Текст книги "The Solomon Curse"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Russel Blake
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

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.”

“So it was an old repair that let go. I see,” Remi said. “Why were you running on that side of the islands? Apparently, it was calm to the northeast, near your base.”

“We picked up soldiers on Guadalcanal. Our orders were to return to Tokyo. So a long trip ahead of us. The storm was a surprise.” The ancient Japanese sailor stared at the floor. “The last surprise, for most of us.”

“Tell me about that night,” Remi coaxed, sitting forward on the sofa, her tone quiet. “You’re the last person alive who was there. It must have been agonizing.”

The old man closed his eyes with a flutter, and when he opened them, he was staring at a point a thousand miles away. He cleared his throat, and when he began to speak, his voice quavered.

“We did the trip from our base in the afternoon, knowing the Allied planes wouldn’t get within a hundred miles of Bougainville because of their range. We ran at thirty knots. The seas were confused, and a squall was coming from the west, but nobody knew how bad it would turn out. We were at the rendezvous point off Guadalcanal by ten-thirty and picked up the men we’d been assigned to evacuate in about an hour before steaming away.”

Remi nodded encouragingly.

“The seas began to build a couple of hours later, but it was only clear how rough it would get in the end. Breaking waves the size of cliffs. Wind and rain blowing sideways.” He paused, the memory clearly vivid. “But we’d been through worse. We were fine until the repair gave out. From there, it was a losing battle. We never had a chance. We got lifeboats floated, but there weren’t nearly enough because of all the soldiers we’d evacuated. And, in that weather, most didn’t last long. We did . . . we did what we could, but it was no good.” Watanabe drew a long breath. “Many of the soldiers couldn’t swim. Those that could . . . There were too many in the water. The waves were thirty, forty, fifty feet. It was . . . it was a miracle anyone survived. The lifeboats were overloaded, torn to pieces.” He closed his eyes. “And then the sharks came.”

“And you were heading back to Japan?” Sam asked.

“Yes. Our captain had his orders.”

“Why?”

Watanabe shook his head. “I don’t know. When you’re a sailor, you do as you’re told.”

Remi offered another smile. “You only picked up men on Guadalcanal?”

Watanabe’s brow furrowed. “Yes. It was an evacuation. Our men were at the end of their rope.”

“Is it possible any cargo was brought aboard?”

Watanabe looked puzzled by the question. “What would have been worth bringing? The solders’ clothes were rags. They were starving. They were days away from dying.”

“But was there time to load anything?”

He appeared to consider the question and shook his head. “We barely had time to get the men on board.”

The card room door burst open and an Asian woman in her sixties barged in, a furious expression on her face.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, staring at Sam and Remi like they’d been beating the elderly Watanabe.

“We’re just talking. He agreed to it,” Remi started, but the woman stepped between her and the old man.

“Talking? About what? What could you have to discuss with my father?”

Watanabe looked at the newcomer, his gaze growing dull. “The war. We were talking about the war.”

The daughter glared at Remi and shook her head. “You’ve talked enough. Leave him alone. He’s not well, and he doesn’t need to have strangers making him relive that nightmare.”

Sam rose. “We’re sorry, it’s just that—”

The woman cut him off. “Go on. Leave. He’s tired. Look at him. What’s wrong with you—don’t you have any compassion? He’s been to hell and back. Just leave him in peace.”

Chastened, Sam and Remi moved to the door. “We meant no harm,” Remi said in a quiet voice.

“I grew up seeing what that war did to him. He moved away from Japan after ten years there—the war broke him, as well as the country he loved, and he never went back. What do you know about anything? Just . . . go. He’s been through enough.”

Sam led Remi outside, his expression grim. When they reached the car, he hesitated before opening his door.

“Maybe she was right. That didn’t really tell us much, did it?”

“Sam, we’ve done this often enough. We had to talk to him. He was our only lead.”

“I know. But she was furious. I hope we didn’t upset the old man.”

“She was the one who seemed bent out of shape. He didn’t. Maybe she’s just being protective.”

He shook his head and popped the locks using the remote. “I can see her point.”

“Sam, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

He slid behind the wheel and slid the key into the ignition. “I know. So why does it feel like we did?”

CHAPTER 26

The streets of Honiara were slick from a recent cloudburst when Sam and Remi arrived the next afternoon. They dropped their bags at the room and Sam eyed Remi, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking it is a nice day for a drive.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Where did you have in mind?”

“We might want to go back and talk to Rubo. He was around during the Japanese occupation. He may know something.”

“Unless it’s how to find a ship that’s a mile and a half below the surface and raise it off the bottom, I doubt it.”

