Lost Empire

by Cussler, Clive;Grant Blackwood

  A former major in the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales, or Special Forces Airmobile Group, GAFE, and former Secretariat of National Defence’s S-2 Intelligence Second Section, Rivera had left the army to become Garza’s personal bodyguard, but Garza had quickly seen Rivera’s wider potential and had put him to work as his own private intelligence and operations director.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Rivera said stiffly.

  “And to you. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you something?” Rivera shook his head, and Garza asked, “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “We’ve come across something you may want to see—a video. I asked your secretary to cue it up.”

  Rivera picked up the remote from his desk, aimed it at the fifty-inch LCD television on the wall, and hit Power. Garza sat down. After a few seconds of silence, a man and woman in their mid-thirties appeared, sitting together before an ocean backdrop. Off camera, a reporter was asking questions. Though Garza’s English was fluent, Rivera’s technical people had added Spanish subtitles.

  The interview was short, no longer than three minutes. When it was done, Garza looked to Rivera. “And the significance is?”

  “Those are the Fargos—Sam and Remi Fargo.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Do you remember last year, the story about Napoleon’s Lost Cellar . . . the lost Spartans?”

  Garza was nodding his head. “Yes, yes . . .”

  “The Fargos were behind that. They’re very good at what they do.”

  This got Garza’s attention. He leaned forward in his chair. “Where was this interview taped?”

  “Zanzibar. By a BBC correspondent. Of course, the timing could be a coincidence.”

  Garza waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t believe in coincidences. And neither do you, my friend, or else you wouldn’t have brought this to me.”

  For the first time since entering the office, Rivera showed a trace of emotion—a thin shark’s smile that never reached his eyes. “True.”

  “How did you come across this?”

  “After the . . . revelation . . . I had my technical team create a special program. It monitors the Internet for certain key words. In this case, ‘Zanzibar,’ ‘Tanzania,’ ‘Chumbe,’ ‘Shipwrecks,’ and ‘Treasure.’ The last two, of course, are the Fargos’ specialties. In the interview they were adamant that the trip was simply a diving vacation, but . . .”

  “This close to the last incident . . . the British woman . . .”

  “Sylvie Radford.”

  Radford, Garza thought. Luckily, the idiot woman had had no inkling of the significance of what she’d found, treating it as nothing more than a trinket, showing it off around Zanzibar and Bagamoyo, asking locals what it might be. The necessity of her death had been unfortunate, but Rivera had handled it with his usual care—a street robbery turned murder, the police had concluded.

  What Ms. Radford actually found had been the thinnest of threads, one that would’ve required careful and expert teasing lest it snap. But the Fargos . . . They knew all about following random threads, he suspected. The Fargos knew how to uncover something from nothing.

  “Could she have told someone what she found?” Garza asked. “The Fargos have their own intelligence network of sorts, I would imagine. Could they have gotten a whiff of something?” Garza narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Rivera. “Tell me, Itzli, did you miss something?”

  The gaze that had withered many a cabinet secretary and political opponent left Rivera unfazed; the man merely shrugged.

  “I doubt it, but it is possible,” he said calmly.

  Garza nodded. Though the possibility of Ms. Radford having shared her find with someone was disconcerting, Garza was pleased Rivera had no trouble admitting he may have made a mistake. As president, Garza was surrounded daily by sycophants and yes-men. He trusted Rivera to give him the unvarnished truth and to fix the unfix-able, and he’d never failed in either respect.

  “Find out,” Garza ordered. “Go to Zanzibar and find out what the Fargos are up to.”

  “And if this isn’t a coincidence? They wouldn’t be as easy to handle as the British woman.”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Garza said. “If history has shown us anything, it’s that Zanzibar can be a dangerous place.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ZANZIBAR

  AFTER TALKING WITH SELMA, SAM AND REMI TOOK A CATNAP, then showered, changed clothes, and took their scooters down the coast road to Stone Town, to their favorite Tanzanian cuisine restaurant, the Ekundu Kifaru—Swahili for “Red Rhino.” Overlooking the waterfront, the Red Rhino was nestled between the Old Customs House and the Big Tree, a giant old fig that served as a daily hangout for small boat builders and charter captains offering day sails to Prison Island or Bawe Island.

