Nobody seemed to raise an eyebrow at Holliday's use of cash, and no ID display was required. Apparently Homeland Security hadn't arrived in Canada yet and there were no obvious armed security personnel prowling around the echoing old Union Station. The high-speed train out of Toronto was modern and fast, complete with meal and bar cars. They arrived in Montreal with enough time for a little shopping in the underground malls connected to the train station and then boarded the Ocean just before it left at six thirty that evening.
The train was surprisingly sophisticated, made up of old Budd Streamliners like the old 20th Century Limited. The dining cars had real tablecloths and linen napkins, and there was even a domed observation car. If he hadn't been a fugitive wanted on two continents the trip might have been a pleasant little adventure. As it was he spent all his time alone in his private roomette trying to figure out just what was really going on. He barely saw Meg except for meals, and they both avoided talking about Quince and the events surrounding their kidnapping.
There was almost no doubt that the men who'd attacked the cottage were more of the mysterious Blackhawk Security bunch, but according to Quince he was just a hired gun as well. But groups like Blackhawk were usually hired by governments, or at the very least by giant multinational corporations. In fact, they were usually owned by multinational corporations.
So what multinational was interested in a piece of Middle Ages mythology to the extent that they'd send in people like Quince and his heavies or the Blackhawk people? It just didn't make any sense.
Someone had been on their tail since the bald guy who'd followed them all the way from Mont Saint-Michel to Prague. It was almost as if they knew more about the so-called True Ark than he and Meg did.
He wrestled with the problem all the way across the Canadian provinces of Quebec, New Brunswick and into Nova Scotia, but couldn't figure out a reasonable solution. By the time they arrived in Halifax at three thirty the following afternoon, the only conclusion Holliday had reached was that somewhere along the line he'd overlooked something, the missing puzzle piece that solved the problem.
Halifax itself had left behind much of its maritime past and now concentrated on being a government center and a modern, well-heeled tourist trap complete with menus without prices, obsequious waiters who gave you their first name before they took your order, a variety of city tours in assorted double-decker buses, and even a fleet of Vietnam War Lark amphibians that lumbered across the city and into the waters of the harbor, their aluminum hulls painted with bright green and yellow frogs.
Unfortunately, real frogs would never survive in the harbor. Eighty-two million gallons of raw sewage was pumped into the water each day due to a malfunctioning water treatment plant, and giant deodorant pucks were now being used to control the rank odor that regularly swept across the revitalized waterfront, complete with its hotels and casinos.
Eventually Holliday and Meg found what they were looking for on the other side of the wide harbor channel in the town of Dartmouth, Halifax's industrial heart and the Atlantic home of the Canadian navy. Dartmouth had always been the rough edge of Halifax, far from maritime society, such as it was. There were no tourist attractions or tony restaurants in Dartmouth, but there were plenty of seafaring men who worked the docks and the navy yards and more than a few waterfront bars to slake their thirst after a long day of work.
The Admiral Benbow was located on a side street halfway up a steep hill that led up from the waterfront at Tuft's Cove, one of a dozen forgotten commercial byways on the Dartmouth waterfront. Once upon a time Tuft's Cove had been a thriving harbor for local lobstermen, but the big companies had long since made small-scale lobstering a marginal profession at best, and with the economy the way it was, it was easier to go on welfare than it was to waste gas and risk your life roaming around on the Atlantic.
Oddly, the Benbow, named after Jim Hawkins's pub in Treasure Island, had adopted a cowboy theme, complete with waitresses in spurs, bright yellow hot pants and ten-gallon hats, something called the Gal Corral for line dancing and a bull ride named Old Tex, which was restricted to young ladies with bust sizes exceeding thirty-six inches. Even the food on the bar menu had been westernized. Chili dogs were "snake bites," jalapeno fries were "critter fritters," and chicken wings were "wang dang thangs." According to a prominent sign over the bar, wang dang thangs were complimentary with a pitcher of draft between seven and midnight on Wednesdays. The big, high- ceilinged, onetime net warehouse had been redecorated within an inch of its life to look like the inside of a barn, but the lingering smell of fish was still there. It was early evening and the place was jammed. Big-breasted waitresses in cowboy boots hauled foaming pitchers of beer, Old Tex was going full steam ahead and the Gal Corral was full of lonely, generally plain women line dancing like rows of cowgirl penguins trying to attract a mate. It wasn't a pretty sight.
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this," said Meg as they sat down at the bar. She was dressed in reasonably fashionable jeans and a man's white shirt with the tails out, but the look of disapproval on her face said it alclass="underline" this was not a woman who spent a lot of time in bars.
"You don't look very comfortable with it, either," said Holliday. "You'd better lighten up or this isn't going to work."
"Why do we have to come to a place like this to find a boat?" Meg asked.
A bartender wearing a Cross the Line Your Ass is Mine T-shirt with a picture of a mean-looking bull behind a barbed-wire fence on it took their orders; a virgin Caesar for Meg, which seemed to be a uniquely Canadian version of a Bloody Mary that used clam juice instead of tomato juice, and a local Glen Breton straight up for Holliday. Holliday waited for their drinks to arrive before answering the question. Giant speakers suddenly started belting out a bawling rendition of Stompin' Tom Connors's "Bud the Spud," a song about a potato trucker.
"We went over it on the train," said Holliday. "This Sable Island place is protected. You can't legally make landfall there, so a legitimate hired boat wouldn't take you; you'd get your boat confiscated. But it's almost impossible to land a boat there anyway because of the currents and the tides; that's why anyone who does go to the island flies in."
"Then we rent a plane."
"I can't fly. Can you?"
"As a matter of fact, I can," she said primly. "Light planes anyway. I got my license when I was a kid. Single engines. My dad owned a Piper Cherokee."
"When was the last time you flew?"
"A while ago."
"How long is a while?"
Meg shrugged. "High school."
"No, thanks. The planes they use have special soft wheels for landing on the beach. You up for landing on sand?"
"I guess not."
"So it's a boat."
"But why here?"
"Because that guy I was talking to at the last place suggested we come here."
The last place was a hole- in-the-wall called Buddy's Bar and Grill back in Bedford Basin at the extreme end of the harbor. The owner had been surprisingly specific; after giving Holliday and Meg a once-over he told them that if you ever wanted things moved between point A and point B without government interference, go to the Benbow and wait for Arnie Gallant.
Arnie's nickname was Super Mario, and for good reason; he was squat, dark, broad-shouldered and had a heavy Groucho Marx mustache, just like the character in the video game, and to make the comparison even closer he wore brown workman's coveralls most of the time. Apparently Arnie Gallant loved wang dang thangs more than life itself, and this being Wednesday evening he was almost sure to make an appearance.