“The drawing was generic. They may not even know what they have. Either way, it appears they’re going to try to get it off the island. Next to the diagram was a notation about a freight company and a time. The pickup location is just south of Zanzibar’s airport.”
“That can’t happen, Itzli. That bell can’t leave the island. The Fargos’ investigation needs to end here and now.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“You know where they’ll be and when they’ll be there. We’ll have all our bad eggs in one basket.”
“THAT’S ONE PAMPERED ship’s bell,” Remi said.
Standing across from her on the shade
d cobblestone patio, Sam nodded. For the last hour they had been swaddling the bell in sheets soaked in a warm solution of water and nitric acid. Now it sat, draped and steaming, in the center of a slowly expanding slick of gray-green marine growth dissolved by the acid.
“How long until we swap?”
Sam checked his watch. “Ten more minutes.”
Three hours earlier, after dismantling the raft and scattering the parts, they’d left the mangrove lagoon and headed south along the coast past Fumba Point into Menai Bay. With Remi at the wheel, Sam called Selma and brought her up to speed and then explained what they needed. Forty minutes later, as they were rounding Zanzibar’s southern tip, Selma called back.
“It’s a little smaller than your bungalow, but it’s secluded, and the agent promised to leave the keys under the mat. You’re paid up for the week.”
“What and where?”
“A villa on the eastern side of the island, two miles north of the Tamarind Beach Hotel. The awning over the porch is red-and-green striped. There’s an old stone quay on the beach.”
“You’re a wonder, Selma,” Sam said, then hung up and dialed again, this time Abasi Sibale’s home phone number. Without a question, Abasi agreed to meet them on the villa’s beach with his pickup truck. Upon seeing the ship’s bell sitting on the Andreyale’s afterdeck, he merely smiled and shook his head. “Someday,” he said, “you will come to our island and have a perfectly boring time.”
“I’LL GO CHECK on our guest,” Sam now said.
“I’ll make sure our bell doesn’t get away,” Remi replied.
“If it tries, let it.”
“Gladly.”
They were both tired, and this bell, having both resisted their efforts and attracted some dangerous attention, had become the enemy. Their outlook would improve with sleep and some answers, which would hopefully come after a couple more hours of nitric-acid swaddling.
Remi smiled. “Leave the gun.”
Sam smiled back and walked across the patio and through the French doors. The villa Selma had rented for them was just under two thousand square feet and Tuscan style, with faded mustard plaster walls, climbing vines, and a red tile roof. The interior was decorated in a mishmash of contemporary and craftsman. Sam walked to the back bedroom, where their visitor, Yaotl, was bound hand and foot to a four-poster bed. Yaotl saw Sam and lifted his head.
“Hey, what’s going on? Where am I?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Sam replied. “As far as your friends are concerned you’re either floating facedown somewhere between here and Mombasa or making your way through a shark’s digestive system.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, after we knocked you out—”
“I don’t remember that . . . How did you do that?” He sounded slightly amazed.
“I snuck up on you then hit you with a big stick. Now your friends think you’ve been dead about . . .” Sam checked his watch. “Six hours.”
“They won’t believe it. They’ll find me.”
“Don’t bet on it. What kind of name is Yaotl?”
“It’s my name.”