by R. B. Shaw
Frazer crept as close as he dared to the sacred burial ground, then crouched to study his surroundings. The clay cliff face was terraced. Hundreds of gaudily painted skulls of ancestors decorated the terraces, interspaced with smoked corpses. These shrivelled corpses had been smoked and basted for weeks over open fires in a primitive preservation ritual. Ten of them sat grotesquely inside open funnels of woven sticks on central poles. The funnels balanced precariously along the face of the cliff. The dark skin of the corpses was crusty and wrinkled like over-ripe passionfruit. Most were nearly skeletons. Other corpses still had clumps of hair, fingernails and the shells of decomposed eyeballs.
The web above was obviously inhabited by huge bird spiders. Numerous shrivelled carcasses of birds dangled overhead, trapped in the web. The dim light created the false impression of an enchanting amber fairyland of dew-coated webs. Frazer knew better than to enter the burial clearing with a rival as canny as Harada. He thought it fitting that the dead should surround a murderer. A small fire burned ahead. A restless figure lay hidden beneath a blanket of woven pit-pit grass; his old stolen rifle lay nearby, alongside a shabby backpack with Japanese characters. Harada.
Frazer watched and waited. He noticed Harada dozed at the ready. He even slept with his boots on. The prone figure fidgeted again in the dim amber glow. Frazer decided to make his move before Harada woke. He only wanted revenge for the brutal beating his son had suffered at the hands of this merciless killer.
He crouched and moved cautiously into the clearing. Machete in hand, he scanned the area for movement. Harada was jungle smart. The slightest noise would wake him. Frazer breathed shallow and moved a furtive pace at a time. Finally he crept within reach.
‘This is for Richard,’ he whispered and swung the machete with all of his might. He aimed his deathblow at Harada’s neck. A terrible scream shattered the solemn silence as the victim beneath thrashed about in agony. The death spasms nearly shook the machete out of Frazer’s hand. He pulled back and stared at the slashed pit-pit. The cleaved flesh suddenly oozed blood. He struck again and then again. To his horror, the pit-pit fell aside to reveal a trussed pig, still twitching in its death throes. Frazer had underestimated his adversary and froze at the realisation of his folly. The branches above shuffled, followed by an ominous thump as someone dropped to the ground behind him. Suddenly, a sharp line of cold steel pressed firmly against the back of his neck.
‘Welcome to my camp, Mr Frazer. At last we meet. I suggest you drop your machete so we can get acquainted,’ said Harada sarcastically as he retrieved his boots. ‘And thanks for butchering my dinner for me.’
As Harada stooped to pick up the machete, Frazer dived straight ahead over the dead pig. He limped straight for the bush near the clay embankment. At half Frazer’s age, the fit Harada easily out-paced his crippled gait. Frazer deliberately grabbed the base-poles of two smoked corpses and shoved them sideways at Harada. They hit the ground, spilling gruesome human remains across the clearing. Harada sidestepped as Frazer capsized a platform of bleached and painted skulls. The gaudy remains tumbled across Harada’s path with a hollow din.
Harada caught Frazer’s shirt, threw him to the ground and held the machete at his throat. ‘One more stunt like that and you’re on site for your burial. Now, stand against the embankment and tell me all you know about the last sighting of the gold shipment.’
‘Go to Hell, arsehole! You tried to murder my son. I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.’
Harada looked offended. ‘No, one of the warriors I employed got carried away. I had no part in it.’
‘Bullshit! It goes with your track record!’
‘I remind you my father was the medical orderly who stitched you up during the War. I come from a compassionate family.’ Harada had to get Frazer’s cooperation—he was trying a new tack. Frazer remained stubbornly silent. Harada remembered the Nokopo telling him about Frazer’s fear of fire. He reached into the fire and lifted out a burning twig. He calmly studied the dancing flame. ‘Are you sure you have nothing to say to me.’
‘Thirty years ago I would’ve smashed your face in,’ Frazer sneered. ‘I’ll see you die before you get that gold.’
Harada waved the small flame across Frazer’s face.
