The Solomon Curse (19 page)

Dust motes hovered in the beam of sunlight shining from a slit in the roof as they made their way past a crude rustic table crafted from rough-hewn tree trunks to a cot near the far window, which was nothing more than a rectangular opening in the woven-leaf wall, a thinner woven shade hanging over it.

The interior smelled of death. It was all they could do to breathe without gagging as they neared the makeshift bed upon which lay a small man. He was naked, except for a pair of ratty shorts, and withered like a prune, the years having sucked the juice of life from him, leaving only a barely animated husk.

A pair of eyes squinted at them through the darkness, and the man's labored breathing rasped ominously as they approached. Sam looked at Rubo, who took tentative steps until he was by the bedside.

Rubo bent toward the dying man and murmured for a few moments. He then straightened, awaiting a response. The air was still, heavy with
humidity, the sunbeam on the far side like a dagger of light through the gloom around them. The only sound was the rattle of the sick man's lungs as he struggled for breath. Rubo stood motionless, and after a few minutes the man muttered a few words.

Rubo nodded and indicated a bench along one wall. Sam and Remi sat while Rubo moved closer to the cot.

“This is Nauru. He said he would try to talk.” Rubo paused. “What you want to know?”

Sam sat forward. “Ask him about the Japanese colonel. The slave labor. Ask him to tell you everything he remembers about it—and the massacre.”

Rubo stared at Nauru, seeming to contemplate the best way to frame his questions, and then began speaking, the words alien to Sam and Remi's ears. When he was done, Nauru grunted and mumbled for half a minute. Rubo sat back once Nauru finished and turned to Sam.

“He say it was long time ago. Nobody care about it for many years. Most people he know from back then die that day. He the only one left. Other man who live die maybe twenty years back. Kotu. A cousin.”

“Yes, but we're interested in the story. We're studying that time on the island and this is the first we've heard of any forced labor or mass murder by the Japanese on Guadalcanal. Ask him to start at the beginning. What did the Japanese forces have the islanders doing? What was their job?”

Rubo returned his attention to Nauru and spoke softly. Nauru's chest rose and fell, and he raised a leathery hand to his face, trembling as he rubbed his cheek before dropping it back onto the mat, his energy spent. When he began talking, it sounded to the Fargos almost like a chant, like some primitive death song as old as time itself.

Rubo listened and nodded until Nauru's voice trailed off like a motor running out of fuel, sputtering to a halt as he wheezed sporadically. Rubo looked at Remi, and then his gaze drifted to the entry as he began to speak.

“The man who came for the male villagers was the commander of this side of Guadalcanal—an officer—colonel—who they call the dragon. He like a devil, an evil man, and he kill islanders for nothing. Most the Japanese leave us alone, but he different.”

Rubo described a monster of a man who dragged children from their beds and tore men from their wives, forcing every able-bodied male to work from first light to nightfall as slaves while their sisters, spouses, and children disappeared. Rumors circulated about experiments in the caves, horrors too dark to imagine, whole families dying in unspeakable agony, their bodies carted away by their relatives at gunpoint and thrown into the ocean for the sharks to feed upon once their usefulness was over.

Toward the end of the occupation, a group of about a hundred of the most able islanders were forced to cart what Nauru described as many dozens of extremely heavy crates, made from crude planks cut from the local trees, into the mountains. The trip took days in the extreme heat with the impossible loads and only survival rations of water.

At the end of their journey they deposited the crates deep in a cave, a forbidden cleft in the earth that was avoided by the locals because it was believed to be one of the entrances to the land of the giants. Once the trove was hidden, the Japanese devil ordered his men to slaughter all the workers, and it was only through stealth and luck that Nauru and his cousin escaped undetected back into the system of caves, where they hid for days before daring to venture out. When they did, they came upon the rotting bodies of their kinsmen, every man murdered where he stood, the corpses bloated in the heat—those that hadn't already fallen prey to local scavengers.

