The Solomon Curse

  Remi’s instinct had been right. Someone had been watching the boat.

  CHAPTER 24

  Orwen Manchester sat in the rear of a waterfront bar, empty except for a desultory bartender, who was well paid by Manchester to be blind and deaf whenever he required a discreet meeting place out of the public eye. The Rusty Shrimper had been a notorious Honiara watering hole for decades, a favorite of the more unsavory elements wandering the port, but quiet that morning, its doors officially closed until nightfall.

  Manchester drank his beer and checked his watch. The summons from his colleague and sometimes partner in crime, Gordon Rollins, had been abrupt, which Manchester was accustomed to. Rollins’s tenure as governor-general, the largely symbolic representative of the British Crown’s authority, had made him even more powerful and influential than he’d been by virtue of his considerable wealth alone and declining an invitation to meet wasn’t an option.

  Rollins pushed his way through the back service entrance, a hat pulled low over his forehead, and approached Manchester’s table. He flicked a finger at the bartender, who nodded, and then shook hands with Manchester before taking his seat. A Bombay Sapphire gibson arrived, and the pair waited until the bartender was out of earshot before they joined in a muted toast.

  “The rebels are proving to be a godsend, Orwen. I’ve begun probing with the foreign office, and while they aren’t delighted at the idea of nationalization, they’re really in no position to oppose it.”

  Manchester nodded cautiously. “Where does that leave us?”

  “Between you and me, we stand to benefit handsomely from a movement for Solomon control of Solomon assets.”

  “Yes, however, I have a long-running position in opposition of the idea.”

  Rollins waved an uninterested hand. “Which you shall retain. While I work behind the scenes to generate support for it. That will give you considerably greater moral authority when it comes time to reluctantly change your tune—you’ll have been the voice of reason against it for so long that when you capitulate, it’s a guarantee that it passes.”

  Manchester’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t in any way involved with these rebels, are you?”

  Rollins studied him with a calm expression. “Of course not. But I also know how to capitalize on opportunity, and whether I approve of their tactics or not, they’re forcing the administration to have a dialogue about nationalization now, when six months ago it would have been inconceivable. So the question, old man, is not how we feel about things, but rather how we can both emerge from this little episode considerably wealthier.”

  Manchester eyed the seedy walls of the watering hole, stained the color of mud from nicotine, and took a contemplative sip of his beer, before sitting back and fixing the older man with an avaricious stare. “I’m listening.”

  —

  Upon his return to the Darwin, Sam told Remi what he’d discovered and she convinced him to call a meeting to alert the crew. It could have been something harmless—a curious islander killing time on a slow morning—but there was no point taking chances.

  He filled the men in and they agreed to mount a watch. Everyone was more than aware of the two aid workers’ deaths, and the possibility that they were at risk, working a remote stretch of the coast, wasn’t lost on them.

  When Sam finished, Leonid pulled him aside and spoke in what for the Russian was a low tone. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

  “No more than we would be on land.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “There are risks to everything.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t believe we’re going to be attacked, but it can’t hurt to be watchful. We don’t want to underestimate any rebels in the vicinity.”

  The day stretched on slowly as the divers continued their plodding work, and after a tedious afternoon Sam and Remi decided to return to the hotel rather than spend another night aboard the Darwin. The radio hadn’t reported any further unrest, and the latest broadcasts sounded as though things were returning to normal in Honiara.

  On the outskirts of town, traffic was heavier than the day before, and there was a sense of normalcy to the pace of the pedestrians making their way down the darkening sidewalks. There was still an increased police presence, with a pair of uniformed officers on every other corner, but their demeanor was unconcerned.

  The hotel security guards were still at the entrance of the almost empty parking lot. The other guests had obviously chosen to play it safe and leave the island rather than stay in the uncertain environment. Sam selected a parking stall near the front doors and they entered the deserted lobby, empty except for two desk clerks. One of them waved Sam down and handed him a message slip. He glanced at it and thanked the clerk.

  “Selma called,” he said. “That’s a good sign. Means she’s found something.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Once in the room, Sam threw the sliding doors open and stood on the small terrace, satellite phone in hand. Selma answered on the second ring.

  “Oh, good. You got my message,” she said.

  “We did indeed.”

  “I scoured my sources for reports of anything resembling your treasure that was liquidated by the Japanese during the war and came up empty. Nothing. So then I checked with all the usual suspects who might have been involved in clandestine sales to collectors—you know the sort—and again found nothing. So if a treasure was discovered by the Japanese, it’s the best-kept secret of the war years.”

  “That’s not good news.”

  “I know. I’m still digging, though, but a significant find would have attracted attention, as you more than know.”

  “Selma, the bayonet confirms the Japanese were in the vault, and, based on what we saw, they dug a significant amount of gold out of the walls. And the carvings were just the decoration of the vault. I’d have to assume that whatever was housed inside were riches far more valuable than the wall ornamentation.”

