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“Or it could be he was the reason for the detour.”
More typing and then Selma sighed in exasperation. “Oh. Well, that’s not so positive.”
“What, Selma?”
“According to the search I ran when you asked me to investigate survivors, he died in a POW camp in New Zealand before the end of the war.”
Selma was silent as Sam digested the news. “Get me everything you can find on him,” he said. “If there’s a record of his internment, a file on him, I want to see it. Anything at all no matter how seemingly insignificant. Service records, decorations, family, education, the works.”
“Will do. But as I’ve already discovered banging my head against the destroyer wall, the documentation for that period is lacking, to say the least.”
“Do the best you can.”
“You got it.” Selma paused. “Do you have anything new we can use Lazlo for? He’s driving me crazy. Stops in every few days like a lost puppy. I think he’s bored out of his mind.”
“If you think he can help with Kumasaka, sure, put him to work.”
“I’m not sure that would be his strong suit. There’s nothing more . . . intricate? Some puzzle he can solve?”
“Not so far. But I’ll keep it in mind. He’s not in poor spirits because of Laos?”
“A little down, but he’s already evaluating a new project, or so he says.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Pirate treasure.”
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“Do I sound particularly playful?”
Sam considered possible responses, then opted for a safe one. “I’ll give him a call when we come up for air. Let me know as soon as you have something on the colonel.”
“I will.”
Sam hung up and gazed at the fishing boats moored off Honiara, their hulls a rainbow of blues and greens and oranges. Remi slid the glass door open and joined him. “Selma or Leonid?” she asked.
“Selma. But it doesn’t look good.” He told her about Kumasaka.
“If there’s anyone who can track down information on him, it’s Selma. Let’s hope she gets lucky.”
Sam turned and kissed her. “Those are the magic words.”
“Track down information?” Remi asked innocently.
“Something like that.”
At dusk, Sam called Leonid on the Darwin for an update. When Des put the Russian on the line, he sounded typically morose.
“How’s the seafaring life, my friend?” Sam greeted him.
“I can’t wait to get off this scow. It never stops rocking. It’s like a kind of living hell, only worse.”
“Did you try diving like I suggested?”
“I won’t be toyed with for your amusement.”
“How’s the exploration going?”