Lost Empire

by Cussler, Clive;Grant Blackwood

  “I count five,” Remi said.

  “I’ve got four,” replied Sam.

  They were silent for a few moments.

  Remi said, “Has to be a coincidence, right?” Sam simply stared at his screen, so Remi said, “Otherwise, what are we saying? Rivera and whoever he works for have been murdering divers that show an interest in Chumbe Island?”

  “No, it can’t be that. They would number in the hundreds . . . the thousands. Maybe it’s the people who declare their finds. Or take them to local shops for identification. If we’re right about this, these people have to have something else in common.”

  “They told someone about what they found,” Remi offered.

  “And it was the right kind of artifact, something to do with the Ophelia. Or the ship with the blotted-out name.”

  “Either way, if she’d sunk off Chumbe, artifacts would be washing up on the beach. Every monsoon there would be debris just sitting on the bottom waiting for someone with a Ping-Pong paddle to come along.”

  “True,” said Sam. “But there are plenty of people who find something and never mention it. They go home and put it on their mantel as a souvenir. In fact, that describes most casual treasure divers: They find something, make a minor effort to identify it, but if it’s not something obviously ‘treasure-ish’ they treat it as a keepsake . . . ‘Our week in Zanzibar.’”

  “This is a huge leap we’re talking about, Sam.”

  “I just remembered something: Rivera said he’s been looking for the Ophelia for seven years.”

  “About the same time the strange deaths started.”

  “Exactly. I need to call Rube. We need to find out how good Tanzanian immigration and customs are at recordkeeping.”

  SAM MADE THE CALL and explained their request to an incredulous but willing Rube Haywood, who said, “So your theory is that Rivera was in Zanzibar around the time all the deaths would have taken place?”

  “It’s worth a shot. Even if the records don’t show he was here every time, he may not have traveled under his own name.”

  “I’ll look into it. Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  Sam thanked him and disconnected.

  A few minutes later Ms. Kilembe knocked on the door and peeked her head inside. “Do you need anything?”

  They thanked her and declined. She was turning to leave when Sam asked, “Ms. Kilembe, how long have you been with the library?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “And how long in this area?”

  “All my life. I was born in Fumba, on Zanzibar.”

  “We’re looking for anything on a ship called Ophelia. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Ms. Kilembe furrowed her brow. After ten seconds of thought, she said, “I assume you’ve been to the Blaylock already?”

  “The Blaylock?”

  “The Blaylock Museum in Bagamoyo. There’s a charcoal sketch there of a ship. Unless my memory fails me, the ship’s name is Ophelia.”

  CHAPTER 12

  BAGAMOYO

  OF THE TWO CITIES WITHIN EASY REACH OF ZANZIBAR , DAR ES Salaam and Bagamoyo, the latter was Sam and Remi’s favorite. With a population of thirty thousand, Bagamoyo is a microcosm of both traditional African and colonial African history without the big-city bustle of Dar es Salaam and its two and a half million inhabitants.

  Founded by Omani nomads in the late 1700s, Bagamoyo has at times been home to Arab and Indian traders of ivory and salt, Christian missionaries, slave traders, the German East Africa colonial government, and big game hunters and explorers bound for Morogoro, Lake Tanganyika, and Usambara.

  “Here’s something we didn’t know,” Remi said, reading from the guidebook as Sam drove. “David Livingstone, in all his years in Africa, never visited Bagamoyo—at least not alive. He was brought to Bagamoyo after he died and was laid out in the Old Church Tower, now called Livingstone Tower, to wait for high tide so they could ship his body to Zanzibar.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “I’d always assumed he’d used Bagamoyo as a staging area just like everyone else. Okay, we’re on the outskirts. Where’d Ms. Kilembe say the museum was?”

  Remi plucked the Post-it note from inside the guidebook and read: “Two blocks from the old German boma, a fort.”

  “Which one? There are two, I think the guidebook said.”

  Remi flipped over the note. “That’s all she wrote. Guess we’ll have to check them both.”

