by Berry, Tony
‘Which I think you will,’ responded Morales, hardly missing a beat in the exchange of words. His lips turned up and again he bestowed them with that almost serene smile. Bromo detected a flicker in the eyes. He began to doubt the man’s serenity; the smile of benevolence was starting to translate as that of a tiger about to pounce on its unfortunate prey. He watched mesmerised as the man reached to the lower level of the food trolley and brought up a small, dark blue plastic box. He lifted its lid and removed a sleek silvery metallic object, not much bigger than a cigarette pack, which he placed on the coffee table.
Bromo read the brand name Grundig as Morales fiddled with buttons and dials. Beneath the logo a small screen was coming to life. Morales handed Bromo a pair of bud earphones trailing back to a socket at the side of the screen.
‘Watch and listen, Mr Perkins. Then let me know what you think.’
The screen showed a wide-angle shot of a room with a young woman sitting upright in a chair. She appeared at first fuzzy, out of focus. Bromo leaned forward as if trailing the camera while it zoomed into her face as she started speaking. He got a brief impression that her legs and arms were tied to the chair, but the camera didn’t linger. He sat bolt upright, his hands going up to encase his ears, sealing in the sound. Her voice, sharp and strained, was like an electric shock piercing his head.
‘Hi dad, it’s me, Jess. I need your help.’
TWENTY-THREE
NO one moved. They formed a frozen tableau, none looking at the others, each concentrating in a different direction, two of them suspended in time as they waited for the third to speak, to react.
The video player remained on the table, its screen blank, its message delivered, now nothing more than a silent reminder of events to be faced, decisions to be made.
Cedric gazed upwards towards the window as if enthralled by the gulls zooming past. Morales studied the hands clasped in his lap. Bromo pressed his head hard against the chair rest, one hand making slow sweeps from his brow to the back of his neck, eyes shut, all attention focused inward. He fingered a speck of moisture seeping from the corner of an eye. Now was not the time for emotion. Bloody Jess. Always headstrong, a fighter for the underdog, fiery and feisty, going off at tangents. Now here she was embroiled in some terrifyingly murky business among warlords and racketeers in the most dangerous part of Africa. And lashed to a chair. He took a deep, steadying breath.
The suddenness of Bromo’s long-delayed reaction caught everyone by surprise. In one rapid movement he slapped his palms down hard on to his knees and propelled himself forward and upward, reaching out with both hands to grab the lapels of Morales’ jacket. He yanked hard, pulling the man towards him, lurching, stumbling, their faces millimetres apart. His words hissed out through barely open lips.
‘Someone’s going to pay for this, Mr bloody Blood. I’ve had enough of being fucked around, getting half a story, being used by you and whoever you represent.’
He released one lapel and stabbed his forefinger hard into Morales’ chest.
‘If you don’t start playing ball in the next five minutes—’
The door swung violently open. Tarquin, the security guard, burst through and came to a sudden halt, two steps in, feet planted firmly apart, both hands firmly gripped around a short-barrelled shotgun that Bromo judged was pointed accurately at his left shoulder. Mischali was two steps behind, similarly armed. Bromo threw a quick glance at Cedric and got a shrug of the shoulders in reply. No help there and the gesture said it all. He slowly unclasped his hand from Morales’ other lapel. He let his arms droop to his sides and shuffled back a couple of paces. Morales made a show of smoothing out the ruffled front of his jacket, a showman preparing for the catwalk. He nodded towards the security guard.
‘It’s all right, Tarquin, Mischali, you can put your toys away. Mr Perkins was just a bit overwrought.’
Bromo winced. He felt the remark as a barb. His hands came up, preparing to propel himself forward again. The gun twitched in Tarquin’s grip. Morales stepped forward.
‘Enough, enough. I am sure we have achieved our objective and we can count on Mr Perkins’ wholehearted support.’
Bromo held himself back, his body trembling, his mind raging with the turmoil of anger and remorse as he tried to recall how long it had been since he had last been in touch with Jess. Morales gave a dismissive wave of his hand in Tarquin’s direction.
