Chapter 8

 

 

At Ewen’s desk, Snitchel peered over her reporter’s shoulder at the heroin photo on the computer screen. “Superb work, Goat Man. We’ll run it that this kilo is one of many landing on Perth streets. Pure. Needs to be cut…” The editor straightened her back and fingered her elbow. “Work the purity and Thailand angle. Especially the back story on the Red Dragon emblem.”

“What’s the goss on Bernadette in Broome?”

“Nothing. No doubt she’s managed to bully her way into something solid. Bloody boat people stories. Boring as bat shit these days. But I guess this armada is large enough to run a spread if she can sell it to the rednecks as an Asian invasion.”

Ewen leant back into his chair. “Being the mature paper-gal you are…”

Snitchel shared a throwaway look.

“…why do you suppose the public loves reading heroin stories?”

“Come now, you of all people should know the answer. Why, those fine folk in drongo-land with their two point five kids, their credit card debt, their depressing jobs and six hundred thousand dollar mortgages, have this burning, almost psychotic desire to know other individuals in drongo-land are a lot more addicted to shit than themselves.”

She rubbed Ewen’s shoulder affectionately, turned and strolled away.

He half-yelled to her, “Do you ever see life’s brighter side?”

She braked, and looked back. “What, and smile a defensive smile every day? My dentist, now he has an honest smile. Actually, he’s the only person I know who can smile while saying, five thousand dollars.” She continued her stroll, talking loudly over her shoulder. “I’ve worked in print for forty-five years. In the eighties, a wank-breath journo decided to launch a good-news newspaper. Guess how many weeks it lasted?”

The editor continued towards her office, six fingers in the air.

As always, she had his respect. Ewen focused on his computer. The heroin article slotted together easily.

His mobile. Snitchel. “Leave out the Red Dragon backstory for now. Bundle it by the weekend though. We’ll pad this sucker.”

Ewen checked Snitchel’s office. His boss flicked a hand at him.

Ewen googled Red Dragon heroin. While reading an article on Asian gangs roaming western Sydney, he spoke aloud to himself. “Shit. A year eleven kid in school uniform arrested for carrying a handgun, and the WA government thinks Northbridge is violent.” He killed the web page, sat back and twirled his pen.

He clicked onto the Tradewin site to check his trading portfolio. Golden Windlass. GWD. INVALID.

For the umpteenth time, he mentally reviewed his trading plan. He’d followed the experts and diversified his portfolio. But out of his ten buys, bought as recommendations from the magazine, Stock Revelation, only four sat in profit. Revelation my arse. How did strategists go unpunished for such bullshit? To pick their shares they must play pin-the-tail on the donkey—

A female yelled, “Vietnam PM assassinated.” Trish from advertising stood at her desk, her black bob-cut razoring her neck as she swivelled in an attempt to take in everyone’s reaction.

He googled it. The Le Minh Dũng assassination, which, coupled with the Thai coup, had reeked widespread unrest in the region as the plummeting Asian stock exchanges showed. Information at light speed, he thought. An assassination. Seriously. There is shitloads happening in Asia.

The story had generated a blog fest—sketchy stories tripping over each other. A gun. No bombs.

Asia. The single word turned his attention to the Hogmyre family photo on his desk. He noted the smiles, or perhaps they were grins because the confidence displayed suggested a million secrets. For an elderly father, Francis held his age well. Handsome actually. No bags under the eyes. The prick probably didn’t worry about anything. Why call the guy a prick when I’ve never met him? Undoubtedly envious of his wealth rather than his health because here’s me, someone who can’t turn a profit in a bull market, and there’s Hogmyre sitting within the top fifty rich list for Australia, his fortune amassed through stock, commodity and currency trading.

He googled Hogmyre adoptions and concluded that for someone so wealthy it seemed astonishing that very little detailed information existed. And the stories that did exist hinted at speculation or disclosure so tightly controlled it read like a press release. He checked out an article detailing Hogmyre’s crusade against poverty via orphanage donations and education. The piece listed the men and women in the photo Bernadette had given him. It also listed which country they’d been adopted from: Myanmar, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, China, Afghanistan, Thailand, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Indonesia.

Ewen wrote a subheading on his spiral-bound notebook.

Coup and assassination: Thailand and Vietnam.

Heroin. From the adoption list, he pencilled in Myanmar Cambodia China Vietnam Afghanistan Thailand Pakistan India.

That left Indonesia and Sri Lanka.

He wondered. Heroin trafficking. Possible routes. Indonesia Thailand Myanmar.

Surge in boat people. Staging points. Myanmar Indonesia Thailand.

Asylum seekers. Afghanistan Sri Lanka Myanmar.

He leant back into his seat. Pakistan Prime Minister assassination crossed his mind. He googled it. The web article said it happened four years prior.

He typed in assassination and Pakistan stock market. The Karachi Stock Exchange index had dropped 5.5 % The Dow Jones also dropped but to a smaller extent. It reminded him of the Fortune Bank collapse last year, the Australian bank having triggered massive falls across the Aussie share market.

He lounged back again. For each country Hogmyre had adopted a child from, there had been an increase in political, financial, drug or boat people activity. Could a link exist? It all involved money. He took another long look at Hogmyre and the sons and daughters beside the businessman. It generated a chuckle. No one is that powerful; I should be writing movie scripts.