by Graeme Kent
Imison and Baxter threw themselves on to the track, bringing their rifles up to their shoulders. Neither of them fired. There was no sign of any attacker. Nothing moved in the bush. After a few minutes they crawled cautiously over to the groaning Lopez. The heavy spear had shattered the young agent’s collarbone and the point had than embedded itself deeply in his back. He was whimpering and beginning to lose consciousness.
‘We can’t carry him to the shore,’ said Baxter. ‘We’d be sitting ducks if anyone’s waiting for us there.’
‘What do you mean “if”?’ said Imison. ‘Drag him back to the hut. We’ll leave him there.’
Roughly the two agents pulled Lopez’s body back along the overgrown path. The journey was an arduous and bumpy one, but by this time the young man had lost consciousness and made no complaint. The two other men got him back to the clearing and hauled his slight body inside the fishermen’s hut.
‘Take the door,’ said Imison. ‘If you see anyone, blast him!’
‘He ain’t going to show himself,’ said Baxter. ‘Whoever he is, this guy ain’t no novice.’
Baxter edged open the door and stared fixedly across the clearing, taking care to keep his body out of any line of fire. Imison heaved Lopez on to a sleeping bag and tore the young agent’s shirt off. Lopez groaned. Imison examined his wounds. Then he walked across to Baxter at the door.
‘How is he?’ asked Baxter.
‘He’ll live. No way he’s going to walk as far as the beach.’
‘We’ll have to leave him here, then.’ ‘I’d already figured that out.’
Imison walked back to the recumbent agent and leant over him while Baxter resumed his vigil at the door. Lopez’s eyes flickered open.
‘Am I dying?’ he asked.
‘You’re going to be just fine, kid,’ said Imison impatiently. ‘Now listen to me. We’re going to clear the way down to the beach. Then we’ll come back for you. Have you got that?’
‘You won’t leave me here, will you?’ asked Lopez.
‘Of course not,’ lied Imison. He had abandoned agents before. If the worst came to the worst, even a green novice like Lopez would probably know enough to keep his mouth shut until the Agency could figure out a way of extracting him.
‘Stay loose, kid,’ he said perfunctorily, and rejoined Baxter.
‘I figure there’s only one of them out there,’ said Baxter, staring ahead. ‘Any more and they would have stormed us by now.’
‘Maybe,’ said Imison. ‘If he is on his own, he knows what he’s doing. He fixed up that booby trap just a few yards from where I was standing and I didn’t hear a thing. Then he deliberately made a noise to spook us and get us all out of the hut.’
‘How do you want to play it?’ asked Baxter. ‘Shall we try to get out through the trees? My guess is the guy ain’t armed, else he would have shot us full of holes by now.’
‘No, that’s what he wants us to do,’ said Imison. ‘This man’s a jungle fighter and we’re not. I say we stick to the path as long as we can. It’s only thirty yards to the beach, and he shouldn’t have had enough time to fix any more booby traps. Once we get into the trees, he can pick us off one at a time.’
‘All right,’ said Baxter reluctantly. ‘At least we can look out for each other on the track.’
‘Especially you looking after me,’ said Imison. ‘I can navigate the launch, and you can’t. Remember, you need me more than I need you, buddy boy.’
Baxter threw Imison a look of unadulterated hatred, but nodded. The two men waited a moment. Then Baxter threw open the door and the two men ran zigzagging across the clearing to the edge of the track. They reached it in safety and began to shuffle uneasily along the path. They passed with particular care the tree from which the spear had descended upon Lopez, and started to edge forward through the overhanging tentacle-like branches. Imison came to a sudden halt.
‘Wait!’ he said.
He sank to his hands and knees and groped at the carpet of leaves on the ground before him. The surface started to yield. He shuffled quickly through the leaves. Soon he came to a latticework covering of long thin branches over a shallow pit. At the bottom of the hole, a dozen sharpened bamboo poles had been stuck into the ground. Anyone walking across the branches would have fallen through the frail covering on to the deadly wooden spikes below.
