Cahill’s Crossing on the East Alligator River was a serene place where bottle-green water chuckled over a concrete causeway in harmony with weeping willows. But when Burra and Cardinal arrived at one, it resembled a battleground. About two hundred Aborigines armed with clubs, spears, sticks, rocks and rifles were grouped on the reserve behind a barricade of logs. Burra signalled for the barrier to be removed. A cheer went up as the ute and caravan were driven across the causeway and into a clearing under the willows. Cardinal began to wonder what he had let himself in for as he was introduced to members of the Bididgee tribe, including Burra’s rival, Tom Beena. Beena did not like Cardinal’s presence and took Burra aside to tell him.
‘No whites should be involved,’ he said, just as they were all distracted by a disturbance at the Crossing. A red roadtrain had rolled onto the causeway and had stopped hard against the log barrier.
‘Mad Mick Malone!’ Burra said, as Cardinal came over to him. Several Aborigines were waving the truckie back, but his vehicle’s front grill was shoving at the logs. They budged a few centimetres. Burra strode to the causeway.
‘Drivers like him live by the boast that they always get their load to a destination,’ Burra said to Cardinal. ‘They go through everything, come rain, hail or shine, literally.’
They watched as Malone climbed from the cabin to hoist and roll a log in Burra’s direction. It thudded to the concrete a few metres from him. Cardinal took a step forward, but Beena caught him by the forearm.
‘Stay out of this,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It’s my business, all right,’ Cardinal said. ‘I provoked that ape at the pub.’
Cardinal shrugged Beena off and strode to the ute where Elaine had shepherded her children.
Malone retreated to his juggernaut’s cabin. He revved the engine.
Burra leapt on the logs. ‘Back up, mate,’ he yelled, as a group of Aborigines joined him.
Malone opened the door of the cabin. ‘Look, you buggers,’ he bellowed, ‘I’m not part of the convoy. I’m deliverin’ grog for the mine!’
‘Sorry, Mick,’ Burra said. ‘No trucks get through.’
Seconds later Malone pumped the accelerator again and this time pushed his vehicle hard at the logs. They moved a few metres. Burra was forced to jump clear. He ordered his colleagues to return to the clearing.
‘Mick,’ Burra called, ‘we have spoken to O’Laughlin. He agrees that no vehicles get through until he arrives.’
Malone braked his juggernaut. He leaned out of the cabin and tried to address the Aborigines at the clearing.
‘What’s wrong with you pricks!’ he boomed, with amazed indignation. ‘I’m carrying plenty of grog. You can all have some if you let me through.’
While the big man repeated his offer, Cardinal eased the rifle from under the front seat of the ute and began to make his way to the causeway from behind trees.
Malone was puzzled when no one came forward to take up his bribe. Burra bounced onto the logs again.
‘You’ve got your answer, Mick,’ Burra said, pointing to the other side of the causeway. The expression on Malone’s face turned to anger. He bent down out of sight and then climbed down from the cabin holding a metre-long iron pipe.
Burra stood his ground, but Malone came at him, cursing. Burra jumped clear of the logs. Malone showed surprising agility for his bulk as he hurtled over the logs swinging the pipe. Burra ducked and slipped on the causeway gravel. Malone jumped forward and swung the pipe down but missed by a tiny amount as Burra rolled over. The weapon left a gap in the gravel. Malone swung it back over his head and caught Burra a painful glancing blow. He groaned and fell flat. The big man scrambled to straddle him and deliver a blow to the skull. He raised the pipe but hesitated. Cardinal was crouching with the rifle in front of him.
‘Don’t!’ Cardinal warned, coming close so that the rifle was only centimetres from Malone’s heaving chest. They were surrounded by blacks.
‘Shoot the bastard!’ several urged Cardinal.
‘We’ll say it was self-defence!’ one of them called. ‘The cops don’t care about scum like him!’ Malone was uncertain if Cardinal was bluffing or not. Their eyes were locked.
‘Blow his brains out!’ Beena hissed at Cardinal.
‘Too small a target,’ he replied. The blacks roared their approval and pressed close. Malone realised that even if Cardinal were bluffing he would be slaughtered by the mob that now stood between him and his vehicle. He lowered the pipe to his chest.
‘Watch the tricky bugger,’ Burra said as he got to his feet. A red welt had developed on his back.
‘Drop it very slowly,’ Cardinal commanded.
Malone hung his head and grimaced as the weapon slipped from his ringers and clattered to the ground. Cardinal pointed at the juggernaut, and Malone began to shuffle towards it.
A black grabbed the pipe and ran to the vehicle. He leapt on the cabin and smashed the windows. The big man roared as several Aborigines blocked his path. He swung several punches but was brought down by blows and kicks.
Burra winced in pain as he rushed to restrain them. He hauled a couple off Malone and ordered them to let him go. The big man got to his feet holding a bleeding nose. He stumbled over the logs to his damaged cabin and cleared it of splintered glass.
‘I’ll get you fuckers!’ he said.
He reversed his vehicle across the causeway. Cardinal lowered the rifle and joined Elaine and the men who were attending to Burra. A bandage was wrapped over the wound.
Burra looked up at Cardinal whose face was drained of colour. ‘Thanks, mate. That’s two I owe you.’
‘Would you have pulled the trigger?’ Beena asked Cardinal. He managed a wan smile but said nothing as he returned to the ute to replace the rifle.
‘Would he have?’ Beena asked Burra.
Burra looked up at him. ‘I don’t think the gun was loaded.’
An hour later O’Laughlin arrived at the head of the convoy and was driven across the causeway accompanied by three officers. Burra had the logs removed and met the police delegation in the clearing’s shade where the temperature was a debilitating fifty degrees.
Cardinal stayed out of sight in the ute and watched. Burra had promised a meeting with Jimmy Goyong, and Cardinal hoped to speak to him that afternoon, although he was beginning to feel the trip to Arnhem Land had been a waste of time. He could see Malone, distinguished by his bright red hair and bulk, standing by his vehicle, which was in the convoy line that stretched from the other side of the causeway along the track like a sleeping reptile. Groups of truckies were sitting around in the limited shade drinking. O’Laughlin’s men were assembled between them and the crossing, which was blocked by police cars and a van.
