A glance at his watch and Nate picked up his pace, hurrying through the bright, scattered nightlife of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The well-dressed and wealthy were out in force, leaving theaters and fine restaurants, filing out of cabs and into bars, all enjoying their absolute right to conspicuous consumption.
Nate hung a left on Rivington and checked his watch again, hiking his bag over his shoulder. Carlos bitched about anybody who didn’t show up for their shift ten minutes early, which was patently ridiculous; if management wanted their workers to come in early, they could pay for those ten minutes. On the other hand, it was a good job, full of opportunity for an enterprising young man such as himself. No matter how good he was at mixology, pissing off the boss would get him fired.
He cut into the alley between the bar and the sushi place next door and hit the employee entrance with three minutes to spare, tapping in the access code, breathing through his mouth to avoid sucking in the charming back-alley smell. He hurried through the dim hall, hoping that Carlos was out front—
—but of course there he was, standing in the tiny downstairs kitchen, frowning severely as Nate burst in.
“The late, great, and formerly employed Nate. I said—”
“You got the great part right,” Nate interrupted. It never hurt to remind people of one’s worth. He smiled brightly to make sure Carlos knew he wasn’t being an asshole, unzipped his bag, and was dressed in a crisp white shirt and spotless black vest before his boss had time to write himself another clever quip. Carlos resorted to his “serious” frown, pulling the lines of his face into the very picture of disapproval, which Nate pretended not to notice.
Nate mussed his hair and rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a dishtowel and slapped it over his arm, then smiled again on his way to the Aoor. “See you upstairs, Carlos.”
Carlos shook his head, but in an exasperated, whaddaya-gonna-do? kind of way, rather than a you’re-definitely-fired way. All was well. Nate didn’t bend and scrape at work, but he projected honest, friendly optimism as hard as he could, and it generally paid off. People liked to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The Slaughterhouse was hopping, Chris and Tara on the Aoor, Rex ready to hand off behind the bar. Pulsing music and overloud chatter, plush seats and expensive drinks, the bar was buzzing with the ultra-cool and the tragically wealthy.
Nate glanced over the open tabs while Rex cashed himself out, and then turned to scan the bar, ready to work.
He smiled at a beautiful young woman as she stepped up to order. Early twenties, dirty blond, Aawless skin and teeth, artfully distressed Gucci jeans. A diamond tennis bracelet was drooping on one slender wrist.
“What can I get you?”
The debutante smiled back. “Vodka tonic.”
“C’mon, my first drink of the night,” Nate said. “Test me a little.”
Deb’s smile widened, and she hesitated for a beat, looking at him more closely. All-American boy, that was him, and he let his eyes twinkle at her. Apparently, he passed muster; she picked up a drink card and gave it a once- over, her smile lingering.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, still scanning the card. “Negroni?”
“I’m sorry, a what?” Nate quipped, but her smile faded, her perfectly arched brows drawing together. What was it going to be? Puzzled? Annoyed?
“Kidding,” he added, before she could decide, and grabbed an old- fashioned glass off the bar, shoveling in ice. The trick to recovering from a bad joke was a good performance.
He tipped the Tanqueray 10 off the second shelf with his left hand, grabbing it low with his right, and turned back to the glass, pouring a healthy shot while he grabbed the vermouth rosso.
“The Negroni, first made in 1919 for Count Camillo Negroni…” He leaned back and plucked the Campari off the bottom shelf while the sweet Italian vermouth gurgled into the glass. He kept his eyes on the pour, determined to get the proportions exactly right. The Aashy bottle-Aipping stuff and the patter was all fine, and he was good at it and getting better, but making perfect drinks was where he shone.
“…who swapped the soda water in his usual drink, the Americano, for gin.”
Nate finished the pour, reached for an orange. “Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said, slicing the peel.
“Not really my neighborhood,” Deb said. “Oh, yeah? What’s your neighborhood?”
“Greenwich.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “That must be nice.”
“Bartenders in Greenwich don’t usually talk so much,” she said.
“Well, you can’t get a Negroni like this in Greenwich,” Nate said. Perfect. He garnished the glass and pushed it forward, anticipating another smile when he looked up.
Deb had turned to chat with her friends, a handful of honest-to-god clones —healthy good looks, artfully applied product, ripped items of clothing that cost more than a working person’s monthly rent. She reached back and took the drink without looking at it, dropping a titanium Amex black card on the bar in its place. The card clattered dismissively.
Nate swallowed his disappointment within a heartbeat. No place for hurt pride in his industry, bartending or otherwise. “Open or closed?”
Deb didn’t look back, or acknowledge his existence in any way. Nate scooped up the card and turned to the register, tapping at the screen. Okay then, open.
“Who cares, right?” he muttered. “It’s only money.”
