‘Now … in spirit I fully sympathise with what the Kutuans are after – of course I do. Who wouldn’t? I mean they want to keep their land, don’t they? It’s natural. But I don’t get involved with their cause like Jim does. I can’t. The Indonesians’ll tolerate us foreigners only so long as we’re useful and don’t interfere. Now, I’ve got a house there, I’ve got my business, and … and I’ve got Teri. So I put a little money in the right pockets to make sure I don’t get hassled, and I button my lips when it comes to politics. If I didn’t, they’d soon kick me out. And I’ve no desire to have to leave the place.’
Sawyer snorted. ‘Course he doesn’t! There’s a few thousand rich mining executives about to descend on Kutu, and they’ll all be looking for someone to take them scuba diving …’
Charlotte noticed the refugee couple looking uncomfortable and out of it. ‘Maybe I’d better have that chat with Thomas and Yuliana,’ she suggested.
‘Teri’ll translate,’ Sawyer replied quickly. ‘That’s why she’s here.’
Charlotte grouped some chairs together at the far end of the stone terrace.
Randall retrieved his Pentax from Charlie’s camera bag. First he took pictures of her with the refugee couple, then quick shots of Sawyer and Dugdale while they weren’t looking.
He put the camera away and drifted back over to them.
‘So what are your plans, Nick?’ Dugdale asked, putting a matey arm on Randall’s shoulder then flopping down next to him.
‘Going to Kutu on the six o’clock flight this evening. As a tourist,’ Randall told him.
‘Are you? Well I’d advise you to behave like one, chum. They’ll be watching you. And the first time you do anything that doesn’t fit, they’ll have you in for questioning. You heard about the BBC bloke, did you?’
‘Not any details.’
‘Went in Monday night. Also posing as a tourist. Arrested Tuesday morning trying to get to see Junus Bawi at the university. Him and about three other journalists. All being expelled today. You’ll probably see them coming off the plane that you’re getting on tonight. There’s only one flight a day.’
‘I realise it’s not going to be easy,’ Nick replied, dispirited.
‘Are you errm … together?’ Dugdale asked, out of the side of his mouth. He pointed to Charlotte. ‘I mean together, you know.’
‘No.’
‘Pity. Might have helped. People on their own stand out in Indonesia.’
Randall glanced across at Charlie, engrossed in her interview. Not only were they not a couple, Charlotte wasn’t even going to Kutu. He turned back to Dugdale for more details.
‘What’s the procedure when you land at Piri?’
‘They look at you. On the tarmac, in the terminal, there’ll be people watching. Men staring at you. At passport control they’ll give you a sixty-day tourist visa, so long as you can give the name of a hotel you’re staying at and have a ticket out. They want to be sure you’ll leave again.’
‘And after passport control? They do a body search?’
‘If they think you’re media they might, but normally, no. They always search your baggage. Don’t carry anything political – books and the like. And nothing pornographic. They’ll pinch that for themselves.’
‘Right. Then after customs, you’re on your own?’
‘On Kutu you’re never on your own. They’ll be watching all the time. The guy who gets you a taxi will be working for the police. In the street they’ll come up and ask you where you’re going. Always with a big smile like they’re just friendly. Shaking intel off is going to be your biggest problem.’
Nick felt the gnawing of despair. On his own he’d be a sitting target.
Charlie came over and touched his arm. ‘Can I have a quiet word?’
‘Sure.’ He stood up and followed her across the terrace.
‘Wouldn’t mind filming an interview with this couple. They’re good,’ she whispered. ‘Just one problem. I need help with the camera.’
‘I’ll have a go.’
She dug into her grey ‘trick’ bag and pulled the Handycam from its concealed pocket.
‘The thing’s perfectly normal I think, apart from the connections on the back for the sneaky stuff.’
Nick turned it over in his hands, conscious of Dugdale watching him.
‘Got a tripod?’
‘Yup. And a pair of clip mikes.’
He worked out the gear, then set it up. The couple from Kutu looked curiously detached.
