The Grandfather Clock (22 page)

“
Let’s start with
two.”

Before I knew it, he was leading me to
the front desk, ahead of two people waiting in line. He used my
credit card to arrange for a room. Without words I initialed next
to the $349 rate. He led me to my room where I also handed him $20
tip, unsure if this was generous or an insult.

He smiled and handed me his card.
“Call me if you need anything at all.”

I collapsed in the bed and turned on
Argentinean television. A dubbed version of Law & Order played
when my phone arrived thirty minutes later, delivered again by
Jorge. I gave him another $10 American, just in case.

The phone came with a set of dialing
instructions, which included international calls. I turned on my
own phone to retrieve Celeste’s number. I was surprised to see that
despite the long flight, Paris was only four hours difference. It
was nearly noon in Buenos Aires. I wrote down both Celeste’s and
Klara’s numbers. I decided to call Klara first.

It was good to hear her French voice.
She answered urgently.

“
It’s me.”

“
Michael! Are you okay?
You make it okay?”

“
I made it. I’m here. I’m
not sure what I’m doing.”

I could hear a voice in the
background.

“
Is that
Celeste?”

“
Yes. We are both
concerned. What are you going to do?”

“
I guess I’m going to try
to find Marco. Does Celeste have any ideas?”

There was muffled talking. “Hold
on.”

“
Michael,” Celeste
whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“
Jesus, Celeste. I need
your help. I didn’t mean what I said.” A part of me hoped she could
talk to Marco and reason with him.

“
Michael, he won’t answer
my calls. I can’t reach him. I’m not even sure where he was going.
I think he was going to meet with a team. He said the name, but it
was in Spanish. I don’t know what it was. Zur. Chur. I don’t
know.”

She had nothing.

“
Is his family in Buenos
Aires?”

“
Some, but not all. He
grew up in Patagonia until he started playing soccer in the bigger
cities.”

“
Thanks,
Celeste.”

“
I’m so sorry.”

“
Put Klara on.”

I was relieved that Celeste was
cooperating, and clearly hadn’t told Klara about New Orleans. Klara
was confused by Marco’s motive. She felt partially responsible for
telling Celeste about the tennis bag in the first place. I told her
I would call her back later in the evening.

I Googled Marco Rios and found
nothing. My French was passing, my Spanish was lousy, and my
knowledge of soccer worse. I was starving. I took a shower and put
on a pair of dark pants and dress shirt, my only other set of
clothes. I went downstairs to the hotel restaurant and ordered a
pasta dish and a coffee. I caught glimpses of Jorge, walking
briskly about the lobby, making things happen for their
guests.

I decided I needed to see what Jorge
could really do. I went to the hotel ATM and took out $500 worth of
Argentine pesos. I went back to Jorge and gave him $100 worth. “I
need your help,” I said. “How good are you at finding
people?”

For the first time, his face changed.
He became serious and lowered his voice. “I can find people,
depending upon what you want. What sort of, um, services do you
need?”

“
No,” I said, realizing he
probably thought I was looking for sex. “I’m trying to find a man.
A soccer player.”

He took the money from the table.
“Tell me more.”

I described my situation saying only
that he had taken something from me. I meant him no harm, but
needed to find him. Jorge took notes and asked if we could meet the
next morning after he’d made some calls. I agreed and without my
asking he said he would arrange for two more sets of clothes to be
sent to my room.

“
Do you need my size?” I
asked.

“
They will fit,” he said
with a wink.

In a pair of rugged chinos that fit me
perfectly, and a short sleeve pocketed shirt, I left my room with
my luggage, per instructions from Jorge. He greeted me at the front
desk. He had a packet of documents and his customary
smile.

“
Mr. Chance will be
leaving us a day early,” he said to the front desk clerk as I
handed over my room key.

He walked me toward the front door and
handed me the papers. “In here is some information on San Carlos de
Bariloche. Your man has a workout with Cruz del Sur. A garbage
football team. They play in the fourth league, and won one match
all year. If Marco Rios can’t make this team, he’ll be shoveling
horseshit in the pampas. He’s from there.”

“
Wow. You learned a
lot.”

“
It is baffling that he
would play there, below his skill level. But then, with people like
you in pursuit, maybe he wanted to disappear there. Hide in a place
he is familiar. Perhaps he thinks he can hide what he took from
you.”

“
I can’t thank you
enough.”

“
There is an address in
there for his father. And also a sister. But, I would recommend
being careful.”

“
I will. Anything about an
ex-wife?” I asked.

“
She is remarried, here in
San Telmo.” As I took the papers he held the tightly a moment. “You
said you meant him no harm. You paid me, I did work for you. Do not
lie to me. I do not want to have to find you.”

“
You have nothing to worry
about,” I said. “He will know why I am there when I find him. Are
the police trustworthy?”

He smiled. “Of course. If you don’t
have reason not to trust them.”

“
If I tell them he has
taken something from me...”

“
You said this happened in
Paris?”

“
Yes.”

“
Perhaps you should count
on persuasion,” he laughed. “Do you speak German?”

“
No. Why?”

“
Well, you don’t look
Argentinean. Patagonia is full of Germans. It might help you blend
in. French might be better than English. Maybe.”

“
Germans.”

He smiled, and a taxi pulled up. “This
will take you to the local airport. Less than two hours to
Bariloche. Buy at ticket at the counter. I have made a reservation
for you.”

I handed Jorge more money.

He held open the door. “Come back and
see me.”

