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  “There,” Remi said, pointing fifty yards down the beach to a thatch longhouse fronted by a black-painted four-by-eight-foot plywood sign sporting a crow painted in bright red.

  They walked that way. As they approached the wooden steps, a quartet of men stopped their animated conversation and looked at them. Sam said, “Morning. We’re looking for Buziba.”For a long ten seconds none of them spoke.

  “Unazungumza kiingereza?” Remi said. Do you speak English?

  No response.

  For the next two minutes Sam and Remi used their limited knowledge of Swahili to try to start a dialogue but to no avail. A voice behind them said, “Buziba, don’t be a jackass.”They turned to see a grinning Ed Mitchell standing behind them. He had a Tusker beer in each hand.

  “Are you following us?” Sam asked.

  “More or less. We’re probably the only three Americans on the island right now. Thought a little solidarity couldn’t hurt. I know old Buziba here,” Ed said, nodding to the gray-haired man sitting on the top step. “He speaks English. Playing dumb is his bargaining strategy.” Ed barked out a sentence in Swahili, and the other three men got up and wandered back inside the bar.“Now, be a gentleman, Buziba,” Ed said. “These are friends.”

  The old man’s dour expression dropped away. He smiled broadly. “Friends of Mr. Ed are friends of me.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Mitchell said, then to Sam and Remi: “He saw reruns of the TV show. He gets a laugh out of comparing me to a talking horse.”

  Remi said to Buziba, “Your English is very good.”

  “Fair indeed, yes? Better than your Swahili, eh?”

  “Without a doubt,” Sam replied. “A friend of ours called you about a boat.”

  Buziba nodded. “Miss Selma. Yesterday. I have your boat. Four hundred dollars.”

  “Per day?”

  “Eh?”

  Ed said something in Swahili, and Buziba responded. Ed said, “Four hundred to sell. He gave up fishing last year; been trying to sell the thing ever since. The bar brings in plenty of money for him.”Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Ed added, “You’d probably pay that for two days’ rental from anyone else here.”

  “Let’s see it,” Sam said.

  THE FOUR OF THEM walked down the beach to where an eighteen-foot aquamarine blue dhow sat atop a half dozen V-shaped sawhorses. A pair of young boys were sitting in the sand beside the dhow’s hull. One was scraping while the other was painting. Buziba said, “Look. Inspect.”

  Sam and Remi walked around the dhow, checking for signs of decay and disrepair. Sam poked the seams with his Swiss Army knife while Remi tapped the wood, sounding for rot. Sam walked to the stern, climbed up the ladder leaning against the transom, and stepped onto the afterdeck. He reappeared two minutes later and called down, “The sails have got some rot.”“Eh?” Buziba replied. Ed translated, listened to Buziba’s response, then said, “He’ll throw in a new set for fifty dollars.”

  Remi asked Sam, “How’s the cabin?”

  “Cozy in the extreme. Not the Moevenpick, but we’ve seen worse.”

  “And the engine?”

  “Old but well maintained. Should give us six or seven knots.”

  Remi walked to the transom and inspected the propeller and shaft. “I’m betting the bearings could use repacking.”

  Ed translated, listened, then replied, “He says another fifty and he’ll have it done in two hours.”

  “Twenty-five,” Sam countered. “He gives me the supplies and the tools, and I’ll do it myself.”

  Buziba jutted out his lower lip and stuck his chin in the air, thinking. “Fifty. I add potable water and food for two days.”

  “Three days,” Remi replied.

  Buziba considered this, then shrugged. “Three days.”

  CHAPTER 16

  INDIAN OCEAN

  “OKAY, SHUT HER DOWN,” SAM CALLED.

  Remi turned off the ignition key and the dhow’s engines sputtered out. Sam hoisted the sails, and they held their collective breaths for a few seconds until the canvas caught the wind and billowed out. The dhow’s bow lifted slightly and the boat lurched forward. Sam crab-walked aft and dropped onto the afterdeck beside Remi.“We have liftoff,” Sam said.

  “Here’s hoping we don’t have to call Houston with a problem,” Remi said and handed him a bottle of water.

