‘More or less,’ said Imogen, with the smallest of smiles.
‘So how’re you going with that?’
‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘The Labor Party are definitely hiding something.’
I was just about to say, ‘Guess what, amazing coincidence – Joy Wheeler is on my diving course,’ before I realised how dumb that would be.
The only reason I knew about Joyless Joy Wheeler was because creepy me had snooped around Imogen’s emails!
‘Watch out!’ yelled Imogen.
I looked up to see that there was a boat right in front of us.
I wrenched the wheel and we swerved away from it.
As we passed I saw a stocky figure on the deck, binoculars to his face.
So he was checking us out. Nothing wrong with that, people were always checking each other out at sea.
But even though I couldn’t see his face, there was something familiar about him.
‘Is it much further?’ said Imogen.
‘No.’ I pointed to the dent in the coastline ahead. ‘That’s it there.’
As we got closer, I decreased the revs until I was able to kill the motors completely.
Outboards up, we glided into the shore, bump-bump-bumping along the sand.
I stepped out and pulled the boat in even further so Imogen was able to jump from the bow onto dry sand. I tied the rope off on a tree.
‘We better hurry up,’ I said. ‘It’s going to get dark soon.’
I helped Imogen up the rock face and then through the rainforest, along the path that followed the escarpment.
As we neared the Zolt’s hideout, I couldn’t help but feel scared – last time I’d been here some seriously dangerous stuff had happened. But I felt excited, too. The actual Yamashita’s Gold may have been in Diablo Bay, but its trail started right here.
There were no sounds except for the occasional bird call from beyond the escarpment.
‘It’s over here,’ I told Imogen.
We scrambled over the rise, and there we were: in the Zolt’s hideout.
‘This is soooooooooo exciting,’ said Imogen, taking out her iPhone, snapping iPhoto after iPhoto. ‘I can hardly breathe.’
As we followed the track down towards the cave I noticed several fresh footprints.
How fresh? Were we walking into some sort of trap?
Once inside the cave I recalled how organised it had been the last time I was here. Now it was trashed – obviously it had been ransacked, torn apart in the search for … I’m not sure what. All the homemade – or cavemade – furniture had been smashed. Papers were strewn everywhere. The books ripped apart.
‘To think that he lived here, in this very place, for such a long time!’ gushed Imogen. ‘And all this stuff is his!’
Otto Zolton-Bander was actually a bit of a dill, I wanted to tell her. A dill with a squeaky voice. But of course I couldn’t.
I noticed the title of the torn book at my feet: Principles of Helicopter Flight.
I guess somebody else, somebody more commercially minded, would’ve collected all this stuff and flogged it off on eBay.
Even though the Zolt was gone – dead or otherwise – his myth persisted. He still accrued Facebook fans, people still posted stuff about him and girls like Imogen still gushed about him. You could still buy mugs and T-shirts, and download songs written about him.
‘We should probably get going,’ I said, noticing the fading light.
‘Just a few minutes more,’ said Imogen as she moved towards the back of the cave, still snapping iPhotos.
I sat down on a rock.
Closed my eyes.
I had this strange feeling, almost like nostalgia – Catch the Zolt had been my first instalment, and now it had this distant, slightly unreal, quality about it, like the movie you saw last year.
From the makers of various other blockbusters comes Catch the Zolt, the thrilling story of two teenage boys, Otto Zolton-Bander and Dominic Silvagni, the lead roles played by Otto Zolton-Bander and Dominic Silvagni.
I really wished that I could get my hands on the screenplay, because there was still a lot of stuff I just didn’t get.
Like that film Inception we all saw one Friday night – it had taken hours for Miranda to explain that sucker to me. And even then I didn’t really get it.
I remembered thinking at the time of the first instalment that catching the Zolt had been about doing society a favour by apprehending a dangerous criminal.
Yeah, right.
Like I said before, I was a different kid back then.
The Debt is a test of your skill, your mettle, your determination, both Dad and Gus would’ve said. In Chakrabartian terms: The Debt is Herculean.
Yeah, right.
I could hear Imogen pottering around at the back of the cave.
I remembered, in Rome, how liberating that revelation had been: The Debt wasn’t some semi-mythical semi-mystical organisation; they were like pretty much everybody else in the world; they were just plain old money-grubbers.
So how much of this screenplay, exactly, did I know?
The Zolt knew where Yamashita’s Gold was; he’d had Kwek Leng Hong’s coin to prove it.
So The Debt’s plan had been to capture the Zolt and force him – by offering a share, by using torture? – to give up this information.
But – and a rather large but – the only people who had actually captured the Zolt were Hound de Villiers and then Cameron Jamison. And it was obvious from the way they were both still pursuing him that he hadn’t divulged where the treasure was.
The Debt had had The Zolt for a maximum of two minutes. And even those were on the back of a very noisy motorbike.
So why were they so certain that Yamashita’s Gold was in Diablo Bay? And certain they must’ve been, because the whole of the second instalment was based on that, on getting the power station decommissioned.
