And Then I Found Out the Truth (22 page)

“Did James Bond tango?”

Quinn didn’t skip a beat. “In
Never Say Never Again.”

It was gorgeous to watch — some of the dancers could have been professionals, gliding across the floor with fluid grace — but it was also impossible not to join in. Of course, neither of us knew what we were doing, so we blundered along, trying our best to imitate the couples around us without getting in their way.

We probably looked terrible next to the people who really did know what they were doing, and in my jeans I could never match the elegance of the women in their flowing dresses, but it didn’t seem to matter.

And somehow, at least for a little while, the messy, disturbing circumstances that had brought us to that ballroom at that moment in time melted away, leaving only the music and the dance and the two of us.

When the orchestra played its last number, I could hardly believe it was already one A.M., or how tired I suddenly was.

In the confusion of the day, I hadn’t given much thought to where I’d spend the night, but it turned out Quinn did have a room at the Alvear, after all — he just hadn’t checked in under his own name, which was why Graciela hadn’t found him in her computer.

“So what name did you use?” I asked in the taxi, leaning sleepily against him.

“That also might fall into the ‘what happens here, stays here’ category,” he said.

“Did they really let you register as James Bond?”

“I didn’t even try. But Q. Fleming worked.”

The lobby was hushed and nearly empty when we arrived, but the night porter retrieved my suitcase from the storage room where Manolo had left it for me. And while I was a bit worried about what all of my new friends at the hotel would think, not to mention various relatives, it seemed perfectly natural as well as a lot more economical to share Quinn’s room. I mean, if he hadn’t earned my trust by now, then nobody ever would.

And though it could have been awkward, it wasn’t. By two
A.M.
we were fast asleep on the king-sized bed, both fully clothed. It wasn’t even awkward the next morning, though I did learn that Quinn likes to whistle in the shower. I couldn’t tell what, exactly — not through the door and over the rush of water — but it sounded like something from
The Lion King.
This probably had more to do with Bea or Oliver than Quinn’s own taste, and mostly I was surprised it wasn’t the double-O seven theme music instead, but I still stashed it away in the “what happens here, stays here” file.

Just to be safe, we called down to the lobby before we left the room, and Manolo assured us he’d seen Hunter leave half an hour ago, right after he’d come on duty. Of course, he’d also been picked up by a car sent by the Brazilian Embassy, and that fact was a harsh reminder of everything Quinn and I hadn’t discussed since our lunch the previous day. We’d stepped back into our regular lives again, and though that was a lot more problematic for Quinn than it was for me, he was every bit as determined to forge ahead with the plan we’d laid out. We checked and double-checked to make sure we had everything we needed and then headed out.

It was another beautiful day, sunny and mild and completely out of sync with our actual agenda — a hailstorm or typhoon would have been a more suitable backdrop for entrapping Thad and Samantha Arquero. Manolo had said the subway was the most efficient way to travel during rush hour, so we followed his directions to the nearest Subte station and took the train to Avenida de Mayo. This was another broad, almost monumental boulevard, stretching from the Plaza de Mayo at one end to the Plaza del Congreso at the other, where the Argentinean parliament met in the Congreso Nacional.

We found Café Tortoni easily, with its name spelled out in stylized red letters on a white sign at the door and a tango academy above — I was quickly learning that there were as many tango places in Buenos Aires as there were hot dog carts in Manhattan. Inside, the space had the same old-world feel as the ballroom from the previous night, with a lot of dark wood and marble columns. The ceiling overhead was set with stained glass, and framed portraits and carved busts lined the walls.

According to both Manolo and our guidebook, Café Tortoni had been a meeting place for writers and artists and intellectuals for more than one hundred and fifty years. Now it was mostly for tourists, but that suited our purposes fine. It would make it easier for us to blend in when the evildoers arrived.

The room was beginning to fill, but we managed to find a table off to the side, where we’d be almost entirely hidden by a column. A convenient mirror on the wall let us watch the other tables and the entrance without facing directly into the room. And though I had the feeling that wearing one’s hat indoors was an etiquette don’t, Quinn kept his fedora on, as did I, with my hair pinned up securely underneath.

