Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  We were the walking wounded. Two enemies bound together by an invisible chain. Siamese twins, almost. A shared destiny.

  He’d come in a high-roofed, red Mazda 121. Now he opened the trunk and beckoned for me to get in. Somehow I didn’t mind. It was like being controlled by invisible strings. God, or fate, or something, was in control. Alberto didn’t speak. He was as drained as me. He slammed shut the trunk. The car started and drove off.

  I ran my fingers all around the edges. I tugged at the lining. I punched the back, trying to force my way through the back seat, into the car. But it was strong and I was weak. Escape was no option. I was terribly weary. I slept.

  That was possibly a mistake. I woke with a thunderous headache, nausea and pain in every muscle. I had no idea how long I been confined. The car was moving fast. I vomited and then blacked out, awoke, and repeated the process several times.

  At some point the car stopped and the motor was cut. Men were shouting and then the trunk was opened. I squinted in the bright sunlight. Three men were training guns at me. I knew I had seen them all at La Rue.

  “Get out,” said one in Bahasa.

  I pushed my body over the edge of the car trunk, like a drowning man trying to climb into a lifeboat, and collapsed to the ground.

  “Get up,” shouted the man, clearly lacking in vocabulary. Somehow I managed. As far as I could see I was in some kind of forest. A small wooden bungalow with a red corrugated iron roof was surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees. The air was cold. I had visions of being led deep into the woods and receiving a quick bullet to the brain, my body being discovered only many years later.

  But the gunman indicated that I should enter the house. I limped in. Alberto was nowhere to be seen.

  The small interior seemed to be divided into numerous tiny rooms. I was pushed down a narrow corridor and into a room at the end with bunks and a musty sofa with a tartan blanket on it. I was ordered to sit, and two men bound my hands and feet with twine. I could hear them arguing about where to put me. They left and I fell asleep again.

  I awoke with Alberto shouting at me. He had showered and changed into a grey Nike tracksuit and Converse running shoes. He looked a little better than before, though not much. He still didn’t look capable of a one-hundred-yard dash. He pointed to a plate of fried rice and a spoon on the floor. I had forgotten how hungry I was.

  One of the gunmen was also in the room, and he sliced my wrist bindings. I tried to check the time, but found my watch was gone. My pockets had also been emptied.

  “Training for the Olympics?” I said to Alberto, which was as witty as I could manage in the circumstances. I was startled that my voice sounded so old. I was realizing too that my body and clothes reeked.

  “You have interfered again,” said Alberto. He sounded weary and distracted. He walked out of the room and then returned with a wooden stool. He sat. “Fortunately we were coming to this house anyway. We’ve just had to come early. Your girlfriend will have taken the police to our other house, but they won’t find anything. As it happens, your arrival suits our purposes.”

  “What does that mean?” When he simply smiled I asked: “Where are we?”

  “I think it’s called the Yarra Valley. It’s someone’s holiday cottage that Tom rented for us. We’ve turned it into the base for our first operation.”

  I knew the Yarra Valley as a popular picnic and hiking venue on the edge of Melbourne. Rohan had said it was also a top winemaking region. “But local people must know you’re all here.”

  “This is Australia. People aren’t curious. No one minds a houseful of Indonesians up in the hills.”

  “Is Tom Traherne here?”

  “Not yet. He wasn’t going to come at all. But thanks again to your interference he’s had to get out of his home. But his work is nearly done.”

  “What work is that?”

  “Establishing our network in Melbourne. Arranging homes for our men. Arranging documents. Putting us in touch with the right people to supply weapons. And explosives.”

  “Explosives?”

  “Enjoy your food. The rice here is even better than in Indonesia.” Alberto stood and walked out.

  The gunman took his place on the stool while I sat on the floor and tucked into the small meal. “Enjoying Australia?” I asked the man, hoping to learn more. He was young with wide eyes and a look of innocence about him. “What about La Rue? Good fun, huh?”

  “Shut up,” he said simply.

  I finished my food, and two more of the men arrived. They bound my wrists again, then led me outside and into a double garage with a small window at the rear and a floor of concrete. Cardboard cartons lined one wall. A small pink van bearing the logo “Armstrongs Florist” occupied one side of the garage, and Alberto’s red Mazda was in the other half. Right in the center was a wooden support post. The men forced me to the ground and then using enough rope to construct a large fishing net they secured me to the post.