There were more faces waiting. Nate did his thing, pouring and dancing, smiling, making jokes as he served up drink after drink. A sneering private- school type wanted a Vesper martini, wore a Chopard watch with a loose band. A tray of mojitos for the big group in Tara’s section. Whiskey sour to the older guy at the end of the bar, who carried a cane with a platinum inlay. Nate made a gimlet for a Japanese art student with a hammered gold brooch in her hair, definitely an heirloom. Edo period for sure, an aristocrat’s treasure.
“Haven’t made one of those in a minute, see what you think,” he said to the artiste, who didn’t bother to answer.
Next up, a pair of young bucks out of Jersey. Both wore bulky watches, Tag Heuers. $2,300 apiece retail, easy. Nate Aipped bottles and nailed the pour, smiling brightly as he pushed the drinks out. “Two Long Island iced teas, extra Long Island.”
Nate sent out a round of various imported beers and was showing off his new martini spin to a nice older lady with a thick rope of 18K around her neck when Carlos walked behind him, scowling.
“Just pour the drinks,” his boss chided, real disappointed dad energy.
Killjoy.
The Slaughterhouse’s discreet front door slammed open wide enough to draw eyes, and in strode a handsome older guy in a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. He carried himself like he was important, rugged chin up, shoulders back. Mid to late forties, dark hair with just a few silver threads.
The guy sauntered toward the end of bar, loosening his tie and the top button of his collar. The bar patrons returned to their respective conversations as the sharp-dressed man slid onto the stool left of Nate’s station. Closer, Nate could see the etched lines around his eyes. Either he laughed a lot or he spent a fair amount of time outdoors, squinting at the sun.
“Little young for a bartender, aren’t you?” the man asked, his gruff voice slightly raspy, with a hint of working-class background. Boston?
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Nate said. “Little old for prom, aren’t you?”
The guy sighed. “Fundraiser across the street. 10K a seat, and they don’t know how to make a goddamn Hemingway daiquiri.”
Nate brightened, casually tossing a napkin down in front of the well- dressed patron. “One Papa Doble it is. You can have it by the book—splash of grapefruit, splash of maraschino—or you can have it the way the Old Man and the Sea actually drank it, professional alcoholic that he was: straight rum, extra cold, with just a few drops of lime.”
The rich guy actually made eye contact, and not in a creepy way. Just one human being actually seeing another one, a rare event for any server. His own gaze was sharp, eyes a clear green-brown hazel. “And a teaspoon of sugar, just like they do in the Floridita bar.”
Nate was already pouring the rum, and his eyebrows went up. “You’ve been to the Floridita? Hemingway’s Floridita?”
The rich guy nodded. “Buncha times. Don’t always remember walking out.”
Nate grabbed a cut lime, unable to help a wistful ache of jealousy. “I always wanted to go to Havana.”
The guy fixed him with that sharp gaze. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?”
Nate felt a surge of defensiveness. He was barely twenty-one, had just started out and had bills to pay, he had an apartment that he could barely afford even with the side gig. He was going to travel, he was going to go around the goddamn world, but it wasn’t like he could just go.
Chill out, he’s just some guy.
“Put it this way,” Nate said, amiably. “I’m not dropping 10K at fundraisers.”
He set the completed drink down on the napkin. “Here you go. Just the way Papa liked it.”
The older man smirked in a friendly kind of way, and slid a fat money clip out of his jacket. Heavy gold, stuffed with bills. He pulled a fifty out of the folded wad and dropped it on the bar, then stood up, drink in hand.
Mr. Moneyclip took a sip of the daiquiri and cocked an eyebrow. “A bit on the sour side.”
“No it isn’t,” Nate said, promptly.
The guy smiled. “I’ll let you get back to your Jägerbombs and vodka tonics.”
He started to walk, which was when Nate noticed that the heavy gold clip was on the bar, under the bill. His hesitation was super brief, however; as tempting as it seemed, Nate wasn’t entirely stupid.
“Hey man, you forgot something,” Nate called, and when the guy turned, Nate tossed him the bankroll.
The guy’s arm snapped out and he caught the clip easily. Good reAexes. He made eye contact again, and Nate got the impression he was being assessed, somehow.
A beat later the older man had wandered away, and the trio of drunk gal- pals at the end of the bar started calling for more margaritas. Nate went back to work.
* * *
Nate took his fifteen when he saw the debutante slip out the front door, already rummaging through her tiny purse with the guilty, needy look of the smoker. The Aoor was busy but under control, and Chris could mix anything that wasn’t too complicated.
His heart picked up speed a bit as he walked outside, made a small show of breathing in the cool night air, stretching his arms, rolling down his sleeves. A handful of chatting smokers milled around the door.
