“Maybe not, but I’m not sure how we’d ever know for sure.” He shook out a shirt and folded it. “What was on your tablet? Anything relating to Leonid’s find? Passwords? Financial info?”
She gave him a dubious look. “Of course not.”
“So what did the thief really get? A little money I left in the safe — I had my wallet at the restaurant, and you had your purse with you. A tablet that can be replaced in seconds. No credit cards, nothing sensitive, and he didn’t even want our passports. Seems like amateur night, other than the drill. For all we know, it was the two from the beach the other night — opportunistic thieves looking for easy prey.”
“Then explain how he got into the room.”
Sam walked over and inspected the lock. “You could pick this in your sleep.”
“It’s a card key.”
“Right, but look at the latching system. That’s the problem with going high-tech on the equipment and then cheaping out on the installation. It’s garbage, Remi.”
She shook her head in frustration. “You really aren’t worried?”
He shrugged. “Sure. But then what? If this is more than a robbery, what has the mystery intruder learned? Nothing, except that you’ve got excellent fashion taste.” His tone softened. “I say we keep our eyes open, don’t take anything for granted, and go about our business. I don’t see any alternative, do you?”
She closed her eyes for a second. “No. I just feel… unsafe.”
“That’s natural. So do I. But it’s over. And we got off light.”
Sam dialed the desk and told the clerk they were ready. The manager arrived shortly thereafter and escorted them to a room in the other wing of the hotel. After apologizing again, he left and they unpacked in silence. When Remi finished hanging up her clothes, she turned to Sam.
“So did you get a decent look at him?”
“Not really. I told the police everything. An islander. Medium build. Fast. Wearing dark shorts and a striped polo shirt. Messenger bag. Not really a lot to go on.”
“There aren’t many people out at this hour. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll spot him.”
Sam gave her a small smile. “Anything’s possible, but I think the first order of the day tomorrow is to try to find you another tablet.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“I saw an electronics store when we drove through town. My bet is they’ll have something. Might not be cutting-edge, but we’ll make do.”
She frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose it could have been worse.”
“Of course.” He eyed her. “Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”
“Sure. I have a big, strong man to protect me.”
CHAPTER 31
Boyd Severin took a final sip of coffee before pushing back from the dining room table and smiling at his wife, who was cleaning pots and pans in the kitchen. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he said, a morning ritual he’d been repeating for eighteen years of marriage.
“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.”
“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.