Yamashita's Gold

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Okay, guys, let’s bring them up,’ said E Lee Marx.

  As Castor and Pollux began their ungainly ascent, those of us in the room were mesmerised by the screen; no computer game was ever so enthralling.

  When there was only twenty metres to the surface, a couple of the people left the room, no doubt wanting to be on the deck when the ROVs surfaced.

  I guess they, like me, needed to see the bars, touch the bars, before they could believe they were real.

  That it hadn’t been some film we’d all been watching.

  The rest of us? Still mesmerised.

  So when Felipe said, ‘Hell, where did they come from?’, everybody almost jumped out of their skin.

  He pointed to a blip on the radar. ‘We’ve got company.’

  ‘We sure have,’ said Dr Muldoon, her eyes on the video feed.

  Divers.

  Two of them. Three of them. Four of them!

  Swimming past Castor and Pollux.

  One of them wearing the most outrageous orange fins.

  On the way to the bottom and the rest of the treasure.

  ‘Gunn,’ said E Lee Marx. ‘I’d recognise those fins anywhere.’

  ‘We need divers down there now!’ screamed Art Tabori, pushing E Lee Marx away from the mike.

  ‘Got a visual on the boat,’ said a voice over the loudspeaker. ‘About twenty metres long. Steel-hulled. And totally black. Not a marking on it.’

  It was the boat I’d seen pull into the wharf that night. The one that Gunn of the shark-made limp had boarded.

  ‘Where are our divers?’ said Tabori. ‘I want them armed!’

  What with, machine guns? I thought, smiling to myself.

  E Lee Marx let Art Tabori scream some more before he said in a level voice, ‘Nobody on my boat is diving in these waters.’

  ‘Are you going to let those pirates plunder our treasure?’ Art Tabori said, though with quite a few expletives thrown in there.

  E Lee Marx was back on the mike.

  ‘Can you patch me through to the ship’s radio?’ he said.

  A few seconds later there was a response. ‘Okay, you’re right to go.’

  ‘This is Argo to unidentified vessel, can you copy me?’

  No response, but E Lee Marx persevered.

  ‘Argo to unidentified vessel, can you copy me?’

  This time there was a burst of static and a voice came on. ‘Yes, I copy.’

  It was a voice I knew, a voice that belonged to Cameron Jamison.

  ‘Sir, this is E Lee Marx from the Argo –’ started E Lee Marx, and I figured only an American would call somebody who was trying to steal their treasure ‘sir’. ‘I’m not sure who you are and I’m not sure how much you know about diving, but we have a situation here. Those conditions down there are absolutely treacherous, over sixty metres, with silt and currents ripping. The chances of all your divers getting out of there alive aren’t great.’

  I suppose if it was any other person speaking – except perhaps Jacques Cousteau – then Cameron Jamison would’ve been tempted to think, Yeah, whatever.

  But this wasn’t any other person, this was the most famous treasure hunter in the world.

  ‘We don’t all have fancy ROVs,’ said the voice.

  E Lee Marx sighed, a deep sigh that didn’t need radio waves to travel across to that ominous black boat.

  ‘Last year we were working on the Portuguese wreck Las Cinque Chagas. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Eighty metres of water, unstable sea floor like this. Granted, the currents were more vicious, but conditions were not dissimilar. The claim was under dispute, a number of authorities contested it. When we learnt that a French naval ship was on its way, our shareholders demanded we get that treasure out, and we get it out quickly. So I sent all my divers down.’

  E Lee Marx took a deep breath, and I could see the tears pooling in his eyes.

  ‘One of those divers was my nephew,’ he said. ‘And he never came back.’

  Nothing from the other end, only static.

  I looked over at Sal; her face was completely impassive.

  E Lee Marx continued. ‘I’m sure we can work this out fairly, without resorting to violence and without risking anybody’s life.’

  Again, the only response was static.

  ‘Sir, do you copy?’ said E Lee Marx.

