The Ultimate Aphrodisiac

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘I need them for protection.’

  ‘Protection? Against what? Feral backpackers?’

  Gemma wriggled on the bed. ‘Just take the damn things off.’

  Brian ran his hand inside Gemma’s dress. ‘What? Your knickers?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You stupid bastard.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know what you mean. And I don’t quite know what you’re up to. I suppose I could go through your bag and find out. But I don’t really give a stuff to be honest.’

  ‘Fuck you. You fuckin Aussie asshole.’

  ‘Now be careful, Gemma. You’re the one who’s handcuffed, not me. I might get my razor out and shave your old lamington. Then paint it green. How would you like that?’

  Gemma’s face reddened. ‘You’re a fuckin asshole.’

  ‘No I’m not. I’m a good bloke. And I’m going to see that you get home safe and sound.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re going to drive me to my hotel?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a feeling there’s a bloke waiting outside to do that.’ Gemma looked at Brian and blinked. ‘What’s his name?’ asked Brian. ‘Come on. I saw you following me around earlier.’ Gemma scowled at Brian in angry silence. Brian stood up and moved towards the bathroom. ‘Okay, Gemma,’ he said. ‘I’m getting my razor. And when you get back to America they’ll be calling you by your Indian name. Green Beaver.’

  ‘His name’s Steve.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Brian leant across the bed and helped Gemma up. ‘Okay, Gemma. As we say in Australia, let’s hit the frog and toad.’ With her hands still cuffed behind her back, Brian placed Gemma’s bag over her shoulder and walked her to the door.

  Outside, it was raining lightly, the toads were jumping all over the lawn and the cats were still miaowing around the office. Brian took Gemma by an elbow and walked her to the gate near the restaurant. Across the road was the grey car. The man behind the wheel saw them coming and got out.

  ‘G’day, Steve,’ said Brian. ‘How’s it going, me old?’

  Hearing his name threw Steve off a little. Then he noticed Gemma’s arms handcuffed behind her and that threw him off some more.

  ‘Steve. It’s not what you think it is,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Don’t believe her, Steve,’ said Brian. ‘I’ve had my face in it half the night. And I can tell you, it’s exactly what you think it is.’

  ‘Gemma. What’s …?’ Steve had an American accent and looked puzzled.

  ‘Steve. Allow me to introduce myself,’ said Brian. ‘I’m secret agent Bradshaw. Australian secret service. I’m here for the prisoner exchange. I can see you haven’t brought your exchange prisoner with you. But don’t worry, Steve. You can have this one on the house.’ Brian turned to Gemma. ‘So bye bye, Miss American Pie. I hope you enjoyed the initiation ceremony.’ He gave the handcuffs a friendly tug. ‘I imagine the keys are in your bag.’ Gemma stared daggers at Brian as he turned to her companion. ‘Goodnight, Steve. See you next time I make it to Checkpoint Charlie. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed. It’s been a very emotional day.’ Brian turned and left them in the rain.

  Back in his room, Brian climbed out of his clothes and had a shower. It sobered him up and when he got out he tried to put things into some sort of perspective as he dried off. He was right about being followed and everything else. Gemma and Steve were probably working for the American government and this all had to do with him going to Lan Laroi. But why all the drama? Probably just security-mad Americans wanting to know what he was up to. No wonder Gemma coughed in her rompers when he said he was a spy. Brian shook his head and tossed the towel over a chair. Anyway, he yawned, apart from telling a few atrocious lies, he hadn’t done anything. Not unless it was a crime in Konipeau to eat at the Y and do a bit of porking on a rainy night. Brian climbed into bed, pulled the sheet over himself and switched off the bedside light. He was asleep in minutes.

  Brian woke up at six-thirty feeling good and with plenty of time to pack his gear, have breakfast and take the car back before the plane arrived. He got up, stretched and had a look out the back door. There was a light breeze and a few clouds over the harbour and although the sun was barely up, it was already hot. He had a shower, packed what little there was and put on a clean blue T-shirt. The night’s events were quite out of character for him and he had a laugh over the last of the mineral water. Then he took his camera and walked up to get something to eat.

