The Solomon Curse (20 page)

“Safe bet.”

The security guards smiled as they pulled up to the hotel gate and one of them directed Sam to a spot near the front entrance like he was guiding an airplane into a Jetway. When he and Remi entered the hotel, the staff studied them warily, faces frozen in polite expressions but eyes wide at the apparition of Sam looking like he'd fallen into the sea. Remi nodded to the night clerk and the man smiled reluctantly as they passed the reception desk and made their way to the room down the gloomy hall.

“Light must have burned out,” Sam observed, looking up at the dark ceiling.

“Classy joints you take me to, Fargo.”

Remi stopped when they were only a few yards from the room and her hand flew to Sam's arm and gripped it, halting him, too. She cocked her head, listening, and then leaned close to him and whispered, “Did you shut the door well when we left?”

“Yes.”

She didn't say anything for a few long seconds. “Then we have a problem.” She pointed at the darkened doorway. “It's open.”

Sam edged toward the door. He was only steps away when a figure burst through it and tore at full speed down the hall.

Sam hissed, “Get help. Have the hotel call the police,” and took off after the thief. His shoulder slammed into the wall as he rounded the corner just in time to see the steel exit door at the far end of the corridor swing shut. He drove himself harder, only slowing when he reached the door. He stopped, listening, and then pushed through, out into the darkness.

Sam's eyes swept the edge of the parking lot and locked on the man, running across the boulevard. Sam covered the distance to the street in a matter of seconds, but his quarry was fast and he disappeared into an alley on the other side. Sam bolted after him, laser-focused on the thief, and he barely registered a dark form hurtling at him from down the street before he was falling, his left side flaring with pain.

An islander on a decrepit bicycle tumbled next to him with a loud
clatter. Sam had hit the ground hard. He lay on the pavement for a few seconds with the wind knocked out of him, trying to understand what had happened, and then realized that the bicyclist had been invisible in the darkness because he had no headlight or reflectors.

Sam pushed himself to his feet as the man on the bicycle swore at him from the asphalt in pidgin. Sam's knee was throbbing, and he could feel scrapes where he'd landed, but he was in one piece, nothing broken.

And the thief was getting away.

He glanced at the fallen rider, a young man who appeared to be fine, if disgruntled, and took up his pursuit of the thief, sprinting for the dark gap that was the alley's mouth. He paused when he reached it—there was no light, and he could barely make out the far end. Sam glanced to either side and, seeing no hiding places from which he could be ambushed, set out at a flat run. When he reached the other end of the alley, he was on a narrower street, with a handful of small shops on the near side and industrial buildings on the other.

His eyes roved over the buildings, searching for motion or anything out of place. From the far corner, the sound of metal scraping against cement reached his ears. Sam covered the distance in a blink.

And found himself looking at a black-and-white cat perched on a pile of refuse by a garbage can. The feline glared at him, annoyed at being interrupted on its nocturnal rounds, and hopped down, before scurrying off.

Sam froze, straining his ears for any sounds of running human feet. The buzz of a distant motor scooter echoed off the waterfront, but there was nothing else. The area was deserted. After several long moments, he took a final look down the street and sighed.

The thief had escaped.

He made his way back to the hotel, where two police cruisers were parked in front, their light bars flashing blue and red on the building façade. Sam made his way into the empty lobby and continued on up to the room.

When he arrived, Remi was standing outside the door, an annoyed expression on her face. She turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“No. He got away.”

She nodded and returned to watching two officers gingerly walking through the room, the smaller of the pair scribbling in a small notebook in between taking photographs with a digital camera. The bathroom door was open, as was the closet, and their clothes were scattered across the bed and floor. Sam frowned as he took in the ransacked area and then led Remi down the hall, where the desk clerk and the night manager were standing in the shadows.

The manager came forward, obviously distraught.

“I'm so sorry, sir. Please accept the hotel's apologies. This has never happened before.”

“Just our luck, then,” Remi said. “It's been that kind of a trip.”