  Cameron Jamison’s voice came from the other end. ‘Let’s meet, then, Mr Marx.’

  I happened to catch sight of Art Tabori.

  His jaw was moving, but no words were coming out of his mouth.

  For the next six or so hours they negotiated, Zodiacs whizzing back and forth between the two vessels.

  Sal and I watched some more movie-length documentaries.

  We watched Bowling for Columbine.

  We watched Waste Land.

  And we got halfway through the whole series of Blue Planet when word got out that the deal was done: Castor and Pollux would retrieve all the treasure safely and then it would be divvied up.

  Monday

  Gold Gold Gone

  The Zodiac tied up and the men got out.

  Cameron Jamison was dressed in a polo shirt and white shorts, like he was ready for a day on the golf course, not a spot of contemporary pirating.

  With him were his usual muscle, the moronic Mattners. They both fixed me with a predictably hostile look; I smiled back at them. And there was another man, pudgy but athletic, who actually looked like a golfer. Cameron introduced him as a business associate.

  As soon as he opened his mouth, my hackles rose.

  It was him, the testicular torturer, the other Warnie.

  I looked at the bars stacked neatly on the decks.

  Even in their present state, encrusted with sponge and coral, they were an extraordinary sight.

  E Lee Marx had banned people from taking photos with their smartphones, because for a while there that’s all anybody wanted to do.

  ‘Okay, said Cameron Jamison to the Mattners. ‘Let’s get our share on the boat.’

  As they moved towards the bars there was another sound, coming from above, the familiar – for me, anyway – thwocka thwocka thwocka of a helicopter.

  All eyes were on the sky.

  All faces showing surprise.

  Except, I noticed, Art Tabori’s.

  The chopper circled, then alighted on the helipad.

  Three figures got out, dressed in black, toting serious-looking machine guns.

  It was so unexpected, so Hollywood, I had to shake my head to make sure I wasn’t watching yet another screen.

  No, no screen; it was real life, or hyper-real life.

  ‘Nobody do anything silly,’ said Art Tabori. ‘Or you’ll end up in Davy Jones’s locker.’

  Despite all that was happening, a smile found its way to my lips. That old expression!

  ‘So what’s going to happen is that the gold is going in the helicopter. And don’t worry, everybody will be paid according to our agreement – I’m not about to rip anybody off,’ said Art, back into smoother-than-snot mode. He nodded his head towards Cameron Jamison, who scowled. ‘Except these bozos.’

  Two of the men, machine guns slung across their backs, started transferring the bars to the chopper while the other kept guard.

  Not that there was much guarding to do. All the crew just sat there. So did Cameron Jamison and his men. Who was going to argue with a machine gun?

  I looked across at E Lee Marx. He just shrugged. It’s a funny business, treasure hunting.

  Eventually I heard one of the men in black say to Art Tabori, ‘Pilot reckons we’ve reached the load limit.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Tabori. ‘You don’t need to go back with him, you can stay on the boat.’

  They kept on loading the bars until they were all cleared from the deck.

  The pilot climbed onboard the chopper, started the engine, but then cut it again. He hurried down to the deck and began an agitated conversation with Art Tabori. I couldn’t hear what they
were saying, but it was pretty obvious what it was about: the pilot wasn’t happy flying with such a heavy payload.

  They’d just reached what seemed like an uneasy resolution when the chopper kicked into life again.

  How could that be?

  All eyes turned towards the helipad.

  Who the hell had started it?

  But I already knew the answer.

  Really, who did they think they were? Fooling themselves that they could keep Otto Zolton-Bander locked up like that. He was the Zolt, for chrissakes. The Facebook Bandit. He had 1,232,345 fans. Make that 1,232,346. Make that 1,232,347 …

  And Zoe, she was Robin to his Batman.

  The man in black nearest to the helipad raised his machine gun.

  Tabori gave the nod: Take them out.

  But a weight belt came flying through the air and collected the man in black on the side of the head, knocking the gun out of his hands, across the deck and into the water.

