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  CHAPTER 11

  UNIVERSITY OF DAR ES SALAAM

  THE UNIVERSITY’S CENTRAL CAMPUS SAT NORTHWEST OF THE CITY center on a hill. Having called ahead, Sam and Remi found the library’s director, Amidah Kilembe, a beautiful black woman in a fern-green pantsuit, waiting to greet them on the steps.“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome to our facility.”

  Pleasantries were exchanged as Ms. Kilembe took them up the steps and through the main doors, at which point she gave them a walking tour of the building, which eventually took them to the third-floor reference area. The decor was a mixture of Old World colonial and traditional African: dark furniture and paneling that glowed from decades of polishing surrounded by splashes of colorful Tanzanian art and artifacts. Save a few of the library staff, the building was empty. “It’s a school holiday,” Ms. Kilembe explained.“We’re sorry,” Sam said. “We thought-”

  “Oh, no, no. For the staff it is a regular workday. In fact, as chance would have it, you’ve chosen the perfect day to visit. I myself will be assisting you.”

  “We don’t want to impose,” Remi said. “I’m sure you have other . . .”

  Ms. Kilembe smiled broadly. “Not at all. I have read of, and enjoyed, several of your exploits. I will, of course, keep my silence about what we discuss here today.” She touched an index finger to her lips and winked. “If you’ll follow me, I have a quiet room set aside for you.”

  They followed her to a glass-enclosed room, in the center of which sat a long walnut table and two padded chairs. Before each chair sat a twenty-inch Apple iMac computer. Ms. Kilembe saw their surprised expressions and chuckled. “Three years ago Mr. Steve Jobs himself visited the campus. He saw that we had very few computers and all of them old, so he made a generous donation. We now have forty of these wonderful machines. And broadband Internet!

  “Very well. I will let you get started. First, I will bring you coffee. I have you both set up with guest log-ins for the catalogues. Most of our materials have been digitized back to 1970. Those that have not been will be in our basement archives area. You tell me what you need, and I will bring it. So, good hunting!”And then Ms. Kilembe was gone, pulling the door shut behind her.

  “Where do we start?” Sam wondered aloud.

  “Let’s check in with Selma.”

  Sam double-clicked the iChat icon on the screen and typed in Selma’s address. The computer’s iSight camera turned green and in ten seconds Selma’s face appeared on the screen.“Where are you?” she asked.

  “University of Dar es Salaam.”

  Behind Selma, Pete and Wendy were sitting at the worktable. They waved.

  Remi said, “We’re getting ready to dig in. Do you have anything for us?”

  “The last search is finishing now.”

  On-screen, Pete walked across to a computer workstation, tapped the keyboard a couple times, then called, “Coming over to you, Selma.” Sam and Remi watched as Selma studied the document, her eyes darting across the screen.

  At last she said, “Not much there. We checked all the major shipwreck databases and found only eighteen sites in the waters around Zanzibar. We even extended the grid fifty miles on all compass points. Of the eighteen, fourteen are identified, and only one of those comes even remotely close to the assumed same time frame as the Ophelia .”“Go on.”

  “The Glasgow . Commissioned in 1877 after the Sultan of Zanzibar lost his ‘fleet’ to the 1872 storm. It was delivered in the summer of 1878, but the Sultan was unimpressed, so it sat abandoned and unused at anchor off Zanzibar until the Anglo-Zanzibar War of 1896, when the British sunk her with naval gunfire.

  “In 1912 the wreck was reduced to her bottom frames by a salvage company, and the majority of the pieces dumped at sea. In the seventies, the Glasgow’s engine block, propeller shaft, some crockery, and a few nine-pound shells were found on the site.”“Where’s the site?” Remi asked.

  “About two hundred yards off the Stone Town beach. In fact, you were within sight of it at the restaurant the other night.”

  “So about fifteen crow’s miles from where we found the Ophelia ’s bell,” Sam said. “So scratch the Glasgow. What else?”

  “Four of the wrecks in the database are unidentified. One is sitting in the Pangani River thirty-five miles to the north; the next two are in Tanga Bay fifty miles to the north; the last one is sitting off Bongoyo Island in Dar es Salaam’s Msasani Bay. As far as I can tell, none of them is any deeper than thirty feet.”