The atmosphere felt dangerous, and the heat promised to put a limit on everyone’s patience. A breakdown in the meeting would mean that the truckdrivers might try to run the blockade.
The only person who seemed pleased with the confrontation was Beena. He offered the officers beer. They stepped forward, but when O’Laughlin refused the drink, they changed their minds.
‘Your boys are well trained, Chief,’ Beena said, as he zipped a can for himself. ‘I once had cattle dogs like that.’
‘What happened to Malone and his juggernaut?’ O’Laughlin snapped, his anger directed at Beena.
‘What did that prick say happened?’ Beena asked.
‘He said he ran into a flock of big birds,’ O’Laughlin said in disbelieving tones. ‘They did quite a bit of damage to his cabin.’
‘Poor Mick,’ Beena said in mock sorrow. He guzzled his beer.
‘And what happened to you, Burra?’ O’Laughlin asked. ‘You run into the same flock of birds?’
‘I slipped on the causeway,’ Burra said.
He beckoned O’Laughlin towards the river.
Cardinal watched the two men arguing but could not hear them. After about fifteen minutes they parted, grim-faced. O’Laughlin led his officers over the crossing, and Cardinal jumped from the ute to learn the outcome.
‘We’ve got until seven tomorrow morning, at the latest,’ Burra said. ‘If we don’t produce evidence of desecration of sacred sites by then, those trucks will be allowed through.’
‘You gave him that assurance?’ Beena said.
‘We have no choice!’ Burra replied. ‘Look at them!’ He pointed at the convoy. ‘They have the law behind them, unless we can prove they have broken the law!’
‘Spoken like a true lawyer,’ Beena said. Burra restrained himself.
‘I want a meeting of everyone,’ he said to the others. ‘I want this done democratically. But not here. Kelly’s Clearing is better.’
‘I want to be able to assist you,’ Burra said. They finished their steak lunch on the wooden table in his house in the reserve’s town. ‘It would help if you told me more.’
Cardinal sipped his drink and told him the hunches he was running on.
‘That explains why Richardson went out of his way to destroy the sketches Jimmy made of his companion the other morning,’ Burra said.
‘They must have been good drawings.’
‘A good portrait man like Jimmy can do wonders. You ask O’Laughlin. He used to use him to do ID sketches of crims from very flimsy evidence. The police were always able to track down the guy they wanted.’
‘Why doesn’t he use him now?’
‘Because the old bugger hits the piss! But he can still sketch better than anyone in the bloody north!’
Burra paused to sip his drink. ‘There’s another thing. You two have similarities.’
‘Like what?’ Cardinal said, surprised.
‘Like what you do with your fingers.’
Cardinal frowned. ‘You mean when I crack my knuckles?’
‘No. I noticed when we were driving along that you move your fingers around on the dashboard of the ute — like you were sketching something. You did it again in the back of the ute earlier in the day when Judy first spoke with you.’
Cardinal was surprised. It was a lifelong habit, something he did unconsciously.
‘Jesus!’ Cardinal said, ‘you’re observant!’
‘You’re the only other person I know apart from Jimmy I’ve seen do it. Do you know why?’
‘Not really,’ Cardinal said.
‘I’ll tell you. You do it to form an imprint of a face in your mind. You probably have a photographic recall of faces.’
‘I do!’ Cardinal smiled.
‘So does Jimmy. That’s why you must meet him. Those sketches may have been destroyed by Richardson, but I’m certain Jimmy will give you something.’ He leant forward. ‘You see, when an artist like him sketches someone he takes an interest in, the images stay in his brainbox forever!’
Cardinal asked many questions about Jimmy’s background, but noticed a growing irritability in his host.
‘Anything the matter?’ Cardinal asked. ‘You look worried.’
‘I am,’ Burra said, reaching for another beer. ‘Tom Beena is up to something. It bothers me. We’ve always suspected he has been in Richardson’s pocket.’ Burra pushed his steak away. ‘I’ve got to win this one,’ he said, ‘otherwise that bastard will take over.’ He poured them both a beer. ‘That, more than anything, will kill my people.’
‘Guns!’
Exuberant Aborigines worked the word into a chant. A wild crowd of Bididgee members had gathered and in Burra’s absence Beena had called on several speakers who wanted a violent confrontation with the police.
When Burra returned, he sensed the ugly atmosphere immediately.
He turned to Cardinal as he climbed from the ute. ‘I’m going to introduce you to Goyong after this,’ he said. ‘Just trust me now, okay?’
Cardinal waited for an explanation, but Burra closed the ute door and hurried to the front of the crowd. He waited until the applause and yelling had died down.
‘I can guess what the speakers have been saying before me,’ he said with a knowing grin towards the group at the front near Beena. ‘And it’s what I would expect from some of the brainless ones among you who are forever . . .’he paused to punch the air and repeat, ‘forever going to be outsmarted by those truckies and people like Richardson!’ He turned so that he was facing Beena and his small group of supporters. ‘Don’t you understand?’ he said. ‘You are saying exactly what those bastards want! They want you to obstruct them. They want the police to fight you. They want a confrontation! Why else would that moron Malone be sent forward to set you up?’
The noise fell away as Burra took command.
‘And do you know why? I’ll tell you. They want to destroy Brockman. And they’ll do it if you fight them, because once they get through to the mine with the law supporting them, they’ll have nothing to stop them. Everyone will be against us.’ He faced his people. Invoking the comradely ‘us’ was the beginning of his effort to turn the mob against Beena.
‘We outnumber them!’ one of Beena’s group cried. ‘We have nothing to lose.’ That brought a less supportive cheer than before, but there was still a residue of feeling, as another called, ‘If they destroy Brockman, we are finished!’
Burra raised his arms. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about! And any fight will ensure that the drill will get through. They’ll start to mine under Brockman!’ He waited for protests to fall away. ‘There is a way to stop them! We must give the police evidence that our sacred sites have been desecrated. Then those trucks will not get on! I have a guarantee from Chief O’Laughlin!’
Beena stepped forward. ‘Anyone going on Brockman for any reason,’ he yelled, ‘will mean desecration of the sacred site! So how do you propose gathering evidence?’
‘We are allowed to send a nominated party near the site,’ Burra said, ‘not on it.’ He turned to the crowd.