It seemed to me that the answer to that question was somewhere here. Again I looked down at my feet, at Principles of Helicopter Flight.
Suddenly I realised that Imogen was standing by my side.
‘Shouldn’t we get going?’ she said.
‘Yes, we better,’ I said, surprised at how quickly the light had faded.
I was starting to get this panicky feeling – why had I ever brought Imogen to such a dangerous place?
We hurried back along the path, back down the incline and onto the beach.
Wednesday
Jetskis Ahoy!
Imogen sat up front with me.
The sun was setting behind us in an exuberance of splashy colour, like some crazy kid’s finger painting. And the water before us had a soft golden glow.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ said Imogen.
It was, and that panicky feeling had passed – there was nothing to be worried about. And all that crazy stuff that had been going on my head had been replaced by one simple fact: it was just me and Imogen, the one that I wanted.
Occasionally a strand of her hair would brush across my bare arm, sending sparks of electricity through my body.
‘You want to steer?’ I said.
‘Sure, why not.’
We changed positions and she took the wheel.
‘Aim for that spot over there,’ I said, pointing to the distant shore.
‘How do you know where to go?’ she asked.
It was a pretty good question: how did I know where to go? I guess I just had a very good sense of direction, because I didn’t often get lost. Maybe it had to do with the running I did – or used to do. My internal GPS was finely calibrated.
‘This is the best afternoon I’ve had in ages,’ said Imogen.
‘Me, too,’ I said.
Again a stray tendril of her hair brushed my arm. Again that flurry of sparks.
‘Hey, you’re going off course,’ I said, putting my hand on the steering wheel to adjust it.
But just as I did this Imogen changed the position of her hands, and my hand ended up on top of hers.
‘Sorry,’ I said, and I took it off.
‘It’s okay,’ said Imogen. ‘It felt nice.’
So I put my hand back over her hand, and together we steered the boat.
The sparks of electricity had now become one continuous current coursing through me.
I wished the boat wasn’t going so fast, because I wanted this to last for hours, days even.
‘What’s that noise?’ said Imogen.
I hadn’t heard anything, except perhaps the boom-boom-boom of my heart, but now I listened I could hear what she meant.
A higher-pitched sound, maybe two of them.
‘Over there,’ said Imogen.
A jetski. And then another one.
And they were headed for us.
‘They might be friends of your family,’ said Imogen. ‘Maybe they got a bit worried about us.’
Maybe, but something told me it wasn’t likely.
‘Do you mind if I steer?’ I said.
‘No, of course not,’ said Imogen.
I took the wheel, bumped the throttle up to full and headed away from them.
Except I didn’t, because they were catching us, and then they were behind us, and then they were alongside us, two bulky figures in full-length wetsuits.
The Mattners.
Stop, they signalled.
I looked over at Imogen; she seemed more intrigued than scared.
Maybe it was a good idea to just stop and see what they wanted. Because if I tried to get away from them it would probably get ugly: from what I knew of the Mattners, they didn’t like to go anywhere unarmed.
I cut the motor.
The Mattners pulled up at the stern of the boat and stepped aboard, tying off their jetskis on our ski pole.
‘Long time no see,’ said the bigger one.
‘What’s your pretty girlfriend’s name?’ said the other one.
‘My name’s Imogen, what’s yours?’ said Imogen.
I couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t said she wasn’t my girlfriend.
‘Charles,’ he said. ‘But mostly people just call me Roo.’
‘So what do you want?’ I said.
‘What were you doing at Gunbolt Bay?’
‘Imogen wanted to have a look around – she’s a big fan of the Zolt,’ I said.
The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he said.
‘Yes, I do, actually.’
‘What do you want?’ said Imogen. ‘You can’t just pull people up like this.’
The two Mattners exchanged looks – obviously she didn’t know the way things were done on the island.
The bigger, non-marsupial Mattner picked up an oar and smashed me on the side of the head.
It was unexpected, but not that unexpected, so even though I fell I managed to break my fall.
‘Dominic!’ yelled Imogen.
Roo now had a gun in his hand; he must’ve had it tucked into a waterproof pouch in his wetsuit.
And the gun was pointed at Imogen.
I managed to get to my feet, hand feeling the side of my head.
Liquid, warm and gooey.
And very, very red.
‘Dom, are you okay?’ said Imogen, moving towards me. As she did the boat rocked, and she grabbed hold of the ski pole for balance.
‘I’m okay,’ I said.
‘So what were you doing at Gunbolt Bay, what did you get there?’ said Roo, waving his gun at me.
What was going on his little marsupial brain?
The obvious answer was not that much, but thinking like that wasn’t going to do me – do us – any good.
He thought we went there to get something, but what?
Again, it seemed to me that it had to do with Yamashita’s Gold.
‘I went to get a map, but it wasn’t there,’ I said.
A smile from Mattner. This was more like it, this was what he wanted to hear: maps and sunken treasure and riches way beyond his inadequate imagination.
‘Empty your pockets out,’ he demanded.
I emptied them out – nothing.
‘He could’ve hidden it somewhere,’ said Roo. ‘Hit him again.’
