Текст книги "Lost Empire"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

After a few moments’ hesitation, the cop replied in a French-Malagasy accent, “A little English.”

“I’m going to get you out-”

“Yes, thank you, please-”

“Don’t shoot me.”

“Okay.”

“Repeat what I just said.”

“You are going to help me. I will not shoot you with my gun. Here, here . . . I will drop it out the window.”

Sam walked to the rear of the car and peeked around the bumper so he could see the driver’s door. A hand holding a revolver appeared through the open window. The revolver dropped through the gap and tumbled into the mist below. Sam walked back to the passenger door.

“Okay, hang on.”

He uncoiled the paracord, doubled it up, knotted the loose ends together, then tied square knots at three-foot intervals down its length. Once done, he gave the bridge’s side railing a test tug, then tossed one end of the paracord through the passenger window.“When I say go, I’m going to pull, and you’re going to climb. Understand?”

“I understand. I will climb.”

Sam looped his end of the paracord around one of the posts, gripped it with both hands, then called, “Go!,” and started pulling. The car began rocking and groaning. Wood splintered. “Keep climbing!” Sam ordered.A pair of black hands appeared through the passenger window, followed by a head and face.

The Passat lurched sideways and slipped a foot. Glass shattered.

“Faster!” Sam yelled. “Climb! Now!”

Sam gave the paracord one last heave, and the cop came tumbling out the window. He landed in a heap, his torso lying across the plank, his legs dangling in space. Sam leaned forward, grabbed his collar, and dragged him forward. With a series of overlapping pops and cracks, the crossbeam gave way, and the Passat slid through the gap and disappeared from view. A moment later, Sam heard a massive splash.Panting, the man rolled onto his back and looked up at Sam. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He began coiling the paracord. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a ride.”

The cop nodded.

“Why were you following us?”

“I do not know. We were given an alert from the district commander. That is all I know.”

“How far did this alert go?” “Antananarivo and outlying communities.”

“When did you last report in?”

“When I realized you had turned onto this road.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing,” the cop said.

“Are there any main roads ahead that come from the north?”

The cop thought for a moment. “Asphalt roads? Yes . . . three before the main road west to Tsiafahy.”

“Do you have a cell phone?” Sam asked.

“It was in the car.”

Sam said nothing, continued to stare at the cop.

“I am telling the truth.” The cop patted his front pockets, rolled over, did the same to his back pockets. “It is gone.”

Sam nodded. He finished coiling the paracord, then turned and headed for the Range Rover.

“Thank you!” the cop called again.

“Don’t mention it,” Sam called over his shoulder. “I mean it. Don’t tell them I helped you. The people who are paying your district commander will kill you.”

CHAPTER 35

MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN

“DO YOU REALLY THINK THEY WILL?” REMI ASKED WHEN SAM climbed back into the car and recounted the conversation.

“I don’t know, but if he thinks so, he’ll be more likely to keep his mouth shut. I hope.”

Remi leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “That was a good thing you did, Fargo.”

Sam smiled. “Somebody probably offered him a month’s salary to just follow a pair of tourists. Can’t blame him for that. If we’re going to get intercepted, the car will probably come from one of three blacktop roads he mentioned.”“Agreed.” Remi unfolded the map and studied it a moment. “Tsiafahy is south of Antananarivo on Route 7. If we can get there . . .”

“How far to the Tsiafahy turnoff?”

“Sixty kilometers-about thirty-seven miles. Another twenty west to Tsiafahy.”

Sam nodded and checked his watch. “We might make it before nightfall.”

ALMOST IMMEDIATELY they realized their optimism was probably unwarranted. Past the bridge, the road continued to wind through the jungle, a mix of gentle bends and switchbacks that slowed their pace dramatically. They passed the first blacktop road intersection without incident and soon found themselves driving along a boulder-strewn river-the same one, they assumed, they’d crossed thirty minutes earlier.“Next intersection coming up,” Remi announced. “Two miles.”

