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  “Evening, Abasi,” Sam replied, shaking the valet’s hand. Remi received a warm hug. They’d met Abasi Sibale on their first visit to Zanzibar six years earlier and had become fast friends, usually having dinner with him and his family at least once during their yearly visits. Abasi was never without a smile.“How’re Faraja and the kids?” Sam asked.

  “Happy and healthy, thank you. You will come to supper while you are here?”

  Remi smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I believe they are ready for you inside,” Abasi said.

  Just inside the door the maitre d’, Elimu, was waiting. He, too, had known the Fargos for years. “Good to see you, good to see you. Your favorite table overlooking the harbor is ready.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  Elimu led them to a corner table lit by a red hurricane lantern and surrounded on two sides by open windows overlooking the waterfront. Below, Stone Town’s streetlights were flickering to life.“Wine, yes?” Elimu asked. “You would like the list?”

  “Do you still have that Pinot Noir-the Chamonix?”

  “Yes, we have a ’98 or a 2000.”

  Sam looked to Remi, who said, “I still remember the ’98.”

  “As the lady wishes, Elimu.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Elimu disappeared.

  “It’s beautiful,” Remi murmured, staring out over the ocean.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  She turned her head away from the window, gave him a smile, and squeezed his hand. “You got a little sun,” she remarked. For some inexplicable reason, Sam Fargo burned oddly-today, only the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears were pink. Tomorrow they would be bronze. “You’re going to be itchy later.”“I’m itchy now.”

  “So, any guesses?” Remi asked, holding up the diamond coin.

  It had spent the afternoon first sitting in a bowl of ten percent nitric acid, followed by Sam’s secret formula of white vinegar, salt, and distilled water, followed by a scrubbing with a soft-bristle toothbrush. While many spots remained obscured, they could make out a woman’s face in profile and two words: “Marie” and “Reunion.” These details they’d relayed to Selma before leaving the bungalow.“Not a one,” Sam said. “An odd shape for a coin, though.”

  “Private minting, perhaps?” “Could be. If so, it’s well done. Nice clean edges, good tooling, solid weight . . .”

  Elimu returned with the wine, decanted, poured for both of them, waited for their nods of approval, then filled their glasses. This particular Pinot Noir was South African, a rich red with hints of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and something Sam couldn’t quite place.Remi took a second sip and said, “Chicory.”

  Sam’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, mouthed, Selma , then answered. “Evening, Selma.” Remi leaned forward to listen in.

  “Morning for me. Pete and Wendy just got here. They’re starting on the Tanzanian law angle.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Let me guess: You’re sitting at the the Ekundu Kifaru, staring at the sunset.”

  “Creatures of habit,” Remi said.

  “You have news?” Sam asked.

  “About your coin. You have yourself another mystery.”

  Sam saw the waiter approaching and said, “Hold a minute.” They ordered a Samakai wa kusonga and wali-fish croquet and native rice with chapati bread-and for dessert, N’dizi no kastad-Zanzibar-style banana custard. The waiter left, and Sam un-muted Selma.“Go ahead, Selma. We’re all ears,” Sam said.

  “The coin was minted sometime in the early 1690s. Only fifty were made, and they never saw official circulation. In fact, they were a token of affection, for lack of a better term. The ‘Marie’ on the coin’s face is part of ‘Sainte Marie,’ the name of a French commune situated on the north coast of Reunion Island.”“Never heard of it,” Remi said.

  “Not surprising. It’s a little lump of an island about four hundred miles east of Madagascar.”

  “Who’s the woman?” Sam asked. “Adelise Molyneux. The wife of Demont Molyneux, the administrator of Sainte Marie from 1685 to 1701. According to the stories, for their tenth anniversary Demont had his private stock of gold melted down and minted into these Adelise coins.”“Quite a gesture,” Remi said.

  “The coins were supposed to represent the number of years Demont hoped they would spend together before dying. They came close. They both died within a year of each other, just shy of their fortieth anniversary.”“So how did this one get all the way to Zanzibar?” Sam asked.

  “Here’s where truth gets mixed up with legend,” Selma replied. “You’ve heard of George Booth, I assume?”

