Savages

  * * *

  The afternoon rain slammed down outside the hut. Suzy was wearing a wreath of yellow orchids because today was December 23, her birthday. “Let’s have a drink, huh?” She waved her arm expansively. “My treat.”

  “Double martini on the rocks with a twist,” Carey said. “Patty, you can’t have Perrier again.”

  “Then I’ll have plain tomato juice with lemon. Somebody’s got to carry you home, Carey.”

  “Line up the Fosters for me,” Jonathan called from his bed, where he lay recovering from a second bout of fever. His pale, glistening skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, he was now an angular maquette of a man.

  “Hot chocolate,” Annie ordered, “with whipped cream.”

  “Pink champagne,” Suzy decided.

  Silvana said, “You’ll all have fresh lime juice, because I’ve just made a jugful to celebrate Suzy’s birthday.” She lifted her head. “Listen, the rain’s stopping.”

  “I’ll have a triple martini,” Carey giggled. “Two double triples for me.”

  Suzy sat up and sniffed sharply. “What’s that stuff she’s smoking?”

  “Oh, my Gawd.” Jonathan also sat up, then fell back against the bracken. “I was wondering when she’d get to it.”

  “Get to what?” Annie was perplexed.

  “Marijuana. It grows like crabgrass out here.”

  “Sure does. I’ve been drying this for weeks. So pretty when I picked it … Delicate green shoots … Delicatessen … Wanna eat green shoes … Wanna eat something fast. I’m staaaarving.”

  Jonathan swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Give that to me, Carey.”

  Carey smiled foolishly. “Goin’ get summa t’eat.” She fell out of bed on all fours and crawled out of the hut into the churning mud beyond.

  “It sure acts fast,” said Annie, amazed.

  Jonathan looked worried. “Go after her, Patty. Bring her back.”

  Suzy reported with delight, “There’s another reefer on Carey’s bed, and a bamboo lid with some fine, green powder in it. She’s been rolling it up in dried leaves.”

  “Don’t you touch that, Suzy!” Jonathan tried to yell, but his voice was too weak to rise above a croak.

  “It’s only pot—as smoked on campuses across the country.”

  “Suzy! Bring it to me!” Jonathan ordered. “I don’t want anyone else out of their skull, understand? You can smoke the stuff till you’re stupid once you get home, but you can’t afford to smoke it in the jungle.”

  He tried to stand up, but his legs gave way and he fell back on the bed. “Patty, I told you to bring Carey back. Get out there!”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not going to argue with someone that size when she’s stoned,” Patty said. “Hey, she’s standing up now, sort of … She’s taken her shirt off … Kicked her boots off … There go her pants … Now … trying to put her boots back on … Hey, she’s fallen over … She’s rolling in the mud … Lucky the fire’s gone out because she just fell into it … Now she’s got one boot on, but she can’t seem to tie it.”

  All the women moved forward to peer out of the hut at the rain-soaked scene. Suzy said enviously, “She sure seems to be having a good time.”

  Jonathan said, “Get her back in here at once.”

  Nobody took any notice of him.

  Jonathan insisted, “If she tries to leave camp, you’ve got to stop her. All of you must stop her. Suzy can sit on her head—I mean it! Get out there and tie her hands behind her, then rope her to a tree, until she comes to her senses again.”

  Ignoring him, Patty continued to report, “Now she’s at the mangoes … No, Silvana, leave her be, we can pick them up later. No use your going out there now. She’s prancing around like a blond gorilla in army boots.”

  There was a crash from beyond the hut. “That was the smoking tepee,” Patty called. “Now she’s tearing at a mango covered with mud.”

  “Her or the mango?” Suzy asked.

  “Both.”

  Jonathan muttered, “God help us when she discovers the coca shrub.”

  Suzy turned and looked at him sharply. “You mean there’s cocaine out there as well?”

  “There’s a patch of it growing wild at the old settlement. Those five-foot canes with pale, sage-green leaves. The natives stir the leaves in a pot over a fire, then dry them and pound them into a powder mixed with ash, according to the strength required. During long trips at sea, the men’ll go for days without sleep or food.”