‘You can remove the trolley but leave the bottle and glasses.’
He topped up Bromo’s glass and extended it to him. He indicated the armchair.
‘Please, sit. We have little time left before the tide ebbs too far and Cedric gets you on your way. Rest assured, your daughter is safe.’
‘But, but how …’
Bromo heard himself stuttering, confused yet relieved. He ran out of words and subsided into the armchair. He waved an arm towards the video player, perplexed and defeated.
‘I give up. What the hell was that all about? She didn’t look all that safe to me.’
He saw Morales smiling at him. The look was starting to anger him. He was seeing it in a new light – patronising, the benign smile of a comforter bringing solace to the terminally ill, totally lacking the warmth it outwardly portrayed. The charm was wearing thin.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Morales. ‘It was a subterfuge, something I am sure you are well familiar with in your trade.’
‘Lashing a young woman to a chair and forcing her to dictate a message sounds like a low level of subterfuge to me.’
Blood spread his arms, palms upward.
‘Ah, needs must … all’s fair in love and war … you know the clichés and the excuses as well as I do, Mr Perkins. Sometimes we’re the good guys, sometimes the bad guys. We criticise the opposition for its dirty methods and then go out and justify doing the same ourselves.’
‘And what are we today, the goodies or the baddies?’
A soft chuckle came from the direction of Cedric’s chair.
‘Oh, don’t be such a naughty boy, Bromo. You know we’re the good guys; always have been and always will be. You’re such a grumpy old tease at times. I can assure you, Jess is perfectly safe.’
Bromo accepted Cedric’s outburst in sulky silence and eased back into his chair. Everyone seemed to be in the know except him. He sipped his malt and raised the glass slightly towards Morales.
‘You win. I’ll say no more. Let’s get on with whatever it is. Jess always did like her diamonds.’
‘But not these diamonds,’ said Morales. ‘They have caused death, mutilation, starvation, poverty and homelessness to millions of people. They are used in a filthy international trade to buy arms for some of the most horrific wars being waged anywhere on earth.
‘The world’s legitimate diamond traders have done their best to stamp out this terrible trafficking but still it continues. Greed and power are immense incentives for evil and there are people who will go to unbelievable extremes to satisfy either or both of these. We have to stop them or the horrors will continue.’
The more Morales spoke, the more Bromo felt out of his depth; being dragged into something far beyond his relatively comfortable suburban boundaries back there in Richmond.
‘Why Australia?’ he pleaded. ‘We’ve got a few Neanderthal killers who think they’re untouchable, but nothing on this scale.’
‘Ah,’ said Morales, his tone that of a weary schoolmaster explaining the simplest of equations to a class of mathematical dunderheads, ‘Australians are seen as the eternal good guys – unless they’re playing cricket. None of the really bad stuff happens there. Okay, you have your drug problems and traffickers, but who doesn’t these days?’
He leaned in towards Bromo, a dumb pupil being drilled in the most basic of facts.
‘Think about it, Mr Perkins. It is so easy to get lost there. Look at the sheer size of it – all that space and distance and so few people. Plenty of places to run and hide. When the stakes are high you look for the lowest risk. The odds are
better there. It’s simple economics.’
Morales’ voice hardened, mindful of the need to ram his message home.
‘It’s a filthy, murderous trade, Mr Perkins. Your daughter knows that. She works for an international aid agency and she’s seen what is going on.’
Another surprise; another shock. Bloody Jess. He really should get in touch.
Bromo wiped an arm across his brow and made sure the sleeve of his jacket brushed over his eyes. Better that was damp than let them see the moisture on his cheeks. He drew in breath, slow and deep.
‘But the chair, the ropes, she’s …’ He realised he was stuttering, starting to stumble over his words.
‘Easy, Mr Perkins,’ said Morales. ‘As I said, a subterfuge, much of it Jess’s own idea. We needed to get your attention, to get your help.’
Bromo sniffed.
‘You’ve certainly done that.’
