nodded, his face set in a grim frown. It was probably twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside and the Museum of Natural History was about seventy blocks away but he was going to board the distance.
“You’re crazy. It’s freezing and it’ll take forever!” Megan protested.
Alistair looked at her and sighed. “Y-y-y-yeah, I know Megan, just go on ahead, I’ll m-m-m-meet you there.” He zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder again. Clapping his hands together to warm them, he then rolled his skateboard back and forth under his foot.
“I’ll w-w-walk you to the subway,” he said to mollify her.
It was late Saturday morning; the sun had just begun its climb to high in the sky. They had gotten up and out of their aunt’s house by 8:00 and rode down to the southern tip of Manhattan to watch the skate kids do their tricks. Every Saturday by 10:00 the best boarders in the city collected just north of Castle Clinton where tickets for Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty are sold. These boarders take turns showing off for the tourists and practicing their jumps on the long stretch of pavement that ends in two wide sets of stairs girded by a thick metal railing. This morning the boarders had come especially early to clear away the snow and ice before performing.
Alistair picked up his board and they started walking to the underground entrance of Rector Street station. Warm air rose from the station. The ground shuddered beneath them, and Alistair’s skin prickled at the rumbling sound. He hated the subway. Underneath places in general terrified him ever since he’d been trapped in a train with his Papa during 9/11 on a visit from Virginia. No harm had come to him or anyone on the subway car. Their car had simply been stopped along with the others that horrible, horrible day. Because they were close to downtown it took the authorities’ hours to evacuate them after Mayor Guilianni closed down the subways. He would never forget that end of world feeling or the pale look of fear on his Papa’s face as the subway staff tried to explain and make sense of why the passengers were being held there. They just thought a subway tunnel had collapsed. They didn’t know the real reason until later, still, Alistair would now go to any lengths to avoid having to use public transportation that led underground.
When he and Megan still lived in Richmond, Virginia, which they had until four weeks ago, this fear rarely came up. The only trains to be seen in Virginia were above ground. But in New York they were the major form of transportation – at least for everybody else. He hated New York. Everything about the place depressed him – it was crowded and smelled of garbage. Even here, right by Battery Park and the water, where you’d think the air would be the freshest, he could smell the faint scent of urine that seemed to linger over everything even in the cold filtering air.
People spoke to him about the magic of the city since he was little. But since he’d been here nothing had gone right. He and Megan had barely spoken to their dad. Their dad, a doctor, had been in Iraq for over nine months. Their mom died in a car accident when Megan was four and Alistair six. Since their mom’s brothers and sister and both of sets of their grandparents lived in New York, it was decided that until the world was able to manage without their dad, Alistair and Megan would live with their Aunt Abigail in the Turtle Bay section of Midtown. To top it all off his stupid stutter had started up again, so he’d taken to grunting and nodding to avoid speaking at all. No small feat when your kid sister asks millions of questions every hour.
“It’ll take you forever, Alistair” Megan grabbed his arm to make him look at her when they stopped at the station steps leading down. She brushed his thick blond bangs out of his eyes. His nose and cheeks, like hers, were pink from the wind. Megan had always been a bit of a mother hen, which considering she'd never really had a mother was just irritating to Alistair. To hear the two of them talk, you’d think she was fourteen and he was twelve instead of the other way around.
“And we’re to meet Papa Joe for lunch at 1:00. He promised he would have something special to show us, something too special to even be exhibited,” she cajoled.
Their round, burly Papa was curator of the Museum of Natural History and tried to spend as much time with his two transplanted grandchildren as his job would allow.
Megs decided on the brusque approach instead. “You’ve got to get over this. This is New York City, if you can’t afford cabs; the subway is your only alternative.”
“N-n-nope,” Alistair said stubbornly as he shook her gloved hand away, “I’ve got my b-b-b-board, my scooter and my bike, I am comp-p-p-pletely mobile. I’ll see you there in less than an hour.”