  Apart from two smiling young waitresses in black floral dresses, Brian was the only one in the restaurant. He sat out on the enclosed balcony overlooking the harbour and ordered papaya, cereal, scrambled eggs and coffee. The morning view over Kahiap was beautiful, so he took a few photos through the louvres. When he finished eating, he took a couple of shots of the girls working in the restaurant. They laughed and giggled and had such lovely natures Brian would liked to have stayed longer. Instead, he charged the meal to his room, got his bags and checked out. After shooing five cats from under the car, he tossed his bags on the back seat and drove out the gate.

  There was very little traffic. Brian had no trouble finding the way and he was at the airport by eight. Apart from the men working on the building site, the place was deserted. He drove through a cyclone-wire gate that separated the airport from the harbour and checked out the wharves. On the right they ran past several fishing boats towards the harbour mouth. To the left they went for a couple of hundred metres past two more fishing boats, ending at a rusty cyclone-wire fence standing on a rock wall. Built against the rock wall was an old wooden jetty with a set of steps leading down to the water. Brian guessed this was where the plane would tie up. He took the car back to the parking area at the airport, left the keys on the floor and walked back to the jetty.

  Brian was looking out over the water, watching a few birds hovering around and a solitary fishing boat heading out to sea, when something coming in above the harbour mouth caught his eye. A single-engine, six-seater seaplane with three portholes along the side and two pontoons under the fuselage. It had camouflage markings and the insignia on the wing tips and tail was a gold palm tree on a green hexagon. Brian picked up the drone of the engine as the plane banked towards the jetty and straightened its descent, then the two pontoons gently cleaved the water and it began taxiing towards him. When it drew closer Brian noticed two dark-haired men sitting in the cockpit.

  Brian thought he might take some photos when an unexpected noise made him turn around. A grey car jerked to a stop alongside the jetty and Gemma jumped out of the passenger side wearing a T-shirt and jeans with a silver badge pinned to the front pocket. She had a black Kevlar jacket strapped round her chest and jammed on her head was a black baseball cap with the letters FBI on the front. She pulled a Glock automatic from a holster and levelled it at Brian’s chest. Steve got out from behind the wheel dressed the same and whipped out a Magnum even bigger than the cannon Gemma was holding.

  ‘Morning, Gemma. G’day, Steve,’ said Brian. ‘Bad luck I haven’t got time to stop and talk. I’m just about to leave.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ shouted Gemma. ‘I’m Agent Reynoso, FBI. And this is Agent Turbitt. You’re under arrest. Get on the ground.’

  Steve motioned with his gun. ‘You heard her, man. On the ground.’

  Brian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Under arrest? What the fuck for?’

  ‘Kidnap and rape of a federal agent,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Kidnap and rape,’ echoed Steve. ‘You got to be kidding, haven’t you?’

  ‘And conspiracy to assassinate a head of state,’ added Gemma.

  ‘Conspiracy to what?’ Brian’s voice rose. ‘I was only joking, you Yank boofhead. I’m going out there to take photos. President Milne invited me.’

  Steve shook his head. ‘Sorry Bradshaw. But we’ve got orders to keep you out of Lan Laroi. So kick your bags away and get on the ground. If you don’t, we will shoot you.’

  Brian was completely dumb
founded. But he’d seen enough docos and movies about the American FBI to know they didn’t fool around. They shot first and asked questions later. Then shot you again to make sure. So much for my trip to Lan Laroi, he cursed under his breath.

  Brian was about to kick his bags aside and get on the ground when the seaplane bumped up against the jetty. A stocky, brown-skinned young man in Australian army fatigues jumped out the side door and threw a rope around one of the piers. Another young man in fatigues jumped out and ran up the jetty to Brian. He had a beaming white smile and seemed completely oblivious of the two FBI agents.

  ‘Mr Bradshaw,’ he saluted. ‘I’m Sohte. I believe you’re coming to Lan Laroi.’

  ‘Yeah. I think so,’ replied Brian, numbly.

  ‘I’ll take your bags, sir.’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere,’ barked Gemma. ‘He’s our prisoner. Move aside.’

  ‘Step away from the prisoner,’ yelled Steve.

  Despite the drawn guns and the shouts, Sohte ignored Gemma and her partner. ‘This way, Mr Bradshaw,’ he said, motioning with Brian’s carry-bag.

  Brian hesitated for a second. ‘All right,’ he answered nervously, and started following Sohte to the plane. It was only a few metres, but to Brian it seemed like miles. His insides had suddenly turned to ice and any second he expected a bullet in the back.