He paused, aware that Morales and Cedric were closely watching. He sensed their tension and thought for a moment more. Let them have a turn of not knowing what was to come. He drew in a deep breath; decision time was here.
‘Okay, count me in,’ he said, reluctance showing in every syllable. ‘But only if I get guarantees about Jess. And they’d better be good.’
The sense of relief in the room was palpable. Cedric shuffled around in his chair, a broad grin transforming his cheeks into two pink bubbles. Morales stepped boldly towards Bromo and gripped his hand in a firm congratulatory shake.
‘At long last, Mr Perkins, welcome aboard. I was always confident we would be able to count on you.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Bromo.
Bugger their enthusiasm; there was little to smile about. Signing on for a fight with African warlords and international moneymen and racketeers was hardly a cause for celebration. He still had to come to grips with this blood diamond business but whatever it was seemed as risky as jumping off the Bolte Bridge into a saucer of honey; a sticky business even if he survived. And then there was Jess …
It was as if the man called Blood had read his mind. He reached for the video machine, pushed a couple of buttons and placed it back on the table. The screen shimmered into life.
‘I think this is what you want to see,’ he said.
The scene had changed to a carpeted room that oozed comfort, well-lit with big armchairs, a television set, a writing desk and chair, a small dining table set for two people, a couple of tall standard lamps and heavy curtains closing off what seemed to be a wide window wall. Bromo surmised someone’s apartment or a four-star hotel room. The camera lingered, ensuring he had time to study the setting. It confirmed affluence, even what some brochures would classify as luxury, but gave no clues to location. Like a Hilton hotel, it could be anywhere in the world.
Bromo tensed and bent forward. Jess had sauntered into shot, squeezed as ever into jeans and a plain white top that outlined every bump and curve of her generous figure. She smiled briefly at the camera and took a seat in one of the armchairs alongside the dining table. She extended an arm and picked up a newspaper from the table. The camera zoomed in as she began speaking.
‘Hi dad, as you can see I am alive and well. Sorry about the other video, but it had to be. You’re such a stubborn old fool at times.’
Bromo heard a short snigger from Cedric and watched a winner’s smile flicker across his daughter’s face. They were enjoying the moment, knowing he couldn’t answer back. He accepted her rebuke with a brief grin of his own; being a bad loser was something best left to the Aussie cricketers.
Jess opened the paper and held it up to the camera, showing the entire front page of the West Briton, the venerable rag that had been recording the minutiae of life in the royal duchy for more than two centuries.
Bromo heard a muffled gasp from Cedric on his left. He was pointing at the screen.
‘The Brazilian. She’s made the front page already.’
Bromo failed to understand. He dismissed it as an irrelevance; Cedric was recognising some local celebrity who had scored her few minutes of fame, complete with a picture that Bromo fleetingly found vaguely familiar. His attention was on the masthead as the camera’s focus moved even closer, filling the screen with that day’s date. It lingered for several seconds before slowly drawing back leaving Jess in centre screen. She smiled.
‘See dad, here I am today. And I’m comfortable and perfectly safe …’
Bromo thrust forward, forgetting she couldn’t hear him.
‘But where Jess, where? Here?’
Her voice went on.
‘… no pressure on me. Free to get on with tackling those bastards and their bloody diamonds. Thanks for doing what you can to help.’
She stopped talking and lay back in the chair. One hand went up and she gave a gentle wave at the camera.
‘Bye dad. Take care. See you soon.’
The screen faded to black. Morales picked up the device and switched it off.
‘There you are, Mr Perkins. Our guarantee that Jess is safe and well.’
‘And she’s here.’ Bromo almost yelled the words. ‘Why can’t I see her?’
‘All in good time. We must hurry things along.’
He shot his cuff and looked at his watch.
‘There are not many minutes left to us. The tide falls quickly. Soon there’ll be little more than mudflats outside.’
He glanced across at Cedric who was whispering into a mobile phone, a hand cupped over the mouthpiece, his head nodding in agreement with whatever was being said at the other end of the line.
