Twenty-One

Hollis walked along the stone wall of the cemetery, turning one corner and then another until she was back at the entrance. She kept looking but didn’t see the man again. At the entrance she slipped into a large group of American tourists who were taking a tour, the fastest way to find the grave, she assumed.

“Stay together,” the guide, a man in his twenties was saying, “the cemetery is called ‘the labyrinthine city of the dead’ and with good reason. It’s very easy to get lost if you wander down one of the walkways that branch off from the main path. This is a lovely place to visit, but let’s not have anyone make this their permanent address. Not yet anyway.”

The group laughed. Hollis didn’t. The purse strap was digging into her shoulder, the zipper was open, and her hand was tucked inside, her fingers on the gun. In her other hand, she had her phone out, waiting for anything from Finn.

The cemetery itself was beautiful, filled with art deco mausoleums. Some of the buildings had elaborate marble carvings on them—vines, leaves, statues of angels and beautiful gowned women. Hollis made a mental note to come back someday when every hair on the back on her neck wasn’t standing on edge.

“This is a fourteen-acre cemetery, founded in 1822, and there are over forty-five hundred vaults,” the guide continued. “Families not only have to pay for the construction of their mausoleum, but they are also required to pay for upkeep, which can get quite expensive. For some families this becomes impossible. If the line dies out or if the descendants no longer can afford to pay for the upkeep, the bodies are removed and reburied elsewhere, and the mausoleum is put up for sale. Being buried in Recoleta still has some prestige, but not quite what it did a hundred years ago.”

“What if no one buys the grave?”

The guide smiled. “Perfect timing.” He pointed toward a simple white crypt that looked neglected and empty. “They begin to decompose, much like the people meant to be inside.”

The crowd laughed again and moved forward. Ahead there was a crowd of people all gathered around a wall of brown marble. The guide edged the group closer until Hollis could read the sign above the door—Familia Duarte—Eva Perón’s maiden name. To the side there were plaques for various members of the family buried within. Eva’s was among them.

Hollis looked around. No Finn. She’d been holding it together pretty well because she assumed, she wanted to assume, he’d be at Perón’s grave. But he wasn’t. She looked for a possible clue, but there was nothing. It wasn’t the grand mausoleum she’d been expecting. There was no hiding place for a clue or a person.

Now what? Could he have gone to the hotel? Still no text. He had to be at the hotel.

“I want to show you another grave that attracts quite a lot of visitors,” the tour guide said. “It’s a dog and its master, the only dog buried in Recoleta Cemetery. It’s quite a sad story as to how it got here.”

Hollis was about to break away from the group, but the dog … the woman at the museum said something about death being long and having only a dog as your companion. Could that have been the grave she and Finn were supposed to find?

Hollis followed the group, her heart pounding, scanning every face she passed. Down one row and then another until they found the mausoleum. It was a modern building, with a life-sized bronze statue of a young woman, her hand resting on the head of a dog.

As the guide described the tragic circumstances—“She was on her honeymoon in Austria when an avalanche struck the hotel.”—Hollis looked around. No Finn, no package or note or anything that might tell her where he was or what to do next.

She was trying not to cry, but it was all she wanted to do. Sit down on a marble step and cry. But it wouldn’t help. This is why she’d decided not to be a spy all those years ago after she’d finished her training at Langley. Spies don’t cry, even when they really want to. Instead, she wandered into the path around the corner. There were more tourists looking at more graves, but no Finn. At the edge of a group of tourists, with his back to her, though, she saw a full head of brown hair—not her blond-haired husband, but still a relief. She knew that hair, and the twenty-something man that was attached to it. And she was ready to kill him.

She walked over, slapping him across the arm. “Declan!” she whispered. “Where’s Finn? You better know the answer because I have a gun in my purse.”

The Irishman laughed. “Nice to see you too, Hollis.”

He put his hand on her back and guided her to a marble crypt, emptied and decaying, similar to the one the guide had pointed out. The white plaster had grayed, and in parts it had come off, exposing brick. At the center there was a door at least seven feet tall, a solid iron piece with stylized iron flowers and leaves decorating it. Above the door was a small stained-glass window of a lily. The crypt was impressive to look at, but creepy, especially since the door was slightly open.

“Inside,” he said.

She trusted that Declan wasn’t likely to kill her, but a dusty, spider-filled grave?

From inside she heard a voice: “Hollis, just get in here.”

She nearly fainted. She ran inside and in a dark corner she saw Finn. She wrapped her arms around his tall, thin frame. He was holding her as tight as she was holding him. She didn’t want to let go but she needed to look at him. To see his face.

And when she did he looked fine. Perfectly fine.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“What happened to me? You never texted me after you got away from the man who was following you.”

“Why would I text you?”

“I told you, right before you went to the men’s room. That was the plan.”

Finn took a deep breath and glanced toward Declan, who stood in the corner, one hand on the half-shut iron door that shielded them from view. Declan just shrugged. Hollis felt a little dizzy. The stress and the dusty air were getting to her. She leaned against the marble tomb in the center of the crypt.

