The Solomon Curse (12 page)

Sydney, Australia

Jeffrey Grimes leaned back in the executive chair and eyed the others in the conference room, the air filled with the aroma of half-drunk coffee, tension, and frayed nerves. The end of another quarter was upon them and the publicly traded conglomerate they operated was going to report a loss—the third straight quarter the company had hemorrhaged money due to its international subsidiaries.

Grimes was a fixture on the Australian business and social scene, legendary for his high-risk strategies that had, until now, turned out to be winners. But the increasingly difficult financial landscape and tightened access to investment capital had proved more challenging than any he'd encountered and several spectacular flameouts had gutted the company's balance sheet as well as investor confidence.

Going public had seemed a brilliant idea two years earlier when the Australian economy was booming and money was flowing like water. The initial offering had raised almost a billion dollars. But Grimes's
personal stock was locked up and his net worth had collapsed in the wake of bad bets in the mining and petroleum sectors when the company's valuation dropped by half overnight.

The decline triggered covenants in the company's debt agreements and now the wolf was at the door, the former golden child of the Australian investment community struggling for survival.

Grimes ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, worn longish and combed straight back, and sighed. “Can't we push some of the bad assets off into a subsidiary, at least for this quarter? You know, the usual game of musical chairs?”

His chief financial officer, Curtis Parker, shook his head. “The regulators will be all over us. If we transfer anything off the balance sheet, there will be fifty snoops demanding to know where it went and that will open a whole new can of worms. No, whether we like it or not we have to take our lumps and hope we can turn it around next quarter.”

Grimes frowned. “What about accelerating or slowing depreciation on some of the underperforming investments? Or why don't we simply claim an inflated value for the assets with a straight face, get an accounting firm to sign off on it, and ignore that in a sale we'd get ten cents on the dollar?”

Parker gave him a humorless smile. “Because we aren't a Wall Street bank. We don't get to play those kinds of games. We're expected to behave honestly.”

Grimes tossed his pen on the table. “Fine. How much of a hit are we going to take on the stock? Give me your worst-case scenario.”

“Fifteen percent. Which will recover within a week—I've lined up some buyers to come in and stabilize the price at that level and they'll hype it once they've stopped the fall, turning a handy profit in the meantime—they've already established short positions to finance the purchases.” Parker glanced at a spreadsheet. “But we're going to have a hell of a time with our credit lines. It's looking increasingly like we
won't be able to service our debt within another two quarters and nobody's going to want to be last in line to get paid.”

A beautiful brunette in her early thirties poked her head into the conference room and caught Grimes's eye.

“Yes, Deb?” he asked.

“I have a call on your private line. Said it's urgent . . . that you're expecting the call?”

Grimes brightened. “Ah, yes.” He looked around the room at his inner circle. “Gentlemen, would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, he rose and made his way down the hall, trailed by Deb, who had to practically jog to keep up with his long strides.

“Line two,” she said as he entered his office, and he nodded as he closed the door behind him and walked to his desk. He sat in his burgundy calfskin executive chair and raised the handset to his ear.

“Hello,” he said.

The caller's voice was flat, genderless, robotic, run through some sort of software filtering that disguised it, as it had been each time he'd spoken with his mystery accomplice.

“The first step in escalating our conflict has been taken. By the end of the day there will be articles in the Australian and Solomon papers about the aid workers' disappearance, as well as the militia's demands.”

“Finally, some good news. How do you intend to resolve the situation once the tension's built sufficiently?”

“Unfortunately, the workers won't make it. Which will trigger cries of outrage, demands for retribution, and travel advisories. Most important, it will create a difficult situation for the sitting administration, whose approach so far to unrest has been to do nothing.”

“Will that be sufficient?”

“Only time will tell.”

“I presume you have an alternate course of action if this doesn't do the trick.”

“Of course. But you don't want to know what it entails.”

“Very well. Do what you must.”

“Just don't forget the next transfer. I'll be watching for it.”

“Consider it done.”

The caller hung up, leaving Grimes staring at the phone. This was unlike any arrangement he'd ever had and that made him uncomfortable but also exhilarated. He'd been approached the year before by the caller, who'd had a unique proposition: participate in the formation of several untraceable corporations in far-flung jurisdictions and have them salt the Solomon Islands' parliament with donations to pliable officials so that in the event of any societal upheaval the companies would be in first position to receive any new leases or prospecting rights for oil, gas, and minerals.

At first he'd been skeptical, but when the caller had promised to shut the gold mine down, it had gotten his attention. Right on schedule, things had begun to go wrong for the operation, culminating in seasonal flooding that brought catastrophic results mainly because emergency equipment designed to protect the mine failed at critical junctures.

