The whole of the hillside was suddenly lit up as bright as day. Nothing moved. Just before Jack flicked off the floodlights, Martin saw the grenade in his left hand.
‘Anyhow,’ Jack continued, ‘Hong Kong wasn’t any picnic in those days, plus it was bursting with refugees from China. When Dad found out that married couples got bumped up the list for emigration, it encouraged him to pop the question to the granddaughter.’
‘That doesn’t sound too romantic,’ Faith said.
Jack laughed. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I reckon my dad and mum had been pretty cosy behind her granddad’s back for yonks. Anyway, Iliya Jakob Starkovsky, alias Jack Stark, was born on a ship on the way to Melbourne.’
‘Jesus, another bloody boat person,’ Faith said.
‘I know,’ Jack said, shaking his head, ‘with all those damn foreigners running around after the war, it’s amazing this country turned out as well as it did.’
The lights in the kitchen were suddenly on and VT was standing by the sink with a bunch of coriander. He gave Jack a slight negative movement of the head. Jack slipped the hand grenade into his pocket and stood up.
‘All right, boys and girls. We now have coriander, and the mudcrabs are dozing off in the freezer. It’s time to fire up the wok and show you how real Singapore chilli crab gets made. And eaten – if you don’t finish up with my world-renowned spicy sauce from elbow to breakfast, you’re not doing it right.’
In the kitchen Jack handed Martin a bottle opener. ‘Because of your sterling work earlier, you are now officially the bartender. Beer’s probably the go tonight.’
Martin knelt down and pulled a bottle from the fridge. ‘Looks like there’s a choice of Tiger and this stuff.’ He held up a green bottle.
‘It’s Tsingtao. Chinese beer. Not a bad drop,’ Jack said. ‘They took over an old German brewery.’
‘Any preference?’ Martin asked.
‘Nope, just as long as you keep ’em cold and keep ’em coming.’ Jack turned to Faith. ‘Do you want to organise us some finger bowls?’
‘We don’t need ’em,’ she said. ‘Martin and I will just lick each other clean.’
VT deftly caught the bottle of beer as it shot out of Martin’s grasp.
*
Next morning Martin rose late. From the bathroom window he could see Faith and VT setting up an archery range below the house. He went to the kitchen to find Jack pouring pineapple juice into a large glass.
‘Here you go, digger. I’m making us a couple of cappuccini for when you’re done with this.’
They walked out onto the verandah. Faith was slamming arrows into the target.
‘Nice butt,’ Jack said.
Martin leaned on a verandah post. ‘You do, of course, mean the built-up area for archery target practice which is known technically as a butt.’
‘No, I meant your girlfriend’s arse. But if you’re going to get all thing about it, forget it. Cappuccino or duelling pistols?’
Martin laughed. ‘Coffee, please. Thought I heard a telephone before.’
‘Sorry, did it wake you? It was Max, letting me know my order of canned pilchards is in.’
‘Oh, good,’ Martin said, ‘canned pilchards. I’m getting sick of this five-star crap every meal.’
‘Not subtle enough then?’ Jack asked.
‘Mate, I’m just an ex-bank manager and it sounds like code even to me.’
Jack grinned. ‘We’ll go for a bit of a drive after coffee.’
Fifteen minutes later, Jack backed the ambulance out into the sunlight and climbed down. ‘Half a mo,’ he yelled, running back into the garage.
Martin waited in the passenger seat. Jack was back in three minutes with a canvas satchel and the Swedish K, plus a much smaller submachine gun.
‘Skorpion,’ Jack said. ‘Czechoslovakian. Nice little gun.’ He handed it to Martin. ‘I’ll show you how to use it when we get far enough away from the house.’
He started the engine and drove the ambulance over to Faith and VT. ‘Just off to the shops, honey,’ he called in a falsetto voice.
VT gave him the finger. Faith blew Martin a kiss.
The ride down to the road was very uncomfortable. ‘Genuine World War II ambulance suspension,’ Jack explained. ‘First someone shoots you and then you get to ride in this. You’d probably want to shoot yourself after a couple of miles.’
‘So war really is hell?’ Martin asked.
‘No, mate, it’s sheer bloody terror. The hell, quite often, is what comes after.’