‘That’s it!’ snarled Baxter. ‘The bastard’s probably booby-trapped the whole length of the path. ‘I’ll take my chances in the trees!’
• • •
SISTER CONCHITA WAITED, cold, tired and hungry, on the beach. She listened to the waves pounding monotonously on the reef like the blows of a mighty hammer on an anvil. As soon as they had landed from the mission canoe on Olasana four hours ago, Kella had ordered her to wait there and not move, while he prepared the track from the shore to the fishermen’s hut. He had then left her carrying a spade and a number of sharpened stakes. Conchita had seen no sight of the police sergeant since. She wondered if anything could have happened to him. After all, even with his local knowledge, he was up against odds of three to one, and the Americans were armed.
Conchita decided that she could wait no longer. She had to know what was going on in the interior of the island. She also wanted to get close to Kella, in case he was still determined to exact vengeance on Imison and the other two. She prayed that his resolve would have slackened by now. If she could only get near to him, she might be able to exert some sort of restraining influence on the possessed Malaita man. It was certainly her duty to try. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, she started to walk inland through the trees and undergrowth, parallel to the track.
It was hard, laborious going, with even the pale moonlight blotted out by the branches and vines around and above her, but the nun continued doggedly forward. She had read that John F. Kennedy and his crew had kept to the south-east tip of the island when they had been sheltering there, in case there were Japanese troops already on Olasana. They had slept huddled together on the beach. If Imison and the others were intent on retracing Kennedy’s steps for their own reason, they would not be far away from this area.
Half an hour later, her flesh lacerated in a dozen places, her habit stained and torn, she emerged in the clearing. From the hut on the other side she heard the sound of groans. She tiptoed across the intervening ground and peered cautiously in through the open door of the hut. The figure of a man lay on top of a sleeping bag. He was twisting and turning violently, obviously in pain. The nun entered the hut. It seemed to have been occupied recently. In addition to three sleeping bags on the ground, there were several holdalls, some tins of food and a small cardboard box.
Conchita hunted through both holdalls. In one of them was a small flashlight. She switched it on and approached the man groaning on top of the sleeping bag. He was young and scrawny, his ribs prominent as he lay stripped to the waist. Sister Conchita could see that one of his shoulders was twisted and contorted and that his back was bruised and bloody.
She went through the holdalls again but could find no sign of any medical supplies. Fortunately the young man, whom she recognized as one of the tourists in Imison’s party, seemed to be drifting off into increasingly long periods of sleep. His cries and moans were becoming muffled, and eventually ceased altogether as he relaxed and began breathing deeply on top of the sleeping bag.
Conchita looked round the hut. She yielded to her curiosity and picked up the cardboard box. It seemed to be the same box that she had seen one of the Americans carrying ashore on Kasolo some days before. She took off the lid. The box contained half a dozen carved pieces of turtle shell. They were all the same. Each piece of turtle shell was stuck to a larger white flat seashell. On the central turtle shell was carved a rough facsimile of a frigate bird.
Conchita examined one of the shells. There was no doubt about it. It bore a strong resemblance to the carved shell she had taken from the tree house of Teiosi, the magic man she had found dead on Kolombangara. The h
eadman there had implied that the magic man had taken the token from Kakaihe, the murdered guide who had conducted Sister Brigid on her ill-fated search for John F. Kennedy. The shells in the box seemed to be crude copies of the original.
• • •
CONTENTEDLY KELLA COULD hear the two Americans blundering through the bush in the darkness. They were trying to get to the shore, but they kept being forced to make long detours around spectacularly large trees or avoid banks of particularly thorny undergrowth. This sometimes disorientated them, and they would start heading off in a completely different direction to the one they had originally been taking. All the same, throughout it all, the two men still kept together, a sign to Kella that they had undergone some form of military training although obviously it had not been in bush conditions of this nature.
