The Solomon Curse

Sam studied her face. “You okay?”

“I suppose so.”

“A lot to think about, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I can’t shake her description of the firebombing. Imagine what that must have been like—to lose your mother at such an early age. And the scars . . .”

“According to Selma’s research, Chiyoko never married. I can’t help but think that the scarring might have played a role,” Sam said. “It had to have been terrible to grow up like that.”

“I’d bet the external damage is nothing compared to the baggage she’s carrying around inside.”

“No question.”

They watched the busy crowd rush through the terminal, countless anonymous faces on their busy way to important destinations. Remi shifted in her seat and edged closer to Sam.

“Anything interesting online?” he asked, peering at the tablet screen.

“Oh, just a litany of horror. One historian estimates that the Japanese killed thirty million. It’s mind-boggling.”

“Hard to comprehend,” Sam agreed. He sat back in his chair and checked the time. “I wonder if I can get a clear line of sight for the sat phone over by the window?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Sam retrieved the phone from his bag. After half a minute, the device had acquired a satellite and he dialed Selma’s number. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Same to you.”

“Did you get the file we sent?”

“Of course. We’re already working on it.”

“You found someone who can translate it that quickly?”

“Call it serendipity. Lazlo was here first thing today, nosing around, and he volunteered. Apparently, he reads and writes it fluently. He’s a man of many surprises.”

“So I’ve heard,” Sam said drily. “Did he give you any feeling for when he’d have it done?”

“He said he’d get right on it. Poor man seems bored out of his mind. He practically ran out of here with the file.” Selma hesitated. “Your new boat’s on its way.”

“Super. What’s the ETA?”

“Four days.”

“Leonid will be ecstatic.”

“Then my life has meaning. Is he still as cheery as ever?”

“Practically giddy with good humor.”

An a

Their co

“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome back,” he greeted, sounding unenthusiastic.

“Thanks. Any new developments?” Sam asked.

“No. All is quiet, thank goodness.”

“That’s a bit of luck, right?” Remi said.

“Let’s hope it holds,” the manager agreed.

Once settled in their room, Sam powered up the sat phone and called Selma.

“We’re back in Guadalcanal. What’s the good word?” he asked.

“Good timing on your part. Lazlo’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

“Sure.”

Lazlo’s British-accented voice came on the line. “Sam, my good man. Globe-trotting around the world, I hear?”

“Hardly. More like puddle-jumping from island to island. How’s the translation going?”

“About halfway through. Tedious stuff, for the most part. Bad haikus, dreadful poetry, long passages lamenting living in captivity.”

“Anything catch your eye?”

“Since you mention it, yes, there’s something odd about the prose. I can’t be certain, but it seems like there’s an underlying pattern to some of the entries that’s deeper than the maudlin sentiments the author is expressing.”

“A pattern?”

“Too soon to say for certain of course, but my sniffer is on alert.”

“You think there could be some sort of code embedded in the text?”

“That would be my first guess, but it’s just a hunch. Let me get the entire text translated and I’ll run it through some of my programs and see what I can spot. I’m hoping to have it done by late tonight.”

“Keep us informed.”

“As always. Enjoy the swaying palms and tropical breeze.”

“Thanks. We’ll try.”

Remi eyed Sam expectantly when he returned from the terrace. “Well?”

“Lazlo’s hard at work. Thinks there might be a code. Or there might not.”

“That sounds promising. Or not.”

Sam gri

“What did you have in mind?”

“I want to pay Rubo another visit. Probe him for more info and see if his story stays the same—if his buddy told him more than he let on, he might slip up now that it’s been a few days.”

When they pulled up to the shack, two vehicles blocked the way: a police truck and an ambulance. Sam and Remi exchanged a worried glance and stepped out of the Pathfinder, only to find themselves facing a burly island policeman, hands on his hips, his eyes inscrutable behind aviator sunglasses.

“What happened? Is Rubo all right?” Remi asked as they approached.

“I’m afraid this is as far as you go,” the officer said.

“We’re here to see him. What happened?” Sam explained.

“Accident. Looks like he slipped and hit his head.”

They were interrupted by two paramedics pushing a gurney onto Rubo’s porch from inside the house. A sheet pulled over Rubo’s slight frame, provided all the explanation necessary. The policeman glanced over at the body as the men carted the gurney across the uneven muddy terrain to the ambulance and then turned to Sam and Remi. “Was there anything else?” he asked.

“No. Poor man. I hope he didn’t suffer,” Remi said.

“No way of knowing for sure, but the techs say he probably didn’t,” the cop said.

Sam and Remi walked slowly back to the car. Sam slid behind the wheel and glanced over at Remi as he started the engine. “Old Rubo managed to live to be nearly a hundred without any issues, and right after he goes with us to ask about the past, he has a fatal accident. Am I being paranoid or is the timing suspicious?”

“You’re asking the woman you were in the river with, dodging gunmen after being run off the road, whether you’re paranoid?”

Sam’s grin was humorless. “Good point.”

CHAPTER 37

The next morning, Selma called as Sam and Remi sat on the oceanfront veranda, enjoying their coffee, the fishing fleet rocking at anchor in the harbor as the sun rose out of the sea. Sam lifted the handset to his ear and punched it to life.

“Selma! Tell me you have good news. We could use some.”

“Why? What happened?”

Sam told her about Rubo’s demise.

Selma’s voice quieted. “I’m sorry to hear about it. Definitely sounds fishy. Although you did say he was old . . . Still, I hope you and Remi are watching your backs.”

“There isn’t a lot else to do here, Selma. Now, how about your news?”

“I have Lazlo with me. He wants to tell you.”

“Put him on.”

When Lazlo spoke, he sounded exuberant. “Greetings and salutations. Your Japanese diary definitely held some surprises.”

“I presume you’re not talking about particularly resonant poems, Lazlo.”

“Actually, the prose was agonizing—a lot of bloodred sunsets and still water, that sort of thing. Terribly amateur. But the substitution cypher wasn’t.”

“Substitution cypher,” Sam repeated.

“That’s correct. But even once I cracked it with my program, I’m not sure it makes a huge amount of sense. It’s rather oblique.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it says?”

“I’ll do one better. I’ve shot my findings to your e-mail. Check it as soon as you can and see if it means anything to you. It’s possible I missed some key parts. I’ll continue checking, but I doubt it.”