The Twentieth Man

by Tony Jones

  Above the birdsong, which filled the air, he heard the old outboard motor straining under the weight of three men. Through his muddled thoughts Marin perceived order in the cacophony of the birds. He picked out individual calls and cries, conducting the avian orchestra. With a nod and a jerk he queued bellbirds and whipbirds, then the magpies, a pair of pied currawongs, the golden whistlers and treecreepers, the starlings, wattlebirds and butcher-birds, the fantails and wagtails. He heard them all—the sorrows, the whistlers, the waverers, the peepers, the carollers, the cacklers and the criers.

  He sensed his captors were unsettled, in unfamiliar territory. They muttered to each other in harsh Slavonic tones. They jumped at a sudden screech.

  Gang-gang cockatoo, you stupid fuckers!

  It was Lewis who had taught him how to identify birds. What he wouldn’t give for the old fellow to arrive on the riverbank right now, the 12-bore across his arm. But if he did appear he would only be another ghost.

  As Marin stirred, the man with the rifle snarled and his lip curled over teeth as stained as an old toilet bowl.

  ‘He’s awake,’ he said.

  This was the one who had done the beating when they strung him up like a piñata in the Khandalah farmhouse. Now he jabbed Marin hard in the stomach with the rifle’s long barrel.

  When Marin cried out in pain, the man made an obscene wink.

  ‘Squeal like pig, boy,’ he said and jabbed him again. ‘Squeal!’

  Lank strands of black hair fell across the man’s face, a cage for his eyes. Through the unwashed tangle Marin saw madness. Charles Manson eyes. Marin weighed up his opponent. The man was lean as a boxer, prison-hard, arms all veined up, but he fidgeted and scratched like a junkie.

  A real fruitcake, aren’t you, Manson? he thought.

  The other man, sitting behind Manson and driving the boat, was the boss. When he barked out orders, Manson obeyed automatically. So, a command hierarchy.

  It was the boss who had interrogated him. He’d begun in the Serbian dialect but, when Marin made out that he couldn’t understand, switched to heavily accented English. The way this man carried himself—his manner, the nature of his questions—all pointed to him being a professional operative. UDBA, most likely, and much more worrying for that. Marin knew the communists had agents in Australia and they were certainly capable of dispatching assassins from Belgrade to the other side of the world. He was less certain about Manson. Most likely a local sleeper.

  Fully conscious now, Marin felt pain across his body and deep internal bruising. He pulled carefully at his bound wrists to loosen them. He was trying to piece this together.

  His father had warned him often enough about security, but these blokes had come out of thin air. They were on him before he had a chance to react. They knew the approaches. They knew the layout of the property. Marin had come down to find his brother and these two animals had found him instead. The implications for Petar’s safety made him sick with fear.

  Neither man referred to the other by name. They were disciplined and gave the impression of having worked together before. The boss was a small man, also thin, with the deeply lined face of a heavy drinker. His dark, wavy hair was styled in a bouffant. His thick eyebrows jumped about when he talked; when he stopped to think, his eyes rolled up unnaturally, as if he were looking for answers written inside his eyelids.

  That’s it! Bob Hawke’s doppelgänger.

  Marin stifled a laugh at the thought and Bob glared at him. The struggling outboard jumped into a different pitch, roaring louder as Manson muttered to Bob. Marin strained to hear them, but he picked up only one phrase. Vuko jebina—the place where wolves fuck.

  Manson was talking about the river. A place so remote, so removed from humanity, that wolves would comfortably copulate there. He couldn’t argue with that. There was no one here, no one within cooee of the place. No witnesses. No one would be coming to help him.

  He felt the boat shift its line as Bob angled into the shore, throttling back the outboard. On the sandbank a kangaroo straightened up, cocked its head. It was a big one, calm and swaying slightly as it stretched its spine, leaning back on a powerful tail. There were perhaps a dozen others higher up the bank. Bob tapped Manson on the shoulder, pointing like a tourist at the mob congregated on the riverbanks.

  When the boat nudged the shore, the big roo took a couple of languid bounces across the sandbank, floating camouflaged into the grey-green undergrowth. Then Bob jumped on to the bank and the animal took off, powering up the slope on a hidden track.

