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“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.
“Do you see that?” Remi asked.
“What?”
“On the roof, eastern corner.”
Sam pointed his binoculars where Remi had indicated and saw a pair of Big Eyes naval binoculars mounted on a tripod.
“Well,” Sam said, “the bad news is to the southwest they can see anything coming ten miles away. You see the coaxial cable attached to the housing?”
“I see it.”
“It’s for remote control and monitoring, I’m guessing. Probably from a control room in the house. The good news is, I don’t think they’re night-vision capable.”
They continued panning their binoculars, moving down the slope to the helicopter pad. At the edge of the white stone perimeter a lone man in khaki coveralls sat in a lawn chair; leaning against his left thigh was an AK-74 assault rifle.
“He’s asleep,” Remi said.
“That, and the missing helicopter tell us the boss is away.” Sam panned his binoculars again. After a moment he said, “I’ve got movement on the Njiwa.”
“I see it,” Remi replied. “There’s a familiar face.”
There was no mistaking Itzli Rivera’s gaunt, ropy frame and sunken face. He stood on the yacht’s foredeck, a satellite phone to his ear. After a minute of listening he nodded, checked his watch, said something into the handset, and disconnected. He turned aft, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted something. Ten seconds later Nochtli and Yaotl came jogging through the arch on the port-side weather deck and stopped before Rivera, who spoke to them for a few minutes before they rushed off again.
“Looked like Rivera was passing on some orders from on high. Let’s hope it’s about the bell.”
“Our bell,” Remi corrected him with a smile.
“I like the way you think. Let’s do a guard count.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes doing just this and came up with four: one at the helicopter pad, one patrolling the road to the dock, and two strolling around the villa’s perimeter. Unless they missed someone, it appeared no guards were watching the island’s approaches.
“We can’t forget Rivera and the other two stooges,” Sam said. “They’re probably staying aboard the boat. If so, we might have to find a way to get them off.”
“That won’t be easy. Based on how much trouble they’ve gone to get the bell, they’re probably sleeping beside it.”
THEY SPENT THE REMAINDER of the afternoon drawing a detailed map of the island and enjoying their ersatz picnic of fruit, nuts, and bottled water. Shortly after five, they heard a faint chopping sound to the east. They focused their binoculars, and soon enough the sound took the shape of a helicopter. Ambonisye Okafor’s Eurocopter EC135, jet-black with tinted windows, swept over the island and did a slow circuit, as though the man aboard were surveying his kingdom, before stopping in a hover over the pad and touching down. The guard on duty was already standing at attention, spine erect, an AK-74 held at port arms. As the rotors spooled down, the Eurocopter’s side door opened and out stepped a tall, lean African man in a crisp white suit and mirrored sunglasses.
“Fun’s over,” Sam said. “Dad’s home.”
“Clearly our host went to the Idi Amin school of fashion,” Remi said. “I’d be willing to bet his closet is packed with clones of that outfit.”
Sam smiled behind his binoculars. “Then again, who’s going to risk telling him he’s a cliché?”