6

Her father opened the door, book in hand. Maria tried to see around him.

‘Nobody else here?’

‘The Frog asked them out. Said it was cause for mutual celebration. It did have the advantage of delaying having to address the Michelle will and the implications for Vukovich Wines. I declined to go. The Hilton restaurant was obviously not up to his standards.’

‘Doesn’t it have a Michelin star?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You don’t like him much?’

‘Why should I? He comes on like a snake-oil salesman.’

‘A what?’

‘A phony. A fraud. A scam artist. Like Charles Ponzi.’

‘Who?’

‘An American who flogged a get-rich scheme but didn’t tell the investors he sucked in that only he got rich -- at their expense.’

‘Is this to do with mum?’

‘Nah, not really. Not much. So come on in.’ He held up the book. ‘I was miles away in this dire new novel that’s all the rage, I am told.’

Schindler’s Ark. Thomas Keneally. She had not heard of it, but the author rang a bell, some story about those Aussie explorers who died in the desert. Or was that some other Australian writer? She preferred real-life contemporary stories, like that book she gave him for Christmas. A story of nuclear annihilation, something her political boss went on about. And it was set in Australia. She wasn’t sure if it met Ali’s strict protest standards, but it was a scary picture of what nuclear war could achieve, namely, mutually assured destruction.

‘You read On the Beach yet?’

He looked guilty. ‘That’s next. This I had to take a gander at. It’s my story writ large, Jews saved from the Nazis by a Gentile. No reason to stand in the doorway. Come on in. With all these family shake-ups going on, I’ve been thinking I should tell you and your sister all about it.’

‘What, you being a Jew?’

‘Idiot,’ he laughed. ‘Me being saved from a Nazi concentration camp by my mate.’

‘Uncle Ru? You never talked much about this before.’

‘No. Our generation tended not to. Probably about time I did. Please, stop hovering and come in.’

‘You mind if we take a walk?’

He looked concerned. Before he could ask any questions, she said she needed to stretch her legs after being stuck in a bunker peering at screens all day.

‘Sure, okay. Let me get my sandals on.’

In the lift she asked him innocuous questions about the book and what he thought of the Hilton restaurant. She wasn’t sure there were concealed cameras. Should have asked Sarnie. He probably had the sound up and running now, recording everything.

Once they were out in the heat and the crowds, he asked her what she really wanted to talk about.

‘For a kick-off, video surveillance.’

‘And?’ he said, steering her out of a collision with a man staring up at the hotel, a map in his hand.

‘It’s surveillance of the hotel.’

Her father stopped, his hand still on her arm. ‘Should you be telling me this?’

‘No. But I need to. There’s nobody else I can talk to.’

‘I see. Why don’t we do it over a beer -- if that’s allowed?’

‘You bloody beaut, dad. I have been here almost two days and I still haven’t sampled the famous Aussie beer.’

‘We can soon rectify that, my dear. In here. Find a pew. I’ll get us two cold ones and you can tell me all about it.’

It was a bar with low lighting and high stools along a chest-high counter open to the street, its hinged windows folded to either side. She glanced the length of the long mirror behind the bar’s rows of upended liquor bottles. Nobody looking or lurking. Maybe she was getting paranoid after a session with the monitors. She did note the very product she had heard about, a flickering red neon sign for Reschs Pilsener. If the beer matched the frosty air conditioning belting into her then she’d be jake.

She took a seat at one end, away from the few male drinkers at this hour. The hubbub of traffic and people busily striding past or ambling along consulting maps were reassuring. Her father brought a tray hosting two tall, frosted glasses with foaming heads and dishes of nuts and big green olives.

The beer hit the back of her throat like the drink Keneally’s or whoever’s explorers never got, a sensationally delicious beer rush. She gasped, putting down a glass she had half-emptied.

‘Whoops,’ she belched, reaching for an olive. ‘I so needed that.’

Her father eyed her over a sip of his beer. ‘Snafus come with the job.’

She had heard the wartime slang meaning ‘Situation normal, all fucked up’, but not from her father. Maybe Australia was liberating for him too. Right. Where to start?

‘Just tell me what’s most bothering you. We can take it from there.’

She took another gulp, put down the empty glass. He pointed at it. She shook her head, feeling the wonderfully numb band gripping her head. ‘Better not. I’ve already blotted my copybook somewhat. Yeah, well, this journo mate of Ali’s.’

‘Portillo. I knew it.’

‘Whatever you’re thinking, dad, I’ve got to put you straight. He’s one of them. Us. One of the surveillance committee.’

‘Him? Chinless wonder. I was tempted to take a swing at him. I might still. What is this surveillance committee?’

