“Or someone with back-channel influence. Did you find anything else on him?”
“Not so much as pocket lint. No wallet, no identification. And his clothes and shoes are local. I checked the tags.”
“Professionals, then.”
“Seems so,” Remi said. “As for the cookies we left for Santa . . .”
“We saw what they thought of the Adelise coin. Tossed it away like a penny. But the ginned-up notepad was another story.”
Before setting the stage for their guests, Sam and Remi had decided there were five possibilities the mystery man, “Hawk Nose,” was interested in: one, the Adelise coin; two, the bell; three, the Fargos themselves; four, something he was worried they might find; or five, nothing-the molehill/mountain scenario.
Their ruse had ruled out numbers one and five and seemed to rule in numbers two, three, and four. Sam and Remi had filled the notepad mostly with nonsensical scribbles and numbers, save one area: a sideview diagram of a ship’s bell and below it a time (2:00 P.M.), a place (Chukwani Point Road), and a phone number provided by Selma that, when called, would be answered by Mnazi Freight amp; Haul. If Hawk Nose took this bait, they could be reasonably certain his interest lay with the bell.
This, of course, raised the questions of how Hawk Nose had learned about the bell. Sam and Remi had told no one except Selma. Since Hawk Nose hadn’t paid his visit before they’d raised the bell using Sam’s raft, could it be attributed to someone having spotted the bell as they moved it to the lagoon? But, then again, they’d seen no one in the area, either onshore or offshore.“It’ll be dawn soon,” Sam said. “Let’s gather our booty and find a place to lie low until we can find us some different accommodations.”
“And him?” Remi asked, nodding to Yaotl.
“We’d better move him inside. Don’t want him getting broken, do we?”
ONCE YAOTL WAS SECURE in the cabin, they raised anchor and crossed the lagoon to where they’d hidden the bell raft. After towing it closer to the beach, Sam jumped over the side and maneuvered it until the bell was floating a foot off the bottom.“Leverage . . .” Sam muttered to himself. “Remi, I need the hatchet from the toolbox.”
She collected it and handed it down. Sam then waded ashore and disappeared into the trees with a flashlight. Remi listened as he moved about in the darkness: twigs breaking, the thunk of wood striking wood, a few hushed curses, then a few minutes of chopping. Five minutes later he returned carrying a pair of palm saplings, each eight feet long and four inches across. Into each end he had chopped a notch. He handed the poles to Remi, then climbed aboard.“Care to share your plan?” she asked.
Sam gave her a wink. “Don’t want to spoil the fun. We’re going to need daylight, though.”
The wait was short. Ten minutes after they watched the first yellow-orange tinges of sunrise over to the east, they went into action. Sam untied the raft, jumped into the water, and rotated the raft so the side with the three protruding logs were facing the beach. He straddled the outer log, causing it to sink six inches, and called, “All back slow!”
“All back slow,” Remi replied.
The engines rumbled to life. The Andreyale backed up until the transom bumped into the raft. “Keep coming!” Sam called. Between his weight and the Andreyale’s horsepower, the protruding logs dipped beneath the surface and began burrowing into the sand. The water beneath the Andreyale’s stern turned to froth. When the logs were embedded a foot into the sand, Sam called, “All stop!”
Remi throttled down and walked to the stern. Sam ducked under the raft and emerged in its center beneath the transom. “I’m going to push up on this crossbeam, and you’re going to pull,” he said.“Got it.”
Working together they manhandled the log onto the gunwale with the protruding ends jutting over the afterdeck.
Remi stood back and wiped her hands. “I think I see where you’re going with this.” She recited, “‘Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it-’”
“‘-and I shall move the world,’” Sam finished. “Archimedes.”
Using the hatchet, Sam chopped a notch into each end of log resting on the gunwale. Next he picked up one of the saplings, handed it to Remi, then grabbed his own.
“Now the trick part,” Sam said.
Each of them placed the notched tip of a sapling into the corresponding notch on the log, then braced the other end against the port and starboard cleats respectively.
“Care to do the honors?” Sam asked.
“Where are you going to be?”
“In the cabin with you. If those saplings let go, we don’t want to be anywhere near them. Slow back, if you will.”
Remi engaged the throttle and eased the Andreyale backward. Slowly the front edge of the raft began rising. The saplings trembled and bent like a pair of bows being drawn. The logs groaned. Inch by inch the bell rose from the water until its mouth was even with the gunwale.
“Hold here,” Sam said. “Steerageway only.” He grabbed the remainder of the anchor line and padded onto the afterdeck, his eyes darting from one trembling sapling to the other. At the transom he leaned out, knotted the line around the bell’s crown, then backed into the cabin, uncoiling line as he went.“All back slow,” he murmured.
Remi leaned back and whispered in his ear, “If we drop that thing through the deck, I’m pretty sure we’re going to lose our deposit.”
Sam chuckled. “We’ve got Triple A.”
The Andreyale eased backward. The saplings kept bending, creaking. Gingerly, Sam took up the slack in the line. The bell slid over the gunwale, bounced on the lip, and started swinging.“Sam . . .” Remi warned.
“I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold it here. Easy . . .”
He spun around, darted down the ladder, and emerged ten seconds later carrying a mattress. In a double- handed bowler’s motion, he slid the mattress down the deck to the transom.“Gun it!” he called.
Remi jammed the throttle to its stops. Sam heaved back on the line. Like overlapping gunshots, the saplings snapped and twirled away. With a dull thunk the bell crashed into the mattress, rolled onto its side, and went still.
CHAPTER 8
ZANZIBAR
“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.
