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“A militarily trained hatchet man. It’s a distinction to keep in mind. Nobody can pin down who he works for.”
“How’d he beat all the charges?”
“The usual: witness recantation either by change of mind or change in corporeal status, as in sudden and unexpected death.”
Sam chuckled. “Yes, Rube, I get it.”
“The rest is pretty standard stuff: mislaid evidence, technicalities, etcetera.”
“Safe to say Rivera’s got a heavyweight in h
is corner.”
“A heavyweight with a fetish for shipwreck artifacts. What’re you going to do with the bell?”
“We haven’t decided yet. The truth is, I don’t think they really care about the bell itself. Whether they’re after the Ophelia or the ship belonging to the mystery engraving, it doesn’t change where we found the thing. That’s what’s got them worried . . . Well, that and the fact that we aren’t willing to leave it alone.”
“Maybe it’s not about something they’re looking for,” Rube said, “but rather something they don’t want anyone else to find.”
“Interesting,” Sam said.
Rube continued: “That charitable donation business . . . He wanted you and Remi and the bell together in one place. Why not just accept an e-mailed picture of the bell? And if all they wanted was to find the Ophelia, why not hire you? Everyone knows how the Fargos work: A large percentage of the find goes to charity and nothing to you personally. Sam, I think this is about hiding something, not finding something.”
CHAPTER 11
UNIVERSITY OF DAR ES SALAAM
THE UNIVERSITY’S CENTRAL CAMPUS SAT NORTHWEST OF THE CITY center on a hill. Having called ahead, Sam and Remi found the library’s director, Amidah Kilembe, a beautiful black woman in a fern-green pantsuit, waiting to greet them on the steps.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome to our facility.”
Pleasantries were exchanged as Ms. Kilembe took them up the steps and through the main doors, at which point she gave them a walking tour of the building, which eventually took them to the third-floor reference area. The décor was a mixture of Old World colonial and traditional African: dark furniture and paneling that glowed from decades of polishing surrounded by splashes of colorful Tanzanian art and artifacts. Save a few of the library staff, the building was empty. “It’s a school holiday,” Ms. Kilembe explained.
“We’re sorry,” Sam said. “We thought—”
“Oh, no, no. For the staff it is a regular workday. In fact, as chance would have it, you’ve chosen the perfect day to visit. I myself will be assisting you.”
“We don’t want to impose,” Remi said. “I’m sure you have other . . .”
Ms. Kilembe smiled broadly. “Not at all. I have read of, and enjoyed, several of your exploits. I will, of course, keep my silence about what we discuss here today.” She touched an index finger to her lips and winked. “If you’ll follow me, I have a quiet room set aside for you.”
They followed her to a glass-enclosed room, in the center of which sat a long walnut table and two padded chairs. Before each chair sat a twenty-inch Apple iMac computer.
Ms. Kilembe saw their surprised expressions and chuckled. “Three years ago Mr. Steve Jobs himself visited the campus. He saw that we had very few computers and all of them old, so he made a generous donation. We now have forty of these wonderful machines. And broadband Internet!
“Very well. I will let you get started. First, I will bring you coffee. I have you both set up with guest log-ins for the catalogues. Most of our materials have been digitized back to 1970. Those that have not been will be in our basement archives area. You tell me what you need, and I will bring it. So, good hunting!”
And then Ms. Kilembe was gone, pulling the door shut behind her.
“Where do we start?” Sam wondered aloud.
“Let’s check in with Selma.”
Sam double-clicked the iChat icon on the screen and typed in Selma’s address. The computer’s iSight camera turned green and in ten seconds Selma’s face appeared on the screen.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“University of Dar es Salaam.”