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The rest of the tape was just the interviewer thanking Frances.
Weston hit the stop button and pulled the headphone off, dropping them to the table.
“Weston, what’s wrong? Did you not find what you were looking for?”
Weston unplugged the headphones, then shoved the entire Walkman into his pocket. “We need to go.”
Marek rose with him. “Wes?”
“I…I need to think.”
Without saying goodbye to Elliot, Weston left the little library. He walked down to the waterfront and started pacing on the wooden walkway. Marek watched him, a silent, patient presence.
The Esperanza hadn’t been captured by the Germans and used as a German supply ship. That was the lie that had been reported in the papers. Based on the journals he’d read, the USS Bluebird had gone after the Esperanza specifically because it was carrying treasure.
Yes, it had been carrying art and antiquities, but after what he’d just heard, he doubted that was the treasure they were talking about.
Children. There had been children on that boat.
What happened to them? The USS Bluebird took the art that had been onboard. Had they rescued the children?
The purists had stolen the art. That he was sure of. But had they stolen the children too? If so, where were they?
Who were they?
And there was a worse possibility.
Maybe the children had gone down with the Esperanza.
Weston felt ill. This was much bigger than he’d expected it to be. Yes, he could make a very good argument that the purists had stolen valuables belonging to the Masters’ Admiralty, using the painting as proof.
But he didn’t give two fucks about that damned painting now. He needed to find out what had happened to those kids.
He paced for another ten minutes, working through what he needed. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Rose and Tristan approaching. Rose wore dark jeans, a berry-red T-shirt and a trim leather motorcycle-style jacket. Large sunglasses with black frames covered her eyes and most of her upper face, and she wore black boots.
Rose was looking at Marek, and he only shrugged in return.
Weston stopped pacing and faced them. “We have to go to Boston.”
Rose and Marek looked at him with expressions of shock and consideration, respectively. Tristan nodded.
“Tristan, can you get us a plane?”
Now he frowned. “You’re about to lose your asylum. You can’t seriously be asking to use our resources.”
“I am. I have to get to Boston.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I…I’m not ready to say yet.”
“Then no.”
“Tristan. You know what I’ve been doing.” Weston took a step toward his friend. “I found what I needed, but it’s…it’s bigger than I thought. Lives may be at stake.”
Technically, that could be true. The children on that boat could, theoretically, still be alive, living in America with no memory of who they really were. Their parents were most likely dead, but they might have family somewhere. And most of all, they—the children who might not have any idea of what had happened to them, if they’d been as young as Frances thought—deserved to know the truth.
Tristan searched his face. “Weston, I wish I could help, but…”
