Maroon Rising (18 page)

“No, we’re headed up to Accompong. Keep out of their way, Johnny, and tell the constable what happened.”

He bitched and moaned but promised to be vigilant. I was just glad Ray hadn’t been there when Gunner came calling. I’d never hear the end of it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Buck Reilly,” Nanny said.

“Welcome to the treasure-hunting business.”

Traffic slowed ahead of us. Large food trucks were parked along the side of the road, and there was loud music playing and crowds standing behind a fenced-off area. We were at Treasure Beach. I saw women in the distance—white women in bikinis—lounging around, coming in and out of white tents on the sand. There were a couple recreational vehicles parked down on the beach too. Would Thom Shepherd be there, shooting his video?

What if I saw Heather? My stomach did
not
like this thought.

“You want to stop for some food?” Nanny said.

“No! Please, just keep driving.”

She gave me a double-take, but we kept going, slowly and methodically, until we turned north and followed a sign that said: Accompong 92 Km.

My stomach was no longer queasy. But I knew I’d rather face the descendents of every savage Maroon warrior in history than run into my ex-wife again.

N
anny had managed to arrange for Henry Kujo, the sitting Leeward Maroon leader, to meet us at a jerk stand just south of the town. She parked the Jeep beside the small yellow building, which had nearly been overtaken from behind by a dense wall of vegetation that looked as aggressive as kudzu. Once she turned the engine off, she rubbed her hands together, checked her hair in the mirror, rubbed her hands again—was that another shudder?

“You okay?”

“Not really.” She again glanced at the mirror. “I’m a university professor, not a treasure hunter. That might have worked for Indiana Jones or you, but it’s not for me.” She ran a palm up one sleeve, then repeated the gesture with her other hand.

I studied her. Beautiful, intelligent, passionate, and yes, a university professor. But also a direct descendent of the “Mother of us all.” That must come with immense pressure.

“So why are you doing this?” I said.

Her chest lifted with a long intake of breath. “Because I have to.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Between Dodson’s group and the well-publicized competition between the two of you, the island is aware—entirely too aware—of the possibility of buried treasure.”

I suddenly felt a tic in my right eyelid.

“The colonel and I feel responsible,” she said, “to ensure that if there
is
a treasure—a direct link to the history of cooperation between Morgan and the Maroons—it will benefit all of the Jamaican people, not fall in the hands of—”

“Treasure hunters who seek personal gain or if not, personal aggrandizement. Nanny, we’ve already had this conversation.”

She looked at my chest, unable to meet my eyes.

“What bothers me,” she said, “is that I’m using my lineage to get meetings with people like Henry Kujo and Michael Portland—jeopardizing my career, my stature at the university that I’ve worked so hard to achieve … once word spreads of my involvement in this—”

“But you’re not doing this for self-enrichment—”

“Nobody will believe that.” She sighed. “Every meeting like this will erode my reputation—people will say I’m using my lineage for profit, exploiting the memory of the Mother of us all—” Another shudder.

I leaned over and wrapped my arm around her, pulling her in tight. She quivered like a kitten during its first visit to the veterinarian. When I stepped back she must have caught the glint in my eye, because her face brightened a bit.

“Let’s play it like I’m the only one who’s searching,” I said. “Tell them you’ve imposed severe restrictions on me and you’re just monitoring my activities.”

A slow smile parted her lips.

“I’m certain I’ll have to barter to get answers, so I doubt that will work. But thank you.”

I leaned forward and gave her an unhurried kiss that made it clear I held no regrets from last night.

“Now,” she said when we finally broke apart, “let’s go—”

“One question,” I said. “The separate treaties with the British, between the Leeward and Windward Maroons? How long was the gap?”

“It’s not a piece of history our people are proud of, but it was relatively short-lived and it was later determined to be amongst only a few opportunists who acted as traitors. But … one of those hunters was Njoni.”

Good Lord.

“Now let’s go meet Mr. Kujo and see what we can learn, Buck.”

I
nside the jerk stand was an open kitchen where the cook hunched over a grill perched unsteadily above a fire. There were only four tables, and just one was occupied—an older man, distinguished, wearing a white shirt buttoned to the top and gray slacks. It took a second look to notice that the slacks were frayed at the hems above his nicely polished black loafers. Seated with him was a younger man with quick eyes. He saw us first and his lips moved as he whispered something under his breath.

Henry Kujo stood and turned to face us.

“Follow my lead,” Nanny said.

She stepped forward in three long strides, her hand outstretched. Kujo’s eyes softened at her approach and when he took her hand he pulled her close for a hug. They exchanged a fast couple sentences in the Jamaican patois I had yet to master, then she turned to hold a hand out to me.

“I’d like you to meet Buck Reilly, a once famous archaeologist from America.”

Kujo and I shook, his grip lighter than I expected.

“I recall reading about you in the
Gleaner
not too long ago. Seems you were here in Jamaica to excavate part of Port Royal.”

“Fortunately, I did not prevail in that effort, as the search has been fruitless for the winning bidder.”

Kujo turned to a younger man at his side. “This is my aide, Clayton Perkins.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Nanny.” Clayton’s keen eyes had turned to her even while giving my hand a firm shake.

