THE NEXT PART of their plan turned out to be anticlimactic. Sam reversed the engines, brought the bow around, and took the dhow a few hundred yards off the coast, then turned off the engine and dropped anchor. He estimated there was fifty feet of water beneath the keel. He went below and opened each of the dhow’s five scuttle valves. When the water reached his calves, he went topside and dove over the side and began swimming. Five minutes later he stood up in the shallows and waded ashore to where Remi was waiting.Together they watched the dhow settle into the water and sink from view.
Sam gave it a salute, then said, “Ready?”
Remi nodded. “Lead on.”
CHAPTER 18
BIG SUKUTI ISLAND
WITH SAM IN THE LEAD THEY WALKED IN SILENCE FOR FIFTEEN minutes, keeping to the harder wet sand until they came upon a twenty-foot-high rock outcropping bisecting the beach. Sam scaled up the slippery rocks, found a flat spot below the ridge, and peeked over. After a few seconds he turned and motioned for Remi to join him. Together they poked their heads above the rocks. A few hundred yards down the beach they could see the dock jutting into the water. On one side the Njiwa was still moored, her interior cabin lights glowing yellow through sheer curtains; opposite her, both Rinkers were tied up as well. There was no sign of either the driver or passenger.“They must have cut a few corners to get back so quickly,” Remi said.
“They probably move at a pretty good clip along the southern side. With the Big Eyes we saw on the roof earlier, nobody’s going to be sneaking up from that direction.”
“And at least we know where everyone is,” Remi added. “I don’t see any activity. You?”
“Nothing. We’ve got two choices, by land or by water.”
“There’s too much loose rock on the slope and no cover,” Remi said.
“Agreed. Water it is.”
“How’re we getting aboard the Njiwa ?”
Sam zoomed his binoculars until he could see the yacht’s companion ladder. While it was less than five feet tall, its head was attached to the deck right in front of the cabin’s sliding door.“Not by the ladder,” Sam said. He thought for a moment. “Back on the dhow I saw a sea anchor in the cabin-”
Remi reached over her shoulder and patted the backpack. “In here. Improvised grappling hook?”
“You read my mind. We hook the stern rail and shimmy up.”
They climbed back down to the sand, then waded into the surf and set off, perpendicular to the beach, in a quiet, energy-efficient breaststroke. Once they’d covered fifty yards, they turned south, parallel to the beach, until they drew even with the dock. They stopped and treaded water.“Movement?” Sam asked.
“I don’t see any.” “Head for the Rinker.”
They set out again, arms sweeping them forward, their eyes scanning the dock area for movement. Soon they reached the Rinker’s transom. They took a moment to catch their breath, listening and looking. From the Njiwa’s cabin they heard muffled voices, then a pounding sound. Silence. More pounding.“Someone’s hammering,” Sam whispered. “Touch that engine.”
Remi touched the Rinker’s outboard with the back of her hand. “Cold. Why?”
“This one will have more gas. Wait here. Time for our insurance policy.”
He took a breath, ducked under, and swam alongside the first Rinker to its twin at the head of the dock. He grabbed the gunwale, chinned himself up, and looked around. No movement. He boosted himself over the side onto the deck, then crawled forward to the driver’s seat. He checked the ignition. Not surprisingly, the keys were missing. He rolled onto his back, opened the maintenance hatch beneath the dashboard, and wiggled inside. He clicked on his penlight and studied the wiring bundle.
“Just like old times,” Sam muttered. Five months earlier he’d found himself doing the same thing with another speedboat on a lake in the Bavarian Alps. Luckily, like that boat’s, this Rinker’s wiring was simple: ignition, wipers, navigation lights, and horn. Using his Swiss Army knife, Sam severed each wire, taking as much length as he could. He rolled them into a tight ball and tossed it over the side, then wriggled back out and closed the hatch. He crawled back to the gunwale, did a quick check, then rolled back into the water and returned to Remi.“Okay, if all goes well, this’ll be our getaway boat. We grab the bell, disable the Njiwa if we can, then bring the bell back here-”
“How?”
“I’ll manage it somehow. We’ll worry about the hernia later. We bring the bell back here and slip away before anyone knows what’s happened.”
“And if all goes unwell? Never mind; I already know. We play it by ear.”
THEY STROKED AROUND the dock to the Njiwa’s stern and immediately realized the yacht was bigger up close. The stern rail was ten feet above the waterline. Remi fished the dhow’s sea anchor from her backpack. Sam examined it.
“Too short,” he whispered into her ear, then gestured for her to follow. They stroked back to the Rinker’s transom. “Time for Plan B,” Sam said. “I’ll try the ladder.” Remi opened her mouth to speak, but he pushed on. “It’s the only way. If I jump from the dock, it’ll make too much noise. Get into the Rinker and be ready to take off.”“No.”
“If I get caught, run.”
“I said-”
“You run and get back to civilization and call Rube. He’ll know what to do. With you missing, Rivera will assume you’ve contacted the authorities. He won’t kill me-not right away. He’s too smart for that; dead bodies are more trouble than they’re worth.”Remi frowned and gave him a withering stare. “Let’s call all that Plan C. Plan B is you don’t get caught. We’re up to our chins, Sam.”
“I know. Keep a sharp eye out. I’ll signal you when it’s clear. If I raise my hand and spread my fingers, it’s safe to come; a raised fist, stay where you are.”
He took off his shirt and shoes, stuffed both in his backpack, and handed the pack to Remi.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
“Clothing drips and shoes squeak.”
“Sam, have you been taking commando classes on the side?”
“Just watching the Military Channel.”
He kissed her, then ducked beneath the surface, stroked under the Rinker, and resurfaced under the dock. Another breath and another duck brought him alongside the Njiwa’s white hull. He stroked forward beneath the companion ladder, then paused. He could hear muffled voices coming from the cabin. Two men, perhaps three. He strained to catch any words or isolate the voices but failed. He boosted himself onto the dock, laid flat, waited and listened, then got up and crept up the ladder. Below the top rung he paused, poked his head up, saw nothing, and crawled onto the deck. He stood up and pressed himself against the bulkhead.
The sliding door opened. A rectangle of yellow light angled onto the deck. Heart in his throat, Sam did a rapid sidestep along the bulkhead and around the corner to the forecastle, where he froze and took a few calming breaths.
He heard the clump of footsteps on the deck. The door slid shut again, followed by footsteps clanging down the companion ladder. Sam stepped forward, peeked aft and saw nothing, so he took another step and peeked over the rail. A figure was walking down the dock. At the end of a dock, in a small clearing, sat a green gas-powered Cushman flatbed cart and, directly behind it, a white golf cart. Ahead of them, the trail curved up and away toward the helicopter pad and the main house.The figure leaned over the Cushman, removed a rake and a pair of shovels, and tossed them into the brush beside the path.
“Making room for cargo,” Sam muttered to himself.
He turned toward the Rinker, raised a “Stay put” fist for a few seconds, then ducked down and waddled back to the bulkhead.
Footfalls clicked on the wooden dock, then back up the ladder, followed by the sliding door opening and closing. Three minutes passed. The door slid open again. More clomping now. Multiple feet. Grunting. Something heavy sliding across the deck . . . Sam peeked around the corner and saw three men in the light from the cabin door:
