Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me make some calls. What else?”

“He claims his boss’s name is Itzli Rivera, former Mexican army. It’d be nice to know more about him and the yacht they were using. He claims it’s home-ported out of Bagamoyo. The Njiwa.”“Spell it.”

Remi did so. “It’s Swahili for ‘pigeon.’”

“Oh, good. Thanks, Remi. I’ve always wondered what the word for pigeon was in Swahili,” Rube said.

“Somebody’s cranky.”

“What are you going to do with the ship’s bell?” “Leave it here,” Sam replied. “Selma booked the villa anonymously and wired cash. Not much chance of them finding it.”“I already know the answer to this, but I feel obligated to ask: Any chance of you two just taking the bell and going home?”

“We might do just that,” Sam replied. “We’re going to do a little more research and see where it takes us. If nothing pans out, we’ll head home.”

“Miracle of miracles,” Rube said. “You two be careful. I’ll call you when I have info.” He hung up.

Remi said to Sam, “We’re going to have to get him something extraspecial for Christmas.”

“Right about now I can guess what he’s wishing for.”

“What’s that?”

“A new, unlisted phone number.”

THEY TOOK THE ANDREYALE south to Uroa Village, found a ramshackle hardware store, gathered what few supplies they needed, and were back at the villa before noon. Remi left Sam with his hammer and nails and wooden planks and went inside to check on Yaotl, who was sound asleep. She found a couple cans of clam chowder, heated them up, and took the bowls out to the patio. Sam was nailing the last two planks into place.“What do you think?” he asked.

“As a box, Sam, it’s wonderful.”

“It’s supposed to be a crate.”

“Crate, box, whatever. Sit down and eat.”

HALF A MILE FROM THE END of Chukwani Point Road, Itzli Rivera pulled the rented Range Rover onto the shoulder, then down into the ditch and up the other side into the trees. The terrain was rugged and heavily choked with scrub brush, but the Rover’s four-wheel drive handled it easily. He turned southwest toward the clearing on Chukwani Point.

“Time?” he asked Nochtli.“Just after one.”

An hour before the Fargos were set to meet the truck from Mnazi Freight amp; Haul. Plenty of time to find a vantage point that provided not only a good line of sight but also an easily accessible route to cut off any escape attempt.“I see the clearing,” Nochtli said, binoculars lifted to his eyes.

“There’s something there.”

“What?”

“See for yourself.”

He handed the binoculars to Itzli, who focused them on the clearing. Sitting in the middle of the dirt road was a wooden crate. Tacked to the side of the crate was a cardboard sign. “There’s something written on it,” he said, then zoomed in. After a moment he muttered, “?Que madres . . . ?”“What?” asked Nochtli. “What does it say?”

“‘Merry Christmas.’”

ITZLI DROVE through the trees, down into the ditch, and back up the side into the clearing. He stopped the Rover and walked over to the crate. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. He ripped off the cardboard sign and flipped it over. Written in block letters was a message:LET’S MEET AND TALK ABOUT BELLS.

NYERERE ROAD CRICKET GROUNDS.

BENCH, SOUTHWEST CORNER.

4:00 P.M.

ZANZIBAR

SAM SAW ITZLI RIVERA APPEAR AT THE NORTHERN SIDE OF THE cricket grounds, walking through the trees bordering the parking lot. Behind him, another man was walking east through the lot, but Sam could not make out his face. The purposefulness of his stride made him stand out. This would be Nochtli, Sam thought.

In the middle of the field, a pickup cricket match of teenagers was under way. Their laughter and shouts echoed across the park. Rivera strolled down the sidewalk on the west side of the grounds and stopped before the bench on which Sam sat.“You came alone,” Rivera said.

Seeing Rivera up close and in daylight immediately altered Sam’s measure of the man. While Sam had never doubted Rivera’s prowess, his chiseled face and sinewy build suggested a rawhide-like toughness. His black eyes regarded Sam impassively-an expression Sam suspected rarely changed, whether Rivera was eating a sandwich or murdering another human being.“Have a seat,” Sam said amiably despite the flutter of fear in his belly. He felt like he was hand-feeding a great white shark.

Rivera did so. “This is your meeting,” he said.

Sam didn’t reply. He watched the cricket match. A minute passed. Rivera broke the silence. “Your prank with the crate-amusing.”

“Something tells me you didn’t laugh, though.”

“No. Where is your wife, Mr. Fargo?”

“Running an errand. You can signal your friend to stop circling the grounds. He won’t find her.”

Rivera considered this for a few moments, then lifted his hand off the back of the bench and made a fist. Across the park, Nochtli stopped walking.

“Let’s talk about our problem,” Sam said.

“And what do you imagine that problem is?”

“You think we have something you want.”

“Tell me exactly: What do you think you have?” Abruptly, Sam stood up. “I enjoy the occasional verbal joust as much as the next man, but not today.”“All right, all right. Sit down, please.”

Sam did so. Rivera said, “The people I work for have been looking for a shipwreck. We believe it was lost in this area.”

“Which ship?”

“The Ophelia .”

“Tell me about it.”

“A steam-sail passenger ship. It was believed to be sunk in these waters in the 1870s.”

“That’s all you know about her?”

“More or less.”

“How long have you been looking for her?”

“Seven years.”

“Actively?”

“Yes, actively.”

“In and around Zanzibar?”

“Of course.”

“I’m assuming you have salvage experience or else they wouldn’t have hired you.”

“I have experience.”

“The people you work for . . . what’s their specific interest?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Something of monetary value, I assume?” Sam asked. “Something the Ophelia carried in her hold when she went down?”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“And you think whatever we may have found belongs to the Ophelia .”

“It’s a possibility my employers would like to explore.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. For the past few minutes Sam had been trying to get Rivera to commit himself, to make statements he and Remi could then use in doing their own research.

Sam said, “This must be one hell of a prize you’re after. You bribe the captain of a Tanzanian gunboat to first intimidate, then surveil us; then, when night falls, you sneak into the lagoon and board our boat with knives drawn.”This caught Rivera off guard. He took a deep breath and let it out with a frustrated sigh.

Sam said, “We watched the whole thing.”

“From where?”

“Does that really matter?”

“No, I suppose not. Please accept my apologies. My friends are ex-soldiers. Some habits are hard to break. The excitement of the job got the better of them. I’ve already chastised them.”“All three of them.”

“Yes.”

Of course, Sam didn’t buy Rivera’s mea culpa, but he said, “Fair enough. What was your plan? To steal whatever you think we found?”

“At that point we didn’t know what you’d found.”

Sam paused for a long ten seconds, then said, “I can’t decide if you think we’re idiots or if you’ve got a short-term-memory problem.”

“Pardon me?” “You’re sitting here because of the sign I left on the crate. You found that crate because of the notations we left next to a diagram of a bell you found on our boat. You think we found a ship’s bell. Why not just come out and say it?”“Consider it said, then.”