EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Sergeant Omoto was exhausted. It took him the rest of the night to roll the pair of corpses to the edge of the inland cliff and push them over. At the bottom, they mingled with the skeletons of hunters and hitchhikers and campers and fugitives and surveyors and loggers and lovers who had the misfortune over the years to stumble across his lonely hilltop aerie.

  The spark of dawn touched the horizon just as Sergeant Omoto completed his task, and the old soldier paused to watch. First a quiet brightness far to the east, then hazy lines of pumpkin and violet erupting over the range in a symphony. Somewhere, in the mist, an eagle screeched. Sergeant Omoto wondered how much longer before Tokyo remembered him.

  Copyright © 2012 by Gordon McEachern

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: BLACK PEARLS

  by Clark Howard

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evans

  * * * *

  Clark Howard won his first EQMM Readers Award in 1985 and in the years since has gone on to claim four more first-place plaques and many scrolls. One of the things that make his work so consistently compelling is his ability to create a vivid sense of place. He is well traveled and often takes his readers to far-flung parts of the world in his fiction, as in this tale of black pearl divers in the waters off Tahiti. We have another Howard story coming soon. Don't miss it!

  FBI Special Agent Daniel Leland reported to the deputy director's office in Washington, D.C., as instructed, on a Monday morning, having flown in the previous day from his regular assignment at the FBI regional office in Honolulu. Deputy Director Dennis Boyle stood up behind his desk to shake hands.

  “Hello, Dan. Sorry to pull you away from paradise.”

  “Hello, sir,” Leland said with a smile. “No problem, as long as it isn't snowing.”

  Boyle introduced two other men who were also in the office.

  “Dan, this is Inspector Roland Caspar of Interpol. And Colonel Jacques Menard of the French Police Nationale. Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Daniel Leland, the man I've been telling you about.”

  Leland shook hands with the men and took a seat with them facing Boyle's desk.

  “Inspector Caspar and Colonel Menard have come to us for help on a matter that has been bothering them for about three years. Jacques, why don't you lay it out for Dan.”

  “Of course,” said Menard. “As you know, Agent Leland, the Polynesian Islands in the South Pacific are a territory belonging to France. Known as French Polynesia, they form a loose chain of some one hundred islands which lie about halfway between South America on the east and Australia on the west. The most well known of these islands is Tahiti, and its nearest sister island, Moorea. One of the main products of these islands is natural pearls, which are found in abundance in oysters in the waters of the Tuamotu Archipelago that surrounds them. These pearls, which are exported around the world, are a taxable commodity for the French government. Their export fees amount to a significant percentage of France's income from national products, much like the money your country earns from its tobacco and alcohol taxes—”

  “And without the resulting impact on its national health,” the representative from Interpol interjected.

  “Let's keep ethical principles out of this, please,” the FBI executive said sternly.

  “Certainly,” Caspar apologized with a token bow of his head. “I did not mean to cast any aspersions by the comparison.”

  “The problem I was getting at,” Menard continued in his accented but otherwise perfect English, “is that a large quantity of black pearls is somehow being harvested and smuggled out of our territory without being properly accounted for and taxed. And, in case you are not aware of their value,” the Frenchman's tone became almost reverent, “let me explain that black pearls are by far the rarest and most valuable of any pearl ever discovered. They come from black pearl oysters, which can be found primarily in deep-water habitats, and when harvested they are exquisitely iridescent. They are shimmering, glistening, lustrously opalescent—”

  “We get the point,” FBI man Boyle interrupted. “Inspector, why don't you take over at this point,” he invited.

  “Yes, thank you,” said the Interpol representative. “As you know,” he said to Leland, “we are the International Criminal Police Organization. We liaise with all national law-enforcement agencies throughout the world. Any recognized agency can come to us at any time for assistance with any criminal activity affecting their country. It is in that spirit that Colonel Menard asked for our assistance in the matter of this black-pearl problem. And it is through us that he, or rather we, have come to your renowned bureau.”