“Perhaps,” Sam said. “But we don’t have much else to do. We can hang out on the boat and watch the divers blow sediment all over, but that doesn’t feel particularly useful, does it?”

Remi shuddered involuntarily, the cold air-conditioning prickling her skin. “As I recall, the last time we did that trip, we came back without a car.”

“I promise not to get run off the road.”

“Or shot at?” She sighed. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to talk you out of it.”

“We’ll be fine. What could . . .” Sam paused with a slight wink of his eye before continuing in a firm, deliberately bright voice. “What could be nicer than a drive along the coast?”

“Close, Fargo, close.”

He looked at her innocently, his face a blank.

There was one roadblock on the road out of town, but the police waved them through without interest. Apparently, the state of emergency was over and things were back to as routine as they ever were. When they ran out of pavement, the van bumped down the dirt track that ran along the river and Sam had to slow to a crawl.

After a particularly memorable bump, Remi glanced sideways at Sam. “Whatever you do, Sam Fargo, promise me we won’t get stuck.”

“I’m doing my best not to.”

“Not to promise or not to get stuck?”

“Neither, hopefully.”

“You aren’t convincing me on either count.”

When the hut finally came into view, Rubo was lounging in the shade, watching the river rush by. He looked up at them when the van pulled to a stop. They got out and Remi waved.

“Rubo. Are we disturbing you?”

Rubo cackled and shook his head. “Every day the same as the last out here. You want to hear more stories?”

“We do.”

Watching as they approached, the old man motioned to a spot on his log bench. Remi sat next to him and Sam took a stump opposite. The heat was sweltering even in the shade. The old man waved a fly away and raised an eyebrow. Remi leaned nearer and waited for Sam to speak.

“Rubo, you said you were here when the Japanese occupied the island. That they treated the locals badly.”

Rubo nodded. “That’s right. They mean as crocodiles.”

“All of them?”

“Hard to say. But the officer who ran things . . . he a monster.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“He a devil, he was. Kuma . . . Kumasaka. Colonel Kumasaka. Never forget that name, I won’t.”

“What did he do?” Remi coaxed. “Specifically?”

“I told you. He bad. Do bad things to us.”

Rubo repeated his prior account, and nothing in the story changed on the second telling. Sam then pressed in a different direction.

“Did you ever hear or see anything out on the west side of the island? With the Japanese?”

“Like what?”

“Anything strange. Maybe diving in that bay that you told us about,” Sam said.

“In the end, there was lot of fighting, so can’t say for sure. But I remember sometime before they leave for good there was big killing in the village near the bay. Those bad times.”

“The Japanese killed islanders near the bay?”

“I just say what others talk about. I wasn’t there.”

Remi nodded. “We understand. What do you believe happened, Rubo?” she asked softly.

“I hear things. One of the things is that whole lot of island men killed by Japanese. They make them slaves, then kill them before they leave the island.”

“Slaves? For what?”

“I don’t know. Some kinda work.”

“Was that normal?”

Rubo shook his head. “No, they leave us be, mostly. But this man . . . he in charge of west side and he like to kill. Everyone know he a bad one.” Rubo spit into the dry leaves by his side. “Only two islanders get away. All the others . . .” He shook his head with a sad frown.

“There were survivors?” Sam asked, his voice quickening.

“Like I said, I think one still alive. Tough as rock.”

“Really? Do you know him?”

“You live long enough, you know everyone, sure do.”

“Where is he?”

“Still in the same village, I think.” He eyed Remi. “But he don’t speak no pidgin. Just local talk.”

“Would you be willing to take us to him?” Remi asked.

Rubo stared at the van distrustfully. “Long way.”

“Bad roads?”

He laughed and spit again. “No roads. You not going in that.”

“If we get a bigger truck, something for off-road, would you help us, Rubo? We’d pay you for your time.”

Rubo studied Sam and then his gaze wandered to Remi. “How much pay?”

Sam did a quick equation in his head. “Solomon dollars or American?”

Rubo didn’t blink. “American.”

“I don’t know. What do you think is fair?”

The old man appeared to give it deep thought and then sat back with a grunt. “Hundred. Hundred American dollars.”

Sam and Remi didn’t know whether they were expected to negotiate, but Remi didn’t chance it. “That’s fair.” She glanced at the time: still five hours until dusk. It was an hour and a half from the bay, the way Sam drove. Allowing for time to rent something more rugged . . . It would be too close. “We can pick you up tomorrow morning. Will that work for you, Rubo?”

He nodded slowly and smiled his toothless grin. When he spoke, he savored each word like rare wine. “Hundred dollars.”