Deb was alone at one of the outside tables, tapping an unlit cigarette against the side of her pack. When she spotted Nate, he allowed a pleased, surprised look to cross his face. Fancy meeting you here!
Smiling, he stepped closer to where she sat. “The cigarette. Invented by Alfonso Cigaretti, 1462.”
She stared at him, confused.
“Kidding,” he said, and then she remembered him, and smiled a little. She wasn’t drunk but was getting there, her eyes a little on the glassy side.
“You’re kind of weird, but you’re kind of cute, too.”
Nate put his hands in his pockets, the familiar weight of the Zippo settling into his palm. “Then I’m kind of Aattered and kind of offended.”
Deb tittered, and raised the cigarette to her slightly smeary lips. Nate leaned in with his Zippo.
He Aipped the wheel, and the wick didn’t light. He Aicked it again, and then chuckled self-consciously. Deb leaned in to cup the Zippo with her soft hands, making eye contact while he Aicked the wheel about a thousand times. Nada.
Still touching his hands, Deb smiled a little. “I have been trying to quit.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” Nate said.
“Maybe it is,” Deb agreed, drawing back just a little. “Or maybe you just need to get one that works.”
Nate put all of his charm into his rueful smile, and snapped the Zippo closed—while simultaneously Aipping the tiny latch on her diamond bracelet. The sparkling stones slid off her wrist and into his sleeve smoothly, not a hitch. “Oh, it works,” he said, stepping back. He waited for long enough to see that she hadn’t noticed, too busy looking for her own lighter, and then turned away, meandering past the scattered smokers. She probably thought he was embarrassed at blowing his shot. He rolled his head on his shoulders, just another overworked server taking his break. In this crowd, that made him invisible.
Nate put his hands in his pockets again, transferring his new acquisition to safety, and then looked at his watch. Gosh, look at the time! He headed for the door, a little extra bounce in his step.
* * *
Parked at one of the Slaughterhouse’s tiny tables, Sully kept his eye on the kid when he came back inside. As usual, Nathan Drake just radiated fresh-faced innocence, a poster boy for clean living. He went back to work behind the bar, cheerfully pouring drinks and keeping up a line of friendly patter. It was getting late, the crowd thinning, but the die-hard drinkers pressed in at the sound of last call, desperate to extend their night by one more overpriced cocktail.
A few minutes later, the pretty young lady Nate had followed out the door came back in, too, only weaving a tiny bit. When she waved at one of her friends, all gathering their stuff to leave, Sully saw that the girl was missing a small but extremely valuable piece of her ensemble. Not that she’d noticed.
Nice.
Sully drained the last of his daiquiri—kid should’ve added sugar—and took out a business card and a pen. He scrawled a short note on the card and pocketed it, then went back to watching the bar.
The kid was fast and had a good shtick, juggling bottles like he was in a movie. A less observant watcher wouldn’t notice the way Nate’s gaze Aicked over his customers, the split-second assessments he was performing on watches, phones, necklaces, open bags. The kid was sharp, no question, but plucking shiny baubles from drunks wasn’t much of a challenge. Waste of talent, really.
Nate poured his last drink and closed out a few tabs, finally stepping away from the register so that one of the servers could get in and run her own numbers. The kid picked up a tray and headed onto the Aoor, scooping empties off the deserted tables. Sully sat back and waited until Nate was picking up the empty martini glasses off the table next to his own, against the wall.
“That trust fund ingénue, she was the right mark,” Sully said, keeping his voice low and pleasant.
Nate turned, expression carefully blank—but he couldn’t hide the Aush that had crept up into his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nate said, injecting just the right note of sincere confusion.
“Sure you do,” Sully said. “But you didn’t jump at my clip, so you’re going slow, playing it safe, not lifting too much at once. Stop me if I’m wrong.”
The kid didn’t hesitate. “You’re wrong. And we’re closed, so pack it in.”
He turned to another table, picking up more empties, trying to seem nonchalant, indifferent, but his shoulders were tight and that little blush was still in evidence. Adorable.
“I’ve got a job coming up, a big one,” Sully said evenly. “And I need another set of hands on it.”
Nate smirked and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t look up from his task, wiping down the table. “So, what—you stumble into bars looking for accomplices?”
“I didn’t stumble,” Sully said. “Been in and out of here all week. Surprised you didn’t notice.”
That got his attention. Nate looked at him full on, studying Sully’s features, obviously trying to place him. Bright kid, but he didn’t necessarily pay attention when it mattered. He’d get better.
“Victor Sullivan. You can call me Sully.”
“Thanks, I won’t,” Nate said, irritation finally winning the day. He’d thought he was so slick, it must be quite the blow for him to realize he’d been made.
“How far you gonna get, lifting Tiffany bracelets?” Sully asked, honestly curious, and the kid’s face clamped down.
