No Man's Land

by Roland Fishman

  They stood looking at each other without moving. Neither said a word.

  The kitchen door swung open. The waitress walked across the dining room and said, “Is everything all right?”

  “Can I get a fresh coffee, please?” Carter asked. “Erina, you want anything?”

  She shook her head.

  The waitress forced a smile and said, “Be right back.”

  She turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  He placed his right hand on Erina’s shoulder. “We’re going to get them back,” he said. “I promise.”

  Her head dropped and she took a deep breath.

  “Whatever it takes,” he said. “Now sit down and talk to me.” He guided her back into her chair. “So, who do you reckon these guys work for?”

  Erina put out her hand. “Give me their phones.”

  9

  Carter watched Erina work the phones and the computer, her expression cold and dispassionate now.

  Like him, she’d witnessed firsthand the inhumanity and depravity of the human race. She’d seen many friends and enemies die. And even though she’d learned to suppress her emotions to get the job done, there was no doubt it had affected her at a deep psychic level.

  From the restaurant’s kitchen he heard pots and pans clang and the hiss of an espresso machine. He sipped his fresh coffee and ate his second turkey sandwich slowly.

  Erina checked a final number and dropped the two cell phones into his daypack. She pushed it across the floor toward him and said, “Just as I thought. The phones lead to Hamish T. Woodforde, owner of the property where the film is being shot. I’m sure Thomas and Wayan have been taken there.”

  She reached into her daypack and handed him a manila folder. He pushed his cup and plate to one side and opened it.

  A large photo of a heavily jowled man in his early fifties stared back at him. He had a ruddy complexion, thinning grey hair and a protruding beer belly. His most telling feature was a look of smug entitlement.

  “Hamish Woodforde,” Erina said. “The motherfucker has a finger in half-a-dozen crooked pies. Brothels, gambling, drugs and stolen goods. He even supplies alcohol covertly to the Aboriginal community.”

  “Greed is an ugly religion.”

  “He controls several businesses and spends a great deal of money in the district. When I questioned a handful of local shopkeepers, publicans and the local police, they clammed up at the mention of his name.”

  “So we can assume the police are in Woodforde’s pocket.”

  “The best money can buy.”

  Carter put the photo to one side and scanned the two-page dossier. He finished reading and asked, “How does a fourth-generation farmer in the middle of the outback get into bed with the Sungkar clan?”

  “Believe it or not, through playing polo. He met Arung Sungkar at the exclusive Nusantara Polo Club near Jakarta nine years ago. He ended up marrying Arung’s cousin.”

  “Arranged?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Not exactly a match made in heaven.” She paused. “For her, anyway.”

  “But good for the family?”

  “Very. It’s allowed the Sungkar family and various clan members to move freely in and out of Australia for a number of years.”

  He slid the folder back toward her. “What’s in it for Woodforde?”

  She put the dossier back in her daypack and said, “The clan saved his arse. He prefers the ageing playboy lifestyle to working his butt off on the family farm. He owes the Bank of Queensland four million dollars and couldn’t keep up with his payments – he was on the verge of losing it all. Arung obliged and bailed him out, making him the managing director of a clan-controlled transport company, Rapid Transfer, now based on Woodforde’s property.”

  “The perfect cover.”

  “We suspect the trucks distribute stolen and illegal goods throughout Australia.”

  An image of the truck at Thomas’s property flashed across his mind. The name Rapid Transfer had been painted on its side.

  “What’s his relationship with Samudra like?” he asked.

  “Basically, he does whatever the clan ask him to do and they tolerate his gross behavior.”

  Carter shook his head. “The God of the fanatic moves in mysterious ways.”

  “When it suits them.”

  He glanced out the window. A black ute flashed down the highway. Guys like Woodforde, motivated purely by greed, pissed him off even more than terrorists. At least most religious fanatics acted out of the misguided belief that they were doing God’s will. Which made him think of Alex Botha.

  “Talking of arseholes, what’s the latest with Alex or Abdul-Aleem or whatever he goes by now?” he asked.

  “All I know is that he’s Samudra’s right-hand man. Been in the production office a couple of times, but I’ve managed to avoid him. He left the property with three Indonesians this morning in a big truck. It could be an advance party for a possible terrorist attack.”

  “We can’t worry about that until we get Thomas and Wayan back.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What’s the set-up at Woodforde’s property like?”

  “Considering it’s in the middle of nowhere, the security is incredibly tight. Fenced-off compound and all. You’d think Woodforde was a Colombian drug lord.”

  Carter finished his coffee. “So rushing in now will only tip them off.”

  “We need to go in late tonight.”

  They sat in silence. Carter ran through everything in his mind.

  “Do you reckon this film is legit?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re well organized and the paperwork appears up to date. I’ve seen boom mikes and cameramen filming guys in military uniforms running around carrying automatic rifles. The film could be legit – maybe fundamentalist propaganda – or it could be a front for getting members of the Sungkar clan into the country and marshalling them for a terrorist attack. Whatever they’re up to, the irony is the Australian and Indonesian governments are funding it.”

