‘You’re a hard man to keep track of, Jamie Saintclair. We lost you when you left the trail and almost didn’t find you again.’ He wondered if he was hallucinating, because, when he looked up again, the black man had been replaced by the slim figure of Magda Ross, with a hand held out to help him to his feet. His heart thundered and his mind seemed to dissolve in confusion at the sight of her. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I promised I’d cover your back in case Devlin tried to double-cross you, but I didn’t do a very good job, did I?’
He accepted her hand and hauled himself to his feet. ‘I’d say your timing was impeccable.’ If they’d been alone he would have hugged her. He might also say that no one had ever looked better in a pair of combat trousers and a T-shirt, but something more important occurred to him. ‘What about Doug? The man I was with.’ He looked up and noticed for the first time that the black man had been joined by two others, who crouched on the rim of the hollow, listening intently and peering in the direction of the ambush. ‘He’s down there, shooting it out with somebody.’
‘There was nothing we could do.’ Magda shook her head. ‘My friends here were reluctant to meet him before you and I made contact. They were worried about a misunderstanding.’
Before Jamie could ask who her new friends were a fourth man appeared at the edge of the dip and spoke to the bearded Bougainvillean in a singsong burst of pidgin. The big man nodded and jogged down the slope to join them. ‘He says there’s been no movement down there since a couple of blokes ran off into the bush by the river.’
Jamie blinked, because the accent was pure untainted Australian and for some reason sounded odd coming from the unyielding black face with the sombre eyes.
‘Jamie Saintclair,’ Magda said solemnly, ‘meet Michael Taruko.’
‘G’day,’ the black man said. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t get involved sooner, but we couldn’t take a risk of mucking about when you were with an ex-SAS man with a loaded rifle.’
‘You know about that? How did—’
‘That’s for later.’ Michael Taruko’s tone made it clear who was in charge now. ‘First we have to get down there and see what’s happened with your mate and those other blokes. I’d be obliged if you take the lead, because he’s less likely to shoot you than anybody else. I reckon it’ll be okay to go in shouting his name, but for Christ’s sake keep your head down.’
Jamie clambered out of the dip and stumbled down the slope. There was no answer to his calls, but he wasn’t being shot at either, which must be a good sign. ‘Doug?’ He repeated the cry. ‘It’s Jamie, and I’m with some friends. Four native gentlemen and a white girl, so hold your fire and shout out so I know where you are.’
They reached level ground and he looked to Michael. ‘I think we should spread out.’
The big man nodded and issued an order to his companions who split up and entered the jungle on the far side of the track. Magda came to Jamie’s side and together they advanced warily into the trees, their eyes searching the undergrowth for any sign of the missing Australian.
‘You told me you had a friend on the island who might be able to help,’ Jamie whispered. ‘Judging by Michael and his mates’ armoury, that seems to have been only half the story.’
‘What did you expect me to say?’ she hissed back. ‘He’s an islander. He was my translator when I was doing work for my Ph.D. We kept in touch. The accent comes from being sent to school in Brisbane. He was there for the entire period of the Crisis and it still shames him. The family are landowners and didn’t want to get involved, but that only made them fair game for both sides. He lost close relatives. Despite that, his father insisted he complete his education. He was just out of university when I met him. In many ways he’s a very formidable man, but I think he is still confused about his identity.’ Her eyes sought Jamie’s across her shoulder. ‘There’s more. Maybe he’ll tell you, maybe he won’t, but that has to be up to Michael, okay?’
‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘I trust your judgement, so we’ll do what Michael says.’
Magda turned to reply but something caught her eye and she gasped. Jamie’s vision was partially obscured by the intervening trees, but when he moved to join her he saw that she was staring at a man lying twenty feet away with his back against a tree and his head twisted at an unlikely angle. Not Doug Stewart, but one of their ambushers, judging by the automatic rifle at his feet. The torn T-shirt he wore had a dark patch in the centre of the chest.