He plopped down his board and pushed off with his foot along Wall Street, slush slowing his wheels. Megan stood staring at him as he rushed away. As if he could feel her eyes on his back he turned his head to look at her briefly and shouted, “I had one mom, I don’t need another.” But even as he said this his chest tightened to think how at fourteen he'd now lived longer without a mom than with one.
A man sat alone in his musty office. A courier packet lay before him unopened. Following the instructions he watched the silver face of his wall clock and waited the seven minutes till morning. Winter-quiet filled the museum, the kind of peace that visits Manhattan maybe twice a year following a heavy, cleansing snowfall.
The package was letter-sized and thick. He fingered the cardboard tag that would unzip it. There was nothing to stop him from opening it before the appointed time but his own conscience. He’d agreed to the terms of the letter by return post a week before. He had dealt with this donor before. The interaction was always anonymous and required trust on both sides. The items he received were sometimes lovely, sometimes strange, always mysterious and always rare. But this package did not contain a trinket or mere artifact, if his instincts were right, the contents of this package would change everything.
The tip of the long arm of the clock disappeared into the number twelve. The man tore the strip of cardboard from the package and gently removed a bubble-wrapped book. He placed it gingerly on his blotter. With trembling fingers he opened his desk drawer and ran his hand along its felt bottom. His fingers grasped a cold metal knife. Slipping the letter opener along the taped side of the bubble-wrap his excitement mounted. The bubble wrap unfolded.
Two hours later the Museum reverberated with the loud, insistent clanging of the fire alarm.
Chapter One
Alistair Frank slid his skateboard out of his backpack and dropped it on the pavement.
“You’re going to board there?” his younger sister Megan asked incredulously.
He nodded, his face set in a grim frown. It was probably twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside and the Museum of Natural History was about seventy blocks away but he was going to board the distance.
“You’re crazy. It’s freezing and it’ll take forever!” Megan protested.
Alistair looked at her and sighed. “Y-y-y-yeah, I know Megan, just go on ahead, I’ll m-m-m-meet you there.” He zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder again. Clapping his hands together to warm them, he then rolled his skateboard back and forth under his foot.
“I’ll w-w-walk you to the subway,” he said to mollify her.
It was late Saturday morning; the sun had just begun its climb to high in the sky. They had gotten up and out of their aunt’s house by 8:00 and rode down to the southern tip of Manhattan to watch the skate kids do their tricks. Every Saturday by 10:00 the best boarders in the city collected just north of Castle Clinton where tickets for Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty are sold. These boarders take turns showing off for the tourists and practicing their jumps on the long stretch of pavement that ends in two wide sets of stairs girded by a thick metal railing. This morning the boarders had come especially early to clear away the snow and ice before performing.
Alistair picked up his board and they started walking to the underground entrance of Rector Street station. Warm air rose from the station. The ground shuddered beneath them, and Alistair’s skin prickled at the rumbling sound. He hated the subway. Underneath places in general terrified him ever since he’d been trapped in a train with his Papa during 9/11 on a visit from Virginia. No harm had come to him or anyone on the subway car. Their car had simply been stopped along with the others that horrible, horrible day. Because they were close to downtown it took the authorities’ hours to evacuate them after Mayor Guilianni closed down the subways. He would never forget that end of world feeling or the pale look of fear on his Papa’s face as the subway staff tried to explain and make sense of why the passengers were being held there. They just thought a subway tunnel had collapsed. They didn’t know the real reason until later, still, Alistair would now go to any lengths to avoid having to use public transportation that led underground.
When he and Megan still lived in Richmond, Virginia, which they had until four weeks ago, this fear rarely came up. The only trains to be seen in Virginia were above ground. But in New York they were the major form of transportation – at least for everybody else. He hated New York. Everything about the place depressed him – it was crowded and smelled of garbage. Even here, right by Battery Park and the water, where you’d think the air would be the freshest, he could smell the faint scent of urine that seemed to linger over everything even in the cold filtering air.