CHAPTER 27

Sydney, Australia

Jeffrey Grimes frowned as he studied the topside of his yacht while his captain stood stiffly a few feet away. With a practiced eye, Grimes squinted while peering down at the shining surface, the sun gleaming off it like a mirror, and then he straightened and grunted.

“Bloody wankers. Couldn’t be duller if they’d used sandpaper instead of polish. Why do I pay these thieves?” he complained.

“Well, sir, you didn’t like the last lot, either, so I changed them out, didn’t I? These are the ones your friend recommended. Supposed to be right masters at it,” the captain said.

“How can you look at this and not cringe? I mean, seriously? You can’t tell they did a crap job?” Grimes stalked to the stern, fuming, and the captain followed, a pained expression tightening his face. Grimes inspected the brightwork, freshly sanded and varnished, and nodded. “At least the buggers got this bit right. Small miracles and all.”

His cell phone chirped and he glanced at the screen. No caller ID. His stomach tightened as he regarded his captain. “That will be all for now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grimes waited until the man was out of earshot before thumbing the phone to life. “Yes?”

The voice was the usual robotic, heavily filtered drone. “Things are proceeding apace.”

Grimes exhaled with frustration. “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t see any progress, do you?”

“These things take time, as I said before. However, I agree that we will need to increase the pressure.”

He looked around the marina as though checking to verify he was not being watched and lowered his voice. “You really needed to . . . take such drastic steps?”

“The end justifies the means. Great fortunes are never made without blood being spilled. Why would this one be any different?”

“They were innocent aid workers.”

His words were greeted with a pause. “I hope you’re not losing sight of the stakes,” the mechanical voice said.

“Of course not. I just hoped . . . that matters wouldn’t escalate to this point.”

“Indeed. Well, they have. What’s done is done. And you should prepare for more . . . unpleasantness.”

“I see. That’s necessary?”

“There is nothing that I do that isn’t necessary. I trust I still have your full, unquestioning support?”

Grimes eyed the other yachts—each millions of dollars of excess on the water, tributes to their owners’ egos, monuments to their willingness to squander fortunes on frivolities. The human struggle was about pecking orders. He needed to be at the top. Anything less was failure. He couldn’t afford for his life’s work to crumble to nothing, and time and circumstance were working against him. He sighed. “Yes. Do whatever needs to be done. But, for the love of God, hurry, would you?”

“We have never been closer. The island’s at a tipping point. Like dry kindling in summer—any spark could set it off.”

“I don’t need to ask about the spark, do I?”

“You’re better off not knowing any more than you already do.”

The line went dead. He stared at the little phone—the latest technology of course—and shook his head. He’d steeled himself for some difficult moments in bringing his scheme to fruition, but the waiting was proving to be the most trying for him.

The captain returned, but Grimes had lost his taste for nitpicking the imperfections of his workers’ efforts. He waved the man away and stepped down to the dock, oblivious to the tranquil beauty of catamaran ferries in the distance slicing through the Sydney Harbor chop as his mind worked at a thousand miles per hour.

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

The wheels of the Toyota Land Cruiser spun in the muddy ruts of the trail that wound into the hills. Remi gave Sam a sidelong glance for the twentieth time that day and turned to look back at Rubo, who seemed to be enjoying their bouncing progress.

The jungle encroached on all sides of the track they’d been following since leaving the main road twenty-five minutes earlier. Honiara had been gridlocked due to a protest in town, carefully monitored by the police, and it took an hour longer to traverse than they’d hoped.

Sam hit an ugly bump and Rubo bounced on the seat like a toddler, a look of delight on his face.

“Is it much farther?” Remi called out to him as Sam concentrated on following the faint game trail.

The old man shrugged. “Been long time since I come out here.”

“But surely the distance hasn’t changed.”

“We get there soon,” Rubo assured her.

Remi sat back in her seat. She’d already more than learned that in the islands the term “soon” had an amorphous quality, much like the Mexican mañana, which could mean anything from “tomorrow” to “never.”

Sam caught her eye and grinned. “Patience is a virtue and all,” he said.

“Tell that to my sacroiliac.”

They arrived at a small stream and Sam rolled to a stop at the gravel bank. The trail forked in two directions, one across the stream to the left, the other continuing up the slope to the right. Sam glanced at his watch and then twisted in his seat to look to Rubo.

“Which way?” Sam asked.

Rubo appeared to consider the question, tilting his head. “Need to get out and look.”

