Island of Thieves (3 page)

We had to wait about an hour to go through passport control, then about another to collect our luggage. I said, “Why is this taking so long?”

“Welcome to South America,” replied Uncle Harvey.

When we finally had both our bags, we wheeled them into the corridor marked nothing to declare. Uniformed guards watched us through dark glasses.

On the other side of customs, we emerged in the main part of the airport. Taxi drivers surrounded us, waving their arms and shouting in a mixture of Spanish and English. Uncle Harvey shoved them aside and marched toward the car rental desks. I hurried after him. No one tried to grab my bag or tempt me into a taxi. I suppose they knew I wasn't worth bothering with. It was obvious I didn't have any money.

Uncle Harvey hadn't booked a car in advance. He said they're cheaper if you just show up and bargain. We joined the line and shuffled slowly forward, watching people ahead of us hand over their passports and driving licenses.

We were almost at the front of the line—just one more couple between us and the desk—when a man in a dark suit sidled up to my uncle and said, “Meester Arveee Trelawwneee?”

(He really did speak like that, but I'm not going to write down his crazy accent all the way through. You'll just have to imagine it for yourself.)

Uncle Harvey said, “Who are you?”

“My name is Ricardo Cassinelli. Could you come with me, please? My car is waiting outside.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” said my uncle. “I don't know who you are.”

“I am the representative of someone who wishes to speak with you.”

“Who?”

“I would rather not say. But I can tell you, Mr. Trelawney, he is a good friend of yours.”

“You've got me confused with someone else,” said my uncle. “I don't have any friends in Peru. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pick up my rental.”

Uncle Harvey tried to move away, but Ricardo gripped his arm. He leaned in and spoke quietly into my uncle's ear. I don't know what he said, but his words had an obvious impact: for the first time since I'd been with him, my uncle looked worried. It didn't last long. A nervous expression flashed across his features for only a brief moment and then he was back to normal, smiling as if everything was fine. I was intrigued. What had Ricardo said? Had he whispered a threat? What was it?

The couple in front of us had signed their paperwork and collected the key for their car. It was our turn. I pushed my bag along the floor. Uncle Harvey tried to do the same, but Ricardo was still holding his arm in a firm grip.

I noticed a couple of other men lingering nearby. They had broad shoulders and enormous, hairy hands. From the way they were watching us, I realized they were with Ricardo, providing him with some backup in case we tried to run away or fight.

“Can I help you?” said the guy behind the desk.

My uncle glanced at the car rental guy, then at me, and then at the people behind us in line. He gave them one of his most charming smiles. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said. “Why don't you go ahead of us?”

They approached the desk and showed their passports to the clerk. Uncle Harvey stepped aside and I followed him. There was a muttered conversation between my uncle and Ricardo. I couldn't hear what either of them said, but Ricardo must have been very persuasive, because my uncle turned to me and said in a low voice, “I'm sorry about this, Tom. I've got to go and see someone. It won't take long. These guys will give me a lift into the center of town and then I'll come back here and pick you up. You can look after yourself, can't you?”

I didn't like the idea of staying in the airport on my own, particularly since I had only twenty dollars and no clue what that might be worth in Peruvian money, but I didn't want to complain. I just nodded. “No problem.”

“Great. Thank you. Find a café. Read a book. I'll be back soon. If there's any problem, you've got my number, haven't you?”

“I don't know if my phone will work here.”

“Of course it will. You'll be fine. See you later.” Uncle Harvey turned to Ricardo. “Let's go.”

“He comes too,” said Ricardo, pointing at me.

“No, he doesn't,” said Uncle Harvey. “He's staying here.”

“He comes too,” repeated Ricardo.

“This is nothing to do with him. He's just a kid who I met on the flight. We were sitting next to one another. I said I'd give him a lift into Lima.”

Ricardo smiled. “But he has the same name as you.”

“Does he? That's a coincidence.”