Documenting the crime scene took half an hour, during which time the pair of officers established that the room's safe had been broken into and Remi's tablet stolen but the passports left behind. Once Sam and Remi were allowed in the room, Sam's eyes strayed to the satellite phone still charging on the table. Remi's gaze followed his to the phone, and then he turned to the officers.

“Does it strike you as strange that they didn't take that?” Sam asked, his tone neutral.

The taller of the two shrugged. “Maybe they were afraid the telephone could be tracked. We do have TV here, you know.”

Sam kept his tone even. “And our passports?”

Same shrug. “Nothing they could do with them on the island.”

“They couldn't sell them?”

The cop shook his head and looked at his partner. “Who'd want to buy your passports?”

Apparently, there wasn't a thriving market for stolen documents on
Guadalcanal because the officers looked honestly puzzled by Sam's question. Sam didn't push it and allowed them to finish their report before signing, as requested, at the bottom. Remi went to the door, peered into the hall, and then turned and addressed the taller of the two policemen.

“Maybe there's a security camera that caught something?” she suggested. “I see a mirrored dome mounted to the ceiling. That's probably what it is.”

They appeared surprised by the suggestion, but he nodded. “We'll go check with the manager.” With a final look around, the taller officer shook his head. “It's a shame this happened—we'll do everything we can to recover your possessions. But with the town agitated like it's been lately, people behave in strange ways. I'm sorry your trip to the Solomons was a bad one,” he said as though he personally was to blame for the robbery.

“I'm sure you'll do your best,” Sam said, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

Sam and Remi followed the officers to the front desk. The night manager was standing behind the seated night clerk, fidgeting. When the police asked him about the security cameras, he studied his shoes with a sheepish expression before answering.

“System's been down since last week.”

“What?” Remi blurted.

“It died on us. Takes forever to get parts. Thing's twenty years old,” he explained.

“Tell me this is a bad joke,” she said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. Believe me, I wish it was working as much as you do.”

Sam touched her arm, and, after a moment, her shoulders relaxed.

“Come on. Let's get the room cleaned up.” He turned back to the unhappy manager. “I'm assuming you can find another room for us.”

“Of course, sir. Call when you're ready to move and I'll come personally to show you your new suite.”

Remi didn't say anything until they were almost to the room. When she did, it was in a low voice.

“Do you have the same feeling I do?”

“Being violated?”

“No. That this wasn't a simple robbery.”

He waited until they were inside the room with the door closed behind them. “We're probably one of the only occupied rooms. Could it have been an inside job? Maybe. But was it something besides thievery? If it was, what? What was the point?”

“It's awfully convenient the cameras that would have nailed him aren't working,” Remi said.

“My hunch is it's hardly noteworthy when something doesn't work here. It probably hasn't worked for years, not days.”

Remi moved to the safe. “Whoever did this came prepared. The lock was drilled open.”

Sam inspected the safe and nodded. “Yes, but look at the thing. It's made out of tinfoil. If they've done this before at other hotels, which is a safe bet, they know the equipment's junk. I could get that open with a can opener.”

She looked at her watch. “It's still early. So they had to know we were out to dinner.” She stopped. “And the flat tire delayed us returning. Think that was a coincidence, too?”

“Maybe not, but I'm not sure how we'd ever know for sure.” He shook out a shirt and folded it. “What was on your tablet? Anything relating to Leonid's find? Passwords? Financial info?”

She gave him a dubious look. “Of course not.”

“So what did the thief really get? A little money I left in the safe—I had my wallet at the restaurant, and you had your purse with you. A tablet that can be replaced in seconds. No credit cards, nothing sensitive, and he didn't even want our passports. Seems like amateur night,
other than the drill. For all we know, it was the two from the beach the other night—opportunistic thieves looking for easy prey.”

“Then explain how he got into the room.”

Sam walked over and inspected the lock. “You could pick this in your sleep.”

“It's a card key.”

“Right, but look at the latching system. That's the problem with going high-tech on the equipment and then cheaping out on the installation. It's garbage, Remi.”

She shook her head in frustration. “You really aren't worried?”

He shrugged. “Sure. But then what? If this is more than a robbery, what has the mystery intruder learned? Nothing, except that you've got excellent fashion taste.” His tone softened. “I say we keep our eyes open, don't take anything for granted, and go about our business. I don't see any alternative, do you?”

