swath of rain forest that ended where the estate’s grounds began.
“Replace that villa with a bunker complex, and you’ve got a smaller version of Iwo Jima,” Sam said. “Keeping that jungle at bay probably requires a full-time maintenance staff.”
Two of the island’s paths caught their attention. One led to a dock on the island’s northwestern side. The Njiwa was tied up alongside the pier. Opposite her were two Rinker speedboats like those Rivera and his men had used during the theft of the bell. They could see several figures moving along the Njiwa’s deck, but at this altitude couldn’t make out any faces.
The other significant path led to a clearing bordered by white-painted stones; in the center, more stones, these embedded in the earth, formed a giant H . A helicopter landing pad.Remi said, “Ed, is that a-”
“Yep. He owns a Eurocopter EC135. Top-of-the-line bird. Okafor doesn’t drive anywhere if he can help it. A status thing, I suspect. Either of you fly?”
“I’ve got my single-engine,” Sam replied. “I’ve taken helicopter lessons. I have ten hours in the cockpit. It’s a tougher adjustment than I’d imagined.”“Boy, you got that right.”
“I don’t see many guards or fences down there,” Remi said. “Odd for a man who enjoys his privacy.”
“He’s got enough of a reputation that he doesn’t need as much protection now. He prosecutes trespassers without mercy. Rumor has it, a few of them have even disappeared after pushing their luck.”“You believe that?” Sam asked.
“I tend to. Okafor was a general in the Tanzanian army before he retired. Tough, scary guy. Seen enough?”
“Yes,” Sam replied.
THE REMAINDER OF THE FLIGHT was quiet, punctuated only by Ed’s occasional utterances over their headsets as he pointed out landmarks and offered bits of African history. Just before seven-thirty they touched down on Mafia Island’s gravel airstrip and taxied up to the terminal, a whitewashed building with dusky blue trim and a brick-red tin roof. Beside the building, a pair of uniformed immigration officials sat in the shade of a baobab.
As the engines wound down, Ed climbed out and retrieved their backpacks from the cargo compartment. He handed them his card, said, “Safe travels, Fargos. Call me if you run into trouble,” then gave them a smile they could only describe as conspiratorial.Sam smiled back. “You know something we don’t?”
“No, but I know adventure hounds when I see them. I’d say you two can handle yourselves better than most, but Africa is an unforgiving place. The number on my card is my satellite phone. I’ll leave it on.”“Thanks, Ed.”
They shook hands, then Ed turned and headed toward a Quonset hut whose window displayed a flickering red neon BEER sign.
They grabbed their backpacks and headed toward the terminal but were intercepted on the sidewalk by the two officials from under the baobab. After a cursory glance at their passports, the officials poked through their belongings, then stamped the passports and offered a “Welcome to Mafia Island” in halting English.
“You need taxi?” one of the officials asked. Without waiting for a response, he raised his hand and whistled. From the turnaround outside the airport entrance, a rust-riddled gray Peugeot growled to life.Sam said, “Thank you but no. We’ll find our own transportation.”
Hand still raised, the official looked quizzically at Sam. “Eh?”
Sam pointed to the Peugeot and shook his head. “La asante.” No thanks.
The official shrugged, then waved off the taxi driver and said, “Sawa.” Okay. He and his partner walked back to the baobab.
“What was that all about?” Remi asked.
“They were in cahoots. At best, we get a padded fare; at worst, we get taken to a private alley and robbed.”
Remi smiled. “Sam Fargo, where’s your trust in humanity?”
“Right now, it’s the same place as my wallet-well hidden.” While Mafia Island was a popular destination for extreme scuba divers, it was also a hub for the Tanzanian black market. Sam explained this to Remi.She said, “You’re a font of trivia. Where did you come across this tidbit?”
“I downloaded the CIA World Factbook to my iPhone. Very handy. Come on, we’ll walk. It’s not far.”
“What’s to stop us from getting mugged on the street?”
Sam lifted the tail of his shirt to expose the butt of the H amp;K.
Remi smiled and shook her head. “Just go easy, Tex. No O.K. Corral reenactments, please.”
ACCORDING TO THEIR MAPS, the Mafia Island airstrip bisected the island’s largest town, Kilindoni, into north and south portions, the former situated more inland, the latter hugging the coast. That was where, Selma had told them, they would find the docks and the boat she’d rented for them.
Despite it being not yet eight in the morning, the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and within minutes of leaving the airstrip both Sam and Remi were sweating. They felt eyes watching their every step, many of which belonged to curious children who paralleled their path, waving and smiling shyly at the white strangers who’d come to their village.
After twenty minutes of walking down hard-packed dirt roads lined with ramshackle huts that ranged in composition from tin to brick to cardboard, they arrived at the beach. Equally dilapidated boat sheds and warehouses lined the dunes overlooking the water. A dozen wood-plank docks jutted into the surf. Thirty to forty boats, from decades-old motor cruisers to skiffs to dhows, both sail driven and motorized, bobbed at anchor in the harbor. Near the waterline, clusters of men and boys worked, repairing nets, scraping hulls, or cleaning fish.“I miss the Andreyale,” Remi murmured.
“Well, now that it’s got a grenade hole in the center of the afterdeck, we own it,” Sam replied. “Maybe we’ll pull it off the bottom. We’ll call it a souvenir.” He turned and scanned the row of buildings along the dune. “We’re looking for a bar called the Red Bird.”
“There,” Remi said, pointing fifty yards down the beach to a thatch longhouse fronted by a black-painted four- by-eight-foot plywood sign sporting a crow painted in bright red.
They walked that way. As they approached the wooden steps, a quartet of men stopped their animated conversation and looked at them. Sam said, “Morning. We’re looking for Buziba.”For a long ten seconds none of them spoke.
“Unazungumza kiingereza?” Remi said. Do you speak English?
No response.
For the next two minutes Sam and Remi used their limited knowledge of Swahili to try to start a dialogue but to no avail. A voice behind them said, “Buziba, don’t be a jackass.”They turned to see a grinning Ed Mitchell standing behind them. He had a Tusker beer in each hand.
“Are you following us?” Sam asked.
“More or less. We’re probably the only three Americans on the island right now. Thought a little solidarity couldn’t hurt. I know old Buziba here,” Ed said, nodding to the gray-haired man sitting on the top step. “He speaks English. Playing dumb is his bargaining strategy.” Ed barked out a sentence in Swahili, and the other three men got up and wandered back inside the bar.“Now, be a gentleman, Buziba,” Ed said. “These are friends.”
The old man’s dour expression dropped away. He smiled broadly. “Friends of Mr. Ed are friends of me.”
“I told you not to call me that,” Mitchell said, then to Sam and Remi: “He saw reruns of the TV show. He gets a laugh out of comparing me to a talking horse.”
Remi said to Buziba, “Your English is very good.”
“Fair indeed, yes? Better than your Swahili, eh?”
“Without a doubt,” Sam replied. “A friend of ours called you about a boat.”
Buziba nodded. “Miss Selma. Yesterday. I have your boat. Four hundred dollars.”
“Per day?”
“Eh?”
Ed said something in Swahili, and Buziba responded. Ed said, “Four hundred to sell. He gave up fishing last year; been trying to sell the thing ever since. The bar brings in plenty of money for him.”Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Ed added, “You’d probably pay that for two days’ rental from anyone else here.”
“Let’s see it,” Sam said.
THE FOUR OF THEM walked down the beach to where an eighteen-foot aquamarine blue dhow sat atop a half dozen V-shaped sawhorses. A pair of young boys were sitting in the sand beside the dhow’s hull. One was scraping