  Seeing Leland frown slightly, Boyle said, “If you're wondering why the French police haven't solved this problem themselves, Dan, it isn't because they haven't tried. Menard here sent an undercover operative from his own force to infiltrate the area where they believe most of the black pearls are being illegally harvested and smuggled out. His man disappeared less than a month later. When he took the case to Interpol, Inspector Caspar asked for help from England. Scotland Yard then also sent an undercover man in—and six weeks later he disappeared.”

  “Now they're bringing it to us?” Dan Leland asked, somewhat incredulously.

  “Correct.” Boyle rose and said, “Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind waiting in the outer office, I'd like a word in private with my agent.”

  Colonel Menard and Inspector Caspar, exchanging unamused glances, retired to the outer office, leaving the two FBI men alone. Before Boyle could speak, Leland was on his feet.

  “Sir, if I'm here for the reason I think, I request permission to return to my assignment in Hawaii.”

  “Permission denied. Look, Dan, I don't like this any more than you do, but it's been dropped on my desk by the director himself. With, I might add, the attorney general's approval.”

  “Fine. If you're assigning this to me, I'll resign.”

  “You won't do that.”

  “I will. I'll go to work for the Secret Service.”

  “Those babysitters!” Boyle scoffed. “You want to end up driving two little girls to school and back every day?”

  “It's better than being number three in the great Tahiti disappearing act. I don't want to be digested by a shark.”

  “You won't be. Do you think I'd give you this job if I wasn't sure you could do it? This assignment is tailor-made for you. You're perfect for it.”

  “Oh, really? Kindly tell me how.” Leland sat back down and crossed his arms.

  Boyle now rose and paced around the office. “You're young. Smart. Tough. You're a scuba diver, which is a perfect cover for being in Tahiti. You've already got a sun tan that screams island living. Hell, that slug from Scotland Yard was probably white as a scone. Also, you don't speak French like Menard's guy, who probably tipped off the locals the first time he ordered wine.” Boyle stopped pacing and sat down next to Leland. “Danny, you're just different enough to resolve this case.”

  Leland sulked. “You know I'm engaged to be married. And she happens to be the daughter of a Hawaiian state senator.”

  “I know. Abigail Newsome. I've seen her picture. She's very pretty.”

  “You should see her when she's angry. Frightening. And if I spring this on her—” Leland shivered.

  “Look, your wedding's not for three months. You can wrap this up in five or six weeks.”

  Leland sulked some more. “Does the director know about the two guys who disappeared?”

  “Yes. So does the attorney general.”

  “So if I bring this off, they'll both know how dangerous it was?”

  Boyle smiled broadly. “Danny, my boy, your name will be prominent in a report to both of them that may even reach the President's desk. After all, you will have succeeded where both the governments of France and England and Interpol failed. It'll be like having a halo over your head.”

  Leland stopped sulking. A slight smile crept over his lips. The President's desk.
A halo.

  * * * *

  When Leland got back to Honolulu, Abigail Newsome stared at him in shock.

  "Tahiti! You've got to be kidding!”

  Leland shrugged. “Wish I was, honey. But that's the assignment.”

  “Well, I'm calling Daddy. And he'll call the governor. And the governor will call our United States senator—”

  “Abby, you can't do that,” Leland said, as firmly as he thought wise when his fiancée was on the verge of an emotional eruption. “It would ruin me in the bureau.”

  “So? Transfer to the Secret Service.”

  “What, and be a babysitter driving two little girls to school every day? Abby, you've always bragged about me being with the FBI when all your girlfriends have married bankers and dentists and other nerds. Plus which, if I went with the Secret Service we'd have to move to Washington. It snows there.”

  “But Tahiti, for God's sake! We don't even own it! Spain or somebody owns it.”

  “France.”

