“After Waddell surrendered the Shenandoah

, wouldn’t she and everything aboard her have been the property of the Union?”

“Including the bell.”

“Including the bell,” Sam echoed.

“Maybe the Union sold her to the Sultan of Zanzibar, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Could be. But that was in 1866. The El Majidi didn’t sink for another six or thirteen years, depending on which account you go with. Hell, the Sultan named the ship after himself. Does he sound like someone who would hang on to a bell with another ship’s name on it?”“No, he doesn’t. Maybe whoever refitted her just tossed the bell overboard. For the sake of expediency.”

Remi was the devil’s advocate of the couple. She often did her best to poke holes in their thinking; if after going through the “Remi Gauntlet” the theory remained afloat, they then knew they were on to something.

Sam considered this. “Possible, but I’m trying to put myself in the shoes of the Sultan’s shipfitter. He’s probably not the wealthiest of guys-overworked and underpaid. Unsurprisingly, the Sultan demands the ship meet his royal standards, including a shiny new bell. What would this shipfitter do with a ninety-pound, solid bronze bell?”“Sell it,” Selma chimed in.

“Let’s put a pin in that,” Remi said. “It seems safe to assume Blaylock himself came across the bell at some point. If it was still attached to the vessel, he either bought it or stole the ship, then changed the name to Ophelia. If the bell had been discarded by the Sultan, it means Blaylock salvaged the bell, blotted out the Shenandoah name, and engraved it with Ophelia .”“And did what with it? Stared at it?”

“The charcoal sketch at the museum suggests he saw that ship as the Ophelia .”

Sam snapped his fingers. “We’re overthinking this. Remi, boot up your laptop. Selma, e-mail us pictures of the Shenandoah and the El Majidi.”

As they were waiting, Sam plugged his camera into Remi’s laptop, and she called up the photo they’d taken of the Ophelia sketch. “No Wi-Fi signal,” Remi said.

Sam stood up and walked around, checking beneath nearby tables. “There are Ethernet plug-ins,” he said, then walked toward the hostess. He returned two minutes later with an Ethernet cable, which he first plugged into Remi’s laptop, then into the closest plug. “It’s dial-up Internet, but it should do,” Sam said.Over the phone, Selma said, “Images on the way.”

It took four minutes for the JPEG images to load. Remi arranged the pictures on her screen, and they spent a few minutes rotating and zooming and playing with colors until they were certain. “Same ship,” Remi said.

“I agree,” Sam agreed. “Blaylock’s Ophelia is also the Shenandoah and the El Majidi. The question is, at what point in the time line did Blaylock appear and why are there no records of any of this?”“Clearly, Rivera and his friends are interested in our bell. But is it the bell itself or the ship or ships it had once been attached to?”

“There’s only way to find out,” Sam said. “We have to steal it back before Rivera destroys it or loses it.”

THEY IMMEDIATELY REALIZED that, like many things in their line of work, this task was much easier said than done. Sam rummaged around in his pack and came up with a pair of binoculars. He stood up and aimed them out the window. After thirty seconds, he lowered the binoculars. “She’s still headed south, about to slip behind Pingwe Point. Still in no big hurry.”“They know they’ve got us beat.”

Sam grinned. “Never say die.” He picked up his phone and dialed Rube Haywood.

“Sam, I was just about to call you,” Rube said.

“Great minds. I hope we’re on the same wavelength.”

“I have information on the yacht, the Njiwa .”

“Bless you.”

It belongs to a guy named Ambonisye Okafor. One of the ten richest men in the country. You name a Tanzanian export, and he’s got a major stake in it: cashews, tobacco, coffee, cotton, sisal, precious gems, minerals . . .”“How did a hatchet man like Rivera get hooked up with someone like Okafor?”

“Hard to say, exactly, but I did a little digging. In the last five years, the Mexican government has sharply increased its importation of Tanzanian goods, most of it from companies controlled by Ambonisye Okafor. That tells me Rivera has powerful friends in Mexico City. Sam, you two aren’t up against a few mercenaries. You’re up against a government and a Tanzanian millionaire with a whole lot of influence.”“Trust me, Rube, we’re not going to ignore that, but right now all we want is to get back that bell-”

“What does that mean?”

“They stole it. All we want is to get back the bell and head home.”

“That may be easier said-”

“We know. What else can you tell us about the Njiwa ?”

“It’s one of two yachts Okafor owns. This one is homeported on Sukuti Island, about thirty miles south of Dar es Salaam as the crow flies. Okafor has a vacation estate there. Owns the whole island.”“Of course he does.”

Over the years Sam and Remi had found one of the most common traits among megalomaniac millionaires was their aversion to fraternization with the “great unwashed masses.” Owning a private island was an exceedingly effective way to accomplish this.Rube said, “I don’t have to ask what you’re going to do next, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay, but I’m going to throw in my obligatory ‘Be careful.’”

“We’ll call you when we can.”

Sam disconnected and recounted the conversation to Remi. After a few moments’ thought, she said, “Can’t hurt to check it out. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That discretion will trump valor. If we get in over our heads-”

“We’ll retreat.”

“Of course, we’re assuming the Njiwa is headed to Sukuti.”

Sam nodded. “If she’s not, we’re probably out of the game. If she is, we need to get to the bell before they do something nasty to it.”

CHAPTER 15

TANZANIA

THE NJIWA’S NEGLIGIBLE HEAD START QUICKLY BECAME INSURMOUNTABLE as Sam and Remi came up against Tanzania’s geography. Where road travel along the coast and in between population centers was fairly easy, they realized navigating off the beaten path would be a nightmare. The only passable road heading south from Dar es Salaam was the B2, which ran the length of southern Tanzania, never straying closer than ten miles from the coast until it reached Somanga Village, ninety miles south of Sukuti Island. After realizing they would neither reach their destination by road, nor before the Njiwa , they mentally regrouped. Now aware Rivera had some powerful friends on his side, they decided to err on the side of slight paranoia. If Rivera was playing the worst-case-scenario game, he might assume they’d take up pursuit from Zanzibar or Dar es Salaam, and, having come to the same conclusion about road travel as they had, he would expect them to arrive by boat.

By nightfall, after half a dozen fruitless phone calls, they found a bush pilot who agreed to take them from the Ras Kutani airstrip outside Dar es Salaam to Mafia Island’s airstrip the next morning. From there it would be a half day’s boat ride north to Sukuti Island, a detail they left in Selma’s expert logistical hands.

Such was Africa, the Fargos knew. Though they’d heard the term “African mile” before, this was the first time they’d experienced it firsthand. What elsewhere would have been a thirty-mile jaunt down the coast had turned into a convoluted hundred-fifty-mile journey.

WITH A NIGHT TO KILL, Sam kept his promise and booked them into the Presidential Suite at the Moevenpick Royal Palm overlooking the ocean. Following an afternoon in the hotel’s spa, they shared a late dinner in L’Oliveto, the hotel’s Italian restaurant.“It feels like we’ve been away from civilization for months,” Remi said across the table.