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“That’s a big if,” Remi replied. “If the latter, it means we might run into them somewhere along the coastline. We’d better hope we see them before they see us.”
Sam nodded. “Do me a favor. Find every nook and cranny along the coast. We’ll need to be ready to hide on a moment’s notice.”
It took Remi ten minutes to finish the task. She said, “There’re plenty to choose from but no depth markings; I can only be certain of six or seven being deep enough for our draft.”
“We’ll have to play it by ear.”
“So, about your master plan . . .”
“Wish I had one,” Sam replied. “There’re too many variables. We have to assume they’ll be moving the bell sooner rather than later—either shipping it somewhere or dumping it somewhere. For that, they have three choices: one of the Rinkers, the Njiwa, or Okafor’s helicopter. We’ll start with the Njiwa. Whatever they do, that’s where the bell will stay until they decide to move it. If they use a Rinker or the Njiwa, I say we put on our pirate hats and stage a hijacking.”
“And if it’s the helicopter?”
“Same plan. We just put on our flying scarves.”
“Sam, my dear, you don’t have much time logged on helicopters.”
“I think I can manage the four or five miles to the mainland. We’d be across the channel in six minutes—probably before they could even organize a posse. We find a secluded clearing somewhere, put her down, and—”
Remi smiled. “Play it by ear?” Sam shrugged and smiled back. “It’s the best chance we have,” Remi agreed, “but you’ve left out a lot of big, potentially disastrous ifs.”
“I know—”
“For example, what if we’re spotted? We’ll be outgunned and outmanned.”
“I know—”
“And, of course, the biggest if: What if the bell’s already been moved?”
Sam paused. “Then the game’s over. If we don’t intercept it here, it’s gone for good. Remi, we’re a democracy. If it’s not unanimous, we don’t go.”
“I’m in, Sam, you know that. On one condition, though.”
“Name it.”
“We take out some insurance.”
THE SUN WAS SETTING by the time the mouth of the inlet came into view: a rough oval of golden orange light at the end of the tunnel. When they were ten feet away, Remi steered the dhow toward the right-hand bank and jostled the throttle until the overhanging limbs draped over them. Standing atop the cabin, Sam manhandled the thicker branches around the mast and boom until the dhow was nestled against the bank. He crawled forward to the pulpit and peeked through the foliage.
“Got a perfect view,” he called back.
The sun had dropped behind Big Sukuti, casting the western half of the island, including the inlet, in twilight. Sam added, “If they’re doing another circuit, they’ll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I’m going to pack our gear and do some scrounging.”
Remi went below. Sam could hear her moving about in the cabin. She returned to the cockpit, sat down, and began humming “Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra. They got through “Hotel California” by the Eagles, “In the Midnight Hour” by Wilson Pickett, and were halfway through “Hey Jude” by the Beatles when Sam raised his hand for silence.
Ten seconds passed.
“What is it?” Remi asked.
“Nothing, I guess. No, there . . . Hear it?”
Remi listened for a few moments, then there it was, the faint rumble of a marine engine. “The pitch sounds right,” she said.
“It’s coming from the northwest. Our guest may be en route.”
Of the scenarios they’d considered—a delayed second patrol, meeting the Rinker along the northern coast, or an immediate patrol that would pass before they headed out from the inlet—the third was ideal. By knowing the Rinker’s route and its average speed, they could be reasonably sure of their foe’s location at any given time. Barring the unforeseen, they would reach the docks long before the Rinker did.
