The Scoop

by Terence J. Quinn

  I shook my head. ‘Never mind the other stuff, these are by far the most valuable. Unless I’m very much mistaken, he won’t have copies and he won’t be able to carry out any attacks without them. Plus, he’ll be in serious shit with his own bosses. The bottom line is – we can expect no mercy.’

  ‘Maybe we should just put it all back?’

  ‘That’s an option,’ I agreed, ‘but right now it’s too dark to find the cave again and, anyway, the storm looks as if it’s here for a while.’

  ‘In the morning then?’ she said. ‘We take it all back, then leave. If the weather clears.’

  ‘Let’s pray that it does.’ I suddenly had a very bad feeling. ‘Because we need to get the hell out of here.’

  44

  BANGBANG WAS unmoved by the Swedish captain’s furious protests over the shooting of his first officer. Oozing menace, he put the still-warm barrel of his wicked-looking automatic weapon against Fredriksson’s head. It was a Sig Sauer MCX with a short 230 mm barrel that he had taken off a mercenary who had been hired to protect another vessel he and his gang had hijacked. It was now his favourite weapon: blue-black and shiny with a killer bite. Just like the deadly Sumatran spitting cobra, he liked to tell his men.

  He was wearing a tank top, shorts and his signature Yankees cap. His sloppy outfit contrasted greatly with the tanker captain’s crisp all-white uniform of shirt, shorts and long socks. Faded prison tattoos covered BangBang’s brawny arms like graffiti on a railway siding. He could smell his own body odour, a rank mix of sweat and cloves.

  ‘You shut up. Do as I say,’ he ordered the captain before handing him a scrap of paper with map coordinates scribbled on it. ‘We go there. Now.’ And with that, he gestured to one of his men to guard the captain and ordered two others to take the bleeding Russian below. They took an arm each and dragged his limp body off the bridge, blood-soaked feet trailing on the deck. BangBang nodded and went out into the fresh air.

  His hands cloaking the lighter from the breeze, he lit another kretek. No problems, he thought. Everything has gone to plan. Now, unless luck deserts us and a patrol boat appears, we’ll hook up with the Crimson Tide and the other syndicate vessel and transfer the diesel. The estimates he had been given suggested it would take up to eighteen hours to set up the hoses and syphon the fuel. He just had to keep the crew of the Caspian Cossack subdued during that time and stay vigilant for any sign of the authorities. He smiled: the crew part wouldn’t be a problem, that’s why he had shot the Russian officer, to discourage others from doing anything silly. There was also, he acknowledged, the fact that he enjoyed shooting people. Flicking the Gudang Garam over the rail, he turned and went back to the bridge: he wanted to have a little word with the captain about the ship’s safe. He smiled again.

  Two and a bit hours later, the Caspian Cossack chugged through the cavernous gap between the northern tip of Sumatra and Great Nicobar Island and moored on the threshold of the mighty Indian Ocean. Two vessels awaited: the Crimson Tide and a small tanker that had been hijacked eight or nine months before and repurposed to serve the syndicate’s needs. An expert team was ready to start the fuel transfer.

  BangBang watched as the small tanker moved into place. He knew that if they syphoned even half of the diesel from the Caspian Cossack it would fetch around eight million dollars on the black market. And the authorities do nothing, he thought. The area is too big and those pigs are too corrupt. Backhanders to the navy, the cops and coastguards were just the price of doing business. The Triads take care of all that shit.

  It took them about twelve hours to move the fuel from the Caspian Cossack to the smaller tanker. BangBang used the time to relax and to help his men scour the cabins and crannies of the big ship looking for spoils. He had already netted fifteen thousand dollars from the safe after a reluctant Captain Fredriksson had opened it, gun to head. The stupid fool had attempted to bargain with him: ‘I’ll open the safe if you guarantee you won’t shoot any more of my men,’ he said in accented English. BangBang didn’t reply; he simply tipped the big Swede’s hat off with the gun barrel. ‘Fuck you, open now, or I blow head off,’ he said. The captain obliged, any fight remaining in him having now gone.

