The Great Gold Robbery (5 page)

“So you
were
Napoléon and you
stopped
the Battle of Waterloo and kept it from happening?” the reporter said.

“Someone had to do it, and I happened to be there,” Nilly said as modestly as he could, studying his own well-nibbled fingernails.

Wild cheers from the audience. Meanwhile close-ups showed that they were laughing so hard they were practically falling out of their seats.

“And with that, a round of applause to thank Nilly, aka Napoléon!” the reporter exclaimed.

Thunderous applause as an attractive woman escorted a waving, smiling Nilly offstage.

Once Nilly was out of camera and hearing range, the reporter turned to face the camera and whispered, “I think we’ve got a strong contender here for the title of Norway’s
Biggest Liar. But the ultimate decision is up to you, viewers. When you cast your votes . . .”

Petter turned off the computer.

“Not so surprising that he’s had enough and doesn’t want to do it again,” Helge said.

“How are we going to convince him?” Hallgeir asked.

“We need to talk about fighting for home and family and king and fatherland,” Helge said.

“Yeah, and for keeping our Norwegian currency!” Hallgeir said.

“Good thinking, Hallgeir! And then we can play touching music in the background while we say all this, and as the music swells we’ll talk louder and louder and get choked up,”
Helge said.

“Good thinking, Helge. Let’s go find that little pipsqueak and—” Hallgeir began.

But just then there was a loud, complaining creak from the hinges as someone yanked the door open. And a second later it banged loudly as someone slammed it shut again. Nilly stood before them
with a backpack on his back.

“We thought you’d headed for the hills,” Hallgeir said.

“I changed my mind,” Nilly said.

“Put on the touching music,” Helge whispered hurriedly to Petter. “I’ll start talking about home and the fatherland and—”

“If you guys are done with your hot chocolate, I’m ready to head back to Oslo now,” Nilly said.

“What? But I haven’t even gotten to the part where I get all choked up yet . . . ,” Hallgeir began.

“No need. As I said, I changed my mind,” Nilly explained.

“Really?” Helge asked.

Nilly shrugged and picked at his front teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Really. Hang gliders and Chinese checkers are nice and all, but a gold heist sounds way more exciting. And a guy can
only drink
so
many cups of hot chocolate, right?”

And so it came to be that exactly thirty-three minutes and twenty-four seconds after six thirty, Zulu time,
floppety-floppety-flop
sounds were once again heard over this remote village,
now almost completely devoid of inhabitants. Petter stood on the hill and waved good-bye to them.

Nilly sat next to the pilot, wearing ear protectors that practically covered his entire teeny tiny redheaded head with the freckles and the turned-up nose. He was begging and pleading for a
chance to fly the helicopter, just for a little bit. He swore—
cross my heart!
—that he’d flown bombers during both world wars, not to mention that he had been the first
person under the age of eighteen to fly an unmanned rocket to Saturn and those parts.

THE KING TUGGED at his annoyingly tight royal sash, cleared his throat, and pushed back his IKEA desk chair. He’d tried moving his throne into his office, but the seat
was so high that it ended up squishing his thighs between the seat and the desk. In front of him stood the only people in the kingdom who knew that Norway’s gold reserves had been stolen:
Hallgeir and Helge of the Secret Gourd; Tor, the governor of the Bank of Norway; Doctor Proctor, Lisa, and Nilly.

“The gold needs to be back in the Bank of Norway’s vault by next Monday when the World Bank does its inspection,” the king said. “If it’s not, we’ll be
bankrupt and forced to live like the East Austrians. Is that what we want? Yes or no?”

“Uh . . . ,” Lisa said, looking at Doctor Proctor, who was raising one eyebrow, and Nilly, who was squinting one eye shut as he thoughtfully scratched his sideburn.

“Can we have more options?” Nilly asked.

“The correct answer is no!” the king bellowed. “Norway is counting on the three of you now. The good news is that the Secret Gourd’s thorough investigation has procured
some information for us, which means you will not be starting out with absolutely nothing.”

“The experts checked the hole in the bank vault,” Hallgeir said. “The robbers must have used a drill with a diamond-tipped bit with a really humongous diamond on it. The only
diamond in the world big enough was recently stolen from Johannesburg, South Africa.”

“Also, we recently talked to our colleagues in the Brazilian secret service,” Helge said. “This is a secret, but last week the central bank of Brazil’s gold reserves were
also stolen. The Brazilian authorities haven’t said anything about it, because they’re afraid of becoming just as poor as the Argentinians.”

“And clever as we are, we cross-checked the passenger lists of people who’ve flown between Johannesburg, Oslo, and Brazil in recent weeks. And it’s not that long a list.
Nothing like the traffic jam of Norwegians trying to drive across the border into Strömstad, Sweden, to stock up on liquor, where the taxes are lower.”

“Or Kragerø, the Cape Cod of Norway,” Helge said.

“Or Ål in Hallingdal, famous for its, uh, cross-country skiing,” Hallgeir said.

“Get to the point,” said the king.

“And,” Helge continued, “there are only three people who have been to all three of those locations recently. And these three are not just anyone.”

“Quite the contrary,” Hallgeir said. “They are specifically
them
.”

“The point!” the king yelled. “Get to it!”

“Wouldn’t you know, they traveled under assumed names, claiming to be the Brunch Brothers, but they didn’t fool us, no they did not, no sirree. The three are
actually”—Helge paused, looking around at all the curious faces to make sure everyone was holding their breath—“the Crunch Brothers!” Helge looked around triumphantly,
but the faces around him were not those of people gasping in shock or even looking very scared.

