The Money Stones

by Ian St. James

  It was the longest I'd ever spent with Pepalasis since we'd met five months earlier and I found myself watching him with more than casual interest. After all, if his claim proved true he'd be one of the world's richest men in a short time, and would at least set me on the road to fortune. I'd been aware of his physical strength ever since the first crunching handshake, but listening to him field McNeil's questions was the best insight I'd had into his artful intelligence. He had the politician's knack of rephrasing questions to suit his answers, appearing to reply to everything but never telling McNeil what he most wanted to know - the location of the island. McNeil plugged away, all the time testing the Greek's knowledge and experience, and if that was as superficial as McNeil suspected earlier, it certainly fooled me.

  During the last lap, Singapore to Sydney, just when I was thinking the journey would pass without incident Pepalasis produced his surprise. McNeil had gone to freshen up and the stewardesses had retreated behind their screen, so the Greek and I were quite alone when he handed me the slip of paper. It was a bank paying-in slip. I noticed yesterday's date but took a second or two to realise that it recorded money paid into my personal account at the Barclay's I used in South Audley Street. But the amount - fifty thousand pounds registered immediately.

  'A down payment,' Pepalasis murmured. 'Ten per cent. On account.'

  'But you haven't got a deal yet? If we don't find diamonds-'

  'We will.' His smile was full of confidence. 'Then you'll get the rest. In Zurich as promised.'

  I was still telling him it was generous to the point of lunacy when McNeil's return ended the conversation. After that they dozed for a bit while I pretended to, as my mind did handstands about my good fortune. And hurriedly reclassified Pepalasis from a slippery Greek to a man of his word. It occurred to me to ask how he'd found out where I banked but McNeil's presence made the question impossible, and when an opportunity did occur later, the whole matter had completely gone out of my mind with so much else happening around us.

  We landed at Kingsford-Smith Airport, 06.45 local time, stale, tired and talked dry from our twenty-seven hour flight, and went directly to the hotel. Pepalasis had no need of us during the day so McNeil and I went to our rooms to catch some sleep, leaving the Greek rattling off a list of telephone calls to a startled receptionist. He made a productive day of it too, because his warning over dinner later of a dawn start caused McNeil and me to settle for drinks at the bar instead of the promised tour of Sydney's night life.

  At six o'clock breakfast was followed by a ride across town to Sydney's second airport to board a charter DC3. Pepalasis paused just long enough to tell us where we were going Tontouta, New Caledonia - before disappearing onto the flight deck with the crew.

  McNeil shook-his head in disgust: 'It's like drawing teeth - getting information out of him. Bet the bastard wishes he could blindfold us half the time.'

  We were the only passengers. The plane was mainly freight anyway, half a dozen seats set in two rows facing each other, an open galley and a closed toilet comprised all there was before the bulkhead separating passengers from cargo. I crinkled my nose at the stink of fish while McNeil wiped a spy hole in the film of grease which lined the ports.

  'No pretty hostess flashing a handful of cleavage this trip. He swung his case onto the seat opposite, extracted a bottle of Scotch and went to examine the galley.

  'How far's New Caledonia?'

  'Ah, coffee!' He found a tin in the cupboard. 'About twelve hundred miles I reckon - north-east from here.'

  'And what's there?'

  'Plenty of mining for a start.' He waved a packet of sugar. 'It used to be the biggest producer of nickel and chrome in the world - cobalt too, come to think of it. And there's other stuff - the Japs were mining iron ore there in the thirties, and sending it back home as fast as ships could carry it.'

  'Any diamonds?'

  'None I've heard of.'

  The port engine crackled, paused, spluttered and blazed into life, joined a minute later by its starboard twin, producing enough shock waves between them to tear the wings from the fuselage. McNeil said something which lost itself in the din and seconds later the plane was rolling forward and gathering itself for take-off. I'm no expert but that noisy heap seemed years past retirement age, and never more so than at maximum throttle for what promised to be more of a fast cross-country drive than a smooth climb upwards. But we lifted - eventually - though it was a good five minutes before I felt airborne; and an hour later the copilot joined us long enough to brew coffee, a mug for each of us and three carried back to the flight deck. And Pepalasis stayed out of sight for the whole trip.