She closed her eyes for a second. “No. I just feel . . . unsafe.”

“That's natural. So do I. But it's over. And we got off light.”

Sam dialed the desk and told the clerk they were ready. The manager arrived shortly thereafter and escorted them to a room in the other wing of the hotel. After apologizing again, he left and they unpacked in silence. When Remi finished hanging up her clothes, she turned to Sam.

“So did you get a decent look at him?”

“Not really. I told the police everything. An islander. Medium build. Fast. Wearing dark shorts and a striped polo shirt. Messenger bag. Not really a lot to go on.”

“There aren't many people out at this hour. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll spot him.”

Sam gave her a small smile. “Anything's possible, but I think the first order of the day tomorrow is to try to find you another tablet.”

“That's not going to be easy.”

“I saw an electronics store when we drove through town. My bet is they'll have something. Might not be cutting-edge, but we'll make do.”

She frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose it could have been worse.”

“Of course.” He eyed her. “Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”

“Sure. I have a big, strong man to protect me.”

Boyd Severin took a final sip of coffee before pushing back from the dining room table and smiling at his wife, who was cleaning pots and pans in the kitchen. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he said, a morning ritual he'd been repeating for eighteen years of marriage.

“You're welcome. You want more coffee?” his wife asked, also part of the ritual.

“No, I should get to the office. There are clients to cheat.”

Severin was a prominent Guadalcanal attorney, as well as an outspoken member of parliament well known for his scathing diatribes about the government's incompetence and corruption. He'd been beating his head against the public service wall for two years, during which time he had succeeded in alienating many of his peers with his views. Severin believed that the only way the Solomon Islands would ever make significant progress would be if they created a hospitable climate
for foreign investment—a position that rankled those for whom national pride was the basis of their platform.

Like most of the professionals on the island, he had been educated in Australia and was under no illusions about the competence level of his fellow natives. His mission was to force the island to recognize its limitations and then take on qualified partners who could help unlock the value that was the Solomons' birthright.

“What time are you going to be home? Remember, it's Toby's birthday.”

“Right, then. Sorry, I've been so busy lately . . . Did you take care of gifts and the like?” Toby was their seven-year-old son, their pride and joy, who had walked to school twenty minutes earlier, as he did every weekday.

“Of course. Just try to be here at a reasonable hour. I'm making a cake.”

“I will.” He carried his plate and coffee cup into the kitchen and set them on the counter and then leaned toward his wife and kissed her. Even after eighteen years he still marveled that she'd agreed to marry him and he reminded himself that he was the luckiest man alive. “What kind of cake?”

“Mocha. His favorite. What else would I make?”

He sighed. “He's getting so big. Time really flies, doesn't it?”

“Which is why it's important to be home early for the important moments,” she warned, her tone stern.

“I know. I promise I'll be back by . . . six.”

“Okay, then. But no later, Boyd. I'll plan an early dinner and then he can unwrap his presents.”

“I swear.”

He took a final look at her and then moved to the foyer, where his satchel sat waiting next to the door. He scooped it up and grabbed his keys from a bowl on the side table, studying his reflection in the gilded mirror as he did so. His hair was thinning now and graying at the
temples, and he was carrying a few more pounds than he should, but overall he wasn't in terrible shape. Perhaps not exhibition condition, but serviceable.

Severin pulled the door closed behind him and made his way to the detached garage. He was almost there when he heard the crunch of feet running on gravel. He turned, an exclamation just beginning to sound from his mouth, and then a machete blow to the side of his head cut his cry off, along with most of his skull. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground, his satchel tumbling next to him. Two assailants hacked at him for another few seconds before stopping, satisfied that Severin was finished. After a final blow to his head, they ran down the block to where a van waited beneath a tree, its license plate obscured by a layer of mud.

—

Orwen Manchester
was arriving at his office when his cell phone rang. He eyed the screen, but there was no caller ID. He thumbed it to life.

“Hello?”