People spoke to him about the magic of the city since he was little. But since he’d been here nothing had gone right. He and Megan had barely spoken to their dad. Their dad, a doctor, had been in Iraq for over nine months. Their mom died in a car accident when Megan was four and Alistair six. Since their mom’s brothers and sister and both of sets of their grandparents lived in New York, it was decided that until the world was able to manage without their dad, Alistair and Megan would live with their Aunt Abigail in the Turtle Bay section of Midtown. To top it all off his stupid stutter had started up again, so he’d taken to grunting and nodding to avoid speaking at all. No small feat when your kid sister asks millions of questions every hour.
“It’ll take you forever, Alistair” Megan grabbed his arm to make him look at her when they stopped at the station steps leading down. She brushed his thick blond bangs out of his eyes. His nose and cheeks, like hers, were pink from the wind. Megan had always been a bit of a mother hen, which considering she'd never really had a mother was just irritating to Alistair. To hear the two of them talk, you’d think she was fourteen and he was twelve instead of the other way around.
“And we’re to meet Papa Joe for lunch at 1:00. He promised he would have something special to show us, something too special to even be exhibited,” she cajoled.
Their round, burly Papa was curator of the Museum of Natural History and tried to spend as much time with his two transplanted grandchildren as his job would allow.
Megs decided on the brusque approach instead. “You’ve got to get over this. This is New York City, if you can’t afford cabs; the subway is your only alternative.”
“N-n-nope,” Alistair said stubbornly as he shook her gloved hand away, “I’ve got my b-b-b-board, my scooter and my bike, I am comp-p-p-pletely mobile. I’ll see you there in less than an hour.”
He plopped down his board and pushed off with his foot along Wall Street, slush slowing his wheels. Megan stood staring at him as he rushed away. As if he could feel her eyes on his back he turned his head to look at her briefly and shouted, “I had one mom, I don’t need another.” But even as he said this his chest tightened to think how at fourteen he'd now lived longer without a mom than with one.
The C Line took Megan right into the underbelly of the museum. The train didn’t stop at the museum, instead it zoomed past it.
“Hey,” she said out loud in surprise, looking at the girl across from her questioningly. The girl shrugged, her brown dredlocs bouncing as her shoulders reached toward her ears.
Over the intercom a flat male voice announced that the Natural History Museum stop would be closed until further notice. Megan got out at the 82nd street stop and ran the three blocks down Central Park West to the Museum. A large crowd surrounded the steps of the building. A jumble of media vans and police cars lined the street. Yellow tape ran across the entrance into the Roosevelt rotunda. A fearful feeling spread coldly along the back of her neck. She ran up the stairs two at a time. Papa Joe had promised to meet her under the Barosaurus in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda. What on earth had happened?
She spotted a security guard with exceptionally wide-nostrils named Christoph. He grandfather had first introduced her to him a few weeks ago. She ran over to him. He was standing just outside the yellow tape.
“Hey Christoph,” she announced to him. “I’m supposed to meet Papa here for lunch. What’s going on?”
Christoph shook his head when he saw her. “No one is allowed in here until the detectives are done. I’m sorry Megan. I don’t know exactly where your Papa is.” Cold, cloudy air escaped from his lips as he spoke
The ‘detectives’ she wondered. What did that mean? What detectives? She looked up at Christoph’s nostrils again, they were a little pink from the cold. Apart from their enormous size the rest of his face looked regular and friendly, unlike the official New Yorkers she’d met up till now who seemed to view grumpiness as a municipal right. She didn’t think he’d mind a question or two.
“Christoph,” Megan spoke very politely, “What’s going on? Is my grandfather okay?”
Christoph smiled and nodded. “As far as I know. Nobody appears to be hurt Megan, a few security guards were tied up and locked in a room, but no one was hurt. The museum lost two big pieces – everybody’s freaking out. If you ask me, it’s gotta be an inside job. Most of these museum jobs – there’s somebody inside helping it along, security’s too tight otherwise.” Christoph’s chest puffed up a bit as he spoke the last phrase.
