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He wore white twill shorts, a khaki shirt with the sleeves hacked off, and a battered panama hat festooned with fishing lures. Gray stubble showed on his cheeks and chin.

Beyond Diop, the setting presented a picturesque view of the harbor. It looked like a tourist postcard, in fact. Pirogues, small canoes, knifed through the water carrying tourists, teenagers, and fishermen. The brightly colored houses stood out against the blue sky and white sand. Canopies on stilts shaded patches of the beach for tourists and vendors. Papaya and palm trees shared space with lime and sandbox trees. Lourds recognized them from the research he’d viewed concerning Île de Gorée.

When the ferry put in to the pier, Lourds waited till the ship was still, the lines were made fast, and the gangway was lowered. Then he stepped onto the pier. Leslie was behind him, while Gary and Natasha brought up the rear.

Diop stepped forward. A big grin split his face and he offered his hand.

“Professor Lourds,” Diop greeted.

“Professor Diop,” Lourds responded.

“No,” the old man said, waving a hand. “Please. Call me Ismael.”

“There’s a famous line in there,” Lourds observed with a smile.

“Indeed there is. But trust me when I tell you I’ve heard it before.” The old professor’s voice was softly melodic with just a hint of a British accent.

Diop stood and shook hands as Lourds introduced the others.

“This heat and humidity make speaking out here unbearable,” Diop said. “I took the liberty of securing a room at a local tavern if that’s all right with you all.”

“Cold beer?” Gary asked as he wiped at his face with a towel. “I’m in.”

Diop laughed. “Yes. This way, then. It’s only a short walk. It’s not a big island.”

Lourds followed Diop through a narrow alleyway lined with bushes and bougainvillea. The bright purple, red, and yellow flowers made the area seem festive. Blossoms of a mango tree added to the color, and the shade was a welcome relief from the punishing glare of the sun.

“This is beautiful,” Leslie said.

“It is,” Diop agreed. “We have color all year round. But I’m afraid that means we also have to suffer the heat.”

At the end of the alley, they came out onto a place that fronted a large pinkish building with sweeping staircases that coiled toward each other. A small balcony stretched between them over a large wooden door.

“Is that the slave house?” Gary asked. He stepped off to capture video of the house.

“Yes.” Diop stood and waited patiently. “The French called it Maison de Esclaves. The House of the Slaves. They passed through the door beneath, which they called the Door of No Return, and waited—shackled—in the holding areas within till they were brought out and sold.”

“Grim.” Gary frowned and put the camera away.

“Very grim. If those walls could talk, they’d fill your ears with horrors, I’m sure.” Diop stared at the building. “Still, if it weren’t for the Atlantic slave trade, no one would have thought this area important enough to try to save. A lot of information we have now would have been lost.” He paused. “Including the information you came for, Thomas.”

“It’s always fascinating to see how the bones of history get preserved longer when guilt is involved,” Lourds commented.

“And how quickly the truth of it is all forgotten,” Diop said. He nodded toward the children playing in the open area. “The young people here know of the history, but, for better or for worse, it exists as something separate from them. It has no true impact on their lives.”

“Except for the fact that they can make money from the tourists,” Natasha said.

Lourds looked at her unhappily, thinking perhaps she’d transgressed politeness.

“It’s the same in my country,” Natasha said. “Westerners come to Moscow and want to see where the Communists lived and where the KGB were located. Like it was a movie set, not a matter of life and death in Russia for nearly a century.”

“Too many James Bond films, I suppose.” Diop smiled.

“Far too many,” Natasha agreed. “We don’t set out to be a stereotype, but I think sometimes we end up as one to outsiders. Especially to Western eyes. Perhaps that building is the same.”

Diop nodded. “I think perhaps you’re right.”

The beer came to their table in bottles so cold, they iced up in the humidity then immediately started to sweat it off. Thick lime wedges blocked the open necks, but only temporarily.

Lourds removed a lime wedge and drank deeply.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Diop said.

Lourds started to ask what the old professor was referring to; then the brain freeze almost shattered his mind. He closed his eyes and suffered through it.

“Ouch. Got it. I’ll go slower in the future.”

Diop laughed gently. “I brought us here because the beer was cold and the food is excellent. I didn’t know if you’d had the time to eat.”

“No,” Leslie said. “I’m famished.”

“Perhaps we could talk over a meal,” Diop suggested. “It is traditional, yes? The breaking of bread among friends?”

They all agreed.

