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“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.”
