The Solomon Curse (18 page)

The streets of Honiara were slick from a recent cloudburst when Sam and Remi arrived the next afternoon. They dropped their bags at the room and Sam eyed Remi, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking it is a nice day for a drive.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Where did you have in mind?”

“We might want to go back and talk to Rubo. He was around during the Japanese occupation. He may know something.”

“Unless it's how to find a ship that's a mile and a half below the surface and raise it off the bottom, I doubt it.”

“Perhaps,” Sam said. “But we don't have much else to do. We can hang out on the boat and watch the divers blow sediment all over, but that doesn't feel particularly useful, does it?”

Remi shuddered involuntarily, the cold air-conditioning prickling
her skin. “As I recall, the last time we did that trip, we came back without a car.”

“I promise not to get run off the road.”

“Or shot at?” She sighed. “I suppose there's no point in trying to talk you out of it.”

“We'll be fine. What could . . .” Sam paused with a slight wink of his eye before continuing in a firm, deliberately bright voice. “What could be nicer than a drive along the coast?”

“Close, Fargo, close.”

He looked at her innocently, his face a blank.

There was one roadblock on the road out of town, but the police waved them through without interest. Apparently, the state of emergency was over and things were back to as routine as they ever were. When they ran out of pavement, the van bumped down the dirt track that ran along the river and Sam had to slow to a crawl.

After a particularly memorable bump, Remi glanced sideways at Sam. “Whatever you do, Sam Fargo, promise me we won't get stuck.”

“I'm doing my best not to.”

“Not to promise or not to get stuck?”

“Neither, hopefully.”

“You aren't convincing me on either count.”

When the hut finally came into view, Rubo was lounging in the shade, watching the river rush by. He looked up at them when the van pulled to a stop. They got out and Remi waved.

“Rubo. Are we disturbing you?”

Rubo cackled and shook his head. “Every day the same as the last out here. You want to hear more stories?”

“We do.”

Watching as they approached, the old man motioned to a spot on his log bench. Remi sat next to him and Sam took a stump opposite. The heat was sweltering even in the shade. The old man waved a fly away and raised an eyebrow. Remi leaned nearer and waited for Sam to speak.

“Rubo, you said you were here when the Japanese occupied the island. That they treated the locals badly.”

Rubo nodded. “That's right. They mean as crocodiles.”

“All of them?”

“Hard to say. But the officer who ran things . . . he a monster.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“He a devil, he was. Kuma . . . Kumasaka. Colonel Kumasaka. Never forget that name, I won't.”

“What did he do?” Remi coaxed. “Specifically?”

“I told you. He bad. Do bad things to us.”

Rubo repeated his prior account, and nothing in the story changed on the second telling. Sam then pressed in a different direction.

“Did you ever hear or see anything out on the west side of the island? With the Japanese?”

“Like what?”

“Anything strange. Maybe diving in that bay that you told us about,” Sam said.

“In the end, there was lot of fighting, so can't say for sure. But I remember sometime before they leave for good there was big killing in the village near the bay. Those bad times.”

“The Japanese killed islanders near the bay?”

“I just say what others talk about. I wasn't there.”

Remi nodded. “We understand. What do you believe happened, Rubo?” she asked softly.

“I hear things. One of the things is that whole lot of island men killed by Japanese. They make them slaves, then kill them before they leave the island.”

“Slaves? For what?”

“I don't know. Some kinda work.”

“Was that normal?”

Rubo shook his head. “No, they leave us be, mostly. But this man . . . he in charge of west side and he like to kill. Everyone know he a bad
one.” Rubo spit into the dry leaves by his side. “Only two islanders get away. All the others . . .” He shook his head with a sad frown.

“There were survivors?” Sam asked, his voice quickening.

“Like I said, I think one still alive. Tough as rock.”

“Really? Do you know him?”

“You live long enough, you know everyone, sure do.”

“Where is he?”

“Still in the same village, I think.” He eyed Remi. “But he don't speak no pidgin. Just local talk.”

“Would you be willing to take us to him?” Remi asked.

Rubo stared at the van distrustfully. “Long way.”

“Bad roads?”

He laughed and spit again. “
No
roads. You not going in that.”

“If we get a bigger truck, something for off-road, would you help us, Rubo? We'd pay you for your time.”

Rubo studied Sam and then his gaze wandered to Remi. “How much pay?”

Sam did a quick equation in his head. “Solomon dollars or American?”

Rubo didn't blink. “American.”

“I don't know. What do you think is fair?”

The old man appeared to give it deep thought and then sat back with a grunt. “Hundred. Hundred American dollars.”