“I think he is your nephew.”

Now Uncle Harvey smiled too. There was no point pretending. Whoever they were, they already knew everything about us. “You're right, he's my nephew, but he doesn't know the first thing about me or my business. There's no need for him to come with us.”

“Is no problem,” said Ricardo. He nodded to the two thugs, who relieved us of our bags.

I wanted to know who we were going to see and why, but there wasn't a chance to ask any questions. Ricardo led my uncle through the airport. I hurried after them. The thugs followed behind, bringing the bags.

I could have run away. I'm pretty sure I would have made it. Ricardo and the two thugs would have stayed with Uncle Harvey, making sure he didn't escape. They weren't really interested in me.

But if I ran away, I'd be all alone. A kid in a foreign country with no money, no friends, and nowhere to go. I'd be much safer, I decided, if I stayed with my uncle.

Which shows how much I knew.

Outside the main entrance to the airport,
an enormous, gleaming black Mercedes was parked in the zone that said
NO PARKING
. I thought it must belong to the president or a pop star, but it was actually waiting for us. The chauffeur was wearing a peaked cap and a smart uniform with lots of shiny buttons. He opened the back door and smiled at my uncle. “
Buenos días,
Señor Trelawney. Welcome to Peru.”

We got inside. So did Ricardo.

Another Mercedes rolled up behind ours. The thugs got in that one with our luggage. We drove out of the airport and headed for Lima.

The journey took about half an hour. During that time, no one said a word. I kept glancing at my uncle, expecting him to explain everything, but he stared straight ahead, watching the view out the windshield, lost in his own thoughts. He didn't even bother smiling at me or giving me a friendly look to say,
Don't worry, Tom.
Everything's going to be fine.

I had spent less than twenty-four hours with Uncle Harvey, but I was already beginning to appreciate why he and my dad didn't see each other more often.

My dad . . . he's a nice guy. No doubt about that. Everyone says so. He's not exactly exciting, though. I don't mean that in a bad way. He'd be the first to admit it. “All I want is a quiet life”—that's one of his favorite sayings. I don't think he's ever been in trouble. When he has to come to my school and listen to my teachers explaining why they've given me yet another detention, he always has the same expression on his face, a mixture of disappointment and astonishment, as if he simply can't understand why anyone would even
want
to disobey his teachers.

My uncle is quite different. I could see that already.

Of course, I didn't yet realize
how
different.

In the center of the city we parked outside a large apartment block right by the beach.
Hey,
I thought,
look! There's the Pacific! The biggest ocean on the planet! Is that cool, or what?
I looked at Uncle Harvey and Ricardo, expecting them to be excited too, but of course they'd seen it all before.

We climbed out of the car and Ricardo had a word with the chauffeur. The two thugs stood nearby, clutching our bags. I took the chance to ask my uncle in a quiet voice: “What's all this about?”

“We're going to see someone. It won't take long.”

“Who are we going to see?”

“A nasty piece of work called Otto Gonzalez. I'll tell you all about him later.” By now, Ricardo was coming back again. Uncle Harvey barely had time to whisper, “Don't say too much, OK? Just keep smiling.” Then he was hurrying forward. “So, where's Otto?”

“Upstairs,” said Ricardo. “Please, follow me.”

We went inside. On the ground floor there was a huge lobby with potted plants and mirrors and a marble floor and two security guards sitting behind a desk. They nodded at Ricardo. One of them must have pressed a button under the desk, because the elevator doors slid open.

We went up to the top floor. The penthouse. Through a big wooden door into a long hallway lined with paintings. “This way, please,” said Ricardo. He led us into a massive room with big windows overlooking the sea. A man and a woman were sitting at a long table, a platter of croissants between them. There were several other men in the room too, leaning against the walls or lounging in chairs. One of them had a pistol tucked into his belt. They looked like bodyguards or servants, while the couple eating breakfast were the boss and his wife. That's what I would have guessed, anyway, and it turned out I was right.