  It was already midafternoon, and they were only five miles north of Mafia Island. While Remi’s discerning eye had noticed the propeller shaft’s bearing problem, it hadn’t been until Sam had gotten it apart that they realized how much time the repair would require. As Remi supervised the boys in finishing up the maintenance and changing out the sails, Sam and Ed worked under the shade of a makeshift sheet awning.

  Once done, Buziba and another dozen boys appeared and carried the dhow down to the waterline, where they tested the engine and took the dhow for a test drive around the harbor. An hour later, the dhow fully stocked with water, supplies, and food, Sam and Remi waved to Buziba and Ed and set out.“How long until we get there?” Remi asked.

  Sam got up, retrieved the chart they’d found inside the cabin, and unfolded it in his lap. He checked the readout of his handheld GPS unit and plotted their position. “Another thirty-nine miles. We’re doing about five knots . . . If we run all night, we’ll get there shortly after midnight. Or we could find someplace to lie up tonight, then set out early and get there about dawn. There’s an unnamed island about twelve miles south of Fanjove.”“That’s my vote. Without radar, we’re asking for trouble.”

  “Agreed. We wouldn’t be able to see anything of Sukuti until daylight anyway.”

  They sailed north for another five hours, caught a tailwind for the last hour, and found the island just as the upper rim of the sun was dipping behind the horizon. Sam steered the dhow into a small cove and dropped anchor. Once the boat was secure, Remi ducked into the cabin for a few minutes, emerging with a lantern, a camping stove, and two cans of food.“What can I serve you, el capitan

  ? Baked beans or baked beans and franks?”

  Sam pursed his lips. “Choices, choices. Let’s celebrate our not sinking. Let’s have both.” “A fine choice. And for dessert: fresh mango.”

  THE SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE double army cot, combined with the salt air and the gentle rocking of the dhow at anchor, lulled them into a deep, restful sleep. At four A.M. Sam’s watch chimed, and they got up and moving, sharing a breakfast of leftover mango and strong black coffee before weighing anchor and setting out again.

  They lost an hour of progress to sluggish predawn winds, but shortly before sunrise the air picked up and before long they were clipping north at a steady six knots that brought them within sight of North Fanjove Island by seven A.M. A half hour later they drew even with the atoll Mitchell had pointed out. Here they secured the sails, switched to engine power, and spent another nerve-racking forty minutes picking their way through the reefs until they reached the south side of Little Sukuti Island. Sam tooled along the coast until Remi spotted a mangrove-choked cove they hoped would shield the dhow from prying eyes. Following Remi’s hand signals from the bow, Sam steered into the cove. He shut off the engine and let the dhow drift forward until the bow gently wedged itself between two mangroves jutting diagonally from the bank.

  Having listened to the steady put-put-put of the dhow’s engine for the last hour, the sudden silence was jarring. They stood still for half a minute, listening, until the jungle around them slowly came back to life with a cacophony of squawks and buzzes.Remi secured the bowline to one of the tree trunks, then headed aft to join Sam on the afterdeck. “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “We’re assuming the bell is still aboard the Njiwa. That’s the best-case scenario. With any luck, we won’t have to set foot on the island itself. Either way, we have to wait for nightfall. For now, I say we do a little reconnaissance and have a little picnic.”“Reconnaissance and a picnic,” Remi repeated with a smile. “Every woman’s dream
date.”

  UNLIKE ITS LARGER ALTER EGO, Little Sukuti Island was all mangrove swamp and jungle, save a lone jagged peak that, on the vertical, was no more than five hundred feet above the ocean’s surface, but, as Sam and Remi had learned many times, a five-hundred-foot ascent on rough winding trails could turn into a three- or four-hour hike.

  By ten A.M., already sweating profusely and covered in bug bites and mud, they emerged from the swamp and pushed their way into the jungle. With Sam in the lead, they pushed north until they came across what they were looking for: a stream. Water meant animals and animals meant game trails. It took them only a few minutes to find one heading northwest toward the island’s summit. Shortly before one in the afternoon, they broke free of the jungle and found themselves at the foot of the escarpment.“That’s a relief,” Remi said, staring upward.