As he sipped his beer more cautiously, Lourds noticed that Natasha had immediately taken the seat with her back to the wall. She never went off guard. Like an Old West gunfighter, he thought.

The tavern was small. Hardwood floors showed scars from decades of use and abuse. The tables and chairs were all mismatched. Wicker-bladed fans swept slowly by overhead but did little more than stir the thick air. Bougainvillea dripped from ceramic pots and planters. The fragrant blossoms filled the air with scent.

Diop waved a young woman over and quickly ordered in French. Lourds paid only a little attention as he opened the Word document on his iPAQ where he’d made a list of the questions he wanted to ask the professor once he tracked him down.

The server brought over another round of beers and quickly departed.

Diop took his hat off and tossed it to the hat rack against wall. The Panama sailed elegantly and came to a rest on one of the pegs.

“Good shot,” Gary complimented.

“Either you’re very good with that little trick,” Lourds commented, “or this is a favorite place.”

“It’s a favorite place.” Diop ran his long-fingered hands across his shaven scalp. “And that hat and I have been together for years.” He paused and looked at Lourds. “I was sorry to hear what happened to Professor Hapaev.”

“Did you know her?” Natasha asked eagerly.

“No. Other than a few e-mails there at the end.”

“She was my sister.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Natasha leaned slightly across the table. “I don’t know exactly what Professor Lourds has told you about why we’re here.”

“He said you were looking for more information about the cymbal Professor—your sister—was working on.”

“I’m also looking for my sister’s killers.” Natasha took her identification from her pocket and laid it on the table.

Diop reached out and quickly folded the ID closed. “This is not a place to be flashing badges. Many of the people here still pursue quasi-illegal business. And a number of other people don’t want to deal with authority figures. Do you understand?”

Natasha nodded, but Lourds had the impression she’d known exactly what she’d been risking. She put the ID away.

“While you’re here,” Diop said seriously, “it might be better for you to forget you are a policewoman. That could get you killed on the mainland. Here, it could get you worse.”

CHAPTER

18

CHEZ MADAME LOULOU

ÎLE DE GORÉE

DAKAR, SENEGAL

SEPTEMBER 6, 2009

W

hat do you know about the bell and the cymbal?” Diop asked. He held the eight-by-ten photos of the two instruments that Lourds had directed Gary to make. He’d taken a pair of glasses from his pocket for the close-up work.

“Not enough. They’re part of a set of five instruments,” Lourds replied. “The other three still missing are a pipe, a flute, and a drum.”

Diop studied Lourds over the glasses for a moment. “Do you know where any of these instruments are?”

“No. I know where two of them have been.” Lourds quickly relayed the story of the bell and the cymbal and how they’d been taken.

During that time, the young woman returned with fried plantains and pastels—a Portuguese-style stuffed pastry that was deep-fried. She also brought fresh beers. Natasha opted for water instead, and Lourds knew it was because she didn’t want to risk getting intoxicated. He doubted she ever let her control slip enough to indulge.

“Patrizio Gallardo,” Diop mused. Then he shook his head. “A number of artifact dealers—legitimate and black market—ply their trade here and on the mainland. The past is always for sale to collectors.”

“Do you know anyone who’s been looking for these instruments?” Lourds asked.

“No.” Diop handed the pictures back.

“I’ve read your work.” Lourds put the photos into his backpack. “What have you heard about them?”

“There’s an old Yoruba tale about five instruments,” Diop said. “Perhaps it’s about the same five instruments you’re searching for. I don’t know. I’ve concerned myself more with the history of this place than the fables of the various cultures that have passed through here.”

“But you have heard the story?” Leslie asked.

“Yes.” Diop shrugged. “It isn’t so different from a lot of creation myths.”

“Can you tell it to us?” Lourds asked.

“Once, long and long ago,” Diop said, “the Creator—call him whatever you wish according to your own religious beliefs—grew angry with his children here in this world. In that time, they lived only on one land.”

“What one land?” Gary asked.

“The legend doesn’t say. It merely calls it the ‘beginning place.’ There were some scholars I tipped a few beers with who insisted that the land might have been the Garden of Eden. Or perhaps it was Atlantis. Or Lemuria. Or any of other countless supposed lands of wonder that disappeared into the dark recesses of time.”

“When you put it that way,” Leslie said, “it sounds like pure hokum.”

Lourds glanced at the young woman briefly. Was she really beginning to lose faith in what they were searching for? Or was she only saying that to needle him? Or maybe it was to challenge Diop. Lourds didn’t know. He tried to keep from being irritated, but he wasn’t altogether successful.

