The Solomon Curse (33 page)

Sydney, Australia

Jeffrey Grimes leaned back in his executive chair, a distracted expression in place, as his subordinates gave their reports of ever-worsening financial results. The mood in the conference room was panicked as the assembled executives described a financial empire slowly running off the rails.

“With commodity prices slipping and our tankers sitting unused twenty-seven percent of the time, we're literally bleeding money on our shipping company, as well as the commodity trading entity,” a stern man in his forties said from beside the overhead projector, where a graph that was mostly red glowed accusingly on the screen. “The gold bet was disastrous, and with another nine billion in notional value of related options contracts maturing this month, it looks like at least twenty-eight million dollars net loss.”

That got Grimes's attention. “Get us out of those contracts early. The trend's not our friend now. Someone's selling large amounts of
gold into the market every day when trading's thinnest, driving prices down. That has to be a central bank, probably the Americans trying to prop up their dollar, given the volumes—there aren't a lot of players who can sell twenty-five tons of bullion every day and I don't want to wait until they're finished with their play—it could ruin us.”

“Could be the Chinese,” the vice president of the commodities trading firm observed. “Net accumulations through Hong Kong are way up. They could be selling paper options contracts to drive the price down for their bullion purchases. Nobody wants to pay top dollar, and they're sitting on a trillion dollars of currency they want to unload. So they buy bullion, pay the loss on the paper contracts with dollars they don't want anyway, and bolster their bullion holdings to wind up net even.”

Grimes waved the insight away. “Doesn't matter. We're the ant and they're the elephant. The bet's run the wrong way. Time to cut our losses and move on.” He eyed the chart. “As for the shipping, we'll have to temporarily reduce our prices to drive demand.”

“We can't. We'll lose money on every shipment.”

“I'd rather lose ten million this quarter with full ships than twenty with them sitting unused.”

The discussion went on, but Grimes was only half listening. He'd been following the events in the Solomons for the last forty-eight hours and, as far as he could tell, something had gone badly wrong. The predicted massive social unrest and resultant regime change had fizzled, and there were troubling local reports that the government had declared the unrest the direct result of a plot to advance a nationalization agenda, which sounded precisely like his mystery partner's scheme unraveling before his eyes.

The implications for his personal fortune were dire. This had been a winner-take-all proposition, and if it was cratering, he'd be left with nothing. Or at least, by his standards, nothing. Perhaps ten million in offshore accounts, three in gold in his oversized floor safe, a few
hundred thousand here and there. But his yacht was a liability, not an asset, as was his home, which was twice mortgaged, and his vacation condos had been pledged as collateral for bridge loans he'd been forced to secure over the last few weeks. As with most entrepreneurs, most of his net worth was tied up in his company's stock, and the day he sold his first share, the second share would be worth half as much—after being decimated when he filed the mandatory disclosures in advance.

The situation in the Solomons was a disaster. And it was unfolding in real time. Something had obviously gone badly wrong and he was fully exposed, his personal fortune at risk.

“Gentlemen, we need to find buyers for the shipping company,” Grimes said. “I want to divest ourselves of that albatross as soon as possible. It was a good bet when oil was high, but with all the volatility lately, it's dead money and we need to—”

He was interrupted by three stern men in suits throwing the conference room door open.

Grimes's heart rate increased rapidly as the lead man looked around the room and then settled his stare on him.

This can't be happening
 . . .

“Jeffrey Grimes?”

“Who's asking? And how dare you interrupt a corporate meeting?” Grimes demanded.

“Chief Inspector Collins with the ACC—Australian Crime Commission. You're under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Grimes demanded. “What are the charges?”

“We'll get to that soon enough, but we're starting with money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder, murder, kidnapping, and numerous violations of international law.”

“That's absurd!”

Collins glanced around the room. “Meeting's over, gents. Your boss is going away for a long time. Say good-bye, because you won't be seeing him again.”