Sully went on, unperturbed. “Think you’re gonna get to Havana? I don’t. I think you’re stuck. I’m offering you a real ticket outta here. A chance to see places you’ve only read about in books.”
Nate’s expression didn’t soften. “You missed the read, Victor. I’m not a mark in some bar. Now get out.”
Sully shrugged, stood up. “Fair enough.”
He made a point of pushing past the kid, bumping him slightly, his own practiced hands making the trade effortlessly—his business card for the diamond tennis bracelet in Nate’s pocket. It was the work of a second, performed between heartbeats, and the kid didn’t even know what had happened.
Yet.
Sully walked outside, unable to resist a grin when he thought about the look on the kid’s handsome face, when Nate realized that his spendy trinket had magically turned into a business card with Sully’s address on it. Sully had added a note—thou shalt not steal.
Chuckling to himself, Sully hailed a cab. The kid might not come tonight, but he was definitely coming, and Sully meant to be home when he finally showed up.
* * *
Nate turned the corner onto Vesey, hiking his backpack over his shoulder, staring intently down at his phone. The doorman in front of the apartment building where Victor Sullivan lived was silver-haired and half asleep, standing woodenly in front of the high-rise, but he perked up some as Nate approached, straightening his cap. Poor old guy, stuck on the night shift; who the hell would be coming or going at four in the morning?
Nate very deliberately didn’t notice him, using his thumb to scroll through the terms and conditions of a random app he’d tapped, preparing himself for the lift. The silver-hair edged backward a step as Nate continued to march forward, seemingly oblivious to anything but his phone.
Nate crashed right into him, looking up with wide-eyed shock as his walk was so suddenly interrupted. He and the doorman stumbled together, and Nate’s free hand slid into the old guy’s bulging suitcoat pocket.
Gotcha.
“Hey! Take your head out of your ass!” The oldster glared at him.
“Sorry, man,” Nate said, backing away. He slid the doorman’s key set into his own pocket, careful not to let them jangle. “Didn’t see you.”
“No shit,” the doorman said, scowling. “Look up, there’s a whole world out there!”
Nate nodded, murmuring more apologies, then continued on down Vesey, going back to his phone. Just another screen-addict, that was him. The side entrance was around the corner, the door not nearly as nice as the guarded one, but set deeply into the fancy brick façade. Shadows were helpful.
Nate let himself into a service corridor, moving like he had a purpose. That was the great trick to being where you weren’t supposed to be—acting like you belonged there. Not that he was particularly worried; it was the dead of night in a posh building, nobody would be around. He’d dropped by home after work for a few tools and come straight to Sullivan’s apartment building, not willing to put off payback. If he got caught by one of the tenants, he’d tell them he was Sullivan’s nephew, just in from D.C.
There were service stairs midway down the hall, and Nate breezed in, jogging easily up the bare concrete steps. He looked through the rest of the doorman’s keys on his way, frowning. Each key was clearly marked, but there was nothing for the penthouses. Sullivan’s business card had him in penthouse C. No worries, though, that was why he’d dropped by home.
Nate exited on the second Aoor, out of the sterile, brightly lit stairwell and into luxury, plush carpeting, and muted wall sconces. Nice place. The elevators were a bit farther along, next to the much finer tenants’ stairs. Nate punched the up button, and the shiny door slid open in less than a minute.
Thou shalt not steal, he thought, jaw clenching, waiting while the opulent elevator carried him to the penthouse Aoor. The goddamned nerve.
The elevator pinged, and even that sounded expensive, a resonant chime. Nate stepped out into the artfully decorated hall, noting the small, attractive letter plaque next to the first door on his right—a B. He noted the door’s lock, too, and smiled. Standard pin tumbler.
He turned right, casually unshouldering his backpack, reaching in for his pick gun. He preferred to use individual picks, liked testing his skills, but the gun was faster.
Nate stopped in front of penthouse C. A quick insertion, a squeeze of the trigger, and the gentle click of the lock giving up. The door handle turned. He cracked the door, waited a beat—no alarms blared—then slipped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
Alright, Victor Sullivan, let’s see what you got.
A low-wattage lamp burned in one corner of the spacious, ultra-modern living room, giving him plenty of light to see by—low couches, expensive art, metal sculptures standing around. No clutter. The kitchen was visible through an arch to the right, dark. A hall to the left, with a number of closed doors.
Nate ventured farther into the room, saw it opened to the right, into a large study. Sullivan had gone for sparse, but the study was cozier than the living room. There was a heavy antique desk stacked with books, and several display cases with pin spots shining on the pieces they held. Except for an old- fashioned glass on the coffee table—the drink in it was pink—and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar in it, there wasn’t any clutter in the study, either. Sullivan’s collection was all neatly distributed on the shelves that lined the walls. A stone fertility idol. A tribal mask. A geode studded with green crystals. No family pictures or anything personal, just a select assortment of priceless oddities.
