Hallo, it's me. Ready for chapter three? Hehe, that rhymed... *ahem* Anyway.

CHAPTER THREE

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

Monique followed the reporter into his hotel room with measured steps, taking in every slightest detail for evidence she could use to draw some conclusion about the boy.

An open suitcase lay atop the armoire, with only clothes inside. No drugs or guns that she could see. No handcuffs or dead bodies to be found either. But he might be keeping those in the bathtub.

Tintin ushered Monique to one of the comfy arm chairs near the window and she sat slowly, watching as he locked the windows and bolted the door. That was the only thing he did that may have been ominous. Honestly, 'Tintin' seemed like the most normal person Monique had talked to in a long while.

Though she tried not to, hope pushed questions up to the top of her brain. How much does he know about the Mapaches? Could he be the one to help me?

"Now then," he said, sitting in the chair opposite hers and pulling out his notebook. "Tell me what you know."

"Like I said, it starts with a 'fella named Macarthur. At least, that's what the Mapaches call him," said Monique.

"Who are the Mapaches?" Tintin asked.

"They're a rebel group. They've been trying to take down the Argentinean government for years, but haven't gotten anything off the ground until now. They're the ones who've been making all the trouble down here," Monique said, then stopped. "Wait, are you writing this down?"

Tintin paused his furious scribbling. "Yes. I'm a reporter."

Just then, Monique had a real reason to be frightened. She swallowed and took a second to compose herself. "Don't say you got this from me," she said.

"I won't, don't worry. Go on," said Tintin. Was he wondering how she knew all of this? Probably. But to get his help, she needed to give him something in return, and information was all she had.

"The Mapaches call this man Macarthur. I never saw him, but I know he's British and has kind of a deep voice… anyway, he seemed very keen on getting them to agree to something, a sort of deal."

"Did they discuss it?"

"No, not really, more like he was just trying to persuade them. He mentioned that they would be paid very well, and that if they joined him, they were guaranteed success in their revolution. They were talking about a trade-off…an 'I help you, you help me' sort of thing."

"Hm. Did he mention anyone else?"

"Yes, actually. When answering a question from one of the Mapaches he said; 'No, Muhammad Kalahn will be caught completely by surprise'..." Monique mimicked the man's deep, chilling tone. She shivered. "That guy gave me the willies."

"Muhammad Kalahn, the owner of the oil company Ricaco? He supplies half the world with his black gold…" Tintin furrowed his brow.

"Must've been him. I mean, I don't know." Monique shrugged. She had never heard of the man. It's like I've been living in a bubble, she thought.

"If what you say is true, then we better go ask him if he knows anything," Tintin said, scribbling some more in his notebook.

"The Muhammad 'fella? How are we going to do that?"

"We'll go to his palace in Ha'il, Saudi Arabia, of course…" he trailed off and thought for a moment. "So, you want to…come with me?" he asked.

Monique nodded. "Definitely! I mean, you've got to have someone who knows what they're doing, right?" She smirked. Tintin seemed almost amused by this, for a second. She went on, "Besides, I've been longing for an adventure like this for a long time." Yeah, that sounds alright.

Tintin stopped in his tracks. She could see it in his uncommonly blue eyes. They froze. Behind them, his mind was whirring. What was it? Was he going to say no? Monique tried to keep her face void of expression, but it was difficult. Here was an opportunity, sitting right in front of her, a chance she'd never get back.

Say yes, say yes, say yes.

"Alright. You're in, Monique." He smiled.

"Great!" She returned his smile, standing up. "But how will we get to Saudi Arabia? Do you have a boat?"

"No, but I know a man who does." Tintin picked up the phone beside him and began to dial.

/*/*/*/

Captain Haddock was sprawled across a huge bed, still dressed in street clothes, inside his spacious suite at the Virgin Islands' best hotel. The balcony doors were open, and a breeze frisked on salty feet through the billowing white curtains. Any gentle night noises were lost underneath his snoring. His hair and beard maintained their usual state of scruffiness, his mouth open, empty whiskey bottle clutched in his fist.

The piercing ring of his hotel room phone shot like an arrow through his slumber. He jolted awake and grabbed it, yelling:

"Billions of blue blistering barnacles, Jolywon! It's one 'o clock in the morning! I don't need travel insurance. I keep telling you – DON'T CALL ME AGAIN!"

Tintin winced and held the receiver away from his ear.

"Captain, it's me, Tintin!" he said when he could get a word in.

"Oh! Hello, Tintin. You should've said so. What have you gotten into now, my boy?" His tone became jolly and, thankfully, much softer.

"I need your help. Captain, have you ever been to Saudi Arabia?"