  For Sam and Remi, Zanzibar (or Unguja in Swahili) personified Old World Africa. The island had over the centuries been ruled by warlords and sultans, slave traders and pirates; it had been the head-quarters for trading companies and the staging area for thousands of European missionaries, explorers, and big game hunters. Sir Richard Burton and John Hanning Speke had used Zanzibar as the base for their search for the source of the Nile; Henry Morton Stanley had begun his famous hunt for the wayward David Livingstone in the labyrinthine alleys of Stone Town; Captain William Kidd had reputedly sailed the waters around Zanzibar as both pirate and pirate hunter.

  Here, Sam and Remi found every street and courtyard had a story and every structure a secret history. They never left Zanzibar without dozens of fond memories.

  By the time they pulled into the parking lot the sun was dropping quickly toward the horizon, casting the sea in shades of gold and red. The scent of oysters on the grill drifted in the air.

  “Welcome back, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” the valet called, then signaled for a pair of white-coated attendants, who trotted over and pushed the scooters away.

  “Evening, Abasi,” Sam replied, shaking the valet’s hand. Remi received a warm hug. They’d met Abasi Sibale on their first visit to Zanzibar six years earlier and had become fast friends, usually having dinner with him and his family at least once during their yearly visits. Abasi was never without a smile.

  “How’re Faraja and the kids?” Sam asked.

  “Happy and healthy, thank you. You will come to supper while you are here?”

  Remi smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I believe they are ready for you inside,” Abasi said.

  Just inside the door the maître d’, Elimu, was waiting. He, too, had known the Fargos for years. “Good to see you, good to see you. Your favorite table overlooking the harbor is ready.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  Elimu led them to a corner table lit by a red hurricane lantern and surrounded on two sides by open windows overlooking the waterfront. Below, Stone Town’s streetlights were flickering to life.

  “Wine, yes?” Elimu asked. “You would like the list?”

  “Do you still have that Pinot Noir—the Chamonix?”

  “Yes, we have a ’98 or a 2000.”

  Sam looked to Remi, who said, “I still remember the ’98.”

  “As the lady wishes, Elimu.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Elimu disappeared.

  “It’s beautiful,” Remi murmured, staring out over the ocean.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  She turned her head away from the window, gave him a smile, and squeezed his hand. “You got a little sun,” she remarked. For some inexplicable reason, Sam Fargo burned oddly—today, only the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears were pink. Tomorrow they would be bronze. “You’re going to be itchy later.”

  “I’m itchy now.”

  “So, any guesses?” Remi asked, holding up the diamond coin.

  It had spent the afternoon first sitting in a bowl of ten percent nitric acid, followed by Sam’s secret formula of white vinegar, salt, and distilled water, foll
owed by a scrubbing with a soft-bristle toothbrush. While many spots remained obscured, they could make out a woman’s face in profile and two words: “Marie” and “Reunion.” These details they’d relayed to Selma before leaving the bungalow.

  “Not a one,” Sam said. “An odd shape for a coin, though.”

  “Private minting, perhaps?”

  “Could be. If so, it’s well done. Nice clean edges, good tooling, solid weight . . .”

  Elimu returned with the wine, decanted, poured for both of them, waited for their nods of approval, then filled their glasses. This particular Pinot Noir was South African, a rich red with hints of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and something Sam couldn’t quite place.

  Remi took a second sip and said, “Chicory.”

  Sam’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, mouthed, Selma, then answered. “Evening, Selma.” Remi leaned forward to listen in.

  “Morning for me. Pete and Wendy just got here. They’re starting on the Tanzanian law angle.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Let me guess: You’re sitting at the the Ekundu Kifaru, staring at the sunset.”

  “Creatures of habit,” Remi said.

  “You have news?” Sam asked.

