Carter was familiar with Sufism. It was a mystical branch of Islam whose adherents strived to be close to God in every moment and every movement. A Sufi acquaintance in Jakarta had once said to him, “I possess nothing in the material world and nothing possesses me. Sufism is not the wearing of wool and shabby clothes, rather the excellence of conduct and moral character.” But why would a Sufi get involved in something like this?
He looked at his phone. The battery was now showing red.
“I’m about to cut out. So where exactly will I find Erina?”
“She’s operating out of the film’s production office, pretending to work for Screen Australia. Using the name Nicole Davey.”
“So where is it?”
“Sorry, mate. All I know is that it’s somewhere between Boggabilla and Moree.”
“Okay, I’ll hit the first pub I see in Boggabilla and gather some local intel.”
“Don’t get caught in a bloody shout with a bunch of bushies. Once they buy you one beer, they’ll expect you to be there until closing time.”
Carter almost smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Good luck.”
“You too. Give my best to the guys in the hospital. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead. Carter dropped it on the passenger seat and took a sip of lukewarm water. Knowing Jacko was on the case in Indonesia allowed him to focus exclusively on Boggabilla.
He glanced at his daypack and patted it like an old faithful dog, then concentrated on the black line of road shimmering into the distance.
3
At a little after 2 p.m. a sign flashed by. Boggabilla 10 kilometres.
A few minutes later the ute crunched to a halt on the gravel opposite a faded yellow cement-rendered building. A name was painted above its door: The Wobbly Boot.
Carter ran his eye over the old-fashioned pub, noting the peeling artwork – a brown laced-up workboot overflowing with frosted frothy beer.
A dozen cars were parked outside, mostly dusty utes with large roo bars and black tarps stretched over the back trays. There were also a couple of road bikes – a Harley-Davidson and a souped-up Yamaha 750.
He stepped out into the dry, burning heat and looked around. The air was still and he saw no sign of a living creature. He leaned back into the cabin and grabbed the daypack from the passenger seat. When working for the order, he made it a habit to carry it with him wherever he went.
After locking his car, he slung the pack over his shoulders, walked across the street and pushed through the pub’s door.
The chill of air conditioning welcomed him, along with the loud buzz of indecipherable chatter and the country twang of Hank Williams singing “Honky Tonkin’.”
He crossed a green sea of sticky shag-pile carpet and walked toward the counter. Twenty or so white males were gathered around the bar, dressed in shirts, jeans, moleskins and bush hats, all drinking schooners of frothy beer.
In the far corner three middle-aged Aboriginal men sat under a well-used dartboard, drinking longnecks. Two bikies sat at a table near the jukebox. They didn’t look at him directly, but he sensed they were checking him out.
He maneuvered his way to the bar and read the blackboard menu. Wobbly Boot Sportsman’s Special, Pie and Chips with Gravy.
A rake-thin woman in her late forties stood behind the bar, looking his way. She had fine mousy hair and the deeply lined, sallow skin of a pack-a-day-plus smoker.
“What’ll it be, love?” she asked, without a drop of warmth in her voice. “We’ve got cans of Fourex and Fourex on tap.”
“Any chance of getting a feed?”
“Kitchen closed at two.” She let out a hacking cough and pointed at the vending machine across the bar. “We got chips, nuts, Twisties and Kit Kats. Help yourself.”
“Just give me a large bottle of water then.”
She reached into the fridge behind her and placed a bottle on the counter.
From the other end of the bar, a voice boomed, “Mate, this is a pub. Not a flaming milk bar!”
Suppressed laughter and a faint cheer rippled through the room.
Carter thanked the woman, grabbed the bottle, undid the cap and took a long, cool swig. Then he turned toward the voice.
A barrel-chested bushie with a curly mop of rust-colored hair stared at him.
“Really?” Carter said. “I suppose a chocolate malted milkshake is out of the question then?”
A couple of people groaned at the attempted joke.
Must have been his timing.
The guy started walking toward him and the crowd parted in silence.
The breadth of his shoulders, his bulging biceps and powerful chest suggested he’d been tossing steers in his backyard since he was five.
He pulled his six-foot-six frame to its full height, stood unnecessarily close to Carter and eyeballed him. Judging by his swaying swagger and the glazed look in his eyes, he’d already put a good few beers away.
“Mate, I thought that was pretty funny,” he said. “But I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Carter smiled.
“You here for that kung-fu movie?” The bushie waved his arms in circles in the air in a mock martial-arts move. “You pretty good at kung-fu?”
“Just passing through.”
A big smirk appeared across the guy’s sun-lined face.
“Fair enough.”
He put out his big meaty right hand.
Carter took it. The big bushie clamped down hard, as if trying to break the bones in his fingers.
“Don’t hurt him, Bluey!” someone yelled, then laughed. “We don’t want a bloody ambulance and a bunch of medics interfering with our drinking.”
Carter adjusted his grip and drilled his thumb into the pressure point between Bluey’s thumb and forefinger.
Seven long, silent seconds passed.
