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The sun was sinking below the horizon as the freighter Coriander made its way up the Gulf of St. Vincent toward Adelaide. Beside the captain were three men he did not know – nor care to know – and ones he certainly would not remember for anyone asking questions. The captain, a French Canadian, was a burly man with a large belly and arms as strong as hoists. He had thrown his weight into many a brawl and seldom come out the loser, yet these three drove chilling fear up the core of his spine. It was not because they were physically imposing. They weren’t. In fact, none of the three matched his height. It was something indefinable, like they could slit a man’s throat and not let it interrupt breakfast.
He was grateful to know so little about them. Only one had ever spoken, and all three wore bulky clothing, beards, and woolen caps. They had boarded the ship at night in Hong Kong after the container freight had been loaded. Ling Soo, one of the vice presidents of Spice Lines East, had brought them aboard with orders to take them to South Australia, no questions asked. The captain would long ago have fed Soo to the bilge rats had not his signature appeared on each of his paychecks.
As the three men and the captain looked out over the rippling gray waters of the gulf, their spokesman broke the silence again, his British accent cold and calm. “Slow the ship, Captain,” he said. “To which speed I leave up to you, so long as darkness reaches port before this vessel.”
Nighttime had indeed settled over Outer Harbor before the Coriander had been secured to the concrete of the port’s industrial peninsula. The captain kept a watchful eye on the ensuing activity: men were everywhere, cranes began operating, forklifts scurried about. Yet something was wrong, not so much with what he was seeing, but with what he was not. The three strangers . . . where had they gone? How could they have disembarked without his having seen them?
A mile away, the small motorboat slowed its engine and surged gently on its own wake toward some moored sailboats bobbing in the darkness. Damp sea air blew in gusts around the four silent figures. A brilliant canopy of stars pierced the sky above. The driver rotated the steering wheel to the left, then moved a lever at his side and reversed the propeller. The motorboat slid up to a floating dock.
It had been an easy task for the three strangers to rappel undetected down the side of the freighter and into the boat, the looped rope then pulled from the railing. For this mission, secrecy was everything. Their entry into Australia must not be traceable on any computer.
“Over here!” a man named Percy called out in the darkness.
The reply was a metallic click, and Percy quickly realized his mistake.
“Tango Nine, Tango Nine!” he said hurriedly. How could he forget to identify himself, especially with these men?
“Tango One,” came the proper reply. “Do that again and you’re dead.”
Carrying black canvas bags, the three strangers followed Percy to a white Holden sedan. Within fifteen minutes, they had parked in the heart of Port Adelaide. They got out and walked to a Victorian pub on a side street near some old railroad tracks. A West End beer sign hung above the door, its illuminated red-and-black panels the most powerful beacon along this section of the darkened street.
A wall of smoke and laughter greeted the four men as they entered. A young blonde behind the enameled red bar smiled her usual welcome before sliding several beers to a group of wharfies telling crude jokes at the end of the counter.
Percy led the three strangers through the crowd to a pool table, where an obese man in faded denims and a T-shirt had his cue stick lined up for a shot.
“Expected you bloody hours ago,” the man said, glancing at Percy, then at the three men. “Nine ball, side pocket,” he said, taking aim. He snapped the stick forward and the white ball drove the nine into the designated hole. He looked at his mates with a grin before approaching the three strangers.
“One room, $600 cash, nobody knows you’re here,” he said in a lowered voice. “The room ain’t much, but it’s private, which is just what you blokes want.”
The leader handed over the cash and the fat man stuffed the money in his pocket. He then returned to the pool table and chalked the tip of his cue stick.
“Percy will take you to your room,” he said. “When you’re ready, tell Beryl at the bar that you’re friends o’ Mick and she’ll pour all the beer that you want. Anything else is extra, if you get what I mean.”
Mick and several of his friends laughed coarsely before returning their attention to the game.
“Does our room have an en suite?” asked the leader.
Mick had already lined up another shot, and with an impatient sigh stood and faced the stranger. “This ain’t the Hyatt, mate. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
The leader laid another hundred on the table. “We’d like a bathroom of our own.”
A quick eye was given to the cash, but Mick did not take it. “Well, bugger me now, won’t you look at this?” he said. “Maybe you blokes have some more o’ that down in one o’ them fancy bags.”
The locals began grouping around the strangers.
The leader eyed the men then placed the hundred directly on top of two fives laid down earlier as a bet. “I see you are a man who likes to wager,” he said, taking a cue stick from the rack. “Now you can either accept the money I am offering you” —he lined up a shot and drilled the white ball into the seven, sending it into a corner pocket— “or take a very big chance” —he lined up another shot and sent the three ball into a pocket like a bullet— “and risk . . . well, whatever you and your friends feel like risking.”
He then banked the cue ball from behind the eight with a slight spin, sending it delicately into the four, which fell into a side pocket. He straightened, cue stick in hand. “The choice is yours . . . mate.”
Mick and the others had been staring transfixed at the shooting skill of the nameless man in dark clothing. There was something unnerving about his lack of fear, the polite smile, his strange accent and cold authority.
Stepping up to the pool table, Mick sighted in on the eight ball and shot. The cue ball sent it into the cushion, missing the pocket. There was a nervous silence around the table and all eyes were on Mick, whose eyes were on the stranger.
“Well, bugger me dead!” Mick said, his wide grin genuine to everyone in the room but himself.
Lifting the hundred dollar bill placed on the railing by the stranger, Mick handed it back with a hearty laugh and a slap on the man’s arm. He then returned his cue stick to the rack.
“My shout, mates!” he called out. “A round o’ beer for everyone.”
A cheer went up as men began pushing their way to the bar.
Mick turned to the three strangers and said, “Will you join me, you and your mates?”
“It’s been a long journey,” the leader replied. “A shower is what we prefer.”
“In a bathroom of your own,” said Mick agreeably.
“Mick, your beer’s gettin’ warm!” someone yelled.
“On my way,” Mick replied with a wave of his hand. He then turned back to the three. “You blokes go on. Like I said, when you’re ready, Beryl will pour all the beer you can drink.”
“We’ll also need a car,” said the leader.
“Check the Yellow Pages. There’s agencies all over town.”
“We prefer to purchase. Private. No signatures.”
“You mean one which no one can trace?”
The leader smiled.
“That’ll take cash. Say, four, four-and-a-half thousand. And it won’t be nothin’ flash.”
“Agreed.”
“Give me a couple of days.”
“Six thousand. Have it tonight.”
“Bloody hell!”