  “Right. So after running into a brick wall tracing suspicious sales during or after the war years, I turned to the evacuation, as you asked. Specifically, that final run on February seventh.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll forward everything to your e-mail, but there’s a glaring lack of data on the Japanese navy’s movements around Guadalcanal. Other than accounts of the naval battles, I really had to dig.”

  Sam bit back his impatience. “I presume you found something that caught your interest?”

  “Yes. It might be nothing, but I found an account of an Allied ship rescuing some Japanese sailors from the Solomon Sea on the morning of the eighth. From what I pieced together, the destroyer they were on sank in a storm. Most of the hands didn’t make it.”

  “Wait. I read about the evacuation online. It’s described as having gone off without a hitch.”

  “Maybe so. What struck me as odd was that one ship was in the Solomon Sea rather than with the main force, which was more than a hundred miles away—and it wasn’t on a course for the base on Bougainville Island.” She paused. “As for online research, you know what I think of most of the available sources.” Selma had nothing but disdain for the sites most used as a kind of gospel. As a research specialist, she was deeply distrustful of anything that hadn’t been subjected to rigorous peer review, and she openly scoffed at the web-based encyclopedias that, in her opinion, were nothing more than unsubstantiated hearsay.

  “Yes, your stance is well established. That’s the only oddity from February seventh?”

  “Unless something happened that was never recorded. But I will say this—I almost missed the destroyer sinking. Unlike the other ships that went down around the Solomons, there’s no information on this one. And perhaps most odd is that it’s not listed on any of the rosters of Japanese warships involved in the Pacific theater.”

  “That is strange.”

  “Yes, it?
??s almost as though Tokyo scrubbed its existence off the books. That got my alarms sounding. Sort of like that Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that didn’t bark.”

  “What about the survivors? Nobody wrote a tell-all memoir?”

  “No, they were taken as POWs and imprisoned for the duration.”

  “You know the next question . . .”

  “I anticipated it. I’m trying to track down info on survivors as we speak. But that will take more time. I have to follow up on each name, and when and where they were imprisoned and released, assuming they lived to the end of the war. Many didn’t. And of course anyone who made it would be older than dirt by now if they are still alive, which isn’t likely.”

  Sam sighed. “You mentioned that the ship went down in a storm. Where, exactly? Can we narrow it down?”

  “I’m way ahead of you. Based on the Allied naval reports of where the survivors were rescued, I came up with a likely area grid where it sank. I established a fifteen-mile radius from where they were picked up, allowing for the direction of the storm, which was north.” Selma hesitated. “It’s not good news.”

  “Why?”

  “Depths are anywhere from seven thousand to sixteen thousand feet.”

  Sam’s heart sank. “So if the treasure was on the ship, it’s going to stay on it.”

  “Unless you plan to pull a Raise the Titanic.”

  “Not likely. That’s not the news I was hoping to hear.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Why would one destroyer be so far from safe harbor after evacuating men from Guadalcanal?” Sam said, thinking out loud. “A hundred miles is hours away from port. Why brave a storm in seas that the Allies effectively controlled during the day?”

  “I thought you might ask. It makes more sense if you look at a map.”

  “Why’s that, Selma?”

  “Because I don’t think it was going to stop at the base at all. The boat was on a course that would have taken it all the way to Japan.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Late that night, Sam and Remi checked their e-mail in-boxes for the last time. Sam had a brief message from Selma that said she was tracking the only living survivor of the sunken destroyer, now more than ninety years old, and hoped to have more information the following day. He glanced at the time and decided to try Selma, the time difference making it a good bet he’d reach her. He padded out onto the terrace with the sat phone, but Selma’s line rang with no answer.

  “What are you doing out here?” Remi asked from the sliding door, startling him. The phone seemed to leap from his hand and he watched helplessly as it dropped a dozen feet onto the sand. Remi saw the expression on his face and shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. You caught me by surprise.”

  “Selma?”

  “Right. But no answer.” He looked down at the phone on the beach. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Want company?”

  He smiled. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  They exited the building at the far end of the wing and slowly approached the phone, the wind dimpling the surface of the dark sea the only sound. When they reached the phone, Remi scooped it up and was turning to Sam when he murmured to her, “Don’t look, but there are a couple of guys down the beach who are doing their best not to be seen. Headed this way.”

  Remi glanced along the sandy spit, their footprints the only break in the smooth surface. “Behind us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take your lead.”

  “Let’s pick up the pace. With the unrest on the island, it might not be so smart to be out alone in an unlit area like this.”

  Remi strode quickly back along the sand as Sam hung behind, listening for any sign of pursuit. He heard the unmistakable sound of soles slamming along the hard-packed sand by the water’s edge and dared a glance over his shoulder. Two islanders were closing on them, no more than a dozen yards behind.

  “Run, Remi,” Sam called as he poured on the steam. Remi took off like a greyhound, and Sam made a mental note to increase his gym time as his breath burned in his chest from the sudden sprint.

