Текст книги "Lost Empire"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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CHAPTER 12

BAGAMOYO

OF THE TWO CITIES WITHIN EASY REACH OF ZANZIBAR , DAR ES Salaam and Bagamoyo, the latter was Sam and Remi’s favorite. With a population of thirty thousand, Bagamoyo is a microcosm of both traditional African and colonial African history without the big-city bustle of Dar es Salaam and its two and a half million inhabitants.

Founded by Omani nomads in the late 1700s, Bagamoyo has at times been home to Arab and Indian traders of ivory and salt, Christian missionaries, slave traders, the German East Africa colonial government, and big game hunters and explorers bound for Morogoro, Lake Tanganyika, and Usambara.

“Here’s something we didn’t know,” Remi said, reading from the guidebook as Sam drove. “David Livingstone, in all his years in Africa, never visited Bagamoyo-at least not alive. He was brought to Bagamoyo after he died and was laid out in the Old Church Tower, now called Livingstone Tower, to wait for high tide so they could ship his body to Zanzibar.”

“Interesting,” Sam said. “I’d always assumed he’d used Bagamoyo as a staging area just like everyone else. Okay, we’re on the outskirts. Where’d Ms. Kilembe say the museum was?”

Remi plucked the Post-it note from inside the guidebook and read: “Two blocks from the old German boma, a fort.”“Which one? There are two, I think the guidebook said.”

Remi flipped over the note. “That’s all she wrote. Guess we’ll have to check them both.”

They found the first a few hundred yards north of three of Bagamoyo’s biggest tourist attractions: the crocodile farm, the Kaole Ruins, and a five-hundred-year-old baobab tree. They parked on the dirt road before the crumbling whitewashed fort and got out. A teenage boy walked by with a donkey on a lead. He smiled broadly and said, “Jambo. Habari gani?”

Hello. How are you?In halting Swahili, Sam replied, “Nzuri. Unasema kiingereza?”

“Yes, I speak little English.”

“We’re looking for the Blaylock Museum.”

“Oh, yes, Crazy Man House.”

“No, I’m sorry, the Blaylock Museum.”

“Yes, same thing. Other boma

. One kilometer up. Livingstone Cross, yes?”

“Yes. Asante sana ,” Sam replied.

“You’re welcome, bye-bye.”

With a click of his tongue, the boy continued on with his donkey.

“Your Swahili is improving,” Remi remarked.

“Just don’t ask me to order food. You won’t like what we get.” “What did he mean ‘Crazy Man House’?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

THEY FOUND THE OTHER boma with little trouble, following glimpses of its whitewashed battlements until they reached its crushed-shell parking lot. Here there were more locals going about their business, selling food and sundries from storefronts and awning-covered carts. Sam and Remi got out and began walking, looking for a sign that read either “Blaylock” or “Crazy Man.” After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, they stopped at a vendor’s cart, bought two ice-cold bottles of cola, and asked for directions.“Yes, Crazy Man House,” the man said. He pointed west down a narrow dirt alley. “Two hundred meters there, find wall, then thick trees. Turn right, find path, find place.”

“Asante sana,” Remi said.

“Starehe.”

AS PROMISED, THEY FOUND a waist-high mud-brick wall before a grove of acacia and wild lavender. They turned right and, twenty feet down, came to an opening in the wall. On the other side, a winding path took them through the grove to a white picket fence, beyond which stood an old schoolhouse, long and narrow, with a butter yellow exterior and heavy shutters in dark blue. A black-on-white hand-painted sign above the porch steps read BLAYLOCK MUSEUM AND CURIOSITY SHOP. The last three words were clearly written in a different hand, as though added later as an afterthought.

A bell above the door tinkled as they entered. Hand-hewn support posts ran down the center of the space supporting rafters, from which hung dozens of poorly stuffed African birds in poses that Sam and Remi assumed were meant to represent midflight. Sitting on the rafters above their inanimate cousins were several animate pigeons. Their cooing filled the space.

The walls were dominated by wicker shelving units, no two sharing the same height or width or shade of wood. Spaced at intervals down the building’s midline were eight rickety card tables covered with threadbare sheets. On both the shelves and card tables were hundreds of knickknacks: wooden and ivory statuettes of giraffes, lions, zebras, dik-diks, snakes, and people; collections of knives ranging from the standard pocket variety to daggers carved from bone; hand-painted fetishes covered with feathers and bits of tree bark; hand-drawn maps on hide; charcoal pencil portraits and landscapes; compasses; water bags made from animal stomachs; and several models of Webley revolvers and bullets of varying sizes.“Welcome to the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop,” a voice called in surprisingly good English.