  “English pirate,” Sam said.

  “Right. Spent most of his time in the Indian Ocean and Red Sea. Started as a gunner aboard the Pelican around 1696, then aboard the Dolphin. Around 1699 the Dolphin was cornered by a British fleet near Reunion Island. Some of the crew surrendered; some, including Booth, escaped to Madagascar, where Booth and a another pirate captain, John Bowen, combined forces and hijacked the Speaker, a four-hundred-fifty-ton, fifty-gun slave ship. Booth was elected captain, and then around 1700 he took the Speaker to Zanzibar. When they went ashore for supplies, the landing party was attacked by Arab troops. Booth was killed and Bowen survived. From there, Bowen took the Speaker back to the waters around Madagascar, before dying a few years later on Mauritius.”

  “You said the Dolphin was cornered near Reunion Island,” Sam repeated. “How close to the Sainte Marie commune?”“A few miles offshore,” Selma replied. “Legend says Booth and his crew had just finished raiding the commune.”

  “Having made off with the Adelise coins,” Remi finished.

  “So says the legend. And so said Demont Molyneux in an official letter of complaint to

  Louis XIV, the king of France.”

  “So let’s play this out,” Sam said. “Booth and the other escapees from the Dolphin take with them the Adelise coins, then meet up with Bowen. They then hijack the Speaker and head for Zanzibar, where they . . . what? Bury their booty on Chumbe Island? Dump it in shallow water for later recovery?”

  “Or maybe the Speaker never got away,” Remi added. “Maybe the stories are wrong. Maybe she was sunk in the channel.”“Half a dozen of one, six of the other,” Selma replied. “Either way, the coin you found is from the Adelise lot.”

  “The question is,” Sam said, “does our bell belong to the Speaker ?”

  CHAPTER 4

  ZANZIBAR

  THE STORM THAT HAD CLOSED OVER THE ISLAND IN THE EARLY-MORNING hours had moved on by dawn, leaving the air crisp and the foliage around their bungalow glistening with dew. Sam and Remi sat on the rear porch overlooking the beach and shared a meal of fruit, bread, cheese, and strong black coffee. In the trees around them, hidden birds squawked.Suddenly a pinkie-sized gecko scaled the leg of Remi’s chair and skittered across her lap and onto the table, where it navigated the dishes before retreating down Sam’s chair.

  “Wrong turn, I guess,” Sam remarked.

  “I have a way with reptiles,” Remi said.

  They shared one more cup of coffee, then cleaned up, packed their backpacks, and walked down to the beach, where they’d grounded the cabin cruiser. Sam tossed their backpacks over the railing, then gave Remi a boost.“Anchor?” she called.

  “Coming.”

  Sam squatted beside the auger-shaped beach anchor, wriggled it free, then handed it up to Remi. She disappeared, and he could hear her feet padding along the deck, and then a few seconds later the engines growled to life and settled into a sputtering idle.“Slow back,” Sam called.

  “Slow back, aye,” Remi replied.

  When Sam heard the propeller begin to churn, he leaned hard against the hull, dug his feet into the wet sand, coiled his legs, and shoved. The boat eased back a foot, then another, then floated free. He reached up, snagged the lowermost railing with his hands, then swung his legs up, hooked his heel on the gunwale, and climbed aboard.“
Chumbe Island?” Remi called through the open pilothouse window.

  “Chumbe Island,” Sam confirmed. “Got a mystery to solve.”

  THEY WERE A FEW MILES northwest of Prison Island when Sam’s satellite phone trilled. Sitting on the afterdeck, sorting through their gear, Sam picked up the phone and pressed Talk. It was Selma. “Good news, not so good news,” she said.“Good news first,” Sam said.

  “According to Tanzania’s Ministry of Natural Resources regulations, the spot where you found the bell is outside sanctuary boundaries. There’s no reef there, so no protection necessary.”“And the not so good news?”

  “Tanzanian maritime salvage law still applies-‘No extraordinary excavation methods.’ It’s a gray area, but it sounds like you’re going to need more than Ping-Pong paddles to free that bell. I’ve got both Pete and Wendy looking into the permit process-discreetly, of course.”

