Lost Empire (14 page)

“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.”

 

 

THE
NJIWA
’S NEGLIGIBLE HEAD START QUICKLY BECAME INSURMOUNTABLE as Sam and Remi came up against Tanzania’s geography. Where road travel along the coast and in between population centers was fairly easy, they realized navigating off the beaten path would be a nightmare. The only passable road heading south from Dar es Salaam was the B2, which ran the length of southern Tanzania, never straying closer than ten miles from the coast until it reached Somanga Village, ninety miles south of Sukuti Island. After realizing they would neither reach their destination by road, nor before the
Njiwa
, they mentally regrouped. Now aware Rivera had some powerful friends on his side, they decided to err on the side of slight paranoia. If Rivera was playing the worst-case-scenario game, he might assume they’d take up pursuit from Zanzibar or Dar es Salaam, and, having come to the same conclusion about road travel as they had, he would expect them to arrive by boat.

By nightfall, after half a dozen fruitless phone calls, they found a bush pilot who agreed to take them from the Ras Kutani airstrip outside Dar es Salaam to Mafia Island’s airstrip the next morning. From there it would be a half day’s boat ride north to Sukuti Island, a detail they left in Selma’s expert logistical hands.

Such was Africa, the Fargos knew. Though they’d heard the term “African mile” before, this was the first time they’d experienced it firsthand. What elsewhere would have been a thirty-mile jaunt down the coast had turned into a convoluted hundred-fifty-mile journey.

 

 

WITH A NIGHT TO KILL, Sam kept his promise and booked them into the Presidential Suite at the Moevenpick Royal Palm overlooking the ocean. Following an afternoon in the hotel’s spa, they shared a late dinner in L’Oliveto, the hotel’s Italian restaurant.

“It feels like we’ve been away from civilization for months,” Remi said across the table.

“You don’t look it,” Sam replied. Ever resourceful, Remi had found a simple but elegant Zac Posen “little black dress” in the hotel’s boutique.

“Thank you, Sam.”

The waiter arrived, and Sam gave him their wine selection.

Sam said to Remi, “I saw you were reading Blaylock’s biography at the spa. Any revelations?”

“It’s slow going. It wasn’t written by Blaylock, I can tell you that much. Unless his grasp of English was tenuous at best. I’m guessing Morton penned it. But from what source? One thing that struck me: There’s no mention of Blaylock before he arrived in Africa. It begins the day he set foot in Bagamoyo. No personal details about his life up to that point.”

“Interesting. How’s the index?”

Remi shrugged. “What you’d expect. I’m sure Selma, Pete, and Wendy will have more luck with it. I did check for any mention of the bell or the
Ophelia
. There was nothing.”

“Odd. If he’s the one that took the time to inscribe all the hieroglyphics on the bell, you’d think it would at least warrant a mention. Sounds like a man trying to hide a secret.”

“A big secret,” Remi added. “So big the Mexican government may have been murdering people over it for the last seven years.”

 

 

THE AIRPORT SHUTTLE dropped them off at the Ras Kutani shortly after dawn. Aside from a few maintenance people moving about in the morning fog, the airstrip was quiet and devoid of life. As the shuttle pulled away, a figure emerged from the mist and approached them. He wore safari khakis, calf-high jungle boots, and a baseball cap emblazoned with the U.S. Army Rangers insignia. He had close-cropped black hair and a thick mustache.

“Ed Mitchell,” he said without preamble.

“Sam and Remi Fargo,” Sam replied. “You’re American.”

“More or less. Expatriate, I guess you’d call it. That all you got?” he said, nodding to Sam and Remi’s backpacks. They’d left the majority of their baggage with Vutolo, an old friend and the concierge at the Moevenpick.

“This is it,” Sam replied.

“Okay. I’m ready if you are.”

Mitchell turned and started walking. Sam and Remi followed him to a sturdy-looking but weathered Bush Air Cessna 182. Mitchell loaded their gear aboard, got them buckled into the backseat, and did a rote preflight check. Within five minutes of arriving they were airborne and headed south.

“Diving?” Mitchell’s voice said over their headsets.

“Pardon?” Remi replied.

“That’s why you’re going to Mafia, I assume.”

“Oh. Right.”

Sam said, “Mr. Mitchell, how long have you been in Africa?”

“Name’s Ed. Twenty-two years, I guess. Came here with RAND to do a radar installation back in ’88. Fell in love with it and decided to stay. I flew Spads and Hueys in ’Nam, so bush flying seemed like a good fit. Set up shop and the rest is history.”