He kept close to the men, waiting patiently for them to grow tired. Once they did that, they would start drifting apart. Then would be the time for him to move in on Imison’s companion. From what he had seen so far, the older of the two Americans was far sharper and more alert than the dark-chinned one. Kella would take out the second man and then concentrate on the leader of the expedition.
For the time being he contented himself with shadowing the Americans, moving through the bush close to them, sometimes to one side and then the other. Now and again he would drop some way behind them. He could always hear them moving and knew that he could catch up with them whenever he wanted to.
It would be as well for him to keep changing his position. Every so often, one or other of the two men would lift his rifle and fire blindly into the bush. The action had no effect other than to disturb birds nesting in the trees or to send an alarmed wild pig snorting through the bush. By now they were on the edge of a tidal mangrove swamp close to the sea. The warm salt water lapped at their ankles.
Finally the gap between the two Americans grew wider. Kella continued to hang back. Another ten minutes passed. By now the two men were out of sight of each other. To make matters better for Kella, Imison had turned in a full circle and was dragging himself back in the direction of the clearing and the hut. The sergeant let him go. He could track Imison whenever he needed to.
Silently he moved through the bush towards the second man. He could see his shadow flitting against the boles of the trees. He glided past the American and waited behind a tree. He picked up a substantial fallen branch and muttered the Lau incantation of revenge, ‘The lightning flashed, why did the thunder not follow?’ The man staggered past him. Kella stepped out and brought the branch down as hard as he could on the back of the American’s head. The branch broke but the man went sprawling forward into the undergrowth, dropping his rifle. Kella stooped and picked it up. The fallen man squirmed round and peered helplessly through the gloom at his assailant. Kella thought of Joe Dontate waiting resignedly for his death on Skull Island. He lifted the Garand. He also remembered Sister Conchita’s entreaties. With no change of expression, he fired two shots.
The FBI agent screamed as two searing rounds went into his leg. His body jerked convulsively. Blood pumped out through the wounds. Ignoring the man, Kella hurried away through the trees, looking for signs of Imison’s progress. He soon picked up his tracks. He was surprised to see that the American definitely seemed to be heading back to the clearing. Kella slowed his pace to let Imison reach the hut.
A quarter of an hour later, he was standing behind a tree on the edge of the clearing. There were signs of activity from the hut thirty yards away. Then the door was flung open, and Imison came out, pushing someone before him. Kella could see that it was Sister Conchita.
‘I know you’re there,’ shouted Imison across the clearing. ‘Come out, or I’ll kill the nun!’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘I MEAN WHAT I say!’ shouted Imison. ‘Come out of those trees before I pull the trigger!’
There was a long pause, and then Kella came watchfully into the clearing. He was carrying the Garand of the agent he had shot in the bush.
‘Put that rifle down and come over,’ said Imison, pushing Sister Conchita forward so that she was standing between him and the policeman.
Kella placed the Garand on the ground and then walked steadily over towards the hut. From within, Lopez could be heard sobbing in pain.
‘That’s far enough,’ said Imison when Kella was a few yards away. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘I’m Sergeant Kella of the British Solomon Islands Police Force. I’m here to arrest you for the murders of Joe Dontate on Skull Island and Ed Blamire at Marakosi.’
Imison laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he said. ‘What happened to Baxter? I see you’ve got his rifle.’
‘He’s back in the bush.’
‘Dead, I suppose?’
‘No,’ said Kella. ‘As it happens, he’s still alive.’
‘Thank God!’ said Sister Conchita, feeling inexpressibly relieved. ‘You only wounded them.’
‘That’s no use to me,’ said Imison. ‘They’re both out of action.’
‘Another ten minutes and I would have got you too,’ said Kella regretfully.
‘Is that supposed to reassure me?’ asked Imison.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sister Conchita miserably. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘Most of it is anyway, I’d say,’ agreed Imison. ‘Don’t worry. You certainly did me a favour. I came back to the hut for some more ammunition and I found the sister ministering to the sick. It just shows you that no good deed ever goes unpunished. Just when I was wondering how I could get off this island, too.’
