Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

“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 hundreds 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.”

Morton swept his hand toward a wicker shelf on the right-hand wall. Remi walked over and lifted one of the books from the stack. The cover was not leather but rather Naugahyde, crudely stapled into place. Glued to the front was a reproduction of the wall photo.

“We’ll take two,” Sam said, and brought their purchases back to the card table. As he was paying Remi asked, “We were told we might find something about a ship here. The Ophelia?”

Morton nodded and pointed to a three-by-five-foot framed charcoal sketch of a steam-sail ship. “The hunt for the Ophelia was Mbogo Blaylock’s first great adventure. It is all in the book. I wrote the index myself. It took me three years.”“That’s true dedication,” said Remi. “How did you come to . . . be here? Did your family know Mr. Blaylock?”

For the first time since they entered, Morton smiled. Proudly. “My family is Mbogo Blaylock. I am second cousin to Mbogo’s great-grandson.”

“Pardon me?” Sam asked. “You’re related to Winston Blaylock?”

“Of course. Doesn’t it show?”

Sam and Remi didn’t know how to respond. After a few moments Morton slapped his knee and laughed. “Got you, yes?”

“Yes, you did,” Sam replied. “So you’re not-”

“No, that part is true. The resemblance is difficult to see, however. You may see my birth certificate if you wish.” Before they could answer, Morton produced it from a lockbox beneath the card table. He unfolded it and slid it across to them. Sam and Remi leaned over to study it, then straightened up.“That’s amazing,” Remi said. “So he married? Took a Tanzanian wife?”

“Back then it was still called Tanganyika-before the Germans came, you see. And no, he did not take a wife. But he did take six concubines and had many children. That, too, is in the book.”

Sam and Remi exchanged dumbfounded glances. Sam asked Morton, “What happened to him?”“No one knows. He disappeared from here in 1882. His grandson claims he was chasing a treasure.”

“What kind of treasure?”

“That is a secret he shared with no one.”

“Some people in town called it the-”

“Crazy Man House,” Morton said. “It’s not an insult. The word doesn’t translate well into English. In Swahili, it doesn’t mean crazy so much as . . . free-spirited. Wild.”

“All these artifacts belonged to him?” Remi asked.

“Yes. Most he killed, made, or found with his own hands. Others are gifts and offerings. Offer a fair price, and I will consider it.”

“I don’t understand. You’re selling his belongings?”

“I have no choice. I am the last of Mbogo Blaylock’s descendants. At least that is still here. My two children live in England. They are going to school. I’m sick and not long for this world.”“We’re very sorry to hear that,” Sam said. “May we look around?”

“Of course. Ask questions if you have them.”

Sam and Remi walked away. She whispered, “You think it’s all true? The picture does look an awful lot like Hemingway.”

“Why don’t you call Ms. Kilembe and ask.”

Remi went outside, returned five minutes later, and walked over to Sam, who was staring at a walking staff mounted on the wall.

“She says it’s all legitimate. The museum’s been here since 1915.” Sam didn’t respond. He remained still, his eyes fixed on the staff. “Sam? Did you hear me? Sam, what’s so fascinating?”“Do you see anything unusual about it?” he murmured. Remi studied it for a few moments. “No, not really.”

“Look at the head . . . the metal part with the rounded end.”

She did. She cocked her head, squinted her eyes, then: “Is that . . . ?”

Sam nodded. “A bell clapper.”

They stared at it for another long ten seconds, then Sam turned to Morton and said, “How much for all of it?”

ZANZIBAR

“PARDON ME?” SELMA SAID OVER THE SPEAKERPHONE. “SAY THAT again. You want what shipped back here?”

From the passenger seat of their Toyota Remi said, “Not the whole museum, Selma, just the contents. In all it should weigh about . . .” She looked to Sam, who said, “Five to seven hundred pounds.”Selma said, “I heard.” She sighed. “Who do I-”

“The owner’s name is Morton Blaylock. We’re putting him up in the Moevenpick Royal Palm in Dar es Salaam while you two make arrangements. By this afternoon he’ll have an account set up at Barclays. Wire thirty thousand dollars to him from our business account, then another thirty when everything’s packed up and on its way to you.”“Sixty thousand dollars?” Selma said. “You paid him sixty thousand? Do you know how much that is in Tanzanian shillings? It’s a fortune. Did you haggle with him at least?”