“Can you talk?” Governor-General Gordon Rollins's voice sounded tense.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Orwen, we've known each other a long time. You need to tell me the truth. Are you involved in any way with these rebels? Passive support, maybe slipping them some information . . . ?”

Manchester stopped outside his office door and stared at it in puzzlement before raising it back to his ear.

“I've been wondering the same about you, old boy. No offense.”

“That's not an answer.”

Manchester sighed. “No, Gordon. I have no contact or affiliation with them. Can you assure me it's the same with you?” He paused. “Why? What happened?”

“You haven't heard?”

“I'm walking to work. All part of my new healthy living program. But stop talking in riddles—what is it, Gordon?”

“Boyd Severin was murdered this morning. Hacked apart like a fatted calf. There's going to be hell to pay.”

“You can't be serious.”

Rollins told Manchester what he knew, based on a phone call he'd just received. When he was done, both men were quiet. Manchester digested the information, the blood drained from his face.

“And you have nothing to do with this?” he asked, his tone ugly.

“Orwen. What do you take me for?”

When he hung up, Manchester stood for a long moment, staring at his office door, lost in thought. Rollins was ruthless and utterly without conscience, but he didn't think he'd go as far as to support assassination. And the man sounded genuinely shocked, and . . . worried.

Things were spiraling out of control, and what had seemed like a harmless bid to capitalize on the local unrest had suddenly taken on far more ominous weight as he realized that he had no idea what his counterpart was actually capable of—and, by extension, had involved Manchester in.

He swallowed hard and twisted his key in the lock, furrows of doubt creasing his face. Neither man trusted the other, that much was clear. As he pushed his way into his office, Manchester's mind was racing at the implications of his colleague being butchered in his drive—an atrocity, to be sure, but one that conveniently removed one of the last obstacles to nationalization.

—

Sam stood by
the pocket doors, staring through the glass at the ocean. The morning sun was warming the surface of the sea, glinting off the waves like liquid fire.

“You ready to hit it?” Remi asked from behind him.

He turned to her. “Always. I'm thinking about diving the temple again to see if I can spot anything new. You're invited.”

“Let's see how it's going on the boat. No point in getting wet if they're just blowing barnacles off the walls.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?”

“On my tablet. Which we need to replace, if you remember.”

“Right. Bite to eat before we go?”

“I could use some coffee.”

Sam took care to lock the door, painfully aware of the futility of the gesture but doing so anyway, and then they made their way to the lobby. A few guests were standing by the front desk, huddled around a radio with the staff. The day manager looked up as they approached, his face drawn and tight.

“Good morning,” he said, and then turned his attention back to the radio. Sam and Remi joined the listeners as the broadcaster spoke in somber tones.

“Reports are coming in that MP Boyd Severin was attacked outside of his home this morning at eight-fifteen and was dead on arrival to Honiara hospital from machete wounds. Severin was unarmed.

“The rebel militia is taking responsibility for the gruesome atrocity and promises more to come if its demands aren't met. In a statement sent to the station only moments after the attack, the rebels repeated their conditions—that all Solomon Island resources be returned to Solomon Islanders and that foreign involvement in our government and our industry be terminated immediately.

“The administration condemned the outrage and is taking steps to shore up security for its members. Calm is counseled, and martial law is being considered if unrest surfaces on the streets of Honiara. The government reemphasized that no lawlessness will be permitted and made clear that anyone attempting to use this tragedy as a pretense for looting or rioting will be prosecuted. Australia and New Zealand have
offered to send a peacekeeping force to assist in maintaining order and protecting its citizens and interests, but no word yet on whether the administration intends to invite the force to our shores.

“More to follow as details are available. This is a sad day for the island. One of its favorite sons has been stolen in a shameful episode, and the tragedy will not be soon forgotten.”

Sam took Remi's hand and squeezed it. The manager cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice quavered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, rest assured I will be arranging for additional security today. However, I would caution you that nothing is certain, and if there is widespread disorder, we may not be able to guarantee your safety.”

Silence smothered the lobby. An Australian woman was the first to speak, in a panicked voice.

“Can't guarantee our safety? What does that mean? How do we get to the airport without getting killed?”

The beleaguered manager made a visible effort to keep his tone even.