Kujo was tall, lean, and had light gray eyes that seemed to disappear as you stared into them. Clayton was short, muscular, and wore a blue tie with his light green short-sleeved shirt. He also sported remarkably detailed brown wingtip shoes. He seemed to inflate when he saw me checking them out.

“Nanny, it’s been far too long since we’ve seen you here in Accompong,” Kujo said. “When was it, Maroon Festival maybe three years ago? Come, let’s sit.”

“Something like that, Henry. My duties at the university seem to increase on a monthly basis, along with my involvement with JNHT.”

“And still no husband or children?” Kujo cut a glance toward me.

Nanny dodged his questions with ones of her own—checking up on known family members and elders. Then the two of them compared notes on the waning interest of today’s youth in the history older Maroons identified with to their core.

“Tell me what brings you here to Accompong? Have you come to endorse my reelection?”

Kujo’s broad smile left me certain his statement was only partially in jest. And I’d come to recognize Nanny’s quick squirms, one of which manifested now via a shift in her seat from one side to the other.

“I generally stay out of politics, Henry.” The conversation we were about to engage in hung as heavily as soot in the jerk-thick air. “But I may be persuaded to speak out on your behalf.”

He reached over and took one of her hands in both of his.

“Thank you, my dear. That would be valuable indeed. Now tell me, what can Clayton and I do for you today?” His eyes shot over at me for a moment.

I sat forward. “I’d asked the archaeology—”

“Buck, please, let me,” Nanny said. “As you’re aware, Mr. Reilly was here in Jamaica for archaeological purposes—”

“You mean treasure hunting,” Clayton said.

“Clayton, show respect,” Kujo said.

The aide’s eyes did not relent as he stared at me.

“As I was saying,” Nanny said. “Mr. Reilly’s expertise came to my attention during the Port Royal process, and we at the university recognized that this treasure hunt, as you referred to it, would not subside once it had begun. And so we appealed to Mr. Reilly to assist us in locating the missing archives—”

So I’ve heard,” Kujo said.

“What’s his cut?” Clayton said.

Kujo let the question hang.

Nanny hesitated, in over her head already. I sat back.

“The opportunity to assist the Jamaican people to locate such a material piece of their national history was immediately attractive to me,” I said. “In past efforts like these in Mexico, Panama, and Colombia—”

“What’s your cut?”

I glanced at Nanny who gave me a slight nod. I said, “The equivalent of 10 percent—”

“Ha! I figured,” Clayton said.

“Mr. Reilly’s experience and knowledge is priceless in this effort. His application at Port Royal originally sought 25 percent, so his ‘cut,’ as you put it, represents a substantial reduction—”

“We estimate the treasure’s worth to be fifty million U.S.—that’s five million to
Mr.
Reilly.” His eyes glistened now.

“That’s enough, Clayton.”

Had Clayton just acknowledged the treasure existed? I sat forward as my heart upshifted.

“So you’re confident the treasure does exist?” I said.

“Not at all.” Kujo raised his palms as if to settle the runaway speculation. “But assuming just for a moment that it does, then Clayton has raised a valid point.”

I looked directly into Clayton’s eyes.

”But assuming—as is far more likely—that the treasure
doesn’t
exist,”

“Then 10 percent of nothing is nothing.”

“That’s not what Cuffee—”

“Let’s listen to what our guests have to say, Clayton.” Kujo’s stare now bore like lasers into his assistant’s eyes.

Nanny turned to look directly at Clayton.

“And whatever might be found,” Nanny said, “our interest here is preserving Jamaican heritage. If the winning bidders find what they seek, they will get 50 percent—”

“A travesty,” Kujo said.

“Agreed, but nobody believed there was any chance for their success. We considered it an opportunity to have a major underwater structure restored and stabilized at their expense.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The restaurateur approached with a tray of jerked chicken, and to my disappointment, Clayton waved him off.

“Our goal,” Nanny said, “is—”

“Excuse me, but who exactly is
our
?” Kujo said.

Nanny again shifted in her seat. “Members of the community interested in preserving—”

“Not the university?”

“No. They have agreed to my taking a leave of absence to pursue the effort. Now listen, Henry, much of anything found would be enshrined in the National Maritime Museum in Kingston—neutral ground for all parties. And depending upon
what
is found—”

“If anything’s found,” Kujo said.

Nanny continued. “The majority would be used to the benefit of the Jamaican people in a social program—”

“Don’t forget about King Buck’s 10 percent,” Clayton said.

Nanny ignored him. “The reason I’m here is to ask if you have any knowledge about the Morgan legacy as it relates to our ancestors who split their time on both sides of the country.”

I was watching Kujo’s face. A flicker registered in his eyes.

“I’ve only heard the same legends and rumors we’ve all been told for generations,” he said.

“And those have been based on warriors from Cockpit who had been with Morgan—”

“Not originally, Clayton,” Nanny said. “Historical documents and records tell a different story.”

“Not according to—”

“Clayton!” Kujo’s voice was sharp. “Don’t be a fool arguing history with one of Jamaica’s most acclaimed historians. Who lived where and when is not the point here. I understand what Nanny has alluded to. And given what happened to Stanley Grandy—which I was sickened to hear—it
is
a valid problem.”

I sat quickly forward, Clayton’s mention of Cuffee on my lips—but Nanny’s not-so-subtle headshake caused me to lean back again.

For a long moment we all seemed to be trying not to look at each other—until Nanny got Kujo’s attention.