Five minutes later Sam saw the intersection. Remi pointed through the windshield. “I saw something . . . a flash of sunlight.”

“It’s a bumper,” Sam said between his teeth. “Duck. If we’re not a couple, maybe . . .”

Remi scrunched down in her seat. As they drew even with the blacktop, Sam pressed himself back into the headrest and cast a glance out Remi’s window. The vehicle, a dark blue Nissan SUV, was parked on the shoulder a few feet back from the intersection.“What’s happening?” Remi asked.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. “He’s pulling out . . . He’s behind us.”

Remi sat up, grabbed the binoculars from the floor between her feet, and focused them through the back window. “A driver and a passenger. The silhouettes look male. I see a Europcar rental sticker on the bumper.”

“All bad signs. Are they speeding up?”“No, just keeping pace. You know what they say, Sam: For every rat you see . . .”

He nodded. If, in fact, this Nissan was pursuing them, the chances were good there would be a second and perhaps a third car up ahead.

“How far to the next blacktop road?”

Remi checked the map. “Four miles.”

IT TOOK NEARLY ten minutes to cover the distance. A few hundred yards behind them, the Nissan was still matching their speed. Remi alternated between checking the map and studying their possible pursuers through the binoculars.“What are you expecting them to do?” Sam asked with a smile.

“Either go away or raise the skull and crossbones.”

“Intersection’s coming up. Should be around this next bend.”

Remi turned to face forward.

Sam took his foot off the gas, eased the Rover into the turn, then accelerated again.

“Sam!”

Fifty yards away, sitting broadside across the road, was a red Nissan SUV.

“There’s your skull and crossbones!” Sam called.

He eased the Rover slightly left, taking the center of the road, and aimed the hood directly at the Nissan’s passenger door. He stepped on the accelerator, and the Rover’s engine roared.“I don’t think they’re going to move,” Remi said, hands braced on the dashboard.

“We’ll see.”

Remi glanced over her shoulder. “Our tail has closed the gap.”

“How close?”

“A hundred feet and coming fast.”

“Hold on, Remi.”

With his thumb depressing the button, Sam lifted the emergency brake handle. In the space of two seconds the Rover’s speed dropped by half. The Nissan’s driver, seeing no brake lights to alert him, was slow to react. The Nissan loomed in Sam’s rearview mirror. He jerked the wheel right, tapped the brakes, and the Nissan swerved left to avoid the collision. Sam glanced in his side mirror and saw the Nissan coming up alongside. He yanked the wheel left and was rewarded with a crunch of metal on metal. The red Nissan filled the Rover’s windshield. Sam torqued the wheel hard right, swerved around the Nissan’s bumper onto the shoulder, then drove back up onto the road.“Cut it a little close there, Fargo,” Remi said.

“Sorry about that. Do you see the blue one?”

Remi checked. “He’s still there, about two hundred yards back. The red one’s getting turned around.”

Within two minutes both Nissans were back on their tail and trying to close the gap. While the Rover’s engine probably had more horsepower, the Nissan’s lower center of gravity gave them the advantage on the corners. Slowly but steadily, the Nissans ate up the distance.“Ideas?” Remi asked.

“I’m open-minded.”

Remi opened the map and began tracing her finger along their course while murmuring to herself. She pulled one of their guidebooks from the glove compartment, flipped pages, and continued murmuring.She looked up suddenly. “Is there a left turn coming up?”

“We’re on it now.”

“Take it!” Sam did as instructed, braking hard, then slewing the Rover onto the intersecting dirt road. A sign flashed past: LAC DE MANTASOA.“Lake Mantasoa?” Sam asked. “Are we going fishing?”

“They’ve got ferries,” Remi replied. She consulted her watch. “Next one leaves in four minutes.”

Sam checked the rearview mirror. The two Nissans were skidding into the turn. “Something tells me we’re not going to have time to purchase tickets.”

“I figured you could pull off something tricky.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The road devolved into a series of descending switchbacks bordered on both sides by steep embankments. The jungle canopy closed in above them, blotting out the sun. They passed a brown-painted sign with a yellow P, a car pictograph, and “50M.”“Almost there,” Remi said. “Let’s hope for a busy lot.”