‘Stay here.’ He was halfway to the dead man when he heard the soft groan from his right. Doug Stewart lay in the foetal position, his body partially hidden by the long grass. Jamie experienced a wave of nausea as he saw the splashes of red on the ground beside Keith Devlin’s security chief and the ragged exit wound low in his back that was leaking too much blood.
He knelt over the injured man wondering what to do first. Should he try to move him? At first glance the wound looked terrible, but just how bad was it? As gently as he could, he lifted the Australian’s shirt to reveal a fist-sized mess of ragged flesh. Christ, it was even worse than he’d feared. What now? The first-aid kit? But it had been in Stewart’s backpack and he’d clearly abandoned it somewhere along the way. Jamie wriggled out of his rucksack and searched inside for the spare shirt he’d packed, but tearing it into bandage-sized strips turned out to be more difficult than in the movies.
‘These might help.’ Magda handed him a small pair of scissors and he used them to cut the material. She stared at the blood oozing from the bullet wound and had an idea. From a zip pocket of her bag she came up with four padded squares in blue paper packets. ‘And these.’
‘Perfect.’ He tore open two of the packets and positioned the sanitary towels so they overlapped across the wound. ‘Can you hold them in place while I turn him over?’
‘I’ll give it a try.’ She knelt beside him and though her face was pale, she wore a determined expression that made him proud of her. Jamie tied two pieces of shirt together so they’d encircle Doug Stewart’s body at least twice. He draped the length of cloth over Stewart’s lower back and Magda moved her hand so that the bandage covered the pads, then replaced it again over the cloth.
‘This might hurt a bit, Doug old son,’ Jamie said, though he had no idea if the wounded man could hear him, ‘but there’s no helping it. You know the drill. Try to keep calm and stay with it. You’re making a proper mess of this bit of jungle and we have to stop the bleeding.’ He manoeuvred himself into a position where he could get his arms round the wounded man’s chest. ‘On the count of three,’ he said to Magda. ‘When I get him up, you wrap the bandage round and plug the hole in front with another of your little marvels. Got it?’ She nodded, but her lips were a single pale line. ‘Don’t worry,’ he gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile, ‘he’s a tough old bastard. He’ll live, but we have to get him to hospital. One … two … three.’
Jamie heaved upwards. Doug Stewart gave a groan of agony that ended in a long whimper. The Australian was all bone and muscle, but there wasn’t much of him and Jamie managed to hold his body until Magda could apply the second patch and fix the bandage in place.
‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘You seem to have bitten your lip.’ He raised his hand to wipe the blood way only to realise it was covered in Doug Stewart’s.
‘It’s nothing,’ Magda swallowed. ‘I’ll go and fetch Michael. We need to get your friend off the mountain somehow.’
She ran off in the direction of the trail and Jamie lay back with the Australian in his arms. ‘You really are a silly old bastard,’ he sighed.
‘Less … of … the … old.’ Every word was a challenge to Doug Stewart’s ebbing strength and the voice emerged as the merest whisper. ‘Not dead yet.’ There wasn’t really much of an answer to that, so Jamie tried to make them both as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. Stewart’s breath wheezed in his chest and his face was the colour of old parchment with nicotine stains under the eyes. ‘Should have left me.
’
‘Don’t be bloody daft. We’ve been in this together from the start.’
‘You … hung out to dry.’
‘Devlin hung us both out to dry,’ Jamie insisted. ‘Look, Doug, save your strength.’
But Doug Stewart’s hand closed over his, the skin chillingly cold to the touch, and when he opened his eyes they were filled with some desperate urgency. ‘No, don’t understand, Devlin,’ Jamie felt the body shudder in his arms. ‘You …’ But there was no more. The words faded and the Australian’s grip tightened convulsively before the hand fell away. Jamie hardly dared look at his face for fear of what he would see, but Stewart’s eyes were closed and his chest continued its uneven rise and fall as his tortured body struggled for life.
Jamie was still trying to decipher the message Devlin’s security chief had been so desperate to communicate when Magda appeared through the trees with Michael. The Bougainvillean took one look at the wounded man and issued a stream of instructions to his comrades.
