Now she had his attention. ‘When did all this happen?’ He was thinking Sixties, Seventies, when it would have been overshadowed by the greater conflicts in South East Asia.
‘The insurgency started in the mid-Seventies. It was effective enough to close the mine in ’eighty-eight but it didn’t turn into a full-scale shooting match until a year later. The last Papua New Guinea troops didn’t leave the island until nineteen ninety-eight.’
‘Twenty thousand casualties?’ Jamie shook his head incredulously. ‘I was still at university in nineteen ninety-eight. I wanted to be a soldier and I was interested in wars. How come I never heard about this one?’
‘Because the Australians, who had a major investment in the government side, didn’t want you to. You and the rest of the world. The Bougainville Conflict was a small war on an island in the middle of nowhere. The only people interested were the people fighting and dying, and shareholders in the mining companies that had a stake in the Panguna Mine. It only came to international attention in nineteen ninety-seven when a company called Sandline International became involved. For thirty-six million dollars they offered to wipe out the Bougainville Revolutionary Army for the Papua New Guinea government, with a mercenary force using helicopter gunships, planes converted to bombers and the latest in military technology. The plan was only abandoned when the media found out and it almost brought down the PNG government.’
‘Christ, so much for Devlin’s few labour problems and some local difficulties with community leaders,’ Jamie exploded. ‘So the mine has never reopened?’
Magda shook her head and tapped the screen, bringing up a row of figures. ‘Between nineteen seventy-two and its closure in nineteen eighty-eight, the Panguna Mine produced twelve hundred million tonnes of material, of which some four hundred and fifty million tonnes went through the treatment process. It produced and shipped three million tonnes of copper, three hundred tonnes of gold and just short of eight hundred tonnes of silver. All of that meant billions in profits. Half went to the mine owners, a fifth to the government of Papua New Guinea – it accounted for seventeen per cent of the country’s internal revenue – and less than one per cent to the people of Bougainville …’
‘Well, that would certainly account for the locals being a little upset and why the PNG government were so keen to keep the mine going.’
‘It also caused incalculable environmental damage,’ Magda continued relentlessly, hammering out statistics like a poker player slapping down a full house. ‘It takes three and a half tonnes of water to process one tonne of copper. The Panguna Mine was processing a hundred and twenty thousand tonnes a day, which required about half a million tonnes of water. It was polluted with heavy metals and other chemicals and it had to go somewhere. The contaminated water destroyed the entire Jaba River system in the island’s central region. Animal and fish species were wiped out. Forests were stripped bare for miles around. Spoil from the mine has made seven thousand acres unusable for agriculture or any other purpose in perpetuity. Fifteen years on there are an increasing number of unexplained birth defects and health problems that are likely to be linked to the pollution.’
‘No wonder the islanders haven’t let them back. I assume they’re demanding an eye-watering sum in compensation before the mine reopens.’
She nodded. ‘But many of the islanders don’t want it to reopen – ever. They want proper independence and a return to their old way of life. That’s why the conflict continues to rumble on, at a lower level and as an internal battle, because there’s a faction who made money from the mine and they see no reason why they shouldn’t again.’
Jamie understood it all now in a revelation as vivid as any saint’s. ‘Along comes Keith Devlin with his billions, his promises and his smooth talk of sustainable development. And of course his company on the brink. Give the man his due, he’s an operator. He probably already has an option to buy shares in Bougainville Copper Ltd at rock-bottom prices. If he can somehow persuade the majority of the natives that Devlin Metal Resources will pay them a fair price, mine it in a way that will do no further damage – at the very least – and provide the kind of infrastructure the island doesn’t have: modern schools, hospitals, well-paid jobs for their children …’
‘But the islanders have heard all this before,’ Magda pointed out.
‘So he needs an edge.’
‘The Bougainville head …’
‘Or whatever is in these mysterious documents he plans to exchange it for, if they even exist.’
XXXVIII
It was raining when Jamie stepped off the Air Niugini Fokker 100 jet at Buka airport after the three-hour flight from Port Moresby, but not the kind of miserable London drizzle he was accustomed to. This rain came out of the sky like bullets and would have soaked him to the skin in seconds but for the hooded anorak he’d bought at Brisbane airport. The one compensation was that it took the edge off the sultry heat that hit him in the face like a slap the moment he left the air-conditioned cocoon of the plane.
His travel-weary mind fought to compute that it was still only nine in the morning. He’d parted company with Magda at Brisbane, where a young Devlin aide had given him his instructions. There’d been no surprise that his destination was Bougainville. The first leg of the journey had taken him to Port Moresby where he’d spent ten hours trying to avoid being mugged as he waited for the connecting flight. He hitched his rucksack on to his back and followed the other passengers towards the small single-storey building that constituted the Bougainville terminal. As they crossed the tarmac, the rain stopped as if someone had flicked a switch and wisps of steam rose from every surface like the essence of trapped souls escaping from the grave.