‘Let’s vote to let such a party near the site.’
‘Who can we trust?’ Beena yelled. ‘None of us are allowed there . . .’
‘A show of hands,’ Burra said. ‘All those in favour of someone going near the site . . .’ An overwhelming number was in support. ‘Then it’s done!’ he said with a triumphant wave of his hands. ‘We’ll meet here at six to judge the results.’
The crowd began to disperse before Beena could address them again. Burra strode to the ute followed by a group of about forty.
‘We need a volunteer,’ he said to Cardinal who climbed out of the vehicle surrounded by the Aborigines. He now knew the pay-off for his promised meeting with the artist.
‘Wouldn’t a local field-officer or school-teacher be a better choice?’ Cardinal said to Burra. ‘They know the area better and . . .’
‘They would be considered biased,’ Burra interjected. Topfist, the taxi driver, emerged from the onlookers carrying a rifle.
‘You may need this,’ he said with a devious grin. ‘It’s loaded this time.’
‘I seduced him!?’ Rhonda said in astonishment to the Australian ambassador in his Embassy office.
‘That’s what the Palace claims,’ Gosling said, fidgeting behind his polished teak desk. He was short with a small greying beard that hid a weakish chin and the beginnings of another. His face was tanned and abnormally wrinkled for a man of forty. The sides of Gosling’s mouth turned down mournfully, and he had the unfortunate habit of not looking anyone in the eye when he spoke.
Rhonda said, going white. ‘You believe that?’
‘He is the president!’ Gosling said, stroking his beard, ‘but I would like to hear your version.’
‘Version! Version?! Jesus Christ!’
‘Stay calm, Ms Mills,’ Gosling said. ‘What do you say happened?’
‘Try rape!’
‘Rape? Now Ms Mills . . .”
‘The nearest damn thing to it,’ Rhonda said and told her story. Gosling blinked and bit his lip.
‘There was one other thing,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Dalan has requested that you surrender the taped interview you had with the president.’
‘Stop dignifying that bastard by calling him president with such reverence! He is a dangerous, syphilitic maniac! And the answer is no. No, I will not surrender the tape to you or him or anyone except my producer!’
‘Dalan says Utun was not well last night,’ Gosling said, ‘and that, with hindsight, he regrets some things that were discussed. He claims they were off the record, anyway.’
Rhonda struggled to contain herself. ‘What about some of the things that were done, Mr Gosling?’
‘None of this would be good for our relations with the Republic,’ he said with a worried shake of his head. ‘I have been asked to give assurances that the tape won’t be used.’
‘Am I going to be protected? That’s why I came here. I am worried that that animal Utun will do something to me.’
‘They will want the tape, Ms Mills.’
‘I planned to leave Jakarta today!’
‘Only if that tape is surrendered.’
Gosling reached into a drawer and pulled out a pill bottle, swallowed a couple. He took a few breaths and smiled feebly.
‘Blood pressure,’ he said, recovering his composure. ‘You see, with your reputation, people will say you might have been asking for trouble. Your past interviews have upset people in the area. I was high commissioner in Singapore when . . .”
‘Hold it!’ Rhonda interjected. ‘Let me understand this. I can’t leave Indonesia?’
‘I’m not stopping you. It’s the Indonesian government.’
Rhonda stood up. ‘If I am forced to stay, I’ll file the rape story from here!’
Gosling went puce.
Rhonda grabbed his pill bottle. ‘Take the lot!’ she said, tossing them to him as she walked out.
A three metre crocodile slithered into the water close to the road, and Burra had to fight the wheel to avoid colliding with it. They drove on to the escarpment and Brockman. The red dust disturbed the flocks of Magpie Geese, heron, ibis and the statuesque jabiru, and they scattered to safer ground.
The escarpment’s rockface seemed to have changed from purple and maroon to dark brown as they came closer. They passed a herd of drought-ravaged cattle; their ribcages protruded.
‘Richardson implied that the legends about the area were baloney,’ Cardinal said.
‘It’s no coincidence that all the Bad Dreaming areas are where the biggest uranium ore-bodies are,’ Burra said.
‘That’s what Richardson said. He made out you had created the legend to cash in on the success of his yellowcake mining.’
‘Our legend dates back forty thousand years, maybe more,’ Burra said. ‘Where was the great man then?’
‘Is there a rationale behind your beliefs?’
‘Probably more than that behind your own. There is no trilogy of God, JC and the Holy Ghost. Our religion is earthy and pragmatic’
Burra accelerated as they rounded a corner to a rough track to the escarpment.
‘One of our oldest legends says that something awesome happened right here,’ he said, ‘thirty or forty thousand years ago. An Aborigine witnessed the mysterious deaths of hunters. He was the only one to survive, but he was blinded. He told other members of the tribe. They speared him to death because they thought he had been afflicted by evil spirits. Then they went to the spot where the hunters had died. They had been horribly burnt. Even snakes in the area were dying strangely. Later, visitors to the area died terrible deaths.’ He paused, glanced at Cardinal. ‘That could be explained by a natural nuclear explosion. Geologists say they have occurred around here.’
‘So that’s Brown Snake Dreaming?’
‘That’s my interpretation.’
‘Richardson was most critical about the Boulder legend at Mount Brockman.’
‘The Green Ant boulders,’ Burra said. ‘I always thought them explained by the results of nuclear explosion. Perhaps there was some kind of animal mutation after one, which mystified the tribe. Who knows?’
‘Whichever way the legends developed, you’re saying that radioactivity once made the region a “no go” area?’
‘If some of the tribe died in the Bad Dreaming sites, it would be natural to make them off limits.’
Cardinal nodded. ‘Another thing Richardson said got me thinking. If those boulders were to be disturbed, your tribe believed the world would be destroyed. Uranium mining would disturb the region, and uranium is used to make nuclear weapons, which could destroy not just the Aboriginal world but the planet.’
‘Now you do understand how basic and rational our beliefs are.’
They came to a bend, and Burra changed gear. A roadblock was in view.
That’s Checkpoint Charlie,’ Burra said, ‘the only road entrance to the mine.’ Three guards were at the entrance to a small wooden hut on the side of the road two hundred metres away. A boom barrier had been lowered across the road. The guards were ominously still, waiting.