At the far end of the room was a lone card table they hadn’t noticed. Sitting behind it was an elderly black man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and a white GOT MILK? T-shirt.“Thank you,” Remi replied.

Sam and Remi walked over and introduced themselves.

“I am Morton,” the man replied.

“Forgive us, but what exactly is this place?” Sam asked.

“It is the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop.”

“Yes, I know, but to whom is it dedicated?”

“The greatest unsung African explorer to ever grace the shores of the Dark Continent,” the man replied. Clearly, he’d delivered this pitch many times. “The man to whom hundreds owe their lives and the lives of their grandchildren: Winston Lloyd Blaylock, the Mbogo of Bagamoyo.”“The ‘Mbogo of Bagamoyo,’” Sam repeated. “The Buffalo of Bagamoyo?”

“That is correct. The Cape buffalo.”

“What can you tell us about him?” Remi asked.

“Mbogo Blaylock came from America to Bagamoyo in 1872 to seek his fortune. He stood four inches over six feet, weighed twice as much as the average Tanganyikan man at the time, and had shoulders as wide as the mbogo

for which he is named.”

“Is that him?” Sam asked, pointing to a grainy black-and-white daguerreotype on the wall above Morton. It showed a tall, broad-shouldered man in Hemingwayesque safari clothes. In the background were a dozen Maasai warriors kneeling with assegai spears.“That is him,” Morton confirmed. “The complete history of the Mbogo is available in this fine leather-bound volume.”

Morton swept his hand toward a wicker shelf on the right-hand wall. Remi walked over and lifted one of the books from the stack. The cover was not leather but rather Naugahyde, crudely stapled into place. Glued to the front was a reproduction of the wall photo.

“We’ll take two,” Sam said, and brought their purchases back to the card table. As he was paying Remi asked, “We were told we might find something about a ship here. The Ophelia?”

Morton nodded and pointed to a three-by-five-foot framed charcoal sketch of a steam-sail ship. “The hunt for the Ophelia was Mbogo Blaylock’s first great adventure. It is all in the book. I wrote the index myself. It took me three years.”“That’s true dedication,” said Remi. “How did you come to . . . be here? Did your family know Mr. Blaylock?”

For the first time since they entered, Morton smiled. Proudly. “My family is Mbogo Blaylock. I am second cousin to Mbogo’s great-grandson.”

“Pardon me?” Sam asked. “You’re related to Winston Blaylock?”

“Of course. Doesn’t it show?”

Sam and Remi didn’t know how to respond. After a few moments Morton slapped his knee and laughed. “Got you, yes?”

“Yes, you did,” Sam replied. “So you’re not-”

“No, that part is true. The resemblance is difficult to see, however. You may see my birth certificate if you wish.” Before they could answer, Morton produced it from a lockbox beneath the card table. He unfolded it and slid it across to them. Sam and Remi leaned over to study it, then straightened up.“That’s amazing,” Remi said. “So he married? Took a Tanzanian wife?”

“Back then it was still called Tanganyika-before the Germans came, you see. And no, he did not take a wife. But he did take six concubines and had many children. That, too, is in the book.”

Sam and Remi exchanged dumbfounded glances. Sam asked Morton, “What happened to him?”“No one knows. He disappeared from here in 1882. His grandson claims he was chasing a treasure.”

“What kind of treasure?”

“That is a secret he shared with no one.”

“Some people in town called it the-”

“Crazy Man House,” Morton said. “It’s not an insult. The word doesn’t translate well into English. In Swahili, it doesn’t mean crazy so much as . . . free-spirited. Wild.”

“All these artifacts belonged to him?” Remi asked.

“Yes. Most he killed, made, or found with his own hands. Others are gifts and offerings. Offer a fair price, and I will consider it.”

“I don’t understand. You’re selling his belongings?”

“I have no choice. I am the last of Mbogo Blaylock’s descendants. At least that is still here. My two children live in England. They are going to school. I’m sick and not long for this world.”“We’re very sorry to hear that,” Sam said. “May we look around?”

“Of course. Ask questions if you have them.”

Sam and Remi walked away. She whispered, “You think it’s all true? The picture does look an awful lot like Hemingway.”

“Why don’t you call Ms. Kilembe and ask.”

Remi went outside, returned five minutes later, and walked over to Sam, who was staring at a walking staff mounted on the wall.