“Oh my goodness. That’s awful, Papa must be really upset. Can you tell him I’m here at least?”
The guard flared his nostrils and shook his head negatively. “Sorry, can’t leave my post. Just you wait here, stand close to the door, you must be freezing. That wind is really up. He’ll be out in a few minutes. The Museum has called a press conference for 1:00 p.m. I imagine he’ll probably be one of the guys doing the talking.”
Megan thanked him for his information and told him she was just going to get a cup of coffee to warm up. New Yorkers are so pro-caffeine that this didn’t strike Christoph as strange at all that a 12 year-old needed her Starbucks fix. It was one of the many things she loved about the city. She walked down the steps wondering what to do. She wanted to see Papa Joe now. She looked back at the entrance. The security guard was now speaking with a curly-haired young reporter. Megan wondered if the reporter had a hard time maintaining eye contact with the guard. Those were the cleanest nostrils she had ever seen. Not a hair in sight, maybe with such a big area to work in nose-maintenance was easier. Megan looked over on the other side of the stairs by the other taped entrance. No guard was posted there.
Christoph looked really enthralled by that pretty, curly-haired reporter. Megan got an idea. She ducked down a bit, dashed to the other side of the steps and ran up and under the yellow tape straight into the Rotunda.
There was no one around. Megan walked over to the Barosaurus. Its skeleton reached high toward the curved ceiling patterned with hundreds of octagons. Cowering beside the fierce skeleton’s tail was a baby Barosaurus one-eighth of its size. Megan spotted Papa Joe was examining the bones of the baby’s tail. Approaching him from behind, she observed his penguin-shaped figure topped by his baby-bald head. He had a reputation for being eccentric, which, near as Megan could tell, was what adults called nuts who could earn a living. He certainly did mad stuff that unnerved people who didn’t know him well. For example he talked to himself, even when he was with other people. When asked about it he said it served people right, if they couldn’t be counted on to say anything interesting he’d have to rely on his own conversation.
He also seemed to have an extra sense, a way of knowing things. Try as she might, Megan could never sneak up on him and she considered herself an excellent sneaker.
Papa Joe spun around and saw her “Megan!” He exclaimed, and captured her up in his arms. “I knew it was you. How’s my best girl?”
Megan kissed the side of his soft, round face. She grabbed a Cadbury chocolate bar out the breast pocket on his orange lab coat. He always had bars of chocolate stashed in his many-pocketed lab coat. He said chocolate helped him think clearly.
“Good Papa, how are you?” She managed to breathe out as he put her back down on her feet.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” That meant not good, not good at all. Papa was a very optimistic man who seemed to only have two moods, great and pretty good. So for him to say not bad was very bad.
“What happened last night, Papa? Why are you just standing here? I thought the detectives were here? Were you here? What did the thief take?” Megan lowered her voice toward the end of her barrage of questions. With no people in it the museum her voice was echoed hauntingly.
“Hey,” she said out loud in surprise, looking at the girl across from her questioningly. The girl shrugged, her brown dredlocs bouncing as her shoulders reached toward her ears.
Over the intercom a flat male voice announced that the Natural History Museum stop would be closed until further notice. Megan got out at the 82nd street stop and ran the three blocks down Central Park West to the Museum. A large crowd surrounded the steps of the building. A jumble of media vans and police cars lined the street. Yellow tape ran across the entrance into the Roosevelt rotunda. A fearful feeling spread coldly along the back of her neck. She ran up the stairs two at a time. Papa Joe had promised to meet her under the Barosaurus in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda. What on earth had happened?
She spotted a security guard with exceptionally wide-nostrils named Christoph. He grandfather had first introduced her to him a few weeks ago. She ran over to him. He was standing just outside the yellow tape.
“Hey Christoph,” she announced to him. “I’m supposed to meet Papa here for lunch. What’s going on?”