‘Let her go,’ said Kella. ‘You’ve got me as a hostage. You don’t need her any more.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Imison. ‘Are you crazy? I don’t want hostages. All I need is a way to get back to the launch without being shot, and now I’ve got it, thanks to the sister here.’
‘You won’t get the other two on board,’ said Kella with subdued satisfaction. ‘They can’t walk, and they both need medical help.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ asked Imison. ‘I never liked either of them anyway. Yes, I have to say that you’ve sadly depleted my crew. Luckily I can handle the steering by myself.’
‘It was the knap knap, wasn’t it?’ asked Sister Conchita suddenly. With a pang of shame, she realized that even at a moment when the lives of both Sergeant Kella and herself were in danger, she still felt impelled to get to the root of what had been happening. Imison also seemed to recognize the incongruity of her enquiry.
‘What?’ he asked irritably.
‘That’s why you’re here in the Solomons. Somewhere you heard a rumour about the islander guide Kakaihe and his taking an offer of safe conduct to Lieutenant Kennedy and the other survivors from PT-109 as long as they surrendered to the Japanese, and you came here to check it out. When you couldn’t prove anything, you got Joe Dontate to manufacture some replicas of the knap knaps at his Gizo shell factory. You scattered some of them on Kasolo, the first island Kennedy landed on, and now you’ve come to Olasana to do the same thing here before you leave the Solomons. If you ever want to tarnish Mr Kennedy’s reputation, you can arrange for someone to find one of those carved shells one day, and all the old rumours will start circulating again. That’s a disgraceful act!’
‘You catch on quick,’ said Imison.
‘I saw those frigate bird knap knaps in the hut Mary Gui was sharing with Joe Dontate in the bush village on Kolombangara,’ said Kella. ‘So that’s why Dontate knocked me out and had me put on the trading vessel. He had been on the way to deliver the fake knap knaps to you, Imison. He left them overnight in Mary’s hut and was frightened that I had seen them and would recognize their significance. He overestimated me. I didn’t even catch on when I saw some more of the shell frigate birds in Dontate’s Gizo shell house.’
‘It would all have gone fine if it hadn’t been for Dontate,’ said Imison. ‘He supplied the knap knaps and was well paid for them. The he started g
etting scruples and said that he wanted to pull out.’
‘So you shot him,’ said Kella. Desperately he tried to think of something else to say to retain the American’s attention. For the past few minutes he had been aware of a figure scurrying across the clearing behind Imison. He tried to look everywhere except in the direction of the hut.
‘Who sent you?’ he asked. ‘Who wants to blacken Kennedy’s reputation? I suppose it’s somebody who doesn’t want him to become president?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ said Imison. ‘All I can say is that it was a sweet little scheme, before it started going wrong, sweet as a nut. We can’t waste any more time. Sister, you go and stand next to the sergeant. It’ll be light in an hour and I must be getting on my way.’
Slowly Sister Conchita walked over and stood next to Sergeant Kella. Kella tensed to leap across at the American, although he knew that he would surely be shot down before he had covered even half of the distance between them. A swarm of fireflies danced delicately across the clearing. This was a bad omen; fireflies were regarded as the ghosts of men killed in battle. Kella wished that he could have some indication from the ghosts of what was going to happen. The previous day, after his return to Munda from Skull Island, he had forced himself to sleep for an hour, in the hope that his ano, his soul, would leave him as he rested and wander freely, to return later and tell him what it had seen across the lagoon. There had been no such visitation.
He commended his soul to the safe keeping of his ancestor Sina Kwao, the war god known as Shining White because of the light colour of his skin, who had journeyed to the artificial island of Sulufou from far over the seas. Then he prepared to launch himself at the American.
It was then that the apparition struck from the shadows of the hut. As Imison shifted the position of his rifle, the figure sprang forward, a knife raised in its hand. Imison heard a sound, but before he could turn, his attacker was on him, striking fiercely at his neck and back. Imison screamed and fell to the ground. The figure toppled over on top of him and struck savagely twice more. Imison lay still. The figure stood up.
