Sword of Allah (47 page)

The man who appeared to be the most senior in their escort handed over one of the rifles, Wilkes’s M4/203. He examined the weapon and passed it back with a quick comment.

‘He says it’s not heavy enough to be of any use,’ whispered Timbu. ‘No good for pounding sago.’The interpreter
spoke to the old man in the strange language that seemed to Wilkes to have no defined words or phrases, spoken as it was with a flat monotone. Wilkes had no idea how old the man was. He could have been forty or a hundred and forty. He was little, shrunken much like the chief of Muruk’s village. His nose was extremely broad, made even more so by the presence of an enormous boar’s tusk through it. Oddly, his skin was pale in places, as if the colour had been drained from it here and there. Cancer, perhaps, or some skin disease. Also, the man had no teeth, not one, and so his cheeks were concave and his lips puckered inwards. When he wasn’t speaking he habitually rubbed his smooth gums together. A couple of red and yellow feathers rose from the tight grey bun at the back of his head, and the collection of animal teeth dangling around his neck tinkled when he waved his arms about, something he appeared to do whenever he talked, gesturing like an Italian merchant.

As the conversation with Timbu continued, the chief became more agitated, as did the arm movements. Wilkes guessed it was his normal way of speaking, however, because the people of his village didn’t appear to react to it in the slightest. Eventually, the conversation came to an end and Timbu translated.

‘Tom, I told him that you are patrol officers hunting a criminal, a bad spirit who wants to poison people in your land. I told the chief that this bad spirit is the same one who came to his village with guns. The chief agrees that the man was spiritually bereft. One of these guns blew up when his oldest son fired it, killing him. This happened a month ago. The chief has since banned the use of firearms
for hunting and for war. There have been many similar incidents in neighbouring villages and because of this, the old man has been able to convince other villages to also stop using them.’

Timbu turned to the chief and the two spoke some more, the chief again becoming quite animated. ‘You’re going to love this, Tom,’ said Timbu when the chief had finished, finding it impossible to keep the smile off this face. ‘A week ago, this man, the bad spirit, came back with more guns. The chief had no choice but to exact payback. They killed him and ate him.’

‘Yeah, I can see why you’d think that’d make us happy,’ said Atticus, when he’d stopped laughing out loud. ‘That’s one way to end a blood feud.’ Somehow, being eaten was a far more satisfying outcome for the likes of Duat than life imprisonment or lethal injection.

‘How do we know he’s talking about Duat?’ said Ferallo. ‘He’s not the only one running guns in this part of the world.’

‘True,’ said Wilkes, the same thought having occurred to him.

Timbu put the question to the chief, who nodded and shouted a command to one of the men who’d escorted them from the marijuana field. The man ran off and reappeared some moments later. He passed the chief a human skull, which the old man presented to Timbu. A chunk of bone was missing from the rear of the skull, probably the death blow delivered by machete. Ants had done a good job in a short time, picking the skull clean.

‘That could be anyone,’ said Wilkes.

Timbu repeated that to the chief, who pointed to the
absent front teeth in the upper jaw. He then sifted through the teeth hanging around his neck until he found what he was looking for and beckoned Wilkes to take a closer look. It was a front tooth. And it was made of gold.

‘Stay tuned. Next up is
World Watch
. And in tonight’s edition, the ghosts of the crew of a US bomber plane that went missing in action in Papua New Guinea during World War Two are finally laid to rest. I’m Annabelle Gilbert, goodnight.’

Annabelle gave the camera the sort of lingering smile she’d give to a lover, until the producer informed her with the cutthroat signal that she was no longer being transmitted into the homes of thousands of strangers. The smile instantly evaporated and the hot lights were switched off. Annabelle took the earpiece out and unclipped both lapel microphones as the producer said, ‘That was nice, Belle.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Feels good to be back.’ She meant that sincerely. It was something of a relief to return to a familiar set with friendly faces. She’d put in her resignation, but they’d asked her to reconsider on the grounds that the network news executive producer, Steve Saunders, had been fired. She’d said nothing about her reasons for the resignation, but the rumours within the network’s hallways were rife and, of course, Saunders’ reputation preceded him. Apparently, he’d been seeing a pretty young thing in News down in Melbourne. There’d been complications. The girl
had fallen pregnant and Saunders had laughed at her when she came to him for some assistance. Unfortunately for Saunders, the girl in question was the chairman’s niece, working at the network incognito, without uncle’s influence until, of course, the pregnancy test returned a positive result.