Almost immediately after that the foreign operators had been ejected by the government, as promised, throwing the entire country's mining prospects into jeopardy.

At that point Grimes became a believer and shunted millions from his personal accounts through a complex series of blind transfers in places like Latvia and the Seychelles. The cash wound up in the corporations that his new friend had set up, always in jurisdictions where ownership was impossible to verify. The visible entities appeared to be Solomon Island companies and would be viewed as domestic by any cursory regulatory scrutiny.

The game plan was simple: foment discontent and support a new rebel group whose aim was to eject the current players. Once that was done, allies of the caller would create a new administration that supported local involvement in key lucrative industries and would declare
all prior agreements void before handing out new agreements to preferred players—Grimes's silent-partnered corporations ranking among the most desirable.

If it worked, he stood to make hundreds of millions from the oil rights alone. That the scheme required a few casualties was a necessary evil—his hands wouldn't be sullied.

As with all opportunities, one had to weigh the benefits against the costs. A few aid workers or unfriendly locals were nothing, in the scheme of things. Grimes hadn't fought his way to the top of the heap by being soft. He understood how the game was played—the bigger the money, the dirtier the dealing. He'd watched rivals get rich rebuilding countries after war had ravaged them and it hadn't escaped his attention that they always seemed to be at the front of the line when it came to lucrative contracts. All he was doing was creating his own advantage where he could, with complete deniability baked into the cake.

Grimes looked around his office, taking in the model sailboats, the awards from community organizations, the photographs with dignitaries and celebrities. He'd built it all from nothing. Along the way he'd had to do some questionable things, but everyone who'd amassed significant wealth and power had done so—there was no such thing as an honest fortune. He glanced through the picture window at Sydney Harbor and smiled with satisfaction. The difference between him and the rabble shuffling around on the street was vision . . . and daring. He saw opportunity and didn't hesitate where others might.

Grimes checked the time on his platinum Lange & Söhne Perpetual Calendar Terraluna wristwatch and nodded to himself. He felt no remorse about his countrymen meeting their fate so he might profit from the outcome. People died every day.

It was strictly business, nothing more.

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

Sam powered on his satellite phone, checked his messages, and listened to one from Selma, letting him know that the Australian research vessel, the
Darwin
, would be at the Honiara port by noon. After checking the time, he called California to leave his own message, confirming with Selma that they would meet the ship when it arrived.

The police had stopped by the hotel the prior evening and asked more questions, lifting Sam and Remi's hopes that their attackers would be caught; but now, as Sam looked out over the primitive buildings and rusting fishing scows, that goal seemed as far-fetched as the tale of giants roaming the island.

“What are you staring at?” Remi asked, coming up behind him and slipping her arms around him.

“Nothing,” he said, not wanting to depress her with his morose thoughts. “The boat should be here by noon.”

“Well, that's good news.”

He turned to her. “How's the neck?”

“If you're asking whether I can manage a dive or three, the answer's yes.”

He inspected her cheek, which still had a trace of discoloration from bruising, and smiled. “You ready for breakfast?”

“With Comrade Chuckles as usual?” she smirked.

“It wouldn't be the start of a new day on the islands without Leonid's sunny disposition and sense of childlike wonder, would it?”

“He's certainly got the market cornered on pessimism. Although I did get the sense that he was enjoying his dive experience, for all his grumbling.”

“Me too. But don't let on that you noticed or it'll ruin his whole morning.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Sam escorted her to the hotel restaurant, where Leonid was sitting at their usual table, his face sunburned, sipping coffee with an expression like the dark brew was laced with rat poison. He looked up as they approached and offered a humorless smile.

“Good morning, my friend,” Sam said cheerfully, slapping him on the back. “You're looking sprightly.”

“I'll take whatever you've been drinking,” Leonid said sarcastically.

“I think the island pace agrees with you, Leonid. You're positively glowing,” Remi beamed as she took a seat across from him.

“Make it a double,” Leonid muttered, but Remi caught a barely controlled flash of a smile.

“We come bearing good news,” Sam announced.

“Really?” the Russian asked, raising a distrustful eyebrow.

“The
Darwin
will be here in a few hours and then we can get this exploration kicked into high gear. And you can show off some of your newfound scuba moves.”

“As long as they consist of sitting on board and directing the divers, you won't be disappointed,” Leonid assured him.

“I bet you're like a fish in water,” Remi teased.

“A puffer fish. It's all I can do to get into the pool, much less swim.”

“Well, fortunately, Selma called this morning to tell us that she's got four ex–Navy divers flying in to help. They should arrive tomorrow,” Sam said.