One of the cases held an American Aag folded into a triangle, the kind handed out at veterans’ funerals. Sullivan’s father? Grandfather? Interesting. The shelf next to it held books, and Nate quickly scanned the titles. King Tut’s Tomb, The Lost Fabergé Eggs, The Amber Room. Sullivan also had a copy of El Dorado: The Lost City of Gold, a book Nate had read countless times over the years. One of his brother’s favorites. All of the books were about ancient treasures, lost or buried…
Whoa. A stand-alone map case was angled against the back wall, tied into its glassed frame. The world map inside had the squished, swooping continental shapes and lettering of an era long past. It was a very good print of a Battista Agnese map of the world, sixteenth century, and a long, serpentine line led from Spain down to the southernmost tip of South America, then back up and off the left side of the Aattened globe. The line came back in on the right through the Indies and returned to Spain after rounding Africa’s Cape of Good Hope. Nate stepped closer, fascinated. If it was a print, it was a very old one—
“I see patience ain’t your virtue.”
Nate turned, saw Victor Sullivan step into the room from the door on the west wall. He was still in tux pants but had stripped down to his undershirt. He was smiling a little, hands in his pockets.
“Surprised to see me?” Nate asked.
“Not even slightly,” Sullivan said, and nodded toward the glass on the table. He’d made a drink for him? Nate noticed that the ice hadn’t even melted.
“So, it was all a test,” Nate said, unable to hide his irritation. “To see if I’m the guy for your next big ‘score.’ Me coming here, it was part two. Your money on the bar was round one. Stop me if I’m wrong.”
Sullivan’s half smile didn’t falter. “I will.”
“And the bracelet?”
The older man nodded toward his desk. “In the first drawer there if you want it… But I think you’re here because you’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Nate walked to the desk and opened the top drawer. There was the deb’s diamond bracelet, tossed carelessly atop a small pile of valuables—rare coins, an enameled pocket watch, ancient jewelry. Nate opened his backpack and dropped the bracelet inside… and helped himself to a few extras: an ivory cameo locket, a white gold wedding band, a handful of the coins. He deserved recompense for his trouble and Victor Sullivan could obviously spare it.
“You done?” Sullivan asked. He’d moved across the room to stand by the map.
“Yep,” Nate said, but then his gaze settled on the large jade statuette atop the desk. A Chinese lion, magnificently carved. High quality Burmese jade, clean lines. He grabbed it and shoved it into his pack. It didn’t quite fit, the nylon fabric bulging over its mass, but whatever. A smarmy asshole like Sullivan didn’t deserve such a quality piece.
Nate hefted his heavy bag and walked to the table. He picked up his drink and took a tiny sip.
Sugar and bubbles and just a hint of cherry Aooded his mouth. “Shirley Temple,” he said. “Very funny. Needs more grenadine.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Sullivan said. “Why the map? Of everything in here, this stopped you.”
Nate looked at the map, gaze catching again on the carefully drawn lines, the cherubic faces on the globe’s outer edges. “Because it looks like it might be authentic. Sixteenth century.”
“Not might be,” Sullivan said. “Is.”
Really? In spite of himself, Nate stepped back to the map, studying the paper more closely—it was vellum, actually, finely stretched calf skin—and marveling at the bright colors. The map was definitely by Agnese, a cartographer from Genoa who had died over four centuries ago. The style was unmistakable.
“This line shows the path Ferdinand Magellan took to sail around the world,” Nate said, unaware that his voice had taken on a slightly breathless quality. The map was from the 1540s, drawn almost twenty years after the historic voyage. And it was real? Nate’s gaze ate it up, a familiar, nostalgic excitement setting off butterAies in his guts.
“First guy to do it,” Sully said. “You know your history.”
“Yeah, only no,” Nate said. “Magellan wasn’t the first guy to do it.”
He pointed at a cluster of dots in the western Pacific. “He died here, on a random beach in the Philippines.”
Nate traced the line from the islands back toward Spain. “It was his captain, Juan Sebastian Elcano, who finished the trip with seventeen others, out of a crew of two hundred and seventy. The Infamous Eighteen.”
Sully shook his head, grinning.
When did I start thinking of him as Sully? “Bartender by night, super-nerd by day.”
“Google it,” Nate said, still studying the map.
“I did,” Sully said. “Know what I found? That random beach where Magellan died? Not so random. Know what’s special about the Philippines?”
“Second largest gold deposits on the planet,” Nate said. “I know the legend. How Magellan’s voyage wasn’t about exploration, it was about finding that gold. But it’s just a story.”
