The Doomsday Vault by Steven Harper Page A

his jacket off the boy, who leapt to his feet.
    â€œThank you,” he said, pumping Gavin’s hand. “Thank you so much.”
    â€œWhat happened back there?” Gavin demanded.
    â€œA misunderstanding with the lady,” he said.
    Gavin squinted at him. “That usually means the man did something he shouldn’t have.”
    â€œNo, no.” The boy put up his hands. “She kissed me . But then her husband jumped out of the bushes with friends. I didn’t even know she was married. She screamed, he fired that pistol, and I ran. You were wonderful.” He fished around in his pockets and thrust something into Gavin’s hands. “Take this.”
    Gavin looked down. He was holding a tiny mechanical bird no bigger than a pocket watch. Its silver feathers gleamed in the pale light. Tiny sapphires made up its eyes and tipped its claws.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Gavin breathed. He touched the bird’s head. It opened its little beak and trilled a miniature melody, a perfect replica of a nightingale’s song, then fell silent.
    â€œI can’t accept this,” he said. “I don’t even know your name.”
    But when he looked up, the boy was gone.
    Although a carriage horse clopped in the distance, crowds in the park were nonexistent, so Gavin put his fiddle away, perched on a bench, and examined the bird. Its wings were etched with tiny Chinese pictograms, and more tiny gems were hidden among the strange icons. Whenever he pressed the head, it trilled the same song over and over, without fail. The first few times, it was beautiful, but after a while Gavin realized it was really nothing more than a music box—very pretty, but lacking the soul of real music. Still, the bird was immensely valuable. The money he’d get from a pawnshop or fence would be five times the cost of a ticket home, though it would be only a fraction of the bird’s true worth.
    Gavin stroked the nightingale’s smooth feathers again. It seemed a dreadful shame to sell something so beautiful for so little money.
    Footsteps shuffled through the yellow mist. Gavin stuffed the nightingale in his pocket and leaned casually back on the bench as two well-dressed young men strolled into view. They were engaged in an animated discussion that involved a great deal of hand waving. Gavin whipped out his fiddle and set to playing—no sense in losing a chance. The men stopped just in front of Gavin and continued their discussion.
    â€œThis is the best time to invest in China,” the first man was saying. “War always makes money. That little tiff they had over the opium trade proves that—I made a mint. And now it’s flaring up all over again. When the conflict ends, China will become much more open to foreigners, and those of us with money on the inside will make our fortunes.”
    â€œThe Treaty of Nanking was an unequal proposition,” the second retorted. “Why do you think the locals are in revolt again? Once Lord Elgin puts the Chinks down, he’ll do something dreadful to Emperor Xianfeng to ensure this never happens again, and that will send your speculations into a downward spin.”
    â€œYou’re always a pessimist, White,” the first man said. “Tell you what. Let’s ask this enterprising young man what he thinks.”
    Both men turned to Gavin, who stopped playing, startled.
    â€œA street player?” White said. “You can’t be serious, Peterson.”
    â€œCompletely. We can make a bet of it.” Peterson fished around in his pocket. “Young man, would you like to earn a sovereign?”
    Gavin’s eyes widened. It seemed to be a holiday for flinging enormous amounts of money at him. “A sovereign? For doing what?”
    â€œFor failing to pay attention, I’m afraid,” Peterson replied.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Gavin said. “What’s—”
    A cloth bag flipped down