The Solomon Curse (5 page)

Sam gave her their information and they agreed to meet in the lobby at eight. Vanya spent another minute with Ricky, explaining his uncle's condition to him, and then returned to the bowels of the hospital after stopping to briefly examine the man with the broken arm.

When Sam and Remi checked at the front desk for Dr. Vanya, the clerk handed them a message slip.

“Looks like we're in business,” Sam said as he read the note. “Leonid's going to be picking us up at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I have mixed feelings about diving in a crocodile-infested swamp,” Remi said.

“It's not a swamp. And it was only one crocodile.”

“What's the exact procedure for fending off an underwater crocodile attack? I wonder if it's like a shark?”

“Not to worry. I have the tactical skills necessary.”

“That's very thoughtful. But it does raise the question of what your plan would be if one attacked.”

“Oh. Simple,” Sam said. “I'm a fast swimmer.”

“Not faster than one of those things.”

“I don't have to be.” He smiled. “I just have to be faster than you.”

Remi returned the smile. “Touché.”

“Thing about saltwater crocs is they're solitary and territorial, so it's unlikely another will move into the area so soon. We'll keep an eye peeled, but where we're diving we should be safe.”

Remi gave him a sidelong glance. “Let's hope someone told the crocs all that.”

The doctor pulled up in a silver Mitsubishi SUV that was covered in mud. They piled into the backseat and buckled in. The rain had stopped with the approach of dusk, but the roads were still flooded in many places, and Vanya drove cautiously to the waterfront.

“I hope you like seafood. This is the best place on the island. Very authentic, but not fancy,” she said. “It's been here for twenty years, so they're doing something right.”

“That's perfect,” Remi said. “I love fish.”

“Me too,” Sam chimed in.

The exterior of the restaurant showed fading blue paint peeling from crooked wooden planks. A simple hand-lettered sign over the door featured a stylized depiction of a crab and the restaurant name:
Eleanor's
.

“She owns the place. A magician with recipes. Whatever the fresh catch is, you can't go wrong with it,” Vanya assured them.

The interior matched the outside—simple and run-down, but with heady aromas drifting from the kitchen. The dining area was packed with locals, conversing boisterously over their seafood platters. Vanya waved at a table near the back, where a heavyset man with skin the color of coal grinned at them, his suit and tie out of place in the surroundings. They approached and he stood, hand outstretched in greeting, and he was so tall that his head almost hit the ceiling. Vanya made the introductions.

“Sam and Remi Fargo, meet Orwen Manchester. Orwen is a genuine celebrity here—he's one of the few members of parliament who's survived for more than fifteen minutes in the confusion that's our system.”

“Well, that's too kind, Vanya. You really should consider government work with that silver tongue of yours,” Manchester said, his voice deep and good-humored.
“Halo olketa,”
he intoned, the traditional island greeting. Remi shook his hand, which was twice as large as hers, and Sam did the same, noting that the man was careful about his grip, given his stature.

“Nonsense, Orwen, your humility doesn't become you. You're a venerated Solomon Islands icon. And that takes some doing, given how often the administrations are booted with votes of no confidence every other week.”

“I've been very fortunate,” Manchester said with a practiced smile. “And the good doctor exaggerates. I like to say I have one of the jobs nobody sane would want, so the competition for my seat isn't particularly stiff.”

Manchester's English was as polished as Vanya's, and his accent marked him as a product of the Australian education system. Everyone took seats around the table, and a server approached, looking harried with the packed house. The man spoke rapidly, his pidgin thick as tar, and then repeated his question more clearly when Sam and Remi looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

Vanya saved them from embarrassment. “If you like beer, the local SolBrew is quite good, and I understand from my friend here that it's kept very cold by the management. They also have a nice selection of sodas.”

Remi asked for a cola, and Manchester and Sam ordered beer. Vanya requested a bottle of water, explaining that the caffeine and sugar would keep her awake all night if she went with soda. “Women don't drink alcohol in the islands—or, at least, almost none do. Everyone would be scandalized if they saw me having one with you,” she said. “One of many things I miss from my days in Australia. Cold beer and good wine.”

