Sam smiled back and walked across the patio and through the French doors. The villa Selma had rented for them was just under two thousand square feet and Tuscan style, with faded mustard plaster walls, climbing vines, and a red tile roof. The interior was decorated in a mishmash of contemporary and craftsman. Sam walked to the back bedroom, where their visitor, Yaotl, was bound hand and foot to a four-poster bed. Yaotl saw Sam and lifted his head.
“Hey, what’s going on? Where am I?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Sam replied. “As far as your friends are concerned you’re either floating facedown somewhere between here and Mombasa or making your way through a shark’s digestive system.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, after we knocked you out—”
“I don’t remember that . . . How did you do that?” He sounded slightly amazed.
“I snuck up on you then hit you with a big stick. Now your friends think you’ve been dead about . . .” Sam checked his watch. “Six hours.”
“They won’t believe it. They’ll find me.”
“Don’t bet on it. What kind of name is Yaotl?”
“It’s my name.”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No.”
Sam chuckled. “There’s no crime in admitting it.”
“Just do what you’re going to do. Get it over with.”
“What exactly do you think we’re going to do to you?” asked Sam.
“Torture me?”
“If that’s your first guess, you must keep some nasty company.”
“Then why did you take me?”
“I’d hoped you’d be willing to answer some questions for us.”
“You’re American,” Yaotl said.
“How could you tell? My winning smile?”
“Your accent.”
“And I’m guessing you’re Mexican.”
No response.
“And based on the gun you were carrying and how you and your partners moved, you’re either current or former military.”
Now Yaotl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re CIA.”
“Me? No. I have a friend who is, though.”
This was true. During his time at DARPA Sam had undergone covert operative training at the CIA’s Camp Perry facility, the hope being that by seeing how field operatives work DARPA’s engineers could better supply their needs. Going through the program at the same time was a CIA case officer named Rube Haywood. He and Sam had become friends and remained close ever since.
“And that friend has friends,” Sam added. “In places like Turkey and Bulgaria and Romania . . . I think they call it ‘rendition.’ You’ve heard of rendition, I’m sure. Grim-faced guys in black jump-suits shove you aboard a plane, you disappear somewhere for a few weeks, then come back with an aversion to electricity and power drills.”
The rendition part was, of course, a bluff, but Sam’s presentation had the desired effect: Yaotl’s eyes were gaping, his lower lip trembling.
Abruptly, Sam stood up. “So, how about some food. Is bread okay?”
Yaotl nodded.
SAM FED HIM a half loaf of chapati bread and a liter of mineral water from a sports bottle, then asked, “About that friend of mine . . . should I call him or will you answer a few questions?”
“I’ll answer.”
Sam took him through the basics: his full name; the names of his partners, including Hawk Nose; who they worked for; had they come to Zanzibar looking for him and Remi; what were they supposed to accomplish; the name of their mother ship. . . Most of the questions Yaotl could answer only partially. He was simply a civilian contractor, he claimed, a former member of Mexico’s Special Forces Airmobile Group, or GAFE. He’d been recruited four days earlier by a man named Itzli Rivera, aka Hawk Nose, also a former member of GAFE, to come to Zanzibar and “find some people.” He’d been given no further background, nor had Rivera explained why Sam and Remi had been targeted. Nor was he sure whether Rivera was working for himself or someone else.
“But you saw him on the phone several times, correct?” Sam asked. “Did it sound like he was reporting in?”
“It’s possible. I only overheard parts.”
Sam questioned him for another ten minutes, at the end of which Yaotl asked, “What will you do with me?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“But you said you wouldn’t—Hey, wait!”
Sam left the room and rejoined Remi on the patio. He recounted his conversation with Yaotl. She said, “Sam . . . electricity and power drills? That’s mean.”
“No, doing it would be mean. I just planted the seed and let his imagination chew on it for a while.”
“Yaotl said four days ago, right? He got the call from Rivera four days ago?”
“Yes.”
“That was our first day on the island.”
Sam nodded. “Before we found the bell.”
“Then it’s us they’re interested in.”
“And the bell, perhaps. Our ruse with the legal pad clearly got their attention.”
“But how did they know we were here?” Remi asked, then answered her own question: “The BBC interview right after we landed?”
“Could be. Let’s put it together: Rivera and whomever he’s working for find out we’re here. They got worried we might find something and they came to investigate.”
“It’s a big island, though,” Remi replied. “They’d have to be awfully paranoid to think we’d stumble onto whatever they’re worried about. Even if it’s something as big as our bell, it’s a proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“The interviewer asked us where we were planning on diving. We told her Chumbe Island. Maybe that was the magic phrase.”
Remi considered this. “And, like it or not, we’ve got something of a reputation. We’ve had some great luck finding treasure that didn’t want to be found.”
Sam smiled. “You call it luck. I call it—”
“You know what I mean.”
“So it’s the combination of us, Zanzibar, and Chumbe Island that got their attention.”