  The tanker’s crew were still locked in the canteen, guarded by four of BangBang’s armed men. Thanks to the special lunch, they were well fed but highly apprehensive; the Russian officer had been brought down and left on one of the chairs in the canteen, his torso glistening dark red under the neon strips of light. He was still alive but groaning in pain, a warning to the other crew members, just as BangBang had intended. He was tickled to see that one of his men had put a Santa Claus hat on the Russian’s head, giving the scene a grotesque twist.

  All in all, things were looking up, he mused. His men had been easier to control since they had had their fun with those two western women. The thought of the women on the beach brought his mind back to his plans. He looked at his watch: another couple of hours and they would finish the transfer; he and his men could set off and be back at their island hideaway by sundown. He was looking forward to running his stubby fingers over the precious stones and metal in his cases. In his mind’s eye he pictured the bar in Jakarta he would buy where he could run lucrative sidelines in prostitution and drugs. He reckoned he was more than halfway to putting the necessary capital together; another two years of successful heists like this and he’d be set up. His mind conjured up a penthouse suite in the posh building across the road from the Jembatan Besi slum.

  But there was one more decision to make: what to do with the tanker crew? His masters hadn’t given him any specific instructions on that score. He had two stark choices: kill them all or let them live. On the one hand, he’d enjoy shooting them or throwing them to the sharks; on the other hand, that would make the authorities double their efforts to find him and his bosses wouldn’t like that. No point in wasting bullets then.

  ‘Merry fucking Christmas,’ he shouted to Captain Fredriksson as he left the bridge.

  45

  WAGGA SAT on my lap, his little claws digging into my thigh. He was unsettled by the storm raging outside, his eyes wide as we hunkered down in the saloon. It was textbook – thunder and lightning like a continually exploding box of fireworks, king-size sheets of rain and direction-changing gusts of wind that shook The Scoop in its shallow mooring. There was a sharp, nostril-nipping tang of ozone.

  Yet tonight Mother Nature seemed angrier. Perhaps it was just that Annie and I were both subdued. This would be our last night on Rehab Island. We felt differently about that. Annie was desperate to leave – she had become increasingly agitated at the thought of the pirates returning. I think she regretted not leaving that afternoon. My own feelings were conflicted. Rehab Island had helped me see off my demons. And there was no doubt that it was a beautiful, heavenly place. But I also understood how Annie felt about it – that, even here in paradise, evil lurked. Sounds like a line from a biblical poem, I thought.

  We talked quietly, finalising the plans for our departure in the morning and discussing possible destinations. Anything to avoid talking about the elephant in the room – the possibility of the pirates returning. We decided in the end to scrap our decision to take the treasure back to the cave; we shared a compelling urge to get up and go as early as possible.

  Since it was our last night, I’d set up the table in the saloon with a formal layout, including napkins and candles, and the last of the wine. No Christmas decorations unfortunately, but for a laugh I’d placed my Oscar statuette on the table as a glittery centrepiece. It had been stashed in the same hidey-hole as the dope. Annie had picked it up: ‘Wow, it’s heavier than I thought, bigger too.’

  ‘Yeah, nearly four kilos. I use it to exercise with every morning.’

  ‘No wonder the winners always stagger down the stairs! But seriously, it is quite an achievement.’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t really deserve it,’ I said. ‘My writing partner Chilli Gomez was the real reason we got it.
He’s a top-class screenwriter with a lot of movie credits under his belt. My contribution was limited. I really only acted as an advisor on the newspaper material. He did all the work.’

  I decided to change the subject. ‘What do you normally do at Christmas?’

  ‘Oh, we were quite traditional, Martin and I would always go to midnight mass wherever we were, London or Sydney. Actually, I dragged him there kicking and screaming.’ She smiled gently at the memory. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I was usually asked to work on Christmas Day. Because I was single. To be honest, I would have volunteered anyway. Family events were always heinous, I avoided them like the plague. By the way, I didn’t know you were Catholic.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m an Anglican.’