  “Thirty feet of clear water,” Sam added. “We’ll check with area dive shops. Chances are, someone’s identified them but never bothered to say anything. Probably nothing more than dive attractions now.”“Sorry I came up empty,” Selma said.

  “You didn’t,” Remi replied. “Ruling out is just as important as ruling in.”

  “Two other things. Mrs. Fargo, you were right about those names, they are Nahuatl, traditional Aztec names. For what it’s worth, it’s been something of a trend in Mexico City for the last few years-”

  “The Mexica Tenochca Party,” Remi finished. She saw Sam’s confused expression, then added, “The current president is an ubernationalist, a pre-Spanish invasion nationalist. Aztec names, history courses taught in schools, religious observances, art . . .”“In addition to everything else, Rivera and his pals are political zealots,” Sam replied drily. “Just what we need.”

  “What else, Selma?”

  “I studied the pictures of the bell you sent. I assume you noticed the clapper?”

  “You mean that it’s missing?” Sam asked. “We noticed.”

  Sam disconnected, then turned to Remi. “So, newspapers?”

  She nodded. “Newspapers.”

  SAM AND REMI WERE believers in the pyramid theory of research: Start with the top of the pyramid, the specific, and work your way down to the base, the general. The first search terms they tried were “Ophelia,” “wreck,” and “discovered.” Not surprisingly, all they got were stories Selma had covered. Next they tried “famous,” “shipwrecks,” and “Zanzibar” and got the expected results: fluff stories about the Glasgow and the El Majidi, another ship belonging to the Sultan of Zanzibar that had been lost during the 1872 hurricane, and the HMS Pegasus, sunk in 1914 following a surprise attack by the German cruiser Konigsberg .Ms. Kilembe returned with a carafe of coffee and two mugs, asked if they needed anything, then disappeared again.

  Remi said, “We forgot Chumbe Island, Sam. We’re assuming the BBC interview brought Rivera here . . .”

  “Right.” Sam combined the previous search terms with “Chumbe Island” and got zero hits. He tried again with the terms “diving,” “artifact,” and “discovery.” He scrolled through the stories, then stopped. “Huh,” he muttered.“What?”

  “Probably nothing, but it’s curious. Two months ago a British woman named Sylvie Radford was found murdered in Stone Town. An apparent mugging gone wrong. She’d come to do some diving off Chumbe. Listen to this: ‘According to the woman’s parents, Ms. Radford had been having a wonderful diving vacation, having already found several artifacts, including what she thought might be part of a Roman-style sword.’”

  “‘A Roman-style sword,’” Remi repeated. “Interesting. Her words or the reporter’s, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Either way, it’s a pretty specific description. Most laypeople would just say ‘sword.’”Remi leaned closer to the screen, then jotted down the reporter’s name. “It might be in her notes.”

  Sam started tapping the keyboard again, this time with some urgency. Into the search box he entered “southern,” “Zanzibar,” “diving,” and “death” and set the time frame from present day to ten years earlier. Dozens of stories appeared on the screen.“Let’s split them up,” Remi said, then typed the terms into her own search box. “Start with the oldest?”

  Sam nodded.

  In years ten through eight, four deaths were linked to their search terms. In each case, however, independent eyewitness reports co
nfirmed they were accidental: one shark bite, one diving mishap, and two vehicle accidents, both involving alcohol.“Here,” Remi said. “Seven years ago. Two people, both tourists on diving vacations.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “It just says the southwest coast of Zanzibar. One of them was killed by a hit-and-run driver. The other one fell down some steps in Stone Town. No alcohol involved, no witnesses.”“Six years ago,” Sam said, reading from the screen, “two dead. One suicide, one drowning. Again, no witnesses.”

  And so it went with year five up to the present day: tourist divers, most of them spending time near or around Chumbe Island, dying in strange accidents or muggings gone wrong.“I count five,” Remi said.

  “I’ve got four,” replied Sam.

  They were silent for a few moments.

  Remi said, “Has to be a coincidence, right?” Sam simply stared at his screen, so Remi said, “Otherwise, what are we saying? Rivera and whoever he works for have been murdering divers that show an interest in Chumbe Island?”