‘They’ll report us.’
‘Beena would have told them?’
Burra shrugged. ‘He wants a confrontation. So does Richardson.’
They veered off onto a dirt track that was ridden with potholes and ran into a forest in front of Brockman. Burra was forced to use the front-wheel drive to negotiate a sharply winding path through tea-trees. Ditches and small ridges hindered their progress. They passed a shack in a clearing. Its rusty corrugated-iron walls and roof looked like a stack of cards about to collapse.
‘Jimmy lives in there,’ Burra said. ‘We’ll be in to see him later.’
It took twenty minutes to reach the legendary boulders set in a small oasis, which from the plane had appeared as a rich green mirage. Cardinal found the cooler conditions a relief. Burra had been edgy, but it had nothing to do with the conditions.
They reached a wire fence that ran to a small river at the foot of Brockman. A sign read:
Green Ant Dreaming Area
Sacred Site of the Bididgee Tribe
No Trespassers Allowed
By Order, Government of the Northern Territory
Cardinal scanned the mountain in front of them and felt some misgivings. Burra was sitting at the wheel, as if in a trance and Cardinal smelt fear.
‘Perhaps we should forget this,’ he said. Burra’s hands were trembling and he was taking deep breaths.
‘We have no choice,’ he whispered, ‘but I cannot go closer.’
Cardinal was reluctant.
‘Where’s the boundary to the sacred area?’ he asked. ‘Is it the fence?’
‘The boulders on the other side of the river,’ Burra said as he reached into the back of the ute and handed him a canvas bag.
‘We need anything that looks like core samples from drilling,’ he said. ‘Use this camera, but go around the Green Ants.’
Burra took a polaroid from the bag and then reached for the rifle under the seat, but Cardinal shook his head.
‘It’s for protection,’ Burra said. ‘There are snakes. This is Death Adder country.’
Cardinal hesitated. ‘Now you tell me,’ he said, but still declined to take the weapon.
They both got out of the ute, and Burra used wire cutters to snip a hole in the fence. Cardinal crawled through and made his way down a slope to a stream. He used a fallen tree to balance his way across, and this brought him ten metres from the boulders. Cardinal looked back up the slope but could only see the top of the fence and not Burra. He began examining some of the rock pieces around him as if they were gemstones. He found a couple of cylindrical, narrow holes, which looked man-made. He photographed them and gathered some tiny pieces of rock.
Cardinal stepped around the boulders and glanced back again. This time the fence was not in view. The isolation made him apprehensive, but this was compensated for by the oasis of palms whose huge fronds provided a green canopy around him. He could hear birds and the gentle rhythm of the water. There was no breeze and the place was still except for his movements and the sound of his sneakers crunching gravel stones as he fossicked about.
He found a gorge that split the mountain. It was so narrow that it could not be detected from more than a few metres. Cardinal moved close to its entrance, curious to see where it led. He edged into the gorge about twenty paces and could see that the divide led to a plain, and beyond that, the escarpment.
A few paces further on he found a cave. He stepped in. In the limited light he could just make out paintings on a wall. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness and then moved closer. He lost his footing and fell on his knees in a hole about a metre deep. He cursed, more from shock than pain, and heard his voice echo. He scrambled out and stood still. He thought he heard something but decided it was only lingering echoes from his movements. The cave was damp and cold enough to make him shiver as he stepped to the paintings. They were detailed studies of emus, kangaroos, and other creatures that Cardinal didn’t recognise. He found drawings of upright humanoids with large heads. He was examining them when he noticed a hole in the wall. It looked like the results of a blast, and it had destroyed some of the paintings. Cardinal collected pieces of the debris and left the cave.
He was about to retrace his steps when he noticed another cave. He shuffled along to it. There was a hole in his path and in front of the cave. Neither was a natural opening. They had been blasted. His eyes fell on some debris. He stepped over the hole, which was about five metres deep. ‘Christ!’ Cardinal said as he noticed two broken sticks of explosive. He took photos and then put the explosives in the bag.
Cardinal was close to the plain that led to the escarpment. He eased his way to the end of the gorge and then out to the plain. The grass was high, and he had second thoughts about marching through it because of Burra’s warning about snakes. He felt an urge to explore the escarpment, but it occurred to him that Burra might be anxious. He could make it in less than ten minutes if he hurried. He had only taken a few paces forward when he was stopped by a familiar sound. A helicopter hurtled skywards from behind the escarpment. Cardinal dashed to the gorge. Seconds later the chopper was hovering overhead as he scrambled along the narrow trail to the boulders. He zig-zagged through them and heard the ping of a bullet. It ricocheted off a boulder close to him. He looked up. The chopper was above him and being angled so that a rifle could be aimed at him. There was no hiding place except in the gorge, which was forty metres away, so Cardinal had to risk a sprint for the fence. He heard another shot. It did not seem to come from the chopper. Cardinal ran for the stream and onto the log but lost his balance as another shot rippled the water beneath him. He fell to the other side clutching the bag. He got to his feet and hurled himself up the slope.
Another shot zipped close to him. He could see Burra aiming at the chopper, which seemed to be coming closer. Cardinal threw himself at the hole in the fence, and Burra leapt into the ute and reversed it into the wire. The black pushed the passenger door open and changed into forward gear; Cardinal jumped in. The ute was gunned into tea-trees as the chopper swooped low. A volley of shots furrowed the ground around them.
‘The bastard is shooting blind!’ Burra yelled. They were camouflaged in the thick tea-trees and could hear the machine swooping low. Its shadow slid over their vehicle as it banked and dived before the sound of its rotors faded.
Rhonda waited in a line of passengers at Halim airport who were coming through customs. She was apprehensive. Although she had filed her interview with Utun, she thought it was so innocuous it would probably not be used, especially as she had failed to get anything on film. Her producers had suggested she leave the country on the next flight. Garuda had a flight to Sydney at 4.30 pm and Rhonda had thrown her clothes in her suitcase and rushed to the airport by taxi.
A woman in front of Rhonda was ordered out of the airline counter line, told to empty out the contents of her luggage. Four inspectors examined every item including a toothpaste tube, which was squeezed to see if anything had been sealed into it. Cans of hair-spray were shaken hard. They’re probably looking for drugs, Rhonda thought.