  “Well, why you, then? Why the FBI?” She drilled him with a laser stare. “Dan, is this something dangerous?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “It's all about pearl smuggling. Practically a white-collar crime.” He took both her hands in his. “Look, Boyle thinks I can wrap this thing up in five or six weeks—”

  “My bridal shower is exactly two months from today,” she reminded him, with a classic little-girl pout she had developed over the years. “And I'm sure the men at the club will throw some kind of crude bachelor party for you—”

  “I'll be back in plenty of time for all that,” he promised. “Come here—”

  He drew her close and tried to kiss her passionately, open-mouthed, tongue and all, but as usual she kept her lips sealed in what she referred to as a “correct” kiss, not the kind practiced by “natives” and other low types. It was a condition of their relationship to which Leland had adjusted. Reluctantly.

  * * * *

  Ten days later, after another trip back to Washington for a complete briefing and change of identity, Leland disembarked an Air Micronesia jet at Faa'a Airport on the outskirts of Papeete, Tahiti's administrative capital. He was now William Garson, an island-hopping transient carrying a U.S. passport that had been chemically aged to eliminate its newness, the pages of which had been stamped and predated to show that over the past sixteen months he had loafed around a considerable part of the northern and southern Pacific Ocean, visiting, among other islands, Toga, Tinian, Saipan, Kiribati, Tuvalu, Tonga, Pago Pago, and even remote Pitcairn, which is only accessible by boat.

  Alighting into the oppressive humidity of the airport's tarmac, he made his way into the terminal along an avenue of native women sitting on cushions behind spreads of colorful Polynesian cloths on which they offered for sale an extraordinary selection of island souvenirs: trinkets, seashells, and miscellaneous items of bamboo, bark, and fronds. All of the women were robustly figured and dressed in muumuus of bright flowered patterns. They were, Leland observed, like the women of Hawaii, without exception of faultless complexion, with black shiny hair, full lips, and perfect white teeth.

  Ignoring their wares, Leland went into the baggage-claim area, waited until his duffel bag was unloaded, and slung it over one shoulder to line up for Customs and Immigration inspection, which he found to be cursory. Once through those formalities, he hired a taxi, paid in advance and without complaint the twenty-two dollar fare into Papeete, and told the driver, “I have to stop at the freight terminal to pick up another piece of baggage.”

  “Sure, sir, no problem,” he was told. The driver made a U-turn and drove around to the rear of the passenger terminal to a freight dock. Leland got out, presented a claim check to a steward, and was given his dive bag, which already had on it a white tag marked: passed—customs—french polynesia.

  “On a dive vacation, sir?” the driver asked, recognizing the type of bag as Leland put it in the backseat with his duffel and got up front with the driver.

  “Not exactly a vacation,” he said. “Looking for dive work.”

  “Not much scuba-diving work around here,” the driver said. “Mos'ly here is lagoon diving. Hold-your-breath diving. Dey go down twenty-fi’ feet with a net, pick up all the oysters de’ tide bring in overnight. Shell ‘em right on the pier, hope to find de’ pearl.”

  “Lot of pearl business here?”

  “Sure. Tourist business. Dey like Tahitian pearls. Come on cruise ship for one day, buy enough pearls to keep lagoon divers busy for a week.” He threw Leland a quick glance. “You like buy pearls, I take you to good shop. Honest shop.”

  Leland shook his head. “I need a job. Money's short. Take me to a good cheap hotel. Clean. And tell me where I can find a poolroom. If I can't find a job, maybe I can pick up a little pocket money shooting pool.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. You get both in same place. Tiki Hotel. Cheap, clean. Got bar with pool table in it. Lots of sailors shoot pool there, play for money.”