“She says it’s all legitimate. The museum’s been here since 1915.” Sam didn’t respond. He remained still, his eyes fixed on the staff. “Sam? Did you hear me? Sam, what’s so fascinating?”“Do you see anything unusual about it?” he murmured. Remi studied it for a few moments. “No, not really.”

“Look at the head . . . the metal part with the rounded end.”

She did. She cocked her head, squinted her eyes, then: “Is that . . . ?”

Sam nodded. “A bell clapper.”

They stared at it for another long ten seconds, then Sam turned to Morton and said, “How much for all of it?”

CHAPTER 13

ZANZIBAR

“PARDON ME?” SELMA SAID OVER THE SPEAKERPHONE. “SAY THAT again. You want what shipped back here?”

From the passenger seat of their Toyota Remi said, “Not the whole museum, Selma, just the contents. In all it should weigh about . . .” She looked to Sam, who said, “Five to seven hundred pounds.”Selma said, “I heard.” She sighed. “Who do I-”

“The owner’s name is Morton Blaylock. We’re putting him up in the Moevenpick Royal Palm in Dar es Salaam while you two make arrangements. By this afternoon he’ll have an account set up at Barclays. Wire thirty thousand dollars to him from our business account, then another thirty when everything’s packed up and on its way to you.”“Sixty thousand dollars?” Selma said. “You paid him sixty thousand? Do you know how much that is in Tanzanian shillings? It’s a fortune. Did you haggle with him at least?”

“He wanted twenty,” Sam replied. “We talked him up. Selma. He’s a dying man and he’s got grandkids to put through college.”

“Sounds like a con man to me.”

“We don’t think so,” Remi replied. “The staff’s seven feet tall, made of black ironwood, and topped with the bronze clapper from the Ophelia’s bell.”

“Is this pull-a-joke-on-Selma day?”

Sam replied, “You’ll see it for yourself. Morton’s including it in the first shipment from the museum. We’re also FedExing you a copy of Blaylock’s biography. We need you to work your magic on it. Dissect it, cross-reference every name, place, and description . . . You know what to do.”“I haven’t heard you two this excited since you called from that cave in the Alps.”

“We are excited,” Remi replied. “It appears Winston Blaylock spent a good portion of his adult life chasing a treasure, and, unless we’re wrong, it’s something Rivera and his boss don’t want us to find. Blaylock could be our Rosetta stone.”

Sam turned the Land Cruiser onto the road leading to their villa, then slammed on the brakes. A hundred yards away through the windshield they saw a figure walk across the patio and disappear into the bushes.Remi said, “Selma, we’ll have to call you back,” then hung up. “Is it them, Sam?”

“It’s them. Check out the patio. The bell’s gone.”

Ahead and to the right, the figure emerged from the bushes bordering the beach and began sprinting toward the waterline, where a twenty-seven-foot Rinker powerboat sat alongside the quay across from their Andreyale. A half mile out the yacht Njiwa sat at anchor. Standing on the Rinker’s afterdeck were two figures. Between them was the Ophelia’s bell.“Damn it!” Sam muttered.

“How did they find us?” Remi said.

“No idea. Hold on!”

He punched the gas pedal. The tires bit into the dirt, and the Land Cruiser lurched forward. Sam watched the speedometer climb past fifty, then swung the wheel left, then right, aiming the hood squarely at the brush-covered berm.“Oh, boy . . .” Remi said. She pressed her hands against the dashboard and her head against the rest.

The berm loomed before them. The Land Cruiser tipped backward. Sky filled the windshield, then they were tipping forward again, soaring through the air, the engine roaring as the tires spun freely. The Cruiser crashed to the earth. Sand peppered the windshield. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and after a momentary groan of protest the engine responded and they were again moving forward, albeit at half speed as the tires struggled to find purchase in the dry sand.Ahead, the running figure had nearly reached the quay. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Land Cruiser, and stumbled. It was Yaotl.

“Guess he didn’t like our hospitality,” Sam called.

“Can’t imagine why,” replied Remi.

Yaotl was back on his feet. He charged up the quay’s steps, taking them two at a time, then dashed toward the waiting Rinker, where Rivera and Nochtli were waving their arms, urging him on.

Sam kept going, jostling the wheel and trying to feel his way to firmer ground. The quay was fifty yards away. Yaotl reached the Rinker and jumped aboard. Thirty yards to go. Nochtli moved to the driver’s seat and settled behind the wheel. Smoke burst from the exhaust manifold.