“I beg to differ,” Sully said, and he was standing by Nate now, pushing an open book into his hands.
Nate set his bag down and took it, saw that it was a book on the voyage, opened to color illustrations of Magellan’s ships. Nate knew them by heart: the Trinidad, the San Antonio, the Victoria, the Concepción, and the Santiago. The Santiago was a caravel, a smaller ship, the others were carracks—big, hulking, multi-masted beasts.
“These trips were hugely expensive back then,” Sully continued. “The King of Spain couldn’t afford it. There wasn’t even gonna be a trip, until a private financier stepped in.”
“The House of Moncada,” Nate said.
Sully was already handing him another thick book—800-Year Dynasty: The House of Moncada. Dozens of Post-it notes stuck out from the pages.
Nate took the book and Aipped through it, already familiar with the Moncada name and much of their history. There were a lot of pictures, mostly grainy and ancient. Combat, trials, executions, the Spanish Civil War…
“Bankrolled the Crusades, the Inquisition, Franco’s fascists in the thirties, and every other bad thing you can think of,” Nate said, turning the pages. He stopped on a more recent photo, the current patriarch of the Moncada clan. Armando Moncada, silver hair slicked back, face set in harsh, cruel lines. The guy had to be in his eighties by now.
“Real humanitarians,” Sully agreed. “They offered Magellan his ‘grand voyage of exploration,’ so long as he came back with that gold. How much gold? In today’s dollars, five billion, easy.”
The nice, round number clanged through Nate’s head. How many times had he read Sam’s book about Magellan’s gold, how many times had he laid in his orphan’s bunk back at St. Francis’, dreaming about finding it? It wasn’t just the money, it was the idea—discovering a lost fortune, yes, but also being the kind of man who embraced adventure, who had agency and smarts and knew things that nobody else knew.
“The biggest treasure that’s never been found,” Nate said, and then cleared his throat. Enough.
He closed the book, fixed Sully with a skeptical eye.
“I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid… but somehow you knew that already. What’s your deal? And no more bullshit.”
Sully chuckled. “When Sam said he had a little brother who was just as into this Magellan stuff, I thought there was no way. But here you are.”
Nate blinked. “You know Sam? My brother?”
Sully pulled his phone out of his pants’ pocket. “We were practically friends, and that’s saying something, considering the company I keep.”
He tapped his phone and handed it to Nate. Onscreen was a picture of Sam next to Sully, both men grinning. Sully had a cigar hanging out of his mouth. They looked drunk. Sam’s hair seemed darker, and longer, and he had a beard, but there was no mistaking the lean lines of his face, his bright, snapping eyes.
“Holy shit, he has a beard,” Nate breathed. “Where is he? When was this taken? Where were you?”
“Almost two years ago,” Sully said. “San Sebastian, Spain. We were getting close to Captain Elcano’s tomb, where Sam was sure we’d find his journal, and in it the location of the gold. Then he disappears. Doesn’t call, doesn’t answer my texts, nothing. He ghosted me.”
Nate scoffed. “Yeah, well, that sounds like my brother.”
Sully’s gaze was fixed on his, watching him carefully. “So, he hasn’t been in touch?”
“Sam? No.”
“Not even a postcard?”
Jesus, is that what all this is about?
“Nope,” Nate said, firmly. “No email, Snapchat, or TikTok either. That cover it?”
Sully looked taken aback, like he’d expected a different answer. Deep, vertical frown lines popped up between his eyebrows. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think if we find that gold there’s a real good chance we find him, too. What do you say?”
Nate stared down at the phone, at Sam’s handsome, grinning face, so familiar… But he was a stranger, too.
“Sam took off when I was ten,” Nate said, bitterness leaking into his voice. “Used to call every once in a while, swore he’d come back. Never did.”
He handed the phone back to Sully. “The Sam I knew disappeared a long time ago.”
Nate picked up his bulging backpack and started for the door, ready to be done. Sully had thought Nate would be all hot to go looking for Sam, or that Sam gave enough of a shit to stay in touch with his little brother, and he was wrong on both counts.
“Seriously?” Sully asked, as Nate opened the penthouse door. “You’re just gonna—”
Nate let the door swing shut behind him, effectively ending the conversation. He hoped Sully choked on his next cigar. Fuck that guy, and fuck Sam. He was going home.
* * *
Nate caught the L back to Bushwick and walked the three blocks to his apartment building, thoughts running full speed the whole way. The sun was coming up, the sound of city traffic rising into the cool morning. He should be tired, exhausted really, but he was wide awake, thinking about that map, about gold, about Sam. The elevator creaked him up to his Aoor, visions of sailing ships and sandy beaches Aoating in front of his mind’s eye, layered with feelings he didn’t want to think about.