‘They’ve done this before,’ Charlie confided. ‘About a hundred times by the sound of it. Every TV station in Australia!’
‘Keep Teri’s face out of it, OK?’ Dugdale called anxiously from the other side of the patio. ‘Don’t want anyone knowing it’s her doing the translating.’
Nick clipped microphones to the man’s shirt and the woman’s pinafore top. He checked the camera alignment and pressed the start button.
‘Camera’s running.’
‘Thomas,’ Charlotte began, ‘tell me what happened to you when you protested about the destruction of your village.’
She nodded to Teri to translate her question.
Solemnly the man began to talk, crinkly black hair shiny with oil, skin the colour of roasted coffee beans and small black eyes that gave short, sharp clues to the distress he’d suffered. Then he paused. In a voice that betrayed her nervousness Teri began to translate.
‘Thomas say KUTUMIN want make road through his village. But he and Yuliana they no want. Some people they leave the village when the soldiers come. But Thomas he refuse. So they take him from his house to the middle of the village so other people see, then they beat him.’
‘What with?’ Charlie asked.
‘With their guns,’ Teri explained. Thomas used his hands to demonstrate how they’d clubbed his head and body with their rifle butts.
Charlie grimaced. ‘When did this happen?’
‘About six months ago.’
‘Then what happened?’
Thomas began talking again. At one point he turned to his wife and she lowered her eyes in shame. Then he reached over his own shoulder to touch the top of his back.
‘The soldiers, they take away Thomas and Yuliana and some more people. Then they burn the village. Next day the machines come to build the road to the mine. The village is finish. No more village. Thomas and Yuliana they are take to prison. Soldiers they ask them many questions. About OKP. About the men who hide in the mountains with guns. They say Thomas give food to OKP. Yuliana also they do very bad things to her.’
‘Was she raped?’ Charlie pressed.
‘I think yes,’ Teri whispered, embarrassed. ‘But Kutu women not like say such things.’
‘And Thomas?’
‘They burn him to make him confess. You wan’ see?’
‘Well, yes …’ She swallowed, dreading the next part.
Thomas had been waiting for the cue and began to remove his shirt.
‘Hang on a second,’ Nick interrupted, switching off the camera. ‘Let’s get that microphone out of the way.’ He unclipped it from Thomas’s clothing and gave it to Charlie to hold. ‘Right. Now Teri, tell him to start again. I’ll go in close. Fingers on shirt buttons.’
Charlotte looked up, impressed by the sudden creativity of her stand-in cameraman.
Thomas removed his shirt and turned his muscular back to the lens. Half a dozen small round scars visible, two of them livid red, not yet healed. They spread over the hard ridge of his spine from right shoulder to lower left ribs, like stepping stones across a river.
‘How did they do that?’ Charlotte asked, wincing.
‘Cigarettes.’
Charlotte paused to let the camera linger on the burn marks.
‘What happened then?’
More questions and answers in Kutun.
‘They send them to camp near airport at Piri. They want take them another island. Many thousand Kutuans already gone. But Thomas and Yuliana, they no wa
nt. One day they run from the camp. Priest he help them find boat. With some others. Fifteen days on the sea. No food and water. Then here in Australia.’
Charlotte imagined the hell of crossing five hundred miles of sea in this heat. She gave them a tight smile, then turned to Nick.
‘That’s great,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s have a few cutaways. You know, a shot of Yuliana listening to him, then one of me.’
Dugdale came over, still anxious about Teri being seen on camera. ‘Got enough now?’ he queried.
‘Nearly.’
‘Three of the others died on that boat, y’know,’ he confided. ‘Coastguards found them ten miles off shore. Out of fuel and drifting. With their food finished and less than a litre of water between them, they were all waiting to die basically.’
Nick finished the shots, rewound a few seconds of tape to check it, then packed everything away, making it look as if video equipment was something he handled every day. A quarter to two. The taxi would be back soon, and time was short.
‘When are you going back to Kutu, Brad?’ Nick checked.
‘Tonight. Same flight as you …’ His face was a blank, but his eyes were oddly calculating.
