Island of Thieves by Josh Lacey Page A

is politics.”
    For the past few decades, Otto told us, Isla de la Frontera had housed some of the most dangerous men in Peru. The cells were stuffed with terrorists and murderers. High walls and rough seas prevented the prisoners from escaping.
    He remembered a little about the security arrangements from his own months of incarceration. The guards had to stay in the prison, away from their families, and the solitude drove them a little crazy. They took out their frustrations on the prisoners and anyone who was unlucky enough to come anywhere near the island. Shoot first, ask questions later—that was their mantra.
    The prison was on the east coast, facing the mainland. As far as Otto knew, the rest of the island was empty and uninhabited.
    â€œNo one never go to there,” he said, his eyes gleaming with greed and excitement. “Not in a hundred years. Not in four hundred. The gold is there right now. Waiting for us. In my heart, I can feel it.”

19
    Later that afternoon, we flew south in Otto’s little twinpropellered plane. Inside, there were three rows of wide, luxurious seats with big padded cushions. Otto sat in the first row. Then came me and my uncle. Miguel went behind us. I could imagine his eyes fixed on the back of my neck, his large hands twitching, longing to choke me to death.
Don’t even try it,
I wanted to say.
Or I’ll bop you on the head with another vase.
    Before we boarded the plane, I got a chance to talk to my uncle alone, and he told me not to worry, everything was going to be fine. Otto liked us, he said confidently. And trusted us. Which was why we were flying to Isla de la Frontera, rather than languishing in a cellar or staring down the barrel of a gun. I hoped he was right. I couldn’t help wondering when Otto would get tired of us, or annoyed with us, and decide it was easier to kill us than keep us alive. When I said this to my uncle, he just laughed and, once again, told me not to worry.
    The flight took a couple of hours. As the plane circled before landing at a small airfield near the sea, I stared at the coastline, stretching to the horizon in both directions. Not far from the shore, I could see a couple of islands. From the plane I couldn’t tell much about them. They just looked like big lumps of rock dumped in the ocean. One of them must be ours, I decided. I couldn’t help grinning. We were so close! A few hours from now, we’d be setting out to sea in a little boat, making our way across the water to the Island of Thieves. I felt a sudden flutter of anticipation in my stomach. I don’t know if it was fear or excitement. Probably a bit of both.
    Two vehicles were parked on the airstrip; a bright red fire engine and yet another of those big black Toyota Land Cruisers. Otto must have got a discount from the dealership. Or maybe he just stole them.
    A large man was standing beside the car, waiting for us. Like all Otto’s drivers/bodyguards/thugs, he was wearing the familiar uniform of jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather jacket with a bulge under the left arm.
    â€œThis is Arturo,” said Otto. “He is working for me down here.”
    Arturo nodded to me and my uncle, shook hands with Miguel, and conferred quietly with Otto. I wished I could understand Spanish. I wanted to know what was going on and what they were planning.
    I still had a lot of unanswered questions. About the gold. About us. About Otto’s plans. If we found the treasure together, would he give us some? Or keep it all for himself? Was he going to kill us? Or let us go? Had he already decided what to do? If not, when would he make his decision? Should we try to run away tonight? Or take our chance tomorrow? I’d whispered these questions to my uncle in the library, but he’d just shrugged and said he knew nothing more than me.
    Once we were in the car, heading for Las Lomas, Otto told us what he had been told by Arturo: “The boat is ready. We can