He walked through his narrow front hall and was greeted by the chaos of his slovenly ways, clothes and books pushed to the walls here and there, the kitchenette’s sink full of dishes. It was a spacious studio that had pretensions of lofthood, the space dominated by a radius window that took up most of the far wall. He had a decent view, if you ignored the billboard and the water tower. The bed was on a built-in shelf suspended over the living area. Not a ton of square footage, but Nate loved the high ceiling, the ladders leaning here and there to reach the wall cabinets, loved the brick and pillars. Not too shabby for an orphan.
He walked to the northeast corner by the window, where his chest of drawers awaited. A bookshelf above it sagged with the weight of a garish three- foot Madonna-and-child statue he’d picked up at a funeral sale and couldn’t bear to part with; it was just too stylish to sell.
He sat his bag on the all-purpose table in front of the window, dawn’s light glowing across the scuffed wood Aoors, and opened the top dresser drawer. He slid the false back out of it, glancing into the opening at the back of the dresser before setting the wooden piece aside. There was already two weeks’ worth of labor in there: rings, watches, a fine gold cigarette case. He took the bulky jade lion out of his pack, astounded by the weight of it, the deep, glossy depth in the fine stone cool in his hand, and sat it on the dresser. Then he shifted the tennis bracelet and the other items he’d taken from Sully into the respectably growing pile in the back. He’d have to hit the shops soon, give his fence a call, see how hip they were to rare coins…
He couldn’t help looking at the sagging bookshelf, gaze automatically drawn to the dull red spine of Magellan’s Voyage: The Secret Quest, by Amy Hennig. He’d read it a dozen times. He replaced the false back in the drawer and closed it, thinking. It would be ridiculous to even think of Sully or his pitch at all, ever again…
Five billion, easy. Nate had started a fund to buy an old sailboat, step one to his dreams of independent travel. At the rate he’d been going, he figured he’d have enough in a couple of years, assuming he stayed out of jail. Boats were expensive. For even a fraction of a percent of the money Sully was talking about, Nate could stop digging through used boat ads.
That kind of money, you could buy a nuclear-powered yacht.
Nate pulled the book off the shelf and Aipped it open, the soft, dry smell of the pages evoking the squeak of a bottom bunk, long, wishful daydreams, the sound of Sam’s voice. He stopped on the picture of Captain Elcano. Sam had gone looking for the explorer’s tomb, with Sully.
And then he disappeared.
Nate put the book on the table, then walked to the kitchenette that ran along the western wall. Past the rolling garment rack and the peeling green ladder, directly in front of the bathroom, was the shelf system he used for his folding clothes: bins on brackets. Tucked underneath, next to a couple of file boxes—and a pair of fragrant running shoes—was the battered metal footlocker he’d taken with him from St. Francis’.
He pushed a couple of magazines off the top and carried it back into the living room, setting it down on the bare boards in front of the window. The dull metal was plastered with old stickers and a thin layer of dust.
He sat down in front of the locker, legs crossed, and Aipped the latches. The lid opened with a thin screech of its metal arms, and then he was staring down into his childhood. More stickers on the inside of the lid: PlayStation, a few faded photos tacked up. Inside was a pile of random crap that had held meaning for him, at some point. He picked up the old jersey on top, fingered the thin white cotton; a hand-me-down from Sam that Nate had worn to tatters. Sam’s old army Aashlight, and a baseball that he’d given to Nate for his ninth birthday. A nappy teddy bear that one of the kids at the orphanage had left behind, and Nate had saved from getting tossed for no reason he could remember, except that it had needed saving.
The pale morning light and the smell of the old locker made the memories seem like dreams. It didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared, to look through the sparse collection, until he opened the shoebox and saw the postcards.
He sighed, picking them up, then took off the rubber band holding the thick pack together and started to shuffle through. Bright commercial shots, beaches, tropical greenery, a church, Egyptian art, a bullfight. He read some of the messages, trying to just see the words and not feel the feelings. From Mexico: Doing pretty good, got all kinds of stuff to tell you. I’ll see you for your next birthday! S. From Brazil, six months later: Sorry I couldn’t make it back but life got crazy! You won’t believe all that’s happened, but I’ll tell you when I see you. Soon! S.
There were more—Thailand, China, Portugal—the cycle repeated again and again, promises then apologies, all signed with just his initial.
Nate got to the final card he’d received, a vacation shot of La Concha beach from San Sebastian, Spain, where Sully had last seen his brother. There was a generic promise on the back about showing Nate the world, but nothing else. No hints or coordinates, no way to reach him; there never was.
He set the cards down, picked up an old polaroid of him and Sam from when they were kids. Sister B had taken the picture on Nate’s eighth birthday. Sam was in the forefront of the picture, his expression too serious for a sixteen– year-old, his eyes haunted. Young Nate’s chin rested on Sam’s shoulder, his own expression open and innocent and a little bit sad.