For a moment he had to fight the feeling of being very alone and far from home. Everything was unfamiliar. Exotic foliage hugged the fringes of the airport and palms and coconut trees swayed under a ceiling of puffy white cloud. Shading his eyes, he scanned his surroundings for the Devlin representative who would undoubtedly be here to meet him. A distinctive oily smell caught his throat, forcing the earthy scent of the passing shower into the background. It was the rancid aroma of some vegetable that had been lying decaying for years and just been exposed to the air. To his left was a small car park filled to overflowing with big sturdy SUVs, and beyond it a rusting corrugated-iron hangar that might have been there since the Second World War.
By the time he reached the terminal the heat had forced him to remove his jacket, and sweat poured down his back thanks to the incredible humidity. The baggage collection area was on an open veranda at the front of the building. He groaned inwardly as he saw the man in a blue uniform shirt checking passports while another made a cursory examination of his fellow passengers’ hand luggage. Jamie had thought he’d been clever disguising the Bougainville head in a box that had originally contained a toy of a similar size. The only problem was that it had a perspex window, and he now realized any native of the Solomon Islands wouldn’t be fooled for five seconds. Just as he reached the end of the line a hand touched his shoulder.
‘Mr Saintclair? If you’d like to come with me.’ Jamie turned his head and found himself the focus of a pair of ice-blue eyes. His captor was half a head shorter and thirty years older, but he wore his light tropical suit like a uniform and there was a stillness and a confidence to him that warned against taking any liberties. The man gave an almost imperceptible nod to the two guards and they stepped aside as he led Jamie through to the baggage area. ‘Which is yours?’ Jamie pointed to a brown leather holdall and the man picked it up. ‘You travel light.’
‘I’m not planning to be here for long.’
The comment prompted a faint smile and he followed his guide out into the sunshine. ‘Doug Stewart.’ Jamie took the proffered hand and winced as his fingers were crushed in an iron grip. He looked into Stewart’s face for any sign of a challenge, but there was nothing there but steady appraisal. ‘I’m Devlin’s head of security.’
‘That must be
an interesting job.’
‘It has its moments.’ Stewart ignored the sarcasm. ‘I take it by your reaction to the security check that what we’ve been waiting for is in your backpack?’
‘When do I see Fiona and Lizzie?’ He took a tighter grip of the rucksack’s strap.
‘When Mr Devlin decides.’ Stewart’s laugh betrayed an easy confidence in his abilities. ‘Don’t worry, son, I’m not planning to take it away from you; but if I was there’s bugger all you could do about it.’
‘What would have happened if they’d found it and you weren’t there?’
The other man shrugged. ‘They’d have taken it and locked you up.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we’d have had to persuade them to give us it back. But the whole island would know about it in less than three hours.’
Jamie noticed that getting him out of jail wouldn’t have been part of the package. ‘Is that such a bad thing? I’d have thought the return of an ancient artefact would be cause for celebration on Bougainville.’
Doug Stewart stopped in the street and turned to face Jamie. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Saintclair, that would be a very bad thing indeed.’ He looked down at his feet. Jamie followed his gaze and flinched at what looked like bloodstains on the concrete. Stewart grinned at his reaction. ‘Betel juice. The Boogs chew betel all the time and the filthy so-and-sos spit it out wherever it suits them.’
Bastard.
The security chief led the way to a Toyota SUV that had been put through hard use judging by the number of bumps and scrapes. Doug Stewart motioned him to the passenger side and it was only when he was inside the vehicle that he noticed the two men in the rear seats. Like Stewart they were small, compact men with unforgiving eyes, but they were twenty years younger and decked out in jungle green. Each held a stubby assault rifle with a plastic stock at his side.
‘Meet Joe and Andy,’ Stewart introduced the pair, ‘the boss’s personal bodyguards while he’s on the island, but he’s loaned them to you for today. Andy doesn’t say much, but compared to Joe he’s a bundle of laughs.’ The pair smiled dutifully at their colleague’s joke. ‘You’ll learn very quickly that it pays to be prepared when you’re on Bougainville, Mr Saintclair. This isn’t your average tropical paradise. You’ll have had your shots? Malaria and beriberi?’
Jamie nodded. He’d had a full set of injections for a planned trip to South America. ‘Good, but just remember the mossies aren’t the only pest around here. If you swim in the river a croc could take you. Swim in the sea and it’ll be a shark. The people are as friendly and open as any on earth; to a European they might even seem childlike. Don’t let that kid you. They welcome visitors, take them into their homes and share their food, but if you’re a Chinaman who opens up a shop you’ll like as not find it burned down the next morning. They’re all Christians, but they believe in magic and sorcery and that you can die if a witch curses you. There are enough guns left over from the last war to start the next one, every man knows how to use them and they’re not slow to pull the trigger. That’s the kind of place it is. If you don’t keep your eyes open you’ll end up in very big trouble indeed.’
Jamie knew the litany of danger had been designed to scare him, but he wasn’t impressed. ‘If that’s the case, why bring me here? We could just as easily have made the exchange in Brisbane.’
Stewart’s face turned blank as if a shutter had fallen. ‘That’s for Mr Devlin to explain.’