Bluey grimaced, turned away and said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck me …”
But he didn’t let go.
Carter glanced around the room. All eyes were on them. If this turned into a fight, it’d be on for young and old and he’d find out nothing.
He eased the pressure. Bluey let go.
Carter took half a step back.
Bluey flicked his hand in the air and glared at Carter.
“Let me buy you a beer,” Carter said, “and we’ll call it quits.”
Bluey said nothing. Carter watched the cogs turning slowly in his beer-addled brain.
“No,” the man said. “It’s my shout.” His face broke into a broad grin. “You sure you’re not in that kung-fu movie?”
Carter smiled and shook his head.
Bluey beckoned to the woman behind the bar. “Cheryl, pull us a couple of schooners would you, love?”
“Mate, gotta fair way to drive,” Carter said. “Let me buy you one. I’ll stick with the water.”
While on assignment, Carter rarely drank. Alcohol muddied his perception, slowed him down and cut him off from his higher instincts. After his binge the night before, the last thing he needed was more alcohol.
“Round here we find it hard to trust a bloke who won’t sink a schooner or ten with you,” Bluey said.
Carter needed information and Bluey seemed as good a source as any to gather it from. He nodded at Cheryl. Fourex was the glue that bound men in these parts.
“A schooner of Gold,” he said.
Bluey patted Carter on the back.
Cheryl pulled two foaming beers and placed them on the counter.
Bluey grabbed one of the frosted glasses and downed a third in one gulp. He leaned on the bar. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“I’m looking for someone on that film shoot.”
“Won’t find them here, mate. Mostly Indos on that gig. They never venture far off the reservation. Mostly stick together and say their prayers.” Bluey lifted his schooner level with his eyes. “This is my god.”
“You know where the production office is?”
/> “Maybe I do. But someone who doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the sacred amber fluid is no friend of mine. Not someone I can share my truth with, if you get my drift.”
Carter took the hint, realizing this was one argument he’d never win. Drinking great quantities of cold beer was the religion of the bush and the passport to the pub brotherhood.
He raised his schooner toward Bluey in a salute, put the ice-cold beer to his lips and drank down the lot.
Bluey’s face lit up like he’d found a soulmate.
Carter placed the glass on the table and said, “You were about to tell me how to find the film’s production office?”
Bluey nodded at Cheryl. “Another round, love.”
Cheryl placed two more schooners on the bar.
“It’s at Jambaroo Springs, a cross between a motel and a resort built on a natural hot spring.” Bluey picked up his fresh schooner and again downed a third in one go. “Buggered if I know why anyone would pay good money to sit in a tub of hot salty water.”
Carter picked up his beer and drank half of it. “Where is it exactly?”
“You head down the Boomi Road for about thirty-five clicks and hang a left at the sign. Can’t miss it. When you plan on going?”
“Right now.”
“You got an invitation?”
Carter shook his head.
“Security’s pretty bloody tight and they don’t welcome strangers. They’ve got a ten-foot fence around the joint. Are you looking for someone in particular or you after a part in the flick? You look scruffy enough to be an actor.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
Bluey winked and gave him a playful shove. “Aren’t we all? Tell you what, mate, I can give you a leg in. A good buddy of mine, Dazza, is manning the gate. I’ll give him a bell.”
“Thanks, mate,” Carter said. “Appreciate it.”
Carter didn’t need to see Jambaroo Springs to know whatever security they might have was unlikely to present a problem. Breaking into places like that without a fuss was what he did. But it was always better to take the easy route and enter through the front door.
Bluey drained his schooner, let out a satisfied sigh and thumped the glass on the counter. “That hit the spot.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Carter noticed the two bikies heading toward the front door.
“You know those two?” Carter asked.
“Never seen ’em before in my life.”
Carter wondered if they could be somehow mixed up with the Sungkar clan.
Bluey pointed at Carter’s half-empty glass. “Come on, mate. Get that beer into ya. A man could die of thirst waiting for your shout.”
4
Two schooners and one hour later, Carter drove along the highway toward a sign that read: Jambaroo Natural Spa and Hot Springs, 200 metres.
He turned left off the highway following Bluey’s directions. If all went according to plan, he’d enter the resort, locate Erina and then leave with her, without attracting undue attention.
The ute rolled down the drive. Harsh sunlight shimmered off the white walls of a large, drab two-storey building with a ten-foot wire fence running around the perimeter.
He pulled up in front of a red boom gate next to a white gatehouse. A lanky guard dressed in a short-sleeved khaki shirt, long grey pants and a broad-brimmed hat strolled toward him. It could only be Dazza.
Carter grinned at him. “G’day, mate. How’re you doin’?”
The guard stood just back from the car, swatting flies. “Fair to middling. Has to be forty degrees in the flaming waterbag. And you must be Bluey’s new drinkin’ mate? He warned me not to shake your hand.”
Dazza’s infectious good humor made Carter smile. “I wish someone had warned me not to get into a shout with Bluey.”
Dazza chuckled. “He loves a beer or twenty. Who is it you wanna see?”
