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“You’re welcome. You want more coffee?” his wife asked, also part of the ritual.
“No, I should get to the office. There are clients to cheat.”
Severin was a prominent Guadalcanal attorney, as well as an outspoken member of parliament well known for his scathing diatribes about the government’s incompetence and corruption. He’d been beating his head against the public service wall for two years, during which time he had succeeded in alienating many of his peers with his views. Severin believed that the only way the Solomon Islands would ever make significant progress would be if they created a hospitable climate for foreign investment—a position that rankled those for whom national pride was the basis of their platform.
Like most of the professionals on the island, he had been educated in Australia and was under no illusions about the competence level of his fellow natives. His mission was to force the island to recognize its limitations and then take on qualified partners who could help unlock the value that was the Solomons’ birthright.
“What time are you going to be home? Remember, it’s Toby’s birthday.”
“Right, then. Sorry, I’ve been so busy lately . . . Did you take care of gifts and the like?” Toby was their seven-year-old son, their pride and joy, who had walked to school twenty minutes earlier, as he did every weekday.
“Of course. Just try to be here at a reasonable hour. I’m making a cake.”
“I will.” He carried his plate and coffee cup into the kitchen and set them on the counter and then leaned toward his wife and kissed her. Even after eighteen years he still marveled that she’d agreed to marry him and he reminded himself that he was the luckiest man alive. “What kind of cake?”
“Mocha. His favorite. What else would I make?”
He sighed. “He’s getting so big. Time really flies, doesn’t it?”
“Which is why it’s important to be home early for the important moments,” she warned, her tone stern.
“I know. I promise I’ll be back by . . . six.”
“Okay, then. But no later, Boyd. I’ll plan an early dinner and then he can unwrap his presents.”
“I swear.”
He took a final look at her and then moved to the foyer, where his satchel sat waiting next to the door. He scooped it up and grabbed his keys from a bowl on the side table, studying his reflection in the gilded mirror as he did so. His hair was thinning now and graying at the temples, and he was carrying a few more pounds than he should, but overall he wasn’t in terrible shape. Perhaps not exhibition condition, but serviceable.
Severin pulled the door closed behind him and made his way to the detached garage. He was almost there when he heard the crunch of feet running on gravel. He turned, an exclamation just beginning to sound from his mouth, and then a machete blow to the side of his head cut his cry off, along with most of his skull. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground, his satchel tumbling next to him. Two assailants hacked at him for another few seconds before stopping, satisfied that Severin was finished. After a final blow to his
head, they ran down the block to where a van waited beneath a tree, its license plate obscured by a layer of mud.
—
Orwen Manchester was arriving at his office when his cell phone rang. He eyed the screen, but there was no caller ID. He thumbed it to life.
“Hello?”
“Can you talk?” Governor-General Gordon Rollins’s voice sounded tense.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Orwen, we’ve known each other a long time. You need to tell me the truth. Are you involved in any way with these rebels? Passive support, maybe slipping them some information . . . ?”
Manchester stopped outside his office door and stared at it in puzzlement before raising it back to his ear.
“I’ve been wondering the same about you, old boy. No offense.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Manchester sighed. “No, Gordon. I have no contact or affiliation with them. Can you assure me it’s the same with you?” He paused. “Why? What happened?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“I’m walking to work. All part of my new healthy living program. But stop talking in riddles—what is it, Gordon?”
“Boyd Severin was murdered this morning. Hacked apart like a fatted calf. There’s going to be hell to pay.”