10

Germans in Bariloche. It
was either an important detail or interesting coincidence. On the
cab ride it occurred to me that if Marco attempted to sell
the
Tromblon de
Napoleon
, he would need to reveal its
history.

I called Desjardins.

“
Bonjour.”

“
It’s Michael.”

“
Oui, hello
Michael.”

“
I’m going to be very
brief because I’m on my way to catch a plane. The tromblon was
stolen.”

“
Stolen? You’re kidding.
How?”

“
It is a story that you
wouldn’t believe. I am about to take a plane to a town called
Bariloche. It is in...”

“
Patagonia.”

“
Yes.”

“
How do you know it has
been taken there? You are in over your head. They must be real
professionals,” he said.

“
It’s this idiot soccer
player that Marianne Demers’ daughter was dating. She broke up with
him and he knew about the gun. Do you think he’d be able to find a
buyer for it, being that he stole it? What do you mean
professional?”

He laughed incredulously.
“You can’t be serious. A
soccer
player
has taken it to Patagonia?
Unreal.”

“
What am I
missing?”

“
After the war, Patagonia
became the hiding place for Nazi war criminals. If you call it
hiding. The place was a de facto German colony. Jesus! Your ‘idiot
soccer player’ is either smarter than you think, or he accidentally
took that gun to the one place he could probably find a buyer for a
stolen item with ties to Hitler with relative ease. He probably
won’t get its true value, but he could find a buyer who doesn’t
mind controversy. Hell, there are people who say Hitler died in
Patagonia, not in the Führerbunker.”

The cab spit me out on the
curb of a more utilitarian airport. For the first time I was
scared. I had tried to picture confronting Marco, if I managed to
find him. I would point out that he would never find a buyer
because I would see to it that every museum and collector knew he
had stolen the
Tromblon de
Napoleon
. I had pictures and witnesses
from the Louvre that it was in my possession. I would bluff and
tell him that Interpol was getting involved and he would
reluctantly hand it over. Now that image was erased. Now, I
imagined a land of Holocaust-denying Nazi sympathizers and real SS
men growing old having avoided prosecution for crimes against
humanity. My mind ran wild.

To my relief, the streets of Bariloche
were not lined with red banners and swastikas. But, nestled on the
edge of a cold lake beneath tall mountains it certainly did look
like a Bavarian town. A van carried me from the windswept single
runway of the airport through the heart of town to the Hostel Inn
Bariloche. A hostel would offer me the chance to blend in and
gather information, but my main motivation for picking it was the
price. The hostel looked fairly new, situated in a multi-level
building with a top floor terrace bar. A far cry from the
bedbug-ridden accommodations I’d found in some European towns. I
figured that the closer you got to the edge of the earth, the
hostels must improve in quality. At almost $100 per night, it
wasn’t a total giveaway considering I had to the potential to share
my room with three other guys. When I got there, two other beds
were taken. I quickly met Charlie, a bearded, red-headed Brit with
a pile of climbing gear. He flashed a wide grin and invited me to
meet him and some of his “mates” at the bar. I took him up on it,
hoping they could tell me more about the town.

The view from the top of the hostel
was the best money could buy. The lake reached distant mountains,
as the Andes jutted skyward. The air was cool and I pulled on a
fleece that Jorge had procured for me. Charlie waved me over to a
table with another man and two young women in their twenties. The
man turned out to be my other roommate, Glen. Jill was Glen’s
sister and Andrea was her friend from Buenos Aires.

“
Ladies and gentlemen,”
Charlie announce in faux formality, “we have an American in our
midst! Meet Michael.”

I took a seat.

“
Michael is from a magical
land called Florida,” he said.

“
Yes,” I said, “but most
recently Paris, after a brief stint in New Orleans.”

“
Paris?” Jill asked. “What
were you doing there? What are you doing here?”

I took a long swig of beer and
laughed.

“
You have to understand,”
Glen said, “the four of us have been together for three weeks.
We’re sick of talking to each other. She’s my sister, so I know her
story. And Charlie never shuts up.”

“
If you bastards had
anything interesting to say, I wouldn’t have to carry the bloody
conversation,” Charlie said, punching Glen in the arm. “So,
Florida, Paris, Patagonia, why? You some sort of rich
kid?”

“
No, nothing like that,
unfortunately. It’s a long story,” I said, hoping to be let off the
hook. They all just stared at me. “I’ve been working for a museum
outside of Paris, in a home once owned by Napoleon
Bonaparte.”

“
No way!” Charlie
interrupted. “Jill works at museum in Cambridge.”

“
Have you always worked in
the field?” Jill asked.

“
No,” I said. “This is my
first foray.”

“
Wow,” she said. “How’d
you land that one? I’d die to take my talents to Paris.”

“
I fell into it,” I said,
realizing there was no advantage to keeping the gun’s story a
secret. “To put it plainly, my grandfather somehow came into
possession of a gun that once belonged to Napoleon.”

“
Amazing!” Charlie
exclaimed.

“
It gets better,” I said
as another round of beers arrived. “During World War II it was
taken by the Nazis and Hitler himself had it. Somewhere along the
way it was recovered and fell into my grandfather’s hands, probably
from his uncle.”

“
Jesus!” Charlie continued
to verbalize the reactions of the group.

“
That doesn’t explain why
you are here,” Glen said.

“
Yeah, this is where my
whole story goes off the rails. I’ve been living with the director
of the museum. The damned gun was stolen by her daughter’s jilted
boyfriend. And he,” I paused for effect, “is a lousy Argentine
soccer player with a tryout here in Bariloche.”