  “Sounds just what we need,” said Suzy.

  “Naw, it wouldn’t suit you, Suzy. You’d end up listless and resigned, a give-up sort of person. Then we’d never get out of here.”

  From beyond the huts came a crash.

  “That was the bucket of crabs for this evening. Just as well Silvana’s already boiled them,” Patty reported. “No, don’t go out there, Silvana, we can wash them later.”

  Silvana said, “Porca miseria, she’ll wreck the camp. How long does this effect last?”

  Jonathan said crossly, “Up to three hours depending how strong it is, and how much she smoked. Put that down, Suzy.”

  Silvana said, “This is ridiculous! I’m going to get her back here before she wrecks the camp. She can lie down and sleep it off.” She dashed from the hut.

  Hanging around the hut entrance, Suzy reported, “Carey’s hugging Silvana … That stuff sure makes you horny … No, I think Carey’s trying to waltz with her … Silvana’s just belted her … Now they’re both down in the mud … Gee, mud wrestling, we should be selling tickets and making bets … Silvana just walloped her again … Boy, is Carey a mess! … They’re down again … I think Silvana’s going to knock her out … Silvana’s standing up, she looks real mad … She’s yelling at Carey in Italian and Carey’s just lying there laughing … Now Silvana’s stamping her foot; she’s had enough, looks as if she’s going to the pool.”

  Jonathan asked sharply, “What’s Carey doing now?”

  “She’s heading up by the river, toward William Penn.”

  Jonathan pulled himself up from the bed and leaned on one elbow. “Patty, bring her back. You know damn well I can’t.”

  “Are you kidding? After what she just did to Silvana?”

  Jonathan yelled, “She’s a menace to herself and a menace to the camp. Now get out there—all of you—and bring her back.”

  Suzy said pertly, “You only taught us to kill, not to mudwrestle.”

  “Bring her back!”

  Grumbling and laughing, the three women ran out into the dripping green forest.

  Ten minutes later Annie, wiping the mud from her shoulders, returned to the hut. “Suzy and Patty are shadowing her. I forgot I was lookout, sorry. Are you sure you’re okay on your own, Jonathan?”

  “Sure, I’m fine, just wishing I was back at sea.” Jonathan saw the sea as a friendly opponent, a constantly changing enigma, a challenge. It was something to be wary of, something to be survived.

  Annie looked at his face and said wistfully, “I feel the same way about the snow. You’ll soon be back at sea again.”

  “Not until we’re damned sure that the Long Wet’s over. You never take a chance with the sea, she’s an unforgiving bitch.”

  * * *

  By the riverbank the late afternoon sun stabbed through the high green canopy of leaves dappling the iridescent wings of giant butterflies and the peacock and emerald wings of birds of paradise—and the glistening mud that covered Carey’s body as she crashed through the jungle, naked except for her boots.

  Following her, Suzy panted, “Boy, is she going to have that morning-after feeling. Slowly remembering, then wishing you didn’t.”

  Patty said, “She’s getting badly scratched.”

  “We can’t stop her, Patty.”

  The women carried rattan ropes. They had decided to jump Carey from behind, when they had the chance.

  Carey loved to stand upriver of the waterfall, to edge her way through the undergrowth to
a certain spot on the bank where she could listen to the chuckle and hiss of the water as it rushed toward the cliff. She liked to watch the malachite fronds of creepers, twined with butter-yellow orchids, that hung over the water’s edge and were reflected in the rippling surface of the river. Now, as Carey crashed happily toward her favorite spot, she started to yodel.

  Patty whispered to Suzy, “We’ll have to do something, quickly. She’ll have the entire Paui army here in no time.”

  Cautiously the two women started to move forward.

  There was a noise like a spring snapping.

  As the peacock wings of startled birds beat frantically above her, Carey stopped singing and stared lazily in front of her, at the few inches of ground between her feet and the river.

  On the leaf-strewn bank lay a large blue-feathered bird, its gleaming wings tipped with a darker blue. There was an arrow through its throat.

  * * *

  All the women huddled in the darkness of the hut, shivering with fear and unable to sleep.

  Once again Jonathan reassured them, “You’re safe if you stay in the taboo area.”