  Tontouta greeted us with the oven heat of mid-afternoon.

  McNeil's warning about moving closer to the equator proved singularly inadequate. A roasting hot, Turkish bath of a place, the sun blinding the eye, heat waves bouncing head high from the blistering surface underfoot, and the humidity gluing my shirt to my back within a minute of standing there. I mopped my face and watched a red Honda van pull away from a cluster of buildings to drive out to meet us.

  'Customs,' Pepalasis shouted from a patch of black shade under the nose of the aircraft. 'Better get yourselves a drink - I'll join you later.'

  We crossed a hundred yards of shimmering concrete to a prefabricated building which had started life as an aircraft hangar, and entered a crude bar full of red metal tables and chairs set on bare concrete. But the drop in temperature was luxurious, and the beer - cans of Fosters bought with Aussie dollars changed in the hotel last night - ice-cold when we got it.

  'Where next?'

  'Christ knows.' McNeil punctured a second can, beer frothing onto my hand as I took it from him. 'There're plenty of islands along the coast from here, but none that I imagined privately owned. Still, I've only been here once, and that was nine years ago - daresay plenty's happened since.'

  'So, if not here - where?' I persisted.

  'I'm right out of guesses.' He shrugged, his attention wandering around the bar before returning to me. 'Truth is, I don't know. Take this place - we're halfway to Fiji here, another thousand miles or so. They've got gold there, and silver at Vatukoula, though mostly worked out from what I've heard. But maybe an island off the coast somewhere? Or north to the Solomons? There's gold there. And more gold and manganese in Guinea west of here.'

  'Everything but diamonds.' I took a long pull on the beer.

  'Sure - but they reckon Aussie's the biggest undiscovered store of minerals in the world and I've believed that long enough. The point is these arcuate islands in the Western Pacific are geologically similar, younger of course, but there's a good deal of sedimentary rock and volcanic material about. Start going east from here into the Central Pacific - say towards Easter Island - and there're thousands of islands, they're even called the Strewn Islands.'

  'So we're getting close?'

  'On the doorstep, mate,' he grinned. 'I'd say anywhere inside five thousand square miles of ocean.'

  I was about to question him further when Pepalasis arrived, hot and sticky and swearing in Greek. McNeil passed him a beer and we waited for him to cool down.

  'We've a couple of hours to kill while they transfer the cargo.' He wiped a mixture of beer and sweat from his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Thought we'd go down to Noumea for a decent meal and a clean-up.'

  'Transfer what cargo?' McNeil asked. 'To where?'

  'Our cargo.' Pepalasis enjoyed his secret. 'For the last leg of the journey.'

  Noumea had streets full of Indonesians and hotels bursting with Vietnamese, but we found a place for a wash and brush up, had a meal and, two hours later the same green VW cab picked us up to take us on our way again. I'd expected to head back to the airport but the cab turned off the main road and bumped down towards the harbour which I'd glimpsed from the hotel windows. The French-style houses gave way to a shanty town of corrugated iron lock-up shops, cafes and cheap living quarters, and the ever narrowing road became thick with
people contesting our right of way.

  'Used to be a French penal colony, this place,' McNeil observed.

  The unfriendly faces half convinced me it still was. But it got better some minutes later when we reached the harbour walls and looked out across the bluest stretch of water I'd ever seen in my life.

  'See that?' Pepalasis pointed. 'It's a Widgeon and all - mine.'

  I followed the direction of his arm, uncertain of what to look for. The harbour wall ran a hundred yards before swinging left to form the half horseshoe of the breakwater. A cluster of small boats were moored nearby but Pepalasis was looking beyond them. I located a tramp ship, held together with brown rust, black pitch and its owner's prayers; and beyond that more small boats. Then I saw it. The clue was the Honda van from the airport now parked on the quayside, its red paintwork flickering through the forest of bamboo masts. An aircraft, amphibious, fat canoe-shaped floats which formed obvious black blobs on the surface of the water as we drew nearer. A Widgeon.

  'Jesus,' McNeil blasphemed, suitably awed. 'Which museum did this come from ?'

  But it looked better than the DC3 to me. McNeil and I inspected it from the jetty, while Pepalasis dealt with the two men in the Honda.