“Sounds familiar,” Remi replied.

“Which part?”

“Falling in love with Africa.”

“It has the tendency to get into your blood. Every few years I go back to the States to see friends, but I always end up coming back early.” For the first time, Mitchell chuckled. “I guess that’d make me an Africa junkie.”

“What do you know about Sukuti Island?” Sam asked.

“Great diving. Prickly owner. A guy named Ambonisye Okafor. You thinking about going there?”

“Thinking about it.”

“We can fly over. He owns the island, not the airspace. It’d only cost us fifteen minutes or so.”

Mitchell made the course adjustment, and within a few minutes the island came into view out the left-hand window. “Sukuti is actually part of the Mafia Archipelago and, depending on who you ask, they’re part of the Spice chain along with Zanzibar,” Mitchell said. “Big and little Sukuti—the big one situated to the north, the little one to the south. See the little waterway between them? Since it’s only fifty or sixty feet wide they’re officially considered a single landmass. All in all, about five square miles. See the other one there, four miles to the south? That’s North Fanjove.”

“And the long one sitting between them?” Remi asked.

“That’s more atoll than island—a reef and sandbar. Doesn’t really have a name that I know of. It’s just so close to the surface that it looks solid. You can walk across it, but you’d be wading up to your knees.”

“Are those craters?” Sam asked, peering out the window.

“Yep. Back before World War One, German battleships and cruisers used to use Sukuti and Fanjove for target practice. In some places they punched holes straight down the water table. That’s why Fanjove is so popular with cave divers. They rope down into the craters and explore. Every year three or four die doing it. Are you—”

“No,” Sam replied. “Just regular diving.”

“Watch yourself. Okafor claims two miles all around Sukuti. He’s got patrol boats and a few armed guards. He even tries to warn people away from Fanjove, but he’s got no legal claim there. There’s his house . . . there on the peak.”

Sam and Remi craned their necks to take a look. Ambonisye Okafor’s island vacation home was a four-story Italian-style villa surrounded by a chest-high stone wall. Neatly groomed crushed-shell paths branched out from the estate like crooked wheel spokes.

If set sixty-five years earlier and dropped into the Pacific Ocean, Big Sukuti could have easily passed for a Japanese fortress island during World War II. Shaped like a cone whose rear quarter had been cleaved down to the waterline, the island’s southern, lower reaches were devoid of plant life, save the occasional scrub brush, and completely without cover save the occasional boulder. A half mile from the shore the moonscape gave way to a swath of rain forest that ended where the estate’s grounds began.

“Replace that villa with a bunker complex, and you’ve got a smaller version of Iwo Jima,” Sam said. “Keeping that jungle at bay probably requires a full-time maintenance staff.”

Two of the island’s paths caught their attention. One led to a dock on the island’s northwestern side. The
Njiwa
was tied up alongside the pier. Opposite her were two Rinker speedboats like those Rivera and his men had used during the theft of the bell. They could see several figures moving along the
Njiwa
’s deck, but at this altitude couldn’t make out any faces.

The other significant path led to a clearing bordered by white-painted stones; in the center, more stones, these embedded in the earth, formed a giant
H
. A helicopter landing pad.

Remi said, “Ed, is that a—”

“Yep. He owns a Eurocopter EC135. Top-of-the-line bird. Okafor doesn’t drive anywhere if he can help it. A status thing, I suspect. Either of you fly?”

“I’ve got my single-engine,” Sam replied. “I’ve taken helicopter lessons. I have ten hours in the cockpit. It’s a tougher adjustment than I’d imagined.”

“Boy, you got that right.”

“I don’t see many guards or fences down there,” Remi said. “Odd for a man who enjoys his privacy.”

“He’s got enough of a reputation that he doesn’t need as much protection now. He prosecutes trespassers without mercy. Rumor has it, a few of them have even disappeared after pushing their luck.”

“You believe that?” Sam asked.

“I tend to. Okafor was a general in the Tanzanian army before he retired. Tough, scary guy. Seen enough?”

“Yes,” Sam replied.

 

 

THE REMAINDER OF THE FLIGHT was quiet, punctuated only by Ed’s occasional utterances over their headsets as he pointed out landmarks and offered bits of African history. Just before seven-thirty they touched down on Mafia Island’s gravel airstrip and taxied up to the terminal, a whitewashed building with dusky blue trim and a brick-red tin roof. Beside the building, a pair of uniformed immigration officials sat in the shade of a baobab.