  Boyfriend and girlfriend Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden-tan and fit blond Californians with degrees in archaeology and social sciences, respectively-worked as Selma’s apprentices.“Good,” Sam said. “Keep us posted.”

  AFTER A BRIEF STOP at the Stone Town docks to refuel and gather the days’ provisions, it took another leisurely ninety minutes’ cruising down the coast and picking their way through the channels of Zanzibar’s outer islands before they reached the bell’s GPS coordinates. Sam went forward and dropped anchor. The air was dead calm and the sky a cloudless blue. As Zanzibar sat just below the equator, July was during winter rather than summer, so the temperature wouldn’t climb above the low eighties. A good day for diving. He hoisted the white-stripe-on-red diver-down flag on the halyard, then joined Remi on the afterdeck.“Tanks or snorkel?” she asked.

  “Let’s start with snorkel.” The bell was sitting in ten feet of water. “Let’s get a good look at what we’re up against, then regroup.”

  AS IT HAD BEEN the day before and was ninety percent of the time in Zanzibar, the water was stunningly clear, ranging in shade from turquoise to indigo. Sam rolled backward over the gunwale, followed a few seconds later by Remi. Together they hung motionless on the surface for a few seconds, letting the cloud of bubbles and froth dissipate, then flipped over and dove. Once they reached the white sand bottom they turned right and soon reached the lip of the bank, where they performed another pike dive and followed the vertical face to the bottom. They stopped, knelt in the sand, and jammed their dive knives into the bottom to use as handholds.

  Ahead they could see the edge of the Good-bye Zone. The previous night’s storm had not only ramped up the current in the main channel but had also churned up a lot of debris, so thick it looked like a solid gray-brown wall of sand. This at least would keep the sharks away from the shallows. The downside was they could feel the draw of the current from where they hovered.Sam tapped his snorkel and jerked his thumb upward. Remi nodded.

  They finned for the surface and broke into the air.

  “You feel that?” Sam asked.

  Remi nodded. “Felt like an invisible hand was trying to grab us.”

  “Stick close to the bank.”

  “Got it.”

  They dove again. On the bottom, Sam checked the readout on his GPS unit, oriented himself, then pointed south down the bank and signed to Remi: 30 feet . Resurfacing, they swam that way in single file, Sam in the lead, one eye on the GPS, one eye on his position. He stopped again and pointed an index finger down.

  Where the bell had jutted from the bank there was now nothing but a barrel-shaped crater. Anxiously they scanned left and right. Remi saw it first, a curved indentation in the bottom, ten feet to their right, connected to another indentation by a curved line like a sidewinder’s trail. The pattern repeated. They followed it with their eyes until, twenty feet away, they saw a dark lump jutting from the sand. It was the bell.

  It took little imagination to piece together what had happened: Throughout the night the storm-driven waves had scoured the bank, slowly but steadily eroding the sand around the bell until it tumbled from its resting place. From there the surge had rolled the bell along its mouth, physics, erosion, and time doing their work until the storm passed.

  Sam and Remi turned to each other and nodded excitedly. Where Tanzanian law had forbidden them to use “extraordinary excavation methods,” Mother Nature had come to the rescue.

  They swam toward the bell but had only covered half the distance when Sam reached out a halting hand to Remi’s arm. She had already stopped and was staring ahead. She’d seen what he’d seen.The bell had come to a stop at the lip of the precipice, with the waist, shoulder, and crown embedded in the sand and the sound ring and mouth jutting into empty space.

  BACK ON THE SURFACE, they got their breath. Remi said, “It’s too big.”

  “Too big for what? To move?”

  “No, to belong to the Speaker .”

  Sam considered this. “You’re right. I didn’t notice.”

  The Speaker’s displacement was listed as four hundred fifty tons. According to standard measures for the era in question, her bell wouldn’t have weighed more than sixty pounds. Their bell was bigger than that.“Curiouser and curiouser,” Sam said. “Back to the boat. We need a plan.”

  THEY WERE TEN FEET from the boat when they heard the rumble of diesel engines approaching from behind. They reached the ladder and turned around to see a Tanzanian coast guard gunboat a hundred yards away. Sam and Remi climbed onto the Andreyale’s afterdeck and shed their gear.“Smile and wave,” Sam murmured.

