by Peter Corris
‘And they knew about the fuse box, although I suppose that’s fairly easy to spot. But it means they’ve spent some time in the shop and checked things out. And had that dummy copy all prepared. Meticulous.’
‘Bastards! What can we do now?’
I replayed the footage. Another person had entered the shop as the thieves were leaving. I froze the frame.
‘Who’s that? She might have seen something about them that could be useful.’
Craig riffled through the order slips. ‘She chose something. Here it is—Oscar, Picture of Dorian Grey—MasterCard.’
‘Give me the number. I can track her down.’
‘How?’
‘Trade secret. You know how to operate that equipment. Pick out a couple of the clearest shots and blow them up. Could be something we’ve missed. I’ll get back to you if I turn up anything useful.’
I was mostly humouring him, but he seemed to take a little heart. He scribbled down the credit card number.
‘Thanks anyway, Cliff.’
‘We ain’t done yet.’
At home, with Lily away on her journalistic assignment, I poured a solid scotch over ice and was ready to turn on Lateline when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, drink in hand. A medium-sized man wearing a long coat and a hat and carrying an overnight bag stood there.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said, ‘my name is Sylvester Browne— Browne with an e.’ He dug in the bag and held up a book—Northern Trekking. ‘I think we should have a talk, don’t you?’
I ushered him through to the living room. He opened the bag and stacked a number of the books on a chair.
‘Fourteen copies. The total in Australia.’ He opened his wallet and laid three one hundred dollar notes on top of the pile. ‘Payment for the damage to three glass cases.’
My jaw must have dropped. All I could think to do was offer him a drink.
‘Thank you. Whatever you’re having. May I take off my hat and coat?’
I nodded and he draped the coat over the stair rail and put the hat on the post. I recovered my wits and asked him to sit down.
I came back with his drink and the bottle and a bowl of ice and sat opposite him.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
He was pale, thin-faced, with sandy hair neatly parted. Horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a fawn v-neck sweater with a collar and tie, brown trousers and black Oxfords—not a good look. He took a solid swig of the scotch and let out a contented sigh.
‘I’m glad you brought the bottle in, Mr Hardy, because I have a peculiar tale to tell and it may take some time.’
I guessed him to be in his fifties. There was an accent, South African or thereabouts, and the slight clicking of false teeth. I drank, nodded, indicated my willingness to listen.
‘I am a bookworm, Mr Hardy …’
He told me that he was South African, an academic historian who specialised in nineteenth-century history. During his researches he had come across a letter written by EB Lyell to a friend in Cape Town. Lyell’s vessel, the Esmeralda, was held up for repairs in Mauritius and Lyell had sent a letter home by another ship that would get there earlier. This friend was a mining engineer of no importance until he went into politics and became a minister in the post Boer War government. The letter was included among his papers, which Browne was studying.
‘The letter was discursive, rambling even, and I have a suspicion that Lyell may have been under the influence.’ Browne raised his glass. ‘He alluded to his book and said that he had arranged to send some copies ahead of him and some to England and left some in Australia in the care of a man named Carter whom he described as his agent. He said that he had discovered a rich reef of gold while on his expedition in northern Australia and that he’d marked the spot on a map in one of the copies of the book, which he’d intended to keep with him at all times.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told that he faked those expeditions.’
‘Not the first one. That was genuine. May I continue?’
I topped him up and he went on. ‘Lyell was in distress when he wrote this letter. He’d found, to his dismay, that the three copies of the book he had with him did not have the marked map. He’d been drinking a good deal after being exposed as a fraud in Australia, something he freely admitted to his friend, and now he didn’t know where the marked book was. Possibly still in Australia, or on its way to England or South Africa.
‘I took early retirement from the university on a generous settlement and I’ve devoted the last few years to tracking down the copies of Lyell’s book. Fifty, as you know. I found twenty-three copies in South Africa and fourteen here in Australia. Three went down with the Esmeralda, leaving ten.’