To Frazer the small flame assumed the proportions of a terrible burning beast, the focus of his living nightmare. Everything else in the eerie amber graveyard withdrew into insignificance. He felt the subtle temperature change on his scarred but sensitive face. He sweated, trembled, his lower lip curling in dread anticipation. ‘Take it away!’ he screamed in revulsion. ‘I’ll tell you all I know. Just take the bloody fire away!’
‘I’m not convinced.’
‘There’s ten bags of gold dust near here,’ Frazer offered. ‘It’s less than two hours walk. I’ll show ya.’
‘That’s a lie! My father’s diary mentions no further gold until the island.’
‘He didn’t see what Seiji’s father was doing. Your father was busy treatin’ those wounded at the basin headquarters.’
Harada’s greed surfaced. ‘I have little use for you now, unless you can tell me about the volcanic island and the site of the gold. If you’re lying, you’ll die today.’
‘I realise that. I’ll show you where it is and then let me go. I’m too old for this shit!’
‘Right, let’s go. Lead the way and don’t try anything stupid. I’m right behind you. As we go, tell me all you remember about the island and what happened when the Fire Cult captured you.’ Though fearless and ruthless, Harada hid a secret revulsion of spiders. Despite the surrounding spider colony, the sacred burial ground had been a good choice to avoid prying villagers.
Frazer willingly followed the path back to the main trail. He carefully measured his stride as he approached two closely spaced palms ahead. As he passed through he feigned a stumble, stepped wide and staggered. The timing was perfect. Harada, still preoccupied with spiders’ webs, was forced to take small steps as he passed between the palms. Suddenly his right leg sank to the thigh in Frazer’s hidden trap. Harada shrieked in pain as he fell and dropped his machete. He recoiled in shock, cursing his own stupidity. Frazer was as tricky as a death adder and tough as crocodile hide. He had been duped by the cunning old veteran and had stepped into a simple leg snare.
Though in pain, Harada recovered quickly. He stood up with his right leg encircled by the leg snare. Eight radial bamboo spikes were embedded in the flesh of his thigh. Like a simple finger trap, the leg snare bit deeper the more he struggled to pull free. He lunged for the machete but Frazer had also camouflaged a tether to the nearby tree trunk. Harada screamed again as the line ran out and tugged the vicious bamboo spikes deeper into his thigh. The machete was within reach and he quickly snapped it up.
Harada shouted, not from pain but calling for help. His Nokopo warriors were camped nearby, reluctant to venture inside the sacred burial grounds. Harada hacked frantically at the perimeter ring that encircled his leg. Frazer smiled as he slipped Fang’s Whitehunter out of his gaiter. He moved in for the kill.
Harada took a final desperate swing and the tethered leg snare broke free. Harada shouted again in pain as he wrenched the bamboo spikes from his thigh. He lifted the machete blade to block the attack and with the sound of tortured steel, deftly swung Frazer’s lunge aside. The razor sharp Whitehunter slashed deep into Harada’s arm. Shouting warriors crashed noisily through the bush. Frazer swore. He was no match for three men. He broke off his attack and limped quickly into the jungle. There would be another chance to kill Harada.
21
Before arriving in Papua New Guinea, Harada had assembled a list of aircraft owners and charter operators to assist in his air search. His selected area covered only the Madang region and North coast, based on flimsy evidence as dictated by legible entries in his father’s diary. With the help of his underground contacts, he now had a short list of the four most likely operators. Two had previous criminal records, and neither was intereste
d in his vague scheme. Harada found it frustrating and difficult to promote interest without risking his quest by revealing too much critical detail.
The third listing had been Avmar Salvage in Port Moresby. Their operation also extended to the North coast. Ironically, Stark and Mitchell had now proved to be wily and tough adversaries. The fourth operator was cunning, rich and powerful. Though often implicated in black market deals and illegal activities, he had never been convicted. Harada arranged to contact him in Madang once investigations along the Saidor trail confirmed events as detailed in the diary.