Nate put the photo down and dug through the random bits in the locker, past a deck of cards, a broken compass. He touched the familiar thin leather cord of Sam’s necklace and fished it out, holding it up, turning the ring in his fingers. He’d worn it for years after Sam left. He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d stopped; sometime in his mid-teens, when it finally sunk in that Sam wasn’t going to come back for him. Promise broken. He’d been mad for a long time, but he understood it a little better now, at the ripe old age of twenty-one. What would he have done, if he’d been saddled with a baby brother and on the run? Nate could see how Sam might have figured that Nate was at least safe and fed with the nuns, getting an education. He’d taught Nate how to fend for himself, given him the ideology that the rich could afford to help the industrious poor, showed him how little most people paid attention. He’d instilled dreams of adventure and discovery and the big payoff.
He still could have tried, though. I would have tried.
At the heel of the usual ache, a new thought: If he was about to hit it big with Sully, why’d he take off?
Nate contemplated the ring for a moment longer, then decided. He ducked his head and slipped the cord on, the heavy ring settling against his breastbone. Sam had also taught him to always be looking for the opportunity, and not to overthink when it came along.
He dug into his coat for his phone, and Sully’s card.
* * *
Sully hadn’t expected the kid to walk. He’d thought for sure he’d hooked him; the way his eyes lit up, looking at the map, the shit he’d already known about the Moncadas… Nate was even nerdier about Magellan than Sam had been. Sully didn’t need the details himself, his job was to make moves, and finding Nate had seemed like a leap forward. Plus, the leverage was top-notch: finding his long-lost brother, fulfilling whatever Magellan fantasy he had going on, getting paid—what more could the kid want? Sam always said that Nate was the brains, but how smart was it to choose ripping off trust-fund douchebags over what Sully was offering? Maybe he was losing his touch. Or maybe Sam had been talking out of his ass when he’d told stories about his genius brother.
Sully smoked a cigar, waiting to see if Nate would come to his senses and turn around, then reluctantly reset his sights. He’d have to hire somebody if the kid didn’t bite, the auction was a week out.
Sighing, he poured a whiskey and took a few items out of his locked drawer, setting them on his desk next to the books. He grabbed the pictures he’d printed, spreading them across the blotter. The Augustine auction house, in all her ultramodern finery—entrances, exits, the security walkthrough, some good shots of the art handlers and some of the guards. The maintenance crew was union, but maybe one of them had a gambling problem or a kid on the way…
Sully scowled. He didn’t like bribes. Approach the wrong kind of guy and suddenly security tripled. The alternative was hired help, though, and he didn’t like that any better. Ninety-nine percent of criminals were dumb as shit, and the smart ones knew better than to trust a guy like him.
That had been the nice thing about Sam Drake. The guy had been sharp, but more importantly, invested. Sully respected the history but didn’t care about it the way Sam had, the way Nate obviously did. Those were the best people to work with, the smart idealists who had a stake in the game beyond the money. They were the ones who cared enough to go the extra goddamn mile and had the brains to figure out how. It had a nice symmetry, too. They did the puzzle-solving and Sully made the moves, eyes always on the prize.
He sipped his whiskey, gazing at a picture of one of the handlers opening the door behind the auction block. Of course, that kind of idealism always got smacked down, in the end. Youthful optimism wasn’t a state of mind that was meant to last. His own had been long gone by the time he’d hit the kid’s age… and he’d stamped out a few hopes himself along the way. Price of business. Dreams were great, but for him it was all about the gold, or the priceless statue, or the priceless vase. He procured valuable items for himself and others, often at great personal expense and risk, and he took pride in his work, but he never blinked—the prize at the end was the only thing that really mattered.
His phone rang. Sully registered the sound and his face lit up. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the second ring. Who could that be?
Sully answered on the third ring, making himself sound half asleep.
“Yeah?”
The kid didn’t mess around with small talk. “Was it there?”
Ha! Sully knew exactly what Nate was asking, but there was no point in ceding any ground.
“Huh? Who is this? What time is it?”
Nate wasn’t buying. “The captain’s journal. When Sam didn’t show up, you still went into the tomb, didn’t you?”
Sully chuckled and picked up the gently disintegrating book he’d taken out of his desk. He kept it wrapped in polyethylene, open at one end to breathe.
“Got it right here,” he said, and enjoyed Nate’s brief, stunned silence almost as much as he’d liked hearing the phone ring.
The kid tried so hard to sound casual. “So…”
God, was I ever this young?
“…where do we start?”
Sully grinned. One big step closer to that glittering, beautiful reward at the end. He arranged a meet for the next day, a few blocks from the scene of the impending crime, and was still grinning when he hung up.