  They found the first a few hundred yards north of three of Bagamoyo’s biggest tourist attractions: the crocodile farm, the Kaole Ruins, and a five-hundred-year-old baobab tree. They parked on the dirt road before the crumbling whitewashed fort and got out. A teenage boy walked by with a donkey on a lead. He smiled broadly and said, “Jambo. Habari gani?” Hello. How are you?

  In halting Swahili, Sam replied, “Nzuri. Unasema kiingereza?”

  “Yes, I speak little English.”

  “We’re looking for the Blaylock Museum.”

  “Oh, yes, Crazy Man House.”

  “No, I’m sorry, the Blaylock Museum.”

  “Yes, same thing. Other boma. One kilometer up. Livingstone Cross, yes?”

  “Yes. Asante sana,” Sam replied.

  “You’re welcome, bye-bye.”

  With a click of his tongue, the boy continued on with his donkey.

  “Your Swahili is improving,” Remi remarked.

  “Just don’t ask me to order food. You won’t like what we get.”

  “What did he mean ‘Crazy Man House’?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  THEY FOUND THE OTHER boma with little trouble, following glimpses of its whitewashed battlements until they reached its crushed-shell parking lot. Here there were more locals going about their business, selling food and sundries from storefronts and awning-covered carts. Sam and Remi got out and began walking, looking for a sign that read either “Blaylock” or “Crazy Man.” After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, they stopped at a vendor’s cart, bought two ice-cold bottles of cola, and asked for directions.

  “Yes, Crazy Man House,” the man said. He pointed west down a narrow dirt alley. “Two hundred meters there, find wall, then thick trees. Turn right, find path, find place.”

  “Asante sana,” Remi said.

  “Starehe.”

  AS PROMISED, THEY FOUND a waist-high mud-brick wall before a grove of acacia and wild lavender. They turned right and, twenty feet down, came to an opening in the wall. On the other side, a winding path took them through the grove to a white picket fence, beyond which stood an old schoolhouse, long and narrow, with a butter yellow exterior and heavy shutters in dark blue. A black-on-white hand-painted sign above the porch steps read BLAYLOCK MUSEUM AND CURIOSITY SHOP. The last three words were clearly written in a different hand, as though added later as an afterthought.

  A bell above the door tinkled as they entered. Hand-hewn support posts ran down the center of the space supporting rafters, from which hung dozens of poorly stuffed African birds in poses that Sam and Remi assumed were meant to represent midflight. Sitting on the rafters above their inanimate cousins were several animate pigeons. Their cooing filled the space.

  The walls were dominated by wicker shelving units, no two sharing the same height or width or shade of wood. Spaced at intervals down the building’s midline were eight rickety card tables covered with threadbare sheets. On both the shelves and card tables were hundreds of knickknacks: wooden and ivory statuettes of giraffes, lions, zebras, dik-diks, snakes, and people; collections of knives ranging from the standard pocket variety to daggers carved from bone; hand-painted fetishes covered with feathers and bits of tree bark; hand-drawn maps on hide; charcoal pencil portraits and landscapes; compasses; water bags made from animal stomachs; and several models of Webley revolvers and bullets of varying sizes.

  “Welcome to the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop,” a voice called in surprisingly good English.

  At the far end of the room was a lone
card table they hadn’t noticed. Sitting behind it was an elderly black man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and a white GOT MILK? T-shirt.

  “Thank you,” Remi replied.

  Sam and Remi walked over and introduced themselves.

  “I am Morton,” the man replied.

  “Forgive us, but what exactly is this place?” Sam asked.

  “It is the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop.”

  “Yes, I know, but to whom is it dedicated?”

  “The greatest unsung African explorer to ever grace the shores of the Dark Continent,” the man replied. Clearly, he’d delivered this pitch many times. “The man to whom hundreds owe their lives and the lives of their grandchildren: Winston Lloyd Blaylock, the Mbogo of Bagamoyo.”

  “The ‘Mbogo of Bagamoyo,’” Sam repeated. “The Buffalo of Bagamoyo?”

  “That is correct. The Cape buffalo.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Remi asked.