  ‘Stop! The both of you,’ shouted Gemma. ‘This is your last warning.’

  ‘After you, Mr Bradshaw,’ smiled Sohte, as they reached the bottom of the steps.

  Brian was about to get in the door when several explosions echoed around the wharves as Gemma opened up with the Glock and bullets started slamming into the side of the plane like sledgehammers. One nicked Brian in the arm and ricocheted off the door.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ howled Brian. ‘I’ve been shot.’

  Brian felt Sohte push him through the door and he landed on the back seat along with his bags. Brian grabbed his arm and looked up as the other man on the plane aimed a pump-action shotgun out the door and shot Gemma in the chest, shredding the front of her Kevlar jacket. She flew back against the grey car and dropped her weapon, finishing on her backside with her chin slumped on her chest. Steve went into a combat crouch and started blazing away with his Magnum. More bullets thumped into the side of the plane while others hit the jetty, sending lumps of rotten timber spinning into the harbour. Sohte’s mate aimed the shotgun again and fired two rounds at Steve. The FBI agent screamed with pain as the first blast tore open his hands and sent the Magnum spinning across the wharf. Then the second slammed into his chest, taking his legs from under him. Steve fell heavily on his back, not far from Gemma, blood oozing from the stumps of his fingers. With smoke from the barrel still curling around his face, Sohte’s mate stepped out onto the jetty with the shotgun and had a quick look at the two FBI agents lying on the ground. Satisfied everything was in order, he untied the plane and brought the rope back inside, placing it on the floor along with the shotgun. He then closed the door firmly behind him and turned to Brian.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bradshaw,’ he said, flashing the same white smile as Sohte. ‘I’m Ohlo. I’m the pilot.’

  ‘Hello, Ohlo,’ blinked Brian. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Let me take a look at your arm.’ Ohlo moved Brian’s hand. ‘It’s not serious. Hold on for a few minutes and we’ll dress it for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ohlo buckled Brian into his seat then sat down behind the controls next to Sohte, who was already strapped in. Ohlo kicked the engine over and started to taxi the plane away from the jetty, heading it towards the harbour mouth. The second they were facing the open sea, Ohlo gunned the motor and the seaplane started ripping across the water. The nose lifted and as they became airborne, Brian turned and had a last look out the porthole. Gemma and Steve were still lying where they had fallen. Some men from the building site were moving cautiously towards them and a small boat was approaching the jetty. Then everything got smaller and Brian turned away. The engine changed pitch as the propeller dug into the hot, humid air and the plane climbed steadily above the harbour. A moment or two later Ohlo levelled off and banked to the right. Brian took a hanky from his pocket and held it against his arm, then slumped back in his seat, spun out by what had happened on the wharf.

  He’d just been involved in a blazing gunfight with two FBI agents and got shot in the process. The two agents were probably dead. ‘Sorry, Bradshaw, we’ve got orders to keep you out of Lan Laroi.’ What was that all about? Sohte and Ohlo were friendly enough. Only, what sort of people flew around in camouflaged planes wearing army fatigues, armed with pump-action shotguns? But the best part, the icing on the cake, the thing that really made Brian’s day, was how the fuck could he return to Konipeau and catch his flight back to Australia? The FBI would probably shoot him the minute he set foot on the island. Brian gazed dejectedly at his blood-stained handkerchief and shook his head. He looked up and Sohte was standing next to him with a first-aid kit.

  ‘How’s the arm, Mr Bradshaw?’ he asked.

  ‘All right,’ said Brian, taking the hanky away. ‘I think it’s just a graze.’

  Sohte took a look. ‘Yes. It still needs dressing, though.’

  Sohte swabbed Brian’s wound with hydrogen peroxide then sprinkled it with BFI powder. While Sohte was bandaging his arm, Brian looked at him studiously. There was something about the young Lan Laroian which had aroused the surf journalist’s curiosity since the moment Sohte had run up the jetty. Like Ohlo, he was very good looking and the two were almost identical in appearance. Yet neither of them looked Polynesian. Sohte’s hair was jet black, long and straight and parted down the middle and held in place by a khaki headband. He had deep brown heavy-lidded eyes, almost onyx, over a straight nose and a small, firm mouth with a pronounced septum. Under the fatigues, his skin was a dark, tawny colour and although he was fit, he didn’t have the barrel chest and thick neck common to most Polynesian men such as Maoris or Samoans. Admittedly this was Micronesia, but it was still out in the middle of the Pacific. This had Brian puzzled and he tried to think which race of people they reminded him of. Then it clicked. Tracey subscribed to an American magazine called Arizona Highways. It often featured articles on the local Indians. That was what Sohte and Ohlo looked like. Apache Indians. The only things missing were a Winchester ’73 and head feathers.