‘Good,’ said Nick. Dugdale would be useful. And away from Sawyer he might open up more.
‘But I warn you, I won’t know you from Adam on the plane. So don’t try and talk to me. They’re watching remember and I’ve got my own back to protect.’
‘Well, fine. But maybe we can have a drink together in Piri?’
‘Sure thing … if they let you in,’ he added sceptically. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. ‘You’ll find me at Captain’s Bar. Teri’s family runs it for me.’ He handed them a card.
‘You’ll be trying to see Junus Bawi I expect,’ Sawyer chipped in. ‘Every journalist does.’
‘His name’s on my list,’ Nick replied.
‘Well, be careful. They arrested him Monday night. I heard he’s been freed, but he won’t want to see you. Too bloody dangerous. You could do better trying the priests. None of them has been arrested in the last few days. I’ll write a couple of names down.’ He went briefly into the house to get a pad.
‘There’s many religions in Kutu,’ Dugdale explained. ‘Allah’s spreading fast but the Pope’s still strongest. Up in the mountains they’re catholic/animist, worshipping trees, rivers and the spirit that lives in the volcano as well as the Heavenly Father.’
A car hooted. The taxi had arrived. Sawyer handed Nick the note and fixed him with an eye like a vulture.
‘Just remember ABRI doesn’t like journalists,’ he warned. ‘If they can, they’ll think of a way to put a bullet in your head and make it look an accident.’
Nick reached out his hand. ‘Thanks for the warning. And for the lunch.’
It was Dugdale who led them back through the house. Nick sensed he wanted a word with them away from the others. It was a question, and it came as he held open the fly-screen.
‘Tell me folks, just suppose you two did find out something about your kidnapped minister when you’re in Kutu. Something nobody else knows … what would you do about it?’
Randall stared at him. Odd question, he thought.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean would you put it straight on the TV, or ring up your prime minister for a quiet word?’ Dugdale’s watery eyes were studiedly neutral.
‘Depends, I suppose,’ Nick replied carefully, trying to divine what was behind this query. ‘If it was important enough I guess we’d make sure it got to the right place.’
Dugdale nodded as if it was the answer he was hoping for.
‘Why d’you ask?’ checked Randall.
‘Oh, just curious to know how you guys work.’ He smiled dismissively, then shook each of them by the hand. ‘Captain’s Bar, remember. Welcome’s warm and the beer’s cold. Oh, what were your surnames again?’
‘Randall and Cavendish,’ Nick replied.
‘Yeah! That’s it. See you later!’
The taxi rattled away from the house, with Dugdale watching them thoughtfully.
‘What was he on about?’ Charlotte breathed.
‘No idea.’
Randall was sure the question had not been innocent. Sure Dugdale knew more about the kidnap than he’d said. And sure that when the time was right, he’d want them to know it too.
He glanced behind. Through the dust being kicked up by the taxi he saw Dugdale open the door of the Suzuki and lean inside.
‘God!’ Charlie exclaimed, thinking through the interview she’d just done. ‘Did you see those scars on Thomas’s back? How can anyone do that to another human being?’
‘Mmm.’
Randall’s mind was on fast forward. He had to get in to Kutu. And for that to happen, he had to have Charlie with him as cover. But there were just minutes left in which to persuade her.
A flock of brightly coloured rainbow lorikeets swooped across the road in front of the car before alighting in eucalyptus trees. The first drops of the afternoon rain splattered on the windscreen.
‘Just in time,’ the driver mused. ‘You’d have drowned back there.’
The clouds burst, water drummed on the roof cutting visibility to a few metres. The driver turned up the radio so he could hear it above the noise of the rain.
Randall looked at Charlie. Her blonde bob hung forward, half-obscuring her face. He felt sorry for her. Sorry he was about to manipulate her.
‘Kutu is a big story. Pity you’re going to miss it,’ he remarked, leaning towards her sympathetically.
The rain became a curtain of silver threads, parted by the bonnet of the car. Spray hammered the wheel arches.
