‘More than I need to know, Faith,’ Jack laughed.
‘Now, you guys didn’t see a dog on your travels?’ Jack asked. ‘Beagle name of Biggles?’
‘The killer attack dog of legend?’ Faith asked.
‘Not exactly,’ Jack said. ‘But he will give your leg a near fatal humping on my command. Or if he fancies you. Or just about any old time, really.’ He glanced around. ‘Not like him to go wandering off for this long, though. Old Biggles is a bit of a homebody usually.’ He took a small walkie-talkie from his pocket and put it to his ear. ‘No sign of the pup,’ he said into the radio handset, ‘but I’ve got a couple of friend-lies for breakfast.’
There was an answering click from the handset and Jack put the radio back in his pocket. He picked up the styrofoam box. ‘Let’s chuck this in the van and head up to the house,’ he said. ‘As you’ve probably worked out, Faith, I had a little chat with Martin on our walk down the hill. He’s brought me up to speed on the broad detail of this sordid little saga.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I must say, neither Martin nor I reflect much glory on the hallowed name of Box Forest Boys High. I’ll drive.’
Martin held the gate open until the van was inside, then jumped in. Faith sat between the two men on the bumpy ride up the hill. Every so often Jack would stop, open his door and pull in some roots or greenery, which he piled in Faith’s lap.
‘Lemongrass, galangal, kangkung. I’m very impressed, Jack,’ Faith said, rummaging through the stalks.
‘I grow my chillies nearer the house since we use them the most.’
‘ “We” would be the gorgeous blonde twins who sate your every desire?’ asked Faith.
Jack laughed. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear about me. “We” is me and Van Tuan. He was a mate in the ’Nam. Used to be General Ky’s personal helicopter pilot when he was the main man in the government of the week. VT flew one of the last choppers out of Saigon in ’75.’
The hillside grew steeper towards the crest, and the van surged forward as Jack gunned the engine. ‘Boy, this boat’s certainly got some grunt,’ he said.
At the top of the rise Jack gave a long blast on the horn. The house was a low-rise bungalow with a corrugated-iron roof and wide verandahs. Two water tanks sat behind the house, and steps at one end of the verandah led down to a large swimming pool.
‘That looks inviting,’ Faith said.
‘Gets a bit warmish,’ Jack commented, ‘but the nearest accessible beach is a bit of a hike. And between the stonefish, sharks, saltwater crocs and stingers, I can never remember which month it’s safe to go swimming. I think it’s anything with a Q in it.’
The van swerved around behind the house. A heavy steel roller door was opening in an otherwise blank concrete wall. Jack drove in and killed the engine. Behind them the roller door began to close. Large banks of overhead fluorescent tubes lit the garage. Grey 44-gallon drums lined three walls, with red drums on the fourth.
‘Diesel for the generators,’ Jack explained, climbing out. ‘The red ones are petrol for the cars and motorbikes.’
Martin counted seven bikes, two four-wheel drives, and an old ambulance painted dark green.
Jack patted the mudguard on the ambulance. ‘Yank. World War II vintage. Still runs like a dream.’
‘What the hell is this place?’ Martin asked.
Jack smiled. ‘Your tax dollars at work, sport. The government built this in the 1960s to house some top-secret, long-range radar facility. Supposed to be able to spot a mosquito taking off from Sukarno’s arse in Jakarta, but it was the usual flop. The only part of the contract that was fulfilled was the contractors making millions. The house up top was built for cover, but it’s a real house.’
Martin gave a low whistle.
‘This is nothing,’ Jack laughed. ‘There’s another five floors below us. I’ve got a great armoury. We can shoot off some submachine guns after breakfast, if you fancy. Ever fired a bazooka, Faith?’
‘Careful, Jack,’ Martin said, ‘I’ve learned to be very wary about asking her questions like that.’
‘Are we talking the 60-millimetre M1A1, or the M9, Jack?’ Faith asked mischievously.
‘Right,’ Jack said, nodding to Martin, ‘I see what you mean.’ He took the box of mudcrabs from the van. ‘Let’s get cleaned up and see what we can rustle up for breakfast,’ he suggested.
