Fourteen

“If you’re Tomas Silva,” Hollis said, “then you sent the passports too. You know we’re not Tim and Janet McCabe.”

“I was given the passports to pass on to you. I was told these were the names you went by out in the field. Señor and Señora McCabe. They had your photos on them.”

“The passports are fake. We can show you birth certificates, work IDs, driver’s licenses …”

Tomas Silva shrugged. “All of that can be faked as well.”

“But you were surprised—” Finn started.

“By the other passports you had, yes. The Larssons. Very good fakes. Best I’ve seen.” He poured himself another glass of champagne, emptying the bottle.

“Those are the real ones,” Hollis said. “Where are they?”

“I left them for you at the house. You won’t need them on this trip and to be found with two sets of passports will only confuse our boss.”

“Who is our boss?”

“He goes by many names. Sometimes he calls himself Jorge Videla.”

Hollis’s heart sank. If this man was Tomas Silva and he had sent the note, he warned them to stay away from the man called Videla. “Your note said there had been a murder.”

“Where is my note, if I may ask?”

They couldn’t say the truth. Instead Finn said, “We burned it. We thought it was safer to get rid of it.”

Silva nodded. He might have looked relieved, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

“Who was murdered?” Hollis asked.

“It is a murder that has not yet happened, but that must happen. Because of the Irishman’s error.”

“Declan?” Hollis blurted out.

Silva didn’t answer.

It had to be Declan. His error was going to get someone killed. The tone in Silva’s voice was contemptuous. If he was Declan’s friend, why not say so? And if he wasn’t … she didn’t want to think about that.

The captain came on the speaker, saying something in Spanish. Hollis could make out only a few words, but she recognized destino. They were reaching their destination. If Finn was right, that meant they were in Argentina and more than five thousand miles from home.

“Perhaps you should sit,” Silva suggested. But as they did, he got up and wandered toward the front of the plane, returning moments later with another bottle of champagne. “Can I tempt you?”

Both Hollis and Finn declined. Silva opened the bottle and poured himself another glass. “Have you been here before?”

“No,” Finn said.

Silva settled back into his chair. “Buenos Aires is a place of many personalities. Our buildings are French, our food Italian, our language Spanish, and our ambitions American. We have had our dark moments, but we are a strong people. You will find us a resilient country of great history and culture.” He seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Suddenly he leaned toward Hollis. “Do you tango?”

She swallowed. “No. I’ve seen it, I think. But we don’t get to dance that often.”

He sighed. “Promise me you will tango while you are in Buenos Aires. Once you know this dance, you know everything there is to know about my country.”

The plane dipped. They were close to the ground, but Silva poured himself more champagne.

“You are aware we’ve been brought here against our will,” Finn pointed out, though Hollis wished he hadn’t. Silva seemed to be tiring of what he obviously saw as their pretending to be a couple of university professors.

“You are here—at great expense—to work,” Silva said.

“Either way, I don’t see much time for dancing.”

“There will be time.”

One of the armed men stood up, said something to Silva in Spanish. Hollis couldn’t understand the words, but she did understand the gesture. The man took the champagne away but he had waited just a moment too long. The plane landed, the brakes caused them all to lurch forward and the gunman dropped the bottle on the floor. They watched as the liquid soaked into the carpet. Silva looked as if he were about to cry.

Once the plane stopped, the gunman gestured for Finn and Hollis to stand.

“These.” The gunman pushed passports into Finn’s hand. “Luggage at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Better to be clever than strong, my friends,” Silva said from his chair. Then, amazingly, he dropped off to sleep.

The gunman looked at him, disgusted, but said nothing about it. He turned back to Finn and Hollis. “Immigration. Customs. Okay?”

They walked to the door of the plane, waited for it to open. Hollis had a terrifying thought that a whole new set of gunmen was waiting for them, but the door opened to a set of stairs and a tarmac. It was a private airport, as far as she could tell. There were a few other small planes parked and one just taking off, a building, and aside from that, fields. Nowhere to run. Finn was looking around as well and when their eyes met, it was clear he’d made the same assessment. They had to just go along with the gunmen for now.

At the bottom of the stairs, as promised, were two carry-on-sized roller bags. One black, one light blue. Finn took the handle of the black one, so Hollis grabbed the other. At a small desk just inside the building a woman sat waiting behind a counter.

“Passports,” she said.

Finn handed them over. The woman looked at the photos carefully, then paged through. It hadn’t occurred to Hollis earlier to see if there were other stamps in the book, but as she watched the woman she saw that there weren’t.

Finally, the woman looked up. “Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, I guess,” Finn stumbled.

“You’re not sure? You think you might have business here?”

Hollis could see the hesitation in Finn’s eyes. He was just about to tell the woman they’d been kidnapped, she was sure of it. But what if she couldn’t be trusted?

“No, he’s sure,” Hollis stepped in. “Just a little queasy from the plane. It’s pleasure. We’re excited to be here.”

The woman glanced toward her, tapped her fingers for a moment. Behind them the gunmen, minus any visible weapons, were walking up to the Immigration counter. Silva was noticeably missing.

Hollis yawned. “Sorry, jet lag. We’re anxious to get to our hotel.”

“It’s a long flight from the United States.” The woman stamped each passport and returned them. “Welcome to Argentina, Mr. and Mrs. McCabe.”

They walked from the counter just as the gunmen reached it. Hollis leaned into Finn. “We need to stay farther ahead. Once we’re out of here …”

“There have to be taxis or something. Or someone …”

But first there was a severe-looking man at Customs. Hollis braced herself. She had no idea what was in the luggage. There could be drugs, she realized. Or priceless antiquities. Or bits of a body … She and Finn kept walking. She waited for the man to stop them, but he just nodded as they passed.

“That was easy.” The exit from the airport was just in front of them. She could even see a line of yellow and black cars. They had to be taxis.

“We don’t have any money,” Finn said. “I didn’t have my wallet on me. And your purse …”

“Maybe we can ask the driver to take us to the American Embassy and they’ll pay for the car. We’ll call Peter …”

Finn kissed her head. “Genius, Mrs. McCabe. If we can just get in a car, we might actually be close to finished with this thing.”

They exited the airport building into a hazy morning dew. The flight from Michigan had to have taken twelve hours at least. There was an hour time difference, so that would make it about five a.m., she guessed. She wanted to take a moment and get her bearings, but there wasn’t time. Finn grabbed her hand and they walked quickly toward the front of the taxi line. A driver got out of the cab and popped his trunk. Finn lifted one of the bags, and the driver grabbed the other.

Hollis opened the door to the backseat.

“This is the wrong car, Mrs. McCabe.” It was a strong male voice with a heavy accent but one she hadn’t heard before.

She didn’t want to turn around, but she knew there was no point in ignoring the voice. When she did turn she saw a tall man about sixty, in a dark blue suit, with silver hair and a small, tidy mustache. If he was a hitman, he at least dressed well.

The taxi driver yelled at the man in Spanish, then in English, “Go away. My fare.”

“No,” the silver-haired man said. “Mine.” He took both bags and gestured forward, to a black sedan waiting just ahead of the taxi line. “I know where you will go.”

“Where is that?” Finn asked.

The man smiled. “Where I take you.”

Hollis took one last look at the angry taxi driver, cheated out of his fare, and got into the backseat of the sedan.