They stopped just short of the gate to the road and Jack showed Martin how to cock and fire the Skorpion. Martin didn’t much care for it. Jack took some extra magazines from the satchel and put them at Martin’s feet.
‘You worried Max is going to have words with you about your account?’ Martin asked.
‘I’ve only lasted this long because when the little voice inside tells me to be careful I always pay attention,’ Jack answered. ‘I’m not expecting trouble, but you should always remember the first rule of gunfights.’
‘There are rules for gunfights?’ Martin asked.
‘You bet. Only one that counts, though,’ Jack said.
‘Which is?’
‘Always bring a gun.’
The drive was uneventful, except for a set of tyre tracks running off the road into the jungle.
‘Fishermen, maybe?’ Martin ventured.
Jack shook his head. ‘You’d need a bulldozer once you got more than a hundred and fifty feet in. Nothing but mud, mozzies and mangroves at the other end anyhow.’ Jack’s eyes were constantly moving, checking the mirrors and the roadside and the track ahead.
‘What’s the story with Max?’ Martin asked after a long period of silence.
‘One of the boys,’ Jack said. ‘SAS. Served in Borneo in the early ’60s. Sussed it out after meeting him a couple of times, but he didn’t open up till we’d been here about five years.’
‘Sussed it how?’ Martin asked.
‘Dunno really. Something in the eyes, I guess. Plus a couple of scars. The kind that only bullets make. He was invalided out, got a job teaching history, couldn’t hack it and went bush. Vietnam vets weren’t the first to bail out, not by a long chalk.’
They reached the store in twenty minutes and found Max sweeping the porch. When he saw them he waved, disappeared inside, and came back out carrying a cardboard box. Jack looked around casually but carefully.
Max handed the box through the passenger window to Martin. ‘Sorry about the other morning, mate. If I’d known you and the good-looker were mates of Jack here, we could’a rustled you up a couple of egg and bacon rolls.’
‘No hard feelings,’ Martin said. ‘We got some breakfast up the track.’
‘He give you some of the tomato-chilli relish?’ Max asked.
Martin gave him a thumbs-up.
‘Almost better than sex, that relish,’ Max said.
‘Maxie’s always after the recipe,’ Jack laughed. Then, with a slight change in his tone, ‘Everything we need’s in the box?’ he asked.
‘You bet, mate. Plus a bit extra. Wouldn’t like you to forget VT’s little treat.’
‘So, you going fishing today, Max?’ Jack asked.
‘Are they biting, you reckon?’
‘Could be, Max, could be. Maybe you should shut up shop and take the family out in the boat for a bit,’ Jack suggested. ‘Leave the tinny tied to the dock just in case.’
Martin looked into the box as they pulled back onto the roadway. ‘Does VT like musk sticks?’ he asked.
‘Hates ’em,’ Jack said. ‘How many are there?’
‘Five,’ Martin answered. ‘Plus a copy of Off Road magazine. And the box of pilchards.’
‘Max watches this end of the road for me,’ Jack told him.
‘And there’s going to be trouble?’
‘Yep. It’ll be five men in a four-wheel drive.’
‘That’s the five musk sticks and t
he off-road magazine?’ Martin said.
‘You got it. Another little code we worked out in case people were hanging about listening.’ He drove carefully, watching the road ahead. ‘They’ll try to stop us first, or at least slow us down. Moving targets are always harder. Keep an eye out for a roadblock. Fallen tree, rocks, stuff like that.’
Martin tightened his grip on the Skorpion. His mouth was suddenly very dry.
‘Have a look under the top layer of cans,’ Jack said. ‘See if there’s an envelope for me.’
Martin rummaged through the flat tins. ‘It’s here, sealed in plastic. Feels like a CD from the size of it.’ He stared at the envelope. It was sealed with a sticker of a smiling donut with a snappy bow tie. ‘Who’s this from?’ he asked.
‘Someone who’s been doing a bit of Internet snooping on my behalf,’ Jack said.
‘Donuts with Jim?’ Martin asked, staring at the envelope in bewilderment.
‘Shit!’ Jack said suddenly.
Martin’s head snapped up. ‘What! What is it?’ he said, his heart pounding.
