Clive Cussler: The Solomon Curse

Jeffrey Grimes leaned back in his executive chair, a distracted expression in place, as his subordinates gave their reports of ever-worsening financial results. The mood in the conference room was panicked as the assembled executives described a financial empire slowly running off the rails.

“With commodity prices slipping and our tankers sitting unused twenty-seven percent of the time, we’re literally bleeding money on our shipping company, as well as the commodity trading entity,” a stern man in his forties said from beside the overhead projector, where a graph that was mostly red glowed accusingly on the screen. “The gold bet was disastrous, and with another nine billion in notional value of related options contracts maturing this month, it looks like at least twenty-eight million dollars net loss.”

That got Grimes’s attention. “Get us out of those contracts early. The trend’s not our friend now. Someone’s selling large amounts of gold into the market every day when trading’s thinnest, driving prices down. That has to be a central bank, probably the Americans trying to prop up their dollar, given the volumes — there aren’t a lot of players who can sell twenty-five tons of bullion every day and I don’t want to wait until they’re finished with their play — it could ruin us.”

“Could be the Chinese,” the vice president of the commodities trading firm observed. “Net accumulations through Hong Kong are way up. They could be selling paper options contracts to drive the price down for their bullion purchases. Nobody wants to pay top dollar, and they’re sitting on a trillion dollars of currency they want to unload. So they buy bullion, pay the loss on the paper contracts with dollars they don’t want anyway, and bolster their bullion holdings to wind up net even.”

Grimes waved the insight away. “Doesn’t matter. We’re the ant and they’re the elephant. The bet’s run the wrong way. Time to cut our losses and move on.” He eyed the chart. “As for the shipping, we’ll have to temporarily reduce our prices to drive demand.”

“We can’t. We’ll lose money on every shipment.”

“I’d rather lose ten million this quarter with full ships than twenty with them sitting unused.”

The discussion went on, but Grimes was only half listening. He’d been following the events in the Solomons for the last forty-eight hours and, as far as he could tell, something had gone badly wrong. The predicted massive social unrest and resultant regime change had fizzled, and there were troubling local reports that the government had declared the unrest the direct result of a plot to advance a nationalization agenda, which sounded precisely like his mystery partner’s scheme unraveling before his eyes.

The implications for his personal fortune were dire. This had been a winner-take-all proposition, and if it was cratering, he’d be left with nothing. Or at least, by his standards, nothing. Perhaps ten million in offshore accounts, three in gold in his oversized floor safe, a few hundred thousand here and there. But his yacht was a liability, not an asset, as was his home, which was twice mortgaged, and his vacation condos had been pledged as collateral for bridge loans he’d been forced to secure over the last few weeks. As with most entrepreneurs, most of his net worth was tied up in his company’s stock, and the day he sold his first share, the second share would be worth half as much — after being decimated when he filed the mandatory disclosures in advance.

The situation in the Solomons was a disaster. And it was unfolding in real time. Something had obviously gone badly wrong and he was fully exposed, his personal fortune at risk.

“Gentlemen, we need to find buyers for the shipping company,” Grimes said. “I want to divest ourselves of that albatross as soon as possible. It was a good bet when oil was high, but with all the volatility lately, it’s dead money and we need to—”

He was interrupted by three stern men in suits throwing the conference room door open.

Grimes’s heart rate increased rapidly as the lead man looked around the room and then settled his stare on him.

This can’t be happening …

“Jeffrey Grimes?”

“Who’s asking? And how dare you interrupt a corporate meeting?” Grimes demanded.

“Chief Inspector Collins with the ACC — Australian Crime Commission. You’re under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Grimes demanded. “What are the charges?”

“We’ll get to that soon enough, but we’re starting with money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder, murder, kidnapping, and numerous violations of international law.”

“That’s absurd!”

Collins glanced around the room. “Meeting’s over, gents. Your boss is going away for a long time. Say good-bye, because you won’t be seeing him again.”

“I want my lawyer,” Grimes said.

“Perfect. Now, stand up so I can cuff you.”

“Surely that won’t be necessary,” Grimes objected.

“Mr. Grimes, stand up or I’ll drag you out of here by your hair. Fair warning.” The expression on Collins’s face left little to the imagination.

Grimes complied and minutes later he was being guided to a waiting police van by his humorless escorts. His mind was working furiously to calculate damage control. They couldn’t have anything. None of his involvement was documented. He’d kept everything verbal, and the shell corporations had been created in a smorgasbord of jurisdictions that would take years for any law enforcement agency to untangle. This was probably mostly bluff by the ACC — the rough Australian equivalent of the Americans’ Homeland Security — but he couldn’t underestimate them.

He was processed at police headquarters and placed in a holding cell. Nobody spoke to him other than to assure him that his attorney had been contacted. Four hours later, the cell door opened and a harried Simon Whistock, Esquire, entered, briefcase in hand. Grimes started to rise from the steel chair he was sitting on, but his attorney shook his head and took the only other seat, setting his briefcase beside him on the floor.

“Simon. What the hell is going on?” Grimes demanded.

Simon adjusted his round steel-rimmed spectacles and sat forward. “I just spent two hours with the team that will be prosecuting you. Two of them are fairly close friends, so I was able to get a glance at what they have.” Simon hesitated. “Jeffrey? It’s as bad as anything I’ve seen.”

Grimes swallowed hard. “That’s impossible.”

“We’ll forego my observation that you aren’t denying anything and skip to the evidence. They have all the financial records of some six corporations domiciled in the Solomon Islands, including bank transfers from companies controlled by you.”

Grimes began to protest, but Simon held up a hand to quiet him. “That they’re controlled by you will be problematic to establish but not impossible, based on the testimony of your partner in the Solomons — one Dr. Vanya. Does the name ring a bell?”

Grimes shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“ Her ,” Simon corrected. “No matter. They have telephone records from a burner cell phone of hers making multiple calls to a cell that was seized in your office.”

“What! You have to get that tossed. There has to be a way.”

“I’ll do my best, but it looks airtight, at first glance. Jeffrey, this woman murdered dozens of children. She organized a rebel group that killed Australian citizens. She was trying to overthrow the government so your companies could profit.” Simon exhaled. “How on earth did you get involved in this?”

“Simon, I had no idea…”