Martin and Faith followed Jack across the garage.
‘So, exactly how mad are you, Major Jack?’ Faith asked.
Jack was sprinting up a set of steel stairs. He stopped and looked back. ‘I like you, Faith,’ he said. ‘Very direct. We’ll talk about that after we eat. Come up and meet VT.’
The stairs led up to a cool, well-lit kitchen which opened onto a dining area with picture windows looking out over the jungle and down to the ocean. A marble bench held eggs, bacon, sausages, ripe red tomatoes, and what looked and smelled like freshly baked bread.
‘Welcome to Casa del Nutso,’ Jack said. ‘I’m about to cook us a fabulous breakfast, the equal of any highway-truckstop cafe in the country. And wait till you taste my homemade tomato-chilli relish.’
Martin gave Faith an I-told-you-so look. ‘Faith thinks the famous highway-truckstop breakfast is just some deranged male fantasy,’ he said to Jack.
Jack threw up his hands. ‘Women, mate, what can you do with them?’
Faith noticed a gleaming silver espresso machine. ‘A Pasquini Livia,’ she said, ‘very nice. We don’t get truckstop coffee then?’
‘I’ll agree with you on that point,’ Jack said. He flicked a coffee grinder on and off. ‘Arabica beans, from Bali. Got a small roaster downstairs. Gas-fired and computer-controlled for consistency. Took me a hell of a long time to get the grind just right, though. Humidity up here makes it tricky.’
Faith studied the espresso machine. ‘What temperature do you use?’ she asked.
‘Smidge over 90 Celsius seems to work best,’ Jack said, looking bemusedly at her.
‘And the pressure?’
‘Around nine atmospheres,’ he said.
‘Sounds good,’ Faith smiled.
‘Well,’ Martin said, ‘I think you’ve passed that test, Jack.’
A tall, slender Vietnamese man entered the kitchen. He was wearing a light cotton shirt and sarong and carrying several large fluffy towels and some folded sarongs.
‘Welcome to our home. You might like to freshen up while we prepare breakfast,’ he suggested.
Jack put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Faith, Martin, I’d like you to meet Van Tuan, VT for short.’ He leaned over, ruffled Van Tuan’s hair, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘VT’s the one who sates my every desire,’ Jack said, slipping an arm around his waist.
‘Well, I guess that answers your question about what you can do with women, Jack,’ Faith laughed.
‘You might wanna close Martin’s mouth there, Faith,’ he said. ‘We get a lot of big flying bugs this far north.’
*
The one sour note at breakfast was Martin’s sarong coming adrift as he reached across for more papaya.
‘Lose the lard if you want to wear a sarong, my boy,’ Jack suggested. ‘Charles Laughton and the South Seas were never a good visual mix.’
‘I’ll have you know Martin here is well on his way to a slimmer, trimmer physique,’ Faith said in mock outrage.
‘Must be all the push-ups,’ Jack suggested innocently.
They adjourned to the verandah for more coffee. VT, who had eaten lightly, announced he would go looking for Biggles. Jack reminded him to take a pistol.
‘Snakes,’ he explained. ‘In the grass.’
‘And sometimes other places,’ VT said as he headed down the stairs.
‘That was a fantastic breakfast, Jack,’ Faith said, lolling back in a big cane chair. ‘Although the presence of fresh fruit and the absence of buckets of grease may take it out of the truckstop category.’
‘The homemade tomato-chilli relish was something else,’
Martin said. ‘You could bottle it and make a fortune.’
‘Mmm,’ Jack said, considering the suggestion. ‘Crazy Auntie Jack’s Fruity Homemade Condiments. We could open up in Sydney. Be big on Oxford Street at least.’
‘This whole gay thing is a bit of a shock,’ Martin said.
‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘And didn’t I say to VT just the other day that I wouldn’t be surprised to see my old cobber and school goody-goody Martin Carter turn up on the run from the cops for armed robbery with a hot blonde on his arm? Surprise is a two-way street down this particular block.’
Faith laughed. ‘Give him a break, Jack. A week ago he would have been catatonic about you being gay.’
‘Yeah,’ Martin said, ‘give me a break, Starkie. How are the parents then?’ he asked.