  'Wonder what range it's got?' McNeil speculated. 'Although those pods under its wings are auxiliary tanks. He'll have doubled up on the original specifications.'

  He was running on about amphibious aircraft in that part of the world but I missed most of it, suddenly too drowsy to concentrate. God, but I was tired! My eyes could barely focus on Pepalasis as he took the two men from the red Honda along the rope-sided gangplank and onto the sea plane. Then the men returned and began to transfer some crates from the van to the aeroplane.

  'What's up?'McNeil asked.

  'Dunno. Just damned tired that's all.' The words slurred, I was too drained of energy to even speak straight. I blinked my eyes to get the weight off the lids and drew deep breaths to force more oxygen into my lungs. But it was no good - if I didn't sit down, I'd fall down. Somehow I stumbled across to the Honda and collapsed on its bonnet.

  'You're not sick are you?' McNeil was already at my elbow, his voice concerned.

  'Dog tired.' Just to shake my head was an effort. 'Sorry - making a fool of myself.'

  'Anything wrong?' I heard but couldn't see Pepalasis, my lids clamped firm over my eyes. A chuckle before he said, 'It's the local wine - strong stuff in this heat. Let's get you on board - you can sleep it off.'

  God knows how they got me onto the plane, Pepalasis shuffling one side of me, McNeil guiding me from the rear. I opened my eyes long enough to register four seats in the cabin - cockpit I suppose - two at the controls and two behind; and I clambered into one at the back just as my eyes gave out. I sensed someone take the next seat, felt fingers fumble with my seat belt, heard the click of a safety buckle.

  McNeil asking: 'Where's the pilot?'

  Pepalasis laughing: 'You're looking at him.' He sounded a long way off.

  The sound of metal running in a groove - a rush of warm air - the slam of the cockpit closing. McNeil again: 'Ari, are you sure you're okay?' The Greek answering: 'Go to sleep don't worry.' The stutter of engines, muffled, less noise than the DC3. McNeil muttering something and tugging at my arm. Something important. Then I heard him - understood his words. 'Mike, we've been drugged. Bloody well drugged!' I was nodding, agreeing, trying to get my eyes to open. But it was no good - I had to sleep.

  Two

  Semi-darkness. Stiff-necked from sleeping strapped to a seat. Mouth like an open drain. Pain as stretching arms struck metal. The original rude awakening. My mind registered McNeil asleep and my memory pieced the rest together like parts of a jigsaw. The sea plane? The Widgeon! Empty seats in front, the view through the cockpit obscured by some kind of sacking. Neither sight nor sound of Pepalasis. In fact nothing. No movement, no engine noise, no bobbing on the sea. Just a faded brown light turning everything the sepia of old photographs. But the sea was somewhere - I could smell it, hear it as the faintest noise in the background - the measured pulse of waves breaking gently on an easy shoreline.

  After releasing the seat belt I pushed the back of the seat in front, hoping it might fold forward to allow me to climb over without disturbing McNeil. It didn't, but as I squirmed in search of a safety catch, he groaned conscious.

  'Jesus! My head. What happened?'

  I told him as best I could while we helped each other forward into the front seats. The sliding hatch of the cockpit was already open a few inches and it was a moment's work to push it back on its runners and to claw at the sacking. Except the sacking was layers of finely woven net, masses of it extending all over the plane, trapping us like flies in a spider's web. I heaved myself out and onto the wing, using hands and head and shoulders to fend off the suffocating weight of the netting; McNeil did the same on the other side, catching his shin and swearing like a trooper. The mud turned to grains of soft sand when I landed on it, and half stooping,-half crawling, I edged sideways like a crab, the netting closing in relentlessly until I reached the tent pegs at the perimeter. And a minute later I was through.

  Sea. Fifty yards away. More water than I'd ever seen in my life. Vivid blue near the shoreline, flecked white a hundred yards out, then emerald and back to blue again in time to meet the sky. And sky everywhere - sea and sky for all eternity. Half turning, my gaze tracked the white ribbon of beach to a rock a hundred yards away; the rock rose to a cliff which continued up and behind me. I continued to pivot in the sand to register the base of the cliff twenty-five yards from where I stood. Then I saw Pepalasis. He was wearing a skin diver's wet suit but without a skull cap, his mane of grey hair falling forward into his eyes as he bent over an open packing case.