They went silent for a minute, each examining their what-if scenario from various angles. Finally Remi broke the silence: “Sam, our friend inside . . . his name is Yaotl, his boss’s name is Itzli, and the third is named . . .”
“Nochtli.”
“And they’re from Mexico?”
“So he said.”
“Those aren’t Spanish names.”
“So I guessed.”
“I’ll have Selma do some double checking for me, but I’m almost certain those are Nahuatl in origin.”
“Nahuatl?”
“Aztec, Sam. Nahuatl was the language of the Aztecs.”
THEY STOOD IN SILENCE for the next ten minutes, watching the steam rise from the sheet draped around the bell. Sam checked his watch and said, “Time.”
Using his fingertips, Sam uncoiled the sheet from around the bell, then dragged it away and piled it at the edge of the patio. He turned back to see Remi kneeling before the bell.
“Sam, you need to see this.”
He walked around to her side and leaned over her shoulder.
Though still heavily mottled, the nitric acid had removed enough patina that they could make out the lettering engraved in the bronze:
OPHELIA
“Ophelia,” Remi repeated in a whisper. “What’s Ophelia?”
Sam took a deep breath, let it out. “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER 9
ZANZIBAR
“CAN’T YOU TWO JUST HAVE A NORMAL, UNEVENTFUL VACATION?” Rube Haywood asked over the speakerphone.
“We have plenty of those,” Remi replied. “But we only call you on the abnormal ones.”
“I don’t know if I should feel complimented or offended,” Rube muttered.
“The former,” Sam said. “You’re our go-to guy.”
“What about Selma?”
“Our go-to gal,” Remi shot back.
“Okay, so let me see if I’ve got this straight: You found a diamond-shaped coin that once belonged to the governess of a French commune on some island near Madagascar but was stolen by a pirate. Then you found a ship’s bell belonging to some mystery ship. Then a gunboatful of Mexican mercenaries with Aztec names showed up and tried to kill you. And now you’ve got one of the bad guys tied up in your spare bedroom. Is that the gist of it?”
“That about covers it,” Remi said.
“With three minor corrections,” Sam added. “The Adelise coin has nothing to do with it, we don’t think, and Selma’s double-checking the Aztec angle. As for the name Ophelia, we don’t think it was the original. First of all, the engraving is very rough, not professionally done. Second, once we were able to clear away more of the muck we picked up a couple engraved letters beneath Ophelia, an S and two Hs.”
“I feel like I’m on one of those practical-joke shows,” Rube said. “Okay, I’ll play along. What can I do to help you?”
“First, take our guest off our hands.”
“How? If you’re thinking about all that rendition business, Sam, I—”
“I was thinking you pull some strings in the Tanzanian Ministry of Home Affairs and have the police detain him.”
“On what charges?”
“He’s got no passport, no money, and he was carrying a weapon.”
Rube went silent for a moment. “Knowing you two as I do, I’m guessing you not only want him out of the way but want to see who shows an interest in him.”
“It had crossed our minds,” Sam replied.
“You still have the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let me make some calls. What else?”
“He claims his boss’s name is Itzli Rivera, former Mexican army. It’d be nice to know more about him and the yacht they were using. He claims it’s home-ported out of Bagamoyo. The Njiwa.”
“Spell it.”
Remi did so. “It’s Swahili for ‘pigeon.’”
“Oh, good. Thanks, Remi. I’ve always wondered what the word for pigeon was in Swahili,” Rube said.
“Somebody’s cranky.”
“What are you going to do with the ship’s bell?”
“Leave it here,” Sam replied. “Selma booked the villa anonymously and wired cash. Not much chance of them finding it.”
“I already know the answer to this, but I feel obligated to ask: Any chance of you two just taking the bell and going home?”
“We might do just that,” Sam replied. “We’re going to do a little more research and see where it takes us. If nothing pans out, we’ll head home.”
“Miracle of miracles,” Rube said. “You two be careful. I’ll call you when I have info.” He hung up.
Remi said to Sam, “We’re going to have to get him something extraspecial for Christmas.”
“Right about now I can guess what he’s wishing for.”
“What’s that?”
“A new, unlisted phone number.”
THEY TOOK THE ANDREYALE south to Uroa Village, found a ramshackle hardware store, gathered what few supplies they needed, and were back at the villa before noon. Remi left Sam with his hammer and nails and wooden planks and went inside to check on Yaotl, who was sound asleep. She found a couple cans of clam chowder, heated them up, and took the bowls out to the patio. Sam was nailing the last two planks into place.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“As a box, Sam, it’s wonderful.”
“It’s supposed to be a crate.”
“Crate, box, whatever. Sit down and eat.”
HALF A MILE FROM THE END of Chukwani Point Road, Itzli Rivera pulled the rented Range Rover onto the shoulder, then down into the ditch and up the other side into the trees. The terrain was rugged and heavily choked with scrub brush, but the Rover’s four-wheel drive handled it easily. He turned southwest toward the clearing on Chukwani Point.
“Time?” he asked Nochtli.
“Just after one.”
