The Solomon Curse (13 page)

Sam and Remi drove to the airport the next morning to meet the American divers. Even with a chartered jet from Brisbane to Honiara, the flight time from Los Angeles had taken thirty hours, and they expected the men to be stiff and tired. They were surprised when the four divers descended the steps from their plane looking chipper and rested. The tallest of the group approached them without hesitation and extended his hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo? Pleased to meet you. I'm Greg Torres and this is Rob Alderman,” he said, indicating the man next to him, who nodded.

“Please. Sam and Remi,” Sam said, shaking Greg's hand.

“And these two are Steve Groenig and Tom Benchley,” Greg said, looking to his right where the final pair of fit young divers was standing. None was older than early thirties, and Sam recognized the
unmistakable bearing of former SEALs—battle-hardened veterans who would be as comfortable in the water as sharks.

The customs and immigration clerks sauntered out onto the tarmac and did a cursory inspection of the men's dive gear and duffel bags before stamping their passports. The immigration clerk eyed the men and shook his head.

“You best be careful and stay in town, yeah? With what happened wit' the aid workers, it's not safe anywhere else,” he said in heavy patois.

“What happened with them?” Remi asked. All they'd heard the day before was that the two Australians had gone missing, with no official word of explanation.

“It's all over the web. Rebels got them.” The clerk shook his head. “It's bad. They threatening to kill them, they are.”

“Kill aid workers? They're here to help.”

“These fool rebels say they all part of the foreign plague. Dat's what they calling it. Fools blaming everything on others, like none of our problems is our doing. But they saying all the foreigners gotta go or there goin' to be big-time trouble.”

“So they kidnapped unarmed humanitarians who are here to help the underprivileged and they're going to kill them?” Remi said, her tone disbelieving.

“Dat what they saying. Crazy in the head, dese fools be.”

Sam's eyes hardened as he studied the divers. “Well, looks like you flew into the eye of the hurricane. All of this just happened.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Greg said, his words clipped, his tone flat. Sam believed him.

“You'll be on the boat all the time in any case, so any local issues shouldn't affect the expedition.”

Greg shrugged as if it was all part of the job.

Sam and Remi had rented a four-wheel-drive Toyota van from a
different agency and the men loaded their gear in the cargo area before wordlessly taking their seats. The drive to the site took an hour longer than the day before. They were stopped three times by uncomfortable-looking policemen at makeshift roadblocks, who, after searching the van, cautioned them against proceeding any farther into an area of the island that was out of official control. Sam and Remi remained courteous, but firm, and each time the lead officer shook his head when he waved them past as though he were directing them through the gates of hell.

Sam looked over at Remi from the driver's seat. “They seem pretty wound up, don't they?”

“Sounds like we were lucky we didn't meet the aid workers' fate on our little drive the other day,” she said.

“That occurred to me. But it wasn't for wont of the bad guys trying.”

When they arrived at the bay, Greg's team moved quietly and efficiently to set their equipment out on the sand as they awaited the arrival of the skiff. Remi fished a two-way radio out of her bag and called the ship. She was rewarded by a burst of static and then Captain Des's cheerful voice.

“Good morning to you both,” he said. “Ready for a ride?”

“We are. Six of us, and enough gear to sink the boat.”

“We'll make room. Be there in a jiffy.”

Once they were on board, Simms showed the men to the guest quarters while Sam and Remi joined Des and Leonid on the bridge.

Leonid looked up from a photograph he was studying when they entered and grunted before returning to his project. “About time,” he grumbled.

“I hope you were able to get something accomplished without us,” Sam said, ignoring the Russian's barb.

Des nodded. “Two dives so far. We've got the layout nicely mapped now. Leonid here was just going over the images so we could work on each building in a systematic fashion.”

Leonid tapped a finger on the glossy printout. “This is by far the largest ruin. We should start there. It's easily double the size of any of the others, which indicates it was the most important.”

Remi inched closer. “That would make sense, given the orientation.”

Sam nodded. “It's east of the one we were looking at.”

“It looks to be in better shape than many of the others. Next dive, we'll go over it carefully and see what's under all the sea life,” Leonid said.