She watched her father take a measured mouthful of beer. She had never seen any sign he wanted to take a swing at anybody. Her father was as mild as a vanilla milkshake, or that watery Wellington brew her male colleagues dismissed as ‘nun’s piss’. Her father did prove the exception when they were under extreme threat in Jerusalem. Sydney was hardly on that level. This was civilised, laid back, no tension, no worries or, as Sarnie had picked up, no wucking furries. She looked around at the near empty bar. She leaned close to her father and told him about the committee and the surveillance system designed to identify any threat to the meeting of her boss and his counterpart the Australian prime minister in a few days’ time.

‘David Lange? Which makes you part of his Diplomatic Protection Squad?’

She nodded. ‘His designated minder. You’re up with the play.’

‘Not really. The occasional drink with old contacts. You don’t have to tell me specifics, you know.’

She said she knew that, and she was not concerned. What did concern her, she said, was this feeling she was being manipulated.

‘You mean by your lords and masters? The police are one of the last bastions of male dominance. Male chauvinist pigs, isn’t that what they get called now?’

‘It’s not just the police. The bureaucracy, or at least the top dogs. They were not best pleased when Lange chose a woman as his protection detail. He probably did it just to pee off the male hierarchy in the Force. And now even he is complaining about me, mostly to the head of his department, Gerald Hensley. Doesn’t like having a police officer following him everywhere, even standing outside the toilet when he has a shit. That was more embarrassing to the HOD than to me.’

‘He sounds like a slightly loose cannon, which would probably describe most politicians.’

‘He is amusing a lot of the time,’ she said a little defensively. ‘But try keeping tabs on someone who’s more like a flea in a steroid fit.’

Her father thought that amusing. Lange himself probably would. But for all his good humour, it made her nervous that she was never sure which way he would jump. She suspected that her bosses blamed her to some extent for not knowing about his daylight flit, taking off to the Tokelaus without her, and now incommunicado, allegedly because the ship’s radio had seized up. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the old rust bucket had also seized up, even sank. The bloody brass would no doubt blame her for that too.

The problems, she told him, now include her being ordered to stay with you and mum. She felt like they were treating her as a kid needing parental supervision. Perhaps they had been spying on her too and saw her slug back a mini vodka from her room fridge. She paused for momentary consideration, before telling him she suspected their rooms were bugged and even subject to video surveillance.

‘I figured you had a good reason to want out of the hotel.’ She repeated she sensed she was being manipulated at every turn. Again she paused. She didn’t want to alarm him, so she kept quiet about the possible American attempt to apprehend her. She was not sure it had not been staged so she would feel grateful to the Australians. She knew they were as committed as the Americans to maintaining ANZUS and did not trust Lange to be on the same page.

She could not tell them what would confirm their worst fears, so she told her father, that Lange had spent the last six months acting alone wearing his Minister of Foreign Affairs hat, meeting secretly with the Americans about New Zealand’s nuclear ship policy. Without the knowledge of his Labour colleagues, he arranged for the New Zealand Chief of Defence to visit the American Pacific Fleet in Hawaii and select from three choices the most suitable American warship to visit New Zealand.

The ship chosen was due to be mothballed as obsolete in the new nuclear arsenal. It did not carry offensive nuclear weapons, but the Americans maintained their incredibly irritating policy, even with their close allies in ANZUS, that they would neither confirm nor deny this. The ship chosen was in Sydney harbour at present, namely the USS Buchanan.

‘Jesus George,’ her father said. ‘Lange scores on one count, he has run a tight ship of state. At least from his colleagues and the press. He must trust you.’

‘I suspect I hardly register. I was the fly on the Lange wall during the to-ing and fro-ing of the New Zealand officials involved. And now my boss has scarpered in the sure knowledge the Labour Party and most Labour Cabinet Ministers will abide by their campaign promise and deny American warships entry to New Zealand’s nuclear-free waters. He is in the Tokelaus in the very week when his Cabinet debate an American request for a nuclear ship visit? He is on a rusty old coaster with a failed wireless.

‘He’s been out of contact for a week now. And none of his Cabinet know he has arranged to be flown by the Americans from Pago Pago for an unannounced summit meeting with the Australian prime minister. Bob Hawke is flying back from Washington for the meeting at the Hilton tomorrow. I am here to do my job making sure he is safe. Um, I probably shouldn’t have told you that.’

Dan stared at the beer he had hardly touched. Never mind the Hawke meeting, she shouldn’t have told him about any of Lange’s secretive manoeuvring. This prime minister clearly wasn’t just a loose cannon, he was a loner who didn’t trust his colleagues, let alone his allies. He must be a nightmare to work for.