‘We need to get him to a doctor.’ Jamie’s voice acknowledged the hopelessness of their situation. In the unlikely event they could carry Doug Stewart back through the bush to Arawa, the Australian would have bled to death long before they got there.
But Michael only nodded. ‘We should continue along the trail,’ he said. ‘My grandfather’s lands are not far away. I have communications there, a radio. We can call up a helicopter and have him in hospital at Buka in another hour.’
Jamie stared at him, aware that Michael’s persona had taken on another new dimension. With Stewart’s bandages already turning pink this wasn’t the time to question the mystery of the convenient communications in a place with no phone or internet signal, and the even more convenient helicopter that appeared to be at Michael’s beck and call. But he did have one question. ‘Buka? Why not Arawa? Surely it’s only a few minutes away by air.’
The sombre brown eyes studied him, testing … something: his courage, integrity? ‘Because Devlin is in Arawa,’ he said finally. ‘I doubt it would suit either my purposes or yours for him to know that we had joined forces, Mr Saintclair.’
Jamie looked from Magda to the bearded islander.
‘We need to talk,’ he said, ‘and soon.’
But there was no time now. Michael’s three companions appeared from the jungle carrying newly cut branches, vines and palm leaves that they turned into a functional stretcher within a minute. All the niggling little uncertainties would be answered later. Their first task was to save Doug Stewart’s life.
XLIII
Jamie took the right rear handle of the makeshift stretcher for the first stretch. His right palm was still blistered from his earlier session with the machete and it felt as if he’d plunged it into the heart of a fire as he gripped the raw wooden pole. Michael had the left, with two of the islander’s companions on the front. The third worked his way ahead to scout out any potential trouble. Michael doubted the ambushers would bother them again; he was more concerned about the original party who’d followed Jamie and Doug Stewart from the Panguna Mine. ‘My people will know the Redskins are coming, but it depends how eager they are to lay their hands on what you’re carrying. They have a great deal of firepower and I’ve told my people not to get into a fight.’
‘So you know what this is all about?’
‘Of course, Mr Saintclair.’ The bearded islander nodded gravely. ‘Magda informed me of your interest in my ancestor’s remains the day you walked into her museum. You seem shocked? But why should you be? How could she betray someone she had only just met? We had been friends for years. Why should she not inform me of an event that might be of great importance to myself and my clan?’
He glanced down at the deathly white figure on the stretcher, but Doug Stewart, if he was conscious at all, was locked away in a world of pain all of his own.
‘I also have what you might call a singular interest in the activities of your friends Mr Devlin and Mr Stewart. I’m a Bougainvillean and a patriot, Mr Saintclair. Of course, many of my people are also patriots and we do not always agree on the future direction of this country, particularly in regard to the island’s mineral resources.’ There was a long pause as they negotiated the stretcher across a steep gully. Beyond it, the trail, if it could be dignified by the name, wound its way up the side of a steep hill and Jamie wondered if his strength would hold out. Michael hardly seemed to notice his burden as he continued. ‘But many of us agree passionately on one thing. Whatever the future of Bougainville is we will never again allow it to be exploited by outside influences. It does not matter whether those influences are commercial or political or whether they are from Papua New Guinea, Australia, China, or Japan, which has shown a recent and unlikely altruistic interest in upgrading our infrastructure. A few years ago we became aware of an insidious undermining of that principle. Influential people became rich overnight and began to use their power to convince others that perhaps our stance was not in the best interests of Bougainville. Landowners who had been against any reopening of the mine suddenly changed their minds. Politicians who had spent a lifetime fighting the original mine owners became relaxed about cooperating with a potential new one. The old ways had died with the opening of Panguna, they said. We must embrace a new future.’
‘Keith Devlin’s future.’
