The Solomon Curse

CHAPTER 47

Jeffrey Grimes sat on the terrace of his lavish contemporary home on the waterfront of Sydney Harbor, watching the sun sink into the southern ocean. Smooth jazz pulsed from hidden speakers near the floor-to-ceiling pocket doors as he admired the play of light on the waves that stretched to South Head and the Hornsby Lighthouse in the distance. He took a long pull on his Cuban Montecristo Gran Corona cigar and studied the glowing ember with satisfaction before resting it in a crystal ashtray and leaning back in his chair.

The call he’d received earlier had put a smile on his face. Guadalcanal was in turmoil: rioting and looting had started shortly after the most recent rebel action, and several pliant MPs had advanced a bill in an emergency meeting of Parliament that effectively nationalized the key industries he was interested in. His mystery partner had assured him that now the primary opponents to nationalization had been neutralized (he liked that word—“neutralized”—a term that was far more civilized and professional than the more vulgar “murdered” or “assassinated”), it was just a matter of a little more time, and a few more dollars spread in the right places, and their scheme would come to successful fruition.

The entire exercise had been stressful for him and he was glad it was finally ending. Grimes was accustomed to having total control over his projects and taking a backseat to a disembodied voice on the telephone had gone against the grain. He told people what to do, he didn’t listen quietly like a serving girl being issued her day’s chores. Playing nice with his partner had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but it looked like his high-stakes gamble was about to pay off as handsomely as he had hoped.

“Jeffrey? Are you going to sit out there all night?” a female voice called from inside the house.

Grimes glanced over his shoulder to where a young woman with impossibly long tanned legs, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, stood by the picture window, a frown of discontent on her flawless face. Another expensive vice, he thought, as he took a small sip of the port and rolled the mahogany nectar in his mouth, savoring the toffee and hazelnut notes, before rising with a final look at the waning sunset, cigar clutched in his hand.

Finding a trail that led toward the coastal road proved more difficult than Sam had hoped. He led Remi and Lazlo down the uneven slope, taking care to avoid the area near the ridge for fear of running across a rebel search party. The memory of dozens of skeletons tossed into the caverns like so much firewood was still vivid in all their minds and their passage through the brush was quieter for their recollection.

“Wish we had one of those machetes right about now,” Lazlo complained under his breath as a branch pulled at his shirt.

“If we’re going to wish, I’d want a few AK-47s and some grenades,” Sam replied.

“And a helicopter. Don’t forget the helicopter,” Remi said.

“Never,” Sam assured her and then slowed. “I think there’s a trail ahead,” he whispered.

They approached the opening in the underbrush cautiously. Sam eyed the trail and nodded. “This looks good. Hopefully, it will get us close.”

They hadn’t discussed what to do next, other than find the logging road and pray that Greg was still there. Everyone knew it was a long shot, but there was a chance that the rebels wouldn’t move against Greg until the situation in the caves was resolved, in which case the Mitsubishi was their best shot. The alternative was to try to hitch a ride on the coastal road — an ugly proposition under the best of circumstances, given that they hadn’t seen another vehicle on the way there.

Their progress was slow, and more than once they almost lost their footing to an unseen rut or a lurking vine, obstacles nearly invisible with the clouds obscuring the moonlight.

After hours following the wandering trail, they emerged in a clearing, where the first dim pink of dawn was lighting the sky through gaps in the canopy. Remi pointed at the strip of asphalt beyond the tree line and sighed. “There’s the road.”

“Thank goodness,” Lazlo said. “I don’t suppose either of you has a fully charged sat phone in your back pocket, do you?”

“Afraid not, old badger,” Sam said, affecting his best British accent. “But maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“That’s been rather a poor expectation so far, hasn’t it?” Lazlo countered.

“Killjoy.”

Remi cocked her head, listening intently. Sam raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I hear a motor. Faint, but there.”

Remi took off at a dead run, making for the road, Sam close behind her, and Lazlo, as was customary in the bush, bringing up the rear from a considerable distance. Sam caught up to her and grabbed her arm as they neared the road. “Let’s stay out of sight until we’re sure it’s not rebels.”

She nodded, her eyes fatigued but acknowledging the wisdom in his words. They crouched behind a large banyan tree as Lazlo caught up. Remi’s face lit up with relief when she saw the source of the engine noise approaching on the road.

“Look. It’s an ambulance, from town,” she said.

Sam stepped from behind the tree as the ambulance neared, waving his hands over his head. The ambulance slowed, its emergency lights flashing red and blue, the driver probably surprised to come across three foreigners in the middle of nowhere just after dawn. The vehicle rolled to a stop on the roadside ten yards from where they stood.

“It should have a radio. Finally, a lucky break — we can get help a lot faster,” Sam said, and then his voice trailed off when the doors at the rear of the ambulance swung open and a familiar figure stepped onto the pavement. The shape of the pistol in the man’s hand was unmistakable, in the unlikely event any of them had forgotten the lead gunman’s face.

“Oh no…” Remi said, preparing to bolt. A second gunman descended from the rear of the ambulance with an ancient rifle, an evil grin twisting his features, stopping her in her tracks. At that distance, a pistol shot might miss, but not a rifle.

“Well, well, well. Look what we found,” the gunman said, approaching them with his weapon held casually by his side. “Small world, no?” he asked as he neared, and slammed Sam in the side of the head with a brutal blow from the pistol’s stock before he could raise his hands to defend himself.

“No!” Remi screamed, lunging at the gunman, but it was too late.

The sky spun and the world faded from Sam as he crumpled to the road, unconscious.