‘You don’t think I should have told you any of this, right?’ He patted her hand. Once he would have regarded her behaviour as unconscionable. Now, he was not so sure. The world had changed. Loyalty seemed to have gone out the window. And that included loyalty to staff. He thought she had been thrown in the deep end. She could be discarded if things went wrong, after no doubt blaming her as inexperienced and not up to the job, with a sidebar that she was a woman so what would you expect? With these kinds of people running his country, he would put her welfare first. He used to be shocked by the saying that if you had to choose to betray your country or a friend, you would hope to have the courage to betray your country. He had no trouble betraying a country run by people Peter Fraser would never have employed -- if it protected his daughter.

‘Don’t fret,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘You have a massive amount on your plate, my dear. You did not choose to be the prime minister’s de facto chief of staff. And you don’t even know which way he will direct you. From what you say he probably doesn’t know himself.’

She shrugged, her saliva glands craving another beer, decided against it. ‘True enough about my boss, but what makes things worse is that I don’t know who I can trust among our allies. I’ve been a useless detective. I can’t even detect if it is the Americans or that thug O’Toole who has taken Ali’s friend, and on whose behalf. It might be instigated by the Ockers, or some faction within the spook community, and it could be the plausible Mr Portillo is involved. I think he works for the British security services, but I don’t know which one. Quite possibly in some freelance role. I haven’t even confirmed that.’

Her father put his arm around her shoulders. ‘We will get through this. It’ll be a walk in the park after Jerusalem.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘You quoting the Beatles? Even I know that, and the “he loves you” line that precedes it.’

She leaned her head on his shoulder, resisting saying the Beatles sang ‘she loves you’. He might have known and wanted to signal how he felt about her. ‘I appreciate your support, dad.’

She sat up. David Lange had to be why the Aussies were being coy with her. They had got rid of her on the pretext she needed to be at the will reading. She was tarred by association with his whimsical and often abrupt actions. Like the way he insisted on accepting the invitation from the Tokelaus when his Cabinet had to decide in a few days whether it would honour the wishes of the New Zealand voters and ban a nuclear ship from our waters?

The Americans had given Lange the wink about the Buchanan, that it was not carrying nuclear weapons. It was nuclear powered. He knew all this, yet he disappears just before High Noon for a New Zealand Cabinet decision. He refused the NZ Navy and Air Force offers to deliver him to the Tokelaus and bring him back. He deliberately takes off in the leaky old coaster that had an unreliable wireless, so New Zealand’s leader was deliberately incognito for over a week, the crucial week.

If this was his idea of brinkmanship, it was working. The Australians and Americans tried to find him and failed. So for that matter had New Zealand. He could be anywhere in the thousands of square kilometres between here and indeed between the islands of the Tokelaus.

The reason she was in Sydney was his assurance to the Aussies and Americans that he would be at the Hilton in a few days.

The Americans agreed to fly him from Pago Pago to Sydney in complete secrecy, while his wife picked up their two lads and returned to New Zealand. Well, that was the intention.

That was his problem. It was her job to make sure he came to no harm. It was not easy when he had gone troppo and her supposed colleagues were playing their own games. Portillo had to be a minor player in the big picture. It was the Australians most worried her.

Her father was standing, murmuring something about old man’s bladder.

She eyed the foam settling inside the glass, ready, willing and able for a refill she wanted but would not order. She had to maintain a clear head. There was a lot going on in Sydney that made her nervous. Who was O’Toole working for, if indeed it was his thugs who abducted Bradley Buggerlugs? Was it purely a financial transaction? Was O’Toole involved for a further and no doubt heftier consideration in some planned disruption of the supposedly secret Lange/Hawke summit? His thugs were allegedly Brad’s abductors, but who was their paymaster? Was this part of some Australian strategy? And what did it aim to achieve? Were they playing a double game with the Americans? And her too? Had they got her and Portillo out of the frame while other plans were afoot?

Yet she had to work with them, for the sake of their respective leaders. And to keep ANZUS going, despite the unacceptable behaviour of certain American operatives and the mixed messages coming from the man she was employed to protect. She couldn’t for the life of her say whether Lange was for or against ANZUS. She didn’t even know if he was really anti-nuclear. Maybe it was all a game to him, tying his colleagues up in legal knots. Was he that shallow? He talked like an angel but was a devil to deal with.

Her sister was the loser at present, though it could only be a good outcome if she never saw Bradley Bloody Whatshisname again. Well, that was Ali’s problem, and it was partly her own fault because she was such a leftie, always protesting at something, Vietnam, the bomb, the Americans, the Russians, South American dictators, America allegedly assassinating democratic leaders and installing military puppets, whatever the latest trendy cause was. Perhaps some protest took precedence over the will reading. Maria figured Bradley had seduced Ali for some reason she was unaware of, and for that alone he deserved whatever and whoever was giving him a hard time. She wouldn’t mind herself delivering a swift kick in his goolies, though she suspected someone else was administering that.

