Fifty-Three

Peter drove, rushing to the airport even as Hollis reminded him that the plane wasn’t going to leave without them.

“No, but Declan might,” Peter said. “If there’s any chance of getting that book back …”

And he kept saying that for the more than five hours it took for their plane to reach Tierra del Fuego. They landed at the Ushuaia Airport and sped through a rugged, rural area. Peter made hotel reservations as they drove, two suites with access to the spa.

“The spa?” Finn whispered to Hollis. “I thought this was a sleepy town in the middle of nowhere.”

But it wasn’t. As they reached town, they drove through the main street, passing high-end shops with designer hiking gear.

“Isn’t this supposed to be the last stop before you board a ship for Antarctica?” Finn asked.

“I guess people want a last bit of luxury before they do,” Hollis said, amazed and slightly bewildered by the isolated mountains and choppy waters as a backdrop for restaurants with white tablecloths and fine Argentinian wines. “Where do we go now that we’re here?”

Peter pulled into a parking lot. “We walk until we see a clue of some kind. Unless either of you has a better idea.”

Neither of them did. They walked toward the water, wondering if Declan’s awful thirst might lead them to something there. The wind went right through Hollis. Finn wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm, but he also kept her steady. It was really stunning, she thought. The town was built on a hill that ended at the water, and nature took it from there. Blues and grays and greens all danced together to make up the water as it played against the shore. Little islands dotted the landscape. Seagulls flew overheard.

“You don’t think he came all this way to drown himself here?” Peter asked.

“He must have meant something else.”

“An awful thirst,” Hollis said. “That doesn’t sound like drowning.”

“No,” Finn agreed. “It sounds like he wanted a drink.”

They looked at each other, all of them realizing the clue. “He meant a bar,” Peter said.

“There’s got to be a hundred of them in this town,” Finn pointed out.

“Not for Declan. He’d want a very particular kind of bar.”

Hollis walked toward a small red building with a sign that read, Visitor’s Center. She talked to a man there, asking one question and getting the answer she hoped for. Smiling she returned to the Peter and Finn.

“Follow me,” she said.

They walked a block over, crossed over the main street, and went up the hill. They were halfway up when they saw it. A green building made of dark wood and green corrugated metal. An Irish pub called The Dublin.

Inside, it was as if Saint Patrick’s Day were a year-long holiday. Irish flags lined the edges of the bar. Shamrocks and signs for Irish towns hung around the walls, and Guinness was on tap. The tables were crowded with hikers and travelers from all over the world, based on the many languages Hollis was hearing. She looked around for a familiar face, but he wasn’t there. Peter walked one side of the small room, with Finn walking the other. They both came back empty-handed.

“He isn’t here,” Finn said.

“Maybe he’s going to come,” Hollis told them. “We’ll just wait.”

Finn clenched his jaw. “How long?”

“As long as it takes,” was Peter’s answer. “Three.” Peter nodded toward the bartender then pointed to the beer.

The bartender pulled three pints.

“A friend of ours may have been here recently,” Finn said. “Shaggy-haired Irishman, very charming but you can’t trust him.”

“What’s your name?” the bartender asked.

“Finn and Hollis,” Finn said. “And Peter.”

The bartender nodded. “Based on your description, you obviously know him well.” He reached under the bar. “Declan left this for you.” He handed over a large box.

“That’s not an address book,” Peter grumbled.

“Maybe it will tell us where it is.” Hollis was trying to be optimistic. He had brought them all the way here, and it had to be for more than the scenery and a pint. But she worried the book was long gone. He was a criminal, she had to keep reminding herself that. And criminals like Declan would never hand back something that valuable.

She hated to lose faith in the man that had once saved her life, but there it was. He’d left them a consolation prize.

Finn opened the box. Inside was one of the fake Van Goghs, a pretty version of one of his sunflower paintings. Good, but not quite good enough. Even she could see it wasn’t the real thing. But it was sweet of him. As Finn said, he was a hard man to hate. She pulled it fully out to have a good look at it.

“I guess this is our field of sunflowers to thank us for helping him,” she said. “He kept his promise to give us one.”

“How thoughtful.” Peter took the box and looked inside. There was nothing else. “Too bad he kept the wrong promise.”

She didn’t know what to say to Peter. Clearly Finn didn’t either. He leaned against the bar and sipped his drink.

Before she put it back in the box, Hollis held the painting up to look at it. It was quite nice and they could use a new picture in the living room. And a new chair. They would definitely be getting a new chair.

“You have a photocopy of the book,” Finn said to Peter. “Declan knows that, so maybe he figures you’ll still be okay.”

“Exactly,” Peter said. “He knows that. And he made a fake version. He could have duplicated the book exactly, kept the fake and sent me back with the real one. If all that matters is the information in the book, that’s what he would have done. It must be something about the book itself. He knew there was more to it than the words on the page. That’s why he took it, and that’s why I will never be able to explain how I trusted a forger with a valuable clue to the head of TCT.”

“We have the name of Mr. Sato.”

“And so far, that’s gotten us nowhere. We took photos of the man in the museum yesterday, but our identification software has turned up nothing. If the guy’s never been on our radar before, we may never find him.”

It was all pretty hopeless. Reminding him again that Carlos and Bryan were dead, and Teresa and Eduardo were safe, was probably not a big enough win to offset the serious loss of that book. Hollis reached for the box and began to put the painting back inside it, but it caught against the cardboard, so she pulled it out again to readjust.

“What’s at the back?” Finn asked.

She turned the painting around. An envelope was taped there.

“It can’t be,” Peter said. “I can’t be this lucky.”

Peter pulled it off the canvas, ripped open the package.

The address book.

He grabbed his glasses, checked pages. “I made a small imprint with my fingernail on page fourteen, just to be sure which one was real,” Peter said. “Declan didn’t see me do it. It was right after you two left.” He flipped to page fourteen and held it up to the light.

Finn and Hollis waited for more bad news, but Peter laughed.

“The real one. He actually returned the real one.” Peter seemed bewildered. “Why would he do that?”

“That’s what you wanted him to do,” Hollis pointed out.

“But he could have made a fortune with this,” Peter said. “In his shoes, I don’t know that I would have returned it.”

“He’s probably made half a dozen copies and is selling the fakes all over the world,” Finn said. “Adding it to the money Carlos thought he was paying Tim and Janet, he’s doing okay.”

Peter nodded. “I don’t care as long as I have the original. Besides, if I’ve learned anything about that guy, he’s made up the information in every one of those copies so they’re all useless.” Peter examined the book again. “I wonder what’s in this and why he gave it back.”

“Maybe with Carlos’s real name and Sato, you can figure that out,” Finn said. “It’s a place to start anyway.”

“Maybe.” Peter put the book in his jacket pocket and lifted his beer. “To Declan.” He swallowed half his beer, then lifted it again. “And to Tim and Janet McCabe. Another successful mission.”

“To our retirement,” Finn said.

Finn and Hollis drank to that, but Peter didn’t.