Quite casually, Rivera stepped past the panting Yaotl, gave him a clap on the shoulder, then stepped to the transom. He stared at the approaching Land Cruiser for a moment, then raised his hand as if to wave.Sam muttered, “Son of a-”

Remi said, “He’s got something.”

“What?”

“In his hand! He’s holding something!”

Sam slammed on the brakes. The Land Cruiser slewed sideways and shuddered to a halt. Sam shifted the transmission into reverse, his foot ready to move from the brake to the accelerator.

His eyes never leaving theirs, Rivera smiled grimly, then reached up, pulled the pin on the grenade, turned, and tossed it into the Andreyale. Ahead of a rooster tail of water, the Rinker shot away from the quay and headed for the Njiwa.

With a dull crump, the grenade exploded. A geyser of water and wood splinters shot upward and rained down on the quay. The Andreyale settled lower in the water, then slowly disappeared beneath the surface in a cloud of bubbles.

AFTER BACKING THE SUV over the sand and dunes to the road, they watched Rivera and his men tool out to the Njiwa. Within minutes the anchor was weighed, and the yacht got under way, heading south down the coast.“I’d started to grow attached to that bell,” Sam muttered.

“And you don’t like losing,” Remi said. When Sam shook his head, she added, “Me neither.”

Sam leaned sideways across Remi’s lap and retrieved the H amp;K P30 from the glove box, then said, “I’ll be right back.” He climbed out, walked down the road to the villa, then slipped inside. He emerged two minutes later and gave Remi the OK sign. She scooted into the driver’s seat and pulled the Toyota into the driveway.“Did they toss the house?” she asked, climbing out.

Sam shook his head. “But I know how they found us.”

He led her through the villa to the guest room where they’d been keeping Yaotl. Sam walked to the headboard and pointed to the loop that had been secured around their guest’s left wrist. It was stained a dark reddish brown. The remaining three loops had been untied.“That’s blood,” Remi said. “He worked his way free.”

“Then called Rivera,” Sam added. “I’ll give him this much: He’s got a high tolerance for pain. His wrist must be raw down to the bone.”

“Why didn’t they ambush us?”

“Hard to say. Rivera’s no dummy. He knows we’ve got Yaotl’s gun and didn’t want to risk attracting the police.”

“I think we’re a secondary concern. They got what they came for. Without that, all we’ve got is an interesting story. Sam, what in the world can be so important about that bell?”

ERRING ON THE SIDE of caution, they agreed the villa was no longer safe. They packed what few belongings were left inside, got back into the Toyota, and drove eight miles south to Chwaka, a small town whose only claim to fame seemed to be that it was home to the mysteriously named Zanzibar Institute of Financial Administration. They found a beachfront restaurant with air-conditioning and went inside. They asked to be seated in a quiet area near an aquarium.Remi pointed out the window. “Is that . . . ?”

Sam looked. Two miles offshore they could see the Njiwa, still steaming south at a leisurely pace. Sam grumbled a curse under his breath and took a sip of ice water.“Well, what do you want to do about it?” Remi prodded.

Sam shrugged. “I can’t decide if my ego is just bruised because they stole something we worked so hard to get. That’s not much of a reason to put ourselves back in their gunsights.”

“It’s more than that. We know how badly they don’t want people to know about the bell or the ship it was attached to. They probably murdered for it. They’re going to either destroy it or dump it in the deepest part of the ocean, where it’ll never be found again. It’s a piece of history, and they’re going to treat it like garbage.”

Sam’s phone rang. He said, “Selma,” to Remi, then answered and tapped the Speakerphone button. As was her way, Selma jumped in without preamble: “That bell you’ve got is an interesting find.”“Had,” Sam replied. “We don’t have it anymore.” He explained.

Remi said, “Tell us anyway, Selma.”

“Do you want the fascinating news or the astounding news first?”

“Fascinating.”

“Wendy used her Photoshop wizardry skills and ran the pictures through some filters or something. Most of what she said was Greek to me. Under all that marine growth there’s engraved writing.”“What kind?” asked Sam.

“We don’t know for sure. There are bits of symbology, some words in Swahili, a smattering of German, pictographs, but not enough of any one of them to make sense. From the looks of it, most of the bell’s interior is covered with it.”

“Okay, now astound us,” Remi said.

“Wendy was also able to pull a few more letters from the name beneath the Ophelia engraving. In addition to the first two-S and H, and the last one, H, she was able to pull two letters from the middle: a pair of Ns separated by a space.”As Selma had been talking, Remi had grabbed a napkin from the holder, and she and Sam were working the anagram.

