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“You can’t be serious.”
Rollins told Manchester what he knew, based on a phone call he’d just received. When he was done, both men were quiet. Manchester digested the information, the blood drained from his face.
“And you have nothing to do with this?” he asked, his tone ugly.
“Orwen. What do you take me for?”
When he hung up, Manchester stood for a long moment, staring at his office door, lost in thought. Rollins was ruthless and utterly without conscience, but he didn’t think he’d go as far as to support assassination. And the man sounded genuinely shocked, and . . . worried.
Things were spiraling out of control, and what had seemed like a harmless bid to capitalize on the local unrest had suddenly taken on far more ominous weight as he realized that he had no idea what his counterpart was actually capable of—and, by extension, had involved Manchester in.
He swallowed hard and twisted his key in the lock, furrows of doubt creasing his face. Neither man trusted the other, that much was clear. As he pushed his way into his office, Manchester’s mind was racing at the implications of his colleague being butchered in his drive—an atrocity, to be sure, but one that conveniently removed one of the last obstacles to nationalization.
—
Sam stood by the pocket doors, staring through the glass at the ocean. The morning sun was warming the surface of the sea, glinting off the waves like liquid fire.
“You ready to hit it?” Remi asked from behind him.
He turned to her. “Always. I’m thinking about diving the temple again to see if I can spot anything new. You’re invited.”
“Let’s see how it’s going on the boat. No point in getting wet if they’re just blowing barnacles off the walls.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“On my tablet. Which we need to replace, if you remember.”
“Right. Bite to eat before we go?”
“I could use some coffee.”
Sam took care to lock the door, painfully aware of the futility of the gesture but doing so anyway, and then they made their way to the lobby. A few guests were standing by the front desk, huddled around a radio with the staff. The day manager looked up as they approached, his face drawn and tight.
“Good morning,” he said, and then turned his attention back to the radio. Sam and Remi joined the listeners as the broadcaster spoke in somber tones.
“Reports are coming in that MP Boyd Severin was attacked outside of his home this morning at eight-fifteen and was dead on arrival to Honiara hospital from machete wounds. Severin was unarmed.
“The rebel militia is taking responsibility for the gruesome atrocity and promises more to come if its demands aren’t met. In a statement sent to the station only moments after the attack, the rebels repeated their conditions—that all Solomon Island resources be returned to Solomon Islanders and that foreign involvement in our government and our industry be terminated immediately.
“The administration condemned the outrage and is taking steps to shore up security for its members. Calm is counseled, and martial law is being considered if unrest surfaces on the streets of Honiara. The government reemphasized that no lawlessness will be permitted and made clear that anyone attempting to use this tragedy as a pretense for looting or rioting will be prosecuted. Australia and New Zealand have offered to send a peacekeeping force to assist in maintaining order and protecting its citizens and interests, but no word yet on whether the administration intends to invite the force to our shores.
“More to follow as details are available. This is a sad day for the island. One of its favorite sons has been stolen in a shameful episode, and the tragedy will not be soon forgotten.”
Sam took Remi’s hand and squeezed it. The manager cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice quavered.
“Ladies and gentlemen, rest assured I will be arranging for additional security today. However, I would caution you that nothing is certain, and if there is widespread disorder, we may not be able to guarantee your safety.”
Silence smothered the lobby. An Australian woman was the first to speak, in a panicked voice.
“Can’t guarantee our safety? What does that mean? How do we get to the airport without getting killed?”
The beleaguered manager made a visible effort to keep his tone even.
“Madam, it means that while there is no clear and present danger, staying at the hotel does not guarantee that you will remain safe. We will do everything to ensure you do, and there’s no reason to believe you won’t be, but if emergency conditions prevail, the men and women here are unable to promise anything.”
“So you’ll give us up to the mob?” the woman screeched.
“There is no mob. There has been a regrettable incident by terrorists. I’m merely suggesting that if you feel you’re in any danger, you should plan on going elsewhere. We will contract security on your behalf to get you to the airport. But as is the case for everyone here, employees included, there is no way to ensure you will be safe under all circumstances, no matter how unlikely.”