"Many times, what kind of a question is that?" the Captain chuckled. "I'm glad I gave you my number at the hotel here. You sound as if you're in a bit of a tight spot, eh? What've you done this time?"

"I can't exactly explain over the phone... It's better if I tell you in person."

"Got it. You need transportation?

"Yes. Your new yacht would be perfect for the job. Could you be down to the Port of Buenos Aires by noon Sunday? It's Thursday night now…"

"Yes, I could, but I can't."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard any news, Tintin? And you call yourself a reporter! All the ports of Argentina are closed to foreign ships without a government permit, and I haven't got one for this boat. It's because of the political problems, I suppose," said the Captain.

"A permit? How long does it take to get one?" Tintin could already guess the answer.

"Weeks, at best. They're awful uptight about these sorts of things."

"What are we going to do? I have to get to Saudi Arabia." Tintin began pacing the length of the beige rug beneath him. The phone cord stretched and coiled as he walked, tugging at the base. He looked over and saw Monique staring at it, waiting for it to tip over the edge of the table. He stopped pacing.

"I've got an idea," the Captain said suddenly. "How about we meet up on the Brazilian coast? I could be in Porto de Belem in two days or so, by the looks of the weather."

"That's it! And we could rent a plane and fly up. I'll fill you in on the whole story once we get there. Thanks a million, Captain, I knew we could count on you."

"Of course, lad, that's what I'm here for…wait, did you say 'we'?"

"Ah, yes, I've got someone with me. Her name is Monique. She's helping me with my story. Is that alright?" Tintin slid hope into his question.

"Hm. She can come along, I suppose. As long as she doesn't cause any trouble. Women are bad luck for ships... mermaids, sirens, and all that..." he grumbled, half to himself. Tintin was grateful Monique couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"Thanks, Captain. I'll see you in few days."

"Yes, and hopefully you can stay out of trouble until then. Never trust a female…" the Captain's voice faded into mumbling, then disappeared entirely with a click.

"Well that's that!" Tintin said to Monique as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle. "We're to rent a plane, then fly up and meet my friend Captain Haddock in Porto de Belem, Brazil. He has a yacht, and from there we can sail on to Saudi Arabia. Are you game?"

"Sure I am. When do we start?" she asked.

"Well, bright and early tomorrow morning we'll go out to the airfield I saw when I first arrived here yesterday. It must be a plane rental. I have enough money, probably, and then from there it's smooth sailing. Er, flying." Tintin thought for a moment, then continued carefully, "Do you…have a place to go back and pack a few things? And sleep?"

Monique's face fell. She began picking at a loose thread on the armchair.

"I'm... kind of a runaway, at the moment. I have everything I need in this bag." She patted the satchel and gave him a nervous glance. "Is it alright if I sleep here?"

"Of course," said Tintin. He couldn't stop himself from continuing, "What did you run away from?"

Monique stalled. The loose thread was now a bare patch of upholstery.

"I... well, my... family doesn't really understand me. We moved here from New York a few years ago and since then everything kind of went wrong. I thought... that I wanted to join the resistance, the Mapaches, and after an argument I decided I just couldn't stay any longer. I don't want to join the Mapaches anymore, not after what I heard, but I don't want to go back to my parents again either. They're so preoccupied with their own lives, I doubt they even care I left." Her eyes darkened, the green turned a shadowed grey in the dim light of the hotel room. "In fact, I know they don't care."

Tintin gave a solemn nod. He was debating whether to insist the girl return to her family immediately or leave her alone since it was none of his business, really.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said at last.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad I left, things have been a lot better. Anyway, I promise I won't be a burden. I'll just sleep right here in this chair, it's actually kind of nice." Monique shifted in the chair as if to demonstrate its comfortable qualities.

"Oh, no." Tintin lifted a hand. "You'll have the bed; I can sleep in the chair."

"No, I want to sleep in the chair."

"I insist. A chair is no place for a guest."

"I like chairs."

"Oh." Tintin backed down, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I am. Chairs are swell. Beds are for boring people."

Tintin thought for a moment, unsure if she was being serious or teasing him. He caught a mocking glint in her eyes.

"Well, alright. If you're certain." He turned to Snowy and chuckled. "I hope you're not a light sleeper, though. Snowy whines."

The dog shot him a reproachful look.

"Goodnight, Monique," Tintin yawned as he switched off the light and collapsed onto the bed. He didn't bother with turning the covers. Snowy found a comfortable place at the foot of the bed and curled up. Sleep overtook Tintin's mind before he got much of a chance to worry about this strange American girl, who had just unexpectedly hijacked his operations on this case.

As he drifted off, the last thing he heard was a soft 'good night' from the chair where she sat.

/*/*/*/

Monique waited to hear the deep, steady breathing of the reporter before getting up. As attractive as sleep seemed right then, she couldn't rest yet.