Night approached as Kendo Harada limped painfully under the tangled canopy of bougainvillea that graced the entrance to the Smugglers Inn in Madang. His heavily bandaged arm still ached painfully beneath his shirtsleeve. After asking directions to the bar, he walked in and noticed the panoramic twilight view encompassing the rocky headland and the Bismarck sea through expansive windows. A man who fitted the description given to him sat at the bar. He chatted with an exotic woman of Asian descent. She was exquisite.
The mixed-race man looked bored, staring vacantly at the array of weapons and artefacts displayed over the bar. Interest returned when he caught sight of the brutish Japanese man standing in the entrance. He waved the girl away. She knew a dozen male eyes were on her and instinctively moved with the posture and stride of a world-class model. Her dark glossy hair bounced in rhythm to her practised sway. Harada made directly for the barstool vacated by the girl. He sat awkwardly, avoiding pressure on his lacerated thigh.
‘You must be Harada?’ the handsome stranger enquired.
‘Did you reconsider my offer?’ said Harada.
‘Not much of an offer. What’s in it for me?’
‘If we find it, over a million.’
‘If we find it,’ the stranger repeated cautiously. ‘Why me?’
‘You have a good knowledge of the region and your own plane.’
‘Got to be more to it than that. There’s a few planes for charter around Madang.’
‘You have a reputation for getting what you want.’ Harada hesitated and smiled. ‘Even if it does mean stepping outside the law.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Drugs, smuggling and hookers.’
‘Never proved,’ the dark-skinned stranger smiled smugly.
‘That’s all the more reason why I chose you. You obviously know how to play the authorities and keep a low profile.’
The man warmed to the compliment. ‘Tell me more.’
Harada related the story of the lost gold shipment, cautiously avoiding any clues that could threaten his grip on the gold. He must be careful with a complete stranger who was as avaricious and ruthless as himself. He realised this man was an egotist. He thought it apt that a smuggler frequented the Smugglers Inn. It was probably his conceited way of flaunting his activities.
The man lit a cigarette. ‘What happened on your previous expedition?’
‘Ran out of money, and my partner ran out of guts. He died in the bush and a lot of valuable clues went with him. What I do have points to the old barge near your plantation.’
‘Why that particular barge?’
Harada leered at the Asian bargirl. ‘It fits the scenario. It’s very close to the original course and supported by some entries in my father’s diary.’
‘It was picked over after the war and I’m sure it’s cleaned out,’ the stranger responded.
The response irritated Harada. ‘You didn’t check it out for yourself?’
‘I’d heard rumours but thought it was just a myth. I didn’t know it was supposed to be carrying that much gold. This all sounds very vague. I don’t need a wild goose chase, I make plenty from my other business interests.’
Harada played the man’s egotism. ‘Not a problem. There are other powerful people interested in the gold who aren’t intimidated.’
The stranger bristled. ‘I’ve got power, not just in Madang but right across the Pacific. See those girls at the far end of the bar?’
Harada turned and glanced at the two other women sitting with the Asian girl. One was a bleached blonde European, the other Papuan, slim and statuesque as a Nubian princess.
‘Any one of them can be yours, right now,’ boasted the mixed-race man in a lewd but blatant show of power.
Harada ignored the crude offer. ‘Are you still interested?’
The stranger hesitated. ‘On my terms, yes.’
The two men haggled for over an hour. Harada decided to suspend any further detail until he saw results. His gaze wandered to the Asian girl nearby. Her prominent cheekbones and sculptured jaw looked so smoothly contoured they almost seemed computer perfect. She glanced at him. Her small mouth and broad full lips parted to an entrancing smile.
Harada knew his adversary’s weaknesses. He planted the seeds of a scheme. ‘The Asian girl, tell me about her.’
The man flinched a little. She was his personal favourite and regularly accompanied him on his journeys. ‘Magnificent isn’t she? Half French, half-Thai and incredibly beautiful. I’ll call her over.’