Kent Warren, the dive master, tromped up the steel steps and entered the pilothouse. “G'day. Just met the new lot. Serious gents, they are,” he announced.

Leonid pushed the underwater image away and stood. “I want to clear as much of the surface area of this large structure as possible by nightfall. The more bodies in the water, the faster it will go.”

“Too right. Let me run the calcs on bottom time and I'll put together some dive schedules,” Warren explained.

“How many surface supplied air rigs do we have?”

“Only two,” Warren said. “We're usually in shallower water and don't use 'em much. But this seems ideal, so we'll keep two men down for as long as feasible. Between them and the scuba, we should be able to make short work of clearing the worst of the clutter.”

“We don't want to damage anything. And every step needs to be captured on film so we have a record,” Leonid reminded.

“Absolutely.”

Half an hour later, the on-deck compressor was clattering away as a member of Warren's crew fed out hoses carrying air to the divers below. They were accompanied at the bottom by a pair of the recently arrived American divers in scuba gear and their slow approach to the sunken ruin flickered on the bridge monitor, where Leonid, Sam, Remi, and Des watched.

The image was high-res, creating the illusion they, too, were peering through dive masks as the swimmers approached the mound. Light
filtering from the surface lent the scene a spectral quality. They watched as the lead diver moved near the closest surface and twisted the valve on a hose, directing a blast of high-pressure air at the crust of barnacles and seaweed.

The camera distorted in a cloud of debris as the water instantly turned opaque from centuries of accumulation being blasted off. Leonid had researched the best way to clean the structures with the least chance of damage and had hit on the idea with Des—use the compressor's power to clean them.

The downside was that visibility was only a foot, and the divers had to give it a rest so the sediment could settle. The camera feeds flickered in the brownish cloud, and after a few minutes everyone could begin to make out the unmistakable shape of large limestone blocks.

Two hours later, enough of the wall had been cleared so they could appreciate the scope of the ruin—the wall measured at least one hundred feet long.

“It's huge. Hard to believe that was built by the islanders,” Leonid said, his voice hushed. “Nothing hints at them having the means to construct anything like it.”

Remi peered at the screen and turned to Des. “Can you communicate with the divers?”

“Yes. The surface breathers have a comm line.”

“Ask them to zoom in on the area to the far right of what they've cleared.”

Des lifted a microphone to his lips and gave the instruction, and they waited as a diver moved in slow motion to the section that interested Remi. As the camera closed in on the block, Sam and Remi smiled and Leonid nodded.

Remi was the first to break the silence. “Looks like glyphs, and, if I'm not mistaken, that's a totem of a sea god,” she said. “And look there. Looks like a depiction of a column of men. Hauling cases.”

Leonid squinted and Des cleared his throat. “What do you make of that?”

Remi sat back and smiled.

“Unless I'm completely garbling the glyph, it's a group of warriors carrying something into a temple.”

“Something?” Leonid said.

When Remi spoke, it was almost a whisper. “Treasure. An offering to the gods.”

By the end of the afternoon, much of the top section of the large structure had been partially scrubbed clean. The uppermost portion of the roof had collapsed, but enough of the edges remained to be able to make out the rough shape of the building. The divers continued working even as Sam and Remi climbed into the skiff to return to shore. The plan was to continue until ten that night, using underwater floodlights, switching out the surface-breathing divers every few hours to avoid fatigue.

Once back in the van, Sam eyed the
Darwin
, floating serenely at anchor.

“What are you thinking?” Remi asked.

“What it must have been like to watch your entire civilization disappear without a trace. Imagine how that had to feel.”

“I'm pretty sure that in an earthquake large enough to do that, nobody had time to feel much of anything.”

“You're probably right. But I can understand why the survivors would think the place was cursed. How else could you explain that kind of devastation?”

“What do you make of the glyphs?”

“It appears to suggest the legend of a treasure, at any rate. We'll soon know for sure.”

Remi gave him a doubtful look. “It's a lot of area to explore. It'll take years just to clean the ruins and then they'll have to contend with all the rubble. It might be a long time before there's a chance to hunt for any treasure.”