Now that we were back to reality, neither of us was particularly hungry, but we asked the waitress for
café con leche
and croissants so we wouldn’t look out of place. And once she’d delivered our order, Quinn set his backpack on the table and began rummaging through it. He pulled out the pen that was actually a video recorder, and the bionic ear that looked like his own Bluetooth headset, and his iPod, and he fiddled around with them all for several minutes. Then, when he was satisfied that everything was ready to go, we settled in to wait.

Of course, it was still only half past ten — but we’d wanted to have everything set up in advance. And while that was probably wise, it left us with excess time on our hands to worry about how things could go wrong. I jiggled my foot in nervous anticipation. An hour from now, it was possible we’d have everything we needed to vanquish the evildoers for good. But I didn’t even want to consider what might happen if our plan backfired.

“What if they don’t show up?” I asked Quinn. “Maybe after yesterday afternoon they decided to change the time or go somewhere else.”

“They have no way of knowing we heard they were meeting here this morning,” said Quinn. “It should be fine.” But I could tell he was anxious, too.

And all we could do was sit there and wait.

Except we didn’t have to wait very long.

I don’t know why we were surprised when we saw who walked in, just fifteen minutes after we did. But my breath caught, and Quinn visibly flinched.

“Great,” said Quinn. “Just great.”

Because it wasn’t Thad, or Samantha Arquero.

It was Hunter Riley.

Thirty-two

I guess we’d thought Hunter would be busy all morning bribing Brazilian officials, but apparently not. And judging by the way he held up three fingers to the hostess, even though he was alone now, he planned on being joined by two others, and it seemed reasonable to assume his companions would be Samantha Arquero and Thad.

The hostess seated him several tables away, in a spot we couldn’t have chosen better ourselves — that is, if we’d been choosing for Hunter to show up and thus dig himself further into his guilty hole. We were completely obscured by the column, but the mirror beside us provided a perfect view of his profile and the two empty seats at his table.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked Quinn. He was holding his coffee cup so tightly his knuckles were white.

He shrugged, his expression even more grim than when he’d seen me kissing Manolo. “At least this should get rid of any final uncertainty.”

Hunter hoisted his briefcase onto the seat next to him and unlatched it. I didn’t see him take anything out or put anything in, though, and a moment later he closed it again and set it on the floor. Then he took a phone from his jacket pocket.

“Unbelievable,” said Quinn. “Usually he’s on a BlackBerry, and that’s a Pre. He must have a different phone for each identity.”

Hunter didn’t call anyone; he only scrolled through whatever messages had accumulated on the screen, occasionally taking a sip of his own
café con leche
or a bite of croissant. It was almost eerie to watch him. He was a lefty, like Quinn, and he was just as much of a fan of strawberry jam. The two of them looked so much alike and their mannerisms were so similar that, if it weren’t for the gray in Hunter’s hair and the lines around his eyes and mouth, it would be easy to mistake him for his son.

Either way, we now had the opportunity to check that everything worked. Quinn made some minor adjustments to his various gadgets and handed me one of the earbuds from his iPod, taking the other for himself.

And while Quinn might have issues with math, if Prescott offered a course in surveillance he would have passed with flying colors. The screen of his iPod displayed live video of his father and his table. The image was tiny, but the resolution was amazing, right down to the flake of croissant Hunter had dropped on one lapel. And though at first the sound from my single earbud was indistinct, as Quinn made another adjustment to one of his gadgets it zeroed in on Hunter’s table, and I could hear every noise he made, from the clink of his cup against his saucer to the rustle of his napkin.

“This is amazing,” I said. “And it’s really all recording?”

“It’s all recording,” he confirmed.

A clock on the wall ticked on, and I felt myself growing increasingly tense as the hour hand approached eleven. It was strange to think that five thousand miles away, I was missing physics class. I wondered if Dr. Penske had handed back the results from Friday’s quiz.