“Madam, it means that while there is no clear and present danger, staying at the hotel does not guarantee that you will remain safe. We will do everything to ensure you do, and there's no reason to believe you won't be, but if emergency conditions prevail, the men and women here are unable to promise anything.”

“So you'll give us up to the mob?” the woman screeched.

“There is no mob. There has been a regrettable incident by terrorists. I'm merely suggesting that if you feel you're in any danger, you should plan on going elsewhere. We will contract security on your behalf to get you to the airport. But as is the case for everyone here, employees included, there is no way to ensure you will be safe under all circumstances, no matter how unlikely.”

The woman clearly wanted more assurance, but the manager turned and disappeared into the back office, leaving a small throng of worried
guests to pepper the reception clerk with questions. The woman, no more than twenty-five, did her best, but her answers were even hollower than the manager's.

Sam and Remi watched the assault for several minutes and then moved to the empty restaurant, where a lone waiter took their order. When he'd gone to the kitchen, Sam shook his head.

“This makes no sense at all. People are losing it for no reason. Nothing on the island has changed except for an isolated incident of lunatic behavior,” he said.

“Maybe we're just more used to craziness than the average person,” Remi suggested.

Sam looked through the large window at the parking lot, which boasted only a few cars, theirs included, along with two sleepy-looking security guards.

“It could be this is a classic case of man bites dog. News that everything's fine doesn't really grab your attention like warnings that there's an imminent emergency.”

“Seems to me you're downplaying the danger.”

Sam shook his head. “Not at all. I'm just pointing out that aside from the murders, nothing else has happened.”

“What about whoever was watching the boat? That happened.”

“It did, but as far as we know that was just a curious islander. The car wasn't touched. No harm came to it. Of course we were paranoid after being run off the road, but it doesn't mean that every new face is a homicidal enemy.”

“The guy in the lobby?”

“Who did nothing but give me a weird vibe? A nonevent.”

Remi sighed. “You can't dismiss our hotel room being broken into.”

“Of course not. Of everything, other than being shot at by rebels, that's the most disturbing—although there was an obvious motive. Poverty is serious here.”

They ate in silence, the large dining room quiet as a tomb. When
they finished, they paid the bill and moved back to the hotel entrance, where the manager was waiting for them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, not to be alarmist, but I was here for the last civil unrest. It was . . . Words cannot describe how ugly it got. And it happened very quickly. Before it was over, half of Honiara was in flames. At the risk of repeating myself, I'd really look at leaving the island until things settle down.”

Remi took Sam's hand. “Thank you for your concern. We'll discuss our options this morning. But in the meantime, is there an electronics store anywhere around here that sells computers?”

The manager said, “Yes, a block and a half from the hospital, on the right-hand side. Sedgwick's. Expensive, but well-stocked.”

“Sedgwick's,” Sam repeated, the Toyota keys in his hand. “Very good.”

Sam and Remi could feel the manager's eyes burning into their backs as they made their way to the SUV. The guards came awake at the sound of the big motor starting, and one of them raised the barrier that barred the driveway so Sam could pull out.

Remi pointed at a brightly painted two-story building on their right as they neared it. “That's got to be it—Sedgwick's.”

“Seems like a lot of people outside, don't you think?

Remi took a hard look and nodded. “Keep going, Sam. That looks like trouble.”

Several dozen tough-looking islanders were thronging around the store entrance, which was protected by steel roll-up shutters. Several of the men had machetes, and one had a crowbar, his intent clear. Sam accelerated and gave the crowd wide berth, continuing on toward the road that led out of town.

“Maybe the manager isn't being overly paranoid,” Remi conceded as she watched the men in her side mirror. “That looks like looting about to happen, doesn't it?”

“I wonder where all the police are? We're only, what, six blocks from the station?”

“Maybe they're eating breakfast? Or dealing with other problems?”

Sam applied the brakes. “This looks bad, Remi.”

Thirty yards ahead, several hundred islanders were milling around a makeshift barricade. Black smoke belched from a drum by the side of the road, and two sedans were wrecked nearby. Their windows had been smashed in and glass dusted the surrounding pavement.