“Well, Mrs. Fargo, I'm enjoying the Solomons' charms, but not enough to spend years here. Even in company as delightful as yours.”

“Leonid seems to have it under control now. Maybe we can leave this one to him?”

The sun was sinking into the sea when they turned onto the paved road, and they hadn't been driving for ten minutes before they came to a roadblock where six grim-faced police officers were standing by their cars in the middle of nowhere. Sam coasted to a stop. Four of the policemen made a big show of making them get out of the van and checking their identification while the other two did a cursory inspection of the interior.

“What have you got in the backpack?” the oldest of the group asked, indicating Sam's bag.

“Just some odds and ends. A phone, canteen, spare shirt, that sort of thing.”

“Show me.”

Sam humored the man and caught Remi's eye, willing her to stay quiet. He knew her well enough to see that she was going to ask the officer whether he thought the militia was composed of American tourists and was silently thankful when she thought better of it. More than once she'd voiced her frustration at airports when a grandmother was searched by security personnel lest the woman be the world's
oldest terrorist, but Remi caught the meaning in his stare and bit her tongue.

“You shouldn't be driving out here,” the officer said when he was done with his cursory search. “Be very careful, even in Honiara. Things are unpredictable right now.”

“Seemed fine this morning.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Yes, but the news about the aid workers' execution hadn't hit yet. People are uneasy. Just watch yourselves. I'd go straight to your hotel and not leave if I were you.”

“They're dead?” Remi asked, her face revealing her surprise.

The policeman nodded. “There was a broadcast this afternoon. It's a dark day. They were unarmed, helping rural families who have nobody else.”

“What will those families do?”

The officer shrugged and frowned. “We'll probably escort whatever remaining aid workers who still want to help, but I doubt there will be many takers. It's one thing to have compassion, another to risk your life to ease the troubles of others.” He looked away into the thick underbrush. “Drive safely and don't stop unless the roadblock is manned by official vehicles like ours. Just to be sure.”

One more roadblock treated them the same way, and by the time they reached the hotel lot, Sam and Remi were worried. They'd passed crowds of angry-looking islanders who glared at the van as it drove by. Though nobody did anything, they could sense the menace. As they pulled through the gate, Sam noted that the parking lot security guard looked as worried as he felt, although there were no signs of a mob anywhere near the hotel—perhaps because it was located near the main police station.

When they entered the lobby, the front desk clerk signaled to them. They approached and she gave them a professional smile and asked them to wait for her boss, who appeared moments later, wearing an obligatory sincerity suit.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I'm Jacob Trench, the manager. I hope you're enjoying your stay?”

Remi nodded. “Everything's been satisfactory.”

“Good, good.” Trench shifted nervously and looked down at his shoes. “I wanted to greet you and introduce myself and apologize in advance for what I'm going to say. We're advising our guests not to leave the hotel grounds. The situation in town is . . . unsettled . . . and we don't think it's safe.”

“Really?” Sam said. “Then why would it be safer here?”

“We have extra security coming. Don't get me wrong—I'm not saying that we expect any trouble. Purely precautionary. But it would be unfortunate if any troublemakers used the current uneasy sentiment opportunistically, and there's always a faction . . .” Trench's Australian accent was crisp, but it was impossible to mistake his concern.

“Do you really think there's a risk?” Remi asked.

“It would be better not to test your luck, for the time being. The authorities have everything under control, but I was here during the last . . . unrest . . . and it got out of hand rather quickly. A hotel down the beach was gutted.”

“Right, but this is completely different, isn't it?”

Trench nodded but wouldn't meet their eyes. “It always is, unfortunately. Please. Be our guest in the restaurant tonight. I'll be happy to provide a complimentary bottle of champagne as an incentive.”

Remi looked at Sam. “He's convincing me with the free champagne, Sam.”

Sam smiled. “Sounds like you've got a deal. Do we need to make a reservation?”

Trench shook his head. “Just let me know what time you'd like to have dinner and I'll take care of it.”

“Say . . . seven?”

“Perfect. Party of two or will you have guests?”

“Just us,” Remi said.

As they continued to their room, Sam whispered to Remi, “Did you see the guy reading the paper in the lobby? Big man, khaki pants, local?”