‘Yes. Damn everybody!’ Charlie exploded. ‘Can you imagine what it feels like, knowing I’m sitting on the edge of this huge story and being told to catch the first plane home?’
‘Well, why take it?’ His words fell out with deceptive indifference.
‘What?’
‘I mean, do you always do as you’re told? Nice for your boyfriends if you do …’
‘What d’you mean?’
Randall gave her a disparaging look.
‘I thought journalists were supposed to live by their wits,’ he remarked softly, so the driver wouldn’t hear. ‘Not by what some goon says in an office eight thousand miles away.’
‘You mean refuse to go back?’ she croaked, astounded the thought hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Defy orders and go to Kutu?’
‘Why not? If all you’re going to do when you get back is resign. Why not do it now if you have to? Resign here. Turn freelance. If you get a good story in Kutu and the News Channel doesn’t want it, someone else will. The BBC maybe. Their own man’s been thrown out. This could be your big chance.’
Staring straight ahead, she tucked the loose hair behind her ears. Nick noticed her cheeks had turned pink. The driver was chuckling at some wacky nonsense from a caller to a phone-in programme.
‘It’s a thought …’ she breathed. ‘But, but the trouble is not just London … it’s that camerawoman. She’s let me down too …’
‘If that’s your only problem, I suppose I could help you out …’ He’d closed the trap.
She faced him, mouth gaping melodramatically.
‘You act as my cameraman?’
‘Why not? Did all right back there, didn’t I? I know video cameras. I’ve used sneaky gear like this.’ He patted her grey holdall.
She shook her head. ‘It’s too risky … I need a pro with me.’
‘The whole trip’s risky. You knew that in London before you came out here. The only difference is you’d have a bloke you know little about holding the camera, instead of a woman you know little about.’
He had to persuade her. He needed her.
‘We could pretend to be on honeymoon …’ he suggested glibly. More than once he’d adopted that cover with a WPC.
‘Oh of course!’ she snapped, flushing a deeper red. ‘What else …? Is that wh
at this is all about?’
‘Pretend to be on honeymoon,’ he whispered, remembering she’d never done this sort of thing before. Go gently, he told himself.
‘Didn’t take the Indonesians long to rumble the BBC guy,’ he went on. ‘The trick is to convince the buggers we’re tourists. Now if we went in as a couple – particularly a honeymoon couple – well everybody knows there’s only one thing they’re, interested in, so the police wouldn’t bother with them. Look, it’s not a come on, Charlie. I don’t even fancy you.’ The last bit was a lie. The heat had made the thin cotton of her T-shirt cling to her breasts like a second skin.
‘Look, I don’t know you …’ she whispered, crossing her arms. She was wavering.
‘Share a room with me for a few days and you’ll know me quite well,’ he joked. ‘Seriously, it’s no big deal, chuck. In public we’d be luvvy-duvvy, but in the bedroom I’d sleep on the floor, whatever you like.’ He meant it. This was work. ‘It’s acting, that’s all. You must do a bit of that every time you go on camera.’
‘Rubbish,’ she snapped, angry at the way he was railroading her. ‘When I’m on camera that’s me you’re seeing.’
‘OK Charlotte. Have it your way.’ He folded his arms. Have to shame her into it. ‘Beats me why you came out here in the first place …’
Charlotte’s stomach tightened. The chance of a mega-scoop drew her like a grail. But those cigarette burns on Thomas’s back had given her an unnerving insight into what it might take to get it. And there was the other problem. Could she trust Randall?
‘Stop playing games with me,’ she hissed, jabbing him on the shoulder. ‘Why should you care whether I go to Kutu or not? What’s going on in that scheming mind of yours?’
The taxi nosed into the outskirts of the town, the road’s grassy banks luminous with bougainvillaea and magnolia. The rain had eased for the moment. The driver hunched forward, his mind on the radio.
Time, Nick realised, was now desperately short.
‘OK, it’s self-interest, I’ll admit it. Working on my own I’m going to fail. With a woman as cover I’ve got a chance. Not a great one, but better than nothing. You happen to be a woman. And at this moment in time you’re the only one available. Simple as that.’
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