From The Grave

Chapter 9

International Airport, an important hub for air travel over the Pacific Ocean, with many flights between North America and Australia, New Zealand, and other Pacific Island countries, stopping first in Fiji. This was their first leg of the journey and Arny, while still tight about the whole deal, found the efforts of the CONGA crew almost heroic in providing for their passengers.

Gretta's reputation made her a magnet for attention. The flight was long and not as enlightening as it might have been had the cargo hold possessed a window but he managed to sleep a good portion of the way as it was. After landing, Gretta had a few moments with the flight crew, chatting and thanking them and then they were waved off on the back of a luggage cart to the customs office.

From the terminal, necessary inspections and procedures completed, they were quickly transported to Nausori, the principal hub for domestic travel.

"You said I'd really like Fiji; all I've seen is two airports and the inside of a bus."

"We have to pick up a domestic flight here. I told you, CONGA could only get us to this point."

"So we could still take a minute couldn't we? There must be more than one flight."

"We have to get to New Zealand first; we can stay over there for a bit. You'll love it."

"I wanna love Fiji."

"Our flight is boarding, Arny."

They were greeted by the cabin crew and directed to their seats. Arny wanted a window but it was already occupied by an elderly lady who was sound asleep with her straw hat tilted over her face. Gretta stored their bags in the overhead and played rock, scissors, paper with Arny for the aisle seat.

"You wanted to look out the window and the middle is closer than the aisle so stop complaining."

As the plain lifted off and the stewardess finished the safety spiel, the pilot relayed the altitude, time of flight and weather conditions.

"Look at all the islands! Which one is Fiji?"

"All of them, over 800."

"What? What do you mean?" He strained over the sleeping lady.

"Fiji isn't one island, it's an area. One of roughly 7000 square miles. The two largest islands make up about 85 percent of the area. Viti Levu and Vanua Levu. They're huge volcanic rocks really."

"I see mountains."

"Right, probably Tomanilvi. It's around 4000 feet."

"So what's down there if it's all volcanic rock."

"There's plenty of vegetation, Arny. They even have a rain forest, plus, they have a nice collection of native plants and trees. Remember when we were in the Philippines and they had all those hardwood forests? Well they have a lot of hardwood here too."

"That's it? Tourism and hardwood?"

"Actually it's tourism and sugar then forestry. Commercial fishing is a big deal too. They license foreign fishermen as a means of income as well. It not unlike the Philippines in that the people are a similar mix in similar proportions. Interesting, eh?"

"Are all those islands occupied?"

"I don't know, I doubt it. Some are only a few meters above the sea level." Gretta tilted her seat back and closed her eyes. "So endeth the lesson, Arnold."

"Thanks, I'll get the rest from the magazine, or maybe my friend here. The lady emitted a soft snore."

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The plane touched down at the Air New Zealand airport in Wellington, the capital, and taxied to the terminal where it waited several minutes for a slot. The passengers retrieved their belongings and shuffled out into a temperature more suited for November or March.

Inside the terminal they passed through customs and security and out to the bus and taxi ranks. Gretta hired a cab to take them to the ferry service to the South Island.

"Why down there?" Arny asked, doing his best to sight-see as they were whipped through traffic and down to the docks.

"There's an airport at Christchurch that CONGA uses; we might get a better deal down there, and tomorrow is the regular weekly flight, otherwise we hire privately."

"Do we ever eat?"

"Let's get the flight settled then we'll grab a hotel for the night and find some dinner. Okay?"

"I'm just your Pancho."

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Approaching dinner time, the rain abated and left the streets with small ponds in the uneven roads and the ditches. The three Americans, dried and changed from their sortie to the church and headed downstairs to the dining room. The time was almost nine and they wanted to be first seated.

"Do we know anything about this guy?" Arlo asked.

"Only that he closed the estate of the guy that had the stamp. Found it in among a bunch of other collectible crap." Humboldt waved a hand at the waiter.

"He's a lawyer?" Hunter said.

"I don't know. Maybe he was just the executor."

"Yeah but there must have been a lawyer somewhere in the mix; you have to declare all the assets." Hunter insisted.

"Who are you all of a sudden, Perry Mason?"

"He was a criminal lawyer."

"How would you like a smack in the mouth." Arlo warned.

"Shut. Up. Both of you."

The waiter sidled up to the table, keeping a discrete distance. As the three men ordered drinks.

"How are we goin' to handle this?" Arlo asked, eyeing the waiter.

"I'll decide that when we meet the guy." Yeager shook a cigarette from his pack and lit up, blowing a huge grey cloud into the room.

"Here comes Cecil." Hunter slipped his comb away and sat up.

"Where the hell is Mr. Superior?"

Cecil approached the table, looked around and beckoned the waiter over.

"We will be moving our party to the table behind the screen, Horace." He gestured for the three to get up and he walked away. Horace began clearing the table and moving the settings to the new location.

"What the hell is that!" Arlo complained. "Who does this bunch think they are?"

"For the moment, they're the bunch with the stamp we want." Humboldt marched after Cecil and without asking, took a chair next to the man already seated in the alcove. Hunter and Arlo followed suit, getting a cantankerous sniff from Cecil as he took the remaining seat.