Sam and Remi didn't know whether they were expected to negotiate, but Remi didn't chance it. “That's fair.” She glanced at the time: still five hours until dusk. It was an hour and a half from the bay, the way Sam drove. Allowing for time to rent something more rugged . . . It would be too close. “We can pick you up tomorrow morning. Will that work for you, Rubo?”

He nodded slowly and smiled his toothless grin. When he spoke, he savored each word like rare wine. “Hundred dollars.”

Sydney, Australia

Jeffrey Grimes frowned as he studied the topside of his yacht while his captain stood stiffly a few feet away. With a practiced eye, Grimes squinted while peering down at the shining surface, the sun gleaming off it like a mirror, and then he straightened and grunted.

“Bloody wankers. Couldn't be duller if they'd used sandpaper instead of polish. Why do I pay these thieves?” he complained.

“Well, sir, you didn't like the last lot, either, so I changed them out, didn't I? These are the ones your friend recommended. Supposed to be right masters at it,” the captain said.

“How can you look at this and not cringe? I mean, seriously? You can't tell they did a crap job?” Grimes stalked to the stern, fuming, and the captain followed, a pained expression tightening his face. Grimes inspected the brightwork, freshly sanded and varnished, and nodded. “At least the buggers got this bit right. Small miracles and all.”

His cell phone chirped and he glanced at the screen. No caller ID. His stomach tightened as he regarded his captain. “That will be all for now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grimes waited until the man was out of earshot before thumbing the phone to life. “Yes?”

The voice was the usual robotic, heavily filtered drone. “Things are proceeding apace.”

Grimes exhaled with frustration. “I wouldn't say that. I don't see any progress, do you?”

“These things take time, as I said before. However, I agree that we will need to increase the pressure.”

He looked around the marina as though checking to verify he was not being watched and lowered his voice. “You really needed to . . . take such drastic steps?”

“The end justifies the means. Great fortunes are never made without blood being spilled. Why would this one be any different?”

“They were innocent aid workers.”

His words were greeted with a pause. “I hope you're not losing sight of the stakes,” the mechanical voice said.

“Of course not. I just hoped . . . that matters wouldn't escalate to this point.”

“Indeed. Well, they have. What's done is done. And you should prepare for more . . . unpleasantness.”

“I see. That's necessary?”

“There is nothing that I do that isn't necessary. I trust I still have your full, unquestioning support?”

Grimes eyed the other yachts—each millions of dollars of excess on the water, tributes to their owners' egos, monuments to their willingness to squander fortunes on frivolities. The human struggle was about pecking orders. He needed to be at the top. Anything less was failure.
He couldn't afford for his life's work to crumble to nothing, and time and circumstance were working against him. He sighed. “Yes. Do whatever needs to be done. But, for the love of God, hurry, would you?”

“We have never been closer. The island's at a tipping point. Like dry kindling in summer—any spark could set it off.”

“I don't need to ask about the spark, do I?”

“You're better off not knowing any more than you already do.”

The line went dead. He stared at the little phone—the latest technology of course—and shook his head. He'd steeled himself for some difficult moments in bringing his scheme to fruition, but the waiting was proving to be the most trying for him.

The captain returned, but Grimes had lost his taste for nitpicking the imperfections of his workers' efforts. He waved the man away and stepped down to the dock, oblivious to the tranquil beauty of catamaran ferries in the distance slicing through the Sydney Harbor chop as his mind worked at a thousand miles per hour.

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

The wheels of the Toyota Land Cruiser spun in the muddy ruts of the trail that wound into the hills. Remi gave Sam a sidelong glance for the twentieth time that day and turned to look back at Rubo, who seemed to be enjoying their bouncing progress.

The jungle encroached on all sides of the track they'd been following since leaving the main road twenty-five minutes earlier. Honiara had been gridlocked due to a protest in town, carefully monitored by the police, and it took an hour longer to traverse than they'd hoped.

Sam hit an ugly bump and Rubo bounced on the seat like a toddler, a look of delight on his face.

“Is it much farther?” Remi called out to him as Sam concentrated on following the faint game trail.

The old man shrugged. “Been long time since I come out here.”

“But surely the distance hasn't changed.”

“We get there soon,” Rubo assured her.

Remi sat back in her seat. She'd already more than learned that in the islands the term “soon” had an amorphous quality, much like the Mexican
mañana
, which could mean anything from “tomorrow” to “never.”

Sam caught her eye and grinned. “Patience is a virtue and all,” he said.

“Tell that to my sacroiliac.”

They arrived at a small stream and Sam rolled to a stop at the gravel bank. The trail forked in two directions, one across the stream to the left, the other continuing up the slope to the right. Sam glanced at his watch and then twisted in his seat to look to Rubo.

“Which way?” Sam asked.

Rubo appeared to consider the question, tilting his head. “Need to get out and look.”

