CHAPTER 38

 

DANGEROUS RONDEZVOUS

 

 

June 5, 2001

Li’ili Village, American Samoa

 

 

 

George Partain drove down the dirt road that led to the Lanu-eka Golf Course. Once Gale gave him the cash, he would drive back to the Agelu Lodge and get a good night’s sleep. He planned to spend more time with Yun on Sunday.

After the hearings on Monday afternoon, he would pay his gambling debt. With that transaction complete, he could focus on what was important. If things went awry at the hearings, he would find a way to get them back on track.

Sitting in his Jeep in the golf course parking lot, George put down the front windows to enjoy the night air. He lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch. It was ten seventeen.

He remembered they were meeting at the first tee, not in the parking lot. He wasn’t sure if there was another way to get to the tee, but it occurred to George that his partner might have used a back entrance to avoid being seen with him.

George opened the door to the Jeep, climbed out, and walked past the practice green and down the hill to the first tee. He thought he saw a figure move behind a tree and he yelled out.

“Hey, Gale, is that you?”

No one replied. An alarm went off in George’s head. He was standing on a deserted golf course at night and was a vulnerable target. Maybe Gale’s concern for him wasn’t sincere. After all, thirty million would be twice as nice as fifteen million.

Several weeks earlier, George began worrying that he might have worked himself into a weak position. All of the parties to their project knew one another. He wouldn’t be needed to move any of the money or assemble other pieces of the puzzle. On the other hand, at Gale’s instruction, he employed an additional operative who remained unknown to anyone else.

George pulled out his revolver and crouched down making his way to a large palm tree just behind the eighteenth green. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead fed by fear and the moist evening air. He had a clear view of the parking lot and his Jeep. Slowly, he would work his way back to the vehicle and drive directly to Gale’s house to confront him.

George spotted the next tree that would provide adequate cover and started to run to it, still crouched. About halfway there he heard the screams of fruit bats overhead. Without thinking, he slowed for a split second and looked up. Just then he heard a grunt and whizzing sound and felt something crash into his right temple. He slid down on his side trying to maintain his composure.

Before a second blow could be delivered, he struggled to his feet and dove into a sand trap next to a nearby green. Blood dripped into his right eye and he wiped it away with his sleeve, breathing hard.

George didn’t know how many assailants waited for him, but once they had him cornered, he’d be finished. He had no protection behind the trap and was an easy target. Before he could determine his next move he heard a whistling sound and he rolled to his left.

He saw an ancient Samoan war club half-buried in the sand. Years ago Samoan warriors used a variety of these clubs to expel invaders. This one was a short version, intricately carved out of dark, heavy wood with pointed ends in the shape of a half-moon just above the handle.

In the distance George spotted what looked like a young Samoan warrior from days past. He aimed and fired three shots in that direction. He thought he heard laughter and running and decided to make a final, desperate dash for the Jeep.

About a third of the way there another club crashed into his shoulder. This club had a jagged edge and sharp metal spikes that buried in his flesh. The pain jolted his senses forcing a yelp from his lips. George tore the spikes from his body and got off two more shots as he continued his sprint.

Another club found his head just a few feet from the practice green. Half-conscious, George fell to the ground, losing his revolver.

As the detective laid motionless, blood pouring from his wounds, three Samoan warriors approached. Through a fog, George stared at his out-of-reach revolver. He was through. He cracked the wry smile of a man who had come too close to his dream.

The tallest of the three assassins spoke in a hushed voice.

“We bitchin. Look this poor devil. He nothin but our number two do.”

“We hummin, we stackin up, bro,” another boy said.

The remaining teen, the one with a thin scar on his left cheek, produced a machete.

“That shank,” he said, “it ziggy. He done.”

George closed his eyes tightly, praying it was just a bad dream.

Then, the executioner struck the fatal blow.

***

The three trained thugs went into their ordered routine. One produced a large plastic sheet for George’s body. Another collected the war clubs and George’s revolver. The third raked smooth the sand trap and sprayed water on the bloodstains.

The gang carried George’s body to his Jeep and drove it to a nearby cove. They lugged the corpse to a waiting canoe. One of the boys paddled out to sea where the package was weighted down and dumped. Following detailed instructions, the other boys drove the Jeep to the airport and left it in the long-term parking area.

Gale knew, when the police investigated George’s disappearance, they would find he couldn’t raise the money to pay his gambling debt. Fearing the wrath of the Koreans, they would conclude George headed out for places unknown.