  A fresh wave of pain left Marin dizzy. He closed his eyes, feeling faint; he went to catch himself, but forgot his hands were bound and bashed his elbow on the metal rim of the boat. His eyes flew open.

  There was a flash of silver on the water. A big mullet jumped out of the river and flopped back in.

  ‘See thad?’ he slurred. ‘Shoo’be fuggen fishing.’

  ‘You want to go fishing,’ Bob said in his quiet, deliberate voice, ‘nema problema … You answer my questions and we leave you alone. I let you go back to jerking off in your filthy little shack.’

  ‘Y’already beat the shid owd o’ me,’ said Marin. ‘Doan you thing I’d’ve tole you whadya wanna know?’

  Bob leaned in close. ‘Come now, Marin,’ he whispered. ‘We know who you are and I’m sure you know who we are.’ He smiled serenely, tipped his head to one side. ‘You thought you’d got away from us. You were wrong to think you were safe. We were always going to find you. The others are dead. You understand? All of them, dead. We tracked them down in the mountains. One budala tried to hide in a hayloft. A farmer killed him while he slept.’

  Manson giggled. ‘The red smile,’ he said, slicing a finger across his throat. ‘The people loved you so much they killed you like pigs.’

  ‘We captured six of your men,’ said Bob. ‘They told us everything. They always do—you know that. Why do you think we know so much about you? You’re the last one. Marin: brother of Petar, son of Ivo. The apple never falls far from the tree.’

  ‘I don’t fuggen know whad you’re tawging about!’ Marin yelled. ‘I tole you that already.’

  The effort left him panting. Bob leaned in close again. Marin, smelling stale liquor on his breath, turned away. Bob pulled his chin around and Marin saw the man’s black eyes roll up, searching for the next line.

  ‘Do you want to know what happened to Petar?’

  Marin’s body spasmed, as if from a physical blow. Somewhere deep inside him he knew what was coming.

  ‘He is in the ground, Marin,’ said Bob, almost whispering now. ‘I put him there.’

  Marin’s muscles went slack. He could barely hold himself up. Petar had been missing for months. He had come back to Khandalah to find him, or to pick up his trace. Blood sung in his ears as Bob droned on.

  ‘We know he did the bombing in Sydney. Did you really think we would let him get away with that? Maiming and terrorising people? And for what? Because they do business with Belgrade. Your brother was a crazy man. He had to be crazy to think he could get away with that. I interrogate for a long time. In the end he loses control of everything. He shit his pants like child. That is truth. He’s kukavica—a coward. He has no honour. And all the time he calls your name. Ma-rin! Ma-rin! Over and over he calls. Ma-rin! Mar-in! MARIN!’

  Bob shouted the name so loud on the final repetition that it came straight back from Echo Rock.

  Manson was gleeful. ‘Hear that?’ he cried into his captive’s face. ‘He’s still calling you … from hell.’

  Tears squeezed out of Marin’s swollen eyes. Bob reached over and wiped them away with his thumb.

  ‘It is your own fault, Marin—you let your brother die. You know that, don’t you? The bullet was a mercy for him.’

  Marin was sobbing now. ‘No, he did nothing. Nothing …’

  Bob shrugged and patted Marin on his damp cheeks like a kindly uncle.

  ‘You can lie to me. You can’t lie to yourself. Petar tol
d the truth. Sitting there. He must have felt the shadow behind him, but no one ever looks around. They don’t. You know that? They can feel it. They can smell it. But they don’t want to see what’s coming.’

  Bob pulled a stubby handgun from his waistband, a Makarov, semiautomatic. He moved behind Marin and touched the back of his head with the steel barrel.

  ‘This was last thing Petar felt. The barrel knocking against his skull. You are close to him now. Never closer. Do you feel it? You see what I mean? These last seconds last forever. You wonder. Why are they waiting? Maybe just to scare me. Maybe they won’t do it … Then … BANG!’

  Marin jerked up, his legs straightening as if on springs. Manson moved in quickly, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off his feet, out of the unstable boat. Marin went sprawling on to the sand.

  A few metres away, a dead wallaby was slumped on the tidal sandbank, a pair of eagles tearing at the carcass. Startled, the huge birds rose up from their feast, flapping ungainly into the air. Marin saw the wallaby’s head, stripped of fur and flesh. The eyes were gone, the head a bloody skull. He reeled away from it.