  The rock face was manageable, fifty feet tall, no steeper than fifty degrees, and with plenty of crags and cracks they could use for foot-and handholds. After a short water break, they headed upward and were soon nestled in a little rock alcove beneath the peak. They each pulled a pair of binoculars from their packs, rose up, and looked around.“Thar she blows,” Sam muttered.

  A mile away and a hundred feet below them was Okafor’s home. Painted a butter yellow with stark white trim, it sat in a near-perfect circular clearing of reddish brown dirt. At this distance they could make out details they’d missed from the air. As Sam had predicted, a trio of men in green coveralls were working along the eastern side of the grounds, two hacking at the encroaching foliage with machetes, the third mowing a strip of lawn. The villa itself was massive, easily fifteen thousand square feet, with wraparound balconies on each floor. At the rear of the property was what looked like a radio antenna/ satellite TV tower.“Do you see that?” Remi asked.

  “What?”

  “On the roof, eastern corner.”

  Sam pointed his binoculars where Remi had indicated and saw a pair of Big Eyes naval binoculars mounted on a tripod.

  “Well,” Sam said, “the bad news is to the southwest they can see anything coming ten miles away. You see the coaxial cable attached to the housing?”

  “I see it.”

  “It’s for remote control and monitoring, I’m guessing. Probably from a control room in the house. The good news is, I don’t think they’re night-vision capable.”

  They continued panning their binoculars, moving down the slope to the helicopter pad. At the edge of the white stone perimeter a lone man in khaki coveralls sat in a lawn chair; leaning against his left thigh was an AK-74 assault rifle.

  “He’s asleep,” Remi said.

  “That, and the missing helicopter tell us the boss is away.” Sam panned his binoculars again. After a moment he said, “I’ve got movement on the Njiwa.”

  “I see it,” Remi replied. “There’s a familiar face.”

  There was no mistaking Itzli Rivera’s gaunt, ropy frame and sunken face. He stood on the yacht’s foredeck, a satellite phone to his ear. After a minute of listening he nodded, checked his watch, said something into the handset, and disconnected. He turned aft, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted something. Ten seconds later Nochtli and Yaotl came jogging through the arch on the port-side weather deck and stopped before Rivera, who spoke to them for a few minutes before they rushed off again.“Looked like Rivera was passing on some orders from on high. Let’s hope it’s about the bell.”

  “Our bell,” Remi corrected him with a smile.

  “I like the way you think. Let’s do a guard count.”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes doing just this and came up with four: one at the helicopter pad, one patrolling the road to the dock, and two strolling around the villa’s perimeter. Unless they missed someone, it appeared no guards were watching the island’s approaches.“We can’t forget Rivera and the other two stooges,” Sam said. “They’re probably staying aboard the boat. If so, we might have to find a way to get them off.”

  “That won’t be easy. Based on how much trouble they’ve gone to get the bell, they’re probably sleeping beside it.”

  THEY SPENT THE REMAINDER of the afternoon drawing a detailed map of the island and enjoying their ersatz picnic of fruit, nuts, and bottled water. Shortly after five, they heard a faint chopping sound to the east. They focused their binoculars, and soon enough the sound took the shape of a helicopter. Ambonisye Okafor’s Eurocopter EC135, jet-black with tinted windows, swept over the island and did a slow circuit, as though the man aboard were surveying his kingdom, before stopping in a hover over the pad and touching down. The guard on duty was already standing at attention, spine erect, an AK-74 held at port arms. As the rotors spooled down, the Eurocopter’s side door opened and out stepped a tall, lean African man in a crisp white suit and mirrored sunglasses.“Fun’s over,” Sam said. “Dad’s home.”

  “Clearly our host went to the Idi Amin school of fashion,” Remi said. “I’d be willing to bet his closet is packed with clones of that outfit.”

  Sam smiled behind his binoculars. “Then again, who’s going to risk telling him he’s a cliche?”

  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.

  Silence.