Sam brought the Rover through the last switchback, and the road widened into a small parking lot covered with diagonal white lines. To the right was a forested embankment; to the left, beyond a strip of well-manicured grass, was a river, this one flat and calm. There were eight cars in the parking lot. At the far end, sitting before a wall of trees, was a gazebo-like ticket hut. To the right of this was what appeared to be a service road blocked by a chain draped between two fence posts.“I don’t see the ferry,” Sam said, accelerating across the lot.

“It just left.” Remi pointed.

To the left of the ticket hut Sam saw a fan of froth on the river’s surface. He rolled down his window and they could hear the distinct overlapping chop of paddle wheels.

“They’re here,” Remi said.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. The blue Nissan accelerated out of the last switchback, closely followed by the red one.

“I’ve got a tricky idea,” Sam said. “Or a really dumb one.” “Either way, it’s better than sitting here.”

Sam slammed the gas pedal to the floor, swerved around the parked cars like a slalom racer, then bumped over the curb and onto the grass before the ticket hut. The tires slipped on the damp grass; the rear end fishtailed. Sam corrected, eased right, and aimed the hood at the entrance to the utility road.“Cross your fingers those posts aren’t buried deep,” he said. “Here we go!”

Remi hunched down in her seat, braced her feet against the dashboard.

The Rover’s bumper crashed into the chain. Sam and Remi were thrown forward against their seat belts. Sam’s forehead bonked into the steering wheel. He looked up, half expecting them to be sitting still, but was instead greeted by the sight of tree branches whipping past the windshield. Remi checked the side mirror. Both entrance posts had been uprooted like rotten stumps.“Are they following?” Sam asked.

“Not yet. They’re both still sitting in the parking lot.”

“Good. Let them debate it.”

What Sam had thought was a service road was in fact little more than a rutted trail barely wider than the Rover. As in the parking lot, the right side was bordered by an embankment; to the left, through a veil of trees, was the riverbank. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to keep the Rover from lurching off the path.“You’ve got a knot on your forehead,” Remi said, touching the spot. “What’s the plan?”

“Get ahead of the ferry and race to the next landing. That’s where you and your guidebook come in.”

She began flipping through it. “It’s less than thorough, I’m afraid.”

“There’s no stop listed?”

Remi shook her head, then checked the map. “And according to this, there’s no road.”

“Interesting. We’re on a road that doesn’t exist going nowhere. Are our friends nonexistent as well?”

Remi glanced back and ducked her head this way and that to see through the trees. “No, sorry, they’re coming.”

“The ferry?”

“No, I don’t . . . Wait! There it is! About two hundred yards behind us.” Her eyes brightened. “It’s a Mississippi-style stern-wheeler, Sam.”

The tract slanted upward and the ground grew more cratered until the Rover was bumping over exposed roots. At the top of the rise the ground flattened out. Sam slammed on the brakes. Twenty feet ahead stood a wall of trees; paralleling this, a hiking trail.Sam said, “The trail to the left . . .”

“Goes down to the river.”

Sam shifted the Rover into Park and pushed the tailgate button; the tailgate popped open. “Take everything we’ve got.” They gathered their belongings, raced around to the back, and grabbed their backpacks.Down the slope, the blue Nissan rounded a bend in the road and started climbing.

Sam handed Remi his pack. “Can you manage these?”

“Yes.”

“Run.”

Remi took off. Sam returned to the driver’s seat, switched the transmission into reverse, then jogged beside the Rover, steering, until the rear tires bumped over the lip of the slope. He slammed the door and jumped aside. The driver of the Nissan saw the Rover rolling toward him and slammed on the brakes. The transmission ticked as he switched into reverse. Behind him, the red Nissan came around the corner and skidded to a stop.“Too late,” Sam said.