  ‘You said you went to midnight mass.’

  She laughed. ‘No, silly. It’s just a sort of family tradition. You Catholics always do Christmas best. All that pomp and ceremony. The wonderful hymns. And I love the smell of incense. It’s so atmospheric.’

  ‘Yeah well, I hate incense. It reminds me of fire and brimstone.’ I poured the last of the wine into our glasses. ‘Merry Christmas, Annie.’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’ She toasted me: ‘And thank you again for all that you’ve done.’ We clinked glasses.

  After our meal, I cleared the plates while Annie relaxed. ‘Will anyone be looking for you, like friends or family?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh God, yes. They were expecting a call on Christmas Day. Today! We were supposed to be berthed happily in Langkawi about now. If they don’t hear anything in another few days, they will be seriously worried.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘My mother and father. And my brother Jamie. He’s in London. He works . . . worked . . . with Martin.’

  Annie then told me a little bit about her family and her upbringing in the English countryside. It sounded idyllic to me, given my dysfunctional childhood; her father was a solicitor, her mum involved in local charity work. ‘They were not happy about me going to work in London after university. Particularly as I was with someone.’

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘A boy I met at uni. Pascal. We were . . . well, we were in love. Ironically he wanted to be a writer . . . like you.’ She paused and seemed to gaze into the distance.

  ‘What happened?’ I prompted. Annie looked sad. ‘He died. Motorcycle accident. I, um, was devastated. In little pieces. Then, well, Martin came along soon after and the next thing I knew, we were married.’ She shook her head as if to clear it.

  ‘Enough of me . . . What about you, Jonno? Won’t there be anyone asking questions about you? Family? Wife or girlfriend?’

  ‘No one.’ I let it hang there for a moment. ‘Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? I guess I inherited a Garbo gene from my parents, my mum in particular. The fact is, I’m a bit of a loner . . . The priests used to say that I moved to the tick of my own clock, whatever that means.

  ‘The only person who gives a toss about where I am is my agent and that’s just because she’s got a vested interest. Otherwise, I’m afraid my family won’t worry much about me. They never have. And I haven’t really kept up with many friends, apart from Cody, of course, but as I told you, I blew that big time.’

  ‘You seem a little bitter. Down on yourself. But you’ve been so successful, why are you so unhappy?’

  I thought about it, decided to be honest: ‘Someone, I don’t know who, once said: “Success is nothing without someone you love to share it with”. I happen to agree with that.’

  ‘What about Percy?’

  ‘Well, sure, he was happy for me. He thought I had a gift. But it’s not the same as having someone to experience it together, to share the ups and downs that success brings. And, believe me, there are as many downs as ups when you hit it big.’

  ‘So what happens when we get back to civilisation? Will you go back to LA? To your old life?’

  ‘All that sex and drugs and rock and roll?’ I laughed. But then I saw that she was serious. She was looking at me with her head cocked, her lovely green eyes looking carefully into mine. I made an effort to focus. I gazed back at her, equally serious.

  ‘No. Those days are well and truly over. I reckon it’s time I took Percy’s advice and settled down, perhaps with a nice woman, maybe even kids. I am certainly going to get this next book finished.’

  ‘So you reckon you’ve kicked the drug thing?’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve had an almighty scare and there’s nothing that could ever entice me to use again.’

  ‘Don’t you miss it? Isn’t it supposed to be hard to get clean?’

  ‘For a while the cold turkey thing was tough. There were moments out there in the Indian Ocean when I didn’t care whether I lived or died. And, yes, I miss the intense feeling of euphoria I used to get. But I’ve found other, less dangerous things to take its place and satisfy my wild cravings.’ And before she could quiz me on that, I said softly: ‘What about you? How do you think you will cope in the time ahead?’

  Annie closed her eyes and paused before responding. ‘With difficulty, I expect. Physically I don’t feel too bad. But mentally? That’s a different story. I’m definitely going to need professional help when I get back.’

