Island of Thieves

by Josh Lacey

  TO: Harvey Trelawney

  SUBJECT: Gold & silver

  Hi Harv

  I’ve read your parchment and sent it back registered post, but couldn’t resist emailing you immediately to tell you my thoughts.

  I’d love to know where you got it! But won’t ask. Better not to know? Anyway, as promised, I’ve subjected it to a battery of tests and am happy to report all seems kosher.

  Not wanting to bore you with too much detail, I shall simply tell you that this paper was almost certainly written between 4 and 500 years ago. I could have a go at dating it more precisely, but that would be intuition/guesswork and you probably don’t want that.

  Of course, there are a couple of provisos that any cautious scientist (i.e., me) should attach to this result.

  1st—the tests could be wrong. However, this is very, very unlikely. One test could certainly be wrong, maybe even two, but I’ve done all available and they won’t all be duds.

  2nd—someone might be fooling you. Improbable but not impossible. But let me tell you one thing: if this is a forgery, it’s pretty much the most sophisticated I’ve ever seen.

  I could make a few wild guesses about the writer. Young, male, educated. But that would not be scientific and so I’ll leave all such speculation to you.

  Hope this is useful.

  Call me when you’re next up here and we’ll sink a few jars.

  Theo

  I closed the computer and put the piece of paper back in the blue folder and realized that there was one terrible problem about my week of freedom in the big city. I didn’t want it. If I stayed here I’d spend the whole time wishing I were somewhere else.

  I went to the next room. A suitcase was open on the bed. Clothes were scattered everywhere. My uncle was kneeling on the floor, sorting through shoes.

  “Uncle Harvey?” I said.

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it makes me sound like a character in an Enid Blyton novel.”

  “Oh. Sorry. What should I call you?”

  “How about Harvey? That is my name, after all.”

  “Um, Harvey, can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask me whatever you like.” He picked up a sandal and a sneaker, then discarded them both and threw a pair of flip-flops into his suitcase.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “Where?”

  “Peru.”

  Uncle Harvey shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. That’s just not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going alone.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “How about this then: I want to go alone.”

  “You’d have more fun with me, Uncle Harvey.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sorry. But it’s true. Can’t I come too? Please? I’ve always wanted to go to South America.”

  “Even if I wanted you to come with me, which I don’t, there’s one very good reason why you can’t. You don’t have a ticket.”

  “I could buy one.”

  “Or a passport.”

  “Yes I do. Dad made me bring it in case you weren’t here and they had to take me to Nassau.”

  Uncle Harvey sighed. “Look, Tom. You seem like a very nice kid, and I’m sure we’d have a wonderful time together. If I was going on holiday I’d take you. I really would. But this isn’t a holiday. I have enemies in South America. Bad things might happen. Stay here, Tom. Explore the city. You’ll have a wild time. We’ll go traveling together another year, all right?”

  You might think I was dumb to argue. You might be saying to yourself, What’s wrong with this guy? Who wouldn’t want a week alone in an apartment in New York City? Without parents. Without teachers. Without his irritating little brother or his know-it-all older sister. Why didn’t he just shut up and take the keys and have the best week of his life?

  Well, I thought all that too. And then I thought: Gold and silver. Buried. On an island. In Peru. That’s where I want to be. That’s what I want to see.

  I pleaded and cajoled and begged, but my uncle kept saying no.

  I said I’d pay for the flight myself, but he just laughed, which was fair enough. I only had twenty dollars in the world, and that was what Dad had given me to last a whole week in New York.

  I promised to be helpful and useful and worth taking too, but he shook his head and said he was quite sure that he’d rather be alone.

  I said he couldn’t leave me here, because I was too young. It was illegal. What if Social Services found out? They’d call the police, who would arrest Uncle Harvey and throw him in jail for child abuse.

  That was when he started looking worried.

  I spoke in the deep voice of a TV newscaster: “Now we’re going live to New York City, where our correspondent can give us more details about the evil British uncle who left his nephew to rot all alone in a top-floor apartment.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “You’ll be famous.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’ll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “They’ll have your mug shot,” I said. “You know, the one that the police take after you’ve spent a night in the cell, when you’re looking unshaven and dirty and very, very guilty.”

  “Don’t try to blackmail me,” said Uncle Harvey. “There’s no point. You are not coming with me, and that’s final.”

  3

  New York to Lima is about 3,500 miles. We did it in twelve hours. An hour in a taxi to JFK, an hour getting through security, two hours waiting in the departure lounge, and eight hours on the plane.

  Have you ever been on an eight-hour flight?

  If you haven’t, don’t bother. It’s miserable from start to finish.

  Sure, you get free meals, but they’re gross, and you get a console attached to the seat with about five hundred different movies, but you don’t want to watch any of them because you’re so desperate to go to sleep, but you can’t get to sleep because the seats are so uncomfortable, so you spend the whole night shuffling and groaning and twisting and turning, and then, when you finally drop off, they switch on the lights and wake you up, and you don’t know where you are or what time it is. Then you look at your uncle and you realize he’s still snoozing like a baby, because he has a blanket over his knees and an inflatable pillow wrapped around his neck and earplugs in his ears and a mask covering his eyes, and you think: Why didn’t he offer all that stuff to me?

  I sat beside him, crammed into my seat, wriggling and fiddling, trying to get comfortable. When I wasn’t watching movies or attempting to sleep, I read Lonely Planet: Peru. I’d persuaded Uncle Harvey to buy me a copy at the airport. He told me it wasn’t worth it. He said guidebooks were for wimps. But I wanted to know some basic information about where we were going.

  Peru is twice the size of Texas. Did you know that? And it’s one of the most diverse countries in the world. It has mountains, desert, and tropical jungle. Plus a coastline that is 1,500 miles long.

  Today was Tuesday. We’d arrive in Lima on Wednesday morning. Our flights home left next Monday night, arriving in New York on Tuesday—giving me just enough time to race back to Uncle Harvey’s apartment, open the door to Mom and Dad, and compliment them on their tans.

  We had five full days in Peru. Five days to search 1,500 miles of coastline and find the Island of Thieves. Oh, and we didn’t have a plan.

  Five days, 1,500 miles, and no plan. What could possibly go wrong?

  Uncle Harvey finally woke up when the plane landed. He pulled off his eye mask, plucked out his earplugs, and stretched his arms. “Ahhhh! I’m ready for a huge breakfast. How about you, Tommy-boy? Are you hungry?”

  “I’ve had breakfast already. They gave us some about an hour ago.”

  “Was
it disgusting?”

  “Yes, it was, actually.”

  “Then you deserve another. We’ll go to the Café Florés. It’s one of the few places in Lima that serve a decent cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t like coffee.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like the taste.”

  “How perverse. Oh, well. They do good toasted sandwiches, too. Or maybe you’d like to try the national dish of Peru?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Guinea pig and chips.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m not joking,” said Uncle Harvey. “You can’t leave Peru without tasting their national dish. They take a guinea pig, chop him in half, open him out, and fry him on a griddle. Delicious! But I suppose it’s not the best thing for breakfast. We’ll try some tonight.”

  “No way,” I said. “I am not eating guinea pig.”

  Uncle Harvey just smiled, that same irritating smile, the one that said: I know more than you do. I could see he was quite confident that by the end of the week I would have eaten a guinea pig. And asked for seconds.

  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.

  4

  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.