Otto Gonzalez was a small man, but he was solid and square, a little block of muscle. I hardly even looked at his face; all my attention was drawn to the extraordinary tattoo on his neck: the head of a snake, its mouth open, its fangs raised, snarling under his chin. Otto's white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a few loops of the snake's tail crisscrossing his thick, hairy chest. For all I knew, the rest of the snake curled all around his body, even down his legs and up again.

His wife was skinny, blond, and very beautiful. She didn't have any tattoos. Or hair on her chest. She looked like a model and must have been half his age.

“Harvey Trelawney,” said Otto, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “This is a surprise, huh?”

“A nice surprise, I hope,” said my uncle, smiling as if he were greeting an old friend. “It's good to see you.”

“Don't speak so soon,” said Otto. His English was pretty good, although he had a strange accent, half American and half Spanish. “I have to tell you, Harvey, I am not happy with you. You have cheated me, my friend.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about, Harvey.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“Oh, really? You don't? Then why do you think I want to see you?”

“I'm very much hoping it's because you want to buy another picture.”

“Another picture?” Otto's face flushed with blood, and he rose out of his chair. “Are you joking me?”

“I thought you liked the first one.”

“I like it till I find it's a fake!”

“Fake?” My uncle sounded astonished. “What do you mean?”

Otto issued a quick order to one of his men, who hurried out of the room and returned a moment later with a painting in a gold frame.

I don't know much about art, but I know what I don't like, and I didn't like this. I think it was supposed to be a picture of a woman sitting in a chair, but she was all distorted and multicolored and kind of a mess. I could have done better with my eyes shut.

My uncle ogled the picture as if he'd never set eyes on anything so lovely. “It's a wonderful piece of work, isn't it?”

“Wonderful? You think this is wonderful?”

“I certainly do.”

“Then you're crazy. Or you're lying. I don't know which.” Otto gave the wooden frame a dismissive flick with his fingers. “I bring a man all the way from New York to see this picture. I tell him, ‘I got a picture, I think it's worth ten million dollars.' You know what he say to me? He say, it's worth nothing. Nothing! You cheat me, Harvey. You say you're sure it's Picasso.”

“I was sure it was,” said my uncle. “If it's not, that's my mistake, and I'm very sorry. But it's still a lovely picture, isn't it? I'm sure you'll enjoy it very much for years to come.”

“I don't want to enjoy it. I want my money back.”

“That's really not possible, Otto. I told you that I couldn't give you any guarantees. That's why this picture was so cheap. If you'd bought it through a dealer in London or New York, it would have cost you six or seven million dollars.”

“But it would have been real!”

“That's true,” said my uncle. “But life is about risk, isn't it? You took a risk, and this time it didn't work out. I'm sure we'll have a better experience when we next do business together.”

That was when Otto's expression changed. His smile faded and his eyes darkened. For the first time since they started arguing, I began to feel seriously nervous. Up until now, I'd accepted Uncle Harvey's own view of the situation; he'd seemed utterly confident and so I was too. Now I wasn't sure. What had we walked into? And would we be able to get out of here? I looked at the door, but it was blocked by two big men with broad shoulders. The only other exit was the door onto the terrace, and I didn't like that: a long drop followed by falling facefirst into the biggest ocean on the planet.

“Give me my money,” said Otto. His voice was lower, deeper, darker. He sounded like a gangster in a movie. I wondered if he'd learned his English from watching
The Godfather
and
The Sopranos,
and then I wondered if the actors in
The Godfather
and
The Sopranos
had learned their parts by watching men like him.

Uncle Harvey didn't seem too bothered. He was still managing to look calm and relaxed, smiling as if he didn't have a care in the world. I wondered what he knew that I didn't, or if he was just really good at bluffing. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said. “I wish I could give you back all your money, but I simply can't.”

“Why not?” growled Otto.