  “Mbogo Blaylock came from America to Bagamoyo in 1872 to seek his fortune. He stood four inches over six feet, weighed twice as much as the average Tanganyikan man at the time, and had shoulders as wide as the mbogo for which he is named.”

  “Is that him?” Sam asked, pointing to a grainy black-and-white daguerreotype on the wall above Morton. It showed a tall, broad-shouldered man in Hemingwayesque safari clothes. In the background were a dozen Maasai warriors kneeling with assegai spears.

  “That is him,” Morton confirmed. “The complete history of the Mbogo is available in this fine leather-bound volume.”

  Morton swept his hand toward a wicker shelf on the right-hand wall. Remi walked over and lifted one of the books from the stack. The cover was not leather but rather Naugahyde, crudely stapled into place. Glued to the front was a reproduction of the wall photo.

  “We’ll take two,” Sam said, and brought their purchases back to the card table. As he was paying Remi asked, “We were told we might find something about a ship here. The Ophelia?”

  Morton nodded and pointed to a three-by-five-foot framed charcoal sketch of a steam-sail ship. “The hunt for the Ophelia was Mbogo Blaylock’s first great adventure. It is all in the book. I wrote the index myself. It took me three years.”

  “That’s true dedication,” said Remi. “How did you come to . . . be here? Did your family know Mr. Blaylock?”

  For the first time since they entered, Morton smiled. Proudly. “My family is Mbogo Blaylock. I am second cousin to Mbogo’s great-grandson.”

  “Pardon me?” Sam asked. “You’re related to Winston Blaylock?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t it show?”

  Sam and Remi didn’t know how to respond. After a few moments Morton slapped his knee and laughed. “Got you, yes?”

  “Yes, you did,” Sam replied. “So you’re not—”

  “No, that part is true. The resemblance is difficult to see, however. You may see my birth certificate if you wish.” Before they could answer, Morton produced it from a lockbox beneath the card table. He unfolded it and slid it across to them. Sam and Remi leaned over to study it, then straightened up.

  “That’s amazing,” Remi said. “So he married? Took a Tanzanian wife?”

  “Back then it was still called Tanganyika—before the Germans came, you see. And no, he did not take a wife. But he did take six concubines and had many children. That, too, is in the book.”

  Sam and Remi exchanged dumbfounded glances. Sam asked Morton, “What happened to him?”

  “No one knows. He disappeared from here in 1882. His grandson claims he was chasing a treasure.”

  “What kind of treasure?”

  “That is a secret he shared with no one.”

  “Some people in town called it the—”

  “Crazy Man House,” Morton said. “It’s not an insult. The word doesn’t translate well into English. In Swahili, it doesn’t mean crazy so much as . . . free-spirited. Wild.”

  “All these artifacts belonged to him?” Remi asked.

  “Yes. Most he killed, made, or found with his own hands. Others are gifts and offerings. Offer a fair price, and I will consider it.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re selling his belongings?”

  “I have no choice. I am the last of Mbogo Blaylock’s descendants. At least that is still here. My two children live in England. They are going to school. I’m sick and not long for this world.”

  “We’re very sorry to hear that,” Sam said. “May we look around?”

  “Of course. Ask questions if you have them.”

  Sam and Remi walked away. She whispered, “You think it’s all true? The picture does look an awful lot like Hemingway.”

  “Why don’t you call Ms. Kilembe and ask.”

  Remi went outside, returned five minutes later, and walked over to Sam, who was staring at a walking staff mounted on the wall.

  “She says it’s all legitimate. The museum’s been here since 1915.” Sam didn’t respond. He remained still, his eyes fixed on the staff. “Sam? Did you hear me? Sam, what’s so fascinating?”

  “Do you see anything unusual about it?” he murmured.

  Remi studied it for a few moments. “No, not really.”

  “Look at the head . . . the metal part with the rounded end.”

  She did. She cocked her head, squinted her eyes, then: “Is that . . . ?”

  Sam nodded. “A bell clapper.”

  They stared at it for another long ten seconds, then Sam turned to Morton and said, “How much for all of it?”

  CHAPTER 13

  ZANZIBAR

  “PARDON ME?” SELMA SAID OVER THE SPEAKERPHONE. “SAY THAT again. You want what shipped back here?”

