Uncharted, page 4
“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 flooded 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 butterflies 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 flipped 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 floor, visions of sailing ships and sandy beaches floating 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 floors, 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 flipped 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 flipped 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 flashlight, 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?”