‘Exactly. And who wouldn’t be seduced by Mr Devlin’s vision for Bougainville? A South Seas utopia where everyone lives in a fine house that has access to running water and electricity; where every child is cared for by the most advanced health system in the world and has the opportunity to attend the best schools in the region; where every man has a job if he wants one; and every menial task is done by a Redskin. And all that paid for by a mine run on the latest scientific and environmental principles and creating minimal pollution.’
‘It all sounds very fine. I might come and live here myself.’
They were interrupted by a hacking cough from the man on the stretcher. Jamie looked down at Doug Stewart, fearing the worst. But the Australian was conscious – and he was laughing.
‘Put me down for a minute,’ the wounded man croaked hoarsely. ‘All this bucking about is gonna kill me.’
‘Can’t do that, Doug old son,’ Jamie insisted. ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’
Stewart shook his head. ‘I’ve got some stuff to say and this might be my last chance to say it.’
Jamie exchanged a glance with Michael, who shrugged. He’d been about to call a rest in any case. They laid the stretcher gently in the grass and Stewart closed his eyes. Magda brought him water, but Michael only allowed her to wet his lips with it, while Jamie checked his wounds. It was almost a minute before he began speaking.
‘Never trust Devlin. Panguna’s not the only mine.’ The words came in short bursts, punctuated by gasps as the pain swept through him, and every one required enormous effort. It was as if Doug Stewart had decided to dictate his last will and testament and he wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Seven other licences already. Opportunities all over the island.’ He paused to gather his strength, and there was more. Devlin planned to turn the BRA into his private army. He’d buy every politician and landowner on the island if that’s what it took. Canberra was fixed, so was Port Moresby. By the time anyone noticed it would be too late. The result would be Keith Devlin’s personal fiefdom, with the islanders as his serfs. By the end Stewart’s voice had faded so much Jamie, Magda and Michael had to bend over him to make out the words. Eventually, with a last garbled whisper, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
They stared at each other till Magda broke the silence. ‘Is he …?’
Michael reached out to touch the Australian’s neck. ‘No, there’s still a faint pulse, but he can’t last much longer.’
‘How far to the radio?’ Jamie demanded.
‘Another half-hour. It is at my grandfather’s longhouse. But there are farms on the way where we can get help.’
‘Then let’s get going.’
&n
bsp; They picked up the stretcher and set off up the trail.
Magda kept pace beside Jamie. ‘Did you hear what he said at the end?’ she asked. ‘Something about the head.’
‘He said: “It’s not about the head”.’ He changed his grip on the raw wooden pole to try to make it more comfortable. ‘There was more, but that’s all I could make out. I think he must have been rambling. It’s always been about the head. Keith Devlin is using the head to ensure the support of the tribal chief for this master plan of his.’
Now it was Michael’s turn to look mystified. ‘Which chief? My grandfather has been trying to have the head returned to Bougainville for fifty years, but he doesn’t have any political power and he won’t be bought.’
‘But what else does he have to gain?’ Magda was mystified.
Jamie thought back to his first meeting with Devlin. ‘Kristian Anugu is your grandfather?’ he asked Michael. ‘That would explain your interest.’
‘He never mentioned anything about the mine,’ the bearded man said. ‘Keith Devlin’s people offered to give him literally anything he desired in return for the briefcase. Kristian said the only compensation for such a treasure could be the lost head of his grandfather, and they went away disappointed. But Devlin didn’t give up. He sent you to find the head and Magda agreed to help you so that I’d know what was happening.’
Jamie felt Magda’s eyes on him and tried to ignore the fact that she’d used him from the word go. All right, he’d kept her in the dark about a few things himself, but whatever Michael said it felt like a betrayal. ‘So this is all about the documents that went missing during the negotiations?’
The black man shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard about any missing documents. The briefcase dates back to a cargo cult on the island that ended in the mix-Sixties. My grandfather always referred to it as the yelopela treasure, so it must have come from the Japanese occupation period. He never said how he came by it, or let anyone near.’
‘That’s crazy,’ Jamie said. ‘Why would Keith Devlin spend God knows how much to get his hands on a relic from the Second World War?’
The Samurai Inheritance Page 32