Whatever she thought of Ali in relation to Bradley, she could not lose sight of her job. Her focus had to be on getting through this informal political summit meeting with no dramas and no harm to her charge. God, she’d be glad when all this was over and she could sink a goodly few of these fantastic frosties.

Right now no more Reschs. It was entirely her own stupid fault she had arrived hungover, and insult to injury it was on the wretched ‘nun’s piss’. She had dropped the ball. It was time to pick it up and run with it. She couldn’t expect her father to help when she was unable to tell him about her sister’s possible involvement in her boyfriend’s probable attack on the Buchanan in Sydney harbour for joint ANZUS exercises.

Dear old dad, if he knew what his oldest daughter had been up to, he would have several litters of kittens. He would never countenance sabotage which endangered the lives of an ally. Still, it may not have come to that. She could not confirm beyond reasonable doubt that Bradley had been involved in attempted sabotage of the ship, and she prayed her sister was not involved. His abduction pointed to the Americans grabbing him to get a few answers to that question. So was it O’Toole or the Americans, or O’Toole on behalf of the Americans? So where did that leave Bradley? Up shit creek without a paddle, that was for sure. And Ali entirely in the dark, like she herself was.

‘Thanks for the beer, dad,’ she said, standing up to meet her returning father, who looked disappointed. ‘Sorry, I really have to get back.’

Dan Delaney was back in the hotel room, but reading a new book, On the Beach, when there was a tap on the door. Alice was clutching what looked like an old-fashioned school exercise book across her chest, her eyes eager.

Ali looked down at the book he held cover-side-up, a forefinger book-marking his place. It was not Schindler’s Ark, the powerful book Brad had given her for her birthday. She had only just given her father a copy as a delayed Christmas present, saying he had to read this inspirational book by an Australian about a Gentile saving the lives of Jews in a Nazi death camp. She knew he had been held in a Nazi concentration camp briefly and had witnessed cruel treatment of Jewish prisoners. She hoped the book might lead to the same kind of intense conversations she had with Brad, talking about the bravery of a man obeying his conscience at incredible risk to his own life, again and again, and generally about man’s inhumanity to man. Brad really cared about oppression. And now she had with her a diary of the British acting like Nazis towards their own poor, and it involved her family’s ancestors, it would seem. She took a deep breath and was about to ask him what he thought of the Keneally book.

‘Caught me out,’ he said, trying for a light voice. ‘Well, I was reading the book you gave me, then Maria arrived.’

‘So naturally, to please her.’

‘No, nothing like that. But the Keneally novel, I mean I did see the way the Jews were treated first-hand. I just find it a bit close to the bone. But I will read it, promise.’

She shrugged.

‘I thought you’d approve a book about nuclear annihilation. Isn’t that what you’re protesting about?’

She looked away, but not before he could see her eyes watering. He put his hands up, still holding the book. ‘Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re worried about your friend. But this is Sydney, not some lawless banana republic. The authorities are looking for him, and your sister has contacts who will help.’

‘I have some news,’ she said, holding out the exercise book, not looking at him. ‘So where’s mum and everybody?

‘That Frog fellow … Alan Pervert, or whatever he’s called.’ She stared at him. ‘Bit childish, father.’

‘Maybe I’m entering my second childhood.’

‘Now that really is childish. Are you jealous?’

‘Hey, I was kidding. Look, he was cockahoop about a European negotiator of something unpronounceable. Said a substantial order of Vukovich wine was imminent. He invited all of us to a French restaurant. Apparently, the Hilton isn’t good enough. I declined to go, and look what happens? I get to have a civilised chat with my daughter instead of eating overpriced snails and frogs’ legs and garlic with everything -- probably even the pud.’

Ali declined his offer of wine or coffee, said a glass of water would be fine. She took a deep breath, determined not to respond any further to his defensive and rather antic mood. She asked if she could tell him her news.

He sat beside her on the couch and tapped the exercise book she placed on the coffee table. It had a red cover with a white panel in the centre for writing name and class number. This was blank. Looked like the kind of foolscap-sized book he used at the Vermont Street school all those years ago. He lifted a corner, no surprise, ruled lines to keep your printing level.

‘It looks ordinary enough.’

‘It’s mostly a transcription of a sort of diary. A convict diary.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I think he is a relation.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘There are no convicts in our family. Who gave you this?’

Ali was not used to her father’s angry tone. She picked up the glass of water and took a sip. It went down the wrong way and she began coughing and hiccupping. She stood up and rushed to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and cupped her hand and swallowed more water. She put her glasses back on and still was not seeing straight. She hiccupped, then held her breath, pinching her nose. This was the last thing she expected, her usually laid-back father freaking out. This was more the way mum would react.