“The Crunch Brothers are known as the most awful bandits in all of Great and Small Britain combined,” Hallgeir explained.

“Cool!” shouted Nilly. “Awful bandits are cool!”

“What I’m wondering,” Doctor Proctor said, “is how these brothers managed to take Norway’s
entire
gold reserves with them on a plane. I mean, when you
consider how heavy gold is, well, they must have paid a fortune for overweight baggage.”

“It was only one gold bar,” Bank Governor Tor said with a small, modest smile. “So, definitely under the weight limit.”

“Only one gold bar?” Lisa said, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s Norway’s entire gold reserve?”

“It’s shrunk a little over the years,” Tor admitted.

“I’d say,” said Proctor. “What happened to the rest of the gold?”

“Candy,” Tor said with a casual shrug.

“The gold turned into
candy
?” Nilly asked.

“No, into gold fillings for cavities,” Tor said. “After World War Two, Norwegians started eating so much candy that by the 1970s, dentists ran out of gold. Maybe you remember
1972, the year of the Great Toothache?”

Everyone else shook their heads. Only the king nodded, his hand flying instinctively up to his jaw.

“That was an ugly time,” Tor said. “You could hear the moaning and groaning and cries of pain from North Cape, at the northernmost tip of Norway, all the way south to Lindesnes
at the southernmost tip. And boy could you hear them! The Parliament had to pass the Dental Transference Act. And every year since then, the dentists of Norway have been steadily eating away at the
central bank’s gold reserves. Until today . . .”

“So all our gold is in the mouths of candy-eating Norwegians who didn’t brush their teeth?” Lisa asked, crossing her arms and looking offended. “That’s just not
right!”

“Yup,” Nilly said, plunging his index fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulling it open so far it looked like the top half of his head might fall off. “Ust loooookh at
dis. . . .”

And sure enough: His mouth gleamed with the dull sheen of unbrushed gold.

“But if you
know
these Crunch Brother people are behind the robberies, why haven’t you already arrested them?” Doctor Proctor asked.

“There are several reasons,” Bank Governor Tor said. “First of all, we don’t have any actual evidence, just the plane tickets.”

“Well, but they must have hidden the gold somewhere,” Lisa said. “All we have to do is ransack their garage, basement, and—”

“Attic!” Nilly yelled. “Brazilian gold in the attic! Cool!”

“I’m sure the Crunch Brothers probably handed the gold over ages ago to whoever masterminded this. There’s no way the brothers are smart enough to have come up with such clever
robberies themselves. The question is, who masterminded all this?” the bank governor said, shaking his head.

“The police could just arrest the Crunch Brothers and get them to say who they gave the gold to, right?” Lisa said.

The bank governor sighed. “If only it were so easy, Lisa. But these are hardened criminals. They’re not going to blab, no matter how much you torture them. Not that anyone is going
to be tortured, of course . . .”

“Torture! Torture!” Nilly cheered, hopping up and down. “Torture! Just a little?”

“Unfortunately, the UN has decided that even gentle torture is illegal,” the king said with a sigh, tugging at his tight sash. “So the only way for us to find the gold is to
infiltrate this gang. In other words, we have to pretend we’re one of them, make friends with them, gain their trust. And then we can trick them—maybe over a beer at the pub when they
feel like bragging a little bit—into telling us where the gold is.”

“Why don’t you just get a police agent in England to do that?” Lisa asked. “I mean, they already speak English and everything, right?”

“We talked to the police agents, as you call them,” Helge said.

“Or Scotland Yard, as
we
call them,” Hallgeir said, with a snooty look on his face.

“And they said the Crunch Brothers would spot a real police officer a mile away. They can smell if you’re with the police,” Helge said.

“That’s true. Police officers smell like stuffed cabbage rolls,” Hallgeir said.

“So Scotland Yard thought it would be a good idea to trick the brothers using kids or crazy professors, because then they definitely wouldn’t smell anything,” Helge said.

“So, do you understand your mission?” the king asked.

“Yes sir, sire, sir!” Nilly said, snapping to attention and saluting. “And if a
tiny little bit
of torture should end up being necessary, do we have permission for
that? How about noogies? Wedgies? Wet willies? General tickling?”

“You’re heading to London early tomorrow morning,” the king said. “You’ll be meeting a secret Scotland Yard informant by the Michael Jackson figure in Madame
Tourette’s Wax Museum at exactly eight minutes past one. The informant has more information for you about the Crunch Brothers. And remember, this is a secret mission, so if you end up being
captured . . .”

“No one’s going to come rescue us!” Nilly cheered. “I LOVE it! I just love it.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, and Doctor Proctor gave Nilly a serious, concerned look.

“Any questions?” the king asked.

“Do the brothers have any particular distinguishing characteristics that might make it easier for us to recognize them?” Doctor Proctor asked.

The king looked at the guards, who looked at each other, shrugged, and then shook their heads.

“Nothing?” Lisa asked.

“Not that we can think of,” Hallgeir said. “Although, now that you mention it, I guess they do each have their first initial tattooed on their foreheads.”

“But we don’t know what letters those are, so I don’t suppose that’ll be much help,” Helge said.

WITH A BIG smile, the king shook the hands of each of our heroes in turn and wished them good luck. After the three of them had left, however, he moved over to stand by the
window. His smile was gone.