Rhonda was asked to step up. The laconic official went through her passport. He smiled, and Rhonda thought she was through. But he nodded at her suitcase and pointed to inspectors. They opened the case.
‘Be careful,’ she whispered, ‘killer toothpaste.’
One of the inspectors grabbed her recorder.
‘Hey,’ she protested. ‘You can’t take that!’
Another official removed the tapes she made with Utun and Tien.
‘I want that recorder!’ she said to the customs official.
He spoke in Indonesian to the inspectors. They dumped her belongings back into the suitcase. The recorder was last to go in. The tapes were confiscated.
Rhonda found a place in the line. The official began ushering people past her. She tapped her watch.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘I have a plane to catch.’
Seeing Rhonda’s problem, a big Australian, dressed like a farmer in check shirt and corduroys, stepped forward.
‘Let the lady through,’ he said. The tone of his voice forced the official’s hand.
A young Javanese woman in dark glasses appeared at the counter. She took Rhonda aside. ‘You cannot leave, Ms Mills.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rhonda asked.
‘You are under investigation.’
‘Am I under arrest or what?!’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘find accommodation and speak to your Embassy tomorrow.’
O’Laughlin examined the photos and debris.
‘Who gave you Burra as a contact?’ he asked.
‘A TV journalist, Rhonda Mills.’
O’Laughlin seemed impressed.
‘I’ll have to speak to Richardson,’ O’Laughlin said.
‘Tell him I’ve already spoken to the Minister for Aboriginal Affairs,’ Burra remarked. ‘He said he would be informing the PM and ringing Richardson.’
Cardinal noted Burra’s tact. He made it sound as if he was giving O’Laughlin inside information.
‘What did you say to the minister?’ O’Laughlin asked.
‘I told him we had evidence that sacred sites had been desecrated, far worse to us than the smashing of a church or an ANZAC war memorial would be to whites.’
There was a hint of satisfaction in O’Laughlin’s expression as he turned to his men. He ordered his deputy to restrain the convoy. In the meantime he was going to a local police station to phone Richardson. O’Laughlin shook hands with the Bididgee people and Cardinal, and marched off towards the causeway, three of his men close at heel.
Thunder began rolling in from the north, and Cardinal remembered Judy’s prediction: ‘Storm tonight.’
It was dark when they arrived outside Jimmy Goyong’s place. Two mangey dogs, who dropped from a mattress on the front porch, greeted them. Burra knocked. No reply. One dog howled.
It began to pour. Burra pushed open the door and they stepped into the makeshift home. They picked their way through a trail of cans and empty wine bottles. Thunder crashed and lightning illuminated the next room and a body on a bed. Burra found a light switch and groaned in disappointment. The old artist was sprawled out, his handsome moustache stained at the edges with red wine from a bottle on the pillow next to him. Burra slapped him and spoke to him in his language. The man stirred and propped up on his elbows. He rubbed his eyes, which were streaked red. The stench of stale alcohol was overpowering.
‘Didn’t I tell you the American was coming?’ Burra said.
‘I dreamt I was in the middle of a storm,’ Goyong said as lightning filled the room again. The rain was hammering so hard on the roof that his words were almost drowned out. ‘Maybe I wasn’t dreaming.’
Burra rolled his eyes at Cardinal.
‘I told you to lay off the piss,’ he said to Goyong. ‘I wanted you to do those sketches.’
Goyong struggled off the bed and stood unsteadily.
‘I did, Burra, honest,’ he said. He took a step forward, slipped on a bottle and fell into Cardinal’s arms.
‘They’re here,’ he said, launching himself from Cardinal to a cupboard.
He pulled out sketches, thrust them at Burra and then slumped back on the bed. Burra and Cardinal pored over the six drawings. But they were disappointed. The illustrations were half-finished.
Burra stood over Goyong. ‘They’re bloody useless.’
‘I started them a few hours ago,’ Goyong protested. ‘You know, after the meeting at Kelly’s Clearing. Tom Beena gave me a lift home. He insisted we celebrate. The bastard wouldn’t let me get on with them.’
‘The bastard, all right,’ Burra mumbled. He waved the sketches at Goyong. ‘Hell, Jimmy! These are awful! Were you trying to do the guy who was with Bull Richardson or what?’
‘Yeah, I was,’ he said squinting at his own work.
‘What nationality was he?’ Cardinal asked.
‘You told me you thought he was Asian,’ Burra said. ‘Was he Indonesian or Chinese?’
Goyong shook his head. ‘Burra, you know I’ve seen lots of Indos. He wasn’t one, and he wasn’t Chinese either. Seen lots of them, too. Used to be hundreds in the Territory, way back.’
‘How about the Boat People – Vietnamese?’ Burra asked.
Goyong shook his head, and Burra gave Cardinal a hopeless look.
‘Close,’ Goyong said.
‘What do you mean, close?’ Burra persisted.
‘More like them Boat People who keep driftin’ in.’
‘There have been a trickle of Kampucheans since the war with the Vietnamese began,’ Burra prompted. ‘Some of our people have even claimed they’ve seen Thai pirates chasing the Kampuchean refugees in the Gulf north of here.’
‘That’s right!’ Goyong said.
‘Thais?’
‘No. The others.’
‘Kampucheans?’
‘I reckon,’ Goyong said. ‘I dunno for sure, but . . .” He rolled on the bed. ‘Come back in the morning. Sleep on it.’ He turned his head to face Cardinal. ‘Dream on it,’ he mumbled.
Cardinal picked up the sketches, glanced through them again and tossed them on the floor.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Burra said as they drove back along the waterlogged track. ‘He really was going to make a big effort. If it wasn’t for that bastard Beena!’
‘You think he deliberately got the old man drunk?’ Cardinal asked.
‘For sure. Jimmy would have told someone you were coming to his home. Beena would have learnt about it.’ Cardinal was bitter but more at himself than anyone, for expecting too much from the meeting, and the trip itself.
‘Do you think he was telling the truth about the Kam-pucheans?’ he asked.
‘He’s not a liar,’ Burra said, ‘and although he does have a vivid imagination, he would want to tell me the truth. He was keyed up about doing those drawings.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I would like to kill Tom!’