‘Always assuming some haven’t just been lost or are mouldering away somewhere.’
‘Remarkably, that’s not the case. I located the papers of Richard Carter, Lyell’s agent, in the Oxley Library in Brisbane. They clearly show that he dispatched ten copies to his agent in England.’
‘You’ve been thorough.’
‘It’s something I pride myself on.’
‘Also criminal. Why didn’t you just buy up the copies as you found them here? You say you’ve got the money.’
‘I haven’t had a lot of excitement in my life, Mr Hardy. I was a dud at sport, which was all that counted when I was at school. I’m a bachelor with no children and only a few relatively insignificant books to my credit. I did it to see if I could do something out of the ordinary. I did it for fun, and now I’ve made recompense.’
I poured us some more scotch and asked him how he’d known what was going on at Craig’s shop. He said he smelled a rat when Craig’s catalogue came out and he conducted a careful surveillance of the shop. He’d seen me arrive, followed me to my office and knew my profession. He knew where the cameras were positioned and he found someone to help him disable the power supply.
‘Who?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘Just a friend. Someone who’s helped me in my little escapade.’
He was determined to construct the whole thing as a sort of goofy adventure and I couldn’t blame him. It was, and Craig and I were both going to come out of it okay. Craig could restore the books to his colleagues and I could take credit for having resolved the matter. He read my mind.
‘Mr Minson will be satisfied with your efforts, won’t he?’
‘I guess so.’
‘You can imagine my disappointment when this last volume turned out not to be the one. I had high hopes of it. I always intended to return the books or to pay handsomely for the right one if I found it. But seeing that Mr Minson took the matter so seriously and went to some expense, it seems only fitting to return them to him.’
‘He’ll be grateful.’
‘Yes, but it would embarrass me to do it in person and his reaction might be problematical. I thought it best to ask you to do it.’
‘How did you know I wouldn’t be problematical?’
‘I’ve observed you. You strike me as someone with a sense of humour and of course what I’m doing is comical, ridiculous. You’ve been hospitable and patient, bearing out my judgement. I have a favour to ask. Could you please not reveal what I was about until you next hear from me? I’m off to England tomorrow. I don’t know how long the search will take me, could be months or years. But I’d be glad if you could keep it a secret until I let you know the result, one way or another.’
He was obsessed, more than a little mad, but somehow likeable. I thought of El Dorado and Lasseter’s lost reef. ‘It’s a deal,’ I said. ‘And good luck to you, Mr Browne with an e.’
Patriotism
Clayton Harrison was someone I’d known in the army. He was a fairly gung-ho type who stayed in longer than me. But we’d got along. We hadn’t exactly saved each other’s lives, but when you’ve been together in mutual support in some of those dangerous spots, there’s a bond. Now he was the editor of a couple of magazines of the outdoor persuasion— shooting, fishing, climbing. His office was i
n Newtown where I’d recently moved my modest operation and we ran into each other, had an occasional drink, yarned. Then he phoned, sounding serious, and asked me to come and see him.
His office was something of a macho shout of defiance, but there were two or three women working there who didn’t seem to mind. One showed me into Clayton’s bunker. No preliminaries. Clayton slid a glossy magazine across the desk. The cover showed a young man in semi-combat gear with backpack, slogging up a bush track. The name of the publication was Dare to Survive.
‘Don’t bother to open it,’ Clayton said. ‘You can imagine the contents—fitness instruction, equipment, weapons, medication, plenty of advertising. Plus articles on the psychology of readiness and ways of identifying enemies. Quizzes about paramilitary and terrorist matters. A rich brew.’
I flipped it open anyway. Classy photography, plenty of detachable coupons for advertised products.
‘What’s the problem, Clay—competition?’
‘No, not the same market. The problem is that I’ve got this son. He’s into all this stuff in a big way. Now this mob,’ he tapped the magazine, ‘run a sort of camp in the bush— survival stuff, toughen-you-up crap, orienteering, paint-gun exercises, that sort of thing.’
