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“No, about it being uninhabited. There’s a Park Rangers installation on the island. It’s home to three or four patrol boats and about three dozen Rangers.”
“Therefore, off-limits to civilians,” Remi added.
“I would imagine, Mrs. Fargo,” agreed Selma.
Sam and Remi were silent for a few moments. Neither had to ask the other about what came next. Sam simply said to Selma, “How do we get there without being sunk by Marine Park Rangers?”
After skipping Selma’s first and predictable suggestion of “Don’t get caught,” they began exploring their options. First, of course, they would need transportation, an easy enough task, Selma assured them.
Leaving Selma to her task, Sam and Remi drove the Fiat south back to Vlorë, where they regrouped at their de facto headquarters: the outdoor café at the Hotel Bologna. From their seats they could see in the distance Sazan Island, a speck of land rising from the Adriatic’s blue waters.
Selma called an hour later. “How do you feel about kayaks?”
“As long as they’re nice to us,” Sam quipped.
Remi swatted Sam on the arm. “Go ahead, Selma.”
“On the northern tip of the peninsula there’s a recreation area: beaches, rock climbing, sea caves, coves for swimming, that sort of thing. From the tip of the peninsula to Sazan Island it’s just over two miles. Here’s the catch: they don’t allow motorized craft in the area, and it closes at dusk. I presume you would prefer to do your skullduggery at night?”
“You know us so well,” Sam replied. “You’ve found a trustworthy kayak emporium, I assume.”
“I have. I’ve taken the liberty of renting a pair for you.”
“What about weather and tides?” said Remi.
“Partly cloudy and calm tonight, with a quarter moon; but there’s a storm moving in tomorrow morning. Based on the online nautical charts I’ve been able to find, the current within the bay is fairly gentle, but go too far east of Sazan Island and the peninsula and you’re in the Adriatic. From what I’ve read, the current there is unforgiving.”
Sam said, “In other words, a one-way trip south to the Mediterranean Sea.”
“If you even get that far without being—”
“We understand, Selma,” Remi interrupted. “East is bad.”
Sam and Remi looked at each other and nodded. Sam said, “Selma, how long until dusk?”
As it turned out, the approach of nightfall was the least of their worries. While the shop—located in Orikum, a resort municipality ten miles south of Vlorë in the crook of the bay—had a
wide selection of injection-molded plastic kayak models available, none of them came in anything but retina-burning reds, yellows, or oranges, or a Jackson Pollockesque mix of the three. With no time to shop for stealthier color schemes, they bought the best pair of the lot, along with double-ended oars and life jackets.
After a quick stop at a hardware store, they returned to Vlorë. Having had good luck with them since Kathmandu, they found a military surplus store and bought an all-black outfit for each of them: boots and socks, long underwear, wool pants, knit cap, and an oversized long-sleeved turtleneck sweater to cover the neon orange life jacket. A bag of just-in-case odds and ends and a pair of dark rucksacks rounded out the spree. Then they set out.
Sam drove around the recreation area for several minutes, but they saw no one. The parking lots and beaches were empty. From a cliff overlook, they scanned the waters below and again saw no one.
“Probably too early in the year,” Sam said. “School’s still in session.”
“We should assume there’ll be patrols,” Remi said. “Park Rangers or local police.”
Sam nodded. “Good point.” If found, the Fiat would either be ticketed or towed. In either case, it was a complication they didn’t need. Worse still, the local authorities might push the panic button and assume they had a pair of vacationers lost at sea, which would undoubtedly attract the attention of the Navy and/or Coast Guard—the very thing Sam and Remi were trying to avoid.
After twenty minutes of tooling around the recreation area’s dirt roads, Sam found a brush-choked drainage ditch into which he backed the Fiat. Under Remi’s careful eye for detail, they rearranged the brush until the vehicle was invisible from the road.
Together they stepped back to admire the job.
“They could have used you in England before D-day,” Sam remarked.
“It’s a gift,” Remi agreed.
Rucksacks on their backs, they dragged their kayaks down the hill to a secluded cove they’d spotted earlier. Measuring less than forty feet wide, with a shallow white sand beach, the inlet leading out to sea was two hundred yards long and curved, protecting them from prying eyes.