Evidently Diop took no offense. He grinned. “If you stay around Africa long enough, Miss Crane, you’ll hear all kinds of things. But if you stay around even longer than that, you’ll find that many of those things—each in their own way—have a kernel of truth.”

The server returned, followed by two others. All of them carried huge platters of food. As the food was placed, Diop quickly explained what they were about to eat.

Thieboudienne was the traditional Senegalese dish, consisting of marinated fish prepared with tomato paste and an assortment of vegetables. Yassa was chicken or fish simmered in onion with garlic, lemon sauce, and mustard added to enhance the taste. Sombi was a sweet milk rice soup. Fonde was millet balls rolled in sour cream.

Eating and talking, Lourds noted, didn’t bother Diop. The scholar left the conversation at appropriate places for questions to be asked while he ate.

“After his anger had passed, the Creator saw what he’d done to his children and he was sorry,” Diop said. “So he made them a promise that he would never destroy the world again that way.”

“Sounds like the covenant of the rainbow,” Gary said. “Or the whole lost Ark business with Indiana Jones.”

“As I said, many of these tales are similar,” Diop agreed. “Even the animal stories—such as how the bear lost his tail—are similar in regions that have long had those animals.”

“So you think a bear actually used his tail to go ice fishing?” Gary asked. “Then froze it off in the ice?”

Diop laughed. “No. I believe the bear was lazy and tricked the kangaroo into digging for water. As an act of vengeance, the kangaroo used his boomerang to cut the bear’s tail off.”

Gary grinned. “Now that one, mate, I had not heard.”

“The Australian aborigines tell it.” Diop forked up some spicy couscous and ate. “The point being, every culture tells stories to explain things they don’t know.”

“But there’s more to this story,” Lourds said. “I’ve seen the bell. And I’ve seen digital images of the cymbal. They both share a language that I can’t decipher.”

“Is that so unusual for you?”

Lourds hesitated a moment. “At the risk of sounding egotistical, yes, it is.”

“Ah, no wonder you’re so intrigued by these things.”

“Some other intrigued person killed my sister for that cymbal,” Natasha stated flatly.

“But you have the name of one of the men who murdered your sister,” Diop pointed out. “You could pursue him.”

Natasha didn’t say anything.

For the first time, Lourds realized that. He was amazed he hadn’t noticed that fact himself.

“Of course, if Gallardo and his people are truly searching for the same five instruments that Thomas is,” Diop said, “it only makes sense to stay with the professor. Sooner or later they’ll come to you, eh?”

Natasha’s eyes remained frozen like ice even when she smiled. “Sooner or later,” she agreed.

Gallardo nursed a beer while he leaned against the Auberge Keur Beer guesthouse and watched the festivities taking shape in the courtyard. Children played soccer with homemade balls while men wrestled in the sand and women pounded millet. Vendors sold baguettes and iced drinks to the tourists and locals.

Tired from the long trips he’d taken lately, Gallardo longed for a soft bed and plenty of time to rest. He didn’t know how Lourds and his companions kept going.

He stared at the table where Lourds sat with some black man. It irritated Gallardo that they sat there with impunity. All of them—

All of them?

For the first time Gallardo realized the Russian woman had disappeared from the table where Lourds and the others sat under a broad umbrella. Candlelight played over their faces and showed they were deep in conversation.

Dammit. The woman is missing. Where the hell is she?

Gallardo finished his beer, left the bottle sitting on the nearby windowsill, and stepped back into the shadows. His hand dropped to the back of his waistband and closed around the handle of the 9 mm he’d purchased off a black market dealer soon after his arrival in Dakar. He continued sweeping the area for the woman but didn’t find her.

“I know a man,” Diop said as they sat at the table, “who might be able to help you with this legend. But it will take you a few days to reach him. He lives in the old Yoruba lands.”

“Where?” Lourds asked.

“In Nigeria. Ile-Ife. It’s the oldest Yoruba city that anyone knows of.”

Leslie looked up from her beer. “How far away is that?” she asked.

“You can get there by plane in a matter of hours,” Diop said.

“Who’s the man?” Lourds asked.

“His name is Adebayo. He’s the oba of Ile-Ife.” Diop pronounced the title as orba.

Lourds recalled from his reading that oba meant “king.” The bearer of the title was the traditional leader of a Yoruba town. The title might be traditional, but the position still carried weight. Obas were often consulted by present-day government bodies—they said more out of respect and an effort to keep the peace than to acknowledge any power they might have. But, in fact, it acknowledged what really shaped the society they were dealing with.