“Yes.”

“That was our first day on the island.”

Sam nodded. “Before we found the bell.”

“Then it’s us they’re interested in.”

“And the bell, perhaps. Our ruse with the legal pad clearly got their attention.”

“But how did they know we were here?” Remi asked, then answered her own question: “The BBC interview right after we landed?”

“Could be. Let’s put it together: Rivera and whomever he’s working for find out we’re here. They got worried we might find something and they came to investigate.”

“It’s a big island, though,” Remi replied. “They’d have to be awfully paranoid to think we’d stumble onto whatever they’re worried about. Even if it’s something as big as our bell, it’s a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“The interviewer asked us where we were planning on diving. We told her Chumbe Island. Maybe that was the magic phrase.”Remi considered this. “And, like it or not, we’ve got something of a reputation. We’ve had some great luck finding treasure that didn’t want to be found.”

Sam smiled. “You call it luck. I call it-”

“You know what I mean.”

“So it’s the combination of us, Zanzibar, and Chumbe Island that got their attention.”

They went silent for a minute, each examining their what-if scenario from various angles. Finally Remi broke the silence: “Sam, our friend inside . . . his name is Yaotl, his boss’s name is Itzli, and the third is named . . .”“Nochtli.”

“And they’re from Mexico?”

“So he said.”

“Those aren’t Spanish names.”

“So I guessed.”

“I’ll have Selma do some double checking for me, but I’m almost certain those are Nahuatl in origin.”

“Nahuatl?”

“Aztec, Sam. Nahuatl was the language of the Aztecs.”

THEY STOOD IN SILENCE for the next ten minutes, watching the steam rise from the sheet draped around the bell. Sam checked his watch and said, “Time.”

Using his fingertips, Sam uncoiled the sheet from around the bell, then dragged it away and piled it at the edge of the patio. He turned back to see Remi kneeling before the bell.“Sam, you need to see this.”

He walked around to her side and leaned over her shoulder. Though still heavily mottled, the nitric acid had removed enough patina that they could make out the lettering engraved in the bronze:OPHELIA

“Ophelia,” Remi repeated in a whisper. “What’s Ophelia?”

Sam took a deep breath, let it out. “I have no idea.”

ZANZIBAR

“CAN’T YOU TWO JUST HAVE A NORMAL, UNEVENTFUL VACATION?” Rube Haywood asked over the speakerphone.

“We have plenty of those,” Remi replied. “But we only call you on the abnormal ones.”

“I don’t know if I should feel complimented or offended,” Rube muttered.

“The former,” Sam said. “You’re our go-to guy.”

“What about Selma?”

“Our go-to gal,” Remi shot back.

“Okay, so let me see if I’ve got this straight: You found a diamond-shaped coin that once belonged to the governess of a French commune on some island near Madagascar but was stolen by a pirate. Then you found a ship’s bell belonging to some mystery ship. Then a gunboatful of Mexican mercenaries with Aztec names showed up and tried to kill you. And now you’ve got one of the bad guys tied up in your spare bedroom. Is that the gist of it?”“That about covers it,” Remi said.

“With three minor corrections,” Sam added. “The Adelise coin has nothing to do with it, we don’t think, and Selma’s double-checking the Aztec angle. As for the name Ophelia , we don’t think it was the original. First of all, the engraving is very rough, not professionally done. Second, once we were able to clear away more of the muck we picked up a couple engraved letters beneath Ophelia, an S and two H s.”“I feel like I’m on one of those practical-joke shows,” Rube said. “Okay, I’ll play along. What can I do to help you?”

“First, take our guest off our hands.”

“How? If you’re thinking about all that rendition business, Sam, I-”

“I was thinking you pull some strings in the Tanzanian Ministry of Home Affairs and have the police detain him.”

“On what charges?”

“He’s got no passport, no money, and he was carrying a weapon.”

Rube went silent for a moment. “Knowing you two as I do, I’m guessing you not only want him out of the way but want to see who shows an interest in him.”

“It had crossed our minds,” Sam replied.

“You still have the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me make some calls. What else?”

“He claims his boss’s name is Itzli Rivera, former Mexican army. It’d be nice to know more about him and the yacht they were using. He claims it’s home-ported out of Bagamoyo. The Njiwa.”“Spell it.”

Remi did so. “It’s Swahili for ‘pigeon.’”

“Oh, good. Thanks, Remi. I’ve always wondered what the word for pigeon was in Swahili,” Rube said.

“Somebody’s cranky.”

“What are you going to do with the ship’s bell?” “Leave it here,” Sam replied. “Selma booked the villa anonymously and wired cash. Not much chance of them finding it.”“I already know the answer to this, but I feel obligated to ask: Any chance of you two just taking the bell and going home?”

“We might do just that,” Sam replied. “We’re going to do a little more research and see where it takes us. If nothing pans out, we’ll head home.”

“Miracle of miracles,” Rube said. “You two be careful. I’ll call you when I have info.” He hung up.

Remi said to Sam, “We’re going to have to get him something extraspecial for Christmas.”

“Right about now I can guess what he’s wishing for.”

“What’s that?”

“A new, unlisted phone number.”

THEY TOOK THE ANDREYALE south to Uroa Village, found a ramshackle hardware store, gathered what few supplies they needed, and were back at the villa before noon. Remi left Sam with his hammer and nails and wooden planks and went inside to check on Yaotl, who was sound asleep. She found a couple cans of clam chowder, heated them up, and took the bowls out to the patio. Sam was nailing the last two planks into place.“What do you think?” he asked.

“As a box, Sam, it’s wonderful.”

“It’s supposed to be a crate.”

“Crate, box, whatever. Sit down and eat.”

HALF A MILE FROM THE END of Chukwani Point Road, Itzli Rivera pulled the rented Range Rover onto the shoulder, then down into the ditch and up the other side into the trees. The terrain was rugged and heavily choked with scrub brush, but the Rover’s four-wheel drive handled it easily. He turned southwest toward the clearing on Chukwani Point.

“Time?” he asked Nochtli.“Just after one.”

An hour before the Fargos were set to meet the truck from Mnazi Freight amp; Haul. Plenty of time to find a vantage point that provided not only a good line of sight but also an easily accessible route to cut off any escape attempt.“I see the clearing,” Nochtli said, binoculars lifted to his eyes.

“There’s something there.”

“What?”

“See for yourself.”

He handed the binoculars to Itzli, who focused them on the clearing. Sitting in the middle of the dirt road was a wooden crate. Tacked to the side of the crate was a cardboard sign. “There’s something written on it,” he said, then zoomed in. After a moment he muttered, “?Que madres . . . ?”“What?” asked Nochtli. “What does it say?”

“‘Merry Christmas.’”

ITZLI DROVE through the trees, down into the ditch, and back up the side into the clearing. He stopped the Rover and walked over to the crate. He nudged it with his toe. It was empty. He ripped off the cardboard sign and flipped it over. Written in block letters was a message:LET’S MEET AND TALK ABOUT BELLS.

NYERERE ROAD CRICKET GROUNDS.

BENCH, SOUTHWEST CORNER.

4:00 P.M.

ZANZIBAR

SAM SAW ITZLI RIVERA APPEAR AT THE NORTHERN SIDE OF THE cricket grounds, walking through the trees bordering the parking lot. Behind him, another man was walking east through the lot, but Sam could not make out his face. The purposefulness of his stride made him stand out. This would be Nochtli, Sam thought.