  “No, it can’t be that. They would number in the hundreds . . . the thousands. Maybe it’s the people who declare their finds. Or take them to local shops for identification. If we’re right about this, these people have to have something else in common.”“They told someone about what they found,” Remi offered.

  “And it was the right kind of artifact, something to do with the Ophelia . Or the ship with the blotted-out name.”

  “Either way, if she’d sunk off Chumbe, artifacts would be washing up on the beach. Every monsoon there would be debris just sitting on the bottom waiting for someone with a Ping-Pong paddle to come along.”

  “True,” said Sam. “But there are plenty of people who find something and never mention it. They go home and put it on their mantel as a souvenir. In fact, that describes most casual treasure divers: They find something, make a minor effort to identify it, but if it’s not something obviously ‘treasure-ish’ they treat it as a keepsake . . . ‘Our week in Zanzibar.’”“This is a huge leap we’re talking about, Sam.”

  “I just remembered something: Rivera said he’s been looking for the Ophelia for seven years.”

  “About the same time the strange deaths started.”

  “Exactly. I need to call Rube. We need to find out how good Tanzanian immigration and customs are at recordkeeping.”

  SAM MADE THE CALL and explained their request to an incredulous but willing Rube Haywood, who said, “So your theory is that Rivera was in Zanzibar around the time all the deaths would have taken place?”“It’s worth a shot. Even if the records don’t show he was here every time, he may not have traveled under his own name.”

  “I’ll look into it. Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  Sam thanked him and disconnected.

  A few minutes later Ms. Kilembe knocked on the door and peeked her head inside. “Do you need anything?”

  They thanked her and declined. She was turning to leave when Sam asked, “Ms. Kilembe, how long have you been with the library?”“Thirty years.”

  “And how long in this area?”

  “All my life. I was born in Fumba, on Zanzibar.”

  “We’re looking for anything on a ship called Ophelia . Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Ms. Kilembe furrowed her brow. After ten seconds of thought, she said, “I assume you’ve been to the Blaylock already?”

  “The Blaylock?”

  “The Blaylock Museum in Bagamoyo. There’s a charcoal sketch there of a ship. Unless my memory fails me, the ship’s name is Ophelia.”

  CHAPTER 12

  BAGAMOYO

  OF THE TWO CITIES WITHIN EASY REACH OF ZANZIBAR , DAR ES Salaam and Bagamoyo, the latter was Sam and Remi’s favorite. With a population of thirty thousand, Bagamoyo is a microcosm of both traditional African and colonial African history without the big-city bustle of Dar es Salaam and its two and a half million inhabitants.

  Founded by Omani nomads in the late 1700s, Bagamoyo has at times been home to Arab and Indian traders of ivory and salt, Christian missionaries, slave traders, the German East Africa colonial government, and big game hunters and explorers bound for Morogoro, Lake Tanganyika, and Usambara.

  “Here’s something we didn’t know,” Remi said, reading from the guidebook as Sam drove. “David Livingstone, in all his years in Africa, never visited Bagamoyo-at least not alive. He was brought to Bagamoyo after he died and was laid out in the Old Church Tower, now called Livingstone Tower, to wait for high tide so they could ship his body to Zanzibar.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “I’d always assumed he’d used Bagamoyo as a staging area just like everyone else. Okay, we’re on the outskirts. Where’d Ms. Kilembe say the museum was?”

  Remi plucked the Post-it note from inside the guidebook and read: “Two blocks from the old German boma, a fort.”“Which one? There are two, I think the guidebook said.”

  Remi flipped over the note. “That’s all she wrote. Guess we’ll have to check them both.”

  They found the first a few hundred yards north of three of Bagamoyo’s biggest tourist attractions: the crocodile farm, the Kaole Ruins, and a five-hundred-year-old baobab tree. They parked on the dirt road before the crumbling whitewashed fort and got out. A teenage boy walked by with a donkey on a lead. He smiled broadly and said, “Jambo. Habari gani?”

  Hello. How are you?In halting Swahili, Sam replied, “Nzuri. Unasema kiingereza?”

  “Yes, I speak little English.”

