Unknown 9, Layton Green [good books to read for 12 year olds txt] 📗

along the packed highway, swerving to avoid the semis that doused passing cars with thumping sheets of rain.

Through the downpour, she got glimpses of dated skyscrapers choking the city center, entire neighborhoods made of concrete apartment buildings, chaotic markets woven among the domes and spires of the temples, slums that made her swallow in despair with her face pressed to the glass.

The rain ceased as they passed through a beautiful green space with teams of cricketers braving the weather. After the park, they crossed the gray sweep of the Hooghly River on a bridge packed with eight lanes of traffic. Two walkways on either side supported a legion of pedestrians, bicyclists, people on scooters, and rickshaws pulled by barefoot old men in grubby clothes.

Andie stared at a rickshaw driver porting two men in suits across the bridge. He was shirtless, maybe to escape the rain, and the old man’s wrinkled brown skin was pockmarked with moles and unhealthy dark patches. It seemed like a cruel relic of the nineteenth century.

“Kolkata is the last place in the world where the practice of rickshaw pulling on foot has not been outlawed,” the driver said with another giggle. “We are a very permissive society.”

The car turned south along the river, and then east, deeper into the Howrah District. Fifteen minutes later, the monsoon ended as abruptly as if a spigot had turned off. The sun emerged as they entered a tony neighborhood with lush landscaping and swanky retail on the high street.

The driver pulled alongside a café with a smoked-glass storefront and a kaleidoscopic neon sign that kept changing shape.

The Quantum Café.

“Only a two-hour drive,” the driver announced. “This is acceptable?”

“Thank you,” Andie said, realizing she would have to pay with the black credit card Zawadi had given them. She held her breath as she stuck it into the handheld card reader, but it went through without a hitch. She exhaled and tipped the driver well.

“I am extremely grateful for your kindness and gratuity,” he said, holding out a business card. “My name is Danesh. Please call me if you are in further need of a driver.” He hesitated. “Kolkata can be a disorienting city for visitors. Please enjoy your stay, but I advise you to only solicit rides from accepted vendors.”

“Gotcha.”

“I am sorry but at times, unscrupulous taxi drivers have been known to charge exorbitant amounts for their services. Some have even driven their passengers to rendezvous with criminal elements, who proceed to rob and assault the passengers. I would not wish any of this to happen to you. Please, do not hesitate to call me, no matter the hour.”

Andie wasn’t sure if she was grateful or creeped out by the offer. After Danesh left, she and Cal stepped inside the café and hurried to the counter to order. The science institute was only three blocks away, but both of them were starving, and they had no idea how long they would be inside the institute.

The café was light and airy, divided into sections by glass partitions with math formulas etched in white marker on the surface. They each ordered coffee, bottled water, and the daily kebab platter. Soon they were pushing out of their seats and heading for the door.

“We could wait a while,” Cal said as they stepped into the late afternoon heat. The sun was now so bright they had to shield their eyes. “Find disguises and make some kind of plan.”

“I think our best bet is to move as quickly as we can, and pray they haven’t figured out where we’re going. We have to presume they know about the Aryabhata clue from interrogating you in Venice, but if we can find the next one before they get to the institute, they’ll have no way of following us without the Star Phone.”

“No way except for their global surveillance system and teams of assassins.”

“You know what I mean.”

He blew out a breath and scanned the palm-lined street. “Okay then. Either they’re waiting for us at the institute or they’re not. You ready for this?”

Andie clenched her fists and started walking. “Not in the slightest.”

New York City   8   

The body of Dr. James Gerald Corwin had finally been repatriated. When Zawadi strode into the funeral parlor, a grand marble edifice in one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city, just a few blocks off Broadway on the north end of the Financial District, almost every head turned her way.

Some of the public figures who had come to pay their respects were secret members of the Leap Year Society. They lowered their eyes as Zawadi passed, out of respect for her loss.

A few of the attendees were Ascendants. A tech entrepreneur here, a world-class surgeon there. They, too, knew of her special connection to the deceased, and of her fearsome reputation. Their hands strayed towards the weapons concealed at their sides as she passed.

Yet most of the people at the viewing were friends and family and colleagues of Dr. Corwin, normal citizens curious about the identity of the six-foot tall South African woman in the somber black dress, who seemed, both from the glossy beauty of her chiseled features and the strength and confidence of her bearing, as if she were an onyx statue come to life.

Full of soaring pillars and secluded alcoves, the enormous funeral parlor had once been a municipal library, and Dr. Corwin had requested this specific mortuary in his will.

Of course he had, Zawadi thought.

It was dangerous for her to be there. It was dangerous for every member of the Society, since New York City was in the grip of the Ascendants. They had access to the public surveillance system and had bought the loyalty of a shocking number of judges, businessmen, and political figures—some of whom they counted among their members.

Yet there were exceptions. Secret conduits and safe havens spread throughout the five boroughs. Now that she had arrived, Zawadi did not expect trouble. Dr. Corwin was a renowned