“What have you got in the backpack?” the oldest of the group asked, indicating Sam’s bag.
“Just some odds and ends. A phone, canteen, spare shirt, that sort of thing.”
“Show me.”
Sam humored the man and caught Remi’s eye, willing her to stay quiet. He knew her well enough to see that she was going to ask the officer whether he thought the militia was composed of American tourists and was silently thankful when she thought better of it. More than once she’d voiced her frustration at airports when a grandmother was searched by security personnel lest the woman be the world’s oldest terrorist, but Remi caught the meaning in his stare and bit her tongue.
“You shouldn’t be driving out here,” the officer said when he was done with his cursory search. “Be very careful, even in Honiara. Things are unpredictable right now.”
“Seemed fine this morning.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, but the news about the aid workers’ execution hadn’t hit yet. People are uneasy. Just watch yourselves. I’d go straight to your hotel and not leave if I were you.”
“They’re dead?” Remi asked, her face revealing her surprise.
The policeman nodded. “There was a broadcast this afternoon. It’s a dark day. They were unarmed, helping rural families who have nobody else.”
“What will those families do?”
The officer shrugged and frowned. “We’ll probably escort whatever remaining aid workers who still want to help, but I doubt there will be many takers. It’s one thing to have compassion, another to risk your life to ease the troubles of others.” He looked away into the thick underbrush. “Drive safely and don’t stop unless the roadblock is manned by official vehicles like ours. Just to be sure.”
One more roadblock treated them the same way, and by the time they reached the hotel lot, Sam and Remi were worried. They’d passed crowds of angry-looking islanders who glared at the van as it drove by. Though nobody did anything, they could sense the menace. As they pulled through the gate, Sam noted that the parking lot security guard looked as worried as he felt, although there were no signs of a mob anywhere near the hotel — perhaps because it was located near the main police station.
When they entered the lobby, the front desk clerk signaled to them. They approached and she gave them a professional smile and asked them to wait for her boss, who appeared moments later, wearing an obligatory sincerity suit.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I’m Jacob Trench, the manager. I hope you’re enjoying your stay?”
Remi nodded. “Everything’s been satisfactory.”
“Good, good.” Trench shifted nervously and looked down at his shoes. “I wanted to greet you and introduce myself and apologize in advance for what I’m going to say. We’re advising our guests not to leave the hotel grounds. The situation in town is… unsettled… and we don’t think it’s safe.”
“Really?” Sam said. “Then why would it be safer here?”
“We have extra security coming. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying that we expect any trouble. Purely precautionary. But it would be unfortunate if any troublemakers used the current uneasy sentiment opportunistically, and there’s always a faction…” Trench’s Australian accent was crisp, but it was impossible to mistake his concern.
“Do you really think there’s a risk?” Remi asked.
“It would be better not to test your luck, for the time being. The authorities have everything under control, but I was here during the last… unrest… and it got out of hand rather quickly. A hotel down the beach was gutted.”
“Right, but this is completely different, isn’t it?”
Trench nodded but wouldn’t meet their eyes. “It always is, unfortunately. Please. Be our guest in the restaurant tonight. I’ll be happy to provide a complimentary bottle of champagne as an incentive.”
Remi looked at Sam. “He’s convincing me with the free champagne, Sam.”
Sam smiled. “Sounds like you’ve got a deal. Do we need to make a reservation?”
Trench shook his head. “Just let me know what time you’d like to have dinner and I’ll take care of it.”
“Say… seven?”
“Perfect. Party of two or will you have guests?”
“Just us,” Remi said.
As they continued to their room, Sam whispered to Remi, “Did you see the guy reading the paper in the lobby? Big man, khaki pants, local?”
“No, I was too busy being warned that we’re all going to die.”
“He seemed very interested in us.”
“Maybe he doesn’t get out much.”
Sam grinned. “Not that I’m not used to having men take notice when you walk into a room.”
She looked down at her rumpled cargo pants and T-shirt and laughed. “I am a real glamor girl today, aren’t I?”
“You look pretty good to me.”
“Don’t think you’re going to dupe me with your silver tongue, Sam Fargo.”
“I was hoping the free champagne would do the trick.” They approached their door and Sam paused as he felt in his pocket for the card key. “Maybe you’re right. I just thought he was trying too hard at not being interested in us, especially given how much attention he was paying to us.”
“I have it on reliable authority that we’re in the safest place in all Guadalcanal tonight.”
“That’s reassuring. But I didn’t get the most confident feeling from the manager, did you?”
“Probably not the A-team working the night shift in Honiara.”
When Sam and Remi returned to the lobby just before seven, the big man Sam had noticed was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the area was empty except for a few nervous Australian tourists talking quietly among themselves near the entrance, their accents as distinctive as their ruddy complexions, the legacy of Scottish heritage in a subtropical climate.
The hostess checked the list, smiled when she found their name, and led them through the dining room, which was surprisingly full. Halfway to the table Remi paused and grabbed Sam’s arm. Orwen Manchester was sitting at a booth, reviewing a small pile of paperwork, a sweating bottle of beer on the table beside him. He glanced up and waved them over when he caught Remi’s eye.
“Well, look who’s here! Are you two following me around?” he boomed as he rose.
“It’s certainly a small world, isn’t it?” Remi said.
“Maybe not that small. This is one of the few restaurants that’s open tonight. Sam, Remi, if you have no plans, I insist that you join me. Assuming that I’m not interrupting a romantic candlelight dinner or anything.”
Remi smiled and shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. Sam?”
“Perfect,” Sam said, and pulled a chair out for Remi, who sat gracefully while beaming at them both.
“Probably best you aren’t out on the town tonight anyway,” Manchester said as he and Sam took their seats. “It’s ugly out there.”
“That’s what the manager told us. Why would a rogue rebel group’s execution of two foreigners cause so much unrest?” Remi asked.
“Guadalcanal is polarized. Most of the population’s dirt poor, but a small segment is quite well off, so there’s an inevitable friction that occasionally causes violence. Scapegoats are always popular for the less fortunate, and there’s also a powerful antiforeigner sentiment simmering just below the calm surface. The rebels’ reprehensible actions have forced that sentiment into the spotlight and it’s suddenly acceptable to give voice to the unmentionable. You have the poor and disenfranchised looking for any excuse to express their frustration.” Manchester shook his head. “It makes little sense, but there it is.”