The Solomon Curse

  “‘Beyond the fall . . .’” Remi whispered.

  “Leonid, I don’t care what they say about you, you aren’t all bad,” Lazlo said, clapping him on the back. The Russian looked at him disdainfully and took a step away from the Englishman.

  Sam fished his GPS from his backpack and entered in another waypoint. “Come on, gang. We’re almost there. Remi? Care to do the honors?”

  “I think Lazlo should lead the way since it was his decryption that brought us here in the first place,” Remi said.

  “Very well, then. No point in dawdling,” Lazlo said, shouldering his pack and setting off toward the cave.

  They skirted the water’s edge, crossing two streams, and made their way to a mushy stretch of bank near the boulders. The cave opening yawned like a giant mouth, the gloom beyond its threshold impenetrable, vines having overgrown across part of it. Sam and Remi freed their machetes and set to work and three minutes later had cleared enough of it to enter.

  “Flashlight time,” Sam said. They paused outside the rent in the rock, took out their lights, and switch them on. “Lazlo? No time like the present.”

  Lazlo cautiously moved into the cavern, followed by Sam and Remi, their machetes still in hand, with Leonid bringing up the rear. The entry was long and narrow, stretching for fifteen feet, but no more than five high, requiring them to stoop as they crept forward. Lazlo’s light shone ahead of him, and as he moved deeper into the cave, they saw that it opened into a small chamber with water pooled on the ground, the light reflecting off its surface. The source dripped from a fissure in the stone above, rippling the placid surface.

  “Be careful, Lazlo. That could be a hundred feet deep, for all we know,” Sam cautioned.

  “Ah, yes, the dreaded cenote. Noted,” he said. “Pun intended—” He stopped midsentence and held his lamp aloft.

  “What is it?” Remi asked, his body blocking the passage.

  “Looks like we’re not the first visitors,” he said as he stepped aside. Remi and Sam followed his gaze to where a pair of skeletons lay on the cold stone floor, their sightless eye sockets fixed accusingly on the entryway.

  Leonid brushed past them and neared the bones. “Murdered villagers,” he whispered as if afraid he might rouse the dead with his voice.

  “Perhaps,” Sam said, stepping forward and illuminating the pair with his light. “But I seriously doubt the Japanese did this unless they had a time machine. Look at the smaller one’s feet.”

  Remi gasped. “Are those . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Sam answered. “Flip-flops. Judging by the size and pink plastic, worn by a very small woman or a girl.”

  “What are they doing here?” Lazlo asked, his voice hushed.

  Sam shrugged. “Don’t know. But they’ve been here a while.” He paused as he eyed the remains. “Animals and rot got their clothes, unless they were naked when they died. But look—no visible injuries, nothing broken, no cracked skulls or bullet holes. It’s possible they died of natural causes . . .”

  Remi shook her head. “I doubt it. Look at their wrists. See the plastic?”

  “What is it?” Leonid asked.

  They all peered down at the skeletons and then Lazlo straightened and spoke softly. “Zip ties. Their wrists were bound when they died.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Sydney, Australia

  Jeffrey Grimes sat back in his executive chair, his shirt collar open, his Armani jacket hanging from a coat rack in the corner of his office. He smiled at the young blond journalist sitting across his desk from him, her aqua eyes intelligent and quick, her bone structure a testament to fortunate genetics, her slim form a tribute to long hours in the gym.

  “I’m afraid that the rumors are always more interesting than the truth,” Grimes said with a wave of his hand. “We’ve had a few difficult quarters, but all businesses experience ups and downs. It’s impossible to operate with sustained growth every quarter in this business. Any thinking person realizes that—it’s only the stock market that focuses on short-term profitability rather than long-term sustainability.”

  “Your critics say that you’ve lost your Midas touch and that the recent quarters are more attributable to risky strategies gone wrong than normal business fluctuations,” she parried, her smile lighting the room even as her eyes remained locked on his.

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s a cadre of hopeful short sellers who are spreading all sorts of alarming rumors. After all, they profit only if the stock loses value. So it’s in their best interests to make it seem as though the world’s ending for us.” Grimes chuckled at the thought. “To hear them talk, every day is a new nail in our coffin.”

  “Right, but what do you have to say about the specific criticisms? That you were caught overextended when the value of the derivatives you were speculating in lost much of their value?” she asked, her tone reasonable.

  “Anyone familiar with our operations understands that we’re always adequately hedged. That the doors are still open underscores that we were in that instance as well.”

  The woman nodded and shut off her recorder, then slipped it into her purse before smoothing her dress and standing. “I think that should do it. You’ve given me more than enough to work with.”

  Grimes took in her long tanned legs with a quick glance and offered a sparkling, chemically augmented smile. “Ms. Donovan, it was a pleasure meeting you,” he said, rising and offering his hand.

  “Likewise, Mr. Grimes. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” she said, shaking it.

  “A refreshing departure from the usual drudgery of my day,” he assured her, his hand lingering on hers. “I hope you got what you wanted out of it.”

  “I think my readers will be fascinated with the human face of the ruthless corporate raider portrayed by your critics.”