Then the hour hand was firmly at eleven, and the minute hand began creeping past twelve. Several tables away, Hunter glanced at his watch, and so did his image on Quinn’s iPod.

A moment later, though, Samantha Arquero strolled through the door. Her driver from the airport was with her, but he lingered by the entrance as she consulted with the hostess and then followed her to Hunter’s table. Today she was dressed in another crisp pantsuit — she must have had a person on staff whose only job was to press her clothing.

Hunter rose to greet her, and they did the New York double air kiss I’d learned from Patience. Even though it was twice as much kissing as the
porteño
version, it didn’t have nearly as much warmth, and Thad walked in while they were finishing up. Actually, it would be more accurate to say he hobbled as he made his way to join them. Despite everything, I had to smile. He must have forgotten to stretch after yesterday’s chase.

“What happened to you?” Samantha asked. There was a familiarity to her tone, as if they’d known each other for a while. And when Thad leaned in to kiss her, he went for the lips, though she quickly averted her head and he got the corner of one high cheekbone instead. He scowled, which did nothing to improve his appearance.

“Just a little stiff from my run yesterday,” he said, and he sounded extra weasel-like, either because he was sore or because Samantha was giving him the cold shoulder. “Which you would have known if you’d bothered to return my calls.”

Samantha didn’t respond, and Thad turned to Hunter. “Thad Wilcox,” he introduced himself. Then, in the mirror, I saw him pause. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hunter as they shook hands. “I’m Hunter Riley.”

Anyhow, they all sat themselves down and talked about the weather until the waitress delivered more coffees and left them alone.

Samantha glanced around. The café was noisy with conversation and clinking coffee cups, and only one of the tables directly adjacent to theirs was occupied, by a group of German college students who were speaking energetically in their native language. She seemed satisfied it was safe to talk without being overheard.

“Hunter, I appreciate your joining us, especially on such short notice,” she said, her voice coolly professional. “And no need to worry about Thad. We’ve known each other for ages — we were even in the same social club at Princeton. He’s fully up to speed on our project, so you can include him in anything you tell me.”

“‘Up to speed’?” repeated Thad. “I made your ‘project’ possible.” And, yes, he did use air quotes around “up to speed” and “project.” “If I hadn’t tipped you off that T.K. was onto you, you would have been exposed before you got started.”

“And without me you would never have gotten rid of your boss, and you definitely wouldn’t be running TrueTech,” snapped Samantha. “We both benefited.”

“Most people don’t have the luxury of sitting around waiting for their daddy to kick off so they can get a company handed to them on a silver platter,” said Thad.

“I’m the brains of Arquero Energy, and you know it,” said Samantha.

Hunter cleared his throat before they could get on too much of a roll. “I was just glad I could make it this morning,” he said. “Working out the payments to the different regulators so they’ll turn a blind eye to what’s happening in Antarctica has kept me busy, and I know how eager you and your colleagues at EAROFO are for the drilling to begin. What’s the status on that front? When do you think the wells will start producing?”

Samantha shot Thad a glare before answering. “The necessary equipment is on its way to the Ross Sea as we speak. Except there seems to be a minor complication.”

“What sort of complication?” asked Hunter.

“A potential breach of confidentiality,” she said. “You remember how we requested your assistance with the satellite photos a few weeks ago?”

“Sure. We arranged for doctored time stamps on images of the
Polar Star,
so that nobody could tell the ship never sank. And then we suggested to a few bloggers that it would be best for them not to continue their discussions of the matter.”

“I know what we asked you to do. There’s no need to keep repeating the details of everything back to me,” Samantha said. Her tone was getting testy — I guessed Thad had annoyed her so much already that her cool facade was showing its cracks even when she spoke to Hunter. “But it wasn’t enough. Who knows what the odds are —”

Thad interrupted. “A billion to one, by my calculations.”

“Thank you, Thad,” she said drily. “Against odds of a billion to one, it appears the threat from the two activists on the
Polar Star
has not been eliminated.”