“This is empty?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” Declan said. “If there’s someone in there, he won’t mean you any harm.”

“I’ve just been so freaked out that Finn didn’t answer my texts.”

Finn grunted. His eye twitched. “The plan was for you to watch if someone followed me,” he said to Hollis, “and meet me in the gift shop if the coast was clear or take a taxi here if it wasn’t.”

“And I said text me. I added to the plan.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Her relief was now turning to irritation.

“You were supposed to come directly here,” Finn pointed out. “I’ve been here for almost an hour, freaking out because I couldn’t find you. I went to Perón’s grave and then I remembered the thing about the dog and asked someone about it. That’s when I found Declan.”

Declan nodded. “Yeah, Hollis, we’ve been sick with worry.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No. Honestly. I know I’ve dragged you down here, but it was important. I need the address book.”

“What address book?”

“The one you took from the antique shop in Ireland,” Finn explained. “I told him we handed it over to Peter.”

“Get it back,” Declan said.

“I don’t think we can. It’s just the names of TCT members, right, in some sort of code?”

“It’s a bit more than that,” Declan said.

Hollis looked to Finn for the explanation that Declan was obviously not going to give.

“He won’t say any more,” Finn said. “Believe me, while you’ve been wandering Buenos Aires I’ve been trying to talk him into explaining himself.”

Declan’s jaw hardened. “Silva was supposed to explain that I needed the book.”

“Who is Silva, by the way?” Hollis asked. “Is he a college age kid or a middle-aged man? Is he black or white? We have more than a few candidates …”

“Sshh …” Declan closed the door until it was almost shut. “I think I just saw Peter walk by.” He waited. After a minute he relaxed. “He’s moving away now.”

Finn moved forward. “Don’t let him leave. We can end this whole thing now. Peter can get you out of harm’s way …”

“And into a prison cell. No thank you.”

Hollis took the gun from her purse and pointed it at Declan. “Let us out of here.”

Declan smiled. “Lovely. You brought toys.”

“You have to answer our questions,” Hollis said, not entirely sure if Declan would answer them, gun or not.

“Fire away,” Declan said, then put his hands up in mock fear. “Questions, I mean. Not bullets.”

“Who are Tim and Janet McCabe?” Finn asked.

“You are.”

Hollis took the safety off the gun. She remembered that much anyway. Whether she could shoot was another story.

“Okay,” Declan said. “They’re fixers. They were hired to kill me.”

“Silva said there was a murder that must happen. That’s you?”

“I don’t think so.” Declan waved his head around as if he were debating with himself. “I mean, yes, I’m meant to be dead. But I think there’s a second murder and I’m trying to stop that one from happening. It’s not my fault, any of it. Actually, it’s your fault, in a way.”

“In what way?” Finn had lost his patience with Declan’s riddles.

“You two are in love, really. I hadn’t seen that much in my life, hadn’t believed in it. But now I do. And I’m trying to keep someone in love from getting killed. That’s why I need your help.”

“So we’re here to kill you and someone else? And you want us to save the other person,” Finn said. “So does that mean it’s okay to kill you?”

“Obviously not, Finn,” Declan said. “And after what I did to save your wife …”

Hollis stepped in. “Why does someone want you dead?”

Declan sighed. “That book was meant to get to someone. It was very important. But you took it before I could. I tried to explain, but TCT isn’t an organization that accepts an explanation. He still wants me dead.”

“Who?”

Declan glanced again outside the crypt. “The man who doesn’t exist.”

Finn grunted. “I know you like this guy, Holly, but can I just punch him?”

“Fine by me.”

Declan put his hands out in front of him. “I was in the military, Finn, special services. I could probably kill you before you get in one hit.”

“He’s been taking boxing lessons,” Hollis said. “He’s the best in his class.”

Finn turned red.

“Have you now?” Declan smiled. “That’s grand. That will help with your credibility as a hitman. Though Hollis will have to learn to hold a gun better than that.”

“I’m holding it just fine.”

Declan shook his head. “Your fingers are all wrong. Let me show you.”

He reached out a hand and had the gun before Hollis could protest. He turned it on them.

“What just happened?” she asked.

It was just what Peter had warned and Hollis was furious that they would have to explain the blunder to him.

“If you had been holding it properly, I never would have been able to take it from you,” Declan said. “But there’s a lot to learn in the world of professional hits, and you’re only getting started.”

“Give me back the gun and I’ll learn everything I need to know.”

“I need that book,” Declan said. “Give it back to me and then you can punch me. It’s a win-win.”

“Or I can punch you now,” Finn said.

“Americans are such optimists. Try if you want, Finn.”

The two men stood looking at each other for a moment but neither moved.

“I am sorry about this,” Declan said, glancing outside. “The one bright spot is that I don’t think this place is soundproof.”

“What difference does it make if it’s soundproof?” Finn asked.

Declan didn’t answer. He slipped outside the crypt and shut the door behind him, leaving Finn and Hollis inside.