Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

Remi throttled down and walked to the stern. Sam ducked under the raft and emerged in its center beneath the transom. “I’m going to push up on this crossbeam, and you’re going to pull,” he said.“Got it.”

Working together they manhandled the log onto the gunwale with the protruding ends jutting over the afterdeck.

Remi stood back and wiped her hands. “I think I see where you’re going with this.” She recited, “‘Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it-’”

“‘-and I shall move the world,’” Sam finished. “Archimedes.”

Using the hatchet, Sam chopped a notch into each end of log resting on the gunwale. Next he picked up one of the saplings, handed it to Remi, then grabbed his own.

“Now the trick part,” Sam said.

Each of them placed the notched tip of a sapling into the corresponding notch on the log, then braced the other end against the port and starboard cleats respectively.

“Care to do the honors?” Sam asked.

“Where are you going to be?”

“In the cabin with you. If those saplings let go, we don’t want to be anywhere near them. Slow back, if you will.”

Remi engaged the throttle and eased the Andreyale backward. Slowly the front edge of the raft began rising. The saplings trembled and bent like a pair of bows being drawn. The logs groaned. Inch by inch the bell rose from the water until its mouth was even with the gunwale.

“Hold here,” Sam said. “Steerageway only.” He grabbed the remainder of the anchor line and padded onto the afterdeck, his eyes darting from one trembling sapling to the other. At the transom he leaned out, knotted the line around the bell’s crown, then backed into the cabin, uncoiling line as he went.“All back slow,” he murmured.

Remi leaned back and whispered in his ear, “If we drop that thing through the deck, I’m pretty sure we’re going to lose our deposit.”

Sam chuckled. “We’ve got Triple A.”

The Andreyale eased backward. The saplings kept bending, creaking. Gingerly, Sam took up the slack in the line. The bell slid over the gunwale, bounced on the lip, and started swinging.“Sam . . .” Remi warned.

“I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold it here. Easy . . .”

He spun around, darted down the ladder, and emerged ten seconds later carrying a mattress. In a double-handed bowler’s motion, he slid the mattress down the deck to the transom.“Gun it!” he called.

Remi jammed the throttle to its stops. Sam heaved back on the line. Like overlapping gunshots, the saplings snapped and twirled away. With a dull thunk the bell crashed into the mattress, rolled onto its side, and went still.

ZANZIBAR

“WE LOST A MAN,” ITZLI RIVERA SAID INTO THE PHONE.

“Oh?” President Quauhtli Garza replied. Even from ten thousand miles away his disinterest was palpable.

“Yaotl. He drowned. His body was lost in the channel. He was a good soldier, Mr. President.”

“Who gave his life for a greater cause. It’s fitting. In Nahuatl, Yaotl means ‘warrior,’ you know. He will be greeted by Huitzilopochtli and reside for eternity in Omeyocan,” Garza replied, referring to the Aztec god of war that kept the sun moving in the sky, and the most sacred of the Aztec’s thirteen heavenly realms. “Is that not reward enough?”“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Itzli, please tell me that’s all you have to report.”

“No. There is more. The Fargos may have found something. A ship’s bell.”

“What do you mean ‘may have found’?”

“We searched their boat. On a pad of paper we found a diagram of a ship’s bell.”

“Describe it. Is it the right one?”

“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 shaded 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.”

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No.”

Sam chuckled. “There’s no crime in admitting it.”

“Just do what you’re going to do. Get it over with.”

“What exactly do you think we’re going to do to you?” asked Sam.

“Torture me?”

“If that’s your first guess, you must keep some nasty company.”