Sam and Rubo opened their doors and Sam helped the old man out of the vehicle. They trudged together to the water and Rubo closed his eyes and did the odd head tilting again. Sam waited patiently, resisting the urge to prod him into a decision. After several moments, Rubo straightened and nodded.

“Stream wasn't here last time.”

Sam blinked. “And?”

“I think village is that way,” Rubo said, pointing to the left.

“How do you know?”

“Didn't say I know. Said I
think
,” Rubo corrected.

“Then you're not sure . . .” Sam said, glad Remi wasn't there to hear Rubo's admission.

“We on island. If not that way, we come back, and then I'm sure it the other way.”

“Very practical. But I thought you knew where the village was?”

“I do.”

“But not well enough to get us there on the first try.”

“You wanted translator, not guide.” Rubo peered up the hill, and then at the other fork, before nodding sagely. “It either that way or this.”

Sam exhaled, seeing the wisdom of the practical old man's approach. They had a full tank of gas and all day. It was probably to the left. Or maybe to the right. At least they didn't have to worry about it being straight ahead.

They moved back to the mud-splattered Toyota and got in.

“Well?” Remi asked.

“We've never been closer,” Sam assured her. “Rubo thinks it's to the left.”

Sam put the transmission in gear and, with a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror, gave the big vehicle gas. Water splashed high into the air as they crossed the stream, and then they were climbing again, the thick canopy nearly blocking the sunlight as they crawled up the slope.

They stopped again five minutes later when the trail became barely wide enough for a bicycle. Sam regarded Rubo in the rearview mirror, keeping his voice even and his face impassive.

“Still think it's up ahead?”

“Keep going. Should be over this hill.”

They continued on. Branches and vines rustled and scraped along the exterior of the SUV. Remi jerked when a particularly aggressive branch swatted her side window, and she gritted her teeth as she whispered to Sam, “How is this a good idea again?”

Sam was preparing to answer when they broke through into a clearing, where a scattering of huts was arranged around a central fire pit. Rubo smacked his gums in satisfaction as they coasted to a stop on the grass.

“See? Rubo right,” he said. Sam and Remi exchanged a relieved glance and then peered through the windshield at the humble thatched
structures climbing the rise into the rain forest on the other side of the clearing.

“Should we stop here?” Sam asked the old man.

Rubo nodded, his expression as peaceful as an angel. “We walk now.”

The muggy heat enveloped them once they were out of the air-conditioning. Sam waited with Remi by the hood as Rubo hobbled to them, and they walked as a group toward the nearest huts, where curious eyes peered from the interiors.

A man in his sixties, wearing ancient shorts and a T-shirt faded by the elements to an indeterminate color, stepped from one of the huts and smiled when he saw Rubo. They exchanged a greeting that neither Sam or Remi understood, and the man gestured to one of the far huts. After another few words, Rubo turned to Sam and Remi.

“He very sick. Up there,” Rubo said, waving a limp hand at the hill.

“Sick? Can we talk to him?”

Rubo shrugged. “We try.”

Rubo shambled up the faint path to the next cluster of dwellings and hesitated at the entry of the one farthest up the hill. The villagers in the lower tier watched Sam and Remi with curiosity. The adults lingered by their huts, joined by their children, as the village turned out for the unexpected excitement.

Sam said to Remi, “Everyone seems friendly enough. If the rebels are hoping to recruit from rural villages like this one, they're not going to do very well. I'm not getting a lot of anger and resentment, are you?”

“Let's hope our luck holds, at least until we're back in Honiara.”

“So far, so good.”

An elderly man with skin the color of tobacco stepped down from the nearest entryway and eyed Sam and Remi distrustfully from his position on the raised wooden porch. Rubo stepped forward and nodded to the man, who descended to the path.

A quiet discussion ensued. Rubo pointed at the Toyota parked at the
clearing's edge and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The man appeared to consider whatever Rubo had said and then shook his head. More back-and-forth finally elicited a cautious nod, and Rubo gave Remi a sly smile that was all gums.

“He the holy man. Says Nauru very sick for a while. Will be in spirit world soon. Not sure he able to talk much,” Rubo explained.

“But it's okay if we ask him some questions?”

“I had to promise holy man some American dollars.”

“How many?” Remi asked.

“Twenty.”

Sam eyed Rubo skeptically. “Fine.”

“But we only have little time. Nauru close now.”

Neither Sam nor Remi needed to ask what he was close to.

Rubo took a long look at the hut's porch and then stepped aside. “You go inside and sit. I follow and talk to him.”

Remi nodded and cautiously stepped up the wooden stairs to the small porch. She peered into the dark interior of the hut, Sam by her side, and then they entered the small room.