I nodded. ‘Like Outward Bound—used to be sponsored by Phil the Greek. Probably still is.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Cliff. This is paramilitary stuff. It worries me that Gary’s getting into it. His mother tells me he’s all set to go on the next bivouac—they use the term— and she can’t talk him out of it.’
‘How old is he? Is he a big bloke like you?’
‘He’s eighteen—no—nineteen. Yeah he’s about the size I was at that age, before I put on the flab.’
‘He’s an adult. What harm can it do?’
‘There’s more to it. Shit, I wish I was allowed to smoke in my own bloody office. The Nanny state is here, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I couldn’t care less. Get to the point, Clay.’
‘I split up with Gary’s mother years ago. Harriet, a bit of a ball-breaker. Okay, I wasn’t husband material. Anyway, give her her due, she didn’t stop me seeing Gary through all the important years—school, sports teams and that. I wasn’t very reliable though. We never got close. He’s at uni now. Just, started, part time. I offered to pay upfront but he didn’t want to know. He works as a motorcycle courier— cunt of a job.’
‘Shows independence.’
‘Yeah. But Harriet took up with this Arab bloke a couple of years ago. Sirdar something or other. I think he helped push Gary in the direction we’re talking about and I’m worried that …’
‘Dare to Survive is a cover for a Muslim terrorist training camp? Come on, Clay.’
‘I know, I know, I’m overreacting. But you know how things are just now. The least smell of anything like that can bugger the prospects of anyone associated with it. I want my boy to have a decent career, a decent life.’
‘Spotted him reading the Koran?’
‘You can laugh, but I’m serious and I’ve got a serious job for you. That’s if you want to work and not just make jokes.’
I wanted to work, and I needed to. Business had been slow and the bills still came in quickly. I’d had to take out costly levels of protective professional insurance and cover for the people I occasionally recruit as helpers. I had a bit of a tax problem and the house needed repairs. I couldn’t afford to turn down work from someone who was in a position to meet my fees. I nodded and picked up the magazine to indicate that I was paying attention.
‘I’ve done a deal with the DTS people to send a journalist along on their next camp to write about it for one of my magazines. That’s you, if you’re up for it, Cliff.’
‘Hold on. Won’t your kid know you’re spying on him?’
‘Shit, you’ve got a great way of putting things. No.’ He struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Gary’s bored by my business. I’ll concoct a false name for the magazine, but he wouldn’t show any interest anyway. Like I say, we’re not close but I still care about him. I hope we can get on better terms one of these days.’
‘Suppose someone notices the names—yours and his being the same—and works out what’s going on?’
Clay shook his head. ‘We weren’t married when he was born. She insisted that he took her name—Pearson. I tried to get it changed later but we were finished by then, so …’
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a photograph and handed it to me. There was something sad about that—keeping your kid’s picture in a drawer. Gary Pearson was Clay’s son all right, the way James Packer is Kerry’s. In fact there was a resemblance—the same big, strong features, thrusting jaw, aggressive hairline. He wasn’t handsome in the same way Clay wasn’t, but he caught your attention. Looked to have the same solid neck and shoulders.
‘He’s a lump of a lad,’ I said. ‘I doubt I could keep up with him in a cross-country run.’
Clay must have been confident I’d do it. He opened another drawer and took out a set of keys and a wallet.
‘There’s a Pajero standing waiting. It’s got all the gear you’ll need—camping equipment, camera, tape recorder, clothing, medical stuff, mobile, laptop, the works. Your authorisation as a journalist is here and some cash. I’ll sign a contract and pay your retainer. This is a legitimate job, Cliff. More so than some you’ve taken on, I bet.’
I let that pass. People like to think the worst of us and I like to let them and then give them a pleasant surprise. He told me that the DTS bivouac party was to set off from a meeting point to be named in two days’ time. Six vehicles, plus mine—twenty-four survivalists, plus me.
