The Solomon Curse

“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 co

“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.”