Selma continued: “We fed the letters and arrangement into an anagram program and cross-matched the results against our shipwreck databases and came up with-”

“Shenandoah,”

Sam and Remi said in unison.

CHAPTER 14

ZANZIBAR

THE CONFEDERATE STATES SHIP SHENANDOAH HAD LONG FASCINATED Sam and Remi, but they’d never had the time to explore the mysteries behind the saga. Now it appeared fate had handed them a bronze invitation in the form of a ship’s bell.

A 1,160-ton steam cruiser, Shenandoah was launched at the Alexander Stephen amp; Sons shipyard in River Clyde, Scotland, in August of 1863 under the name Sea King. Iron-framed, teak-planked, and black-hulled, Sea King was fully rigged for both sail and auxiliary steam power, designed as cargo transport for the East Asia tea trade routes. Tea hauling did not lie in her future, however.

A year after her commissioning, in September 1864, Sea King was covertly purchased by agents of the Confederate Secret Service, and on October eighth she sailed with a full complement of merchant sailors, ostensibly headed for Bombay on her maiden trading voyage. Nine days later Sea King rendezvoused near the island of Madeira, off the African coast, with the steamship Laurel, which had been lying in wait. Aboard Laurel were the officers and the nucleus of the Sea King’s new crew, all loyal and experienced sailors, either Southerners or sympathetic British citizens. Their captain was Lieutenant James Iredell Waddell, a forty-one-year-old North Carolinian and graduate of the United States Naval Academy.

The Laurel’s cargo of naval guns, ammunition, and general stores were quickly transferred aboard Sea King , whose dumbfounded and angry crew were given the option of joining this new expedition at higher wages or being transferred to the Laurel and subsequently deposited on Tenerife, an island in the Canary Archipelago off the coast of Morocco. In the end, however, Waddell was only able to enlist enough of Laurel’s seamen to bring the newly commissioned commerce raider Shenandoah to half her normal sailing complement. Despite this, Shenandoah left the Madeira Islands on October twenty-first and set about her task of destroying or capturing Union ships wherever she found them.

Through the fall of 1864 and into the winter of 1865 Shenandoah sailed through the South Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, and into the Indian Ocean and across to Australia, destroying and capturing Union-flagged merchant vessels before setting her sights on the Union’s Pacific whaling grounds, sailing north from New Guinea into the Sea of Okhotsk and the Bering Sea.

In the nine months Shenandoah sailed under the Confederate flag as a warship, she accounted for the destruction of some three dozen enemy ships. On August 2, 1865, some four months after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, Shenandoah learned of the war’s end by the passing British barque Barracouta. Captain Waddell ordered Shenandoah disarmed, then set a course for Liverpool, England, where he and Shenandoah ’s crew surrendered in November 1865. The following March she was sold through intermediaries to Sayyid Majid bin Said al-Busaid, the first Sultan of Zanzibar, who renamed her El Majidi, after himself.

For Sam and Remi it had always been this part of the Shenandoah’s history that they found so intriguing. There were three accounts of El Majidi ’s final disposition. One had her being scuttled in the Zanzibar Channel shortly after being damaged in the 1872 hurricane; the next, her sinking six months later while being towed to Bombay for repairs; the last, her going down in November of 1879 after striking a reef near the island of Socotra on the way home from Bombay. “This raises more questions than it gives answers,” Sam said. “For starters, was it Blaylock or someone else who renamed her Ophelia?

”“And why was she renamed?” Remi added. “And why is there no record of her anywhere?”

“And the biggest question: Why did we find the bell at all?”

“What do you mean?” asked Remi.

“After Waddell surrendered the Shenandoah

, wouldn’t she and everything aboard her have been the property of the Union?”

“Including the bell.”

“Including the bell,” Sam echoed.

“Maybe the Union sold her to the Sultan of Zanzibar, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Could be. But that was in 1866. The El Majidi didn’t sink for another six or thirteen years, depending on which account you go with. Hell, the Sultan named the ship after himself. Does he sound like someone who would hang on to a bell with another ship’s name on it?”“No, he doesn’t. Maybe whoever refitted her just tossed the bell overboard. For the sake of expediency.”

Remi was the devil’s advocate of the couple. She often did her best to poke holes in their thinking; if after going through the “Remi Gauntlet” the theory remained afloat, they then knew they were on to something.