  She finished her glass of water.

  “Let’s move,” she said. “I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

  Carter stood up. “Okay, let’s grab the sleeping beauties outside and find out what they know.”

  “I’ve got just the place for a quiet chat. Follow me.”

  She slipped her computer into her daypack and stood up. “By the way, where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “You’ll stay with me. I’ve got a suite in Moree.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  She turned and walked toward the “pay here” counter.

  10

  Just after 8 p.m., Carter sank into the soft embroidered lounge in Erina’s spacious motel suite just out of Moree on the Newell Highway. She said it was the only room she could find in the area that wasn’t a gloomy soulless box with a low cement-rendered ceiling.

  The sound of the kettle boiling and the smell of fresh ginger wafted into the living room from the kitchenette. Crockery rattled. The fridge door opened and closed. She’d insisted on making tea before outlining how she intended to break into Woodforde’s property. He knew better than to rush her, but hoped the plan she came up with wouldn’t be too elaborate. He preferred the simple direct approach.

  He looked through the open sliding door toward the outback sky. The sun had melted into the horizon, creating a spectacular red, yellow and black sunset, the colors of the Aboriginal flag.

  The relative cool and stillness of the end of the day evoked a sense of calm, giving him the opportunity to run through in his mind the information they’d gathered. He’d interrogated Woodforde’s men while Erina had prepared the night’s assault on the property.

  The three guys were hired standover men who basically did whatever Woodforde told them to do without question. It didn’t take a lot to get them talking. Just a bit of pain and the threat of far greater injury if they failed to cooperate
.

  They confirmed that a Rapid Transfer truck had arrived at Woodforde’s property around lunchtime, but they hadn’t been told who or what was inside. All they knew was that Alex had left that morning with three Indonesians and that Samudra and two of his men had flown in by light plane two days before.

  They had also provided some key pieces of pertinent information.

  Woodforde slept on the top floor of the main homestead, they had told him, in the master bedroom above the entrance, usually with a much younger woman. His wife was in Indonesia and no one else slept in the house.

  The property’s employees lived in the shearers’ quarters at the back of the compound. The visiting Indonesians bunked down in a barn on the northern boundary. Alex and members of the Sungkar clan occupied the visitors’ cottage behind the main homestead when they stayed.

  Four of the large barns spread around the property were used to grow marijuana hydroponically and to store stolen goods. The three men said this was why Woodforde had installed the state-of-the-art security system.

  Footsteps padded across the carpet. Carter turned to see Erina walking toward him carrying two mugs of steaming tea. She’d ditched the wig, suit and shoes and changed into the more familiar loose black pants and white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung over her right shoulder.

  Carter thought she always looked good, regardless of what she wore.

  She handed him a mug and sat down facing him, tucking her legs under her and draping her free arm on the back of the sofa.

  “What’ve you come up with?” he asked, resting the mug on his thigh.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “That’s never bothered you before.”

  She flicked her ponytail behind her shoulder. “One of the security guys took a shine to me when I paid the property a visit a few days ago and was good enough to show me how their security system works.”

  “You can charm the pants off any man when you want something.”

  She brought the mug to her lips and drank a mouthful. “But you’ve become immune?”

  “I’ve managed to build up some resistance.” He lifted his mug and crossed his legs away from her. “So what’s your plan?”

  “The guy told me he was on duty tonight at the gatehouse and asked me to pop in and say hi, if I was free.”

  Carter took a sip of tea and said, “Go on.”

  “After a few polite niceties, I’ll put him to sleep and shut down security. Then we wake up Woodforde for a chat. Make him tell us where Thomas and Wayan are.”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  As far as plans went, he had no problem with it. But in a situation like this the plan was usually only the starting point. Something always went wrong, but there was no point worrying about it now. She knew that too.

  “We leave at the usual time?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  They always made night-time incursions at 2.30 a.m. It was the time when people were at their most vulnerable.

  He took another mouthful of tea and looked out through the sliding door. The sun was no longer visible. A reddish tinge was all that remained on the horizon. It was nearly half past eight.

  “We should get some sleep,” he said. “I suppose I’m bunking down on the couch?”

  “You’ll get into less trouble there.”

  “Who says I’m afraid of trouble?”

  “Carter, are you trying to flirt with me?”

  “I said I’ve built up some resistance – I didn’t say I was immune.”

  She smiled, revealing her dimple.

  He watched her stand and walk toward the bedroom.

  She turned just before reaching the door. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  11

  Carter sat in the passenger seat in the air-conditioned cool of Erina’s four-wheel drive. It was 2.06 a.m. He’d slept for four and a half hours on the couch and felt wide-awake and ready for whatever lay before them.

  The headlights’ high beam lit up the road ahead and the surrounding narrow band of stark, flat farmland. On their left a “beware of kangaroos” sign flashed by.