An hour before the Fargos were set to meet the truck from Mnazi Freight & Haul. Plenty of time to find a vantage point that provided not only a good line of sight but also an easily accessible route to cut off any escape attempt.
“I see the clearing,” Nochtli said, binoculars lifted to his eyes.
“There’s something there.”
“What?”
“See for yourself.”
He handed the binoculars to Itzli, who focused them on the clearing. Sitting in the middle of the dirt road was a wooden crate. Tacked to the side of the crate was a cardboard sign. “There’s something written on it,” he said, then zoomed in. After a moment he muttered, “¿Qué madres . . . ?”
“What?” asked Nochtli. “What does it say?”
“‘Merry Christmas.’”
ITZLI DROVE through the trees, down into the ditch, and back up the side into the clearing. He stopped the Rover and walked over to the crate. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. He ripped off the cardboard sign and flipped it over. Written in block letters was a message:
LET’S MEET AND TALK ABOUT BELLS.
NYERERE ROAD CRICKET GROUNDS.
BENCH, SOUTHWEST CORNER.
4:00 P.M.
CHAPTER 10
ZANZIBAR
SAM SAW ITZLI RIVERA APPEAR AT THE NORTHERN SIDE OF THE cricket grounds, walking through the trees bordering the parking lot. Behind him, another man was walking east through the lot, but Sam could not make out his face. The purposefulness of his stride made him stand out. This would be Nochtli, Sam thought.
In the middle of the field, a pickup cricket match of teenagers was under way. Their laughter and shouts echoed across the park. Rivera strolled down the sidewalk on the west side of the grounds and stopped before the bench on which Sam sat.
“You came alone,” Rivera said.
Seeing Rivera up close and in daylight immediately altered Sam’s measure of the man. While Sam had never doubted Rivera’s prowess, his chiseled face and sinewy build suggested a rawhide-like toughness. His black eyes regarded Sam impassively—an expression Sam suspected rarely changed, whether Rivera was eating a sandwich or murdering another human being.
“Have a seat,” Sam said amiably despite the flutter of fear in his belly. He felt like he was hand-feeding a great white shark.
Rivera did so. “This is your meeting,” he said.
Sam didn’t reply. He watched the cricket match. A minute passed. Rivera broke the silence. “Your prank with the crate—amusing.”
“Something tells me you didn’t laugh, though.”
“No. Where is your wife, Mr. Fargo?”
“Running an errand. You can signal your friend to stop circling the grounds. He won’t find her.”
Rivera considered this for a few moments, then lifted his hand off the back of the bench and made a fist. Across the park, Nochtli stopped walking.
“Let’s talk about our problem,” Sam said.
“And what do you imagine that problem is?”
“You think we have something you want.”
“Tell me exactly: What do you think you have?”
Abruptly, Sam stood up. “I enjoy the occasional verbal joust as much as the next man, but not today.”
“All right, all right. Sit down, please.”
Sam did so. Rivera said, “The people I work for have been looking for a shipwreck. We believe it was lost in this area.”
“Which ship?”
“The Ophelia.”
“Tell me about it.”
“A steam-sail passenger ship. It was believed to be sunk in these waters in the 1870s.”
“That’s all you know about her?”
“More or less.”
“How long have you been looking for her?”
“Seven years.”
“Actively?”
“Yes, actively.”
“In and around Zanzibar?”
“Of course.”
“I’m assuming you have salvage
experience or else they wouldn’t have hired you.”
“I have experience.”
“The people you work for . . . what’s their specific interest?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Something of monetary value, I assume?” Sam asked. “Something the Ophelia carried in her hold when she went down?”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
“And you think whatever we may have found belongs to the Ophelia.”
“It’s a possibility my employers would like to explore.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. For the past few minutes Sam had been trying to get Rivera to commit himself, to make statements he and Remi could then use in doing their own research.
Sam said, “This must be one hell of a prize you’re after. You bribe the captain of a Tanzanian gunboat to first intimidate, then surveil us; then, when night falls, you sneak into the lagoon and board our boat with knives drawn.”
This caught Rivera off guard. He took a deep breath and let it out with a frustrated sigh.
Sam said, “We watched the whole thing.”
“From where?”
“Does that really matter?”
“No, I suppose not. Please accept my apologies. My friends are ex-soldiers. Some habits are hard to break. The excitement of the job got the better of them. I’ve already chastised them.”
“All three of them.”
“Yes.”
Of course, Sam didn’t buy Rivera’s mea culpa, but he said, “Fair enough. What was your plan? To steal whatever you think we found?”
“At that point we didn’t know what you’d found.”
Sam paused for a long ten seconds, then said, “I can’t decide if you think we’re idiots or if you’ve got a short-term-memory problem.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re sitting here because of the sign I left on the crate. You found that crate because of the notations we left next to a diagram of a bell you found on our boat. You think we found a ship’s bell. Why not just come out and say it?”
“Consider it said, then.”
“I can tell you this: The bell we found doesn’t belong to the Ophelia.”