  “About your coin. You have yourself another mystery.”

  Sam saw the waiter approaching and said, “Hold a minute.” They ordered a Samakai wa kusonga and wali—fish croquet and native rice with chapati bread—and for dessert, N’dizi no kastad—Zanzibar-style banana custard. The waiter left, and Sam un-muted Selma.

  “Go ahead, Selma. We’re all ears,” Sam said.

  “The coin was minted sometime in the early 1690s. Only fifty were made, and they never saw official circulation. In fact, they were a token of affection, for lack of a better term. The ‘Marie’ on the coin’s face is part of ‘Sainte Marie,’ the name of a French commune situated on the north coast of Reunion Island.”

  “Never heard of it,” Remi said.

  “Not surprising. It’s a little lump of an island about four hundred miles east of Madagascar.”

  “Who’s the woman?” Sam asked.

  “Adelise Molyneux. The wife of Demont Molyneux, the administrator of Sainte Marie from 1685 to 1701. According to the stories, for their tenth anniversary Demont had his private stock of gold melted down and minted into these Adelise coins.”

  “Quite a gesture,” Remi said.

  “The coins were supposed to represent the number of years Demont hoped they would spend together before dying. They came close. They both died within a year of each other, just shy of their fortieth anniversary.”

  “So how did this one get all the way to Zanzibar?” Sam asked.

  “Here’s where truth gets mixed up with legend,” Selma replied. “You’ve heard of George Booth, I assume?”

  “English pirate,” Sam said.

  “Right. Spent most of his time in the Indian Ocean and Red Sea. Started as a gunner aboard the Pelican around 1696, then aboard the Dolphin. Around 1699 the Dolphin was cornered by a British fleet near Reunion Island. Some of the crew surrendered; some, including Booth, escaped to Madagascar, where Booth and a another pirate captain, John Bowen, combined forces and hijacked the Speaker, a four-hundred-fifty-ton, fifty-gun slave ship. Booth was elected captain, and then around 1700 he took the Speaker to Zanzibar. When they went ashore for supplies, the landing party was attacked by Arab troops. Booth was killed and Bowen survived. From there, Bowen took the Speaker back to the waters around Madagascar, before dying a few years later on Mauritius.”

  “You said the Dolphin was cornered near Reunion Island,” Sam repeated. “How close to the Sainte Marie commune?”

  “A few miles offshore,” Selma replied. “Legend says Booth and his crew had just finished raiding the commune.”

  “Having made off with the Adelise coins,” Remi finished.

  “So says the legend. And so said Demont Molyneux in an official letter of complaint to Louis XIV, the king of France.”

  “So let’s play this out,” Sam said. “Booth and the other escapees from the Dolphin take with them the Adelise coins, then meet up with Bowen. They then hijack the Speaker and head for Zanzibar, where they . . . what? Bury their booty on Chumbe Island? Dump it in shallow water for later recovery?”

  “Or maybe the Speaker never got away,” Remi added. “Maybe the stories are wrong. Maybe she was sunk in the channel.”

  “Half a dozen of one, six of the other,” Selma replied. “Either way, the coin you found is from the Adelise lot.”

  “The question is,” Sam said, “does our bell belong to the Speaker?”

  CHAPTER 4

  ZANZIBAR

  THE STORM THAT HAD CLOSED OVER THE ISLAND IN THE EARLY-MORNING hours had moved on by dawn, leaving the air crisp and the foliage around their bungalow glistening with dew. Sam and Remi sat on the rear porch overlooking the beach and shared a meal of fruit, bread, cheese, and strong black coffee. In the trees around them, hidden birds squawked.

  Suddenly a pinkie-sized gecko scaled the leg of Remi’s chair and skittered across her lap and onto the table, where it navigated the dishes before retreating down Sam’s chair.

  “Wrong turn, I guess,” Sam remarked.

  “I have a way with reptiles,” Remi said.

  They shared one more cup of coffee, then cleaned up, packed their backpacks, and walked down to the beach, where they’d grounded the cabin cruiser. Sam tossed their backpacks over the railing, then gave Remi a boost.