Christoph shook his head when he saw her. “No one is allowed in here until the detectives are done. I’m sorry Megan. I don’t know exactly where your Papa is.” Cold, cloudy air escaped from his lips as he spoke
The ‘detectives’ she wondered. What did that mean? What detectives? She looked up at Christoph’s nostrils again, they were a little pink from the cold. Apart from their enormous size the rest of his face looked regular and friendly, unlike the official New Yorkers she’d met up till now who seemed to view grumpiness as a municipal right. She didn’t think he’d mind a question or two.
“Christoph,” Megan spoke very politely, “What’s going on? Is my grandfather okay?”
Christoph smiled and nodded. “As far as I know. Nobody appears to be hurt Megan, a few security guards were tied up and locked in a room, but no one was hurt. The museum lost two big pieces – everybody’s freaking out. If you ask me, it’s gotta be an inside job. Most of these museum jobs – there’s somebody inside helping it along, security’s too tight otherwise.” Christoph’s chest puffed up a bit as he spoke the last phrase.
“Oh my goodness. That’s awful, Papa must be really upset. Can you tell him I’m here at least?”
The guard flared his nostrils and shook his head negatively. “Sorry, can’t leave my post. Just you wait here, stand close to the door, you must be freezing. That wind is really up. He’ll be out in a few minutes. The Museum has called a press conference for 1:00 p.m. I imagine he’ll probably be one of the guys doing the talking.”
Megan thanked him for his information and told him she was just going to get a cup of coffee to warm up. New Yorkers are so pro-caffeine that this didn’t strike Christoph as strange at all that a 12 year-old needed her Starbucks fix. It was one of the many things she loved about the city. She walked down the steps wondering what to do. She wanted to see Papa Joe now. She looked back at the entrance. The security guard was now speaking with a curly-haired young reporter. Megan wondered if the reporter had a hard time maintaining eye contact with the guard. Those were the cleanest nostrils she had ever seen. Not a hair in sight, maybe with such a big area to work in nose-maintenance was easier. Megan looked over on the other side of the stairs by the other taped entrance. No guard was posted there.
Christoph looked really enthralled by that pretty, curly-haired reporter. Megan got an idea. She ducked down a bit, dashed to the other side of the steps and ran up and under the yellow tape straight into the Rotunda.
There was no one around. Megan walked over to the Barosaurus. Its skeleton reached high toward the curved ceiling patterned with hundreds of octagons. Cowering beside the fierce skeleton’s tail was a baby Barosaurus one-eighth of its size. Megan spotted Papa Joe was examining the bones of the baby’s tail. Approaching him from behind, she observed his penguin-shaped figure topped by his baby-bald head. He had a reputation for being eccentric, which, near as Megan could tell, was what adults called nuts who could earn a living. He certainly did mad stuff that unnerved people who didn’t know him well. For example he talked to himself, even when he was with other people. When asked about it he said it served people right, if they couldn’t be counted on to say anything interesting he’d have to rely on his own conversation.
He also seemed to have an extra sense, a way of knowing things. Try as she might, Megan could never sneak up on him and she considered herself an excellent sneaker.
Papa Joe spun around and saw her “Megan!” He exclaimed, and captured her up in his arms. “I knew it was you. How’s my best girl?”
Megan kissed the side of his soft, round face. She grabbed a Cadbury chocolate bar out the breast pocket on his orange lab coat. He always had bars of chocolate stashed in his many-pocketed lab coat. He said chocolate helped him think clearly.
“Good Papa, how are you?” She managed to breathe out as he put her back down on her feet.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” That meant not good, not good at all. Papa was a very optimistic man who seemed to only have two moods, great and pretty good. So for him to say not bad was very bad.
“What happened last night, Papa? Why are you just standing here? I thought the detectives were here? Were you here? What did the thief take?” Megan lowered her voice toward the end of her barrage of questions. With no people in it the museum her voice was echoed hauntingly.
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