  From the passenger seat of their Toyota Remi said, “Not the whole museum, Selma, just the contents. In all it should weigh about . . .” She looked to Sam, who said, “Five to seven hundred pounds.”

  Selma said, “I heard.” She sighed. “Who do I—”

  “The owner’s name is Morton Blaylock. We’re putting him up in the Moevenpick Royal Palm in Dar es Salaam while you two make arrangements. By this afternoon he’ll have an account set up at Barclays. Wire thirty thousand dollars to him from our business account, then another thirty when everything’s packed up and on its way to you.”

  “Sixty thousand dollars?” Selma said. “You paid him sixty thousand? Do you know how much that is in Tanzanian shillings? It’s a fortune. Did you haggle with him at least?”

  “He wanted twenty,” Sam replied. “We talked him up. Selma. He’s a dying man and he’s got grandkids to put through college.”

  “Sounds like a con man to me.”

  “We don’t think so,” Remi replied. “The staff’s seven feet tall, made of black ironwood, and topped with the bronze clapper from the Ophelia’s bell.”

  “Is this pull-a-joke-on-Selma day?”

  Sam replied, “You’ll see it for yourself. Morton’s including it in the first shipment from the museum. We’re also FedExing you a copy of Blaylock’s biography. We need you to work your magic on it. Dissect it, cross-reference every name, place, and description . . . You know what to do.”

  “I haven’t heard you two this excited since you called from that cave in the Alps.”

  “We are excited,” Remi replied. “It appears Winston Blaylock spent a good portion of his adult life chasing a treasure, and, unless we’re wrong, it’s something Rivera and his boss don’t want us to find. Blaylock could be our Rosetta stone.”

  Sam turned the Land Cruiser onto the road leading to their villa, then slammed on the brakes. A hundred yards away through the windshield they saw a figure walk across the patio and disappear into the bushes.

  Remi said, “Selma, we’ll have to call you back,” then hung up. “Is it them, Sam?”

  “It’s them. Check out the patio. The bell’s gone.”

  Ahead and to the right, the figure emerged from the bushes bordering the beach and began sprinting toward the waterline, where a twenty-seven
-foot Rinker powerboat sat alongside the quay across from their Andreyale. A half mile out the yacht Njiwa sat at anchor. Standing on the Rinker’s afterdeck were two figures. Between them was the Ophelia’s bell.

  “Damn it!” Sam muttered.

  “How did they find us?” Remi said.

  “No idea. Hold on!”

  He punched the gas pedal. The tires bit into the dirt, and the Land Cruiser lurched forward. Sam watched the speedometer climb past fifty, then swung the wheel left, then right, aiming the hood squarely at the brush-covered berm.

  “Oh, boy . . .” Remi said. She pressed her hands against the dashboard and her head against the rest.

  The berm loomed before them. The Land Cruiser tipped backward. Sky filled the windshield, then they were tipping forward again, soaring through the air, the engine roaring as the tires spun freely. The Cruiser crashed to the earth. Sand peppered the windshield. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and after a momentary groan of protest the engine responded and they were again moving forward, albeit at half speed as the tires struggled to find purchase in the dry sand.

  Ahead, the running figure had nearly reached the quay. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Land Cruiser, and stumbled. It was Yaotl.

  “Guess he didn’t like our hospitality,” Sam called.

  “Can’t imagine why,” replied Remi.

  Yaotl was back on his feet. He charged up the quay’s steps, taking them two at a time, then dashed toward the waiting Rinker, where Rivera and Nochtli were waving their arms, urging him on.

  Sam kept going, jostling the wheel and trying to feel his way to firmer ground. The quay was fifty yards away. Yaotl reached the Rinker and jumped aboard. Thirty yards to go. Nochtli moved to the driver’s seat and settled behind the wheel. Smoke burst from the exhaust manifold.

  Quite casually, Rivera stepped past the panting Yaotl, gave him a clap on the shoulder, then stepped to the transom. He stared at the approaching Land Cruiser for a moment, then raised his hand as if to wave.