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“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 announcement for the flight blared over the speakers in three different languages. Sam finished up with Selma, and a few minutes later the Fargos were aboard the plane.
Their connection in Australia put them back into Honiara midafternoon the following day, the flight almost empty. Apparently, there was little rush to vacation on an island on the brink of civil war. The hotel was equally quiet, the clerks eager to please, the manager typically reserved when he saw them.
“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?”
