Lost Empire (9 page)

 

 

“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.”

“Then why did you take me?”

“I’d hoped you’d be willing to answer some questions for us.”

“You’re American,” Yaotl said.

“How could you tell? My winning smile?”

“Your accent.”

“And I’m guessing you’re Mexican.”

No response.

“And based on the gun you were carrying and how you and your partners moved, you’re either current or former military.”

Now Yaotl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re CIA.”

“Me? No. I have a friend who is, though.”

This was true. During his time at DARPA Sam had undergone covert operative training at the CIA’s Camp Perry facility, the hope being that by seeing how field operatives work DARPA’s engineers could better supply their needs. Going through the program at the same time was a CIA case officer named Rube Haywood. He and Sam had become friends and remained close ever since.

“And that friend has friends,” Sam added. “In places like Turkey and Bulgaria and Romania . . . I think they call it ‘rendition.’ You’ve heard of rendition, I’m sure. Grim-faced guys in black jump-suits shove you aboard a plane, you disappear somewhere for a few weeks, then come back with an aversion to electricity and power drills.”

The rendition part was, of course, a bluff, but Sam’s presentation had the desired effect: Yaotl’s eyes were gaping, his lower lip trembling.

Abruptly, Sam stood up. “So, how about some food. Is bread okay?”

Yaotl nodded.

 

 

SAM FED HIM a half loaf of chapati bread and a liter of mineral water from a sports bottle, then asked, “About that friend of mine . . . should I call him or will you answer a few questions?”

“I’ll answer.”

Sam took him through the basics: his full name; the names of his partners, including Hawk Nose; who they worked for; had they come to Zanzibar looking for him and Remi; what were they supposed to accomplish; the name of their mother ship. . . Most of the questions Yaotl could answer only partially. He was simply a civilian contractor, he claimed, a former member of Mexico’s Special Forces Airmobile Group, or GAFE. He’d been recruited four days earlier by a man named Itzli Rivera, aka Hawk Nose, also a former member of GAFE, to come to Zanzibar and “find some people.” He’d been given no further background, nor had Rivera explained why Sam and Remi had been targeted. Nor was he sure whether Rivera was working for himself or someone else.

“But you saw him on the phone several times, correct?” Sam asked. “Did it sound like he was reporting in?”

“It’s possible. I only overheard parts.”

Sam questioned him for another ten minutes, at the end of which Yaotl asked, “What will you do with me?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“But you said you wouldn’t—Hey, wait!”

Sam left the room and rejoined Remi on the patio. He recounted his conversation with Yaotl. She said, “Sam . . . electricity and power drills? That’s mean.”

“No, doing it would be mean. I just planted the seed and let his imagination chew on it for a while.”

“Yaotl said four days ago, right? He got the call from Rivera four days ago?”

“Yes.”

“That was our first day on the island.”

Sam nodded. “Before we found the bell.”

“Then it’s us they’re interested in.”

“And the bell, perhaps. Our ruse with the legal pad clearly got their attention.”

“But how did they know we were here?” Remi asked, then answered her own question: “The BBC interview right after we landed?”

“Could be. Let’s put it together: Rivera and whomever he’s working for find out we’re here. They got worried we might find something and they came to investigate.”

“It’s a big island, though,” Remi replied. “They’d have to be awfully paranoid to think we’d stumble onto whatever they’re worried about. Even if it’s something as big as our bell, it’s a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“The interviewer asked us where we were planning on diving. We told her Chumbe Island. Maybe that was the magic phrase.”

Remi considered this. “And, like it or not, we’ve got something of a reputation. We’ve had some great luck finding treasure that didn’t want to be found.”

Sam smiled. “You call it luck. I call it—”

“You know what I mean.”

“So it’s the combination of us, Zanzibar, and Chumbe Island that got their attention.”

They went silent for a minute, each examining their what-if scenario from various angles. Finally Remi broke the silence: “Sam, our friend inside . . . his name is Yaotl, his boss’s name is Itzli, and the third is named . . .”

“Nochtli.”

“And they’re from Mexico?”

“So he said.”

“Those aren’t Spanish names.”

“So I guessed.”

“I’ll have Selma do some double checking for me, but I’m almost certain those are Nahuatl in origin.”

“Nahuatl?”

“Aztec, Sam. Nahuatl was the language of the Aztecs.”

 

 

THEY STOOD IN SILENCE for the next ten minutes, watching the steam rise from the sheet draped around the bell. Sam checked his watch and said, “Time.”

Using his fingertips, Sam uncoiled the sheet from around the bell, then dragged it away and piled it at the edge of the patio. He turned back to see Remi kneeling before the bell.

“Sam, you need to see this.”

He walked around to her side and leaned over her shoulder.

Though still heavily mottled, the nitric acid had removed enough patina that they could make out the lettering engraved in the bronze:

“Ophelia,” Remi repeated in a whisper. “What’s Ophelia?”

Sam took a deep breath, let it out. “I have no idea.”

 

 

“CAN’T YOU TWO JUST HAVE A NORMAL, UNEVENTFUL VACATION?” Rube Haywood asked over the speakerphone.

“We have plenty of those,” Remi replied. “But we only call you on the abnormal ones.”

“I don’t know if I should feel complimented or offended,” Rube muttered.

“The former,” Sam said. “You’re our go-to guy.”

“What about Selma?”

“Our go-to gal,” Remi shot back.

“Okay, so let me see if I’ve got this straight: You found a diamond-shaped coin that once belonged to the governess of a French commune on some island near Madagascar but was stolen by a pirate. Then you found a ship’s bell belonging to some mystery ship. Then a gunboatful of Mexican mercenaries with Aztec names showed up and tried to kill you. And now you’ve got one of the bad guys tied up in your spare bedroom. Is that the gist of it?”

“That about covers it,” Remi said.

“With three minor corrections,” Sam added. “The Adelise coin has nothing to do with it, we don’t think, and Selma’s double-checking the Aztec angle. As for the name
Ophelia
, we don’t think it was the original. First of all, the engraving is very rough, not professionally done. Second, once we were able to clear away more of the muck we picked up a couple engraved letters beneath
Ophelia
, an
S
and two
H
s.”

“I feel like I’m on one of those practical-joke shows,” Rube said. “Okay, I’ll play along. What can I do to help you?”

“First, take our guest off our hands.”

“How? If you’re thinking about all that rendition business, Sam, I—”

“I was thinking you pull some strings in the Tanzanian Ministry of Home Affairs and have the police detain him.”

“On what charges?”

“He’s got no passport, no money, and he was carrying a weapon.”

Rube went silent for a moment. “Knowing you two as I do, I’m guessing you not only want him out of the way but want to see who shows an interest in him.”

“It had crossed our minds,” Sam replied.

“You still have the gun?”

“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.”