  “We’re looking for the Blaylock Museum.”

  “Oh, yes, Crazy Man House.”

  “No, I’m sorry, the Blaylock Museum.”

  “Yes, same thing. Other boma

  . One kilometer up. Livingstone Cross, yes?”

  “Yes. Asante sana ,” Sam replied.

  “You’re welcome, bye-bye.”

  With a click of his tongue, the boy continued on with his donkey.

  “Your Swahili is improving,” Remi remarked.

  “Just don’t ask me to order food. You won’t like what we get.” “What did he mean ‘Crazy Man House’?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  THEY FOUND THE OTHER boma with little trouble, following glimpses of its whitewashed battlements until they reached its crushed-shell parking lot. Here there were more locals going about their business, selling food and sundries from storefronts and awning-covered carts. Sam and Remi got out and began walking, looking for a sign that read either “Blaylock” or “Crazy Man.” After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, they stopped at a vendor’s cart, bought two ice-cold bottles of cola, and asked for directions.“Yes, Crazy Man House,” the man said. He pointed west down a narrow dirt alley. “Two hundred meters there, find wall, then thick trees. Turn right, find path, find place.”

  “Asante sana,” Remi said.

  “Starehe.”

  AS PROMISED, THEY FOUND a waist-high mud-brick wall before a grove of acacia and wild lavender. They turned right and, twenty feet down, came to an opening in the wall. On the other side, a winding path took them through the grove to a white picket fence, beyond which stood an old schoolhouse, long and narrow, with a butter yellow exterior and heavy shutters in dark blue. A black-on-white hand-painted sign above the porch steps read BLAYLOCK MUSEUM AND CURIOSITY SHOP. The last three words were clearly written in a different hand, as though added later as an afterthought.

  A bell above the door tinkled as they entered. Hand-hewn support posts ran down the center of the space supporting rafters, from which hung dozens of poorly stuffed African birds in poses that Sam and Remi assumed were meant to represent midflight. Sitting on the rafters above their inanimate cousins were several animate pigeons. Their cooing filled the space.

  The walls were dominated by wicker shelving units, no two sharing the same height or width or shade of wood. Spaced at intervals down the building’s midline were eight rickety card tables covered with threadbare sheets. On both the shelves and card tables were hundre
ds of knickknacks: wooden and ivory statuettes of giraffes, lions, zebras, dik-diks, snakes, and people; collections of knives ranging from the standard pocket variety to daggers carved from bone; hand-painted fetishes covered with feathers and bits of tree bark; hand-drawn maps on hide; charcoal pencil portraits and landscapes; compasses; water bags made from animal stomachs; and several models of Webley revolvers and bullets of varying sizes.“Welcome to the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop,” a voice called in surprisingly good English.

  At the far end of the room was a lone card table they hadn’t noticed. Sitting behind it was an elderly black man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and a white GOT MILK? T-shirt.“Thank you,” Remi replied.

  Sam and Remi walked over and introduced themselves.

  “I am Morton,” the man replied.

  “Forgive us, but what exactly is this place?” Sam asked.

  “It is the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop.”

  “Yes, I know, but to whom is it dedicated?”

  “The greatest unsung African explorer to ever grace the shores of the Dark Continent,” the man replied. Clearly, he’d delivered this pitch many times. “The man to whom hundreds owe their lives and the lives of their grandchildren: Winston Lloyd Blaylock, the Mbogo of Bagamoyo.”“The ‘Mbogo of Bagamoyo,’” Sam repeated. “The Buffalo of Bagamoyo?”

  “That is correct. The Cape buffalo.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Remi asked.

  “Mbogo Blaylock came from America to Bagamoyo in 1872 to seek his fortune. He stood four inches over six feet, weighed twice as much as the average Tanganyikan man at the time, and had shoulders as wide as the mbogo

  for which he is named.”

  “Is that him?” Sam asked, pointing to a grainy black-and-white daguerreotype on the wall above Morton. It showed a tall, broad-shouldered man in Hemingwayesque safari clothes. In the background were a dozen Maasai warriors kneeling with assegai spears.“That is him,” Morton confirmed. “The complete history of the Mbogo is available in this fine leather-bound volume.”