The Solomon Curse

Sam looked to the sky. “We should be able to make it back to where it forked before dark. We can set up camp in that little clearing and take this up tomorrow.”

Lazlo eyed Leonid. “No shame in guessing wrong, old boy. Happens to the best of us.”

“That’s why I try to avoid guessing about anything important.”

They made it back to the clearing with just enough time to set up the tents. Building a cooking fire was out of the question, given the waterlogged soil and moist vegetation, so they settled in for a di

As night fell, the mosquitoes swarmed them. They retired early, liberally doused with insect repellant, serenaded by the hoots and squawks of night creatures beneath the stars.

The following day they were up at dawn, trudging up the second stream, trying to get a head start before the heat of the day hit with full force. The jungle was blanketed with a hazy mist and visibility was down to twenty meters, the humidity heavy in the air even in the relative cool of morning. The only sound was their breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath their boots as they marched determinedly upward toward the distant, fog-enshrouded peak.

Sam stopped at a bend and held up a hand. The group paused behind him as he stood listening, his head cocked.

“There. You hear that?” he whispered to Remi beside him.

She shook her head. “No. What?”

“I thought I heard splashing.”

Lazlo pushed past them and strode farther up the stream. “You aren’t imagining things. I think we’ve found our waterfall,” he called from around the bend.

They hurried to join him, where he was gazing at the white froth at the base of another steep rise, this one a cliff with water rushing over its edge, forming a waterfall easily twenty feet wide. Off to their right, another, smaller waterfall tumbled into a small pond. A ridge stretched eastward, jutting through the jungle that covered as far as they could see.

“Look. That feeds into at least two more streams,” Remi said, indicating the pond.

“Now the question is which waterfall Kumasaka was referring to when he said that the way lay beyond the fall,” Sam said.

“How will we know?” Lazlo asked.

Sam eyed the various falls and gri

Leonid grunted as he stared at the tumbling water. “We’re looking for a cave, right? Unless I’m seeing things, there’s a cave over there by those boulders,” he said, pointing to their right, past the smaller waterfall.

“‘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.