“I don't envy you,” Sam said as the server returned with their drinks and four laminated, single-page menus.

“Fortunately, that quaint custom doesn't apply to men. Cheers!” Manchester said, and raised his sweating bottle in a toast. Sam clinked his against the big man's beer and took a cautious pull.

“That's quite good. I could see making a habit of this,” he said.

“Sam's never met a beer he didn't like,” Remi said, studying the menu. “You recommended the catch of the day?”

“Oh, yes. It's always excellent,” Vanya assured them, and Manchester nodded in agreement.

Sam's attention was drawn to a nearby table where the islanders were feasting on fish, eating with their fingers. Manchester followed his gaze and smiled. “That's tradition for you. Don't worry. Everyone at this table uses a proper knife and fork.”

They ordered four servings of the fresh mahi mahi, and the server took their menus. Once he was gone, Vanya offered the table a smile and sat back. “The Fargos are here doing something archaeology related. Isn't that right?”

Remi nodded. “We're helping a friend.”

“When did you arrive in Guadalcanal?” Manchester asked.

“This morning.”

“And quite a first day they had, Orwen. I met them when they were bringing a crocodile attack victim to the hospital.”

“Good Lord! You're joking!” Manchester said, genuinely shocked.

“I wish she was,” Sam said. “Although our man won the fight, he paid for it in blood.”

“Shocking. I'm sorry that was your first experience with the islands. We normally try to keep the crocodiles and attorneys away from the tourists, at least in the beginning. It's bad for business.” Manchester paused. “You can tell which ones are the crocodiles because they're friendlier.”

Everyone laughed, and he continued. “So this is a two-time-loser of a day. First a crocodile and then dinner with a politician.”

Vanya grinned. “But you're one of the good ones, right?” She looked at Sam. “Of course Orwen's also an attorney. So you got all three local hazards in one fell swoop.” She reached across the table and patted Manchester's hand.

Manchester finished his beer and held up the bottle. “I'll drink to that.” He looked over at Sam, who was only halfway done with his, before gesturing to the server with two fingers. “Being the resident evil is a thirsty business.” He studied Sam and leaned forward. “How bad was the attack?”

Vanya interjected. “He'll live, minus a leg. His nephew said the creature was twenty feet long, so he's fortunate it didn't bite him in two.”

Another round of beer arrived, and Manchester grinned at Sam. “You learn in this heat to drink them fast or they get warm.”

Sam smiled back at him. “Maybe we can get a bucket with some ice? I'm a lightweight. Plus, I'm going to be diving tomorrow and even a trace of a hangover can make it a pretty unpleasant experience.”

“Diving, you say? Fascinating. What's this all about? Vanya mentioned archaeology?” Manchester asked, and took a mammoth swig of his fresh beer before waving to the waiter, who scurried over. A hushed discussion ensued, and then Manchester returned his gaze to Sam. “What on earth could archaeology have to do with diving? Unless you're talking about a sinkhole . . .”

“Our friend found some anomalies off the coast and asked us to take a look,” Remi said.

“Really? Are you archaeologists?”

“That's one of our passions.”

“How remarkable. For some reason, I never associate the profession with such . . . vitality,” Manchester said, admiring Remi.

“The world's changing. Full of surprises,” Sam said, and held his beer aloft in another toast, hoping to distract the politician, who was treading dangerously close to being rude.

“And what are these ‘anomalies,' as you put it?” Vanya asked.

“We don't know. We just got here and were sidetracked by the crocodile,” Remi said.

“Might it not be leftovers from the war? The place is littered with them,” Manchester said.

“Could be,” Sam agreed.

A bucket brimming with ice arrived, and Sam positioned his second beer in it. Manchester finished his and signaled for another. Vanya gave Remi a gentle roll of her eyes as if to say “What can you do with the big lug?”

“But enough about our little hobby,” Sam continued, then changed the subject. “What's all this about setting up clinics?”