Sam considered this. “Possible, but I’m trying to put myself in the shoes of the Sultan’s shipfitter. He’s probably not the wealthiest of guys-overworked and underpaid. Unsurprisingly, the Sultan demands the ship meet his royal standards, including a shiny new bell. What would this shipfitter do with a ninety-pound, solid bronze bell?”“Sell it,” Selma chimed in.

“Let’s put a pin in that,” Remi said. “It seems safe to assume Blaylock himself came across the bell at some point. If it was still attached to the vessel, he either bought it or stole the ship, then changed the name to Ophelia. If the bell had been discarded by the Sultan, it means Blaylock salvaged the bell, blotted out the Shenandoah name, and engraved it with Ophelia .”“And did what with it? Stared at it?”

“The charcoal sketch at the museum suggests he saw that ship as the Ophelia .”

Sam snapped his fingers. “We’re overthinking this. Remi, boot up your laptop. Selma, e-mail us pictures of the Shenandoah and the El Majidi.”

As they were waiting, Sam plugged his camera into Remi’s laptop, and she called up the photo they’d taken of the Ophelia sketch. “No Wi-Fi signal,” Remi said.

Sam stood up and walked around, checking beneath nearby tables. “There are Ethernet plug-ins,” he said, then walked toward the hostess. He returned two minutes later with an Ethernet cable, which he first plugged into Remi’s laptop, then into the closest plug. “It’s dial-up Internet, but it should do,” Sam said.Over the phone, Selma said, “Images on the way.”

It took four minutes for the JPEG images to load. Remi arranged the pictures on her screen, and they spent a few minutes rotating and zooming and playing with colors until they were certain. “Same ship,” Remi said.

“I agree,” Sam agreed. “Blaylock’s Ophelia is also the Shenandoah and the El Majidi. The question is, at what point in the time line did Blaylock appear and why are there no records of any of this?”“Clearly, Rivera and his friends are interested in our bell. But is it the bell itself or the ship or ships it had once been attached to?”

“There’s only way to find out,” Sam said. “We have to steal it back before Rivera destroys it or loses it.”

THEY IMMEDIATELY REALIZED that, like many things in their line of work, this task was much easier said than done. Sam rummaged around in his pack and came up with a pair of binoculars. He stood up and aimed them out the window. After thirty seconds, he lowered the binoculars. “She’s still headed south, about to slip behind Pingwe Point. Still in no big hurry.”“They know they’ve got us beat.”

Sam grinned. “Never say die.” He picked up his phone and dialed Rube Haywood.

“Sam, I was just about to call you,” Rube said.

“Great minds. I hope we’re on the same wavelength.”

“I have information on the yacht, the Njiwa .”

“Bless you.”

It belongs to a guy named Ambonisye Okafor. One of the ten richest men in the country. You name a Tanzanian export, and he’s got a major stake in it: cashews, tobacco, coffee, cotton, sisal, precious gems, minerals . . .”“How did a hatchet man like Rivera get hooked up with someone like Okafor?”

“Hard to say, exactly, but I did a little digging. In the last five years, the Mexican government has sharply increased its importation of Tanzanian goods, most of it from companies controlled by Ambonisye Okafor. That tells me Rivera has powerful friends in Mexico City. Sam, you two aren’t up against a few mercenaries. You’re up against a government and a Tanzanian millionaire with a whole lot of influence.”“Trust me, Rube, we’re not going to ignore that, but right now all we want is to get back that bell-”

“What does that mean?”

“They stole it. All we want is to get back the bell and head home.”

“That may be easier said-”

“We know. What else can you tell us about the Njiwa ?”

“It’s one of two yachts Okafor owns. This one is homeported on Sukuti Island, about thirty miles south of Dar es Salaam as the crow flies. Okafor has a vacation estate there. Owns the whole island.”“Of course he does.”

Over the years Sam and Remi had found one of the most common traits among megalomaniac millionaires was their aversion to fraternization with the “great unwashed masses.” Owning a private island was an exceedingly effective way to accomplish this.Rube said, “I don’t have to ask what you’re going to do next, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay, but I’m going to throw in my obligatory ‘Be careful.’”

“We’ll call you when we can.”

Sam disconnected and recounted the conversation to Remi. After a few moments’ thought, she said, “Can’t hurt to check it out. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That discretion will trump valor. If we get in over our heads-”

“We’ll retreat.”

“Of course, we’re assuming the Njiwa is headed to Sukuti.”

Sam nodded. “If she’s not, we’re probably out of the game. If she is, we need to get to the bell before they do something nasty to it.”