‘You think you’re going to be okay with cocking and firing that Skorpion, mate?’ Jack asked.
‘I guess, if I really have to,’ Martin said. He put the box of pilchards on the floor, grabbed his gun and braced himself.
Jack dropped the ambulance down a gear. ‘Keep your eye on me, Martin, and do exactly as I say. It’s time to rock and roll!’
twenty-seven
As they rounded the bend, Martin saw a green Range Rover in a ditch. Three men, dressed for fishing, stood in the road waving. Jack slowed and changed down again.
‘You’d have to be pretty bloody stupid not to be able to drive a Rangie straight out of a spot like that,’ he said. ‘Cock your weapon, Martin. Try not to shoot your kneecap off.’
Jack floored the gas pedal and the ambulance slewed slightly as the tyres spun and bit into the gravel, and then it was racing forward. The men were reaching under their fishing vests as Martin yelled over the roar of the engine.
‘There’s something on the road!’
‘Tyre spikes, ignore them,’ Jack yelled. ‘Fire out the window.’
‘What at?’ Martin screamed.
‘Just shoot, make them keep their heads down. They don’t know you’re just a bank manager with attitude.’
Martin pointed the muzzle in the general direction of the Range Rover and squeezed the trigger. Nothing.
‘Safety’s on,’ Jack yelled, leaning across to flip the lever. Martin squeezed the trigger again. The cabin was suddenly full of noise and smoke and the clinking of empty shell casings and then they were past.
‘What about the tyre spikes?’ Martin shouted. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘Solid rubber tyres!’ Jack shouted with a laugh. ‘Why do you think the ride’s so bad?’
Martin glanced in his side mirror. Two more men had scrambled out from the bush behind them, past the tyre spikes. Red flashes appeared from their hands and something began hammering on the back of the ambulance.
‘Don’t panic,’ Jack yelled. ‘We welded steel plate onto the back.’
Martin saw the Range Rover stop to pick up the two men. Something about one of them seemed vaguely familiar. Jack glanced in his mirror.
‘We should beat them to the gate. Just.’ He fumbled in his haversack and handed Martin a grenade.
‘Oh, fuck,’ Martin said, looking at it.
‘Easy as pie, Martin,’ Jack said. ‘Just get a firm grip on the body of the grenade, with your fingers over that lever bit. As long as the lever’s down, it’s safe. Now, use the ring to pull out the split pin. It’ll take a serious tug. And don’t use your teeth.’
Martin managed to pull the pin even though his hands were shaking.
‘They’ve stopped firing. Put your hand out the window and drop the grenade,’ Jack ordered. ‘That’s the way. Now just open your palm and let her go.’
Martin saw the lever spring off and then the smoking grenade was rolling on the road behind them. There was a thump and in his mirror he saw the Range Rover swerving around a burst of smoke and flame and red dust. Another blast of gunfire and the mirror on Martin’s side suddenly disintegrated.
‘Maybe you should keep your hands inside now,’ Jack suggested. ‘We’ve gained a few seconds, though. I’m going to dump her at the gate. You bail out with the pilchards and head up the hill. Try and keep the ambulance between you and the road. Get behind the first really big tree you can find. The trunk. Leaves don’t stop bullets.’
Martin braced himself as they approached the property and Jack slammed on the brakes. The ambulance slid sideways into the gate, knocking it down with a clatter and blocking the entrance. Jack was screaming, ‘Out! Out! Out!’ and then he dropped a smoking grenade between the seats before leaping clear with the haversack and submachine gun. Martin heard the roar of an approaching vehicle and gunfire and then a thump, louder than the one on the road, just as he was burrowing under what he hoped were bulletproof palm fronds. There was a high-pitched whine from higher up the hill and suddenly the tyres of a trail bike skidded past his head. He heard a funny hollow doop sound, followed by an explosion. Then again. There was yelling from the roadway, and the sound of a vehicle revving high and departing. Then it was quiet. Martin rolled over. Faith was standing above him. She had an arrow fitted against the string of her longbow and she was breathing heavily.
‘You okay?’ she gasped.
He nodded, speechless.
‘We came down on the bikes when we heard the shooting along the road,’ she said, giving him a hand up.