‘To be named?’ I said.
‘They’ll advise me and I’ll advise you.’
I scooped the keys and the wallet towards me. The wallet felt comfortably filled. ‘Destination?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Dunno. To be revealed at the time of departure. You can bet they’ve got a bush camp out there somewhere.’
‘It’s a big “out there”. Any names?’
‘Just one—Hilary St James, would you believe. He’s the editor of their magazine and the head of the organisation. Whether he’s going on safari I don’t know.’
‘Did you check on him?’
Clay smiled in the winning way he had that redeemed that almost brutal face. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’
Clay got someone to drive my car home while I piloted the newish, slightly travel-stained Pajero. It handled well, but still felt like driving a truck, lending a false sense of superiority. The fuel tank was full and the service sticker indicated that it had been tuned up recently.
Clay’s driver took off and I went through the gear in the 4WD. The clothes and boots and other usefuls were newish but showed a bit of wear. Obviously I was to present as someone who’d been off the tarmac in his time—partly true, but it had been a while. I took the technical bits inside and made myself familiar with them. As well as the things Clay had mentioned, there was a folder of maps covering a good part of the state, and a compass I hoped I’d never need. The gas stove and cylinder were a potential comfort, like the medical chest and, especially, the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Luckily, the laptop was user-friendly for me—a Mac with Word installed, so I’d be able to make a show of entering notes and impressions. The digital camera was in advance of anything I’d used but simple enough.
Clay phoned me the following day. ‘0630 hours,’ he said. ‘Muster at Wentworth Park.’
‘You sound like you wish you were going.’
‘In a way I do. Take care of yourself, Cliff, and keep an eye on my boy. First sign of anything dodgy along the lines we talked about and you pull him out.’
‘You didn’t mention that—might not be easy.’
‘Probably won’t be necessary but you’ll manage if it is. I have confidence in you. And this St James character is going apparently. Wants to meet you and he says you’ll have no trouble spot
ting him.’
‘Wonder what that means.’
‘No idea.’
‘Nothing on where we’re going or for how long?’
‘No.’
‘How does Gary take off like this if he’s at university?’
‘He just does. Get a good night’s sleep. Stay in touch, Cliff.’
Despite myself, I was close to excited. I was never in the Scouts or anything like that, but with some teenage mates I went out west at weekends: we took old .303s, .22s and beer, ostensibly to shoot kangaroos and feral pigs, but really just to go bush and rough it. Then came the army. Training in Queensland was okay, fighting in the jungles wasn’t, but this felt more like a harking back to the good old days— with a professional edge.
I did a web check on Hilary St James. He was CEO of something called Survival Enterprises which, in addition to publishing the magazine, had several retail outlets selling outdoor and patriotic gear. The company claimed to have offices in Jakarta and Malaysia and to be affiliated with similar organisations in Britain, New Zealand and the United States. Its motto was, ‘We will be there!’
St James was born in South Africa and had served in that country’s army in the apartheid era. According to the webpage, he moved to Australia and ran a successful import/export business before turning his ‘talents and resources to stiffening the physical and moral fibre of Australia’s youth’. He was sixty years of age and the webpage described him as being as fit as a man half his age. A slightly faded postcard-sized photograph of him in semi-combat gear backed up the claim. St James stood half a head taller than others in the picture, and his tilted-back head showed a mane of fair hair, a strong neck and a sharp jawline. Icy pale eyes. Interestingly, the photo would not blow up. He’d self-published two books—Man Alive and Fight for Your Freedom. Go, Hilary!
I was at the rendezvous point at the stated time, wearing boots, jeans, a T-shirt and a flannie against the early morning cold. A two-day stubble. It was early July and the day was clear—hard to say how it’d develop in the city, let alone where we might be headed. The mobile had a hands-free hookup, and a quick check showed that it was fully charged. The laptop’s battery likewise. I’d slept well and I had a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol wrapped in a towel tucked down in a backpack under a couple of books. Be prepared.