When she returned, he was standing at the window. The exercise book lay unopened on the white marble coffee table.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

He shrugged without turning and repeated his question about who gave her this diary, or whatever it is, he said, waving a hand dismissively.

‘Father Larkin,’ she said, her voice coming out in a whisper. She cleared her throat and repeated that it was the priest at the funeral.

He turned. ‘Which one?’ He waved his own question away. ‘Doesn’t matter, they’re all tarred with the same brush. Let me be absolutely clear, Alice, I am not interested. If it involves my mother and this disgusting allegation that she bore a child in Australia, I do not want to know. It pains me to say this, but your grandmother was under the thumb of those self-appointed servants of God.’

He paused, his shoulders rising as he took in air. She could see how tense he was. ‘Dad, we can leave it for now.’

He made a cutting gesture with his right hand. ‘You have to understand,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘My father wouldn’t have a bar of them, and nor will I. Priests wield past transgressions as a weapon, the confessional as their method of control. I don’t know if it is possible, but I do share my father’s vision of looking to a better future -- a socialist future where everybody gets a fair go and there are no positions where Jack is controlled by his master through clerical lackeys, no inherited privilege, a level playing field. No country has achieved this ideal, least of all any of the murderous socialist regimes, but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.’

His shoulders heaved as he took extra air into his lungs. He jabbed a finger behind him. ‘As far as I am concerned that diary can go right back where it came from. Those priests have got nothing better to do than pick away at the uncertainties and historic wounds of those they control. They should let people recover instead of condemning them to guilt and misery by raising demons from their past. Please don’t mention it again. I’m going into our bedroom to make a few calls. See if there is any news of your friend.’

Ali was staring blankly at the diary when the front door opened and her mother called out a greeting. She looked up and through tears could see the outline of her mother shrugging off her jacket and exclaiming about the heat.

‘I left them to it,’ she said, sitting down beside her daughter, fanning her face with an open hand. ‘No more daytime drinking for me. Alice, you’re upset? Has something happened?’

It was the arm around her shoulders that was the final straw. She burst into tears as she was enfolded in her mother’s embrace. She surrendered to sobbing against the long unfamiliar maternal breast, hoping the hiccups would not return. She could smell her mother’s gorgeous and unfamiliar scent, which was probably a gift from her French friend. Dad wouldn’t know a Chanel No 5 from a Farmers’ cosmetic counter special.

‘Come on,’ her mother said, sitting her upright. She removed her glasses and dabbed a tissue at her eyes. Role reversal, Ali thought. Was there something in the Australian water? Her father dismissing her, her mother embracing her. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother mothered her.

‘Um,’ she said, accepting the glass of water. This time she managed to swallow the right way. She accepted a fresh tissue.

‘Better? Want to tell me what’s wrong.’

She picked up the exercise book and opened it. The writing was a mixture of ink and pencil in a mostly legible hand, more a crude cursive than copperplate.

Ali told her mother this was an occasional but chronological diary or, more accurately, the copy of a diary from the convict days, with further comments at the end. It was by a man who was the copyist’s grandfather, and they were probably relations on grandmother’s side. Dad’s mum, she added.

Her mother patiently sat looking at her. Ali dreaded what she would say, but she made none of the caustic comments she usually did. Instead, she waited. Her serene manner surprised and then encouraged Alice to get her thinking straight. She explained that she got talking to Father Larkin at the funeral. He said he thought that, given her sympathetic article on the, as he put it, unusual woman of the streets, she was the best person to receive the diary that would inform her family about these Australian relations. The venerable Father Petrus was failing in body and mind but had admitted in a rare rational moment that the Church had been cruel and acting against the enlightened teaching of its founder Jesus Christ by hiding this information from those entitled to it.

Jas picked up the diary. ‘You’ve read it?’ Ali said she had.

‘Your father seen it?’

‘He didn’t want to know.’

Jas opened the diary. ‘Mary?’ she said, looking up at her daughter. ‘Your father’s mother. Father Petrus told me about the child she had here and the Church placing the boy with a local family. To me the good Father seemed completely rational and sympathetic.’

She stopped. Her daughter had a stricken look. ‘Were you going to tell me?’

Jas put a hand over hers. ‘That is exactly what I was going to do, as soon as you had told me what was upsetting you. I take it your father’s reaction to the diary is the culprit?’

Ali tried to compose herself.

‘Look,’ Jas said, standing. ‘I will fetch your father. We have to face this as a family.’

‘No! Please don’t, mum. Can we wait?’

Jas was about to insist when her husband appeared, holding the mobile.

