The Solomon Curse by Clive Cussler Page A

to you. The island’s still largely wild, and, like I said, the crocs aren’t the only predators.”
    â€œWe’ll bear that in mind. Thanks again.”
    Heat radiated off the parking lot as they walked to the Nissan, the equatorial sun already brutal in the late morning. This time, their driveeast on the only paved road was fast and relatively easy until they passed the tiny village of Komunimboko and the road they’d had to quit the prior day. It wasn’t waist-deep in water any longer, but it was badly rutted and still mostly mud.
    Sam dropped the drive train into four-wheel drive and they edged along, the car swaying and bouncing like an amusement park ride. The passage through the jungle narrowed until it more resembled a tunnel than a road. The canopy overhead blocked much of the sun, and the foliage framing the muddy track was dense and foreboding, brushing against the sides of the SUV as it rocked inland.
    â€œAnd we don’t even know if this Rubo is still alive or living here?” Remi asked.
    â€œThere are no guarantees in life. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
    â€œI think I left it back a mile ago, along with my sacroiliac and a few fillings.”
    â€œWe’ve been through worse.”
    â€œI just hope I can keep breakfast down.”
    Half an hour later, they rounded a particularly ugly switchback curve and entered a clearing by the river. A traditional thatch-roofed hut rested in the shade of a tall banyan tree, no evidence of power or phone lines to be found. They rolled to a stop in front, and Remi glanced at Sam.
    â€œNice. And you have me staying at that crappy hotel?”
    â€œEvery day brings new surprises, doesn’t it?”
    â€œI think your quarry is peering out the doorway.”
    â€œLet’s hope so.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll stay in the car. That way, if you take a blowgun dart to the neck, I’ll be able to get help.”
    â€œAlways thinking of me, aren’t you? It has nothing to do with the AC . . .”
    â€œIf you can even call it AC. To me, it feels like it’s just blowing the hot air around.”
    â€œStay, if you want. I’m going to talk to our new friend. You sure you saw someone there?” Sam asked, squinting at the hut.
    â€œI think so. Movement. Could have been a crocodile or a skink, though, so be careful.”
    â€œThat makes me feel . . . really good.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m here for.”
    Sam opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle and then slowly made his way toward the dwelling, which looked uninhabited. When he was a few yards away, a tremulous voice called out from inside in pidgin. Even though Sam didn’t understand it, from the tone it was clearly a warning, so he stopped.
    â€œI’m looking for Rubo,” he said slowly. “Rubo,” he repeated for emphasis. “Do you speak English?”
    All Sam could hear was the soft rumbling of the Nissan’s poorly muffled exhaust and the buzz of inquisitive insects that had taken an interest in him. He resisted the urge to swat at the air like an enraged bear and instead waited for a response.
    A figure appeared in the doorway. It was an ancient man, stooped and thin, with sagging skin, and clad only in a pair of tattered shorts. The skeletal face studied Sam, the eyes dull in the shadows, and then the figure spoke.
    â€œI speak some English. What you want?”
    â€œI’m a friend of Orwen Manchester. I’m looking for Rubo.”
    â€œI heard you fine. Why?”
    â€œI need to ask some questions. About local legends.”
    The old man emerged from the dark interior and regarded Sam with suspicion. “You come long way for questions.”
    â€œThey’re important.”
    The old man grunted. “I’m Rubo.”
    â€œI’m Sam. Sam Fargo.” Sam extended his hand, and Rubo stared at it like it was smeared with filth. Sam hesitated,