  He glanced at Erina, intent on the two-lane highway ahead, gunning the four-wheel drive through the inky blackness toward Woodforde’s property. The speedo hovered just under ninety miles an hour. They’d travelled in a comfortable silence for fifteen minutes. Both liked to still their minds and clear their thinking before a job.

  Before leaving, Carter had watched Erina put on the black wig for her encounter with the gate guard. She then slid a small Beretta into the Gore-Tex holster under her left armpit and finally placed a pack of drug-tipped darts, an Emerson throwing knife, a cigarette lighter and a packet of Marlboro into her leather shoulder bag. She didn’t smoke, but cigarettes often came in handy when you needed information from an uncooperative source. His weapons were tucked into his daypack, lying at his feet.

  A still, bright light loomed ahead of them to the right, a blazing beacon in an ocean of dark. Erina veered off the bitumen, hit the brakes and killed the headlights.

  Carter felt a slight rush of adrenalin quicken his heart rate.

  She pointed at the light, about half a mile away at a diagonal angle from where they were parked. “That’s the gatehouse where my dream date awaits me.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t turn into a nightmare.”

  “Whatever, I’ll handle him.”

  Carter grabbed his daypack and stepped out of the vehicle. He climbed onto the four-wheel drive’s crash bar, took out his night-vision binoculars and studied the small building. Two bright lights mounted on its roof threw out a fifty-foot arc of light, illuminating a high barbed-wire fence, which presumably cordoned off Woodforde’s inner compound.

  Erina stood on the road beside the four-wheel drive. “To get there,” she said, pointing down the highway, “we turn right up ahead, travel three hundred yards along a dirt road and cross a cattle ramp.”

  He scanned the grounds beyond the light and noted the dark shadows of two utes parked about fifteen yards from the gatehouse.

  “I thought you were expecting just one guard,” he said.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Looks like there’s two. Maybe your boyfriend was thinking along the lines of a threesome.”

  Erina ignored him.

  He turned his head and looked out into the darkness. To his left the moon shone behind a single majestic gum, creating a ghostlike silhouette. Already the plan was bending out of shape.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, “there’s no time for second-guessing. We have to go in. Now.”

  He turned to face her. “Agreed.”

  —

  It took Carter three minutes to organize himself in his hiding place underneath the chassis of the four-wheel drive.

  He lay in a sling he’d created from a hessian bag, suspended eight inches above the black bitumen with his feet pointing toward the front, parallel to the highway. His nose just cleared a hot metal pipe and rope dug into his back, thighs and calves.

  The engine purred to life and the vehicle moved down the highway toward the turn-off to the gatehouse at around twelve miles an hour. He twisted his head in an effort to avoid the harsh fumes of engine oil. Not exactly first class, but it would get him through the front gate.

  In his left hand he gripped one of the suspension ropes. In his right he held the Glock 18 close to his chest, fitted with a silencer. He hoped he wouldn’t need the weapon but it was best to be prepared. The four-wheel drive’s spare keys were tucked away in his pants pocket.

  He felt the vehicle brake, then they turned right off the smooth highway and rumbled along a gravel road.

  The four-wheel drive decelerated further, rattled over a cattle grid and then came to a halt.

  He heard the front window slide down and an intercom buzz. “I’m looking for Pete Stanley,” Erina said. “He’s expecting me.”

  A hoarse,
raspy voice crackled, “State your name.”

  “Nicole Davey from Screen Australia.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on in. Don’t exceed five miles an hour and stop at the gatehouse. Understood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Carter heard the gate click open. The four-wheel drive rumbled slowly along the gravel and came to a gentle stop.

  Light flooded underneath the vehicle.

  Two sets of dark boots strode toward the four-wheel drive.

  Carter heard the distinct sound of a pump-action cocking and a shell crunching into the chamber ready to fire.

  Shotguns weren’t part of the plan.

  “This is all very melodramatic,” Erina said, her tone playful and light. “I just came by to see Pete.”

  A hoarse voice answered her. “Pete’s not here. Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Carter ran his forefinger over the well-oiled barrel of his Glock.

  “Really, guys,” Erina said, “I’m just coming back from Brisbane. Pete said he was on night shift this week and asked me to drop by.”

  She hadn’t missed a beat.

  “Get out of the car,” the hoarse voice repeated.

  The driver’s door opened and Erina stepped out.

  “Leave the bag on the seat.”

  “Why are you making such a fuss?”

  Carter imagined her staring down the barrel, calculating the odds, deciding whether she should attempt to take the guy out.

  A set of boots moved toward her.

  Carter hoped she’d play it low-key and bide her time. With a shotgun pointing at your head, the percentages were too low to make a move, but eventually an opening would present itself and they’d sort it out. He was counting on her having faith in him, even though they hadn’t worked together for two years.

  “Put the shotgun to her head, Smokey, and if she moves so much as a muscle pull the trigger and blow her pretty head off.”

  “No worries, Mick.”

  Carter watched a pair of boots move to Erina’s left. The other boots stepped forward.