‘It’s the priest. They have your friend, Alice. In the infirmary.’

‘What?’ Ali said. ‘Is he hurt?’

‘Daniel, you mean Father Larkin, yes? Is he still on the phone?’

‘No. He says Bradley is weak, a few bruises, but nothing food and rest won’t fix.’

‘Can we see him?’ Ali said in a small voice.

‘That’s why he rang. We are welcome to visit any time. I should tell your sister where we are.’

‘No!’ Ali howled.

‘Daniel, for heaven’s sake. You know what Maria will have to do, tell her Australian colleagues. And they will tell the Americans.’

Her husband looked chastened. ‘Of course,’ he said meekly. ‘I didn’t mean we had to say where we were going and who we were seeing.’

Jas pulled her daughter to her feet and steered her to the bathroom. Over her shoulder she told her husband to order a taxi while they got ready.

In the taxi Ali could not stop trembling. It was so much to take in, the diary revelations, her father’s hostile reaction, Brad hurt but safe -- for how long? Again, her mother hugged her, stroking her hair, making soothing sounds. Her father turned around from the front passenger seat, but his wife shook her head and he said nothing.

Father Larkin met them at the entrance, asked them to follow him down the side path. Beyond an asphalt court with netball hoops they could see, behind the high chicken-wire fence, a collection of ramshackle wooden cottages in need of a fresh coat of light blue. An older nun was waiting in a modest porch. She dipped her head at the priest and except for the clacking rope of rosary beads at her waist silently led the way inside, past a statue of the Madonna in much better blue nick than the building’s exterior, down a faded red linoleum corridor. The walls featured photos behind glass, mostly male, from the current Pope to gatherings of priests, the only female a gaunt nun shrouded in the old-fashioned wimple who might be St Brigid. There was a large metal crucified Christ above the room the nun entered. Ali instinctively blessed herself and followed. She barely registered her mother saying they would leave her to visit alone.

It was a pleasant room with images of Christ healing the sick and the lame. A large wire-caged floor fan rotated slowly, fluttering the lace curtains and easing the oppressive heat. The nun was standing beside the bed. Ali tentatively approached, the nun retreating to the door.

Brad was propped up on pillows, a twitch of his mouth that might have been a smile. He was draped in a baggy white hospital smock, which did not disguise his lean frame but served to highlight the possum-like distended eyes ringed in black bruising and the alarming yellow swelling around the comprehensive head bandage, from which a solitary blond lock dangled. She held back tears as she took the hand not hooked up to a drip.

‘Hey, Alice,’ he said in a whisper.

‘Who did this to you?’ she managed, unable to stop tears forming.

‘No idea.’

‘Americans?’

‘Aussie accents. They used me as a punching bag until I blacked out. I came to with a massive headache. There was a cloth over my eyes, but I think I was in an attic, strapped to a wobbly old chair. It probably stabilised me. My ribs were on fire when I made the slightest movement. I figured they were cracked. Nothing to eat. I could smell meat cooking and it almost drove me mad.’

She could see the sweat forming on his forehead, and his voice was weak. ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

‘I want to. There was another thing that drove me nuts, this bloody cat scratching at the door all night, yowling like it was a full moon. Then there were two people coming up the stairs, the door opening, scuffling and swearing. I think the cat went for them. There was a light in my face. I held my breath. There was more cursing and accusations that I was putting them on. They reinforced the comments with a few more punches and kicks, which were getting kinda nasty. There was a sharp prick in my arm. Next thing I’m in this bed. I gather from what sister said they found me outside. I got lucky, I guess.’

On the bed was a folded newspaper. She could see some of the headlines: Premier Neville Wran Warns Against Anti-American Protests. Country’s Biggest Ever Protest Planned.

‘You’ll be there, right?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The protests!’ his voice croaked. ‘For fuck’s sake, Alice. You gotta be there. You are going, okay? Show those bastards …’

He started coughing. There was a horrible gurgling sound in his chest as if he was drowning, and intensified coughing. The nun stepped forward. ‘Mr Bonhoffer. You mustn’t get upset.’

She placed a hand on Alice’s arm. ‘I must attend to him, I’m sorry. Your friend really needs to rest.’

She blinked away tears as she was led out the door. Her mother was saying best to follow sister’s advice. Her father murmured that her friend was in good hands. She was sobbing, dreading what he must have been through.

She was seated, flanked by her parents, her mother holding her hand. The nun was facing them across a desk, talking about something to do with Bradley. She was finding it difficult to stop herself trembling. The nun was pouring water, her father took it and handed the glass to her. She sipped.

‘As I was saying,’ the nun said. ‘Your friend was collapsed on the ground outside the church. The altar boy was the one who found him. He went straight to Father Larkin, who was preparing for early Mass.’