  When I looked over at E Lee Marx I could see the Indiana Jones he’d once been.

  The helicopter took off.

  Well, it sort of took off, lurching drunkenly this way and that, as though it had vodka instead of aviation fuel in its tank.

  I thought of that book in the Zolt’s lair: Principles of Helicopter Flight. How much of it had he read?

  ‘Give it some more right pedal,’ urged the pilot. ‘More elevation.’

  Otto Zolton-Bander must’ve been on the same wavelength, because the chopper lifted up higher.

  ‘Nice work, kid,’ said the pilot, despite himself.

  And it swung away, headed for the shore. As I watched the chopper getting smaller and smaller before it finally disappeared, I wasn’t sure what to think.

  Had I repaid the instalment? Well, I’d done what they’d asked, I’d got Yamashita’s Gold. It wasn’t my fault that it had been heisted.

  If that was the case, then it was mega-cool that a couple of kids had got away with all that loot, but I also wondered if they would actually get away with it, if the world would let them.

  Art Tabori was already below decks, no doubt on the ship’s radio, talking to people, devising ways to track them down.

  I kept thinking that I should feel devastated that the treasure I had coveted for so long was now gone.

  But I wasn’t at all.

  In fact, the treasure that had glowed so bright and golden in my mind had now pretty much lost its lustre. It was just a chemical element with the symbol AU and atomic number 79.

  I don’t want to sound too much like some sort of hippie, but I guess it was never about the treasure as money, but about the treasure as treasure. Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! – that sort of thing.

  As for E Lee Marx, he was already talking to Felipe about his next quest: ‘I’ve looked at it before, but with this new technology I think we’ll have a much better chance.’

  Soon after, there was that now-familiar sound from above and another chopper landed on the Argo.

  Art Tabori and his goons climbed aboard and they were gone.

  Again, I wondered about Otto and Zoe: were they really going to get away with it?

  ‘Well, we better get you back to port,’ said E Lee Marx. ‘The weather looks good, what say we run you into Reverie in the Zodiac?’

  For a second I had the greatest idea I’d ever had: I’d stay on the Argo, join the crew, and travel the world in search of treasure.

  Become an Argo-naut!

  But the greatest idea I ever had lasted about a nanosecond.

  I had one more instalment to pay – one! – and I would then be free from The Debt forever, free to live my own life.

  Who knows, one day I might travel the world in search of treasure, but not now.

  ‘That’d be great,’ I said. ‘But I’d have to contact somebody to pick me up.’

  Using the ship’s sat-phone, I tried to ring Gus, but I couldn’t get through to him.

  So I got in touch with Dad instead.

  ‘I’ll come and fetch you myself,’ he said.

  Monday

  The Stone Dolphin

  I sat in the bow with Sal, while Felipe, who wanted to pick up a couple of things in port, steered the Zodiac.

  We didn’t talk much.

  As Reverie came into sight, a pod of dolphins joined us. It was almost too much, like some cheesy movie: Salacia, Goddess of the Sea, summons the dolphins to accompany her on her quest.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ I joked.

  ‘Tursiops truncatus,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Dolphin.’

  ‘Scientific name,’ she said, reaching over, trailing her hand in the water.

  After bow-riding for a while, the three dolphins decided to put on a show, taking it in turns leaping out of the water, their blue-green flanks gleaming in the sun.

  One of them even managed to pull off a somersault.

  As far as shows went, it was pretty cool, and a fair bit cheaper than the one at Sealands. There was no upselling, either. No T-shirts or lingerie.

  As quickly as Tursiops truncatus came, they left.

  As we neared the wharf, I could see a familiar boat, rust streaking its sides.

  Could it be?

  Yes, it was the Hispaniola! Or what was left of the Hispaniola after it had managed to limp back to port.

  Relief flooded through me.

  What a wreck, though. It was listing dramatically to the right – sorry, the starboard – and more of it seemed broken than unbroken, if you know what I mean.

