“Thanks for not deserting us,” said Sam. “Don’t mention it.”
Sam hefted the Webley-Fosbury in his hand, appraised the weapon for a moment, then handed it to the Kid, who frowned and shook his head. “She’s yours now.”
“Pardon me?”
“Until today, she’d never been fired. It’s a tradition, you see . . . Chinese, if I recall.”
Remi smiled. “I think you’re thinking of, ‘Save a life and you’re responsible for it.’”
The Kid shrugged. “Either way, Mr. Fargo, she’s yours now.”
“Thanks. I’ll treasure it. What should we do with these two?” Sam asked, pointing to Tolotra and the dead man on the road.
“Leave them. The sooner you get to Antananarivo, the better.” The Kid read Sam and Remi’s somber expressions. “Don’t give it a second thought. They would’ve killed you.”
“How do you know that for sure?” Remi said.
“In the last five years, there’ve been sixty-three kidnappings here. Ransom paid or unpaid, not one came back alive. Trust me, it was you or them.”
Sam and Remi considered this, then nodded. Sam shook the Kid’s hand, then grabbed their packs from the truck’s bed as Remi gave their savior a hug. They turned and headed toward the Range Rover.“One more thing,” the Kid called.
Sam and Remi turned back. The Kid dug into his pack and came out with a small burlap bag. He handed it to them. “Truffles for your troubles,” the Kid said. Then he crossed the road and disappeared into the brush.
Sam turned the burlap bag over in his hands. Stamped on the side in red ink was a logo-the letter C, and beside it, in smaller letters, ussler Truffles.Remi said, “That’s nice of him. But what’s an ‘ussler’?”
CHAPTER 34
MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN
THEY WERE ALMOST HALFWAY BACK TO ANTANANARIVO AND approaching a village named Moramanga at the junction of Routes 2 and 44 when their satellite phone trilled. In the passenger seat, Remi answered. “It’s Rube,” she said after a moment, then put it on speakerphone.“Hi, Rube,” Sam called.
“Where are you?”
“Madagascar.”
“Damn. I was afraid of that.”
Remi said, “Something tells me it’s not just a general dislike of Madagascar that’s got you bothered.”
“Someone flagged your passports at the Antananarivo airport.”
“When?” asked Remi.
“A couple days before you arrived.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Sam asked. “We weren’t stopped when we went through immigration.”
“That’s what’s got me worried. If it was a government-level request, you would have been stopped there. In spookspeak, the flag you got is called a ‘note-and-notify.’ Somebody just wanted to know when you got there.”“And it doesn’t have to be someone in the government,” Sam said.
“In Third World countries, where the average annual income is a few hundred dollars, you can buy a note-and- notify for the price of a cup of coffee. And since Rivera’s already shown he’s got connections in Africa . . .”“Understood,” Sam replied. “Recommendations?”
“Assume somebody’s actively looking for you; assume they’ll find you. Don’t go back to Antananarivo. Have Selma track down a private airstrip and a pilot who doesn’t mind working for cash and won’t bother with passports.”
Such was the downside of being who they were. While far from famous, Sam and Remi had something of a reputation in the adventurer/ treasure-hunting community, and while naturally they had a few detractors, they were widely respected. Getting caught sneaking into and out of countries on false passports could potentially cause more trouble than it was worth: jail, expulsion, headlines, being labeled persona non grata, and, perhaps most important, the evaporation of invaluable contacts in the academic world. By playing it mostly aboveboard, Sam and Remi were often easy targets for anyone willing and able to bribe the right person in the right place.Remi said, “We know about the political situation. How does that affect things?”
“Badly. Stay near civilization and know where the police stations are.”
“That could be a problem. We’re a little off the beaten path right now.”
“Why am I not surprised? Okay, give me a second.” The line went silent for two minutes, then Rube returned. “Best guess puts the rebels about a week away from being ready for a major attack, but that doesn’t rule out skirmishes. Most of the cities within fifty miles of Antananarivo should be okay. The bigger, the better. Head south if possible. The rebels are clustered in the north. The downside is-”“Rivera and his goons will be thinking the same thing and looking in those places,” Sam finished.
“Right. Wish I could be of more help.”
“Rube, you’re the best. Don’t ever doubt it. We’ll call when we’re safe.”
THEIR NEXT CALL went to Selma, who listened, asked a few questions, and said, “I’m on it,” then hung up.
Now Remi studied the map as Sam drove.
“We’ve got two options,” she said after a few minutes. “One, take one of the dozens of roads-and I use that term very loosely-that head generally south, or close to within a couple miles of Antananarivo. There’s a two-lane blacktop that circles the city to the east and then links up with Route 7 heading south.”“How do the unnamed roads look?”
“As you’d expect: dirt and gravel, at best.” “Multiple choices make for a harder trail to follow,” Sam observed.
“And if we’re aiming for Route 7, it’ll add five or six hours onto our travel time. Which takes us well past nightfall.”
“My vote is blacktop,” Sam said.
“Seconded.”
“Different subject . . . The fact that Rivera flagged our passports here, of all places, means something.”
Remi was nodding. “It’s not hard to guess what that is. They knew there was something here to find. But is it the outrigger we found or something more?”
“We’ll know that when we know what got them interested in Madagascar in the first place. My guess: They’ve been here before and didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“Which begs the question: Where else have they been?”
THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. Past Moramanga, moving ever westward and upward, they passed mile after mile of rice paddies and drove through village after village, each one bearing a quaint name that Remi described as “part Malagasy, part French, with a dash of Italian”: Andranokobaka, Ambodigavo, Ambatonifody. . . .
Ten miles east of Anosibe Ifody the terrain began to change yet again, giving way to tropical forest interspersed with rugged brown hills that reminded Sam and Remi of Tuscany. Jagged escarpments, glowing brownish gold in the sun, rose above the treetops to the north and south. Shortly after three o’clock they stopped at a Jovenna gas station on the outskirts of Manjakandriana. Remi went inside for snacks and water while Sam pumped the gas.
Down the block, a white Volkswagen Passat police vehicle came around the corner and headed toward the gas station. Moving at a sedate twenty miles per hour, the Passat slowed as it drew even with the Range Rover. After a few more seconds the Passat sped up and continued down the block, where it pulled to the side of the road and parked. Through the rear window Sam saw the driver pluck something off the dashboard and bring it to his mouth.Remi came out with four bottles of water and a few bags of pretzels. Sam got back in the driver’s seat.
“You’re wearing your frowny face,” Remi observed. “It may be exhaustion or paranoia, or a combination of the two, but I think that police car is interested in us.”“Where?”
“Down the block, under the awning with the old Coca-Cola sign.”
Remi checked the side mirror. “I see him.”