The Rover’s back tires bumped over a bundle of exposed roots. The tail vaulted, then crashed down onto the Nissan’s hood. The driver’s door opened. Sam drew the Webley, crouched down, fired a round into it. The door slammed shut. Sam adjusted his aim, put a bullet through the red Nissan’s hood for good measure, then turned and ran.

SAM CAUGHT UP to Remi a minute later. They’d been mistaken; the trail didn’t go down to the river but rather over it. Remi stood at the head of the footbridge. As Sam drew alongside her, she handed him his pack. Behind them, through the trees, voices called to one another in Spanish.

“Looks sturdier than the last bridge,” Remi said. The construction was remarkably similar-planks, crossbeams, ropes, and two suspension cables. To their left they could see the bow of the ferry coming around the bend, its funnel belching black smoke. Aside from a dozen or so people lining the rails and a few on the forecastle, the ship was empty.“Come on,” Sam said, and took off in a sprint, Remi at his heels.

They stopped in the center of the span. The ferry was a hundred feet away. Sam looked back down the bridge. Through the trees he glimpsed movement, arms flailing. Someone was trying to climb the slope.Remi was leaning over the handrail. “The drop’s too far.”

“To the forecastle, it is,” Sam agreed. “See the upper deck behind the wheelhouse? It’s fifteen feet, maybe less.”

“Why not the wheelhouse roof? It’s only-”

“We’re trying to stow away. Wave, Remi, attract attention!”

“Why?”

“Rivera’s less likely to start shooting if he’s got an audience.”

“Always the optimist.”

They started waving, smiling, hooting. People on the forecastle and along the rails saw them and waved back. The ferry’s bow slid beneath the bridge.

“Ten seconds,” Sam told Remi. “Hug your pack. As soon as you hit the deck, bend your knees and roll into it. Okay, up you go!” Sam helped her over the guardrail. “Ready?”

Remi gripped his hand. “You’re coming, right?”

“Absolutely. When you’re down, find some cover in case they start shooting.”

The wheelhouse roof disappeared beneath their feet, followed a moment later by the funnel. Black smoke billowed around them. Sam glanced left. Through the haze he saw Itzli Rivera skid to a stop at the head of the footbridge. Their eyes met for a moment, then Sam turned away, gave Remi’s hand a squeeze, and said, “Jump!”

Remi fell away into the smoke. Sam felt the bridge shiver beneath his feet with the pounding of footfalls. Rivera and his men were coming. Sam climbed over the railing, looked down. Through the gaps in the smoke he saw Remi on the deck, scrambling clear on her hands and knees.Sam pushed off.

He hit the deck hard, bounced once off his pack, then rolled right. From out of the smoke Remi scrambled forward and latched onto his forearm. “This way.” He followed her, crawling blindly until he bumped into what he assumed was the wheelhouse’s aft bulkhead. They sat together, gulping oxygen until their heart rates returned to normal.

Now that they were past the bridge, the funnel’s exhaust cleared. Fifty yards away, Rivera and three of his men stood at the bridge railing, staring down at them. One of the men reached for something in his belt and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. Sam reached into his own belt, drew the Webley, held it above his head in profile, and gave it a waggle.Rivera barked something at the man, who holstered his gun.

Sam said, “Wave to the nice men, Remi.”

CHAPTER 36

GOLDFISH POINT,

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

“MYSTERIES HAVE BEEN SOLVED AND ENIGMAS FATHOMED,” SELMA announced, walking into the workroom with Pete and Wendy trailing.

Still on Madagascar time, Sam and Remi sat at the worktable, each nursing a double espresso. As before, they’d slept through most of the transatlantic flight home, but still they were exhausted.

After jumping from the bridge onto the paddle-wheel steamer they decided to simply act the part of tourists and, after cleaning themselves up as best they could, strolled the decks and took in the scenery with their fellow passengers. Not only did no one ask to see their tickets, but they were served cocktails and a supper by white-coated stewards in the main salon. After having spent the day crawling through caves, wrangling crocodiles, fighting rebels, dodging falling boulders, and being chased through the Madagascar countryside, Sam and Remi relished the chance to simply sit and be pampered.

Two hours after they jumped aboard, the steamer docked at a pier jutting from a forested peninsula. Sam and Remi disembarked with everyone else and walked through a stone archway onto a well-groomed gravel path. At the end of this they found a four-story mansion whose architectural style landed somewhere between antebellum plantation house and French country. A post-mounted plaque read HOTEL HERMITAGE.

Dumbfounded at finding such a place in the middle of the Madagascan wilds, Sam and Remi lingered as the rest of the ferry’s passengers proceeded through the pergola-covered lobby entrance.Behind them a female voice said in flawless French, “Welcome to the Hotel Hermitage.”

Sam and Remi turned to see a smiling black woman in a blue skirt and a crisp white blouse standing before them.

Remi said, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Of course, madam. Can I be of assistance?”

Sam said, “It seems we’ve gotten separated from our tour group. Might you be able to arrange transportation for us back to Tsiafahy?”

The woman smiled. “Bien sur.”

An hour later they arrived in Tsiafahy. One call to Selma took them to a private hostel for the evening, and the next morning they were on a charter flight to Maputo, Mozambique.NOW SELMA TOOK a stool beside them. “You two look tired.”

Sam said, “Perhaps we didn’t properly regale you with the details of our Madagascan adventure.”

Selma nodded and waved her hand. “Crocodiles, rebels, boulders . . . Yes, I remember. Meanwhile, we’ve been hard at work unraveling the unravel-able.”

“That’s not a word. Did we mention the bridge we-”

Remi intervened: “Selma, you have our full, if not fully animated, attention.” “Good. First things first: We sent your samples from the outrigger to the lab in Point Loma. We should have results in a couple of days. Remi, as you requested, I e-mailed your pictures of the outrigger and a scan of the Orizaga Codex to Professor Dydell. He said he’ll have some preliminary thoughts sometime tomorrow.”Remi saw Sam’s questioning expression and said, “Stan Dydell. My anthropology teacher at Boston College. Selma, did you-”

“I didn’t give him any details. I simply said you wanted him to do a cursory examination. Moving on to the mysterious Mr. Blaylock,” Selma continued, “Pete and Wendy and myself-”“Mostly us,” Wendy said.

“-have read through most of Blaylock’s letters to Ophelia’s sister, Constance. Miss Cynthia was wrong: We think there was love between Blaylock and Constance-more on her part than his, though.”“Why do you say that?”

“The first couple of letters Blaylock mailed from Africa were mostly travelogue. Blaylock is affectionate in a restrained way. He mentions that he wishes he could reciprocate Constance’s feelings but that he was”-Selma consulted the legal pad before her-“‘Afraid my grief over my dear Ophelia would turn to heartrending guilt.’ He talks a lot about his early days in Bagamoyo and even mentions ‘my mission’ several times but doesn’t go into detail.”“Or so we thought,” Pete added.

“Right. After the initial ones, we noticed that each of Blaylock’s letters contained random dots beneath characters within the text.”

Sam was nodding. “A code: Pull out the marked characters and combine them in a hidden message.”

“Yes. But Blaylock, ever the mathematician, didn’t make it that simple. I’ll spare you the details, but he used the dates and page numbers to create a subtraction filter. For example, if the filter is a three, you take the letter G, subtract three characters, and get the letter D.”“One of the first things we learned,” Wendy said, “is that Constance Ashworth was working for the Secret Service. She was his conduit to the powers that be.” Sam chuckled. “I did not see that coming. How did you find out?”

“The hidden message in Blaylock’s third letter read, ‘Inform Camden ship in Bombay for repairs; crew, Maximilian men all, quartered Stone Town.”

“What are Maximilian men?” asked Remi.