Vanya beamed at him. “It's been a long time in the planning. I've given up on the government doing anything for its people but robbing them blind, so I'm taking matters into my own hands. Children are getting sick and not being treated. People are dying who could be saved. All for want of some remedial care. It doesn't have to be that way, and I'm saying in the twenty-first century it shouldn't be that way. We have the knowledge, all we need are the resources. Which is where our generous donors come in.”

“Sounds like a worthwhile cause. Do you already have many contributors?” Remi asked.

Manchester guffawed as the third beer materialized and the empties were whisked away. “I'll say. She's got every pharmaceutical company she can shame into pledging something.”

“Would that it were enough, Orwen. It's just scratching the surface. Reality is, nobody much cares about our people, and, at best, I've been able to get them to commit to token charity. Any of these groups could easily write a check and solve most of our infrastructure issues with the stroke of a pen, but they don't. Because we're not high visibility. We're stuck in a corner of the world nobody knows exists. So they commit to some crumbs, which is better than nothing, but not much.”

“How much do you still need to raise?”

“My target's half a million U.S. dollars for the first year and then two hundred thousand every year thereafter. The first year will pay for simple buildings and some primitive equipment, but those costs won't recur.” Vanya shook her head. “These companies spend more on a slow day advertising tooth whitener. But like I said, we're not a revenue source, so we don't matter. So far, I've marshaled a hundred and fifty of the first year's requirement and a soft fifty for the second.”

Remi looked to Sam, who had a small smile on his face. “We'll take it under advisement. Do you have a plan? A budget written out?”

“Of course. An entire presentation.”

“Could we get a copy?” Remi asked.

“I'd be delighted. Is it really something you think your foundation might be interested in supporting?” Vanya asked, her tone excited.

Sam finished his beer. “No promises, but let's see what you have. I know the foundation has funded other worthwhile causes.”

Steaming platters of fish arrived, and Manchester made a point of studying his silverware for blemishes before digging in. By the size of his bites and the speed with which he ate, it was clear he was a man who didn't miss any meals. Silence reigned at the table until the fish was gone. Sam sat back. “That was wonderful. Like they just caught it.”

Vanya nodded. “I'd be surprised if it was more than a few hours old. Thankfully, there's no shortage of marine life here. One of the ways we've been blessed.”

“That and the mineral riches we can't seem to get organized enough to pull out of the ground,” Manchester chimed in, sounding bitter.

“Really?” Sam asked. “Like what?”

“Good gracious, man. Oil. Tankers full of it. And every kind of rarity you can imagine. Gold by the truckload. Emeralds. Rubies. And on and on. We should be richer than the bloody Saudis, but instead all we do is bicker with each other and chase our own tails.”

“Don't get Orwen started. It's one of his pet peeves,” Vanya chided as the plates were cleared.

“We've had a history of corruption and of foreigners coming in and taking anything of value. How much do you know about our history?” Manchester asked with a slight slur.

“Not enough, obviously,” Sam said.

“We were a British protectorate for years and then the Japs invaded and took over the islands. Then the Yanks fought them off, only to hand us over to the Brits again after the war. We've been passed around like a pack of smokes at a rock concert, and, up until recently, nobody, including ourselves, thought that we might actually be entitled to self-determination rather than being somebody else's possession.” He barked a humorless laugh. “Fat lot of good it's done us. We might as well be destitute. We're sitting on a fortune in natural resources and we can't make a go of it. Saddest story you'll ever hear.”

Vanya sighed, obviously having heard all this many times before. “Next, he'll be railing about the gold mine.”

“So there's still gold?” Remi asked.

“Of course there is. But you wouldn't know it to look at us, would you? And as Vanya alluded to, people get frustrated at all the jockeying and ineptness, so they kick their administration out with regularity, so the mentality of most politicians is to grab what you can while you're in office because chances are you won't be much longer. It's a vicious circle. One I've lived in the last twenty years.”

Vanya eyed the big man with a gentle gaze. “Orwen here is one of the last good ones. Don't let him sour you on Guadalcanal. It's got its share of problems, but it's a beautiful place filled with warm-hearted people.”