  “There are two sides to every story,” he said, and then glanced at his watch. “If you’d like to get together after my day’s over, perhaps to have a drink and tie up any loose ends, I’d be delighted to answer any further questions you might have.”

  She batted her eyes and appraised him with interest. “Why, Mr. Grimes, that’s very . . . generous of you. I know how valuable your time is.”

  “Please. It’s Jeffrey. And I make time for the things I find important,” he said, squeezing her hand slightly before releasing it. “It would be my pleasure. I’m planning to take my boat out for a sunset cocktail cruise—something, regrettably, I don’t get the chance to do nearly enough. Would you join me in watching the sun set over the city?”

  She smiled broadly. “You’re very persuasive, Jeffrey. And it’s Cynthia. What time were you thinking?”

  “Six-thirty at the dock. My assistant will give you all the information and security codes.” His eyes roved over her figure before his gaze locked on hers. “Do you have any favorite beverages?”

  Cynthia blinked and shook her head slightly. “Surprise me.”

  Grimes escorted her out of his offices and instructed his assistant to arrange for her access to his dock. She was beaming as she left, and Grimes congratulated himself on another conquest, only hours away. He’d successfully converted a potentially hostile interview into a romantic pursuit, the conclusion of which was foregone for a wealthy, handsome bachelor like himself.

  He pulled his door closed behind him and was startled out of his reverie by the chirping of his cell phone—a tone he’d programmed that chilled his blood whenever it sounded. He rushed to his desk and lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “There will be another event tomorrow that should seal the island’s fate,” the robotic voice announced without preamble.

  “It’s taking too bloody long. I thought the last ‘event’ was supposed to be the tipping point,” Grimes complained.

  “This isn’t an exact science. It’s more of a cumulative proc
ess. Each drip of water wears the stone away.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I’m being eaten alive here by margin calls and demands from my bankers. Something needs to happen fast or there will be hell to pay.”

  “There should be substantial progress within forty-eight hours, at the outside. I’m alerting you so you can be ready to move quickly, as discussed.”

  “I’ve been ready for a week,” Grimes snapped.

  “Then your wait is almost over,” the voice said, and the line went dead with a click.

  Grimes punched the phone off and tossed it on his desk before taking a seat. The call was good news. He was juggling a lot of balls and running short on both maneuvering room and time.

  When it would be announced that he’d negotiated deals with the supposedly nationally owned shell corporations that would soon have most of the islands’ mineral rights in their portfolios, his company’s stock price would skyrocket. There was literally incalculable value locked beneath the jungle and the sea for the fortunate group that was granted permission to exploit those rights—in this case, Grimes being the sole member of that exclusive group.

  He’d doubled down on his bet by buying call options on his own stock, and part of his impatience centered on their expiration date—they’d expire worthless within three more weeks. But if he was able to announce the news of the deals, his million-dollar option play would net him an easy six or seven—not a bad payday for idle speculation.

  He smirked as he sent a short message to his captain and alerted him to have the yacht fully stocked and ready to sail that evening. He suspected he would get ample opportunity to explore the nubile Ms. Donovan’s charms before the night was through and he wanted everything in place for another perfect evening on the water.

  Grimes eyed the sparkle of Sydney Harbor from his picture window, his thoughts once more on his mystery caller. To the victor in this struggle would go impossible spoils. That he would be the victor was preordained. He’d made sure of it. Although it was taking longer than he’d been assured, which had his fortune, and nerves, teetering on the brink.

  His intercom buzzed and he pushed the doubts from his mind, donned his jacket, and marched to his conference room for another awkward meeting with several of his largest creditors. There would be time enough to revel in victory in the days ahead. Right now, he needed to keep the wolves at bay for just a little longer.

  Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

  “They were captives?” Leonid blurted, eyeing the bindings that loosely ringed the skeletons’ wrists.

  “I’d say that’s a given,” Sam said quietly as he crouched by the remains.

  “The question is, whose?” Remi finished the thought for him.

  “Maybe . . . rebels?” Leonid said.

  “Could be,” Lazlo said. “How long have they been active here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “But I got the impression that they were a relatively recent development.”

  “That’s my understanding,” Remi said. “There was no mention of them in any of the accounts from the civil war in 2000.”

  Lazlo shined the light beam on the far wall of the cave, which stretched into darkness beyond the water’s edge. “Not to be a materialistic pig, but back to the immediate concern—the treasure. Shall we continue into the void and see what we find?”

  Leonid stared at the skeletons. “They certainly aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Lead on, Lazlo,” Remi said.

  “Wait,” Sam said, eyeing the surface of the pool. “I want to see how deep this is.”

  “Why?” Leonid asked.

  “In case our Japanese friends decided the best place to hide a treasure was back underwater.” Sam approached the pool, knelt, and probed at it with his machete. The blade hit stone. He continued until he was standing near the center of the pool in no more than three inches of water. “I think it’s safe to say there’s no treasure here.”

  The group moved to the other side of the cavern, the walls lit with the eerie blue-white of their flashlights, and Lazlo took careful steps into the narrower passage at the far end. A few moments later, he stopped, speechless.