‘Passed on about ten years back,’ Jack said. ‘The old lady had a stroke and lasted about a week. Dad went about a week after that. Doc said he just died in his sleep, but I reckon he made arrangements not to wake up.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Martin said quietly.
‘And yours?’ Jack asked.
‘Still the same,’ Martin said. ‘Always the same.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, what the hell is going on in your life, Jack? That local cop I told you about was a Vietnam vet. He told me some very odd stories about you. I think you’re probably as crazy as you ever were, but I’m not sure you’re mad. What’s the story on this World Wide Web psycho business, mate? What gives?’
Jack put down his coffee cup. ‘Just one of a number of weird stories to come out of the ’Nam, I guess. Just before it all started going tits up in Saigon, I was sent to Washington. My exploits in Indian country caught some people’s attention.’ He looked at Faith. ‘I finally found something I was good at, but it turned out to be a pretty odd thing,’ he explained. ‘Vietnam Counter-Insurgency and Counter-Terrorism Specialist looks weird on the CV.
‘Anyway,’ Jack continued, ‘way back when, someone working in Projections and Forecasts for the CIA read a paper from some bod out here about how domestic and international terrorism would develop over the next few decades into being the major problem after communism. Thousands of small cells and single-issue groups that would be almost impossible to infiltrate or control.’
‘The last couple of years have shown that to be a pretty good guess,’ Faith said.
‘And how. Back then, though, it was only a theory, but some pretty powerful people got behind it. They decided to create a fictional super-nut who could become a focus for all these groups. And for my sins they chose me.’
‘You mean you’re a total fraud?’ Faith laughed.
‘Careful, girl,’ Jack said, ‘someone still has to wash all those breakfast dishes.’
‘But how would you even begin to go about setting up something like that?’ Martin asked.
‘Easy,’ Jack answered. ‘With enough time and enough money, you can do pretty much anything.’
‘Cure cancer, feed the hungry, house the homeless …’ Faith suggested.
‘Okay,’ Jack conceded, ‘with enough time and enough money and the political will, you can do pretty much anything. And these guys had the political will. Psychologists and psychiatrists produced suitable profiles for my fall from grace, with disillusionment turning to paranoia and the inevitable turning against the system that made me.’
‘But if it was a Yank project, why base it here?’ Martin asked.
‘Distance,’ Jack explained. ‘Both physical and political. Australia is far enough out of the way to discourage most drop-in visitors, and that allowed plenty of time to set up suitable displays for the people we wanted to impress. And if it all went pear-shaped, the Yanks had a pretty good case of plausible denial and we’d take the heat.’
‘And how did it actually work?’ Faith asked.
‘It was low-key in the beginning. The Echelon communications spy network was initially good enough for intercepting radio and other signals traffic. The Internet was what really made me. I railed online against one-world government, super-capitalism, the Club of Rome, fluoridation, and, hey presto, my website became an essential bookmark for Nut Jobs ‘R’ Us. I was getting cake recipes, bomb recipes, calls for advice, assassination suggestions, and, best of all, boastful emails before and after operations seeking my blessing or congratulations.’
‘You were getting?’ Faith asked.
‘The disillusioned-warrior profile they set up turned round and bit them in the arse. I started asking awkward questions because I was getting really uncomfortable about a few things. They cut me out of the loop and it all started going through Canberra.’
‘Uncomfortable about what?’ Faith asked.
‘Well, there was this one operation, a plane hijacking, which we knew all about and would have stopped in our normal roundabout way.’
‘Meaning what?’ said Martin.
‘Well, we couldn’t just arrest the hijackers because someone would eventually work out where the leak came from. So it had to be a wee bit subtle. We might arrange for the ringleaders to be killed in a road accident, or something similarly innocuous where there was a high level of plausible denial. Shit happens, and sometimes very conveniently.’
Martin looked startled. ‘You could make stuff like that happen?’
‘Sure,’ Jack said, ‘easy as pie. In Europe we used this old Kraut named Rollo Kleindorf who could flip your car off the autobahn and into a tree before you knew what was happening. He looked like a doddery old granddad in a clapped-out Audi, but he was an Afrika Corps veteran and bloody lethal at the wheel.’