  “Anchor?” she called.

  “Coming.”

  Sam squatted beside the auger-shaped beach anchor, wriggled it free, then handed it up to Remi. She disappeared, and he could hear her feet padding along the deck, and then a few seconds later the engines growled to life and settled into a sputtering idle.

  “Slow back,” Sam called.

  “Slow back, aye,” Remi replied.

  When Sam heard the propeller begin to churn, he leaned hard against the hull, dug his feet into the wet sand, coiled his legs, and shoved. The boat eased back a foot, then another, then floated free. He reached up, snagged the lowermost railing with his hands, then swung his legs up, hooked his heel on the gunwale, and climbed aboard.

  “Chumbe Island?” Remi called through the open pilothouse window.

  “Chumbe Island,” Sam confirmed. “Got a mystery to solve.”

  THEY WERE A FEW MILES northwest of Prison Island when Sam’s satellite phone trilled. Sitting on the afterdeck, sorting through their gear, Sam picked up the phone and pressed Talk. It was Selma. “Good news, not so good news,” she said.

  “Good news first,” Sam said.

  “According to Tanzania’s Ministry of Natural Resources regulations, the spot where you found the bell is outside sanctuary boundaries. There’s no reef there, so no protection necessary.”

  “And the not so good news?”

  “Tanzanian maritime salvage law still applies—‘No extraordinary excavation methods.’ It’s a gray area, but it sounds like you’re going to need more than Ping-Pong paddles to free that bell. I’ve got both Pete and Wendy looking into the permit process—discreetly, of course.”

  Boyfriend and girlfriend Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden—tan and fit blond Californians with degrees in archaeology and social sciences, respectively—worked as Selma’s apprentices.

  “Good,” Sam said. “Keep us posted.”

  AFTER A BRIEF STOP at the Stone Town docks to refuel and gather the days’ provisions, it took another leisurely ninety minutes’ cruising down the coast and picking their way through the channels of Zanzibar’s outer islands before they reached the bell’s GPS coordinates. Sam went forward and dropped anchor. The air was dead calm and the sky a cloudless blue. As Zanzibar sat just below the equator, July was during winter rather than summer, so the temperature wouldn’t climb above the low eighties. A good day for diving. He hoisted the white-stripe-on-red diver-down flag on the halyard, then joined Remi on the afterdeck.

  “Tanks
or snorkel?” she asked.

  “Let’s start with snorkel.” The bell was sitting in ten feet of water. “Let’s get a good look at what we’re up against, then regroup.”

  AS IT HAD BEEN the day before and was ninety percent of the time in Zanzibar, the water was stunningly clear, ranging in shade from turquoise to indigo. Sam rolled backward over the gunwale, followed a few seconds later by Remi. Together they hung motionless on the surface for a few seconds, letting the cloud of bubbles and froth dissipate, then flipped over and dove. Once they reached the white sand bottom they turned right and soon reached the lip of the bank, where they performed another pike dive and followed the vertical face to the bottom. They stopped, knelt in the sand, and jammed their dive knives into the bottom to use as handholds.

  Ahead they could see the edge of the Good-bye Zone. The previous night’s storm had not only ramped up the current in the main channel but had also churned up a lot of debris, so thick it looked like a solid gray-brown wall of sand. This at least would keep the sharks away from the shallows. The downside was they could feel the draw of the current from where they hovered.

  Sam tapped his snorkel and jerked his thumb upward. Remi nodded.

  They finned for the surface and broke into the air.

  “You feel that?” Sam asked.

  Remi nodded. “Felt like an invisible hand was trying to grab us.”

  “Stick close to the bank.”

  “Got it.”

  They dove again. On the bottom, Sam checked the readout on his GPS unit, oriented himself, then pointed south down the bank and signed to Remi: 30 feet. Resurfacing, they swam that way in single file, Sam in the lead, one eye on the GPS, one eye on his position. He stopped again and pointed an index finger down.