“I want my lawyer,” Grimes said.

“Perfect. Now, stand up so I can cuff you.”

“Surely that won't be necessary,” Grimes objected.

“Mr. Grimes, stand up or I'll drag you out of here by your hair. Fair warning.” The expression on Collins's face left little to the imagination.

Grimes complied and minutes later he was being guided to a waiting police van by his humorless escorts. His mind was working furiously to calculate damage control. They couldn't have anything. None of his involvement was documented. He'd kept everything verbal, and the shell corporations had been created in a smorgasbord of jurisdictions that would take years for any law enforcement agency to untangle. This was probably mostly bluff by the ACC—the rough Australian equivalent of the Americans' Homeland Security—but he couldn't underestimate them.

He was processed at police headquarters and placed in a holding cell. Nobody spoke to him other than to assure him that his attorney had been contacted. Four hours later, the cell door opened and a harried Simon Whistock, Esquire, entered, briefcase in hand. Grimes started to rise from the steel chair he was sitting on, but his attorney shook his head and took the only other seat, setting his briefcase beside him on the floor.

“Simon. What the hell is going on?” Grimes demanded.

Simon adjusted his round steel-rimmed spectacles and sat forward. “I just spent two hours with the team that will be prosecuting you. Two of them are fairly close friends, so I was able to get a glance at what they have.” Simon hesitated. “Jeffrey? It's as bad as anything I've seen.”

Grimes swallowed hard. “That's impossible.”

“We'll forego my observation that you aren't denying anything and skip to the evidence. They have all the financial records of some six corporations domiciled in the Solomon Islands, including bank transfers from companies controlled by you.”

Grimes began to protest, but Simon held up a hand to quiet him. “That they're controlled by you will be problematic to establish but not impossible, based on the testimony of your partner in the Solomons—one Dr. Vanya. Does the name ring a bell?”

Grimes shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“
Her
,” Simon corrected. “No matter. They have telephone records from a burner cell phone of hers making multiple calls to a cell that was seized in your office.”

“What! You have to get that tossed. There has to be a way.”

“I'll do my best, but it looks airtight, at first glance. Jeffrey, this woman murdered dozens of children. She organized a rebel group that killed Australian citizens. She was trying to overthrow the government so your companies could profit.” Simon exhaled. “How on earth did you get involved in this?”

“Simon, I had no idea . . .”

Simon removed his glasses and smoothed his hair. “They're talking extradition.”

“You need to stop this dead, Simon. Whatever the cost.”

Simon nodded and sighed. “Which brings me to the next bit of housekeeping. This will be enormously expensive to defend. We're talking millions. Many millions. I'll need a substantial retainer to proceed. Say . . . two million Australian, within twenty-four hours?”

Grimes snorted. “That's highway robbery!”

“How much is your life worth, Jeffrey? They want you as badly. And if they extradite . . .” He didn't have to finish. “I'll be battling this for years.”

“Fine.” Jeffrey gave him the combination of his safe. “There's a little over three million in maple leafs and one-kilo bars in the safe. I should think that will suffice. How soon until you can get me bail?”

Simon stared at Grimes like he was mad. “You don't understand, do you? There will be no bail. You're to be transferred to solitary confinement and put on suicide watch. You're considered to be not only a flight
risk but also guilty of crimes against humanity, in addition to all the other charges.”

The air suddenly felt overheated and heavy. Grimes struggled to breathe as perspiration beaded his forehead. Simon didn't seem to notice as he rattled off a few immediate requirements he'd need to address with Grimes's board of directors. When Simon finished and stood, he seemed anxious to be rid of his client.

Grimes rose and shook hands with his attorney, his palm sweaty. “Simon. You have to get me out of this. Whatever it takes. I . . . I can't spend my life in prison.”

Simon averted his gaze and nodded. “I'll do my best, but you've really gone and done it this time, Jeffrey.”