  ‘Like a shrink of some sort?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, some sort of therapist or counsellor. I have terrible nightmares about the pirate guy with the horrible face and gold tooth.’ She grimaced. ‘But the more immediate worry I have is what will happen with the authorities? You know, the police and immigration? What will they make of what happened to me, to the others? I mean, what if they don’t believe me? I don’t have my passport or any other identification. There are no witnesses to what happened. What if they charge me with something or put me in some sort of horrible prison? It could take months to sort things out.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The first thing we’ll do is contact the embassy. They’ll know what to do. They’re used to handling these sorts of problems.’

  ‘Even piracy and murder?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Happens all the time. And remember, I’m a witness to how those bastards treated you. No one, and I repeat no one, is going to make life more difficult for you. Over my dead body.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ She smiled, recovering her composure. ‘I don’t think I’ve really processed what happened to me yet. And being on this island with you has simply delayed the inevitable.’

  ‘Which is?’ I asked.

  ‘I could be in for rather a bad time. At some point, I’m going to have to confront what happened to me on that bloody beach.’

  ‘You’re strong. You can do it.’

  ‘And then there’s Martin’s murder . . . I haven’t really been able to mourn him yet. There are all kinds of ramifications to sort out in my head. I’ll have to face the authorities and the media. It’s going to bring back all the horror. I know it will.’

  ‘Will you go back to work?’ I asked gently.

  ‘I can’t think that far ahead. Probably not for a while. There will be so much to do when I get back.’ She shook her head and changed the subject: ‘What will you do with the treasure?’ We had taken to calling it that in the absence of a better word.

  ‘I think that’s a joint decision, don’t you? You have as much right to it as I do. My instinct says we should give most of it to the Indonesian authorities – but not all of it. Corruption is bad here and some of the more liquid elements will simply go missing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we keep the cash?’

  ‘Yes, and maybe the diamonds. Finders keepers and all that. I don’t know about you but I could use some money when we get back. At least until I sort out my new book.’

  ‘What about the bonds?’

  ‘Well, if they are as easily disposed of as you suggest, how about we keep them too?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Jonno, I’ll have to think about it. Can we talk about it tomorrow? That wine has gone to my head. I’m going to bed. We have a big d
ay ahead of us.’ With that, she stood up, came over, put her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Her body was soft and warm and musky against mine. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Jonno, it was just what I needed,’ she whispered in my ear.

  Maybe it was the wine but for a moment I almost believed there was a God.

  46

  THE RAGING storm continued throughout the night and into the early part of the morning. Neither of us got much sleep; I could hear Annie next door thrashing around and occasionally moaning.

  By the time the gale finally thrashed itself out around noon, Annie was fit to be tied. I didn’t blame her. We had missed the opportunity to leave at first light. The elephant in the room had been trumpeting all morning and we both felt a deep sense of foreboding. I did my best to reassure her: ‘Look, there’s no way the pirates will have been able to sail in this weather. I’ll go sort out the boat and then we’ll get going. Won’t be long.’

  Famous last words. When I went up top, I discovered the tender had gone. There was just the frayed end of the rope I had used to tie it to a guardrail. Its small anchor had obviously not been strong enough to hold it either. Shit. Shit. Shit. Without the dinghy, there was no way we could get The Scoop through the channel and into the ocean. Leaving a distraught Annie to clear the debris from the decks, I got Cody’s old kayak out and went in search of it.

  The sun returned in full force as I paddled around the glittering lagoon. The light sea breeze carried the normal earthy jungle aroma: a potpourri of rotting vegetation and decaying matter with spicy overtones. Sinister, portentous. After an hour of looking around the edges of the lagoon, heart in my mouth, I guided the kayak into the narrow passage to the ocean. If the bloody thing has come through here, I thought to myself grimly, and floated out into the open sea, then we are well and truly fucked. We won’t be able to leave. And then what?