The Solomon Curse (27 page)

“Just a few things we picked up here and there,” Remi said, keeping it vague. “We're going to be funding Dr. Vanya's clinics, so we want to understand any issues affecting the island. Disappearing children seems like an issue.”

“I'll grant you, it sounds like one, but I don't get the impression it's nearly as large or as pressing as the rebel problem, or the crushing poverty endemic to the Solomons, or the lack of coherent responses to public health or social problems, or unemployment, or fiscal irresponsibility, or civil unrest . . .”

“No disagreement. We were just hoping to find someone who could give us an idea of how long it's been going on and how large a problem it really is.”

“I don't know that it's even a real problem. Again, I hear a myriad of complaints about a multitude of issues every week and that was just one of many. If I made it seem like it was a substantial issue, I apologize. It must have been the beer talking.” He studied them, his smile as genuine as a mannequin's. “As to who to direct you to, I have nothing to offer. Perhaps the police?”

“That's already on our schedule. Do you have anyone specific we should speak with?” Remi asked, not telling him about Vanya's offer.

Manchester suddenly seemed anxious to move on to other tasks. “I'll look into it. I'm afraid I don't know who would handle missing persons, off the top of my head.” He smoothed his hair with a bear-sized hand and changed the subject. “I'm delighted you've decided to
play a large role in Dr. Vanya's clinics. That should improve life for many on the island. It's a sad state of affairs, at present.”

“Yes, so we gathered. It's a worthwhile cause,” Sam agreed. “Anything more about the rebels? Any sense of how public opinion is running?”

“Most condemn their actions, if not their sentiment. At least so my colleagues would have me believe. Still, there are a few who are seriously considering the merits of nationalizing all exploration and prospecting efforts. Madness—but to some, attractive madness, it would seem.”

“Did you have any chance to discuss our archaeological project with your colleagues?”

“Unfortunately, not yet. As you might imagine, with the rebel crisis, that's all anyone has time for. But I haven't forgotten about it,” Manchester assured them.

When Sam and Remi left the politician's office, Manchester watched them walk to their vehicle from his window, his expression troubled. His receptionist eyed him as she worked on a sheaf of documents. “Don't forget you have a five o'clock meeting with Gordon Rollins,” she said.

“Oh. Right. That's today, is it? Thanks for the reminder.” While Manchester had kept his clandestine meetings with Rollins secret, he couldn't avoid all public contact with him or that, too, would seem suspicious. They'd agreed to continue to have periodic meetings, as before, so if scrutinized, their behavior would seem normal. So far, the plan was working perfectly.

Manchester checked his watch and, with a final glance at the Fargos pulling out of the parking lot, returned to his office, his footsteps heavy on the polished wooden floor.

Gordon Rollins's neighborhood was the very best in Honiara. His home, a sprawling affair sitting on a bluff overlooking the ocean, was an area landmark. When Orwen Manchester arrived in the brick drive, the gardening staff were finishing up for the day, their khaki shirts soaked through with sweat, their skin chocolate brown from the relentless sun's rays.

A blue 1963 E-Type Jaguar roadster sat in the driveway, its chrome gleaming—one of Rollins's eccentricities but one he could well afford, coming from old money as he did and having invested wisely during his long life. Rollins turned from the discussion he was having in front of the house with his assistant, a shapely island woman named Sandra who had been with him for a decade, and offered Manchester a wave. Manchester shut off the motor of his Honda sedan and smiled as he slipped from behind the wheel—Rollins had always had flair and he'd lost none of it as he'd aged. “Orwen, old man, good of you to come,”
Rollins called, shaking his silver mane of hair. He leaned into Sandra and said something. She smiled at Manchester, displaying two rows of blindingly white teeth, and then sashayed up the steps to the front entrance, leaving Rollins and Manchester to their business.

“Always my pleasure, Gordon. Lovely day, isn't it?”

“Not as hot as yesterday, fortunately.” He held up a silver key on a fob. “I was thinking we might want to nip down to one of the pubs and have a quiet draft. Have you joined the ranks of the temperate lately or can you fit that in?”

“I'll do whatever I must to make you feel comfortable,” Manchester said, smiling.

“Good man. That's the spirit,” Rollins said, approaching the Jaguar.

“I take it this isn't entirely a social call?” Manchester asked quietly as he opened the passenger door.

