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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