The Solomon Curse (21 page)

As they slowed, Remi cried out, “Look out.”

A rock completed its arc and smashed into the windshield on the passenger side, starbursting instantly in a shower of safety glass.

Sam gunned the accelerator and screeched into a sidelong drift, fighting to keep the SUV from rolling as he abruptly reversed direction. Another rock struck its top, and then they were roaring away, going the wrong way down the one-way street.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, daring a glance at Remi.

“Yes. Just some glass on me. But no cuts.” She hesitated. “What are we going to do?”

“Get off the road. Somewhere safe.”

“The hospital's right there. They have guards, don't they?”

Sam didn't need to be coached. He made a hard left, aware that the crowd was running down the street following them. “I'd say we should try for the other end of town, but there are no guarantees trouble hasn't started there, too.”

“This is crazy.”

Sam nodded. “It is. Let's get to the hospital and wait for the
authorities to show up. This strikes me as parasites looking for an excuse to cause mayhem. That will only last until the cops arrive and then it will lose its fun value pretty quick.”

“And if they don't arrive?”

“That's a whole different problem. But right now I have to believe these are isolated incidences. That looked to me like a bunch of poor islanders trying to figure out how to get free computers, using the MP's murder as a pretense. Which is way different than the kind of social outrage that was apparently present during the riots in the mid-2000s.”

“Let's hope you're right.”

They arrived at the hospital, where a security guard raised the gate to admit them and then froze when he saw several bicycles and an ancient motor scooter leading a running throng toward the lot. Sam pulled in and the guard dropped the gate and followed the Toyota to the main hospital entrance. Sam jumped out with his backpack as Remi swung the passenger door open and all three bolted for the hospital as the rush of islanders neared the parking gate.

“Is there some kind of security barricade for the entrance?” Sam asked the terrified-looking guard. He seemed not to understand Sam's question. Sam turned, his eyes roaming over the few patients waiting in the emergency room area, and then Dr. Vanya emerged from the rear of the ER, a puzzled expression in place.

Sam explained to her what was happening in a few short sentences and she sprang into action, barking orders to the guard and the staff as she hurried to the doors. Sam helped her free a thick cloth ribbon that ran floor to ceiling along one side of the entry and they lowered heavy set of steel shutters designed to protect the hospital in big storms.

They moved to the side windows and barely repeated the procedure before the first loud thumps pounded against the steel.

The security guard and the nurses hurried to the rear of the building to lower the barricades there, and after a few minutes a tense Dr. Vanya declared the building secure. Vanya eyed the Fargos as the frightened
patients looked to her for reassurance and then used her cell phone to alert the police that the hospital was under attack. When she hung up, her face was tense.

“You're lucky you made it in. After the last riots, we fortified the hospital so it could withstand a direct hit from a Category 5 hurricane. Those entry shutters wouldn't budge even if you ran a car into them. We're safe—for now.”

“Won't the police put a stop to this?” Remi asked.

“That's the hope. But it could take a while, depending on how stretched they are,” Vanya warned. “In the meantime, I have patients I need to attend to.”

Another loud crash sounded from the front entrance, but the metal shutters held. Sam lowered his voice and tilted his head toward Vanya.

“Might not be a terrible idea to push any metal desks and cabinets that are nearby to create another barrier just in case that one gives.”

She shook her head. “If they manage to get through the shutters, a few obstacles in their path won't stop anyone.”

A woman rose from one of the waiting room benches and approached Dr. Vanya, obviously distraught. “Doctor, I've been waiting an hour. It's Lilly—my daughter's gone missing. You know how sick she is. We need to do something.”

“What do you mean, gone missing?” Vanya demanded.

“She disappeared yesterday. She's the third one in my village in the last month. And she needs her meds. You warned her about taking them on time . . .”

Vanya led the woman to a remote area of the waiting room and spoke with her in low tones. Another thump echoed from one of the windows, but it lacked the violent urgency of the previous blows. The crowd was probably tiring of the sport and deciding what easier targets might be in the vicinity before the police arrived and dampened their fun. Free tablets and TVs held far more allure than being arrested for trying to break into the area's primary health care facility.

The woman's voice rose in pitch, and even across the room her hysteria was obvious. “But, Doctor, she's sick. I can't just wait to see if she returns. Too many of these kids are disappearing and we never hear from any again. And now my Lilly . . .”