  * * * *

  The Tiki Hotel was on Waterfront Road near the town's main dock and the ferry quay to Tahiti's many sister islands. Its outdoor sign boasted thirty rooms and air conditioning. The room to which Leland was assigned had cheap wicker furnishings and an old pink tile bathroom, but as the taxi driver had promised, it was spotlessly clean. First opening his dive pack to check that his air cylinders were undamaged, then unpacking his duffel and putting his worn island clothes neatly away, Leland left the room and went down to the bar. He saw outside that a typical heavy downpour of rain had materialized and was sweeping down the nearby docks. Leland knew from experience in Hawaii that such occurrences came and went within a matter of minutes, and that no one paid much attention to them.

  The bar, off the lobby, was only moderately busy, and he was able to find a small, round, unoccupied table in a back corner that suited him perfectly as a location from which to observe the room's activities and adjust himself to the Papeete environment. Almost as soon as he sat down, he was approached by a young native woman wearing a short tropical muumuu under a plastic waitress apron.

  “What would you like, sir?” she asked.

  “What kind of beer do you have?”

  “Warm and cold.”

  “No, I mean what brands of beer do you serve.”

  “Australian Crown Lager, Japanese rice beer, Fiji Bitter, and Hinano.”

  “What's Hinano?”

  “Tahitian beer, brewed here on the island. It's dark brown, heavier than the other beers.”

  “I'll try the local beer. Cold, please.”

  “Yessir.”

  Leland watched as she walked away across the room. Her short muumuuonly reached to mid thigh, revealing exquisitely shaped, perfectly matched legs. Leland thought briefly of Abigail back in Honolulu, who was just knock-kneed enough to notice when she wore tennis shorts.

  Looking around the room, Leland noticed his taxi driver at a table, conversing in what appeared to be a confidential manner with two other men, both white, and both of whom glanced over at Leland as they spoke. That was quick, he thought. Word was already getting around: a new scuba diver in town looking for work.

  The waitress brought his beer. “Six dollars, please.”

  As Leland was pulling money out of his pocket to pay, he noticed a nametag pinned to her muumuutop which read: domi. “That's a pretty name: Domi. Is it Tahitian?”

  “No. It's short for Dominique.”

  “Then you're French?”

  “One-quarter French, yes. Dominique was my French grandmother's name. Six dollars, please.”

  Leland gave her a U.S. ten. “Keep the change, Domi.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When she walked away, Leland again admired her perfect legs.

  After a couple of sips of beer, Leland took his mug and walked to an anteroom off the bar proper in which he had observed a pool table when he first came in. There was a game in progress between a native man in a flowered shirt and a wh
ite man wearing a battered merchant seaman's cap. The game was being watched by a dozen mixed-race men who occupied a double-rowed wooden spectator bench. There was also a padded folding chair nearby, and since it was unoccupied Leland went over and sat down on it. The two men paused in their game and several spectators looked at him curiously, then a burly native came over and said, “You can't sit there.”

  “Why not?” Leland asked.

  “That's Mr. Tamu's chair. Nobody sits there but Mr. Tamu.”

  Leland studied the native for a moment. He was about five-ten and must have weighed two-sixty, with upper arms the size of Leland's thighs. He was not smiling.

  “Sorry,” Leland said. “I didn't know.” He rose and stepped away to take a seat on the spectator bench. The room resumed its activity.

  The two men Leland had seen in conversation with his taxi driver entered the pool-table area and sauntered over, drinks in hand, to stand near where Leland sat. “I think I'll put my name down for a game,” one of them said, in a distinctly British accent, just loud enough for Leland to hear. “Care to join me?”

  “No, you go ahead,” his companion replied, in French-accented English.

  The man with the British accent stepped over to a small blackboard on the wall and with a stub of white chalk scrawled: Brit. Turning back, he bobbed his chin at Leland. “You play pool?”

  “Sometimes,” Leland said. It was a modest lie; he had been the billiard-club champion at Purdue for five semesters.

  “Care for a game?” Brit asked. Leland shrugged.

  “Okay.” He came over and signed the board: Bill.

  The two men at the table immediately terminated their game, hung up their cue sticks, and a young Polynesian boy quickly racked the fifteen balls for a new game.