They drove on in low gear as the ute negotiated potholes and flooded sections of the road. Visibility was down to a few metres as the storm worsened.
‘What did he mean by telling me to dream?’ Cardinal asked.
‘Older Aborigines like Jimmy believe in dreaming,’ Burra replied. ‘They believe that is reality – that’s where the world’s truths are. Dreams guide their waking time.’
‘But I don’t understand why he told me to dream. He is supposed to have seen the Asian, not me.’
Burra stole a sideways glance at him. ‘He must think the answers have something to do with you.’
The early model Holden pulled up outside Perdonny’s Jakarta home. The driver opened the passenger door for Rhonda. It was a Roman-style villa hidden by Chinese fan palms placed close to each other to provide privacy. It was also located on the edge of the city to ensure no surprise visits from Bakin, the Indonesian secret police.
Rhonda, stuck in her hotel room, had rung Perdonny for help, and he had told her to take a circuitous route to his home, which necessitated two changes of taxi and a walk to a rendezvous where Perdonny’s driver, Bani, had picked her up. He had driven at speed through east Jakarta’s slums into open country, the hills and tea plantations. Then he had doubled back to the edge of the city and the villa in a secluded spot down a twisting road near the village of Tebuka.
Rhonda admired the home’s white portico entrance, spacious oval windows and flat roof of fluted tiles. She stepped up to the wooden double-door front entrance, which was ornately carved with Balinese figures. A German Shepherd confronted her. It snarled. The door was opened and a fat servant rushed out to calm the animal. The servant spoke earnestly to the dog. Rhonda stood frozen to the spot. The dog’s manner changed. It wandered over to her, ears down and tail wagging, and wrapped its huge teeth lightly around her wrist.
‘Has it been fed today?’ Rhonda asked.
‘It’s okay! It’s okay!’ the servant said, fussing around her, and then addressing the dog said, ‘Go to Robert! Go to Robert!’
Rhonda found herself being led around the side of the villa past amused guards to a backyard with a pool. The dog took her to a table, and trotted away, his job done.
‘Handy dog,’ Rhonda said. ‘He’s on my side, I hope.’
Perdonny grinned as he climbed from the water and draped himself in a towel.
‘Utun won’t hold you more than a day or two,’ he said, ‘otherwise he would have found some reason for detaining you at your hotel, or even in prison.’
‘I’m scared to return to the hotel,’ she said.
‘You are welcome to stay here tonight,’ he said, ‘but it might be wise for you to make an appearance at your hotel tomorrow, otherwise they’ll suspect you’re preparing other reports.’
Rhonda was relieved. Perdonny clapped his hands and within minutes a huge meal was laid out in front of them.
‘The army joining us tonight?’ Rhonda said, eyeing the food. ‘The tension is making me a light eater. If there’s any light, I start eating.’ Perdonny grinned and asked about her investigation.
‘Afraid that has been less than fruitful,’ she said. ‘I blew it by trying to interview Utun. I have to leave. I haven’t uncovered anything.’
‘We can confirm that Hartina Van der Holland is staying at her mother’s home in Bandung,’ Perdonny said. Three servants bustled around them serving spring rolls, noodles, vegetables and spice; sesame prawn toast and nasi goreng. The strong crisp whiff of barbecued pork lingered. ‘There are also four other scientists staying at the Savoy Homann hotel in Bandung who are given a police escort to the reactor each morning for work.’
Rhonda groaned. ‘I wish I could follow up on that.’
‘My people will continue to monitor them. There are two local scientists – laser specialists – and two Europeans. We think they’re English or French.’
‘And those military exercises at Ujung Pandang,’ Rhonda began, ‘have you learnt anymore?’
‘That Kampuchean we saw has a base in Jakarta,’ Perdonny said. ‘We are trying to discover his identity. We know he is in daily contact with Utun.’
‘How?’ Rhonda asked.
‘He and a squad of six or seven – all Kampucheans -have taken up residence at a disused Embassy in Mentang, a central suburb. They’re having it refurbished and have hired a team of fifty labourers. We have planted one of our people there.’
‘You don’t miss a trick!’ Rhonda said. She waded into the food. Perdonny worked up a clockwork smile, which displayed a huge set of teeth.
‘We’re trying to have the leader photographed,’ he said, ‘and we are learning his movements. He made a trip to the Bandung reactor this morning.’
Rhonda stopped eating.
‘Thought that would interest you,’ he said. ‘We are tailing him tonight.’
‘Where?’ Rhonda whispered.
‘The docks at Priok.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Some big meeting with another party. They’ve been preparing for it the last two days. The Kampucheans even questioned my man and other labourers about the docks. Seems the meeting is being made without Utun’s knowledge. Otherwise the Palace would have given them the information.
‘You going?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Could I come?’
‘Are you up to it?’ He had reservations after the dangers encountered at Ujung Pandung.
‘I’ve had a rough day,’ Rhonda said, ‘and I admit I was worried at the airport. But if I have to stay, I might as well make it worthwhile.’
‘See how you feel when you’ve rested.’
‘Who’s the other party at the meeting?’
Perdonny shrugged. ‘Whoever picked the time and place certainly has the Kampucheans jumping.’
Two hundred Aborigines watched as the last of the convoy carrying the drill snorted away from Cahill’s Crossing en route to Darwin. When the vehicles were out of sight, they began to celebrate around a campfire. It was a stark compound surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. Cardinal remarked that it had the austerity of a concentration camp.
‘It was my idea,’ Burra told him. They joined the festivities at the bar.
‘Has it worked?’ Cardinal asked. He looked around at the growing crowd.
‘You saw old Jimmy,’ Burra replied. ‘Alcoholism is one of our worst problems.’
A police car pulled up. Three cops got out and began to circulate.
‘The boys in blue make sure none of the tribe gets too obstreperous,’ Burra said. He handed Cardinal a beer.
‘Do you really believe Jimmy saw somebody?’ Cardinal said. ‘Those sketches were woeful.’
‘I believe him,’ Burra said. ‘It’s not the first time Jimmy has spotted Richardson with unusual guests.’
Several blacks wanted to buy Cardinal a drink. He had won honorary status.
‘What sort of guests?’ Cardinal asked.