“Regrettably, no. But I see no reason not to mix business with a little pleasure. Besides, all this seriousness is a thirsty affair. I'm parched.”

“We make the sacrifices that are necessary,” Manchester agreed. “What have you got up your sleeve now?”

“The Crown is concerned about our recent unrest and the direction these beastly rebels have taken—most alarming, I think you'll agree. And if she who must not be mocked is concerned, that means that I am—and you should be as well.”

The Jaguar exploded in a blinding flash when Rollins turned the key. A fireball shot into the sky like an orange fist, and a door flipped lazily through the air before landing on the immaculately groomed lawn. The staff stood transfixed in horror as the Jaguar belched black smoke, the cockpit and engine engulfed in flame, the chassis crumpled like a discarded soda can.

Sirens keened in the distance several minutes later, but by then it was obvious to the gathering crowd that the only job remaining for the emergency crews would be extinguishing the wreckage.

—

Remi shifted in frustration
as she and Sam sat in the Honiara police station, talking to the police chief, Sebastian Fleming, a forty-something islander with a face like a losing fighter and a gaze that was quickly distracted. Vanya had arranged for a meeting, but from the very start Fleming had been defensive and standoffish, and the discussion had quickly degraded from there.

“Wait. So you're saying that you have no idea how many missing persons reports have been filed over the last five years involving children? How is that possible?” Remi demanded. “Don't you have computers?”

“Mrs. Fargo, that's not how it works. I'm afraid you have some misunderstandings about the system,” the chief said in a condescending tone.

Remi fought to control her temper at Fleming's brusque dismissal. “Really? You're the police chief. People have been filing reports. But somehow
I'm
confused when I ask you how many have been filed?”

Sam knew Remi was simmering and that it was only a matter of time before she'd explode in the face of obdurate stupidity. He quickly moved to intercede, heading off a potential disaster.

“What my wife means to say is, surely there's a record of any open missing persons cases, isn't there?” Sam tried.

“Oh, well, put that way, of course there is.” Fleming stared at them with dead eyes.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” Sam said. “Our question is, how many are still open after five years?”

“Oh, I understand your question perfectly. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose that.”

“Why not?” Remi snapped, her color rising.

“Because it's police business, ma'am, and you're not a member of the force.”

“Why is it confidential?” Sam asked, his color rising as well.

“Because it is,” Fleming said as though that explained everything.

“Wait. We're members of the public you serve and we're asking a direct question and you can't answer it?” Remi fumed.

“It's not that I can't answer it,” Fleming corrected. “I
won't
answer it. To be precise, I'm choosing not to.” Fleming held up a hand to counter any objection. “And before you start protesting, let me clarify something you seem confused about. I don't serve you. You're visitors here, guests to the island. You aren't citizens and you don't pay my salary and I don't have to answer any of your questions, especially when they're framed in such an insulting manner. So I'd reconsider your tone. I agreed to see you to humor Carol Vanya, but I didn't agree to be interrogated by you or to entertain rude demands.”

Sam could practically hear the safety flip off Remi's detonation button and he quickly interceded. “Officer Fleming—”

“It's Chief Fleming.”

“Chief Fleming. We're looking into a troubling trend here of missing children. Surely you don't mind helping us?”

“Mr. Fargo, let me make my position clear. The number of missing persons reports filed with this department will remain confidential unless you get a court order requiring me to divulge it, which is unlikely given that you're not an islander.” He frowned and looked at the clock on the wall. “Now, is there anything else?”

“Don't you care about missing children?” Remi demanded in a low voice.

“Deeply. What I don't care about is two privileged foreigners showing up in my office, telling me what I have to disclose to them because they've appointed themselves special investigators. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other demands on my time. Thank you for dropping in and good luck with your research.”

Remi was seething as they descended the steps from police headquarters and Sam knew better than to say anything. They walked the
block and a half to the hotel, and Remi had calmed down somewhat by the time they reached the room.

“I can't believe nobody's worried about a rash of disappearances,” Remi fumed, her temper stoked by Fleming's lack of interest. “If my kids vanished, you can bet I'd raise holy hell.”

“True, but you saw the chief's attitude. I got the impression he didn't like us much.”

“It's infuriating. There's a cave full of dead kids and these idiots don't care.”

“Well, we're the only ones that know about that right now, so we have information they don't. I have a feeling that attitude will change in a hurry once we break the news.”

