“You don’t look it,” Sam replied. Ever resourceful, Remi had found a simple but elegant Zac Posen “little black dress” in the hotel’s boutique.

“Thank you, Sam.”

The waiter arrived, and Sam gave him their wine selection.

Sam said to Remi, “I saw you were reading Blaylock’s biography at the spa. Any revelations?”

“It’s slow going. It wasn’t written by Blaylock, I can tell you that much. Unless his grasp of English was tenuous at best. I’m guessing Morton penned it. But from what source? One thing that struck me: There’s no mention of Blaylock before he arrived in Africa. It begins the day he set foot in Bagamoyo. No personal details about his life up to that point.”

“Interesting. How’s the index?” Remi shrugged. “What you’d expect. I’m sure Selma, Pete, and Wendy will have more luck with it. I did check for any mention of the bell or the Ophelia. There was nothing.”

“Odd. If he’s the one that took the time to inscribe all the hieroglyphics on the bell, you’d think it would at least warrant a mention. Sounds like a man trying to hide a secret.”“A big secret,” Remi added. “So big the Mexican government may have been murdering people over it for the last seven years.”

THE AIRPORT SHUTTLE dropped them off at the Ras Kutani shortly after dawn. Aside from a few maintenance people moving about in the morning fog, the airstrip was quiet and devoid of life. As the shuttle pulled away, a figure emerged from the mist and approached them. He wore safari khakis, calf-high jungle boots, and a baseball cap emblazoned with the U.S. Army Rangers insignia. He had close-cropped black hair and a thick mustache.“Ed Mitchell,” he said without preamble.

“Sam and Remi Fargo,” Sam replied. “You’re American.”

“More or less. Expatriate, I guess you’d call it. That all you got?” he said, nodding to Sam and Remi’s backpacks. They’d left the majority of their baggage with Vutolo, an old friend and the concierge at the Moevenpick.“This is it,” Sam replied.

“Okay. I’m ready if you are.”

Mitchell turned and started walking. Sam and Remi followed him to a sturdy-looking but weathered Bush Air Cessna 182. Mitchell loaded their gear aboard, got them buckled into the backseat, and did a rote preflight check. Within five minutes of arriving they were airborne and headed south.“Diving?” Mitchell’s voice said over their headsets.

“Pardon?” Remi replied.

“That’s why you’re going to Mafia, I assume.”

“Oh. Right.” Sam said, “Mr. Mitchell, how long have you been in Africa?”

“Name’s Ed. Twenty-two years, I guess. Came here with RAND to do a radar installation back in ’88. Fell in love with it and decided to stay. I flew Spads and Hueys in ’Nam, so bush flying seemed like a good fit. Set up shop and the rest is history.”“Sounds familiar,” Remi replied.

“Which part?”

“Falling in love with Africa.”

“It has the tendency to get into your blood. Every few years I go back to the States to see friends, but I always end up coming back early.” For the first time, Mitchell chuckled. “I guess that’d make me an Africa junkie.”“What do you know about Sukuti Island?” Sam asked.

“Great diving. Prickly owner. A guy named Ambonisye Okafor. You thinking about going there?”

“Thinking about it.”

“We can fly over. He owns the island, not the airspace. It’d only cost us fifteen minutes or so.”

Mitchell made the course adjustment, and within a few minutes the island came into view out the left-hand window. “Sukuti is actually part of the Mafia Archipelago and, depending on who you ask, they’re part of the Spice chain along with Zanzibar,” Mitchell said. “Big and little Sukuti-the big one situated to the north, the little one to the south. See the little waterway between them? Since it’s only fifty or sixty feet wide they’re officially considered a single landmass. All in all, about five square miles. See the other one there, four miles to the south? That’s North Fanjove.”“And the long one sitting between them?” Remi asked.

“That’s more atoll than island-a reef and sandbar. Doesn’t really have a name that I know of. It’s just so close to the surface that it looks solid. You can walk across it, but you’d be wading up to your knees.”

“Are those craters?” Sam asked, peering out the window. “Yep. Back before World War One, German battleships and cruisers used to use Sukuti and Fanjove for target practice. In some places they punched holes straight down the water table. That’s why Fanjove is so popular with cave divers. They rope down into the craters and explore. Every year three or four die doing it. Are you-”“No,” Sam replied. “Just regular diving.”

“Watch yourself. Okafor claims two miles all around Sukuti. He’s got patrol boats and a few armed guards. He even tries to warn people away from Fanjove, but he’s got no legal claim there. There’s his house . . . there on the peak.”

Sam and Remi craned their necks to take a look. Ambonisye Okafor’s island vacation home was a four-story Italian-style villa surrounded by a chest-high stone wall. Neatly groomed crushed-shell paths branched out from the estate like crooked wheel spokes.

If set sixty-five years earlier and dropped into the Pacific Ocean, Big Sukuti could have easily passed for a Japanese fortress island during World War II. Shaped like a cone whose rear quarter had been cleaved down to the waterline, the island’s southern, lower reaches were devoid of plant life, save the occasional scrub brush, and completely without cover save the occasional boulder. A half mile from the shore the moonscape gave way to a swath of rain forest that ended where the estate’s grounds began.

“Replace that villa with a bunker complex, and you’ve got a smaller version of Iwo Jima,” Sam said. “Keeping that jungle at bay probably requires a full-time maintenance staff.”

Two of the island’s paths caught their attention. One led to a dock on the island’s northwestern side. The Njiwa was tied up alongside the pier. Opposite her were two Rinker speedboats like those Rivera and his men had used during the theft of the bell. They could see several figures moving along the Njiwa’s deck, but at this altitude couldn’t make out any faces.

The other significant path led to a clearing bordered by white-painted stones; in the center, more stones, these embedded in the earth, formed a giant H . A helicopter landing pad.Remi said, “Ed, is that a-”

“Yep. He owns a Eurocopter EC135. Top-of-the-line bird. Okafor doesn’t drive anywhere if he can help it. A status thing, I suspect. Either of you fly?”

“I’ve got my single-engine,” Sam replied. “I’ve taken helicopter lessons. I have ten hours in the cockpit. It’s a tougher adjustment than I’d imagined.”“Boy, you got that right.”

“I don’t see many guards or fences down there,” Remi said. “Odd for a man who enjoys his privacy.”

“He’s got enough of a reputation that he doesn’t need as much protection now. He prosecutes trespassers without mercy. Rumor has it, a few of them have even disappeared after pushing their luck.”“You believe that?” Sam asked.

“I tend to. Okafor was a general in the Tanzanian army before he retired. Tough, scary guy. Seen enough?”

“Yes,” Sam replied.

THE REMAINDER OF THE FLIGHT was quiet, punctuated only by Ed’s occasional utterances over their headsets as he pointed out landmarks and offered bits of African history. Just before seven-thirty they touched down on Mafia Island’s gravel airstrip and taxied up to the terminal, a whitewashed building with dusky blue trim and a brick-red tin roof. Beside the building, a pair of uniformed immigration officials sat in the shade of a baobab.

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?”