‘We know Bull has hosted some representatives of the French nuclear industry,’ Burra said with a sly grin, ‘even though this country is not supposed to be selling yellow-cake to the French.’
‘Meaning?’ Cardinal asked as he unwrapped a cigar.
‘Meaning Bull would be working out a way of selling the yellowcake to a third party who could pass it on to the frogs. We know he has done the same thing with a key rep. of Colonel Gadaffi’s.’
‘Your government let a Libyan come here and negotiate with him?’
‘They had a trade delegation here last year,’ Burra said. ‘It was supposed to be buying buffalo meat and hides.’ He winked at Cardinal. ‘Just like the French.’
Cardinal slept on a couch in the living room at Burra’s home. For the second time he dreamt of the morgue and the shallow grave near Lucas Heights. He woke up around five feeling disturbed and wrestled with the nightmare about Harry. It concerned the gold ring on the corpse’s left hand. He remembered it being on Harry’s right hand.
There were other things about the dream that bothered him. In it the corpse had a face that was not his son’s. It also spoke to him, but he couldn’t remember the conversation. The corpse was shorter than his son and had black hair.
Cardinal had to get up. He pulled on some shorts and crept out of the house. The rain had stopped. A cool breeze carried fresh smells of bottle brush and myrtle.
Cardinal went back inside for a cigar and remembered he had a photo of Harry tucked away in a folder. His son had his right hand on Cardinal’s shoulder. A ring was visible on the little finger. Cardinal went outside again, lit his cigar and tried to think rationally. He didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him that the dreams were manifestations of his own inability to accept his son’s demise. The ring, he told himself, could be explained. Other photos might show that Harry sometimes wore it on his left hand, although Cardinal had it fixed in his mind that it had always been on the right. Cardinal turned to see Burra behind him.
‘You couldn’t sleep?’
‘No,’ Cardinal said, reluctant to divulge the reason.
‘Whites have trouble accepting death,’ Burra said, ‘whereas for us it’s a part of life.’
‘It’s going to take time,’ Cardinal said, puffing smoke. It hung in the air like a grey apparition.
‘I want to take you back to see Jimmy,’ Burra said.
Cardinal shrugged. ‘Let the old guy sleep.’
‘He gets up before six to start his work. He’ll be sober.’
Cardinal shook his head.
‘If for no other reason,’ Burra persisted, ‘I want you to see his gallery. You might want to buy some of his stuff. He’s damned good.’
‘I would rather we got an early start for Darwin.’
‘I thought you dealers gave artists a break?’
‘Okay,’ Cardinal said. He laughed.
It was still dark when they arrived at Jimmy’s. One of the dogs howled his usual greeting and then returned to his mattress. They picked their way through the bottles and cans, and a couple of young blacks who did not even begin to stir. They found Jimmy.
Burra turned on a light and slapped his face.
‘Jesus, Burra!’ Jimmy protested, ‘what the fuck are you doing? Can’t you let a genius sleep? How can I get up in the morning if you buggers keep comin’ around to hound me?’
‘It is morning,’ Burra said. ‘I want you to do those sketches.’
The old man groaned and turned over. ‘Come back at lunchtime.’
‘Mate, this guy’s a buyer. You ought to show him your gallery. He may buy some for an exhibit in New York.’
‘New York, eh?’ he croaked. ‘Terrific, man.’
Seconds later he was back to sleep.
‘I’ll show you the gallery,’ Burra said, shaking the old man. He pulled his legs off the bed.
‘Let him be,’ Cardinal said.
‘No, bugger it!’ Burra said. ‘He’s going to help.’ He threw Jimmy’s arm around his shoulder and walked him into an adjoining gallery that was cluttered with incomplete oil paintings. Burra admonished the old man for not finishing so many of his works. Cardinal was in his element. He picked up a painting. It was a mushroom cloud billowing over Mount Brockman and the Green Ant boulders. Good brushwork and colour, Cardinal thought. He wondered if he could sell a few in New York. He selected three more while Burra made coffee for the old man.
‘I would like to buy these,’ Cardinal said, lining them up.
‘They’re not for sale,’ Jimmy said, scratching his beard.
‘That’s too bad,’ Cardinal said. ‘I think they’re great.’
‘For you, mate,’ he said, ‘they don’t cost anything.’
Cardinal looked at Burra.
‘He knows what you did for me at the pub,’ Burra explained.
‘I was there when he made Mad Mick back off from killin’ you too!’ Jimmy said.
‘If I was to make a donation to any cause you wished,’ Cardinal said, ‘would that be okay?’
‘I’ll think about it, mate,’ Jimmy said. He looked around the room. ‘I left a half bottle of Johnny Walker in here somewhere . . .”
‘You should lay off it,’ Burra said.
‘You’re right,’ Jimmy said, rinding the bottle behind a canvas. ‘While we’re on the subject, anyone like a glass? You know, hair of the dog?’
‘Bit early for me,’ Cardinal said.
‘C’mon,’ Jimmy said, pouring two glasses. ‘What time is it in New York?’
Cardinal looked at his watch. ‘About six in the evening.’
‘See what I mean?’ the old man said with a grin as he handed Cardinal a neat triple. Cardinal laughed. Burra was not amused.
‘You’ve got work to do,’ he snapped.
Jimmy rolled his eyes. ‘Reckon I do.’ He found a sketch pad and took a swig of the whisky. ‘Now I’ve had some lubrication.’
Jimmy settled at a desk, the whisky bottle and glass in front of him. He began to draw and kept glancing across at Cardinal who sat on a chair. Cardinal thought he had to be the subject. He looked at Burra who winked at him. He was positioned behind Jimmy and could see his progress. At first the strokes were broad, but soon he switched to a thinner crayon and a pencil. Cardinal watched his eyes. They looked through him in much the same way that Judy’s had before they had begun to communicate.
The more Jimmy worked, the less he worried about the whisky. By the time light had filled the room, three portraits had been finished and discarded. Burra collected them and passed them across to Cardinal. Unlike the shapeless blurs of the previous day’s effort, these were excellent. In Cardinal’s mind the man drawn was Kampuchean. The eyes were more European in shape than Vietnamese or Chinese, and he had a flat nose with wide nostrils. A prominent feature in one drawing were the jagged teeth, evident in a broad grin.
