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information about his job, his title, who he was, or what he did for a living.
    I searched for “Marko Malinkovic.” It was an unusual name, so he should have been easy to follow, but he had no Facebook page, no Twitter account, no website advertising his business or offering his services. He hadn’t told the world his hobbies or posted images of himself partying with his friends. Whoever he was, he liked to keep himself private.
    I found a few Malinkovics in Melbourne, Australia. There was a Zeljko Malinkovic who sold homemade cakes with guaranteed fresh cream and a Steve Malinkovic who had a garage on Silver Street specializing in German cars. Could they be his parents? His brothers and sisters?
    â€œMaybe Malinkovic isn’t even his real name,” suggested my uncle. “But don’t worry about it. Marko doesn’t really matter. Forget him. He’s out of the picture.”
    â€œNo, he’s not. He’s right behind us.”
    â€œHe might be now, but he won’t be for long. Like I said, you should forget him. The guy we need to meet is J.J.”

12
    I would have been happy to forget Marko, but he refused to be forgotten. He was on our flight to Heathrow.
    He had followed us all the way to the Shannon airport, keeping a safe distance between his car and ours, then dropped away and disappeared once we reached the car rental place. We didn’t see him again in the airport, but he must have followed us inside, watched us checking in, discovered where we were going, and bought a ticket for himself.
    He sat at the other end of the plane. I thought of going back there and talking to him, asking him to leave us alone, but Uncle Harvey told me not to bother. “We’ll shake him off later,” he said.
    â€œWhat if we can’t?”
    â€œWe will.”
    â€œHow do you know? He’s followed us all the way here. He’ll probably be able to follow us all the way to India. What if we find the tiger and he grabs it from us?”
    â€œRelax, Tom. We’ll be fine. He’s just one guy. He can’t do anything to us.”
    â€œThere might be others. He might have a whole team. Maybe they’re waiting for us at Heathrow. What if they mug us and grab the letters?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you to relax? Shut up and read your magazine.”
    Uncle Harvey had bought me a copy of
History Today
in a shop at the airport. I said I wasn’t interested in boring magazines about dead people, but he told me not to be so narrow-minded. “You’re interested in Tipu’s tigers, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œAnd you were interested in John Drake’s diaries? And Francis Drake’s gold?”
    â€œThat’s not the same as—”
    â€œRead the magazine,” he said. “You might learn something. Even better, you might find someone else who buried some treasure for us to go and dig up.”
    I flicked through the pictures and read a couple of the articles. They were actually pretty interesting, even if they didn’t give me any ideas for how or where to make my fortune.
    We landed at Heathrow and switched terminals. The last time I saw Marko, he was standing in a line at passport control, staring angrily after us. Our line moved much faster than his and he was still waiting while we were hurrying into the main part of the airport. Once again, I lifted my arm and waved at him. Once again, he didn’t wave back.
    Uncle Harvey stopped at a cash machine and pulled three cards from his wallet. Each of them allowed him to take out five hundred pounds.
    â€œThat should keep us going for a few days,” he said.
    â€œI thought you didn’t have any money.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œSo how can you get out all this cash?”
    â€œThat’s the definition of a credit card,” said Uncle Harvey. “Buy now, pay later. I already owe about ten thousand bucks on