moment’s notice.”
It took Remi ten minutes to finish the task. She said, “There’re plenty to choose from but no depth markings; I can only be certain of six or seven being deep enough for our draft.”“We’ll have to play it by ear.”
“So, about your master plan . . .”
“Wish I had one,” Sam replied. “There’re too many variables. We have to assume they’ll be moving the bell sooner rather than later-either shipping it somewhere or dumping it somewhere. For that, they have three choices: one of the Rinkers, the Njiwa , or Okafor’s helicopter. We’ll start with the Njiwa. Whatever they do, that’s where the bell will stay until they decide to move it. If they use a Rinker or the Njiwa, I say we put on our pirate hats and stage a hijacking.”“And if it’s the helicopter?”
“Same plan. We just put on our flying scarves.”
“Sam, my dear, you don’t have much time logged on helicopters.”
“I think I can manage the four or five miles to the mainland. We’d be across the channel in six minutes-probably before they could even organize a posse. We find a secluded clearing somewhere, put her down, and-”Remi smiled. “Play it by ear?” Sam shrugged and smiled back. “It’s the best chance we have,” Remi agreed, “but you’ve left out a lot of big, potentially disastrous ifs.”
“I know-”
“For example, what if we’re spotted? We’ll be outgunned and outmanned.”
“I know-”
“And, of course, the biggest if: What if the bell’s already been moved?”
Sam paused. “Then the game’s over. If we don’t intercept it here, it’s gone for good. Remi, we’re a democracy. If it’s not unanimous, we don’t go.”
“I’m in, Sam, you know that. On one condition, though.” “Name it.”
“We take out some insurance.”
THE SUN WAS SETTING by the time the mouth of the inlet came into view: a rough oval of golden orange light at the end of the tunnel. When they were ten feet away, Remi steered the dhow toward the right-hand bank and jostled the throttle until the overhanging limbs draped over them. Standing atop the cabin, Sam manhandled the thicker branches around the mast and boom until the dhow was nestled against the bank. He crawled forward to the pulpit and peeked through the foliage.“Got a perfect view,” he called back.
The sun had dropped behind Big Sukuti, casting the western half of the island, including the inlet, in twilight. Sam added, “If they’re doing another circuit, they’ll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”“I’m going to pack our gear and do some scrounging.”
Remi went below. Sam could hear her moving about in the cabin. She returned to the cockpit, sat down, and began humming “Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra. They got through “Hotel California” by the Eagles, “In the Midnight Hour” by Wilson Pickett, and were halfway through “Hey Jude” by the Beatles when Sam raised his hand for silence.Ten seconds passed.
“What is it?” Remi asked.
“Nothing, I guess. No, there . . . Hear it?”
Remi listened for a few moments, then there it was, the faint rumble of a marine engine. “The pitch sounds right,” she said.
“It’s coming from the northwest. Our guest may be en route.”
Of the scenarios they’d considered-a delayed second patrol, meeting the Rinker along the northern coast, or an immediate patrol that would pass before they headed out from the inlet-the third was ideal. By knowing the Rinker’s route and its average speed, they could be reasonably sure of their foe’s location at any given time. Barring the unforeseen, they would reach the docks long before the Rinker did.
Lying on his belly, binoculars raised, Sam kept his eyes focused on the headland a quarter mile away. The grumble of the engine grew in intensity until finally the Rinker’s bow appeared. As expected, it was occupied by a driver and a spotter; also as expected, the boat turned southeast, following the coastline.A spotlight glowed to life.
“We’re okay,” he said, half to himself, half to Remi. “They won’t see us unless they’re on top of us.”
“Odds?”
“Ninety-five percent. Maybe ninety.”
“Sam . . .”
“We’re okay. Keep your head down and cross your fingers.”
The Rinker kept coming. It was now a hundred yards from the inlet and heading straight for them, the spotlight skimming along the bank and over the trees.
“Anytime, boys,” Sam muttered. “Nothing to see here . . . Move along . . .”
The Rinker closed the gap to fifty yards.
Forty yards.
Thirty yards.
Sam took one hand off the binoculars, slowly reached backward, and grabbed the H amp;K from the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. He brought the gun up and laid it on the deck beneath his shoulder. He flicked off the safety.The Rinker was twenty yards away.
Sam whispered, “Remi, you better get below.”
“Sam-”
“Please, Remi.”
He felt the dhow rock slightly as she crept down the ladder.
Sam lowered the binoculars. He wiped his right palm on his pant leg, then grabbed the H amp;K, extended it through the branches, and took aim on the shadowed form behind the Rinker’s wheel. Sam let the scenario play in his head: driver first, then the spotlight, then the second man before he had a chance to take cover or return fire. Two shots for each, then pause and wait for signs of life.The Rinker kept coming.
Sam took a deep breath.
Suddenly the Rinker’s engine revved up. The bow rose up and pivoted to port, and within five seconds the boat disappeared from view.
Sam exhaled. He knocked twice on the cabin’s roof. A few seconds later Remi whispered, “Clear?”
“Clear. Check the map. How long until they clear the northern tip of Little Sukuti?”
There came the crinkle of paper in the darkness, followed by the scratching of a pencil. Remi said, “It’s a little over a mile. Twenty-five minutes and we should be okay.”
FOR SAFE MEASURE, they let thirty minutes pass before shoving off and motoring out of the inlet. For the next forty minutes they glided along the northern shoreline, never straying more than fifty feet from the beach and never exceeding a quiet but frustrating three miles per hour.
Leaning over the map on the deck, penlight clamped between her teeth, Remi was walking the dividers. She looked up, took the penlight out of her mouth. “The Rinker should be reaching the southern tip of Little Sukuti. We’ve got at least twenty minutes on them.”They reached Big Sukuti’s northern tip, paused there for a binocular scan of the coastline ahead, then set out again.
“The docks are less than a mile away,” Remi told Sam.
“What do you think? Stop at half a mile?”
“Sounds good.”
They covered the distance in twelve minutes. To port, the island’s sloped moonscape rose from the beach to meet the rain forest. Sam slowed the dhow as Remi scanned the shoreline.
“This looks good here,” she said, then scrambled to the bow.Sam turned to port, aimed the bow at the beach, and followed Remi’s curt directions until she called, “All stop.”
Sam throttled down, then collected their packs from the deck and met Remi at the pulpit. She lowered herself over the side, then Sam grabbed her wrists and lowered her the rest of the way. The water was waist-high. He handed down their packs.“Come here,” Remi said.
“What?”
“Come here, I said.”
He smiled, then leaned his head over the side until she could crane her neck and kiss him on the cheek. She said, “Be safe. No drowning allowed.”
“Noted. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