  “Enjoy your home,” said one of the men, whom I hadn’t noticed at La Rue. It wasn’t spoken in sarcasm, but with what sounded like a tinge of regret, or melancholy. He was tall, about thirty-five and with a neat moustache. He seemed concerned, as if he felt that Indonesians in the Yarra Valley should be sticking together, not fighting each other. He waited until his companions had left. “I hope it’s not too cold for you. We’ll bring some blankets later. This place is freezing at night.”

  I took advantage of his kindness. “What’s going to happen?”

  He looked around, but even though it was clear that we were alone he remained nervous. He shook his head silently. “There’s a sacred day here called Anzac. That’s when it’s happening.” He quickly walked out.

  Anzac Day? I’d lost track of what day it was, but I was pretty sure Anzac fell in just one or two more days. But what was going to happen then? I thought of the Albert Park lake getting a twin, and of explosives. I think I fell asleep, my head slumped forward. The next I knew I was looking at a tall man moving around the garage. It didn’t seem to be a dream.

  “You’re in more deeply than I realized,” I said to Tom Traherne. “Murder. Terrorism. That’s still a capital offence in Australia isn’t it?”

  “Treason,” said Tom simply. “You’re thinking of treason.” He was apparently searching for something. He seemed distracted.

  “Terrorism against your own country. That has to be treason.”

  He looked at me for the first time. “You’re a real mess, aren’t you? I didn’t realize Alberto’s thugs roughed you up so badly. Look at that face. You need a doctor.” The hint of a smile appeared. Then he said with a tinge of bitterness: “I’m a Pom. It’s not my country. Anyway, I’ll be far away.” His face took on a cast of sadness. “Shame you had to stick your nose in. Nothing at all against you. You seemed a nice chap. A good listener. I sure could have done with a friend like you when the wife shot through with Seabiscuit. You’re a soldier, like me. I always enjoyed mucking about with soldiers a lot more than with stockbrokers.”

  He seemed wistful. Ready to talk.

  “Are you planting the bomb yourself?”

  He looked at me again and smiled, clearly understanding that I was prodding for information.

  “Haven’t they told you what’s going to happen?”

  “Albert Park lake’s about to get a twin. On Anzac Day.”

  He chuckled. “Very good. Anzac Day’s nearly here. They have their big parade. Returned soldiers and a lot of serving soldiers as well. Maybe some who will have served in East Timor. It seems our Indonesian friends want some kind of revenge. Want to get East Timor back. They reckon blowing up a whole lot of Australian soldiers is just the ticket. Can’t think why myself. It’s not going to get them very far, if you ask me. They made a mess of running East Timor when they had it. Now let the locals make their own mess.”

  “And you’re helping them? Just for a couple of million?”

  “You think I should
have held out for more? I often ask myself the same question. Maybe I should have.”

  “No. I mean, you’re happy to see Indonesian terrorists kill Australian soldiers, just for money?”

  “Happy? No, that’s not the word I’d use. I was in the Guards myself. I faced death in Belfast. I was a teenager. It was an adventure. A bit of a game. I knew I could die. Same with Aussie soldiers. They know they’ll be involved in warfare. Maybe they don’t quite realize that it’ll be back in Australia. But you’re a soldier. You understand these things.”

  “I was a soldier for a cause. What’s the cause in blowing up Australian soldiers?”

  He held up two fingers. “Two million dollars. The only cause worth fighting for.”

  I wanted to keep him talking. “And why Melbourne?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “As good a place as any. I don’t think these clowns would know Melbourne from Gundagai. But they found a guy named Grant Stonelea who was running this operation, smuggling Indonesians into Australia and fixing them up with all the right papers, and he was operating out of Melbourne. That’s how they ended up here. Then he got put away and had his great conversion, and I took over. By this time they needed a lot more than Medicare cards. They wanted safe houses and bomb-making equipment and details of the local military, so they had to confide in me. That’s when I put in my demand for two mill.” He looked thoughtful. “Tell me honestly, do you really think I should have asked for more?”

  Without waiting for an answer he walked out of the garage.