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.”