They agreed to meet at the boat when it was scheduled to dock. Leonid still had one final dive to do before getting his certification. They watched him trundle out to the parking lot and Remi shook her head.

“You'd think he'd just found out he only had a few days to live. Has he always been like that?” she asked.

“As long as I've known him. What's funny is that he's had a relatively charmed life. There's no logical reason for it. But that's the way he is.”

“Thank goodness I didn't marry Mr. Sourpuss.”

“How could anyone be married to you and do anything but smile?”

Remi grinned. “You're showing promise, young man.”

—

The Honiara waterfront
lived up to their expectations, with the pungent aroma of decaying marine life thick as fog. Rows of rusting cargo ships in various states of disrepair bumped against the concrete docks in the gentle swell, and Sam and Remi watched as a large power catamaran edged to a stop near the shipyard. The water shimmered with a sheen of oil and gas, adding a petroleum stink to the area, and Remi wrinkled her nose and leaned in to Sam.

“Charming, isn't it?”

“Hope nobody lights a match around here or we're all going up.”

Leonid arrived a few minutes later and they stood together, staring impatiently at the horizon. Leonid shifted from foot to foot as the sun blazed down unrelentingly, clearly anxious to get to the bay.

“How did the dive go?” Sam asked, eyeing the Russian's still-damp hair.

“I'm here, aren't I?”

The satellite phone trilled. When Sam retrieved the phone from his backpack, he didn't recognize the number.

“Hello?” he answered.

“G'day. Sam Fargo?” The Australian accent of the cheery male voice was pronounced even over the noise of the wind and a rumbling motor in the background.

“That's me.”

“Captain Desmond Francis. Des, to most. Wanted to see if you're ready for a pickup?”

“Yes. We're at the Honiara docks.”

“Brilliant. We should be rounding the point in ten minutes. I'll send a tender for you, if that works.”

“Of course. How will we know you?”

Des laughed. “Hard not to spot us, mate. Bright red hull and a bad attitude.”

“We'll be watching for you.”

Captain Des was right—they couldn't miss the
Darwin
on approach. Painted neon red, it had a stylized gaping shark's mouth emblazoned in yellow on the bow, replete with oversized teeth. Remi laughed when she saw it and elbowed Sam.

“What have you gotten us into this time?” she whispered.

“Blame Selma. I just asked for a boat.”

A crane swiveled on the ship's deck and lowered a twenty-foot fiberglass tender onto the water and soon the small skiff was cutting across the small waves toward the wharf. Sam walked to the edge of the concrete dock and waved both hands over his head and the research vessel changed course to approach.

The skiff pulled alongside a metal ladder and the pilot, a twenty-something-year-old man with long unruly hair and a goatee, grinned up at them.

“G'day. Looking for a ride?” he called.

“You bet,” Sam said, and they descended the rungs to where the tender bobbed on the swells.

Once they were aboard, the young man introduced himself.

“Name's Kent. Kent Warren. I'm the dive master aboard the
Darwin
,” he called from his position in the stern of the craft. “I'll shake everyone's hand once we're on the ship. Which will be in no time.” With that, he twisted the throttle and the tender surged away from the dock, its bow slicing through the chop as it rapidly picked up speed.

When they neared the
Darwin
, they could see she was a serious research vessel, built for rough seas, her bow impressively high out of the water, her steel hull steady in the waves. Her pilothouse bristled with antennae, and as the skiff approached a tall man wearing a red shirt waved from the bridge.

They climbed aboard and the red-shirted man, Captain Des, introduced them to the rest of the crew—a dozen men in all. His mate, Elton Simms, gave them an orientation belowdecks as the captain pointed the bow west and the big ship lumbered forward.

“These are the guest cabins. I reckon you'll be staying aboard while we map the site,” Simms said, his Australian accent so thick they could barely understand him.

Remi eyed the three simple staterooms, each equipped with four fold-up bunk beds bolted to steel support beams running from floor to ceiling, and glared at Sam, who smiled engagingly.

“To be determined. We may commute out to the site,” he said.

“Fair enough. But we've got room, if you're so inclined. The galley's over here, and the equipment room's astern down that passage.”

They made their way to the bridge, where Des was standing in front of a wide console, eyeing the GPS and the chart plotter. He glanced at Leonid and the Fargos and stepped aside, leaving the helm to Simms.

“How was the trip?” Remi asked.

“Bit rough in the middle. Twenty- to thirty-footers in parts of the
Coral Sea—but rollers, not breaking. This here's a pond after that,” Des said.

“Glad you made it in one piece. We're looking forward to diving the site and mapping the ruins. The gear on the island leaves something to be desired,” Sam explained. “I trust you've got a full complement of equipment?”

