“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?”
CHAPTER 13
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?”
“He wanted twenty,” Sam replied. “We talked him up. Selma. He’s a dying man and he’s got grandkids to put through college.”
“Sounds like a con man to me.”
“We don’t think so,” Remi replied. “The staff’s seven feet tall, made of black ironwood, and topped with the bronze clapper from the Ophelia’s bell.”
“Is this pull-a-joke-on-Selma day?”
Sam replied, “You’ll see it for yourself. Morton’s including it in the first shipment from the museum. We’re also FedExing you a copy of Blaylock’s biography. We need you to work your magic on it. Dissect it, cross-reference every name, place, and description . . . You know what to do.”“I haven’t heard you two this excited since you called from that cave in the Alps.”
“We are excited,” Remi replied. “It appears Winston Blaylock spent a good portion of his adult life chasing a treasure, and, unless we’re wrong, it’s something Rivera and his boss don’t want us to find. Blaylock could be our Rosetta stone.”
Sam turned the Land Cruiser onto the road leading to their villa, then slammed on the brakes. A hundred yards away through the windshield they saw a figure walk across the patio and disappear into the bushes.Remi said, “Selma, we’ll have to call you back,” then hung up. “Is it them, Sam?”
“It’s them. Check out the patio. The bell’s gone.”
Ahead and to the right, the figure emerged from the bushes bordering the beach and began sprinting toward the waterline, where a twenty-seven-foot Rinker powerboat sat alongside the quay across from their Andreyale. A half mile out the yacht Njiwa sat at anchor. Standing on the Rinker’s afterdeck were two figures. Between them was the Ophelia’s bell.“Damn it!” Sam muttered.
“How did they find us?” Remi said.
“No idea. Hold on!”
He punched the gas pedal. The tires bit into the dirt, and the Land Cruiser lurched forward. Sam watched the speedometer climb past fifty, then swung the wheel left, then right, aiming the hood squarely at the brush-covered berm.“Oh, boy . . .” Remi said. She pressed her hands against the dashboard and her head against the rest.
The berm loomed before them. The Land Cruiser tipped backward. Sky filled the windshield, then they were tipping forward again, soaring through the air, the engine roaring as the tires spun freely. The Cruiser crashed to the earth. Sand peppered the windshield. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and after a momentary groan of protest the engine responded and they were again moving forward, albeit at half speed as the tires struggled to find purchase in the dry sand.Ahead, the running figure had nearly reached the quay. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Land Cruiser, and stumbled. It was Yaotl.
“Guess he didn’t like our hospitality,” Sam called.
“Can’t imagine why,” replied Remi.
Yaotl was back on his feet. He charged up the quay’s steps, taking them two at a time, then dashed toward the waiting Rinker, where Rivera and Nochtli were waving their arms, urging him on.
Sam kept going, jostling the wheel and trying to feel his way to firmer ground. The quay was fifty yards away. Yaotl reached the Rinker and jumped aboard. Thirty yards to go. Nochtli moved to the driver’s seat and settled behind the wheel. Smoke burst from the exhaust manifold.
Quite casually, Rivera stepped past the panting Yaotl, gave him a clap on the shoulder, then stepped to the transom. He stared at the approaching Land Cruiser for a moment, then raised his hand as if to wave.Sam muttered, “Son of a-”
Remi said, “He’s got something.”
“What?”
“In his hand! He’s holding something!”
Sam slammed on the brakes. The Land Cruiser slewed sideways and shuddered to a halt. Sam shifted the transmission into reverse, his foot ready to move from the brake to the accelerator.
His eyes never leaving theirs, Rivera smiled grimly, then reached up, pulled the pin on the grenade, turned, and tossed it into the Andreyale. Ahead of a rooster tail of water, the Rinker shot away from the quay and headed for the Njiwa.
With a dull crump, the grenade exploded. A geyser of water and wood splinters shot upward and rained down on the quay. The Andreyale settled lower in the water, then slowly disappeared beneath the surface in a cloud of bubbles.
AFTER BACKING THE SUV over the sand and dunes to the road, they watched Rivera and his men tool out to the Njiwa. Within minutes the anchor was weighed, and the yacht got under way, heading south down the coast.“I’d started to grow attached to that bell,” Sam muttered.