The Delta Chain (28 page)

It pained him such action had been necessary. In his mind, it stood as a symbol of failure
–
failure of the security that was in place at The Com; and more importantly, failure of his methods in moulding and leading this remarkable extended family. He felt his blood pressure rising and he paced the room like a caged animal. He thought of Warren Ethers
’
comment at that earlier time
–
that with so many young souls involved, you had to expect the occasional rebel. He supposed it was true and he consoled himself with that thought.

He sat on the lounge that was placed against the far wall and he took deep breaths. On the wall opposite him was the photographic mural he
’
d lovingly crafted over the years
–
photos he had taken; news pictures he
’
d obtained; maps and paintings, all depicting the Mekong Delta . Vietnam. So long ago. Such a powerful, life changing, spiritual experience.

Just as young Daniel was a fugitive now from this place, and from the Keepers, so the First Keeper had been a fugitive, back then, from the world, from himself, from his own inner confusion. He closed his eyes and saw those muddy banks, the current of the wide rivers, the reeds, the villagers, and the soldiers. He saw himself and William wandering like lost souls through that steamy, insect ridden battlefield.

Was it mere coincidence, or a spiritual intervention he didn
’
t yet understand, that led Daniel to the drowning victim, in the same town as Westmeyer
’
s Institute.

The First Keeper couldn
’
t escape the creeping dread that something was unravelling. Perhaps he should never have agreed to help his old friend? At the same time, how could he refuse when he was given so much assistance by Westmeyer, and the men from Nexus.

Now the time had come to warn William of this problem, and to call in help. He needed back-up for Ethers. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for Westmeyer
’
s direct line.

‘William,
’
he said quietly when the call was answered,
‘
we have a situation…
’
As he spoke, his eyes focused on the mural and his memories flowed freely.

In his office, Westmeyer listened with growing concern. His gaze wandered to the photograph on his desk and his thoughts, also, were drawn back across the years…

The familiar roar of the choppers, whump! whump! whump!, blades cutting the air, filling his head with the sound. He was certain there must have been a fleet of them, streaking over the camp in the Sun La Province.

Twenty-one-year-old William Westmeyer leapt up from the straw mattress and went to the doorway of the mud hut. It was early evening, the sun so low on the horizon that the light was no more than a spectral thing.

But the sky above the camp was clear. No choppers. They had passed by several miles to the west. William
’
s imagination had amplified the thunder of the engines.

The camp itself was a masterpiece of camouflage. The huts were woven into the mosaic of the jungle in such a way that the village was mostly invisible from the air. In the past year they
’
d only had to move the community once
–
an extraordinary achievement in a Vietnamese jungle crowded with locals, and with the Allied Forces, and with those damn
‘
copters crawling like bugs through the air.

He often wondered why he
’
d allowed Joseph Vender to suck him into going AWOL and living in the wilderness like this. In the early days he
’
d felt Vender
’
s infectious passions and strange beliefs igniting something similar in him; or maybe he
’
d just gone troppo, like so many others.

Mostly it was because of Hoang Thi Mai. Certainly she was the reason he
’
d stayed as long as he had. The simplicity of these people
’
s lives had spoken to him, and the rivers and forests had a beauty that touched the soul, but life with such a woman as Mai had at times been like some ethereal kind of paradise. Time had stood still…

She was due back, with the other women, from the river where they
’
d been washing clothes. William wiped the sweat from his brow. There was no breeze this evening and he wished for one. The humidity was thick.

He decided to walk down to the river. His friend Nguyen Le Nam gave a casual wave as William passed his hut on his way through the village. He
’
d just reached the edge of the pathway when he heard frantic, raised voices, shouting in Vietnamese, and he watched with rising panic as men appeared from the forest, running and yelling.

Then came the first round of gunfire, staccato bursts that smashed the serenity of the night.

William hurled himself to the ground, rolling into the thick underbrush, his heart pounding. Mai! Where was she?

He never really knew how it was he escaped, bullets ricocheting all around him, the roar of flames engulfing the huts.

He crawled across the jungle floor until he was close to the river. He saw some of the village men standing motionless, a gargled, crying noise coming from them. He heard the harsh shouts of the Vietcong soldiers
– ‘
Charlie
’
the Allied forces called them
–
and he saw they had their rifles trained on the villagers. What the hell was going on?

He inched forward, unseen.

It took him a moment to take in the scene. The women had been herded into a line by the river
’
s edge, rifles thrust into their faces.

Groups of soldiers were dragging them into the water. Two and three at a time, they were being forced down and held under the water as their stricken, helpless men folk looked on.

The women thrashed about as the leering soldiers held them firmly. The bodies of previous victims bobbed lifeless to the surface and floated around them.

One of the village men shrieked with fury and broke from the group, rushing madly forward. A hail of bullets cut his body in half.

William felt the bile rise to his throat, suffocating him. He stifled a cough and gulped in air, thin sprays of vomit weeping from the sides of his mouth as he swallowed hard and swallowed again. William
’
s eyes fell on the man that appeared to be the soldiers
’
leader, a squat, pug faced man with savage eyes. He barked orders, laughing, his face twisted with a manic glee. The man was a psychopath, one of the monsters who
’
d found his own lawless killing ground in the jungles of
‘
Nam.

