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“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.
As the engines wound down, Ed climbed out and retrieved their backpacks from the cargo compartment. He handed them his card, said, “Safe travels, Fargos. Call me if you run into trouble,” then gave them a smile they could only describe as conspiratorial.
Sam smiled back. “You know something we don’t?”
“No, but I know adventure hounds when I see them. I’d say you two can handle yourselves better than most, but Africa is an unforgiving place. The number on my card is my satellite phone. I’ll leave it on.”
“Thanks, Ed.”
They shook hands, then Ed turned and headed toward a Quonset hut whose window displayed a flickering red neon BEER sign.
They grabbed their backpacks and headed toward the terminal but were intercepted on the sidewalk by the two officials from under the baobab. After a cursory glance at their passports, the officials poked through their belongings, then stamped the passports and offered a “Welcome to Mafia Island” in halting English.
“You need taxi?” one of the officials asked. Without waiting for a response, he raised his hand and whistled. From the turnaround outside the airport entrance, a rust-riddled gray Peugeot growled to life.
Sam said, “Thank you but no. We’ll find our own transportation.”
Hand still raised, the official looked quizzically at Sam. “Eh?”
Sam pointed to the Peugeot a
nd shook his head. “La asante.” No thanks.
The official shrugged, then waved off the taxi driver and said, “Sawa.” Okay. He and his partner walked back to the baobab.
“What was that all about?” Remi asked.
“They were in cahoots. At best, we get a padded fare; at worst, we get taken to a private alley and robbed.”
Remi smiled. “Sam Fargo, where’s your trust in humanity?”
“Right now, it’s the same place as my wallet—well hidden.” While Mafia Island was a popular destination for extreme scuba divers, it was also a hub for the Tanzanian black market. Sam explained this to Remi.
She said, “You’re a font of trivia. Where did you come across this tidbit?”
“I downloaded the CIA World Factbook to my iPhone. Very handy. Come on, we’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“What’s to stop us from getting mugged on the street?”
Sam lifted the tail of his shirt to expose the butt of the H&K.
Remi smiled and shook her head. “Just go easy, Tex. No O.K. Corral reenactments, please.”
ACCORDING TO THEIR MAPS, the Mafia Island airstrip bisected the island’s largest town, Kilindoni, into north and south portions, the former situated more inland, the latter hugging the coast. That was where, Selma had told them, they would find the docks and the boat she’d rented for them.