‘How did he achieve such detail?’ Cardinal whispered, ‘he was some distance away, wasn’t he?’
‘He used a powerful telescope,’ Burra said, crouching beside Cardinal. ‘What do you think?’
‘These aren’t sketches,’ Cardinal said. ‘They’re photographs!’
When Burra and Cardinal returned to Burra’s place, a young man could be seen standing in the doorway. It was his son, Silas, who had survived the bush trek. Burra jumped from the ute to embrace him.
Perdonny’s guard drove past a restless wave of wiry Indonesian and Chinese merchants who were hauling their wares along the road next to the Anjol River on the fifteen kilometre run from Jakarta to Priok dock. Rhonda had joined Perdonny and was sitting in the back with him. Near the end of the road they turned down a side street and were met by another of Perdonny’s men who climbed into the front seat.
‘The Kampucheans are already waiting on Pier 13,’ Perdonny told Rhonda after giving orders to the driver, ‘but the other party hasn’t arrived yet.’ They returned to the main road, which finished at a boom gate that lead to the docks.
A short, robust Javanese guard emerged from a hut and strolled over to the car. He asked for papers. When he saw Perdonny, his expression changed, and he began gabbling obsequiously. Papers were handed to him by the driver.
Perdonny leaned forward, lowered the rear window, and the guard gave them directions. Perdonny pointed to a car phone in the front seat, and the guard gave a vigorous nod. He scribbled a number on the palm of his hand and rushed to the hut. The boom was lifted, and they drove through.
‘He’ll ring us when the other party arrives,’ Perdonny informed Rhonda.
‘How come you have people planted here?’ she asked.
‘Not everyone supports Utun,’ he said. ‘Knowing what’s happening at the docks is one of the most useful sources for us. All sorts of sea traffic comes through here, including arms shipments.’
They cruised for a few minutes until they reached Pier 13. It was two hours before dawn, but the traffic was building up. Trucks, fork-lift vehicles and a goods train were entering and leaving the pier, where four cargo ships were being unloaded. A swarm of workers hauled and stacked crates of farm machinery, bananas, coffee and some that were marked with just serial numbers.
Perdonny had the car driven into one of a line of warehouses. The headlights went out, the ignition was switched off, and they sat at the entrance with a clear view of the vehicles speeding by. Trucks laden with cargo were coming from the ships.
They waited half an hour before the car phone rang.
‘We have a visitor,’ Perdonny announced. ‘The entrance guard dealt with an Indonesian driver of a limousine. Three Europeans were in the back. There was a second vehicle.’
Perdonny spoke in Indonesian to his men. They both slapped their sides and nodded; they were armed.
He got out of the car with the two guards.
‘We’re going to get closer,’ he said to her. ‘Best if you stay here.’
Rhonda objected. It was better to be close to the action and protected than left alone in a dark warehouse. Perdonny relented. He handed her some infrared binoculars.
‘If you could keep scanning the area as we go,’ he said, ‘that will limit possible surprises.’
‘Making the little lady feel useful?’ Rhonda said with a nervous giggle. ‘I can knit and cook too, you know.’
‘The Kampuchean has men scattered to cover him,’ Perdonny said. ‘The people he is meeting seem to have a car load of support as well.’
‘Not a great deal of mutual trust?’ Rhonda whispered as they waited near the entrance to the warehouse.
‘Very little,’ Perdonny said. Some trucks straggled past, and when they had gone he led the way behind the warehouse to the pier. They walked about a hundred metres towards the cargo of unmarked crates, which were being stacked high. Perdonny pointed to an open area between them and the ships next to the last warehouse. They crept closer, and Rhonda could make out a vehicle. The binoculars showed it was a hearse. A man could be seen leaning against it.
‘Where are the other Kampucheans?’ she asked.
‘Concentrate on points beyond the vehicle,’ Perdonny said.
Rhonda raised the binoculars.
‘My God!’ she mumbled. ‘I can see somebody . . . No, two people!’
Seconds later two limousines rolled onto the pier and stopped about fifty metres from the hearse.
‘Can you see licence plates?’ Perdonny said.
Rhonda strained to see them. ‘No,’ she said, ‘they’ve been removed’.
Car lights went on high-beam. Three men got out and strode towards the hearse. Lights and ignitions were turned off.
Rhonda nudged Perdonny. ‘Four guys are getting out of the second limo,’ she said breathlessly, ‘think they’ve got weapons.’
Perdonny took the binoculars and focused on the man at the hearse. A tall Caucasian from the new arrivals stepped up to him.
‘The Kampuchean we saw at Ujung Pandang is at the hearse,’ Perdonny said quietly. ‘1 can’t quite see the other man.’
The Kampuchean and the Caucasian came closer. They shook hands. The Caucasian handed over a package. He returned to the limousines.
‘Can you see the other guy yet?’ Rhonda whispered.
‘Who?’ Rhonda said, as the limousines started up.
‘His name is Blundell.’
Burra dropped his family off at his Darwin home at midnight. It was a modest weatherboard set close to two other places also inhabited by Aborigines. The only access was from the front, and this was guarded by a high brick wall. Topfist and a companion who had accompanied them from the reserve were detailed by Burra to protect the family. They both had rifles.
‘Expecting trouble?’ Cardinal asked. They climbed into the ute for the drive to the Casino Hotel.
‘No,’ Burra said. ‘I’m just cautious after what happened at the Crossing.’
Cardinal was apprehensive as they approached the hotel. Instead of driving up to the main entrance, Burra went around the block.
‘What’s wrong?’ Cardinal asked.
Burra scanned the street, eased into second gear, and crawled the vehicle down a narrow road at the rear of the hotel.
Two figures were near the revolving door entrance. Burra reversed out of their view. He pulled the rifle from under the front seat, opened the glove box, pulled out cartridges and loaded the rifle.
‘You can’t go there again, mate,’ he said as they drove on another block.
‘Why not?’ Cardinal said.
Burra pulled up fifty metres short of a stationary road-train. It was hidden in the shadows down a side street. Burra flicked off the lights. He rolled the ute forward until it was within thirty metres of the truck.
Burra accelerated into top and sped past the vehicle. Cardinal squinted at the cabin’s smashed windows. It belonged to Mad Mick Malone.