Sam answered. “After the Civil War ended, Emperor Maximilian I of Mexico opened his doors to Confederate soldiers who wanted to fight on. At the time, the U.S. was backing partisans who were trying to overthrow Maximilian. He offered the Confederates quid pro quo: Fight for me first, then we’ll take on the U.S. government. Estimates vary on how many Confederates went down there, but it was enough that Washington was concerned. When you combine Dudley’s report that white men were crewing the El Majidi with Blaylock’s mention of Maximilian . . . It adds up to a rogue Confederate intelligence operation. Someone went down to Mexico, recruited some sailors, and dispatched them to Zanzibar where the El Majidi was waiting.”“To what end?”

“To continue where the Shenandoah left off, I imagine. That ship did immense damage while she was active, and there were plenty of powerful factions in the Confederacy that swore to fight on regardless of the surrender.”Wendy said, “What confuses me is, how did they get access to the El Majidi ?”

“Hard to say. One thing we do know is, the second Sultan of Zanzibar-the brother of the man who initially bought the Shenandoah-had no love for either his brother or that ship, and yet, when he had a chance to scuttle her after the 1872 hurricane, he didn’t do it. In fact, he had her towed to Bombay and repaired at what was probably great expense.”“Maybe this secret Confederate cabal had already purchased her, and the Sultan had no choice,” said Pete.

Sam’s brows furrowed at this. He stood up and walked to one of the computer workstations, where he began typing. After a couple minutes he turned in his seat. “Before he died, the first Sultan of Zanzibar had started to secretly crack down on the slave trade in his country. When his brother took over, the policy was reversed.” Selma was nodding. “So if, against all odds, the Confederacy rose again, the second Sultan would have a built-in market for his slave industry.”“It’s all speculation, of course, but the pieces seem to fit.”

“Okay, go back to Blaylock’s first coded message,” Remi said. “He mentions ‘Camden.’ Who’s Camden?”

“Camden, New Jersey, is where Thomas Haines Dudley was born,” Selma replied. “We think it was Blaylock’s nickname for him rather than an official code name. In fact, Dudley had his own moniker for Blaylock: Jotun.”“It’s from Norse mythology,” Wendy added. “Jotun was a giant with superhuman strength.”

“Of course,” Sam said. “Jotun. I don’t know how I missed that.”

Remi lightly punched his arm. “Smart aleck. Don’t mind him, Wendy. Go ahead, Selma.”

“In another letter to Dudley via Constance, dated July 1872, Blaylock reported that the El Majidi-now re-dubbed Shenandoah, we presume-had returned to port with her crew already aboard. Blaylock suspects the repairs on the ship had been completed at least a month prior and that the ship and crew had been at sea since then.”“Were there any unaccounted-for attacks or losses in the area during that time?” asked Sam.

“Dozens. For a long time the Indian Ocean was a bigger pirate haven than the Caribbean. But we weren’t able to connect the Shenandoah II to any of the losses. It’s at this point the story gets stranger. Blaylock ends his report with this line: ‘Have acquired reliable vessel and received Sharps.’”“As in Sharps carbines?” Sam asked; Selma nodded. “Dudley must have arranged for them to be shipped to Blaylock.”

Selma went on. “‘Nilo-Hamitic crew learning rapidly and overcoming fear of water; expect to be fit to give chase by month’s end. Intend to catch them red-handed.’”

“Nilo-Hamitic?” Sam repeated. “Never heard of them.” “I have,” Remi replied. “Nilo-Hamitic is an outdated name for the Maasai tribe. It appears our mysterious Mr. Blaylock recruited a guerrilla army of Maasai warriors to chase down the Shenandoah II.”“Well, I’ll give him this much,” Sam said. “The man had a flair for the dramatic. According to Morton’s biography of Blaylock, he lived with the Maasai for a while.”

“He did,” Selma replied. “As far as we can tell from his letters, he explored the area inland from Bagamoyo and became friendly with some Maasai. That’s how he started the recruitment.”“Okay, so it’s July 1872. The Shenandoah II

has a new crew and she’s prepped for battle. What then?”

“Most of what happened next we got from Blaylock’s coded reports, and some of it we matched against what few dated entries we found in his journal.