“No, I was too busy being warned that we're all going to die.”

“He seemed very interested in us.”

“Maybe he doesn't get out much.”

Sam grinned. “Not that I'm not used to having men take notice when you walk into a room.”

She looked down at her rumpled cargo pants and T-shirt and laughed. “I am a real glamor girl today, aren't I?”

“You look pretty good to me.”

“Don't think you're going to dupe me with your silver tongue, Sam Fargo.”

“I was hoping the free champagne would do the trick.” They approached their door and Sam paused as he felt in his pocket for the card key. “Maybe you're right. I just thought he was trying too hard at not being interested in us, especially given how much attention he was paying to us.”

“I have it on reliable authority that we're in the safest place in all Guadalcanal tonight.”

“That's reassuring. But I didn't get the most confident feeling from the manager, did you?”

“Probably not the A-team working the night shift in Honiara.”

When Sam and Remi returned to the lobby just before seven, the big man Sam had noticed was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the area was empty except for a few nervous Australian tourists talking quietly among themselves near the entrance, their accents as distinctive as their ruddy complexions, the legacy of Scottish heritage in a subtropical climate.

The hostess checked the list, smiled when she found their name, and led them through the dining room, which was surprisingly full. Halfway to the table Remi paused and grabbed Sam's arm. Orwen Manchester was sitting at a booth, reviewing a small pile of paperwork, a
sweating bottle of beer on the table beside him. He glanced up and waved them over when he caught Remi's eye.

“Well, look who's here! Are you two following me around?” he boomed as he rose.

“It's certainly a small world, isn't it?” Remi said.

“Maybe not that small. This is one of the few restaurants that's open tonight. Sam, Remi, if you have no plans, I insist that you join me. Assuming that I'm not interrupting a romantic candlelight dinner or anything.”

Remi smiled and shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. Sam?”

“Perfect,” Sam said, and pulled a chair out for Remi, who sat gracefully while beaming at them both.

“Probably best you aren't out on the town tonight anyway,” Manchester said as he and Sam took their seats. “It's ugly out there.”

“That's what the manager told us. Why would a rogue rebel group's execution of two foreigners cause so much unrest?” Remi asked.

“Guadalcanal is polarized. Most of the population's dirt poor, but a small segment is quite well off, so there's an inevitable friction that occasionally causes violence. Scapegoats are always popular for the less fortunate, and there's also a powerful antiforeigner sentiment simmering just below the calm surface. The rebels' reprehensible actions have forced that sentiment into the spotlight and it's suddenly acceptable to give voice to the unmentionable. You have the poor and disenfranchised looking for any excuse to express their frustration.” Manchester shook his head. “It makes little sense, but there it is.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds like your views are clear on the issue.”

Manchester swigged the remainder of his beer and motioned to a waiter to bring two more. Remi ordered a soda.

To their surprise when their drinks arrived as promised, champagne was also served. But the mood was tense as more tourists arrived and were seated, their collective worry palpable even across the room. Manchester toasted and then fixed Sam with a stern stare.

“I hate to seem like an ungracious host, but perhaps the Solomons aren't an ideal place for you until this all dies down.” He shifted his eyes to Remi, his gaze changing from steely to admiring. “I'd hate for such a lovely couple to be caught in any escalation.”

“We keep hearing that, but it's a little late now. We've flown halfway around the world to help our friend. It's an important project for him, and for us,” Sam replied.

Manchester ignored Sam's comment. “And you're only a few short hours' flight from more hospitable lands. I hear the restaurants in Sydney are spectacular this season.”

“That's not our style,” Remi said firmly. “We don't turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.”

“Of course not. I'm speaking as a concerned friend. And this may all blow over. But if it escalates, you won't want to be around. Half the town burned in the last big one. The opportunists and predators come out when they think they're anonymous in the mob, and almost nothing's off limits once that dam breaks. It's the ugly side of human nature we see when things get out of control—one that's best viewed from a safe distance.”

“Your point's well taken.” Remi held her glass aloft. “To level heads and better times.”

“Hear! Hear!” Manchester said, but the broad smile on his face never reached his eyes.