The network execs, possibly nervous about additional scandal, had sweetened the deal for Annabelle, giving her the opportunity to film a series of syndicated news specials – the subject matter could be of her choosing. That was great. She could become a national ‘face’ and still keep her base at Townsville.
Where Tom lived.

Annabelle sat in the chair behind her desk while the crew partially broke the set, a corner of which was required for a game show to be recorded later in the evening. She listened to the overhead lights cool, ticking like excited crickets. It was these quieter moments she feared the most, when the same questions that kept coming back and back invaded her thoughts.
What about Tom and me? Is there a chance for us?
She’d tried to call him but she’d met with the usual operational silence bullshit from the regiment. They wouldn’t even tell her whether or not he was in the country.

Indeed, there’d been absolutely no communication between her and Tom since she’d called the engagement off, and yet she did feel different about things. In some ways, she was now even more confused. Was it just because she missed Tom painfully and was prepared to compromise her own beliefs to be with him? Or had her experiences both in Sydney and Darwin changed some fundamental beliefs? She didn’t want a husband who
came home in a body bag rather than in a Volvo.
I read the headlines. I don’t want a husband who makes them.
A husband was a man you sat on the couch with, did grocery shopping with, had children with. A man like her own father. The trouble was that now, after Darwin, she wondered whether a man like her father – a sports store retailer – would ultimately bore her. She’d experienced the raw adrenalin rush of stepping into the danger zone. Because of that, she believed she understood Tom much better than she ever had in the past.

And since she’d called it quits with Tom, her career path had taken a detour. She didn’t have to be a newsreader, tied to a desk in the one place. She could get out amongst the big stories, do pretty much whatever she pleased, go wherever she wanted to go, cover the issues that mattered. Darwin had been frightening, but it had also been exhilarating. To her surprise, she’d handled herself well. And if there was no reconciliation for her and Tom, well, that sort of life would certainly take her mind off the man she loved, wouldn’t it?

‘Belle.’

Annabelle smiled while she shuffled her notes into a folder. Now she was even hearing his voice.

‘So…are you going to sit there in the dark all night?’ said Wilkes.

‘Tom?’ She didn’t know what to do, to run into his arms or be cool. ‘Tom, I…’

Wilkes walked onto the set, into what little light there was, even now not really knowing what he was going to say. He missed her so much it ached. He’d asked her to marry him in the first place because he wanted to demonstrate to
her how much she meant to him, to lift their relationship to a higher level. But rather than making things even better, the proposal had had the opposite effect. They’d had it all, and now they had, what? Nothing?

Annabelle looked amazing, her blue dress reflecting the colour of her eyes. She was so beautiful, his memory of her never did the reality justice. He breathed the air filled with her scent, and considered at that moment leaving the army to be with her, if that was what she wanted.

Annabelle stood and walked towards him, wanting to throw her arms around him and feel his strength, but she resisted the impulse.

‘I wanted to see you, probably shouldn’t have, but you know me – danger’s my middle name,’ Wilkes said, trying hard to be as relaxed as possible. He rubbed the top of his head with the flat of his hand.

Annabelle watched him – that gesture – and knew he was as nervous as she was. ‘No, Tom. Dorkface is your middle name.’

‘I saw you in Darwin. On television. What were you doing there? I thought you were in Sydney.’

‘Sydney wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. They’ve given me a new job.’

‘Back here? Reading the news again?’

‘Sort of.’

‘When I saw you in Darwin, in the chemical suit, I was…’

‘Scared?’

‘Yeah, scared.’

‘You? That turns the tables a bit,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘I guess it does.’

‘Tom, I’ve learned a few things about myself lately, about us.’

‘I didn’t think there was an us,’ he said.

Annabelle looked into Tom’s eyes. This was the moment of decision – for her and for him. Was it possible, or even desirable, to go back to the relationship the way it was, a never-ending series of breathless hellos and goodbyes, intensely sexual and passionate on one hand, but empty on the other? They were apart so much, she wasn’t even aware of any bad habits he might have, aside from the usual leaving-the-seat-up problem that men universally had. Perhaps the very thing she resented and feared, his deployment to dangerous and secret places, was also the spice that kept their relationship fresh and alive. In a husband, she wanted a man who would keep her excited, yet also be dependable. Were ‘exciting’ and ‘dependable’ mutually exclusive? Could Tom ever be that man? She’d once asked him to make a choice – her or the regiment. That wasn’t fair. Or was it?