“You know Nicole Davey?”
Dazza nodded. “Good-looking sort. You want me to try and get her on the blower?”
“Yeah, give it a shot.”
Dazza ducked back into the guardhouse, leaving Carter in the stifling heat.
Less than a minute later he stepped back out and said, “The receptionist reckons she can’t track her down. She wants to know your name. What’ll I say?”
“Tell her I had to shoot through. I’ll be back later.”
Dazza disappeared into the guardhouse again. When he emerged thirty seconds later, Carter asked, “Nicole is actually somewhere around, I presume?”
“Came in two or three hours ago and hasn’t left. Maybe she’s avoiding you?”
“Maybe she is. You know women. You can never tell what they’re thinking.”
“You’re not wrong there.”
“Any chance of letting me in so I can surprise her?”
“Gettin’ you through the gate ain’t a big drama. But I gotta warn you, unless you’ve got an appointment, getting past the receptionist to see someone unannounced is like being granted an audience with the Pope.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Dazza pressed a button on a handheld remote and the boom gate lifted.
“Cheers, mate,” Carter said. He gave Dazza a two-finger salute and drove into the grounds.
—
Carter picked out a deserted corner of the parking lot and pulled in under the shadow of one wing of the resort.
He locked the car, slung his daypack over his left shoulder and walked through the dry, harsh heat.
A glass door slid open. Once again, the welcoming breath of air-conditioned cool came as a pleasant relief.
He headed straight for the front desk, where a woman sat behind a shiny white counter.
She looked Indonesian, around thirty years of age, and wore a dark blue blazer and white shirt. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. She lifted her attention from the computer screen and gave him a questioning stare.
“Good afternoon, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m here to see Nicole Davey.”
“Your name?”
“Sinclair. Brett Sinclair. From the Commonwealth Bank.”
She typed something into the computer, then looked up and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have no appointment. You can’t see anyone here without an appointment. That is company policy.”
Her mouth smiled at him, yet her dark eyes were ice-cold. He had no idea if she knew who he was, but he understood her culture and could read her manner. She wasn’t going to let him in and intended to report his appearance to her immediate superior as soon as he left.
Whatever he said would fail to budge her one inch. But nothing was impossible if you knew the correct approach and used the appropriate language. He suspected she wouldn’t say no to some quick cash on the side.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted a crisp fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the table.
She looked at the money and then at him, unmoved.
He placed another fifty on top of the first.
She glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was watching.
In any act of bargaining the trick was to know a person’s limit. If you offered too much or too little, you lost respect.
More slowly this time, he lay down a third.
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at the money, then at the black book on the table next to her iMac.
Her hand reached out for the money like a hungry snake stalking a mouse.
He snapped his hand back over the notes before she got even close.
“Where will I find Miss Davey?”
—
Carter raced two steps at a time up the stairwell that led to the third floor and Erina’s office.
He spotted the minute eye of a camera attached to the concrete ceiling and wondered if Erina had hooked it up to her computer, enabling her to track anyone’s movements as they came up the stairs.
As well as being an expert in the martial arts, she was an IT w
hiz, and with Alex in the vicinity she couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.
She stood waiting for him as he entered the open door of the bare rectangular room. The window gave her an uninterrupted view of the grey concrete wall of the other wing of the building.
She was leaning on the edge of the black desk, facing the door with her arms folded, glaring at him.
He took a step back and studied her disguise.
She wore a shoulder-length black wig with a fringe, red-rimmed glasses, a white blouse, black jacket and a matching pencil skirt that just covered her knees. Her shiny black shoes had three-inch heels; red lacquered toenails peeked from the open toe. An unfamiliar small tattoo of two hearts entwined sat just above the inside of her right ankle and her daypack lay behind her feet within easy reach.
Her outfit created the impression of a woman making her way up the corporate ladder. The major difference being that Erina would have at least two lethal weapons concealed on her body.
She pushed off the desk and stood upright. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Great to see you again too,” he said.
“You’re supposed to be on your way to Sydney.”
“Change of plan.”
He walked behind the desk, free of clutter except for an open bottle of still mineral water, a set of keys and an eleven-inch MacBook Air hooked up to a screen and keyboard.
She followed his every move.
He took a long sip of cool water from the bottle, screwed on the lid and placed it back on the table. He then unplugged her laptop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
Paying off the receptionist had bought him a little information and some time, but not a whole lot more, certainly not her loyalty.
He picked up her keys and laptop and held them out. “Your film-industry days are over. We need to get out of here.”
Erina understood him well enough to recognize when it was best to take notice of what he said and follow his lead.
She took her things from him and said, “I trust you know what you’re doing.”
5
Five minutes later Carter was driving along the two-lane highway at seventy-five miles an hour, several car lengths behind Erina’s black four-wheel drive. They were heading toward a local restaurant, which she said served breakfast and lunch all day. He was in need of food. He hadn’t eaten anything except for a banana he’d grabbed when he went home that morning to pick up his daypack and ute.
No Man's Land Page 6