“A couple weeks later, Blaylock and his crew put to sea in a boum-essentially, a large two-masted dhow-and begin hunting the Shenandoah II, which slipped out of port a few days ahead of them. This cat-and-mouse game goes on for a month. Blaylock hears a report that a ship matching the Shenandoah II ’s description has sunk two U.S.-flagged cargo ships near the Gulf of Aden. According to our databases, two ships were sunk in that area around the dates Blaylock mentions; the losses were attributed to pirates.”“Not far off the mark,” Sam observed.

“Though Blaylock isn’t a seaman, he proves an able captain, and the Maasai an adept crew. Blaylock knows he doesn’t dare attack the Shenandoah II either directly or at sea, so all through July and August he does his best to shadow her. He gathers intelligence reports and bides his time until the night of September sixteenth.

“He catches the Shenandoah II at anchor off Sainte Anne Island in the Seychelles, about thirteen hundred miles east of Zanzibar. Blaylock anchors his boum in a nearby cove, then he and his men go ashore, sneak across the headland, and, in true pirate fashion, swim out to the Shenandoah and take her by storm. Not a single shot is fired, but the Maasai, being the warriors they are, show little mercy. Of Shenandoah II’s crew of seventy-eight, only six survive-the captain, another officer, and four enlisted men.

“Blaylock’s official report of the capture reaches the U.S. in November. He tells Dudley that he put the Shenandoah II’s survivors ashore on Sainte Anne Island.”“Do we know what became of them?” Remi asked.

“Unfortunately, I found nothing. Blaylock then splits his crew between the boum and the Shenandoah II and sets off for the return voyage to Zanzibar. Three hundred miles east of the Seychelles, they encounter a storm, and the Shenandoah II sinks.”At this, Sam and Remi leaned forward together. “Sinks?” Remi repeated. “How in the world-”

“Along with his report to Dudley, Blaylock includes a coded message for Constance.” Selma flipped a page on her legal pad and traced her finger down a couple lines. “‘Having secured the Shenandoah, we promptly took inventory of her stores and goods. To my great surprise, in the captain’s cabin I found a most remarkable item: a statuette of a great green jeweled bird consisting of a mineral unfamiliar to me and depicting a species I have never encountered. I must admit, dear Constance, I was entranced.’”Sam and Remi were silent as they absorbed this. Finally Sam said, “That explains the line in his journal-the great green jeweled bird.”

“And all the bird sketches,” Remi added. “And maybe what we found in Morton’s museum in Bagamoyo. Remember all the stuffed birds hanging from the ceiling, Sam? He was obsessed. What else did he say in the letter, Selma?”

“I’m paraphrasing, but here’s the gist of it: He’s done his duty for his country, not once but twice, and he lost his wife in the process. He admits he lied to Dudley about the Shenandoah II’s sinking. He begs Constance’s forgiveness and tells her he intends to discover where the Shenandoah II’s crew found the jeweled bird and recover the rest of the treasure.”“What treasure?” Sam asked. “At that point, does he have any hint there’s more to find?”

“If he did, he never jotted a word about it. At least not in plain text. Given the nature of his journal, it may all be hidden in there somewhere.”

“What about the Shenandoah II’s captain’s log?” Remi asked. “If Blaylock was assuming the previous crew had found the jeweled bird during their travels, the log would be a natural place to start.”“He never mentions a log, but I agree with your assumption.” Sam said, “My guess: He transcribed whatever he found relevant in the captain’s log to his own journal.”

“At any rate,” Selma continued, “Blaylock continued to write Constance after the Shenandoah II’s capture, but his letters became more and more irrational. You can read them yourself, but it’s clear Blaylock was descending into insanity.”“And those are just the plain text portions of the letters,” Pete added. “We’ve still got fourteen to decode.”

“If we’re to believe all this,” Sam said, “then Winston Blaylock probably spent the remainder of his life sailing the ocean aboard the Shenandoah II, scribbling in his journal, staring at his jeweled bird, and carving glyphs on the inside of the bell while looking for a treasure that may or may not have existed.”