Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 Three pairs of eyes focused on the tall, straight- backed Asian man hurrying across the street, tapping along with his diamond-tipped walking stick. Alistair Oh, their Korean cousin, yet another competitor in the contest. "So much for us being ahead of the other teams," Dan observed. "He's probably not here for the clear mountain air," Nellie agreed. They watched as Uncle Alistair loped across the street and boarded a bus parked at the opposite curb. "Follow him," Amy said suddenly. "Let's see where he's going." Nellie made a highly illegal right turn from the left lane and fell into line behind the bus. She

waved gaily at the Salzburg drivers who were cursing and honking. "You know," mused Dan, "if we want to find out where he's going, why can't we just ask the guy? Don't we still have an alliance with him from Paris?" "Remember what Mr. McIntyre said," Amy countered. "Trust no one." "Maybe so. But Uncle Alistair sure saved our butts in the Catacombs." Amy was unimpressed. "Only because he had to help us to stop the Kabras. If there's one thing we ought to know by now, it's that Cahills have been fighting each other for centuries. He'd do anything to distract us from the thirty-nine clues." They followed the bus as it rattled over the Staatsbrucke — the bridge at the center of town. Passengers got on, but no one got off. The streets were crowded with cars and taxis, and throngs of sightseers were everywhere. A high school group stepped out in front of the Fiat, and the bus roared around a corner and out of view. "Don't lose them," Dan said urgently.

At last, the road cleared, and the Fiat lurched off, Nellie shifting awkwardly. They jounced down a few narrow streets, but there was no sign of the bus. Amy pointed. "There!" The bus had left the grid of downtown streets and was roaring around the side of a hill. In a screech of gears, they set off in pursuit, picking up speed as the Fiat rounded the bend. They were so focused on the chase that they raced right past the stopped bus, which was disgorging passengers at an ancient stone gate. Amy peered at the collection of very old buildings topped with steeples and crosses. "A church?" Dan looked miserable. "Like Mozart wasn't boring enough." "The last church we were in wasn't boring," Amy reminded him. "We both nearly got killed." Nellie made a U-turn and pulled up a discreet distance behind the bus. "St. Peter's Archabbey," she translated, squinting at the wrought-iron sign. They could see Alistair's tall figure starting up

the sloped path through the gate. Nellie frowned. "Do you think your clue could be in there?" "Alistair thinks it is," Amy decided. "We can't leave until we know one way or the other. Why don't you find a hotel and give Saladin a chance to recover from the trip?" The au pair looked reluctant. Dan spoke up. "The place is full of tourists. How dangerous can it be?" "All right," Nellie said finally. "I'll be back here in an hour. Try not to get yourselves killed." She drove off. They entered through the gate, and Amy chose an English brochure from the rack. "Wow," she breathed. "This place is more than thirteen hundred years old. The monastery was founded in 696, but they think the Romans were here even before that." "Romans?" Dan showed a stirring of interest. "Those Roman legions had some super-sweet fighting skills." "That's why you find Roman artifacts all over

Europe," Amy explained. "Their armies were so powerful that they conquered most of the known world." "Unstoppable," Dan agreed. He frowned. "So why the church?" "That was built later, in the twelfth century — long after the Romans had gone. The oldest graves in the cemetery date back to around that time." "Cemetery?" Dan beamed. "This place is starting to grow on me!" They lay low until Uncle Alistair's tour group had filed into the main cathedral and then ducked through the arch that led to the graveyard. It was like no cemetery Dan had ever seen — overgrown with brush, the markers barely visible through the foliage. Instead of tombstones, the plots were represented by wrought-iron signposts with fancy old-fashioned script. "Reminds me of Aunt Beatrice's souvenir spoon collection," Dan mumbled to Amy. Her nose was still immersed in the brochure. All at once, she grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard enough to splinter bone. "Dan — it says the last

remains of Nannerl Mozart are right here!" Dan's eyes widened. "We're going to dig up a dead body? Awesome!" "Shhh! Of course not!" "But what if Mozart planted a clue on his sister?" Amy shook her head. "Mozart died before Nannerl. Now, we're looking for a communal tomb. That's where the guidebook says she's buried." "What's that?" Dan asked. "Like a condo for dead people?" "Show some respect. One of the others in her crypt is Michael Haydn, the famous composer, and one of Mozart's biggest supporters." He couldn't resist. "What's he doing now — decomposing?" "Don't be gross. Come on." It took a few minutes of wandering for them to find the mausoleum. Compared to some of the opulent and elaborate burial chambers at St. Peter's, it was a simple stone structure bearing the