She crossed the room on silent feet to the suitcase atop the armoire and took each piece of clothing out, examining the suitcase for secret pockets or secret anything. Monique could find nothing of offence; even his clothes were clean and unassuming. She repositioned everything just how she'd found it.

A quick inventory of the rest of the room turned up similar results. He hadn't been here for long and, unfortunately, kept his most valuable items in his pockets. His wallet, for example, was nowhere to be found. Monique decided it was just as well. Her previous idea to boost a few pesos was unwise, considering now she was saddled with him for food and transportation.

She snuck into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and made sure the creaky door was locked before turning to survey the room.

A toothbrush leaned in the glass on the counter beside some paste and a damp washcloth. Above the sink was a tall, bright mirror. Monique approached it from the side with hesitant steps.

First, a half a face appeared. A single cold green eye blinked at her, set against skin either dirty or tanned, perhaps both, and lining her cheek was a ruthless tangle of wavy dark hair. She took another step, and stood full before the sheet of glass. Two eyes blinked, and it was now that she remembered how just around her pupil there were grey chips, like flakes of steel set in emerald. She recalled standing in front of the mirror as a kid, wishing for blue eyes, eyes all one colour... well, just like Tintin's. She would close her eyes tight, and imagine that when she opened them, they'd be glittering sapphire.

Monique closed her eyes, and opened them to the same face that had been there two moments before. She frowned slightly, and her chapped lips protested the movement. She rubbed a streak of dirt from her slender nose.

So this is what I've looked like for the past month, she thought. Strange to think I haven't found a mirror all that time. Her round cheeks seemed thinner. All of her seemed thinner, in fact. Sensing an opportunity to make a bid in its endless campaign for food, her stomach growled.

Monique turned away from the mirror and considered the bathroom, clean white tile underneath a mat by the claw-footed tub (thankfully free of any bodies.)

Well, as long as I'm here, I might as well make use of it, she thought.

She drew herself a steaming bath, and scrubbed until her skin turned from dirty beige to a lighter olive tone, and raw pink where the sun never fell. Once clean, she pulled on a white peasant blouse: the only item she owned fair and square though, ironically, she hated the thing. It was off-the-shoulder, with a lace-like ruffle at the neck and puffy short sleeves. She retied the piece of string around the high waist of her brother's brown shorts, then laced up her trusty old boots with sure, familiar motions.

Monique stood before the mirror again, ran her fingers through her damp hair, and gave her reflection a brisk nod. That's better.

She turned off the bathroom light and snuck back into the room, settling into her chair once again. She set her bag on the ground, moving her head in an attempt to get comfortable on the chair. After a moment, she grabbed Tintin's coat and draped it over herself as a blanket, though the night was warm.

Monique knew she was exhausted. She could feel the fatigue tugging at her eyelids, built up from weeks of running on little sleep, but somehow, in this strange room, her mind refused to rest. She remained awake for god-knows-how-long, staring out at the stars. They winked, unconcerned, from their configurations across the night sky. She tried to identify the north star - the guiding star, wasn't it? - but realised she couldn't tell Orion's Bear from the Big Dipper's Belt.

Monique looked over at the sleeping reporter.

She was beginning to feel some loathing towards him, and she'd known the well-dressed dork for less than two hours. She couldn't quite put her finger on the reason, but it was something in the way he looked at her, with polite sympathy, poor crazy hobo girl.

And there was something else, besides his obnoxiously vague accent, something... ah, yes, he was a boy. Or a young man? Whatever. He was male, and Monique had resolved to rid herself of their type for good. If it had been up to her, she would've grabbed the wallet from the pocket of his plus fours and ran, to figure this all out on her own.

But she'd already tried that.

Since it hadn't worked, she hoped, no, prayed, that this 'reporter' would be the answer to her problem. If he tailed the Mapaches, and she tagged along, he would take her straight to them. It was simple, wasn't it? Now all that she asked was for the fates to smile on them, for the stars to be in alignment, whatever it would take.

Did he believe my story? she wondered. Well it doesn't matter now, does it. He's taking me with him. He can't change his mind.

Neither can I.

I don't know if I trust him or not…I suppose I've got to, he's the only person left on earth for me to trust. Monique fell asleep with a conflicted mind; Tintin's coat pulled over her eyes as if to hide from all the world.

I'm not sure if I managed to do what I wanted to do with this chapter, but oh well. The adventure really begins next chapter, so buckle up! It's gonna be a bumpy ride... (I just wrote that with Captain Amelia's voice in my head. You know, from Treasure Planet? Obscure Disney movies ftw XD)

Pretty please review? It's good for your karma! Pay it forward, and all that. ;)