William couldn
’
t tell if Mai was one of the women in the line or one of the floating corpses. What could he do? If he broke cover, they would cut him to pieces in a hail of bullets.

He gritted his teeth and stifled the primal scream he felt bursting inside.

One small ray of hope touched him. Mai and some of the girls had grown up by the coast, where they dived and swam deep in the rivers and the ocean, catching fish in their bare hands. They were able to hold their breath for long periods, in the same way the Japanese pearl divers had done in earlier centuries.

It was her only hope…

When the Vietcong had finished their “fun” with the women, they turned their attention to the village men and gunned them down. Ashen faced and dry retching, William listened to the ruthless laughter of the Vietcong as they moved on.

Finally, it was safe for him to stagger to the river. He waded in, grappling with the bodies in the slow moving tide, turning up their faces and looking for Mai. He was only able to perform such a grotesque search because his mind and body were numb.

His fear was palpable though, a silent shriek inside him, as he turned each body in anticipation.

The first face he focused on was not Mai.

Nor the second. Nor the third. But he knew the faces of these women, knew their mothers and their fathers and their boyfriends and their husbands and their children.

The fourth body was not Mai.

Nor the fifth. There were many more, but William found a glimmer of hope deep within. Maybe some of the girls had escaped into the forest.

Maybe Mai was still out there somewhere. Running. Hiding.

The sixth face he came to was not Mai.

The seventh body he turned over was the girl he loved. He didn
’
t care how loud or how long he screamed, nothing mattered, nothing made sense.

He wouldn
’
t have cared if the soldiers returned, right then and there, and blasted him to eternity.

‘This act of industrial sabotage at the Institute, appears to be totally unrelated to our investigation,
’
O
’
Malley told the Task Force detectives,
‘
but it
’
s timing provides us with our Trojan Horse. Northern Rocks police will offer to send in Adam, as the local detective, to work alongside Westmeyer
’
s people to catch the saboteur.
’

‘Given the damage this leak could cause to the Institute
’
s reputation,
’
Wal Hester added,
‘
I
’
d say Westmeyer will be only too pleased to have the local detective right on side.
’

‘While you
’
re working that case from within,
’
O
’
Malley directed this specifically to Adam,
‘
you
’
re perfectly placed to seek out links between Westmeyer and the drownings, without arousing suspicion.
’

‘Regarding your anonymous caller,
’
Hester added,
‘
Megan
’
s on to that. We know that last week Westmeyer hosted a meeting with potential investors. One of them, a banker by the name of Meredith Seals, spent extra time in Northern Rocks and was seen boarding Westmeyer
’
s private boat.
’

‘She could
’
ve overheard Westmeyer
’
s conversation-
’

‘We plan to confront her as being the anonymous caller, and ask her to identify, from tapes of the mayor, if his voice is the other one she heard.
’

Driving back, Adam called ahead to check on messages.

An urgent message to phone Harold Letterfield puzzled him. Adam attempted the call but he was picking up too much interference; he
’
d have to wait until he was back at the station, to make the call from the landline.

Instinctively, he suspected it had something to do with Kate.

Daniel staggered from the water, exhausted. He sank to his knees and then lay on his belly, oblivious to the man and boy who sat with fishing lines cast.

‘What
’
s wrong with that boy?
’
Joey wondered aloud, his eyes wide with sudden interest.
‘
Was he drowning?
’

‘I don
’
t think so, but something
’
s wrong.
’
Costas put his rod aside, leaving the line trailing in the water, and moved quickly to where the boy lay panting. Joey followed.

‘You okay, son?
’
Costas knelt beside the boy. Daniel tried to answer but words wouldn
’
t come. He gasped for breath..

‘Okay, now, take it easy.
’
Costas
’
hand rested on the boy
’
s shoulder.
‘
Try and slow your breathing, and take in long, deep, slow breaths. After I count to three, okay?...One...two...three. Breathe in. And now, slowly, breathe out. That's the way. Now, again...'

Joey
’
s eyes never left the boy.

‘You
’
re quite safe, young man, so try and relax.
’
Costas looked from the boy to the river. It occurred to him the boy had swum
–
not from the other side of the river
–
he and Joey would
’
ve noticed that, but instead from much further upstream.
‘
I
’
m Costas, and this is Joey. What
’
s your name?
’

‘…
Daniel.’

‘Okay, Daniel, do you think you can get over to this tree just behind us? You
’
ll feel better if you can sit up against the side of the trunk.
’
Daniel inched across the grass and propped himself against the tree.

‘Please don
’
t…hand me over.
’

‘To who?
’
piped in Joey.
‘
The police?
’

‘No…
’
Daniel
’
s breath was returning fast and he tried to push himself to his feet.
‘
Got to go…
’

Costas gently manoeuvred him back.
‘
Not so fast, you need a little time to regain your strength.
’

‘The Keepers are right behind me, Mr. Costas. I can
’
t go back to The Com.
’

Keepers? Com?

‘Okay, I
’
ll tell you what. My car is just over the slope. Why don
’
t you come with us, back to Joey
’
s place. A nice hot breakfast and a warm shower
’
s what you need, and you
’
ll be quite safe with us. Won
’
t he, Joey?
’