The burning ambulance completely blocked the gateway. Jack and VT were walking slowly up the hill, arms around each other. VT carried what looked like a short, fat shotgun.
‘Grenade launcher,’ Jack said as they came up. ‘M-79. We outgunned them, so they did the smart thing and pissed off.’ He held up a broken arrow with blood on the tip and shaft. ‘Good shot, Faith,’ he said, looking at the smooth metal point. ‘Pity it wasn’t a hunting arrow with a nice set of barbs. These target arrows come out way too easy.’
‘Everyone’s okay then?’ VT asked.
They all nodded.
‘What’s that smell?’ Faith said suddenly.
Martin looked down at his trousers.
‘Jesus, mate,’ Jack said, ‘that’s a bit grim. I think you’ve been shot in the pilchards.’
*
They gathered on the verandah. Jack had retrieved the plastic envelope from among the pilchards and was reading the contents. After a while he strolled down to the end of the verandah with VT and they had a long, serious-looking conversation. VT went into the kitchen and came out with two walkie-talkies, giving one to Jack and slipping the other in his pocket. Biggles was anxious to go with him but obeyed the command from Jack to stay. A few minutes later, they heard a trail bike heading away from the house.
‘You in big trouble, Jack?’ Faith asked.
Jack grinned at her. ‘I guess running gunfights on public roads are always a giveaway.’
‘Really big trouble then?’ Martin asked.
Jack shrugged. ‘Like I said, I’m out of the loop, but I had a friend do some research. He hacked into their server and started reading the archived email.’
‘Jesus, you can do that?’ Martin asked
‘You bet,’ Jack said. ‘No matter what people think, that DELETE button on your computer is like the CLOSE DOORS button on elevators, mostly there to make you feel comfortable. Anyway, the donut boy found what I needed, but then he got the bit between his teeth and hacked his way right into the most secure part of their mainframe. He burned me a CD of some particularly interesting material, but he must have tripped a security program in the process.’
‘Could they trace the break-in back to him?’ Faith asked.
‘Probably not, he’s very good at covering his tracks. But since I’m the most likely culprit in a search like this, I’d say I’ve been sprung.’
H
e turned and looked over the jungle. ‘Guess it might be time to think about folding the tents,’ he said.
Just then Jack’s mobile rang. He listened to the caller for a long time before speaking.
‘Okay, Max. Thanks. That’s cool. Listen, mate, you remember that lemon tree I planted out the back of your shop? If you ever want to buy the wife a new frock or take a long trip, dig it up. Besides some of the folding stuff, you’ll find my tomato relish recipe. Okay, you take it slow and easy there, mate.’
He pressed END CALL and turned to Martin and Faith. ‘The guys in the Range Rover turned up at the jetty. A rubber duckie picked them up and took ’em out to a luxury cruiser that moored in the bay about an hour ago. Max reckons it’s just a tad smaller than the QE2.’ Jack began to pace. ‘What am I missing here?’ he said, more to himself than the others. He picked up a pair of binoculars and began scanning the area in front of the bungalow.
Faith leaned on the railing beside him. ‘It’ll be a pity if you have to leave here, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
Martin joined them. ‘Although it probably won’t be too long before some arsehole like Len Barton moves in and concretes the entire coast anyway,’ he said
Jack stopped. ‘What do you know about Len Barton?’ he asked sharply.
‘Not much, other than he’s a bit of a racist bastard,’ Faith said. ‘We picked him up a few days back. He was hitchhiking after his car broke down, so we gave him a lift. Spent the night at his place on the Gold Coast. It was a seriously strange little interlude.’
‘Where was the van during the night?’ Jack snapped. ‘On the street, garaged, where?’
Faith looked at him. ‘In his garage, I think. Why?’
‘Fuck me dead,’ Martin gasped suddenly. Running in to the bar, he grabbed the photo off the wall. ‘I knew I recognised this face from somewhere,’ he shouted. ‘This bloke, it’s Albris, Barton’s assistant.’ He came back out and handed Jack the photo, pointing at the soldier on the far right of the group.
Jack grabbed it from him. ‘Fucking Albris!’
‘I wouldn’t swear to it,’ Martin said, ‘but I think he might have been one of those guys from the Range Rover.’
Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed! Page 19
