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will fly you out to the ship.”
    Mrs. Quarrel blinked away her tears. “Sir—monsieur—I cannot accept.”
    Emile withdrew his hand, leaving the iridescent card on her open palm. “It’s nothing, madame.” He eased past and started down the quay to the ship.
    â€œHey!” Eleanor called after. “Where’s your luggage?”
    He spread his hands wide. “Somewhere in Ghent!”
    Mrs. Quarrel looked at the credit card in amazement. “What a strange, wonderful boy!”
    â€œIt’s probably phony!” Eleanor muttered. She grabbed the card and held it out to the security man.
    â€œCan you scan this? Is it any good?”
    The Securite Maritime officer laid the little square of plastic on the station’s PDD. A long series of numbers scrolled across the screen.
    â€œMon dieu!”
    â€œStolen?” Eleanor leaned in to him, trying to see what he saw.
    The officer quickly removed the card and pressed it into Mrs. Quarrel’s hand, closing her fingers firmly around it.
    â€œNot stolen, mademoiselle. With the limit on this card, you could buy the
Carleton
outright, much less hire a helicopter to chase it!”

Chapter 2
    The first passenger on board the old steamer was already below deck when the rest of the voyagers started up the canvas-walled gangplank. Hans Bachmann managed to get aboard early because his parents, owners of the antiques firm Bygone Age, had been hired to outfit the ship’s dining room with dishes and cutlery for the passengers. The old
Carleton
was not a cruise ship, with accommodations for hundreds or thousands. Conejos SpA, operators of the ship, had her freshly painted and her limited cabin space spruced up for the final voyage. The Bachmanns brought on board place settings for 200 (there were, according to Your/World News, 133 actual passengers). The plates and cutlery came from the old
Queen Mary 2,
last of the great ocean liners.
    Gottfried Bachmann left his son on board with their property. “Every broken cup or plate comes out of your allowance,” he joked.
    â€œI’ll wash and put them away myself every night,” Hans vowed with a straight face.
    His mother and father were extremely proud of their collection of nautical relics, of which the
QM2
china was only a small part. Hans was, too. Though he joked about it, Gottfried and Elke knew their son would keep an eye on the collection during the voyage.
    â€œWhere will you go first in America?” his mother asked.
    â€œTo see the
Constitution
,” Hans said.
    She looked puzzled. “In Boston? I thought they kept it in Washington?”
    Hans smiled. “Not the document, the ship! The wooden frigate in Boston harbor.”
    â€œMore old ships!” Elke said. “You and your father—if it’s old and damp, you love it!”
    Gottfried put an arm around her waist. “Is that why I love you?”
    She laughed and whispered to her husband in English, which she still thought Hans did not understand. Six years studying English, and his mother still thought he was eleven and innocent.
    Back to business. His father reminded Hans for the fifth time not to miss his flight back to Europe.
    â€œDelag Flight 5737,” Gottfried said, emphasizing each number.
    â€œYes, sir.” With his eyes, Hans appealed to his mother, but in this case, she was as obsessive as her husband. She repeated the date and time and made him recite it back to her.
    â€œVery good.” Gottfried shook his son’s hand. Elke put a hand behind Hans’s neck and kissed him hard on the cheek.
    â€œText us!” she said. Hans held up his PDD and smiled.
    The first passengers were filing on board when the Bachmanns left. Looking down from the boat deck, Hans waved to his parents. In their sober, turn-of-the-twenty-first-century clothes, the Bachmanns were soon lost in an inflowing tide of vivid greens, yellows, and reds. The passengers were greeted at