The sound of the steel door closing behind the attorney echoed like the detonation of a bomb as Grimes glared at the walls. The entire episode had been surreal. A pulsing throb in his jaw radiated down his left arm as his sweating increased and he was trying to call out for help when his chest seemed to explode and he slipped out of the chair, gasping as his heart faltered, a chunk of plaque the size of a pencil eraser clogging one of the arteries.

By the time the medics arrived, Grimes's body was already cooling, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling in puzzled amazement and his handsome face frozen in an expression that could only be described as fear.

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

Remi eyed the impenetrable rushing of the waterfall and turned to Lazlo, who was standing between Sam and Leonid.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“Never more so.”

“But Nauru never said anything about going through a waterfall,” Sam said.

“Be that as it may, I'd bet money there's a cave behind that water.”

Sam glanced at the puffs of clouds drifting across the sky, glowing white in the noon sun. “The Japanese may well have moved the crates, once they were in a nearby cave. Or the old man might have just been forgetful. We tend to remember the dramatic moments and forget the rest—and having your entire village slaughtered in front of you is certainly dramatic enough.”

“So how do we get around the water?” Remi asked.

Leonid pointed at the falls. “It looks like there are a few feet of rock that we can traverse over on the right side.”

“No time like the present,” Sam said, and led them toward the edge of the small pond the waterfall fed.

“Wouldn't this be exactly the kind of place you'd expect to find crocodiles?” Lazlo asked as they moved along the spongy ground.

“Oh, I'd think they'd find only you,” Remi said.

“They're saltwater, aren't they?” Leonid asked.

“Technically, but they do seem to like coastal rivers and lakes, too.”

“That's reassuring,” Lazlo muttered.

Sam grinned. “Relax, Lazlo. You only live once.”

“The problem is, rather more that you only die once, unless you're a cat. Or a Fargo, apparently.”

They skirted the water and approached the waterfall, the roar increasing until it was practically deafening. Sam peered along the side of the solid white stream of water and nodded. “There could be something back there. Lazlo, care to do the honors?”

“I'd hoped you would, being a seasoned adventurer and all.”

“This is how you gain all that valuable experience, my friend.”

“Like pneumonia. Or hypothermia,” Remi added helpfully.

“Come on, Lazlo. Fame and fortune await,” Sam coaxed.

“Sometimes called crocodiles and snakes by the locals,” Leonid quipped.

Lazlo gave him a dark look and nodded. “Very well. Here goes nothing.”

He edged past Sam along the narrow strip of rock that framed the waterfall and moved toward the rushing white foam, the spray soaking him as he pressed himself flat against the rock face of the cliff and inched sideways until he was out of sight.

Remi checked her watch. “If he isn't back in two days, we go in after him.”

“Unless something else comes up,” Sam agreed.

They didn't have to wait long. Lazlo emerged, sopping but excited, from the waterfall's edge.

“There's a cave, all right. Come on, then,” he said.

“Any crates?” Remi asked.

“I didn't do anything besides confirm that the cave's there.”

Lazlo disappeared behind the waterfall and Remi followed him, glad her backpack was waterproof. Sam was next and Leonid last, a frown of distaste tugging the corners of his mouth as the water doused him.

They found themselves standing before a narrow gap five feet wide. The roar of the falls was amplified by the acoustics in the entry, making the sound almost unbearable. Remi unzipped her backpack and extracted two flashlights and Sam did the same, handing his to Leonid and Lazlo before taking one of Remi's. “Lead on, Britannia!” he called out.

Lazlo turned to face the darkness and switched on his light, then took the first steps into the opening.

The narrow entry quickly widened and the floor sloped upward. Their flashlight beams played across the walls, and Lazlo was walking toward another gap at the far end when Sam grabbed his arm.

“Freeze.”

Lazlo did, and Sam pushed past him and crouched down, eyeing the floor. He directed his light at the wall, where there was a small cavity, and crept toward it while retrieving a Swiss Army knife from his back pocket.

