Wallace stepped forward, moving slowly. He had to be almost ninety, though he still looked like the kind of guy who could thump you if you got out of line. He wore a bright red Hawaiian shirt, tan cargo shorts, and boat shoes with ankle socks.
He fixed his eyes on Katarina and smiled from ear to ear.
“My copilot and I picked up a fellow in Sarajevo,” he said. “A political refugee named Tarasov.”
“He was a criminal,” the Russian man said, “who took the jewels after burying them with three other soldiers years before.”
“Sure, sure,” Wallace said. “One man’s criminal is another man’s freedom fighter. Anyway, we whisked him out of there and brought him to Santa Maria, where we were supposed to fuel up and hop across the pond. But we got grounded by a storm, and some of their agents found us.”
He shook his head sadly. “Tarasov was shot in the back. My copilot, Charlie Simpkins, was killed as well. I was wounded. I managed to take off, but an electrical storm, a couple engine failures, and loss of blood brought me down. I lost control of the plane and hit the sea. To this day I don’t remember how I got out.”
“You know,” Kurt said, “that story was part of the reason we believed in this hoax.”
Wallace laughed, and his face crinkled up. “In those days things like that happened all the time. Instruments iced up, gauges froze, you couldn’t tell up from down.”
“But what about the engine failure?” Katarina asked.
“I had a hard time figuring that myself,” Wallace said. “We kept those babies in prime condition. Then it hit me. It rained there for three solid days. We fueled the Connie from their ground tanks. I think we sucked up a bunch of water when we took on five hundred gallons of the stuff the day before we left. Damn bad luck, if you ask me.”
Kurt nodded as Hudson looked down at the tiara and the necklace.
“For sixty years I always wondered what was in those boxes,” he said. “I guess they’re filled to the top.”
Katarina smiled at him kindly. “You’ll be able to see them in a museum, I’m sure,” she said.
“No thanks, miss,” he replied. “I came for something much more valuable.” He turned to Kurt. “Were you able to get ’em?”
Kurt reached into his pocket and retrieved the dog tags he’d pulled off the copilot. Wallace looked at them with reverence as if they were made of the purest gold.
“A Navy team is coming out tomorrow,” Kurt said. “Charlie will be buried in Arlington next week. I’ll be there.”
“You?”
“You lost a friend here,” Kurt said. “But in a way you and your copilot saved a friend of mine. We’ll both be there. We owe you that much and more.”
“A long time to come home,” Wallace said.
Kurt nodded. Yes, it was.
“I’ll see you there,” Wallace said. He smiled at Katarina, thumbed his nose at the Russian expert, and walked back to the boat he’d motored in on. It took a moment for him to climb aboard. Once there, Wallace grabbed a wreath and held it out. Then, with a gentle toss, he laid it out on the water.
THREE DAYS LATER, after finishing the recovery and spending forty-eight hours with Katarina that actually qualified as R & R, Kurt was back in the States.
Katarina denied it, but he had a sneaking suspicion she’d enjoyed her time as a spy of sorts. They promised to meet again someday, and Kurt wondered if it would happen first from careful planning or at random in some out-of-the-way place with a swirl of international intrigue unfolding. Either way, he looked forward to it.
He wandered by the NUMA headquarters and found the place empty for the weekend. A message from Joe told him to go home.
Heading the advice, he made his way back to his boathouse on the Potomac.
Suspiciously, he detected the scent of marinated steaks grilling on a barbecue emanating from his own deck. He walked around to the back of the boathouse.
Joe and Paul were standing on the deck above the river. Gamay sat nearby on a chaise longue. Paul appeared to have commandeered Kurt’s gas grill, and what looked like rib-eye steaks for the four of them were sizzling away on it.
Joe was scribbling something on a Dry Erase Board, and a bottle of merlot sat on his corner table along with a cooler of beer and some travel brochures.
Gamay hugged him. “Welcome home.”
“You guys know this is my home,” he said, “not a dormitory.”
They laughed, and Kurt leafed through the brochures, noticing a theme.
Joe handed him an ice-cold Bohemia, just like the one he’d liberated from the captain’s stash on the Argo.
The Trouts sipped the wine.
“What’s going on?” Kurt asked, feeling as if he’d stumbled upon a secret gathering.
“We’re planning a trip,” Joe announced.
“Haven’t we spent enough time together?” Kurt said, kidding, and well aware that he was standing amid family.
“This will be a vacation,” Gamay said. “No running, no shooting, no explosions.”
“Really?” Kurt said, taking a sip of the beer. “Where are we going?”
“Glad you asked,” Joe said. He walked over to the Dry Erase Board on which three names had been written. Each had a single check mark on it.
“We’ve all voted once,” Paul said, “but we have only white smoke to send up the chimney.”
“So I’m the tiebreaker,” Kurt guessed.
“Correcto,”Joe said. “And don’t let all the times I’ve saved your life influence you.”
Kurt stepped closer to the board, cutting a sideways glance at Joe. “Or all the times you’ve caused me trouble.”
He studied the choices.
“Eight-Day Moroccan Camel Safari,” he said, reading choice number one. It had Paul’s name next to it. “Have you ever been on a camel, Paul?”
“No, but…”
“Eight minutes might be fun, but eight days…” Kurt shook his head.
Paul looked hurt. Gamay and Joe smiled.
“Death Valley Hiking Trip,” he said, looking at the next line. Gamay’s choice. He looked at her. “Death Valley?” he said. “Nope, that’s a little grim, don’t you think?”
“Oh come on,” Gamay protested. “It’s beautiful there.”
“Yes,” Joe said. He raised his arms as if he’d won.
“Hold on there, partner,” Kurt said. “I’m not sure the Gobi Desert even counts as a vacation spot.”
“Sure it does,” Joe said. “I saw a commercial. They even have a slogan. ‘Go be in the Gobi.’”
Kurt laughed. “They might want to keep working on that.”
“It’s dry there,” Joe said. “No chance of drowning or freezing or ruining your best Armani shirt.”
Kurt laughed again. He could just about imagine Joe wearing Armani in the middle of the desert. He sighed, guessing they weren’t really serious, but there was one dry, sunny place he’d always wanted to go.
“I vote for the Australian Outback,” Kurt said. “Ayers Rock, rustlin’ roos, and Foster’s.”
They looked at him for a second, stunned.
“Rustlin’ roos?” Gamay said. And they broke into a cacophony of noes and long-winded reasons why Australia would never work. By the time they were done Paul was flipping the steaks and Kurt had finished his beer.
“Okay,” Paul said. “Let’s try again.”
Joe erased the board and scribbled “Round 2” at the top. Meanwhile, Kurt sat down in the other chaise, grabbed another beer, and gazed out over the peaceful river as the nominations came in.
As the names of various hot and dry places were called out, Kurt couldn’t help but smile. He had a feeling this might go on for a while. And sitting there, surrounded by his friends and soaking up the sun, he kind of hoped it would. In fact, for the moment, he could think of nowhere else he’d rather be.