  “What is it, Lazlo?” Remi whispered.

  When he found his voice, it was tremulous. “Rather a lot more dead in here.”

  The scene in the second, smaller chamber was one straight out of a nightmare: at least thirty skeletons of all sizes were strewn around the cave, their dead grins greeting the newcomers in humorless welcome. Sam stepped past Remi and focused his flashlight on the piles of bones. Remi shuddered at the grim spectacle.

  “It’s a massacre,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Look at the size of them,” Leonid murmured.

  Sam shook his head. “They were children.” He examined several of the skeletons. “But these weren’t bound when they died.”

  “Some of them were,” Lazlo said from the wall near the entry, where he was regarding three more skeletons. “Same treatment here—zip ties, wrists bound behind them.”

  “But no sign of what killed them,” Sam said under his breath. “That’s odd. Maybe there was some sort of deadly outbreak and the natives decided to take care of their own? A mass grave?”

  “Doesn’t explain why some of them were tied up,” Remi said.

  “There are a few shoes in here, too. Modern,” Sam said.

  “Why would the rebels kill mostly children? That makes no sense,” Lazlo said.

  They stood, puzzled, at a loss for words. Eventually, Sam edged to the narrowest section of the cave and peered into it, and then he called out, “Look at this.”

  They moved to where he was staring at another skeleton, this one not completely decomposed. A swarm of maggots were finishing with their meal in the corpse’s rib cage. Remi frowned in revulsion. “Recent,” she said, her voice tight.

  “Yes, and an adult, male probably, judging by his size—or, if not an adult, at least older than the rest of them.” Sam crouched by the bones and pointed at the skeleton’s shattered spine. “But check out the vertebrae . . . I’d bet money that was the cause of death. He died from a broken neck. Although look at his ribs and his left arm—also broken. And his ankle.”

  Sam stood and played his light farther into the cave. He gasped at the spectacle before him and took a step back. Remi drew close to him and took his hand. Hundreds of skeletons were collected in a pit, the bones dull in the flashlight beams.

  Lazlo’s intake of breath was a groan. “Good heavens . . . it is a massacre.”

  They took careful steps into the new section of cave, Sam leading the way. When he neared the edge of the bone pit, he paused and examined the skulls closest to him. “These look older. And they’re adults. Larger.” He peered at the nearest skull. “This one died of a gunshot wound to the head. See the entry wound?”

  “This one, too,” Remi said.

  “Look at this chap,” Lazlo called out from their left. “Both his legs were broken, looks like, and only partially healed. You can see the calcification.”

  “What’s that?” Remi said, directing her light at one of the skeletons. Sam’s eyes narrowed as he regarded where she was indicating.

  “Looks like manacles. Rusted beyond recognition. They’ve been here a long time—probably from the war years,” Sam said.

  “The murdered villagers?” Lazlo asked.

  “Doubt it,” Sam said. “They were left where they fell, according to Nauru’s account. And I don’t think the Japanese would have found much use for slave labor that couldn’t walk because of broken legs. No . . . this is something different.”

  “Maybe this is where the victims of the medical experimentations wound up?” Remi said softly.

  “That makes more sense.” Sam shuddered involuntarily at the thought, the sheer number of dead difficult to comprehend. He moved around
the edge of the pit to where the cave continued deeper and lit the connecting passage. After several moments, he turned back to them.

  “The ceiling drops to next to nothing and it gets impassible. Looks like there might be another cavern on the other side, but if there is, we aren’t getting in through here.”

  “If we can’t get through, neither could the Japanese. Whatever horror this is, it doesn’t have anything to do with the treasure,” Remi said.

  “No, I don’t think it does,” Sam agreed. “But it does create several more mysteries.”

  “Ones we need to get to the bottom of,” Remi whispered.

  “Agreed,” said Sam, his expression grave.

  Lazlo glanced at Sam. “I understand the war dead, at least intellectually. But the children are more than puzzling.” He stood, lost in thought, and then continued, his words quiet. “I wonder if there’s any truth to the stories of the giants. Didn’t you say that the legends have them stealing villagers and eating them?”

  Remi stared at him. “Lazlo. There are no such things as giants. Come on.”

  “Right. Of course. But what I’m suggesting is that perhaps the stories are based on some sort of fact. That perhaps there’s an element of truth to them. I don’t know . . . maybe there are surviving soldiers from the war who never surrendered, who went mad and became mass murderers. I remember a movie like that—the blighter was still going years after the war had ended because nobody ever told him it ended.”

  Remi gave him a perplexed look. “They’d be in their eighties or nineties. You really think that’s realistic?”

  “Preposterous,” Leonid spat.

  “I agree, although one might have said the same thing about a sunken city just off the coast.”

  They retraced their steps until they were back in the sunlight, the mass grave left behind, and Sam checked the time. “There have to be other openings along this ridge if the diary is accurate.”

  Lazlo nodded. “It makes sense. We have the water sources to create the cave system, we have the right sort of limestone . . . but how do we proceed from here? And what about the skeletons? Surely we have to report them to someone.”