39 Clues _ Cahills vs. Vespers [03] The Dead of Night by Peter Lerangis Page B

with Dan, he caught a whiff of something familiar.
    Plov.
    Years ago, Atticus had traveled with his dad to Tashkent and watched men filling a huge cauldron with layers of mutton, yellow carrots, currants, spices, and rice. They worked with amazing speed, their faces still and solemn — then they let it cook for hours in a pit, buried under thick blankets.
Plov
tasted so good, it nearly made him . . .
    “Cry,” Dan said.
    “What?” Atticus replied, snapping out of his fantasy.
    “I think I’m going to cry if I don’t eat whatever that is,” Dan answered.
    Atticus nodded. “But it’s dangerous to split up.”
    “Dangerous,” Dan said dubiously.
    “Unless we . . . ” Atticus said.
    Dan nodded. “Grab something quick.”
    Together they raced down the block. People were already leaving offices for lunchtime. The street was crowded with women in long, patterned dresses and bright-colored head kerchiefs. Many men wore small black-and-white-patterned skullcaps sewn with four seams at the side, so that the top formed a square.
    At the end of the block, a set of stone steps led to a small market area lined with shops. In a food stand, a burly, mustached man stood over two simmering pots. They were small versions of the cauldron Atticus had once seen. He knew the smell. His mouth was already watering. “Is that
plov
?” Atticus asked.
    The man nodded proudly. “Also
nochas
. Sweet yellow peas. Delicious.”
    “It’s like that song,” Dan murmured. “All you need is
plov
. . .”
    Atticus grinned. “
Plov
makes the world go around . . .”
    “I’m just a
plov
machine — ”
    “Also we have
non
bread,” the man went on. He gestured toward a deep oven, where puffy breads were plastered to the inner walls, as if they’d grown there. “And
katyk
to drink. Made with yogurt and watermelon. Very nice.”
    Dan was looking over his shoulder, across the plaza. “Order two of everything,” he said, shoving cash into Atticus’s hand. “I’ll be right back. I need to get a souvenir.”
    “Souvenir?”
Atticus said. “Wait. Shouldn’t we stay together? I mean, people are after both of us!”
    “No one knows who we are,” Dan said. “I’m just going, like, twenty yards away. For a second. We’ll be able to see each other. Don’t worry.”
    He scampered toward a fabric shop just across the plaza. Before ducking inside, he gave a reassuring wave.
    Atticus brought the food to a café table. He broke open some
non
bread, inhaling the yeasty warmth. He spooned some
plov
on top and folded it into a bite-sized hunk. As he raised it to his mouth, he spotted a figure sitting on a stool across the street.
    Where’d he come from?
    A moment ago, he hadn’t been there. He was enormous and sweaty, the buttons of his white shirt straining against his expansive belly. He held a guitar but he was not yet playing. When Atticus looked up, he quickly turned away.
    Atticus took a deep breath. It was easy to get paranoid
.
He needed to calm down. He took a bite and washed it down with
katyk.
    When he put the drink down, the wide-girthed guitarist had slid his stool closer.
    Atticus’s gaze darted across to the fabric shop. Dan had disappeared inside. The crowd was thickening now, and Atticus could barely see the door. He took another few bites and then stood.
    As he moved across the plaza toward where Dan had gone, the man quickly got up. Placing his guitar on his stool, he headed for the shop. With a much smaller distance to cover.
    “Dan!” Atticus shouted.
    His voice was absorbed by the noisy throng. He pivoted, running back in the direction they’d come, weaving through the crowd, pushing people aside. A bearded old man shook his fist, yelling something in Uzbek.
    He took the stairs two at a time. There were fewer people at the top. It was a clear shot back to Estelle Urb. He leaped to the top and began to run.
    To his left, a man on a bike pedaled out of an alleyway. He skidded to a stop in front of Atticus.
    “Hey,