Grimes brightened. “Ah, yes.” He looked around the room at his inner circle. “Gentlemen, would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, he rose and made his way down the hall, trailed by Deb, who had to practically jog to keep up with his long strides.
“Line two,” she said as he entered his office, and he nodded as he closed the door behind him and walked to his desk. He sat in his burgundy calfskin executive chair and raised the handset to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
The caller’s voice was flat, genderless, robotic, run through some sort of software filtering that disguised it, as it had been each time he’d spoken with his mystery accomplice.
“The first step in escalating our conflict has been taken. By the end of the day there will be articles in the Australian and Solomon papers about the aid workers’ disappearance, as well as the militia’s demands.”
“Finally, some good news. How do you intend to resolve the situation once the tension’s built sufficiently?”
“Unfortunately, the workers won’t make it. Which will trigger cries of outrage, demands for retribution, and travel advisories. Most important, it will create a difficult situation for the sitting administration, whose approach so far to unrest has been to do nothing.”
“Will that be sufficient?”
“Only time will tell.”
“I presume you have an alternate course of action if this doesn’t do the trick.”
“Of course. But you don’t want to know what it entails.”
“Very well. Do what you must.”
“Just don’t forget the next transfer. I’ll be watching for it.”
“Consider it done.”
The caller hung up, leaving Grimes staring at the phone. This was unlike any arrangement he’d ever had and that made him uncomfortable but also exhilarated. He’d been approached the year before by the caller, who’d had a unique proposition: participate in the formation of several untraceable corporations in far-flung jurisdictions and have them salt the Solomon Islands’ parliament with donations to pliable officials so that in the event of any societal upheaval the companies would be in first position to receive any new leases or prospecting rights for oil, gas, and minerals.
At first he’d been skeptical, but when the caller had promised to shut the gold mine down, it had gotten his attention. Right on schedule, things had begun to go wrong for the operation, culminating in seasonal flooding that brought catastrophic results mainly because emergency equipment designed to protect the mine failed at critical junctures.
Almost immediately after that the foreign operators had been ejected by the government, as promised, throwing the entire country’s mining prospects into jeopardy.
At that point Grimes became a believer and shunted millions from his personal accounts through a complex series of blind transfers in places like Latvia and the Seychelles. The cash wound up in the corporations that his new friend had set up, always in jurisdictions where ownership was impossible to verify. The visible entities appeared to be Solomon Island companies and would be viewed as domestic by any cursory regulatory scrutiny.
The game plan was simple: foment discontent and support a new rebel group whose aim was to eject the current players. Once that was done, allies of the caller would create a new administration that supported local involvement in key lucrative industries and would declare all prior agreements void before handing out new agreements to preferred players—Grimes’s silent-partnered corporations ranking among the most desirable.
If it worked, he stood to make hundreds of millions from the oil rights alone. That the scheme required a few casualties was a necessary evil—his hands wouldn’t be sullied.
As with all opportunities, one had to weigh the benefits against the costs. A few aid workers or unfriendly locals were nothing, in the scheme of things. Grimes hadn’t fought his way to the top of the heap by being soft. He understood how the game was played—the bigger the money, the dirtier the dealing. He’d watched rivals get rich rebuilding countries after war had ravaged them and it hadn’t escaped his attention that they always seemed to be at the front of the line when it came to lucrative contracts. All he was doing was creating his own advantage where he could, with complete deniability baked into the cake.
Grimes looked around his office, taking in the model sailboats, the awards from community organizations, the photographs with dignitaries and celebrities. He’d built it all from nothing. Along the way he’d had to do some questionable things, but everyone who’d amassed significant wealth and power had done so—there was no such thing as an honest fortune. He glanced through the picture window at Sydney Harbor and smiled with satisfaction. The difference between him and the rabble shuffling around on the street was vision . . . and daring. He saw opportunity and didn’t hesitate where others might.
Grimes checked the time on his platinum Lange & Söhne Perpetual Calendar Terraluna wristwatch and nodded to himself. He felt no remorse about his countrymen meeting their fate so he might profit from the outcome. People died every day.
It was strictly business, nothing more.
CHAPTER 17
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
Sam powered on his satellite phone, checked his messages, and listened to one from Selma, letting him know that the Australian research vessel, the Darwin, would be at the Honiara port by noon. After checking the time, he called California to leave his own message, confirming with Selma that they would meet the ship when it arrived.
The police had stopped by the hotel the prior evening and asked more questions, lifting Sam and Remi’s hopes that their attackers would be caught; but now, as Sam looked out over the primitive buildings and rusting fishing scows, that goal seemed as far-fetched as the tale of giants roaming the island.
“What are you staring at?” Remi asked, coming up behind him and slipping her arms around him.
“Nothing,” he said, not wanting to depress her with his morose thoughts. “The boat should be here by noon.”