Des nodded. “We do. Compressors, rebreathers, wet and dry suits, a submersible, robotic cameras—the whole nine yards.”

“We're going to be joined by additional divers tomorrow,” Sam said. “That will give us more bottom time as a group.”

“More the merrier. How long do you figure you'll need the boat?”

“Hard to say,” Sam said. “At least a couple of weeks. Depends on how it goes.”

“I'll tell the crew and the bosses back home we're here for the duration, then. We're pretty self-contained. Just need to make shore runs for fruit and veggies. We've got a watermaker aboard and the sea's lousy with fish, so we can stay as long as you like.”

Des gave them a quick tour of the specialized equipment along both sides of the bridge. Leonid and Sam nodded with approval. The electronics were cutting-edge, a floating laboratory and archaeological research department, with satellite Internet and communications. “We had a complete overhaul two years ago, so there's little we don't have aboard,” Des said with obvious pride.

“It's certainly impressive,” Remi agreed.

When the
Darwin
arrived at the site, it orbited in a slow circle over the coordinates of the ruins, and both Des and Simms hovered around the monitors as the equipment detailed the anomalies along the bottom. Des ordered the anchor dropped at the edge of the complex, close enough to easily dive but far enough away so the anchor wouldn't damage anything if it dragged. Soon four of the divers were suiting up for an initial exploration.

Once the men were in the water, everyone gathered in the bridge again to watch their progress on the screens. Their helmet-mounted cameras were sending color images in real time, recorded on hard disk for later study. Visibility was better than when Sam and Remi had dived, and soon the ruins appeared from the reef, the remains of a ghostly city swirling in the flickering light.

“There. What you're seeing is the largest mound, and others oriented around it,” Leonid said.

“Makes sense. Probably the main palace, with the outbuildings temples and housing for the royal court and servants,” Remi said.

“I make out, what, forty structures? Maybe more,” Des said.

“At least. It appears to have been a significant compound in its heyday. Probably housed hundreds, depending on how many lived in each building,” Sam confirmed.

“Amazing that this wasn't discovered during the war,” Simms said.

“The occupation forces had other fish to fry,” Remi said. “And the technology wasn't really up to the challenge of exploring an underwater archaeological find.” She eyed the screen. “There's been a lot of progress over the last seventy-something years.”

“Have you given any thought to how you want to operate?” asked Des.

Leonid stepped forward. “I have,” he said, and proceeded to detail the approach he intended to use for mapping the site. Sam and Remi exchanged glances several times—the Russian might have been ill-natured, but he was clearly a first-rate archaeologist and more than capable of running the expedition now that he had the tools to work with. When he was finished speaking, it was obvious the Australians were impressed.

Two sharks put in appearances during the dive, but the Aussies seemed unconcerned. Des pointed to the image on the monitor. “See that? Sharks typically avoid divers. Something about the noise of the bubbles startles 'em and nine times out of ten they'll swim away as fast as they can.”

“What about the tenth time?” Leonid asked.

“Well, that's when it's best to have a powerhead. When we're diving in waters with sharks, one of the team will always have one. It's also known as a bang stick, a small air round affixed to a speargun shaft that detonates on impact, terminally injuring the target.”

“That's good to know. Seems sensible,” Leonid allowed.

“But the chances of having to use 'em are low,” Des reaffirmed.

“How about crocodiles?” Remi asked.

“Same effect. The damage of a powerhead isn't from the projectile, it's from the explosive gasses entering the target. So even a relatively small round will kill a huge beast. It's the blast, not a bullet, that does the trick,” Des explained.

“We could have used one of those the other day,” Sam said, and told him about the crocodile.

“Blimey! Twenty feet? We get 'em that big up north, but still. Did the bloke on the receiving end make it?”

“Lost a leg.”

“Damn. Well, I'll alert the lads to be careful. Then again, working Australian waters, we've seen just about everything. I'm pretty sure we've got more dangerous creatures per meter than anywhere else on earth. Even the bloody pinecones will kill you down under. Our bunya pines drop a cone that can weigh ten kilos—imagine a bowling ball falling thirty meters onto your head.” Des offered them a smirk. “And those are just the plants.”

Sam nodded and turned to Des. “We've been there a few times and love it.” He glanced at his watch. “How can we get back to town?”

“Simms here can give you a lift in the skiff.”

Sam looked to Leonid. “You staying aboard?”

“Might as well. As you Americans say, it's ‘prime time,' right?”

Sam took a final look at the monitor and the ghostly outline of the sunken city.

“Yes, it is. And you're in the spotlight, my friend. Front and center.”