  ‘That crazy woman was trying to kill you,’ said Sohte.

  ‘Yeah. What a nice pair of ratbags,’ agreed Brian. ‘Lucky they didn’t blow a hole in the bloody plane.’

  Sohte smiled and tapped the side of the plane. ‘They would have needed an anti-tank rifle. It’s all reinforced steel.’

  ‘Hey, Sohte,’ said Brian. ‘That was bullshit back there on the wharf. I’ll explain it to you later. But I didn’t do a bloody thing, you know.’

  Sohte shook his head. ‘You don’t have to explain anything, Mr Bradshaw. Sawi told us to come and get you. And we did. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Sawi?’ said Brian.

  ‘Yes. President Milne.’ Sohte tied a knot in the bandage and closed the first-aid kit. ‘I have to go now and help Ohlo with the navigation. It’s about three hours to Lan Laroi. Thirty minutes out we’ll hit heavy turbulence and the plane will manoeuvre sharply. Don’t be alarmed, Mr Bradshaw. It’s quite safe. And I’ll warn you beforehand.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Brian. ‘Thanks.’

  Sohte stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Bradshaw.’ Then he saluted and flashed the same white smile. ‘And thank you for flying Lan Laroi. The airline that takes you higher.’

  Brian watched as Sohte returned to his seat next to Ohlo. Great, he thought. That’s all I need on top of being shot. More bloody rainstorms and two Apache Indians in the cockpit. Brian shook his head again. God! If this gets any more shithouse than what it is, I’ll burst out laughing.

  Brian settled back in his seat and did his best to convince himself everything was going to be all right. He got his book out and started reading
a few pages. The cabin temperature was mild and before long the steady drone of the engine had him feeling drowsy. Time seemed to slip by and Brian was half asleep, thinking about home, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Sohte standing next to him.

  ‘Five minutes before we hit the turbulence, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Sohte.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ replied Brian.

  Sohte checked Brian’s seat-belt and bags, made doubly sure the door was secure and went back to the cockpit. Brian started thinking about what happened flying into Konipeau and his palms went a little clammy. He turned and peered nervously out the window. Apart from a few whisps of cloud drifting by, the sky was crystal clear with no sign of rain or anything else. Below them the ocean was a sparkling blue as they flew over a shallow reef with a long, skinny spit of white sand running along one side. It was a picture perfect day. Looks like the turbulence has gone round us, hoped Brian, and breathed a small sigh of relief. There’s probably nothing to worry about. Next minute, the plane flew into a shimmering wall of unimaginable ferocity and started rocking round in the sky as if something had hold of it and was trying to shake the tiny craft to pieces. The cabin began to vibrate, the wings wobbled up and down and the sudden turbulence threw Brian about that hard he thought the seat-belt was going to cut him in half. It made the landing in the 737 the day before seem like a ride on a swing. Then the motor cut out and Brian thought his heart would, too. He was about to yell something to Sohte when the plane shot straight up in the air like an express elevator, leaving Brian’s stomach behind.

  Absolutely terrified, he gripped the arms of his seat as the plane buffeted every which way and kept rising. Thankfully it stopped, and for a moment there was a weird sensation of weightlessness in the eerie silence. Then the nose dipped round to the left and the plane started diving straight towards the ocean like the roller coaster ride from hell. With the wind outside screaming past the wings, the plane kept plummeting faster and faster. Brian’s face turned white. Oh my God! This is it, he told himself. Ohlo can’t pull up. We’re going to crash. Convinced they were going to hit the sea, Brian braced himself and waited for his life to start flashing by like the wind outside. Next thing, the engine coughed and spluttered into life and Brian’s insides were flung violently to one side as Ohlo threw the plane one hundred and eighty degrees to the right and screamed across the top of the ocean, the left wing barely two hundred metres above the water. He slowly levelled off, banked to the right again and, as suddenly as it all started, they resumed normal flying.