They stayed in the mountains, hiding from the Japanese, for weeks, afraid to go anywhere near their old village, wandering the jungle and living off the land. When they finally made it back to their home, they found it deserted, the population eradicated down to the last baby. None of the villagers was ever heard from again, and the village was
gradually reclaimed by the jungle. Eventually, the Allies controlled the island, and Nauru and his cousin went to work for them, and when the war ended, they settled down with girls in nearby villages—living in simplicity until called to the afterlife, as Nauru was even now.

Sam and Remi tried to keep their expressions calm as Rubo ended his monologue. Remi cleared her throat.

“That's so sad. He's lucky to be alive.” She hesitated, trying to figure out how to frame the question delicately. “Does he know what was in the crates?”

Rubo asked Nauru the question in a gentle voice and the ancient islander grunted in a way that required no translation. Sam shifted and fixed Nauru with a steady gaze.

“Where is the cave?”

Another exchange with Nauru produced a few sentences, and then more rasping as he struggled to fill his collapsing lungs.

“He no know. Up in the mountains. Bad place.”

“Can he be any more specific? Anything you can get that would help us locate the cave would be . . . important. Please. Ask again.”

Rubo did as requested, and this time there was no answer but the wheezing. After a time, Rubo shook his head. “Best leave him find way to his reward. He tell you everything he ever will.”

The swelter in the confined space seemed to intensify as Sam and Remi stood. If Nauru knew anything more, it was clear that he'd be taking that knowledge with him.

Remi moved to the front entrance and Sam trailed her. Rubo stood by the cot, whispering words in his native tongue, perhaps a prayer, possibly a blessing, while Sam and Remi waited by the threshold. After a few contemplative moments, the old islander nodded to himself and followed them into the near-blinding sunlight. The air smelled sweet and pure after the hut, and even Rubo was obviously relieved to be out of it.

Sam felt in his pocket for his wallet and extracted a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to Rubo. “For the holy man.”

Rubo pocketed it. “I see him around,” he said, giving the holy man's dwelling a sidelong glance, and tottered down the path to the lower huts.

“Rubo is quite the entrepreneur,” Remi commented as Sam took her hand.

“Well, he has been around for a long time. Probably knows a thing or two.”

Remi dragged her feet as they slowly followed Rubo back to the vehicle. “Sam, what if Nauru did tell him where the cave is located and he's holding out on us?”

“I don't get the idea that Rubo is at an age where he's particularly adventurous. Even if he was, he seems genuine in his dislike of the caves. I have a hard time believing that he'd be all that interested in trying to find the mysterious crates on his own, and my bet is there aren't a ton of locals who don't share his sentiment about the caves—not to mention that the rebels are roaming the mountains, along with giants and who knows what else.”

“Well, he seems to appreciate the value of a dollar. What if he sells the information?”

“Anything's possible, but to whom? I mean, look at the island. Who could mount an expedition, or would even want to, based on some third-hand account from a delirious villager?”

They trudged along in silence, and Sam turned to her and whispered conspiratorially, “So we let him live? You sure?”

Remi sighed as they neared the SUV, Rubo off to the side, glancing furtively in the direction of the huts. “Sam Fargo, what in the world am I going to do with you?”

“Are you looking for suggestions?”

Remi ignored the innuendo. “We need to talk about Nauru's story.”

“Maybe once we've dropped Rubo off. It can wait,” Sam cautioned as he neared the vehicle, and then he raised his voice as he called to the islander, “Rubo? Ready to guide us back to civilization?”

Rubo nodded, obviously anxious to get in the car. “We go now.”

Sam grinned. “We do indeed. Hop in.”

The police roadblock a few miles outside Honiara waved them through after a cursory inspection, and by the time they dropped Rubo off at his shack it was midafternoon. Remi had tried to make light conversation with the old islander several times, but his interest was nonexistent, and he seemed to have aged several years since his visit to the village.

They watched him shuffle to his porch as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and Remi sighed. “Looks like a rough day for everyone.”

“That can't have been pleasant for him.”