‘How badly is he injured?’ her father asked.

‘The head knock looks worse than it is,’ the nun said. ‘The doctor thought that must have happened when he was dumped. That is not the thing he is concerned about. You might not have noticed the bandaging around his torso.’

Ali shrieked, dropping the glass of water, which smashed on the wooden floor. Her mother held her and her father was saying something. The nun and Father Larkin cleaned up the glass.

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me what the doctor said.’

‘Yes, he has arranged for x-rays. It is a most unfortunate business, but the doctor says it could have been worse.’ The nun blessed herself. ‘We will pray to the Lord for a speedy recovery. Your friend has several broken ribs and some severe stomach and abdominal bruising. The doctor believes he was subjected to a prolonged beating. The police will be coming to take a statement this afternoon.’

Her mother squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, it is routine. He is not in any trouble.’

‘Is he fit to be interviewed by the police?’ her father asked.

‘The doctor will be in attendance. If it is too, well, difficult, it will be postponed. An ambulance will take Mr Bonhoffer to the hospital for the x-rays and a comprehensive clinical assessment, check his internal organs, kidneys, liver, and so on. In the meantime, we will be keeping a careful eye on your friend.’

‘We will pray for him,’ Father Larkin said, hastily excusing himself as there was a pounding on the front door, an almighty impact, the sound of boots thumping down the corridor, shaking the flimsy building. Doors were opening and slammed shut, loud voices demanding somebody show himself. They were on their feet when the door was flung open.

‘Where’s Bonhoffer?’ Malone yelled at them, his face a fierce red. ‘We know he’s here.’

‘Compose yourself,’ the nun said. ‘This is a healing and holy place. You cannot barge in like this.’

Malone ignored her and faced his Marines. ‘Go find him. He’s here somewhere. Go!’

His men left on the double. Malone swung round, his finger pointing at each of them in turn.

‘This man will be found. You are supposed to be our allies. Well, here’s your chance to prove it. Tell me where Bonhoffer is.’

‘You are totally out of order,’ Dan Delaney said, stepping up and pushing his finger away. Malone looked ready to explode.

‘Please,’ the nun said. ‘This is no way to behave in a convent hospital.’

‘Exactly,’ Jas said. ‘Calm down. There are proper procedures.’

Father Petrus appeared, blinking. ‘What is going on? I heard a commotion.’

‘Damn right there’s a commotion,’ Malone said, facing him. ‘We need to take into protective custody an American citizen, whom you are sheltering.’

One of the Marines bumped the old priest aside. ‘Sir?’

‘You found him?’

‘Not exactly. You’d best step this way, sir.’

Malone took off after his Marine, boots again shaking the corridor.

‘Come on,’ her father said. ‘We cannot let them strongarm him, not in his condition.’

Jas glanced at Ali and followed her husband. Ali left the priests and took off after her parents. She felt her chest tightening but it did not stop her sprinting past her parents. Malone was kicking over the floor fan and screaming at his Marine to get after him. The Marine pushed aside the curtains and climbed out the window, calling out to his colleague to check the other side.

Malone was glaring at them, as if it was their fault.

‘How about you try and calm down,’ her father said. ‘This is no way to behave.’

Malone swung his finger at Ali. ‘You led us here. You tell me where he is.’

‘Don’t you threaten our daughter,’ Jas growled, while her husband got between the American and Ali. Father Larkin entered, his voice in a shrill register saying the police were on their way. Malone rudely pushed him aside and was shouting in the corridor. The priest said he must help Mother Monica deal with the intruders.

‘I’m amazed about your friend,’ her mother said. ‘I didn’t think he could move.’

‘Needs must,’ Ali said, feeling a flash of pride. ‘I hope they don’t catch him.’

‘Me too,’ her mother said. ‘Daniel, can you get a taxi and get us away from that obnoxious American.’

The shouting was intensifying. ‘They need a hand,’ her father said. Ali followed him. One Marine was restraining the nun as Malone barged the priest out of the way. Ali and her father collided with him as he reeled back from the stench coming through the open door. There were voices wailing and crying, one shrieking.

‘You must not enter!’ Mother Monica snapped.

Malone ignored her, but he did pause in the doorway. It was a dormitory occupied by six elderly women in blue night attire with dishevelled hair trying to sit up in their beds, all extremely agitated despite the efforts of a young nun to calm them. Ali could see some shaking with terror, others gaping, open mouths screaming, drooling, toothless. Ali took in the group of wheelchairs before she noticed there was an exception in the end bed by the window. A bulky nun in an oilskin apron with the sleeves of her habit rolled up was tending to a prone figure, the blue garment immodestly lifted. The smell was obviously coming from the soiled garment. The nursing sister looked around at them, in her hands a cloth she wrung out in a steaming porcelain basin, releasing the distinctive tang of Dettol. It only partially modified the reek of emptied bowels.