22
The rented truck and trailer finally carried Dave’s men and the wreck to Saidor, a sleepy coastal town with a sprinkling of trade stores. Dave drove directly to the wharf to organise the plane onto a coastal trader bound for Port Moresby. He realised how important it was now. As well as the insurance, he should get salvager’s first right to re-purchase the wreck. He even had a spare wing in Port Moresby to replace the one lost at the bridge. The price would be cheap and he knew he could have it flying again for less than twenty thousand.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Seiji shrugged, disheartened by the dead end they seemed to have reached. ‘All we know is my father left here with the gold on barge 282.’
Dave stared across a wide shimmering bay. Distant peaks backed the warm wind-swept waters. He contemplated the enigma of the Japanese barge, knowing the gold dust departed this very spot, fifty years ago. ‘We need more clues. We don’t know enough about the barge.’
‘The wreck of the Ventura bomber could help,’ Fang offered.
Dave agreed. ‘With a careful search pattern, it won’t be too hard to find. We’ll move our base of operations close to the Bismarck Sea islands. Madang’s the obvious choice. When we get there, can you fly over to Port Moresby in the Invader? Get it fixed up properly and check out how things are going with the business?’
‘No problem.’ Fang accepted eagerly. He wanted to see Bianca.
Dave took the opportunity to question the local shipping agent. ‘Did a Japanese man come through here trying to get to Madang or the islands?’
The agent looked up, surprised. ‘No. Strange you should ask. Ted Frazer was here asking the same question. He’s been watching each departure today.’
‘Great, where is he?’
‘You missed him by an hour. He took the last coastal trader to Madang.’
‘Shit!’ Fang exclaimed. ‘Is there any other way this Jap could get to Madang?’
‘Yeah. A lot of the villages around here have powerboats. It’s only eighty kilometres up the coast.’
Dave thought for a moment. ‘When’s your next trader due out to Madang?’
‘Tomorrow at noon.’
Dave realised he could radio Jan in Madang to fly over in the helicopter. She could ferry them and their equipment back in a few shuttles. But he did not want to disturb her aerial survey and research any more than was necessary.
‘Nothin’ else available?’ said Fang.
‘There’s a copra boat leaving in two hours, but it won’t be very comfortable.’
‘After what we’ve been through, it’ll be a pleasure cruise. Book passage for four.’
Next day, Dave waited patiently at Madang airport in Fang’s Thunderbox. The distant patter of rotor blades disturbed the still tropical humidity. The helicopter came into view, then hovered briefly before landing. Jan stepped out before the rotors came to rest. She looked a sight in jeans, f
lannel shirt and riding boots. Aviator sunglasses disguised her beautiful eyes and her wavy brown hair shone in the noonday sun. She smiled her perfect smile and kissed Dave warmly. ‘How are you? You’re looking a bit ragged after your salvage trek.’
‘I’m okay. Thanks for your support.’ Dave smiled in return and embraced her. ‘How’s the search going?’
‘No good. I’m wasting my time in the mountains. I need someone searching while I concentrate on the flying. What’s happening with Ted and Seiji?’
‘Seiji’s back at the hotel recovering from his injuries. He wants to go over the notes he made before the diary was stolen, then decipher the Jap documents we found along the Saidor trail.’
‘What about Ted?’
‘We caught up with him at Madang hospital. Richard’s still in a coma, so he decided to make a quick visit back to Zawan. Wants to see what he can scavenge from the remains of his burnt out house and organise for a new one to be built.’
‘Do you think he’ll be back?’
‘Yes, he’s really wild about the attack on his son and the arson. It’s worked out to our advantage. He’s elected to take up our offer of paid accommodation at the Madang Hotel until the new house is ready. He said he’ll do all he can to help us find the gold before Harada gets to it.’
‘Wonderful, he still might help us yet,’ Jan replied. ‘Before I forget, Fang called while you were at the hospital.’
‘How’s business in Port Moresby?’
‘He’s got a few problems to sort out. Due to arrive back in the Invader late this afternoon.’
‘What problems?’
‘Mainly trying to raise more capital since that accountant cleaned out our bank. You know Bianca’s back, but they’re fighting again. She didn’t want him away for so long and insisted if he came to Madang, then she should come along. When Fang refused, they had another big fight.’