  Manson kicked him hard in the ribs. ‘Up. Up. You dog! On your knees!’

  Bob crouched down in front of him, fingering the cold pistol.

  ‘You know I’m telling you the truth. Don’t you?’

  Marin stared at him blankly.

  ‘Petar is gone. The nineteen in Bosnia are all dead. Ustasha murderers, all of them. Which just leaves you. Marin Katich, the Twentieth Man.’

  ‘The Twentieth Man.’ Manson giggled. ‘Ha ha hah!’

  ‘You don’t want to end up like your brother, do you?’ Bob asked with an indulgent smile. ‘I can put an end to you right now. That’s in my power. Or I can forgive you. That is also in my power to do. Wouldn’t that be better?’

  The wet sand had soaked Marin’s trousers. His body throbbed with agony, but it barely registered. Tears streamed down his face. He let them come.

  ‘Just answer my questions, Marin, and you can live.’

  Bob worked the slide on the Makarov. Took the safety off.

  Marin was shivering now, his teeth rattling with it.

  ‘How does your father plan to kill Bijedic?’

  ‘I really doan know … whad you’re tawging about.’

  ‘Who did he send to Canberra? How many of you did he send?’

  ‘I have no idea … what you’re on abowd.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘I … doan … know.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Nothing … to … tell.’

  ‘Just give me one name?’

  ‘I doan have any names. You’re fuggen … crazy!’

  Bob moved behind him again. With the gun barrel pressed hard against his skull, Marin’s teeth chattered and his body shook.

  ‘Stop moving! The safety’s off this time.’

  ‘I c-c-c-carn … stop.’

  ‘Then give me a name before you bump my hand—’

  ‘N-n-no … n-n-names.’

  ‘—and blow a big hole through your head.’

  ‘Ask my … f-f-fuggen father! I don’t even speak to the b-bastard anymore!’

  An explosion roared in Marin’s left ear and sand kicked up in front of him. He screamed. He felt a terrible pain in his ear, deaf now on that side. He fell to his elbows, sobbing.

  ‘No need for thith,’ he said, whimpering. ‘You’ve god the wrong bloke …’

  Through the tears he saw Manson’s contempt. At some signal from Bob, Manson dragged him up by the hair.

  ‘You fucking woman! Go, go, move!’ Manson spat out the words and shoved him into the kangaroo track. ‘Govno yedno! You piece of shit!’

  Marin stumbled. Manson hit him hard with the rifle butt, pushing him along now, driving him deeper into the bush.

  ‘Why the fugg are you doing this?’

  Manson pushed him harder, into a broken trot. Marin knew it was getting to the end. They wanted it over.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Marin repeated as Manson drove him forward with blows. He lost coordination as he staggered on, careening off trees, bowed over. Bushes whipped his face. Long strands of sputum hung from his nose. His face was wet with tears, scratched and bleeding.

  Deep in the bush they entered a clearing and stopped. Marin looked around, turning to face them, a pathetic creature, lacking all dignity. He saw that, to Manson, he was no longer a man—he was no better than a screaming pig ready for slaughter.

  ‘On your knees!’ Manson yelled. The rifle, waist-high, held firmly, pointed at his stomach. Bob was next to him, breathing heavily.

  ‘No, don’t!’ Marin cried out, staring wildly.

  He turned to Bob, begging him with bound hands. He was crying, his eyes and nose streaming. ‘The lub of God! Don’t do thith.’

  ‘Get it over with,’ Bob said, walking away.

  ‘Nooo!’ Marin bellowed. A terrible inhuman noise came loose from his throat. He let go of his bladder, soaking his trousers.

  Manson’s face contorted with disgust.

  Marin reeled at him wild-eyed and yelled: ‘Idi u picku materinu! Crawl back into your mother’s cunt!’

  At this Manson struck out in a rage, knocking Marin down with his rifle butt. The assailant pivoted, drawing back his boot and preparing to deliver a savage kick. But as he did so, Marin twisted up from the ground. He was carrying the heavy branch he had fallen on, and, though his hands were still bound, he had enough leverage to swing it two-handed like an axe. A tree feller’s blow hit the side of Manson’s left knee.

