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Grimes exhaled with frustration. “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t see any progress, do you?”
“These things take time, as I said before. However, I agree that we will need to increase the pressure.”
He looked around the marina as though checking to verify he was not being watched and lowered his voice. “You really needed to . . . take such drastic steps?”
“The end justifies the means. Great fortunes are never made without blood being spilled. Why would this one be any different?”
“They were innocent aid workers.”
His words were greeted with a pause. “I hope you’re not losing sight of the stakes,” the mechanical voice said.
“Of course not. I just hoped . . . that matters wouldn’t escalate to this point.”
“Indeed. Well, they have. What’s done is done. And you should prepare for more . . . unpleasantness.”
“I see. That’s necessary?”
“There is nothing that I do that isn’t necessary. I trust I still have your full, unquestioning support?”
Grimes eyed the other yachts—each millions of dollars of excess on the water, tributes to their owners’ egos, monuments to their willingness to squander fortunes on frivolities. The human struggle was about pecking orders. He needed to be at the top. Anything less was failure. He couldn’t afford for his life’s work to crumble to nothing, and time and circumstance were working against him. He sighed. “Yes. Do whatever needs to be done. But, for the love of God, hurry, would you?”
“We have never been closer. The island’s at a tipping point. Like dry kindling in summer—any spark could set it off.”
“I don’t need to ask about the spark, do I?”
“You’re better off not knowing any more than you already do.”
The line went dead. He stared at the little phone—the latest technology of course—and shook his head. He’d steeled himself for some difficult moments in bringing his scheme to fruition, but the waiting was proving to be the most trying for him.
The captain returned, but Grimes had lost his taste for nitpicking the imperfections of his workers’ efforts. He waved the man away and stepped down to the dock, oblivious to the tranquil beauty of catamaran ferries in the distance slicing through the Sydney Harbor chop as his mind worked at a thousand miles per hour.
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
The wheels of the Toyota Land Cruiser spun in the muddy ruts of the trail that wound into the hills. Remi gave Sam a sidelong glance for the twentieth time that day and turned to look back at Rubo, who seemed to be enjoying their bouncing progress.
The jungle encroached on all sides of the track they’d been following since leaving the main road twenty-five minutes earlier. Honiara had been gridlocked due to a protest in town, carefully monitored by the police, and it took an hour longer to traverse than they’d hoped.
Sam hit an ugly bump and Rubo bounced on the seat like a toddler, a look of delight on his face.
“Is it much farther?” Remi called out to him as Sam concentrated on following the faint game trail.
The old man shrugged. “Been long time since I come out here.”
“But sure
ly the distance hasn’t changed.”
“We get there soon,” Rubo assured her.
Remi sat back in her seat. She’d already more than learned that in the islands the term “soon” had an amorphous quality, much like the Mexican mañana, which could mean anything from “tomorrow” to “never.”
Sam caught her eye and grinned. “Patience is a virtue and all,” he said.
“Tell that to my sacroiliac.”
They arrived at a small stream and Sam rolled to a stop at the gravel bank. The trail forked in two directions, one across the stream to the left, the other continuing up the slope to the right. Sam glanced at his watch and then twisted in his seat to look to Rubo.
“Which way?” Sam asked.