‘You must be on your way,’ said Morales. ‘And so must I. Nowhere is really safe, as Cedric and Julian have already proved today.’
Bromo paused halfway through shrugging his coat up over his shoulders. More surprises. His hosts had played their normal game of hide and seek but had said nothing about a threat to their safety.
‘They’ve proved nothing to me,’ he griped. ‘What’s going on?’
Morales didn’t seem to hear. He smiled softly as if at some inner thought. ‘A Brazilian,’ he said. ‘A nice touch. I like that.’
‘There’s only one Brazilian as far as I’m concerned!’ snapped Bromo. ‘And the way things are here I’ll be lucky ever to see one again.’
He strode towards the door as Cedric ended his phone call. He needed to be in control, out of the hands of people trying to run his life. The whisky that had relaxed him was now firing him up.
‘I thought we were supposed to moving, beating the tide or something!’ he barked.
The door swung wide into the room, pushed open by Tarquin. He held a leather shoulder bag, the size of a small laptop. He handed it to Bromo.
‘That’s yours,’ said Morales. ‘All you need to know is in there. Take it, guard it. There’s also a USB as backup. Keep that somewhere else, secure. I cannot guarantee I will always be here to help. Too many have already been killed in this cause.’
Bromo winced as he felt Morales clamp a hand on his shoulder. It was the grip of a true hard man. They were also the words of a staunch fanatic and that made him wince all the more.
‘Travel well. You are in good hands,’ said Morales.
Yes, but for how long, wondered Bromo as Tarquin led him and Cedric back down the stairs and out on to the landing stage. There the dim shape of an inflatable rocked gently with Julian at the helm. Cedric stepped daintily down into the craft and turned to extend a helping hand to Bromo.
‘All aboard for the night-time cruise to nowhere,’ he whispered. ‘You never know where you might end up.’
TWENTY-FOUR
BROMO was tugging at the seatbelt to ease it out from under the armrest when an ageing blonde flight attendant gave a discreet cough and said his name. He stirred with unease; something was amiss. She was holding a boarding pass. An anxious woman clutching a small child stood alongside her. He felt the tetchiness rising; the pessimist within was already visualising a scene that was destined for a bad ending.
‘Sorry Mr Pe
rkins but there’s been a slight confusion with the seating. If you’d like to come with me I’m sure we can sort it out.’
The woman’s voice was professionally calm and soothing but his mood dictated he was going nowhere without a fight. It had been a bruising and seemingly endless day; this seat was his and they could sort out their problems somewhere else. He began defiantly buckling the seatbelt. The attendant leaned closer, in his face, so close no one else would have seen the quick wink she gave him.
‘The purser has another seat for you,’ she said with an inflection that somehow turned a bland statement into an offer too hard to refuse.
His crankiness ebbed slightly and he reluctantly squeezed his way out into the aisle, rubbing knees with two oversized matrons whose faces were already showing alarm at sharing the next 13 hours with a babe in arms. He took his case from the overhead rack and gave an approximation of a smile.
‘Lead on. This had better be good.’
‘I think you’ll be quite happy,’ assured the attendant. ‘It was just one of those unfortunate mix-ups that happen from time to time.’
‘Like a wheel falling off,’ muttered Bromo.
If she heard, she ignored him and pushed aside the curtain leading into business class. A spruce and lean purser greeted him with that polite mateyness unique to Qantas cabin crew, impeccably courteous yet just one of the boys – or girls.
‘In here please, Mr Perkins. We’ve issued a revised ticket. You’ll be business class all the way through to Melbourne. And I’ll take your jacket, if you like.’
He indicated a spacious airbed seat enclosed in its own hooded surround; a cocoon for anti-social jet-setters, isolated from its neighbour.
‘A drink?’
What a silly question. Bromo gave a clearing shake of his head; it was all too much. Once again he felt he was being manipulated; someone was pulling his strings. The control was in their hands, not his. He shivered. His words tumbled out, almost incoherent.
‘Yes. Ta … I mean thanks. A scotch please, neat, a bit of ice, a malt if you’ve got one. Er …’