  As we neared the wharf, Dad came into view. He was looking so corporate, so the antithesis of anything to do with treasure hunting, even the modern cabin-bound version, it was actually a bit embarrassing.

  ‘That your dad?’ said Sal.

  ‘Yes,’ I mumbled.

  We glided in and he did manage to tie us off, though.

  ‘I guess this is it,’ I said to Sal.

  I felt like, after all we’d been through, I should give her a hug or something.

  But it didn’t happen.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, in that garrulous way she had.

  Her hand went into her pocket and she handed me something.

  It was small stone carving of a dolphin. Not finely done; it was almost like something a child would do.

  ‘From Chile,’ she said.

  ‘Wild animals should not be kept in captivity?’ I said.

  Wild animals should not be kept in captivity,’ she repeated.

  I put the stone dolphin into my pocket and stepped onto the wharf, straight into Dad’s arms.

  He squeezed me tight.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘I was so worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, thinking of his deserted offices with their cobwebby cobwebs.

  ‘One to go,’ he said.

  How did he know that? I hadn’t said anything on the phone.

  But him saying it out loud like that made me realise exactly how colossal that should feel; five down, one to go. I was eighty per cent done.

  Why was I feeling so bad, then?

  Like I was The Debt’s little errand boy.

  Their lackey.

  Another rib-cracking hug from Dad.

  ‘Home?’ he said.

  ‘Home,’ I said.

  We got into the Porsche and I sank back into the seat, letting all that luxury envelop me.

  I thought of the motel I’d stayed in with Gus, the icky sheets, the turd in the toilet; I never, ever, wanted to be poor.

  And it was Dad who had dragged our family out of the gutter; that was something I needed to keep reminding myself.

  I put my now-dead iPhone on the charger. As we pulled into the service station for petrol a message downloaded.

  Imogen was desperate to meet, to talk to me.

  I sent her a text – let’s meet tonight when i get home.

  I felt the stone dolphin in my pocket, and the most outrageous idea came int
o my head. Go away, outrageous idea, I told it.

  It didn’t.

  I took the dolphin out of my pocket, and tossed it from hand to hand.

  Wild animals should not be kept in captivity …

  The last few days I’d spent so much time just sitting there, nerd-like, peering at screens. The idea of actually doing something was incredibly exciting, incredibly seductive.

  Besides, if the Zolt and Zoe could snatch Yamashita’s Gold like that, surely I could do something as outrageous. It’s not as if those two were any smarter, or more resourceful, or even more ruthless than I was, was it?

  My mind went into full-on planning mode; when could I do it, what did I need?

  I thought of The Cove.

  And in some ways, it was a manual, a Dummy’s Guide, for any aspiring ecological saboteur.

  ‘Dad, I’ve got some bad news,’ I said as we neared the ferry.

  He gave me a searching look.

  ‘We need to go back to the wharf,’ I said. ‘I just remembered I forgot something important on the Hispaniola.’

  ‘No way around it?’ he said.

  ‘No way around it. I’ll be five minutes. Ten at the most.’

  ‘Your seatbelt on?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  Dad checked the rear-vision mirror and the road ahead, and did something incredible with the handbrake and the steering wheel and the accelerator. After wheels spun, and tyres smoked, we were heading in the opposite direction.

  All of a sudden he wasn’t so corporate any more.

  ‘Jesus!’ I said.

  ‘Handbrake turn,’ he said. ‘I can teach you how one day.’

  Not for the first time, I had a glimpse of how Dad had managed to pay off all his instalments.

  Dad parked by the wharf and I told him to wait for me. I hurried across to the boat. It was a relief to see all the scuba gear, safely tied up.

  Although a pump was noisily pumping water from the bilge, I still hoped there would be nobody aboard. Especially not Bones. Especially when I remembered what Brett had said about him: he’s got a dark side, a real dark side. I climbed down the ladder, stepped onto the deck, and Skip popped out of the cabin, a battered double-barrelled shotgun in his hands.