Lost Empire (15 page)

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&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 while the other was painting.

Buziba said, “Look. Inspect.”

Sam and Remi walked around the dhow, checking for signs of decay and disrepair. Sam poked the seams with his Swiss Army knife while Remi tapped the wood, sounding for rot. Sam walked to the stern, climbed up the ladder leaning against the transom, and stepped onto the afterdeck. He reappeared two minutes later and called down, “The sails have got some rot.”

“Eh?” Buziba replied. Ed translated, listened to Buziba’s response, then said, “He’ll throw in a new set for fifty dollars.”

Remi asked Sam, “How’s the cabin?”

“Cozy in the extreme. Not the Moevenpick, but we’ve seen worse.”

“And the engine?”

“Old but well maintained. Should give us six or seven knots.”

Remi walked to the transom and inspected the propeller and shaft. “I’m betting the bearings could use repacking.”

Ed translated, listened, then replied, “He says another fifty and he’ll have it done in two hours.”

“Twenty-five,” Sam countered. “He gives me the supplies and the tools, and I’ll do it myself.”

Buziba jutted out his lower lip and stuck his chin in the air, thinking. “Fifty. I add potable water and food for two days.”

“Three days,” Remi replied.

Buziba considered this, then shrugged. “Three days.”

 

 

“OKAY, SHUT HER DOWN,” SAM CALLED.

Remi turned off the ignition key and the dhow’s engines sputtered out. Sam hoisted the sails, and they held their collective breaths for a few seconds until the canvas caught the wind and billowed out. The dhow’s bow lifted slightly and the boat lurched forward. Sam crab-walked aft and dropped onto the afterdeck beside Remi.

“We have liftoff,” Sam said.

“Here’s hoping we don’t have to call Houston with a problem,” Remi said and handed him a bottle of water.

It was already midafternoon, and they were only five miles north of Mafia Island. While Remi’s discerning eye had noticed the propeller shaft’s bearing problem, it hadn’t been until Sam had gotten it apart that they realized how much time the repair would require. As Remi supervised the boys in finishing up the maintenance and changing out the sails, Sam and Ed worked under the shade of a makeshift sheet awning.

Once done, Buziba and another dozen boys appeared and carried the dhow down to the waterline, where they tested the engine and took the dhow for a test drive around the harbor. An hour later, the dhow fully stocked with water, supplies, and food, Sam and Remi waved to Buziba and Ed and set out.

“How long until we get there?” Remi asked.

Sam got up, retrieved the chart they’d found inside the cabin, and unfolded it in his lap. He checked the readout of his handheld GPS unit and plotted their position. “Another thirty-nine miles. We’re doing about five knots . . . If we run all night, we’ll get there shortly after midnight. Or we could find someplace to lie up tonight, then set out early and get there about dawn. There’s an unnamed island about twelve miles south of Fanjove.”

“That’s my vote. Without radar, we’re asking for trouble.”

“Agreed. We wouldn’t be able to see anything of Sukuti until daylight anyway.”

They sailed north for another five hours, caught a tailwind for the last hour, and found the island just as the upper rim of the sun was dipping behind the horizon. Sam steered the dhow into a small cove and dropped anchor. Once the boat was secure, Remi ducked into the cabin for a few minutes, emerging with a lantern, a camping stove, and two cans of food.

“What can I serve you,
el capitán
? Baked beans or baked beans and franks?”

Sam pursed his lips. “Choices, choices. Let’s celebrate our not sinking. Let’s have both.”

“A fine choice. And for dessert: fresh mango.”

 

 

THE SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE double army cot, combined with the salt air and the gentle rocking of the dhow at anchor, lulled them into a deep, restful sleep. At four A.M. Sam’s watch chimed, and they got up and moving, sharing a breakfast of leftover mango and strong black coffee before weighing anchor and setting out again.

They lost an hour of progress to sluggish predawn winds, but shortly before sunrise the air picked up and before long they were clipping north at a steady six knots that brought them within sight of North Fanjove Island by seven A.M. A half hour later they drew even with the atoll Mitchell had pointed out. Here they secured the sails, switched to engine power, and spent another nerve-racking forty minutes picking their way through the reefs until they reached the south side of Little Sukuti Island. Sam tooled along the coast until Remi spotted a mangrove-choked cove they hoped would shield the dhow from prying eyes. Following Remi’s hand signals from the bow, Sam steered into the cove. He shut off the engine and let the dhow drift forward until the bow gently wedged itself between two mangroves jutting diagonally from the bank.

Having listened to the steady put-put-put of the dhow’s engine for the last hour, the sudden silence was jarring. They stood still for half a minute, listening, until the jungle around them slowly came back to life with a cacophony of squawks and buzzes.

Remi secured the bowline to one of the tree trunks, then headed aft to join Sam on the afterdeck. “What’s the plan?” she asked.

“We’re assuming the bell is still aboard the
Njiwa
. That’s the best-case scenario. With any luck, we won’t have to set foot on the island itself. Either way, we have to wait for nightfall. For now, I say we do a little reconnaissance and have a little picnic.”

“Reconnaissance and a picnic,” Remi repeated with a smile. “Every woman’s dream date.”

 

 

UNLIKE ITS LARGER ALTER EGO, Little Sukuti Island was all mangrove swamp and jungle, save a lone jagged peak that, on the vertical, was no more than five hundred feet above the ocean’s surface, but, as Sam and Remi had learned many times, a five-hundred-foot ascent on rough winding trails could turn into a three- or four-hour hike.

By ten A.M., already sweating profusely and covered in bug bites and mud, they emerged from the swamp and pushed their way into the jungle. With Sam in the lead, they pushed north until they came across what they were looking for: a stream. Water meant animals and animals meant game trails. It took them only a few minutes to find one heading northwest toward the island’s summit. Shortly before one in the afternoon, they broke free of the jungle and found themselves at the foot of the escarpment.

“That’s a relief,” Remi said, staring upward.

The rock face was manageable, fifty feet tall, no steeper than fifty degrees, and with plenty of crags and cracks they could use for foot-and handholds. After a short water break, they headed upward and were soon nestled in a little rock alcove beneath the peak. They each pulled a pair of binoculars from their packs, rose up, and looked around.

“Thar she blows,” Sam muttered.

A mile away and a hundred feet below them was Okafor’s home. Painted a butter yellow with stark white trim, it sat in a near-perfect circular clearing of reddish brown dirt. At this distance they could make out details they’d missed from the air. As Sam had predicted, a trio of men in green coveralls were working along the eastern side of the grounds, two hacking at the encroaching foliage with machetes, the third mowing a strip of lawn. The villa itself was massive, easily fifteen thousand square feet, with wraparound balconies on each floor. At the rear of the property was what looked like a radio antenna/ satellite TV tower.