“All right. Now that you've had some time to think about it, what do you make of the story of the commander and the crates?” she asked.

“Sounds promising, you have to admit. Of course there's the small problem that the mountains are covered in jungle, the caves are unmapped, the entire area may be crawling with hostiles, the crates might have been moved again after the massacre, it's possible that the crates have nothing to do with the sunken complex, and we have no idea where to even begin. Other than that, I'd say we have the treasure in our hands.”

“So we're almost done here?”

Sam grinned and put the car in gear. The Land Cruiser's suspension groaned in protest as they returned down the mud road as though it, too, had had enough of the outing and was ready to return to civilization. “Compared to some of our other adventures? Piece of cake.”

“Why do I get the impression you're actually enjoying this?”

“I do like a challenge.”

Remi looked at the brown river racing past and recalled their brush with death on the mine road and then tilted her head back and closed her eyes as the Toyota lurched and bounced. “Make it stop.”

“That's the spirit.”

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

Lilly, her faded summer dress a hand-me-down from her sister, coughed as she made her way to the stream that ran along the southern side of her village. Only just turned fourteen, she'd been sick for weeks, and while the new medicine she was taking was supposed to make her better, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It was only on good days over the last week that she felt well enough to emerge from her family's shack and help with the chores.

Lilly had always been slim, but since the illness she was a wraith, having shed twelve pounds that she couldn't afford to lose. Her high cheekbones jutted beneath ebony skin stretched like rice paper over bones, and now that her baby fat had dropped away, she was all coltish knobby knees and elbows, caught somewhere midway between adolescence and womanhood.

She was almost to the stream when she heard the crack of a branch
somewhere nearby—possibly behind her, although when she spun to see who was there, the trail was empty. Puzzled, she called out.

“Who's there?”

Silence answered her, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the canopy overhead as a bird hopped from branch to branch.

Lilly continued on her way, ignoring the rising sense of anxiety in the pit of her stomach as she heard the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on twigs. She turned, hands on her hips, chin high in defiance. It was probably one of the annoying boys from the village who'd been showing an interest in her since she'd begun to bloom last summer. They were persistent but harmless, and she'd successfully rejected their clumsy advances just as her mother, a God-fearing woman who'd warned her more than enough about the devil's presence in boys' hearts, had advised her.

But the track was deserted.

“I hear you, you know, so you're not fooling anyone,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt. She waited a few moments, and when there was no response, she called out again. “You best run back to the village or I'll crack you on the head when you show yourself.”

Nothing.

“This isn't funny. Just stop it,” she said, and this time her voice broke on the last word. If this was that Jimmy boy who'd been dropping off little gifts anonymously, she hoped he'd either show himself or lose interest in the game. One of her friends had told her she'd seen him skulking around the shack, and she wasn't entirely displeased with the attention.

When she didn't see or hear anything more, she continued to the water's edge, the burbling of the current as it washed over large smooth rocks in the middle of the stream musical. She was kneeling to rinse her hands off when a pair of powerful hands clamped over her mouth and around her waist, and her scream of alarm was muffled. Lilly struggled for all she was worth until a blow landed on the side of her head and a
spike of pain shrieked through her skull, and then everything faded as the viselike grip of her attacker cut off her air.

—

The drive back
was slow going. For much of the way, Sam and Remi were stuck behind an overloaded truck that had been around since the war, black exhaust belching from its hopelessly eroded tailpipe in toxic clouds as it occupied the middle of the road without regard for the faded yellow line marking the two lanes. The few times Sam tried to pass on the narrow strip of pavement, he had to duck back in order to miss an oncoming car. He quickly tired of the island version of chicken and resolved to accept the trip taking as long as it took.

When they reached the hotel, Sam called Selma on the sat phone from the room's terrace. After several seconds of popping and clicking, Selma answered on the first ring in her customary cheerful voice.

“Hello, there,” she said. “How's island life?”

“Hi, Selma. Never better. How's it going back home?”