Sam and Rubo opened their doors and Sam helped the old man out of the vehicle. They trudged together to the water and Rubo closed his eyes and did the odd head tilting again. Sam waited patiently, resisting the urge to prod him into a decision. After several moments, Rubo straightened and nodded.

“Stream wasn’t here last time.”

Sam blinked. “And?”

“I think village is that way,” Rubo said, pointing to the left.

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t say I know. Said I think,” Rubo corrected.

“Then you’re not sure . . .” Sam said, glad Remi wasn’t there to hear Rubo’s admission.

“We on island. If not that way, we come back, and then I’m sure it the other way.”

“Very practical. But I thought you knew where the village was?”

“I do.”

“But not well enough to get us there on the first try.”

“You wanted translator, not guide.” Rubo peered up the hill, and then at the other fork, before nodding sagely. “It either that way or this.”

Sam exhaled, seeing the wisdom of the practical old man’s approach. They had a full tank of gas and all day. It was probably to the left. Or maybe to the right. At least they didn’t have to worry about it being straight ahead.

They moved back to the mud-splattered Toyota and got in.

“Well?” Remi asked.

“We’ve never been closer,” Sam assured her. “Rubo thinks it’s to the left.”

Sam put the transmission in gear and, with a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror, gave the big vehicle gas. Water splashed high into the air as they crossed the stream, and then they were climbing again, the thick canopy nearly blocking the sunlight as they crawled up the slope.

They stopped again five minutes later when the trail became barely wide enough for a bicycle. Sam regarded Rubo in the rearview mirror, keeping his voice even and his face impassive.

“Still think it’s up ahead?”

“Keep going. Should be over this hill.”

They continued on. Branches and vines rustled and scraped along the exterior of the SUV. Remi jerked when a particularly aggressive branch swatted her side window, and she gritted her teeth as she whispered to Sam, “How is this a good idea again?”

Sam was preparing to answer when they broke through into a clearing, where a scattering of huts was arranged around a central fire pit. Rubo smacked his gums in satisfaction as they coasted to a stop on the grass.

“See? Rubo right,” he said. Sam and Remi exchanged a relieved glance and then peered through the windshield at the humble thatched structures climbing the rise into the rain forest on the other side of the clearing.

“Should we stop here?” Sam asked the old man.

Rubo nodded, his expression as peaceful as an angel. “We walk now.”

The muggy heat enveloped them once they were out of the air-conditioning. Sam waited with Remi by the hood as Rubo hobbled to them, and they walked as a group toward the nearest huts, where curious eyes peered from the interiors.

A man in his sixties, wearing ancient shorts and a T-shirt faded by the elements to an indeterminate color, stepped from one of the huts and smiled when he saw Rubo. They exchanged a greeting that neither Sam or Remi understood, and the man gestured to one of the far huts. After another few words, Rubo turned to Sam and Remi.

“He very sick. Up there,” Rubo said, waving a limp hand at the hill.

“Sick? Can we talk to him?”

Rubo shrugged. “We try.”

Rubo shambled up the faint path to the next cluster of dwellings and hesitated at the entry of the one farthest up the hill. The villagers in the lower tier watched Sam and Remi with curiosity. The adults lingered by their huts, joined by their children, as the village turned out for the unexpected excitement.

Sam said to Remi, “Everyone seems friendly enough. If the rebels are hoping to recruit from rural villages like this one, they’re not going to do very well. I’m not getting a lot of anger and resentment, are you?”

“Let’s hope our luck holds, at least until we’re back in Honiara.”

“So far, so good.”

An elderly man with skin the color of tobacco stepped down from the nearest entryway and eyed Sam and Remi distrustfully from his position on the raised wooden porch. Rubo stepped forward and nodded to the man, who descended to the path.

A quiet discussion ensued. Rubo pointed at the Toyota parked at the clearing’s edge and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The man appeared to consider whatever Rubo had said and then shook his head. More back-and-forth finally elicited a cautious nod, and Rubo gave Remi a sly smile that was all gums.

“He the holy man. Says Nauru very sick for a while. Will be in spirit world soon. Not sure he able to talk much,” Rubo explained.

“But it’s okay if we ask him some questions?”

“I had to promise holy man some American dollars.”

“How many?” Remi asked.

“Twenty.”

Sam eyed Rubo skeptically. “Fine.”

“But we only have little time. Nauru close now.”

Neither Sam nor Remi needed to ask what he was close to.

Rubo took a long look at the hut’s porch and then stepped aside. “You go inside and sit. I follow and talk to him.”

Remi nodded and cautiously stepped up the wooden stairs to the small porch. She peered into the dark interior of the hut, Sam by her side, and then they entered the small room.