‘Jesus,’ Martin whistled.
‘Didn’t work this particular time?’ asked Faith.
Jack shook his head. ‘Didn’t happen at all.’ He glanced at his watch and scanned the hillside. ‘The hijacking went off just as scripted. Special Forces troops stormed the plane on the runway in Zurich during negotiations – killed the hijackers where they stood in the aisles.’
‘All the passengers got out?’ Faith asked.
‘Five dead. Not too bad in the scheme of things, I guess. Unless you happened to be one of the five. Or related to them.’ Jack was silent for a long time, and when he spoke again his voice was soft. ‘It was only afterwards that I realised that the deaths of a couple of those passengers happened to be very much to the advantage of some of the people running our little play group.’
Faith shivered. ‘You mean politically?’
‘I mean commercially,’ Jack said, ‘which makes it even worse somehow.’
‘That is seriously disturbing, Jack,’ Martin said.
‘I called for an investigation. They maintained that blocking the operation would have compromised security, which was bullshit of course. I got stroppy, made a few comments, and bingo, I was out of the loop and headed for early retirement.’
‘But all this stuff still happens?’ Martin asked.
Jack checked his watch again, got up, and moved to the edge of the verandah. ‘Very much so – and in my name, but I have no part in it. Which is weird. They receive, analyse and answer, and people still think it’s me.’
‘But they let you stay on here?’ said Martin.
‘Not exactly. Circles I move in take a dim view of two things – unauthorised memoirs and early retirement. Retirement is only on their terms, and if you piss them off the terms can sometimes be a little less than favourable.’
‘Sounds like you definitely pissed them off, Jack,’ Faith said.
‘It’s a fatal flaw in my character, Faith,’ Jack replied with a wry smile. ‘Literally. The only reason they haven’t retired me yet is because they can’t figure out how to get a hit team in here to give me my gold watch.’
‘They want to kill you?’ Martin was incredulous.
‘You bet. If I were to open my mouth and spill the beans on this project, there’d be a lot of red faces and some rapidly terminated high-profile careers on both sides of the Pacific. And I don’t just mean in government either. This thing goe
s deep into the private sector too.’
‘Pretty powerful incentive to shut you down permanently,’ Faith said.
‘It’s not like they haven’t tried. We’ve had the odd nocturnal visit over the past couple of years, but they figured out it wasn’t a cost-effective method after a while. They trained me in counter-insurgency and I’m pretty bloody good at what I do. None of them have ever got within sight of the house.’
‘Dead?’ Martin asked.
‘Dissuaded, mostly,’ Jack said with a tight smile. ‘We’d have a bit of a chat and they’d usually come round to my point of view that a man’s home is his castle.’
‘That must have been some chat,’ Faith said.
‘VT and I can be very persuasive when we put our minds to it.’
‘They haven’t given up, though?’ Faith asked.
Jack began pacing the verandah. ‘They keep trying different things from time to time. I’ll be on the back burner for a while and then they seem to get it into their heads to have another go. They’ve been getting quite inventive recently. Last year an F-111 out of Amberley “accidentally” lost a live 250-kilo bomb on a training mission. Missed the house by half a bee’s dick.’
‘That must have been pretty scary,’ Martin said.
‘Scarier for the F-111 jockey and his offsider,’ Jack said. ‘I took the warhead off a Stinger ground-to-air missile and shot it up his clacker on their second run. They tend to give us a very wide berth now.’ He took the walkie-talkie from his pocket. ‘But on the plus side, we got us a hole for the swimming pool without having to do too much digging.’
Martin looked over the edge of the verandah into the pool. ‘Half a bee’s dick is right,’ he said.
‘And you have absolutely no contact with the organisation now?’ Faith asked.
‘Nope, but we’re hearing some things through backchannels which are pretty disturbing.’
‘Backchannels?’ Martin asked.
‘Insiders, whistle-blowers, whatever,’ Jack said. ‘There are apparently some other disillusioned people on the inside who want to contact me. Seems like my name’s been coming up again, and I don’t think it’s for Ex-employee of the Month.’
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