“Nothing unusual. We're still digging through any records that would shed some light on the phantom destroyer, but so far it's a dead end.”

“That's frustrating. It sounds like if it weren't for the survivors, nobody would know the ship ever existed.”

“I've never seen anything like it before. Then again, there's no way of knowing how much of that period's history is anywhere near complete, because if the Japanese did this with other boats, they'd already be lost forever, as far as we're concerned.”

“Well, if you have the time, I have another project for you.”

“I live for new projects,” she said, only half joking.

“This one involves giants and the Japanese.”

“I can't wait to hear the punch line.”

Sam smiled to himself. “I think we touched on it before, but now I'm serious. There are persistent legends on the island about giants that
live in the mountain caves, showing themselves only when raiding remote villages or abducting people.”

“I see,” she said, her tone flat.

“I know it's far-fetched, but the part of the legend that interests me is the constant reference to a network of caves that supposedly runs the length of Guadalcanal and is used by the giants to traverse the island.”

Selma took a deep breath. “What, exactly, do you want me to research?”

“See if you can find the earliest references to giants in accounts of the Solomons and then work forward. And I'm also very interested in any map or description of the cave system. I know that's a long shot, which is why I think you may have better luck leading with the giant legend rather than the caves. My bet is that nobody's ever done much exploration, if any.”

“Right. Giants and caves. You also mentioned the Japanese?”

“Yes. I want everything you can find relating to the last days of the occupation.”

“Didn't we already cover that with the evacuation?”

“No. I'm most interested in the time frame from October to February, before the evacuation began.”

“Care to narrow the search for me? Anything in particular you're looking for?”

Sam told her about Nauru's account. “I want to see if there's any mention of slave labor or secret experiments. Even unsubstantiated accounts or rumors. I'm hoping you can come up with something because our link to the past is on his deathbed and I don't think there's going to be anything more forthcoming from him.”

Selma was quiet for a few moments. “What did you say the name of this commander was?”

“I didn't. Why?”

“It may be nothing. But a colonel on Guadalcanal . . .”

“Selma, what is it?”

“I was just thinking that there couldn't have been dozens of them. I mean, we're talking about a total force of only a few thousand men at the end.”

“Right. But how does that help us?”

“When I researched the survivors of the destroyer that sank, I remember one of them was a high-ranking officer. Army. I'll have to go back, but I think it was a colonel. Hang on just a second and let me pull up the file.”

Sam could hear the sound of keys clicking in the background in a flurry of activity and then Selma came back on the line.

“I knew it. Here it is. A Colonel Kumasaka was rescued, along with four seamen.”

“On a ship bound straight for Tokyo, best as we can figure.”

“Right. It could just be a coincidence . . .”

“Or it could be he was the reason for the detour.”

More typing and then Selma sighed in exasperation. “Oh. Well, that's not so positive.”

“What, Selma?”

“According to the search I ran when you asked me to investigate survivors, he died in a POW camp in New Zealand before the end of the war.”

Selma was silent as Sam digested the news. “Get me everything you can find on him,” he said. “If there's a record of his internment, a file on him, I want to see it. Anything at all no matter how seemingly insignificant. Service records, decorations, family, education, the works.”

“Will do. But as I've already discovered banging my head against the destroyer wall, the documentation for that period is lacking, to say the least.”

“Do the best you can.”

“You got it.” Selma paused. “Do you have anything new we can use Lazlo for? He's driving me crazy. Stops in every few days like a lost puppy. I think he's bored out of his mind.”

“If you think he can help with Kumasaka, sure, put him to work.”

“I'm not sure that would be his strong suit. There's nothing more . . . intricate? Some puzzle he can solve?”

“Not so far. But I'll keep it in mind. He's not in poor spirits because of Laos?”

“A little down, but he's already evaluating a new project, or so he says.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Pirate treasure.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Do I sound particularly playful?”

Sam considered possible responses, then opted for a safe one. “I'll give him a call when we come up for air. Let me know as soon as you have something on the colonel.”

“I will.”