‘Show some respect!’ Mother Monica shouted over the rising distress of the frantic women. ‘These are very old and infirm sisters. In the name of Christ, please leave.’

Malone looked around, as baffled as some of those he had traumatised. He found no visible answers. He shook his head in frustration, swivelled on a boot and snarled at the Marine to leave.

In a much more composed voice Mother Monica asked them if they too could leave her sisters to restore order. She shut the door on them.

‘There has to be a complaint to the ambassador,’ Jas said. ‘This is a gross invasion of privacy.’

‘Of very private women,’ Ali added. ‘They’re certainly living up to the Ugly American image.’

‘Isn’t that a novel?’ her father asked.

‘Yes, about the American invasion of Vietnam.’

‘Do I have to read that too?’

Ali smiled despite feeling he should not be making light of things given the context. But his anger was gone. She said he should read the book, and he might enjoy it. Even better, she added, was Graham Greene’s The Quiet American.

‘That title sounds like a non-sequitur,’ her father said. ‘Quiet and American do not compute.’

She laughed, and her mother hugged her. Some things were looking up. The tremble in her chest had however been replaced by anxiety in her stomach. Brad had got away for now, but for how long? He was in bad shape. At least order was being restored as the sounds of elder distress eased to whimpers and the occasional sobs.

‘I don’t get it,’ Ali said.

‘No,’ Jas agreed. ‘Where could your friend have got to?’

‘We saw what he was hooked up to,’ her husband said.

‘I can tell you,’ a grinning Father Larkin said, appearing suddenly. ‘Now that the Americans have left.’ A sound of high revving and squealing tires suggested it was not a benign departure.

The young priest was sweating excessively. He ran a finger under his dog collar as he eyed the puzzled family. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, ending their suspense.

‘You mean the end bed?’

‘Yes, Mrs Delaney. I had to act quickly, so I raised the sash window and wheeled Mr Bonhoffer across the corridor.’

‘Quick thinking,’ Dan said.

‘And opening the window, so the Americans think that’s the escape route?’ Ali suggested.

‘Misdirection,’ the priest said, looking pleased to be appreciated.

‘Agatha Christie?’

‘Yep, dad. You’re on to it.’

‘But the, er, poo?’

‘Yes, Mrs Delaney. That was Sister Ursula’s idea. She was in the process of emptying the pan and, well, she tipped it over your friend.’

‘Saved the day,’ Dan said.

‘For now,’ Ali added. ‘We have to get him out of here before they decide to come back.’

‘Leave them with me,’ her father said. ‘The American ambassador needs to know what his security clowns are doing.’

‘But how?’

‘I think your sister could help here. Father, can I use your telephone?’

‘And can I see Brad?’

Father Larkin said that would be up to Mother Superior, but the telephone was no problem. He said he would go with her father, for he too needed to make phone calls. Ali said she would wait here. Her mother said she would too.

Ali’s glasses were misting up again as her mother embraced her and said they would soon be safe, and so would Bradley. Ali was grateful for the support, although she still feared for Brad’s safety. He was unable to defend himself, he could not flee, the Americans had already proved utterly ruthless. And they had a righteous cause. Brad had committed an act of terrorism and she was an accessory. She couldn’t tell her parents. She closed her eyes and sank against her mother’s embrace.

She felt her mother go rigid. She opened her eyes. It was the boorish bodgie from the funeral, O’Toole. This time he was dressed in a flamingo pink silk suit and pink winklepickers. The fancy dress was absurd, but not the shotgun he was using to herd her parents and herself into the room where Brad had been. His two thugs had raised the panic level once more in the dementia wing as they wheeled Brad out into the corridor, hooked up to a drip one of them was holding.

‘We just had to wait for the Yankee invaders to skedaddle,’ O’Toole said. ‘As you can see, we are concerned for your boyfriend’s welfare. That’s why we left him here, to get patched up, after an unfortunate accident. Now he’s on the mend and should be fine, so long as others cooperate. If you’ll excuse us, we got a date with serious dollars. Your boy is going to lay us a golden egg.’

He backed off down the hall after his staff wheeling their patient.

‘Oh, forget about the phone,’ O’Toole called. ‘It doesn’t seem to be working. Cheers.’

Ali thought she was going to faint. Her mother held her up, rubbing her back. She took a flannel from Mother Monica and held it on Ali’s forehead. She felt cold water trickling down her face. She was finding it hard to speak, even to breathe. She wanted to ask what they could do, but she could not articulate.