“What is it?” Lazlo said.

“Booby trap. Probably no longer works, but no point in pushing our luck, right?”

“Can you disarm it?” Remi asked.

“Looks like a simple trip wire—so, yes. I just want to make sure there's no spring that will detonate it if we cut the wire.” He paused,
shining his light into the tight space, and then snipped the wire with a snap.

“Seems like we're on the right track,” Leonid said.

Lazlo's right eye twitched, and he brushed droplets from his brow with the back of his arm. “Good catch, old chap. I didn't see it.”

“Maybe I should take point from here, just in case?” Sam suggested. Nobody objected, so he moved ahead to the opening directly in front of them. He stopped at the threshold and shined his light all around the rock edge, checking for more traps, and then turned to his companions. “There are a bunch of crates in there covered with dust and rot. We need to be careful, though, because any of the crates might be wired to blow. Don't touch anything,” he warned. “And watch the floor. There might be more trip wires.”

“Brilliant,” Lazlo murmured.

“Let me do a quick recon while you stay out here,” Sam said, and, without waiting, took several steps into the cave toward the crates, his flashlight beam roaming over every inch of floor.

When he'd satisfied himself that there was no danger, he returned to the gap and smiled at Remi. “Looks clear. Let's go see what all the fuss is about.”

Remi nodded and joined him, trailed by Lazlo and Leonid.

A pile of at least fifty wooden crates, three feet by two feet by two, were piled in the center of the small grotto. Lazlo kneeled in front of the nearest and brushed away a layer of mold, then turned to Sam and Remi. “It's kanji. Identifies the crates as property of the emperor. Bit cheeky, that . . .”

“How can we open some of these safely?” Leonid asked.

“Good question,” Sam said. “If we're careful and on the lookout for pressure plates, spring-loads, and the like, we should be okay. We can work on a couple of them, but I'd like to get spotlights in here, as well as some specialists, before we try to open more than a few. The good news is, I can't think of many booby traps that would still be
operational years after the fact. But still, don't touch anything, just in case they used a contact poison on the surfaces or the contents. Anything's possible—I just don't know enough about what was in use during the war to be certain.”

Remi pointed at a crate near the edge of the pile. “Let's try this one.”

Sam moved to her and set his backpack down. After eyeing the crate, he handed Remi his flashlight and removed a crowbar from the bag and set it on the ground next to his machete.

“How are you going to do this?” Remi asked.

“I'm thinking I core a hole in the top rather than try to pry the lid off. Prying would be the obvious way of opening it, so that's the way I'll avoid.”

He went to work with the machete, scraping away the soft outer wood, and then grinding the harder inner area until there was a fist-sized hole in the top of the crate. He sat back, put the machete down, and took his light back from Remi as she kneeled next to him. They exchanged a long glance, and then he leaned over the hole and blew away wood dust and chips. Remi shined her light inside while they both looked through the opening.

“Well, what is it?” Leonid asked impatiently.

“Yes, do tell,” Lazlo said.

“Fabric,” Sam said, unfolding his knife again. “Looks like a sack.” He reached into the hole and sliced at the fabric, which crumbled to dust at his touch, and then pulled his arm back with a look of revulsion on his face. A large black spider was crawling up his forearm, raising its legs in menace as it neared his elbow. Remi swatted it away with the back of her hand and it scuttled off into the darkness as Lazlo jumped back. Sam's eyes met hers. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

Sam took a deep breath and they both leaned over the hole again, their beams shining into the interior. They stayed that way for a few moments and then sat back. Leonid stepped closer. “Well?”

Remi shook her head and Sam shrugged. “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. That's how it goes.”

“What's in it?” Lazlo demanded, drawing nearer.

Sam's serious expression cracked and he grinned at Lazlo and winked. “It's gold, my friend. The crate's filled with gold.”