‘No!’ screamed Imogen.
But he hit me again.
This time it was on the other side of the head, knocking me the other way. More pain, but there was no blood, not on that side of my face anyway.
‘We don’t know anything,’ said Imogen. ‘Can’t you get that into your thick head?’
Bad move, Imogen. No moron likes to be reminded that he is one.
‘She didn’t mean that, did you, Imogen?’
Imogen glared defiantly.
I shook my head – Don’t!
‘I take it back,’ she eventually said.
‘Good move, Princess,’ said the Mattner.
There was the sound of an engine – a boat was headed in our general direction.
‘Okay, we’re all going to sit down and pretend we’re having a good time. No yelling, no signalling, or Princess ain’t going to be so pretty any more.’
We did as Roo instructed – who’s going to argue with a moron with a gun? – and the boat quickly passed us; the Mattners both kept careful watch on it as it disappeared.
I caught Imogen’s eye.
She gave only the slightest inclination of her head, but it was enough.
She had surreptitiously untied the rope to one of the jetskis and it was drifting away; something neither Mattner had noticed.
Another inclination of her head, this time indicating behind me, and I totally got her plan.
She wanted us to go over at the same time, for us both to swim to the now-free jetski and then make our escape.
As far as plans went, it was pretty much in the outrageous category; there were so many things that could go wrong. But it was better than anything I’d come up with.
If I’d had the time, I would’ve been mega-impressed. The slightest nod of my head – Okay. I slipped the key out of the ignition and into my pocket.
‘I’m going to give you a minute to give me something worthwhile. But this time, if you don’t, I ain’t going to belt you.’
He turned his gaze to Imogen.
‘It’ll be your girlfriend who gets her face rearranged. And let me give you the tip, she won’t be appearing on Australia’s Next Top Model once I get through with her.’
I looked at Imogen – she was the one with the gun pointed at her, she had to give the signal.
I rehearsed what I needed to do in my mind – basically I had to fall out of the boat, go deep and come up as close as possible to the jetski.
We waited.
A flock of seagulls flew past, the air full of their raucous squawking.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough: the Mattners were momentarily distracted.
Imogen nodded.
And I heaved myself backwards as hard as I could.
My bum hit the side of the boat, I threw my legs up high, and I was in the water. One problem: I’d forgotten to take a big enough breath.
I did that now, and then I went under, just catching sight of Imogen hitting the water.
The first part of the plan had worked beautifully – we were out of the boat, we were in the water, but now for the next stage.
Again, all that training had benefits; my lungs felt as big as bellows as I dived down deep.
Imogen was an okay swimmer, but not a great swimmer. Fortunately she didn’t have as far to go as I did.
As I pushed through the water, I kept a lookout for both her and the untethered jetski.
A white shape ahead – Imogen.
Her eyes wide, she pointed to her throat. She was running out of breath – she had to come up.
I thought of the Mattner waiting there with his gun.
I put my hand around the back of Imogen’s neck, brought her face to mine, her lips to mine, and gave her some of my breath.
Grabbing her
hand, I pulled her along.
Now I could see the jetski, but we had to come up on the other side, so that it would provide cover for us.
Now it was me who was running out of breath, whose lungs were afire.
A few kicks more and we were there. We burst to the surface together, gulping air.
Zing.
A bullet went whizzing overhead.
How to climb aboard the jetski without getting shot?
Steadying myself with one hand, I reached out with the other hand.
Zing.
Another bullet, this one thudding into the jetski.
Fingers were now touching the metal of the ignition key.
Just a little more.
I hoisted myself further out of the water.
Another bullet.
Zing.
This one hit the water with a hsssssss sound.
I had my fingers around the key, and I twisted it, and the motor started.
‘Hold me tight!’ I told Imogen.
She wrapped her arms around my midriff.
‘Tighter!’
She did as I asked.
Even with the motor in idle the jetski was moving.
Reaching up, I grabbed the handlebars, straightening them so that we were moving slowly away from them.
But then the other jetski’s motor started up.
They were coming after us!
‘Okay, it’s time to get aboard,’ I said, figuring that a jetski wasn’t as stable a platform from which to fire a gun. Our chances of getting shot had just decreased.
‘One. Two. Three. Go!’ I said.
I scrambled on board. Somehow Imogen got on behind me.
I twisted the throttle and we were away, Imogen hugging me tightly.
There was no way they’d catch us now, I thought.
But when I looked behind, they seemed to be gaining.
How could that be? Surely we must weigh less than they did, and the jetskis were the same, with the same power.
But were they the same?
Again, I looked behind, they’d gained on us even more.
No, of course they weren’t the same: their jetski was a Polaris 650, ours was a Polaris 500. It was obviously a more powerful model. Inevitably they would catch up with us. Do stuff to us. Face rearranging.
‘Hold on!’ I said. ‘We’re going to drop a U-ey.’
Imogen hugged tighter.
I slowed down, let the Mattners catch up even more.
And then, twisting the throttle to the max, I swung the handlebars hard to one side.
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