“It's their job to have the right attitude now.”

“I agree. But there's nothing we can do about it.” Sam studied Remi, who was holding her tablet, a satellite image of the waterfall area on the screen. “Since that didn't go anywhere, what's the word on the caves?”

Remi had been looking for alternatives to parking at the village and traversing the ground to the waterfall from there.

“I think I've found an old logging road that ends about a half mile from the waterfall. If it's still passable, it should cut hours off the hike.”

“That's great news. I've been worried about how Leonid is going to make it. For all his bluster, he's only human and his leg took quite a beating.”

“We won't know for sure that it's viable till we get there, but it seems like our only alternative.”

The sat phone rang and Sam hurried to the table by the sliding glass doors, where it was charging. He punched the line to life. “Hello?”

“Did you hear the news?” Selma asked, her voice concerned.

“Which news is that, Selma?”

“Another assassination. This time, the Governor-General and one of the members of parliament.”

Sam froze, eyeing the darkening harbor. “Which member?”

“Orwen Manchester.”

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened them and turned toward Remi. “When?”

“It just came across the wire a few minutes ago.”

“What happened?”

“Car explosion. The rebels were quick to claim responsibility. Said that the puppet of colonial imperialism had been executed for the better of the islands, as would be all foreigners responsible for the nation's subjugation. I quote, obviously.”

“Then Manchester's dead?” Sam asked in a hushed voice.

Remi sat up on the bed, her eyes wide. “What? Let me talk to her.”

Sam handed her the phone as she stood and padded onto the terrace with bare feet.

“Tell me exactly what happened, Selma,” Remi said, her words dangerously calm. Selma recounted the news. When she was done, Remi was speechless.

“Are you all right?” Selma asked.

“Yes. I think so,” Remi said. “We just saw him. Not three hours ago. We were sitting only a few feet from him and now—”

“I'm sorry,” Selma said.

“Thanks. I wonder if he had family?”

“Doesn't say on the news.”

“It's . . . it's just unbelievable.” She looked out over the water and her gaze drifted to the town. “This spells big trouble for civil unrest. I've seen enough of this place to know it's going to blow wide open once word spreads. Manchester was a moderating force—a voice of reason. Without him—”

“You two should get out of there. Now,” Selma said. “While you still can.”

“We can't, Selma. Not yet.” She took a few moments to collect her
thoughts. “Any word on the missing children?” Remi had sent her an e-mail earlier detailing their discovery.

“I couldn't find anything. There's nothing on the Internet. Which doesn't surprise me—Guadalcanal isn't exactly a hotbed of tech sophistication. Even most of the businesses don't have websites, so it's still a few years behind everywhere else in that regard.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“You really should take some protective steps. If rioting starts—”

“I know. I'll talk to Sam about it.”

“Call me if you need anything. And please . . . be careful.”

“I'll pass the message along. Thanks, Selma.”

Remi hung up and handed the phone to Sam. “Selma's worried. She thinks that the island could erupt in another bout of violence. I think she's right.”

“So what do you want to do? Try to get to the airport and catch the first flight to anywhere? Make for the boat?”

Remi shook her head. “Would it kill us to spend the night on the
Darwin
? And then head for the caves at first light?”

“Not at all. In fact, it seems like a reasonable precaution, in light of past events. I'll call Leonid and Lazlo and have them meet us in, what, fifteen minutes?”

“And I'll call Des and let him know he's going to have guests.”

Twenty minutes later, the Mitsubishi was rolling out of town, leaving Honiara to its fate. The Australian-led peacekeeping force was on high alert, as were the police, and a curfew had been put in place for the capital, effective within the hour. The authorities had learned a thing or two over the last few rounds with the rebels and were taking a zero-tolerance policy to any instigating by their sympathizers.

Once on the
Darwin
, they settled in for a fresh crab dinner with Des and the crew while listening to the radio. The town was quiet, by all accounts, with only a few isolated cases of attempted looting that had
been quickly quashed, and with official condemnations of the murders from various government officials as well as the island's religious leaders. But most troubling were the early reports that several Australian corporations had suspended plans to invest in infrastructure for their operations in light of the ongoing unrest, as well as news that a bill was being sponsored by an opposition leader in parliament to nationalize several key industries. Manchester hadn't even grown cold yet and his worst fears were being realized.