  “Are we in trouble?” Remi whispered through her smile.

  “Don’t know. We’ll soon find out.” Sam continued waving.

  “I’ve heard Tanzanian jails are unpleasant.”

  “Every jail is unpleasant. It’s all relative.”

  Thirty feet away, the gunboat came about and drew parallel to them, bow to stern. Sam now saw it was an upgraded 1960s-era Chinese Yulin-class patrol boat. They saw Yulins several times on each of their trips, and Sam, ever interested, had done his homework: forty feet long, ten tons; three-shaft, two six-hundred-horsepower diesel engines; and a pair of twin 12.7mm deck guns fore and aft.

  Two sailors in jungle fatigues stood on the afterdeck and two more on the forecastle. All bore shoulder-slung AK-47s. A tall black man in crisp whites, clearly the captain, stepped from the cabin and walked to the railing.“Ahoy,” he called. Unlike Sam and Remi’s previous encounters with the coast guard, this captain was grim-faced. No welcoming smile or pleasantries.

  “Ahoy,” Sam replied.

  “Routine safety check. We will board you now.”

  “Be our guest.”

  The gunboat’s engines gurgled, and the Yulin angled closer until its bow was ten feet away. The engines went back to idle, and the Yulin glided to a stop beside them. The sailors on the afterdeck tossed tire bumpers over the side, then reached down, grabbed the Andreyale’s railing, and pulled the boats together. The captain vaulted over the railing and landed catlike on the Andreyale’s afterdeck beside Sam and Remi.“You are flying the diver flag, I see,” he said.

  “Doing a little snorkeling,” Sam replied.

  “This boat is yours?” “No, a rental.”

  “Your papers.”

  “For the boat?”

  “And diving certificates.”

  Remi said, “I’ll get them,” then trotted down the steps into the cabin.

  The captain asked Sam, “What is your purpose here?”

  “On Zanzibar or here specifically?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “Just on vacation. This seemed like a nice spot. We were here yesterday.”

  Remi returned with the documents and handed them to the captain, who first examined the rental agreement, then their diving certificates. He looked up and studied their faces. “You are Sam and Remi Fargo.”Sam nodded.

  “The treasure hunters.”

  Remi said, “For lack of a better term.”

  “Are you hunting treasure on Zanzibar?”

 
Sam smiled. “That’s not why we came, but we try to keep our eyes open.” Over the captain’s shoulder, behind the tinted windows of the Yulin’s cabin, Sam saw a shadowed figure. It appeared to be staring at them.“Have your eyes seen anything on this visit?”

  “A coin.”

  “You are aware of Tanzanian law regarding these matters?”

  Remi nodded. “We are.” From the Yulin, a knuckle rapped once on the window.

  The captain looked over his shoulder, said to Sam and Remi, “Wait here,” then climbed back over the railing and stepped into the Yulin’s cabin. He reappeared a minute later and jumped back down.“The coin you have found-describe it.”

  Without hesitation, Remi said, “Round, copper, about the size of a fifty-shilling piece. It’s badly pitted. We haven’t been able to make anything of it.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “No,” said Sam.

  “And you say you are not hunting for any shipwrecks or specific treasure?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Where are you staying on Zanzibar?”

  Sam saw no point in lying. They would double-check the answer. “A bungalow on Kendwa Beach.”

  The captain handed back their papers, then tipped his cap to them. “Good day.”

  And then he was back over the rail and inside the Yulin’s cabin. The gunboat’s engines rumbled, the sailors pushed off, and the gunboat came about and steered west toward the channel. Sam took two long strides, ducked into the cabin, and reemerged with a pair of binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes and trained them on the Yulin. After twenty seconds, he lowered the binoculars.“What?” Remi asked.

  “There was someone in the cabin giving orders.”

  “The knock on the window?” Remi said. “Did you get a look at him?”

  Sam nodded. “Not black and not in uniform. He looked Hispanic-maybe Mediterranean. Thin, hawk nose, thick eyebrows.”

  “What kind of non-Tanzanian civilian would have the power to order about a coast guard gunboat and her crew?”