Vanya said something unintelligible and led the woman back into the treatment area.

“How are you doing?” Sam asked, settling down on a bench next to Remi, the heat in the room rising now that all the doors and windows were shut.

“I'm fine. But that was too close for comfort.”

“With any luck, this will be over soon.”

“I don't feel very lucky right now,” she said.

Vanya returned five minutes later followed by the woman, who seemed calmer. When she sat down heavily at the edge of the bench, Sam realized she had probably been given a tranquilizer—her lids were heavy and her movements hesitant. Vanya took a seat across from Sam and Remi and exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I hope the police arrive soon. The construction company never got around to installing air-conditioning in any of the areas but the patient treatment rooms. Makes for an ugly afternoon.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Remi asked, indicating the woman.

“Oh, I suspect so. She's worried about her daughter. Fourteen. Seems like she's run off. They do that at that age around here if they can't take the rigors of adolescence. You know what it's like—they meet a boy, decide they're tired of going to school and working all day, then coming home and having Mom and Dad order them around . . .”

“She sounded pretty upset,” Sam observed.

“Yes, well, I'd argue we have more pressing problems at the moment,” Vanya said, eyeing her watch and standing. “I'm going to check the radio and see what's going on.”

She moved to the admissions counter, where several of the nurses were huddled around a portable radio. A burst of static cut across the
waiting area when Vanya turned the volume up and the deep baritone of a male announcer's voice came over the tinny speaker.

“Looting has been reported in some of the downtown areas, but it appears to be contained to a few blocks. The chief of police has issued a statement that anyone violating the law will be dealt with swiftly using the full weight of the department. All officers have been called up, including reserve forces, and are being deployed as we speak. The chief's statement stressed that there will be a zero-tolerance policy for criminality and that anyone on the street in the affected neighborhoods can be expected to be taken into custody unless they can show good reason for being there.

“The administration is expected to make an announcement shortly.

“In related news, troubling reports are circulating that the rebel militia is strengthening, gaining members as alienated villagers in remote areas of Guadalcanal join their force. The government has condemned the rebels as terrorists and vowed to pursue them into the mountains until they have been eradicated. As reported earlier, the prime minister has officially requested the assistance of coalition forces to deal with the imminent threat and the first of the troops are expected to land within the next twelve hours.”

Dr. Vanya frowned at the news, her concern replaced by shock at the announcer's next words.

“We're very fortunate to have one of the members of parliament here with us in the studio—a popular public figure who's been a public servant for as long as I can remember. I am of course referring to our good friend Orwen Manchester. Orwen, thanks for stopping by.”

“My pleasure. I just wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“As do I. But this isn't a social call, is it?”

“No, I come to speak as a concerned islander, a business owner, and a member of the government. I'm deeply troubled by the recent unrest and by how certain segments of our society are using any excuse to disrupt the hard work of good, honest islanders, who are trying to
make ends meet and to build a better future for our children. Today's murder of Boyd Severin is an atrocity of the lowest order, an act of cowardice that should be condemned by everyone regardless of their views. I'm an outspoken opponent of nationalization, but I'm first and foremost an islander, a citizen, who wants the best outcome for all. Boyd and I disagreed on numerous occasions, but I still respected him, and we resolved our disagreements through discussion and the use of reason.”

Manchester stopped, his voice tight.

The announcer waited several long beats before coming back on the air. “That was Member of Parliament Orwen Manchester, Esquire, a leading Guadalcanal politician and attorney. I join with him in pleading to everyone listening: behave responsibly. Do not let this day be one where lawlessness rules our land. Please. We're better than that.”

The broadcast returned to normal programming, with the promise of more updates as the situation developed. Vanya shook her head, scowling. “I feel like such a fool. I'm afraid I might have been wrong about Orwen. In spite of his posturing, I see his hand behind this latest unrest.”

“What?” Remi said. “Manchester? What do you mean?”

“I was talking to a close friend of his yesterday and he painted a completely different picture than the one Orwen presents. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like him and I want to believe otherwise, but the truth is that I've suspected for some time that he's aligned with those wanting a change in regime. Nationalizing the valuable industries would make him a very wealthy man. He's a top attorney who specializes in corporate work and no doubt he has connections to many companies that would benefit from the nationalistic sentiment.”

“He seemed pretty opposed to it over dinner, not to mention during this broadcast,” Sam said.