  'So - awake eh?' He straightened and trudged barefoot across the sand to greet me, a broad smile breaking on his face.

  'You bastard!' McNeil lurched from behind the camouflage netting. 'I should have known. Never trust a Greek! You drugged us, didn't you?'

  They stood a yard apart in the sand, facing each other. I remembered my dream about fighting Pepalasis and wondered if this was the place. Except one look at McNeil said he was going to do the fighting for both of us.

  'No ill effects - I promise.' Pepalasis was still smiling. 'Come. I've made coffee - after that you'll feel wonderful.'

  McNeil moved quickly, his hand gripping the Greek's shoulder. 'Ever do that again and I'll break your bloody neck. Understand?'

  The Greek looked along the arm to the angry face at the other end of it. 'I understand. I would be angry too. You have a right to lose your temper. But I have a right to protect my island.' His eyes met McNeil's without wavering and, slowly, he prised the fingers loose from his shoulder and stepped backwards.

  McNeil hesitated - the Greek turned on his heel - and the moment passed.

  We followed Pepalasis to a spot at the foot of the cliff where he had built a lean-to with more of the netting, ten foot square and high enough for us all to stand beneath. A spirit stove supported an enamel pot which puffed coffee-scented steam into clean air.

  'So this is the island?' McNeil said as much to himself as anybody, sipping coffee and looking back down the beach.

  'No,' Pepalasis surprised both of us. 'But it's as near as we can get by plane. And it's not far from here.

  Finish your coffee and I'll show you.'

  Half an hour later we clambered over the rockfall at the edge of the beach for a view of what lay beyond, McNeil and I sensing the Greek's excitement and sharing it. But sights were disappointing. Land five or six miles away, rising no more than seventy feet above sea level, nondescript and undistinguished. My eyes traced its outline against the sky and I guessed it four or five miles wide at that point.

  'There's the problem,' Pepalasis pointed. The surf was barely visible at first glance, but as the eye concentrated the white line seemed to extend to the width of the island. 'A barrier reef. The Widgeon would be smashed to pieces within a mile of i
t and the lagoon is too short to land in.'

  'So what do we do?' McNeil shielded his eyes from the reflected glare of the sea. 'Swim?'

  Pepalasis threw his head back, delighting in the excitement of the moment, waving a hand back up the beach. 'Help unload the cargo. Then you'll see.'

  It took two hours, McNeil and I stripped to the waist, the Greek still in his wet suit. The third crate revealed everything needed for the last leg of the journey - three yellow inflatables - each the size of an overnight case in its special container. Other crates included all manner of things: endless coils of nylon rope, a first-aid pack, spades and picks, canned provisions and three large outboards, about which McNeil became very curious. I was more intrigued with the metal tubs, shaped like fruit bowls but large enough to sit in, three sets of six, fitted into each other like Russian dolls.

  We stacked the contents of the crates alongside a small inlet, ten yards wide and running almost to the foot of the cliff, before returning all packing materials to the hold of the Widgeon. When we had just finished, McNeil stood watching Pepalasis adjust the camouflage. 'We on an airline route?' He squinted into an empty sky.

  'The occasional plane.'

  'What type?'

  'Too high to see.'

  I grinned at the never-ending game. Now it seemed unimportant. If we found diamonds Pepalasis was contracted to reveal his secret. Until then why worry?

  The dinghies were the type used by Air Rescue the world over - self-inflating when they hit the water. Pepalasis heaved them into the inlet and jumped in after them, water rising waist high as he linked tie ropes to secure them to the bank. Fully inflated they seemed enormous, fifteen foot long, five or six wide, shaped at the prow.

  'How about some coffee?' The Greek grinned up at me. 'And some food. I'm hungry.'

  So was I come to think of it. I left them fitting the first of the Gardner outboards and went back to the lean-to to get the coffee going.

  'The next step is both difficult and dangerous,' Pepalasis said, an hour later, as we were finishing our meal. He drew a rough circle in the sand. 'This is the island. My island. Or rather the reef which surrounds it. There is only one access point - a rock-lined passage, maybe thirty metres wide. Once through, we're clear of danger. The risk is getting through.'