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“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.”
CHAPTER 15
TANZANIA
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.