“Well, of course he would seem to be. The whole point is that he says one thing publicly but another privately.” Vanya paused. “I don't
want to gossip, but let's just say that our friend might do very well indeed if the administration were to be overthrown and the nation's mineral rights reverted to local ownership.”

“You truly believe he could be working in league with the rebels?” Remi asked.

Vanya shook her head. “Oh, goodness, no. That wasn't what I was implying at all. But Orwen's a lawyer and a politician, which means he's as tuned in as anybody on how to benefit from a seismic change in how business is conducted here. Right now, everything of any real value is licensed to or owned by foreign groups. While I can see how that would upset many, I also understand that if the islands nationalized those industries, it would have a catastrophic effect for years to come. Only, not for everyone.”

“No?”

“Well, if you're Orwen and have the contacts to scoop up the plum rights and then negotiate a deal with someone who could step in and make a go of the industries that are stalled right now, like the gold mine, it doesn't require an active imagination to see that even a sliver of that profit could make one rich.”

Remi and Sam exchanged a glance. “Is there any evidence that he's involved, other than speculation?”

Vanya rose. “I've already said too much—we islanders love to gossip. I'd feel terrible if Orwen proved to be blameless. Hopefully, this will all blow over soon.” Changing the subject too quickly, Dr. Vanya offered to have a new tablet delivered to their hotel room. Turning, she hurried back to the patient treatment area, leaving them to their thoughts.

“I told you I got a weird vibe from him,” Sam said. “If Manchester's lying about his true motives . . .”

“. . . that could be what we picked up on,” Remi finished.

“But, even so, there's a world of difference between seeing an
opportunity and seizing it and fomenting some kind of island revolution. I can't see a guy like Manchester being in bed with murderers, can you?”

Remi didn't answer for several moments. “As we've seen more than enough, people will do strange things when money's involved.”

A crash from the front entrance highlighted the difference between the rhetoric on the broadcast and the very real anarchy only footsteps away. Vanya reemerged from the rear and stared at the shuttered entrance. Sam and Remi stood and approached her.

“What can we do?” Remi asked. “Is there a secure area within the hospital we could fall back to if they're able to breach the shutters?”

Vanya shook her head. “No. We're a small facility, and all the rooms are filled with patients or equipment. We're lucky that the storm protection is keeping us safe.” She eyed the front doors and sighed. “The only thing you can do now is pray.”

Rivulets of sweat ran down Sam's face, and Remi fanned herself with a public health pamphlet taken from a small pile on the reception counter. Half an hour had gone by since Dr. Vanya called the police. The sounds of intruders trying to get in had faded and then ceased completely ten minutes ago.

The swelter in the waiting area drained everyone's will to do anything but breathe. The ill, as well as those accompanying them, suffered in silence—all except a six-month-old child, who was crying nonstop in between bouts of coughing.

Remi leaned her head against Sam's shoulder and whispered to him. “Sounds like the bad guys have moved on.”

“I hope the car's in one piece.” He paused. “I was thinking about Manchester's words. It's possible the unrest is being orchestrated by the rebels in order to undermine the current administration. Chaos and
looting would make the government look like it doesn't have control over the island and that could result in a vote of no confidence and a regime change.”

She pulled away and studied his face. “And the new government might be for nationalization, giving the rebels exactly what they want.”

Dr. Vanya approached from the back of the hospital, her cell in hand. “Good news. The police are here and they've cleared the parking lot and run the mob off. So for the time being, it's safe.” She gazed at the security gate with a frown. “The hospital's never been in danger before—even during the worst of the riots, it went unharmed. This is something new.”

“I'm afraid we might have been to blame. We sort of led them straight here.”

“Nonsense. What could you possibly have done differently? Stayed out there and been . . .” Vanya didn't need to finish the thought. Her cell phone trilled and she raised it to her ear and then moved away and had a hushed conversation. When she hung up, she turned to Sam. “Mind giving me a hand raising the shutters?”

“See daylight again? My pleasure.”

They heaved on the strap and the barrier slowly rose, the bearings in the mechanism compensating for the thousands of pounds of weight and making raising them surprisingly easy. When the door was clear, they could see several dozen police standing by their patrol cars, lights flashing, arranged in a semicircle around the parking lot. Vanya unlocked the entry, and relatively cool air flowed in when she pulled the doors open, drawing sighs of relief from the occupants.

