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“No.”
Earlier that morning, as the Krakatau Explorer tour van pulled out of the Four Seasons turnaround, Sam thought he’d caught a glimpse of Itzli Rivera, but they’d seen nothing more during the ninety-minute ride from Jakarta to the Carita Beach Resort docks. While riding in a van packed with other tourists wasn’t Sam and Remi’s preferred style of adventuring, they were keenly aware that if Rivera and his men were, in fact, here, being caught alone on a lonely road in the Javan rain forests could be disastrous.
Moreover, this boat tour of what remained of the Krakatoa volcano and the newly opened Krakatau Museum was not only a first step in following Blaylock’s ill-fated trail—if there was one left to follow—but also an efficient way of drawing Rivera out and forcing his hand. The last thing the Mexican needed was to lose his quarry yet again. For Sam and Remi, it was akin to swimming with sharks: Better to have them in sight than wondering when they were going to swim out of the gloom and attack.
They joined the line of last-minute boarders at the aft gangplank, then boarded and chose a spot at the starboard rail. The Krakatau Explorer was a hundred-twenty-foot flat-bottomed skiff ferry with an oblong, pitch-roofed wheelhouse nestled high on the forecastle. The afterdeck, measuring eighty feet by forty feet, was divided into rows by blue-vinyl-covered bench seating.
Sam kept one eye on the docks while Remi scanned the other passengers; she estimated there were sixty aboard. “Still nothing,” she said.
“Here too.”
On the dock, a pair of workers detached the gangplank and pulled it away from the ferry. A crewman on deck shut the gate. The mooring lines were singled up and hauled aboard. Three more crewmen appeared at the rail and pushed off the dock with poles. With a blare from the Explorer’s whistle, the engines started, and the ferry chugged away from the docks and headed west into the strait.
THREE HOURS LATER an Indonesian-accented voice came over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, shortly the captain will be bringing the Krakatau Explorer around the island’s headland for our approach to the museum.”
As promised, within minutes the ferry turned to port and headed east along the island’s north shoreline. Passengers crowded the rail to stare up at the sheer, two-thousand-foot-high cliff—all that remained when the majority of the island collapsed into the sea.
THE FERRY PULLED ALONGSIDE the museum’s dock, and the mooring lines were secured and the gangplank lowered. Sam and Remi disembarked and headed toward the main building. Anchored to the seabed at the western edge of the caldera, the five-thousand-square-foot museum was constructed of inch-thick tempered glass and white-painted steel crossbeams. According to the brochure Sam and Remi had picked up at the Four Seasons, the museum contained the single largest collection of Krakatoa memorabilia and source material in the world.
The inside was fully air-conditioned, the decor minimalist, with bamboo floors, taupe walls, and vaulted ceilings. The space was divided into section
s by three-quarter walls that displayed period photographs, artwork, and illustrations, while freestanding platforms held artifacts that survived the disaster. Each section also contained a multimedia kiosk, complete with an LCD monitor and touch-screen controls.
Sam and Remi strolled around on their own until they were approached by one of the guides, a young Indonesian woman in an aquamarine dress. “Welcome to the Krakatau Museum. May I answer any questions for you?”
“WE’RE PARTICULARLY INTERESTED in what ships might have been anchored in the strait at the time of the explosion,” Remi said.
“Certainly. We have an alcove dedicated to just that. This way, please.”
They followed the woman through several alcoves before arriving at one labeled THE MARITIME EFFECTS. Two of the walls were devoted to enlarged daguerreotype photos of the straits and surrounding bays and harbors. The third wall held copies of pages from ships’ logs, newspaper accounts, letters, and illustrations. On the platforms in the center of the room was a collection of salvaged hardware, presumably from vessels caught in the explosion.
“How many ships were in the area at the time?” asked Remi.
“Officially, fourteen, but on any given day in 1883 there were hundreds of small fishing vessels and cargo boats sailing back and forth. Of course, it was easier to account for the ships because of insurance claims. Also, we were able to cross-reference captains’ logs to account for all the vessels present.”
Standing before a plaque on the far wall, Sam asked, “Is this a list of the ships and their crews?”
“Yes.”
“I recognize one of these names: the Berouw.”
The guide nodded. “I’m not surprised. The Berouw is somewhat famous. She was a side-wheel steamer that was anchored in Lampung Bay fifty miles from Krakatoa. She was picked up by one of the tsunamis and carried several miles up the Koeripan River. The ship was found almost completely intact, but her entire crew was killed.”
“There are only thirteen names,” Remi said.
“Pardon me?”
“On this list. You mentioned fourteen ships, but there are only thirteen listed here.”
“Are you sure?” The guide stepped up to the plaque and counted the names. “You’re right. That’s odd. Well, I’m sure it’s an administrative error.”
Remi smiled. “Thanks for your help. I think we’ll wander around a bit.”
“Certainly. If you’re so inclined, feel free to experiment with the kiosk. All of the documents in our collection—even those not on display—are available for viewing.”
Remi walked over to the wall of photographs where Sam was standing. She said, “I was half hoping the Shenandoah’s name would be on the list.”
“Would a picture do?” Sam said.