  Remi reached the corner of the building a few seconds before Sam and was fumbling with the card key as he arrived. She looked over his shoulder as he took the key from her and swept it over the reader—the islanders were only footsteps away, but slowing as they neared the lit area by the door.

  And then the heavy steel door swung in and they pushed through it, heaving it shut behind them as the welcome figure of a security guard peered around the corner from the distant lobby, alerted by the commotion.

  “Everything okay?” he called.

  Sam and Remi exchanged a glance, both breathing hard, and Sam nodded. “Yes. But there are a couple of tough-looking fellows on the beach outside.”

  The guard was by their side in moments, his baton in hand. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. But they came after us. It was close,” Remi said.

  “Best not to test the island hospitality right now . . . especially late at night,” the guard said, holding a radio to his ear. He spoke into it and then returned his attention to the Fargos. “We’ll deal with this.”

  “Come on, Remi,” Sam said, touching her arm as another guard made his way down the hall toward them.

  Back in the room, Sam inspected the phone and then set it on the dresser before opening the terrace door and stepping out. The beach was empty, their tracks the only evidence of their nocturnal jaunt, the faint imprints of the islanders’ feet already washing away from the gentle swell.

  “Probably not such a good idea going for a moonlight walk,” he commented as Remi joined him.

  “You had to get the phone.”

  “Yes, but dropping it in the first place was careless. It’s easy to forget just how precarious the local situation is.”

  Remi leaned her head against his arm. “That which does not kill you . . .”

  “Atta girl.”

  They awoke to a light rain, the morning gray and bleak, the sea churning into an ugly froth. When Sam connected to the Internet again, there was another message from Selma, this one containing a name and address in a town forty miles south of Sydney. Sam called Remi over and read the information aloud.

  “Toshiro Watanabe, Wollongong, New South Wales. Number eighteen Brighton Ridge Gardens.”

  “Wollongong?” Remi asked. “That’s a real name of a place?”

  Sam nodded. “Apparently so.” He checked the time. “I wonder what time the next flight to Australia leaves?”

  Remi pulled up a travel website. “There’s a flight in two hours, but they all go through Brisbane, and there’s nothing until the following day to Sydney.”

  Sam walked to the closet, where his travel bag was stowed, and pulled it out. “Sounds like we’re going on a little trip.”

  “Wonderful. I need some new clothes.”

  “Nothing like seeing the world, is there? Come on. Last one out the door buys breakfast.”

  “We don’t have time to do anything but get to the airport.”

  “Fine. Then cocktails in Brisbane.”

  “Are we keeping the room?”

  “Sure. Just bring what you need for a couple days.”

  The flight to Brisbane was only half full, and when they arrived in the city of more than two million souls, they booked a hotel and spent the remainder of the afternoon relaxing and shopping on fashionable James Street. Or, rather, Remi shopped and Sam attended her with amusement, providing commentary on several new outfits.

  The following day they arrived in Sydney and set out on the road to Wollongong, figuring the drive to the sleepy suburb would take about an hour and a half. Selma had contacted the nursing home where the elderly Watanabe was living out his golden years and used her powers of persuasion
to arrange for the Fargos to meet with the former sailor that afternoon.

  When they arrived at the home, they saw a two-story brick complex, on a tree-lined lane near the hospital, with all of the charm of a prison. Entering the lobby, a stout woman with the no-nonsense demeanor of a drill sergeant met them and showed them to what she referred to as the card room. Once they were seated, she went in search of Watanabe. She returned five minutes later with a reed-thin Japanese man in a wheelchair. Wisps of silver hair were brushed straight back off his liver-spotted forehead, and the skin on his taciturn face was translucent as parchment.

  “Mr. Watanabe. Thank you for meeting with us,” Remi said in English after learning that Watanabe had lived in Australia for many years. She and Sam had discussed it and had agreed that the feminine touch would likely elicit a more positive response than Sam’s direct approach.

  Watanabe nodded but didn’t speak.

  “My husband and I are archaeologists.”

  Nothing. Remi gave him her warmest smile. “We’re interested in talking about the war. About the ship you were on when you were captured. We’ve traveled a long way to hear your story.”

  The Japanese’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Remi decided to try again.

  “I read the account of the submarine that rescued you and the other four sailors. It must have been hard in the open sea with a storm like that raging around you.”

  That elicited a reaction. Watanabe nodded. “Three sailors. One soldier,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Right. But five of you, correct?”

  “Yes. Out of hundreds.”

  “It sounds like quite a story. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Watanabe shrugged and shifted in his chair. “Our ship sank in the storm.” The Japanese’s English was good, if tinged with an Australian accent.

  “Yes, we know that. A destroyer, right?”

  He nodded. “Only a year old but already damaged several times.”

  “What happened?”

  “The repair didn’t hold. Water poured in. No way to fix. Big seas sank her.”