A short, stout officer with the physique of a brick approached and gave Vanya a small salute.

“Everyone okay in here?” he asked.

“Yes. What happened to the mob?” Vanya asked.

“It dispersed when we came up the street with our lights and sirens
on. Same in the other areas. The good news is, we're not seeing the kinds of numbers we've seen in previous emergencies and the people who are causing the problems take off at the first sign of opposition.”

Remi turned to Sam. “That's a relief.”

Sam focused on Vanya. “Thank you so much for taking us in. I don't know what would have happened . . .”

“My pleasure. But do consider giving Guadalcanal a rest until things stabilize. I don't want to read about you two in the paper.”

“We'll definitely take it under advisement,” Remi said. She turned to the policeman. “Is it safe to drive to our car rental agency?”

“Which one?” he asked.

“Island Dreams.”

“That's, what, maybe six blocks away? There haven't been any reports of trouble between here and there, but I would advise against it. Wait until later. You were lucky once. Don't push it,” the officer said, his tone gruff.

Sam took her hand. “Come on. Let's get it cleaned up enough so we can drive it.”

They walked to the Toyota and considered the windshield, which was opaque on one side from the rock. The passenger seat and dashboard had tiny glass shards on them, and Remi returned to the hospital to get a broom and a wet rag while Sam extracted the sat phone from his backpack and called Selma.

“Selma. What's the word?” he asked when she answered.

“Your man Kumasaka was a colorful character. Graduated with a degree in microbiology and then went career military.”

“Really? That's an unusual vocational path for a scientist.”

“Yes, well, there's obviously more to that story. I had a hard time finding any coherent records for him, but when I did, the information in them is conflicting. Some records put him as part of the infantry, others have him as a communications specialist, still others have him as part of the emperor's trusted inner circle of military advisers.”

“Strange.”

“Perhaps the oddest part is that the Allies had him listed as part of the Meiji Corps.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“Nobody has. I couldn't find any information about it.”

Sam paused. “That doesn't sound like the Selma I know and love.”

He could almost hear her grinning over the phone. “So of course I dug deeper. Tunneled. Pulled out all the stops, including contacting my shadowy government sources.”

“The suspense is killing me.”

“The Meiji Corps, as near as I can figure out, was a special projects group that was responsible for nontraditional warfare. It took its name from one of the most famous emperors in the last two hundred years.”

“Nontraditional warfare,” Sam repeated. “What would that consist of in 1942? Nukes hadn't been invented yet.”

“Correct. I'm filling in blanks here and speculating, but that leaves espionage, and . . . biological warfare.”

The silence on the line hung heavy, a faint background hiss like the sound of the sea's receding tide pulling sand from the beach.

“Which would explain the rumors of experiments. Bioweapon development . . .” Sam said, his voice low.

“I didn't tell you the most troubling thing I discovered, though,” Selma said.

“Which is?”

“Even now, seventy-something years later? All DOD and intelligence files on the Meiji Corps and on Colonel Kumasaka are still classified. Top secret. So there's no hard information to corroborate my hunches. My main contact at Defense called back and said he couldn't help me. This is a guy who's always been nothing but friendly. When I first called him, he was his usual self, but in our last discussion his voice could have frozen fire.”

Sam eyed Remi and then the hospital behind her.

“Top secret even now? I wonder why? What could still be classified from that long ago?” he said.

“I don't know, but I have a feeling that your colonel was anything but an ordinary soldier.” Selma answered.

Sam nodded to himself as he pulled the driver's-side door open. “Sending a destroyer to take him straight to Tokyo would seem to confirm that.” He paused, eyeing the street for any signs of trouble. Nothing. The mob had vanished like the morning mist that hung over the harbor. “Selma, I know I don't have to belabor this but you absolutely have to get me everything you can about this man.”

“Peter and Wendy are working on it, as am I. I'll have more for you shortly and will send it to your e-mail.” She hesitated. “Am I reading this correctly? I just saw a headline flash on my screen that there's been an assassination and rioting on Guadalcanal?”

“Yes. But, thankfully, we're fine.”

Another long pause stretched uncomfortably. “See to it that you stay that way. Otherwise, my research will be for nothing.”

Sam slid into the seat and pulled the door closed as Remi got the last of the glass off her side and joined him. He glanced at the white starburst where the rock had hit the windshield and closed his eyes.

“Will do, Selma.”