Tom read her silence as indecision. It hung over them uncomfortably.
No, I guess there isn’t
…‘Belle,’ he began, the words occurring to him as he spoke, ‘one of us would have to give up a big part of themselves to be with the other. The army is all I know, all I’ve ever known. If I leave it, will I still be the man you’ve loved? Will I still be
me
?’ As Tom heard himself speak, the less he was convinced by his own argument, but it was better than being hurt again, told that he didn’t measure up. ‘And what about you? Could you honestly do without all this?’ He looked around the studio.

Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, because suddenly she
was no longer confused. The last couple of months – her experiences, her tangled emotions – had taught her a truth that suddenly became apparent. It wasn’t about money, or position, or her job. Her happiness, fulfilment – whatever she chose to call it – was simply about sharing her life with the man she loved. This man. She wanted to say, ‘Yes, Tom, I could if you could,’ but she also knew the truth she’d learned was something Tom would have to conclude for himself. So, instead, Annabelle said goodbye. ‘Tom, I’ll love you always.’

Annabelle’s perfume swam in Tom’s brain. He wanted to hold her and tell her they’d just made the biggest mistake of their lives, but what would be the point of that? So, instead, he turned and walked away.

The vast majority of Barrenjoey Island was barely an island at all, being really no more than a few sizeable heads of coral a hundred and fifty miles east of Ashmore Island that struggled above the waterline here and there, depending on the tide. The island’s shape was that of a horseshoe, broken in several places, allowing the sea to drain away as the tide dropped. At the base of this horseshoe was a small white sand beach and a handful of battered but resilient coconut palms that gave shelter to a small ecosystem. Occasionally, recreational sailing craft would venture carefully within the two arms of the enveloping horseshoe, drawn by the postcard perfection of
the white sand beach, swaying palms and azure lagoon waters, following the warnings laid out on the charts to drop both bow and stern anchors. Fortunately, on this particular morning, the lagoon was empty of sailing craft.

The sea currents had caught the enormous shoal and swirled it within the arms of the horseshoe, so that before the tide turned and the seawater began to drain from the reef, the lagoon glittered with the bloated white and silver bellies of tens of thousands of rotting fish. Several sharks would have been amongst them but, having no swim bladders, they sank to the bottom rather than floating to the surface when they died. Birds had joined the fish, and here and there desiccated feathers in various shades of black and white and grey bobbed amongst the silver, along with a dozen turtles and a small pod of dolphins.

The tropical sun beat down relentlessly on the reef, going to work on the fish and the other dead creatures, breaking down the VX, cleaning up the mess with only the wind as its witness.

I began sketching the outline for this book on 12 September 2002. That date was, of course, a year and a day after the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York. It was hardly auspicious.

This book is about gunrunning, drug smuggling, money laundering and terrorism. I was about five thousand words into it when the awful event known as the Bali bombing happened exactly a month later on 12 October 2002.

When I write a book, I have the skeleton of the plot largely hammered out. The working title for
Sword of Allah
was originally, and eerily,
Smoking Gun
. I say ‘eerily’ because, if you remember, the term ‘smoking gun’ became the catch cry for the UN weapons inspectors as they hunted for WMD in Iraq prior to the war there.

In separate news stories through the year, a guy in New Zealand claimed that he could whip up an unmanned aerial vehicle using off-the-shelf technology and then set about building it (he has since been fined for doing so). Hamas and Hezbollah, a couple of groups in the Middle East not averse to violence, have joined forces on a number of ‘projects’, and Hamas has announced that it will soon be deploying its own drone. On 23 July 2003, Australian troops were deployed to the Solomon Islands, joining others from the Pacific region to help restore law and order there. When you read this book, this may sound a bit familiar.

And then, on the afternoon of 6 August 2003, as I packaged up the manuscript to send to the publisher, came the
news that the Marriot hotel in Jakarta had been struck by an explosive device. A contingent from the Australian Federal Police, in Bali for the trial of Amrosi, one of the Bali bombers, was sent to Jakarta to help the local authorities track down the culprits. America gave assistance too.

What am I saying here? I’m not claiming that by writing this story I’m making bad things happen, but the coincidences have sure been eerie.