  The branch disintegrated in a cloud of splinters and dust. Marin heard bones crushing as Manson’s smashed knee shifted radically to the right and crumpled. The man screamed as he fell, still clutching his weapon.

  Then Marin was on him, pinning the rifle across his chest. Manson screamed again from the searing pain in his destroyed knee. Marin forced the barrel around and under Manson’s chin, groping for the trigger.

  At such close quarters the explosion roared in Marin’s ears. The flash burned his face. The back of Manson’s head had been blown off, spraying the undergrowth with its contents.

  Marin rolled off the dead thing, clutching the rifle in his bound hands. He looked up to see that Bob had returned and was pulling the Makarov from his waistband. Now only a few feet away, Bob swung his weapon up. His hand was shaking. He squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing. Safety still on.

  Marin rolled away, dodged into the trees, clumsily working the bolt on the rifle.

  Bob fired. Missed. Fired again. A chunk flew off a tree.

  Marin couldn’t aim the rifle with his hands bound.

  Bob fired again wildly. Two shots. Both missed.

  Marin swung the rifle up and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked him sideways. He staggered back behind a tree for cover. Waiting for the next shot. Nothing.

  Where was Bob?

  Gone.

  Then he heard him, trying to make his escape, crashing through the undergrowth.

  Marin slumped beside Manson’s body and, taking the knife from the dead man’s belt, cut the bonds on his wrists.

  He heard Bob down at the river, pulling frantically at the outboard’s starter. In his haste Bob choked the old motor.

  Marin was on his feet with the rifle when the motor finally roared into life. He moved fast through the bush in a loping run. High above the river he saw Bob midstream, motoring fast. Bob was close enough to hear the shot, but he never heard the answering report from Echo Rock. By then he was dead.

  His body slumped sideways. The tinny veered off and kicked into a sandbank. The outboard leapt up, roaring at full throttle.

  Marin swam across the river and shut it down. Then, on the bank, he stripped off his fetid clothes and waded back out. He sank under the warm, velvety water and held his breath for a long time, safe in the womb of his country. Slowly he came back up. The Twentieth Man, still alive.

  He stood, as immobile as
an ironbark tree rooted into the bank. Then real tears began to flow. He dropped his head and brought his hands up to his face, crippled by the intensity of his grief. They had killed his brother. Petar was gone.

  19.

  24 February 1973

  Every morning for the last five months it had been part of Nigel Daltrey’s daily routine to collect the tapes recorded from the phone tap and the bug he’d planted in the upstairs room of the Hrvatska Restoran. Twice during that time, he’d had to break back into the place in the middle of the night to replace the batteries in the listening device hidden in a television set. It had not been possible to leave the surveillance van in place for such a long time—it was needed for other operations—so he had installed mini Nagra recorders, voice-activated and wired to a radio receiver, in the boot of an old clunker and parked it in the lane behind the restaurant.

  Daltrey liked to say that an ill wind blows no good, but he’d had to admit that fat bastard Al Sharp had been as good as his word. It annoyed Daltrey that it had taken a Commonwealth copper to somehow convince the commissioner to cough up the funds for them to buy new top-shelf equipment.

  The old car in the lane had solved their surveillance problems, but at least once a week some fuckwitted Brown Bomber gave it a parking ticket. It didn’t matter how many times the memo went out, instructing the council parking authority to leave the vehicle alone, it just kept happening. Daltrey became convinced it was a single culprit, most likely some disgruntled Mediterranean type, pissed off that the police had rejected him for a job.

  ‘I’m going to get the bastard one day,’ he told Bob McCafferty. ‘The prick has stolen hours of my life on all that fucking paperwork to overturn the fines.’

  ‘Maybe you should stake out the car,’ his partner responded. ‘I’ll get Armed Hold Up to lend you a gun.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, Bob.’

  ‘Just remember how much paperwork you’ll be up for if you shoot him.’

  ‘I’ll give the tickets to you next time, smart-arse, see how you like it.’

  This Monday morning, Daltrey collected the tapes from the old clunker as usual and returned to the old hat factory that housed the CIB. Climbing to the third floor and the metal door of the Electronics Unit, he fed in the access code.