Sam hung up and gazed at the fishing boats moored off Honiara, their hulls a rainbow of blues and greens and oranges. Remi slid the glass door open and joined him. “Selma or Leonid?” she asked.

“Selma. But it doesn't look good.” He told her about Kumasaka.

“If there's anyone who can track down information on him, it's Selma. Let's hope she gets lucky.”

Sam turned and kissed her. “Those are the magic words.”

“Track down information?” Remi asked innocently.

“Something like that.”

At dusk, Sam called Leonid on the
Darwin
for an update. When Des put the Russian on the line, he sounded typically morose.

“How's the seafaring life, my friend?” Sam greeted him.

“I can't wait to get off this scow. It never stops rocking. It's like a kind of living hell, only worse.”

“Did you try diving like I suggested?”

“I won't be toyed with for your amusement.”

“How's the exploration going?”

“The divers are making progress, but it's going to take years to clear the total complex. Just this main building will be weeks of work.”

“No crocodiles or sharks?”

Leonid ignored him. “Perhaps it's worth getting a larger, better-equipped ship here now that we know there's a genuine find?”

“I can look into it. But what's wrong with the
Darwin
?”

“Nothing. Only, the more hands we have working, the faster this will go. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this place.”

“Noted. I'll see what we can do, although we're in about the most remote point in the world. It could take weeks to get a big mother ship there.” Sam grinned. “You should savor the time, Leonid. You're going to be a national hero for making this discovery. They'll probably rename the bay in your honor and declare a holiday. So plan on being here for a while.”

“I really do get seasick.”

“Come on, Leonid. You're Russian. From a long line of seafaring warriors.”

“My ancestors were farmers. They lived in the snow. The closest they got to water was when the ice melted.”

Sam finished the call and plugged the phone into the charger before going to where Remi was sitting up on the bed, accessing the Internet with her tablet. She glanced up at him and then continued what she was doing.

“So? How is he?”

“Claims to hate the boat and needs a bigger one.”

“In his usual good mood?”

“More cheerful than usual.”

Remi smiled. “It might not be such a terrible idea to look into a large vessel.”

“I know. Since you're on the web, could you send Selma an e-mail so she can get the ball rolling?”

Remi tapped out a quick missive and then stretched. “Hungry yet?”

“I could force down some fish.”

“Hotel restaurant?”

“I was thinking about that place we ate at the first night.”

“Do you think it's safe?”

“I see no reason why not. It's only a few blocks from here. Why not live a little dangerously . . . ?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “So help me, if you say what's the worst that can happen, I'll scream.”

“It never entered my mind.”

The streets were empty except for a pair of stray dogs, loping in the shadows. Sam pulled into the restaurant parking lot and looked around—there were only three cars.

Remi frowned. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

“If I let that stop me, I'd never go anywhere.”

When they entered the dining room, the waiter looked at them like they'd descended from a spacecraft, but he quickly recovered and approached.

“Sit wherever you like,” he said with a thick island accent.

They ordered the seafood special again, and this time the fish was freshly caught, lightly seared yellowfin tuna with a black pepper crust. They took their time eating, enjoying the balmy wind off the ocean.

When they finished their feast, Sam paid the check and left a generous tip, and they made their way to the Toyota, the surrounding palm trees swaying in the breeze. When they reached the vehicle, Sam stopped, squinted at the SUV in the gloom, and cursed under his breath.

“What is it?” Remi asked.

“Flat tire.”

“Are you joking?”

“I wish.”

He moved to the rear cargo door and swung it open. Twenty minutes later, soaked with sweat, he finished with the jack and stowed the tire and gear. Remi stared up at the full moon before looking back at Sam. “Look at the bright side. At least this didn't happen on the trail. Can you imagine trying to change a tire in that mud?” she said.

He nodded. “True. One of life's small blessings I should be thankful for.” With a final glance at the new tire, he opened the driver's-side door, beads of perspiration streaming down his face. “Hop in.”

She made a face. “I'm hoping there's a shower in your future.”