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Okafor strode across the pad and snapped off a salute to the guard. As he reached the path, an electric golf cart pulled to a stop before him. He climbed in, and the cart headed up the hill toward the villa.
Sam said, “Now we’ll see if Okafor’s return stirs up any action.”
After another ten minutes the cart returned down the hill, turned onto the dock road, and stopped beside the Njiwa. Rivera strode down the gangplank and got into the passenger seat, and the cart returned to the villa, where Rivera disappeared inside. He emerged twenty minutes later, and the golf cart returned him to the Njiwa. Sam and Remi kept their focus on the yacht. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. There was no movement on the decks; no reaction to Rivera’s meeting with Okafor.
“That was underwhelming,” Remi said, looking sideways at Sam. “I can see the gears turning in your head. You have a plan of attack?”
Over the years Sam’s and Remi’s complementary personalities had molded the planning of the dicier parts of their adventures: Sam would develop the plan, and Remi would play devil’s advocate, running the plan through her steel-trap mind, until they decided it workable and would minimize the likelihood that they’d find themselves in over their heads. So far, the system had worked well, though the water frequently reached their chins.
“Almost,” Sam said. He lowered his binoculars and checked his watch. “We better start back down. It’ll be nightfall in four hours.”
THE RETURN LEG of the hike was easier going, partially because they weren’t fighting gravity and partially because they’d already blazed the trail. Back at sea level, they circumnavigated the mangrove swamp to the south, turned north again at the beach, then swam the last quarter mile. They were nearing the mouth of the cove when Remi stopped swimming and said, “Quiet. Listen.”
Sam heard it a few moments later, the faint rumble of a marine engine somewhere to their right. They turned to see a Rinker speedboat coming around the headland a hundred yards away. One man was behind the wheel; a second stood behind him, scanning the
shoreline through a pair of binoculars.
“Deep breath!” Sam said to Remi.
Together they gulped a lungful of air, then curled under the water and dove. Six feet beneath the surface they leveled off and began stroking toward the cove. Arm outstretched, Sam reached the bank a few seconds before Remi. He curled his fingers around the roots jutting from the mud, then turned, grabbed Remi’s hand, and pulled her in. Sam pointed above their heads where a tangle of dead brush floated on the surface. Together they let themselves float up. They broke into the air and looked around.
“You hear the engine?” Sam whispered in Remi’s ear.
“No . . . Wait, there they are.”
Sam looked in the direction of Remi’s nod. Through the twigs he could see the Rinker sitting still in the water about fifty feet away. The engine coughed once, sputtered, then went dead. The driver tried again but got the same result. He pounded his fist on the wheel. His partner stepped to the stern, knelt down, and lifted the engine hatch.
“Engine trouble,” Sam whispered. “They’ll move on soon.”
It was either that, they both knew, or these two would have to call for a tow, which meant Sam and Remi wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
“Cross fingers,” Remi replied.
Aboard the Rinker, the second man turned and said something to the driver, who tried the engine again. It coughed and died.
“Spark plug,” Sam muttered. In the corner of his eye he saw Remi’s head move, slowly leaning backward until her face was pointing upward. Sam slowly turned his head, looked at her, and followed her gaze. He found himself staring into a pair of beady brown eyes. Not six inches away, the eyes blinked once, then narrowed slightly. It took a moment for Sam to realize what he was seeing.
“Monkey,” he whispered to Remi.
“Yes, Sam, I noticed.”
“Capuchin?”
“Colobus, I think. Juvenile.”
From the direction of the Rinker they heard the engine turn over again. This time it caught, sputtered, then settled into a steady idle. Above them, the colobus jerked its head up at the noise, its tiny hands clamping down on the branches. It looked back down at Sam and Remi.
Remi cooed, “Easy, little—”
The colobus opened its mouth and began shrieking and shaking the branches so wildly that leaves rained down on them.
Sam lowered his head and peered through the brush pile. Aboard the Rinker, both men were standing up, rifles at the shoulder, muzzles aimed in their direction. Suddenly a crack. One of the muzzles flashed. The bullet zipped through the foliage above their heads. The colobus shrieked louder and flailed at the branches. Sam groped underwater, found Remi’s hand, squeezed it.
She whispered, “Are they—”
“I don’t think so. They’re looking for lunch.”
Crack! More shrieking and shaking.
