Island of Thieves by Josh Lacey Read Free Book Online Page B

this treasure if you can’t even speak their language?”
    â€œWe’ll be fine,” replied Uncle Harvey. “Stop worrying. Now get in the car. I think I saw a sign for a hotel on the road into town.”
    You know,
I felt like saying,
I’m meant to be the doofus here. You’re the adult. You’re twice my age. No: three times. You are three times my age, Uncle Harvey, and you’ve brought me to Peru to hunt for buried treasure and you’ve offended a major criminal and he’s going to track us down and kill us, and now we’re in a little town miles from anywhere and it’ll be dark soon and we don’t have anywhere to stay and YOU DON’T EVEN SPEAK SPANISH.
    But I didn’t say that. In fact, I didn’t say anything at all. Not a word. Like he said, he hadn’t asked me to come with him. I’d practically forced him to buy me a ticket and take me to Peru. If I wasn’t happy, there was only one person to blame, and that was me.

8
    When I woke up in the morning, Uncle Harvey was still snoring. I went for a cold shower—the hot water didn’t work—and came back and got dressed, clattering around the room, making as much noise as possible, but he didn’t even stir. Eventually I just shook his shoulder and told him to wake up.
    â€œGo away,” he said.
    â€œWe’ve got things to do,” I told him. “People to see. Treasure to find.”
    â€œI need five more minutes.” He pulled the pillow over his head.
    I lay down on my bed and read the guidebook. Our town wasn’t even in it, so I turned to the back of the book and tried to learn some Spanish phrases.
    Half an hour later, I finally managed to persuade Uncle Harvey to leave his bed. Grumbling and groaning, he got dressed and trudged downstairs to the restaurant. He ordered fried eggs and toast for both of us. “What do you want to drink?” he asked. “Coffee?”
    â€œHa-ha.”
    â€œYou should try it. Just once. You might like it.”
    â€œI have tried it,” I said. “I didn’t.”
    â€œDid you have real coffee? Or that instant junk?”
    â€œBoth. I didn’t like either.”
    â€œI suppose you’re still very young. Wait till you’re a bit older and your tastes have developed. Then you’ll start to appreciate the finer things in life.”
    Sometimes my uncle could be very patronizing.
    After breakfast, we checked out of the hotel and drove back to the shop. Uncle Harvey parked the car on the opposite side of the street and we sat there for fifteen minutes, watching people come and go, looking for any sign of Otto’s men. We assessed everyone: the guy with a squawking chicken in each hand, the woman with a baby tucked into her woolen shawl, even the little old lady who could only walk with the aid of a wooden stick. Any of them
could
have been spying for Otto, but my uncle was sure they weren’t. I hoped he was right.
    We went into the shop, which was a junk shop in the real sense of the word. It was crammed full of old trash, as if someone had just scooped up whatever they happened to find—rusty farm implements, computer keyboards, chairs, clothes, books, postcards, old phones—and dumped all of it in here, not stopping to wonder if anyone might be interested in buying it. Sitting in the middle of all this junk was a creepy-looking man with a twirly mustache and eyebrows that met in the middle. He was reading a newspaper. When we came through the door, he gave us a long stare over the top of his paper, then said,
“Buenos días.”
    â€œBuenos días,”
replied my uncle. “My name is Harvey Trelawney. I was here a week or so ago. Do you remember me?”
    The man inspected Uncle Harvey for a moment, then smiled. He was missing both his front teeth and he spoke with a lisp. “You are
Inglés
? You buy the jewels? Yes?”
    â€œThat’s