As they drove out of the car park Jamie saw a tall, dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses emerge from the terminal building to be met by a large black man in a T-shirt and jeans. A passenger who must have been one of the last off the plane. Taking care not to show an interest, he felt a surge of what might be optimism, or more accurately hope. He wasn’t alone any more.
Doug Stewart drove with the same economy of effort with which he moved and they made swift progress though the town past a mixture of coconut groves and clapboard houses with roofs of corrugated iron or plastic. Even with the air conditioning on and the added firepower of the driver’s aftershave the now-familiar rancid odour grew in intensity.
Eventually, they pulled in by a dock. Joe and Andy stowed their guns in a holdall and when they got out of the car Jamie winced at the heat and the stink. Stewart noticed his reaction and grinned. ‘That, my boy, is the smell of money. Copra; dried coconut husks. Those warehouses are full of it and so is the ship. Coconuts, cocoa and crazy tourists are the only things holding the Bougainville economy together right now. That and Australian aid money, which some of the locals would be happier without. The Buka Passage.’ He indicated the narrow strip of water, less than half a mile wide. ‘It’s quicker to leave the car here and get a banana boat across than wait for the ferry.’
It took them a matter of minutes to reach the far side, and moments later they were in another Toyota, heading south along a dirt road that hugged the coastline. They passed occasional small huts where locals sold surplus produce or native delicacies cooked over an open fire. Groups of women and children smiled and waved to the car as it passed. Jamie noted that the males were less friendly and most carried some sort of weapon: either a machete or a long bush knife. They were uniformly stocky and well muscled with handsome features, tight-curled bushes of black hair and skin so black it had a purple sheen.
The trip gave Jamie a glimpse of the picture-postcard tropical paradise he’d imagined on the flight from Port Moresby. Beyond a narrow fringe of white sand an endless expanse of sea stretched away to the horizon, its waters shot with every shade of blue from the lightest sapphire to the deepest indigo, constantly altering in harmony with the sky’s ever-changing moods. It was so beautiful it almost made you forget why you were here. Somewhere up ahead, Fiona and Lizzie Carter were being held against their will; dispensable tokens in whatever dirty game Keith Devlin was playing. Ever since he’d boarded the plane, Jamie had nursed a growing anger that bubbled inside him like the caldera of one of the volcanoes in those jungle-clad mountains looming to his right. The natural manifestation of this feeling would be to beat Devlin to a pulp the moment he set eyes on him, but Stewart and his two attack dogs ruled that out for the moment.
His first priority was to get Fiona and Lizzie out of this place. Keith Devlin seemed to think he could dabble with other people’s lives like some omnipotent god. Well, Jamie Saintclair had a message for him: he could bugger off and think again. The Bougainville head lay comfortably in the rucksack between his feet and he had a feeling its destiny was to do mischief on behalf of the Australian mining boss. He could almost sense its desire to be home and a growing power he hoped was all in his mind. But for Fiona and Lizzie he would have thrown the head to the fishes in the Buka Passage, but he knew he had no option but to play the game out to its bitter end. There was only one problem with that scenario. On a place like Bougainville it meant someone was going to get hurt. He just hoped it would be the right someone.
Doug Stewart concentrated on the road, which deteriorated the further south they travelled. Potholes riddled the dirt surface, spinning tyres had ripped out enormous mud holes where previous vehicles had become stuck and fought their way out of the mire. Every few miles they came to a boulder-strewn stream that needed to be forded at a crawl, with the car bucking like a rodeo pony. Now Jamie understood why only a big SUV would do in this kind of terrain. He counted at least five times they’d come close to being rammed by other cars or mini-buses filled to overflowing with islanders. Andy and Joe seemed unconcerned by the near-death experiences. One took turns on watch while the other got what sleep he could in the rattling vehicle. After two hours on the road, Jamie followed their example and closed his eyes.
He was woken with a nudge from Andy. ‘Grub’s up, mate.’
Stewart pulled up beside a roadside shack roofed with banana leaves, set back from the road in a clearing cut from the jungle. He got out of the car and stretched. ‘Christ, I’m getting too old for this.’ Jamie joined him and studied the wares on d
isplay. They mainly consisted of fresh fruit, some of which he recognized and some not, small see-through bags of what looked like potato crisps that turned out to be made from banana, and a bun-like object served on a coconut leaf.
Andy bought enough bottled water and bags of banana chips for the rest of the journey. A shy, bushy-haired boy of about five peeled and sliced a pineapple using an enormous machete with all the ease of a penknife. The pineapple was sweet, juicy and refreshing, and was followed by some kind of smoked fish and finally one of the sticky buns. ‘Tamatama, you likim,’ the boy said, following up with what sounded like a long explanation in the sing-song dialect the locals spoke.
‘Tok Pisin,’ Stewart explained. ‘Pidgin English. The different Boog clans have about twenty languages between them, but just about everybody can get by in English or Tok Pisin. He’s just told you the recipe. Basically its sweet banana, taro and coconut turned into a paste, rolled into a ball and roasted. Give it a try, it’s not bad.’
The Samurai Inheritance Page 27