  “But where does it stop?” Silvana whispered.

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Exactly. That’s what’s so frightening.”

  “It was only a warning,” Jonathan said. “If they wanted to shoot Carey, they’d have done it, and serve her damn well right. Shooting a bird isn’t taboo. In fact, ghost-granny is probably eating a ghost-bird for supper this very minute. But shooting Carey on this site would have polluted it forever.”

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 24

  As she padded after Jonathan through the jungle, Patty thought that she’d never have imagined a Christmas Eve like this. For a moment her concentration wavered, then she firmly pushed all thought of Pittsburgh from her mind. She dare not think of home. And she dared not think of yesterday. She concentrated on the dank-smelling track ahead of her.

  They were out because Jonathan was determined to have something better than roast rat for Christmas dinner.

  Holding her club and her knife, Patty lifted her nose and sniffed, but although her sense of smell had greatly improved since being in the jungle, she could not smell whatever it was that Jonathan had sniffed.

  Ahead of her, slowly and quietly, Jonathan moved to the right. He was circling the animal, getting upwind of the slight breeze blowing from the sea. The animal that Patty couldn’t see was probably feeding. Maybe it was a wild pig.

  Jonathan started to move forward. Patty followed ten paces behind, thinking, If he doesn’t watch out, he’ll hit William Penn. Then she realized that this was Jonathan’s intention. He was going to move, fast, along William Penn Place, then quietly approach the animal from upwind.

  Patty decided to stay where she was, so if the pig were alarmed and crashed her way, she could move forward and, with luck, drive it back into the path of Jonathan’s gun.

  Within minutes, to her horror, Patty heard someone moving to her left along William Penn—someone in boots, someone who was taking no precautions to walk silently.

  Patty moved one step sideways, to hide behind a sandalwood tree, and froze. Into her line of vision came a lone, brown-skinned, uniformed soldier.

  Patty waited. Anyone accompanying him would be close on his heels. She counted thirty seconds, then started to move parallel to the soldier on the jungle path. Several possibilities whizzed through her sharpened mind as she moved, still concealed by the brush, shadowing the soldier. Was Jonathan on the track ahead? Was he hidden? Wherever he was, he’d be concentrating on that damned pig, he wouldn’t be thinking about his safety—that was her job. If this agile, mean-looking little guy saw Jonathan, would he want to harm him? Would he try to capture him? Would he … ?

  Patty had her answer when she saw the soldier stop abruptly, glance quickly behind him, then to either side. Reassured, he lifted his rifle.

  She pulled her knife from her belt, knowing she had only a couple of seconds to act. As she moved onto the path, she was three yards behind him.

  The soldier moved his head to his right shoulder to rest against the stock of his rifle. As he squinted along the barrel at the sight, Patty’s only thought was, He’s got a rifle and he’s taking his time, so he’s probably about to shoot Jonathan in the back.

  Should she merely try to divert him, or should she take her knife by the handle and fling it at his back? But he was wearing a backpack. Anyway, suppose she missed?

  She was now so near the soldier that it would have been easy to jump him from the rear, which would have guaranteed a diversion. He wore a jungle hat, no helmet and, thank God, he was right-handed. By moving his head to the right to aim his rifle, the soldier had left the left side of his neck exposed.

  The heart is slightly to the left of the body. If a knife with an eight-inch blade is plunged down to the hilt into the hollow in the left collarbone, with a left-handed thrust that goes straight down and slightly inward, then the knife will reach the heart because there is no bone or cartilage in the way, nothing to stop the knife blade.

  Patty thought not of danger, nor of the consequences. She only thought, This is a number eight training situation. One, two, strike! With her knife in her left hand, she leaped at the man’s back, raising her arm.

  As she struck down into the man’s neck, blood spurted from the wound and drenched her hand. The man gave a gasping cry, stumbled, dropped his gun and crumpled beneath her. Reacting in a frenzy of terror, Patty thrust again and again with the knife.

  Hearing the noise, Jonathan came charging back along the jungle path.

  He found Patty sprawled on top of a limp khaki figure and blood gushing onto the track. Quickly, Jonathan kicked aside the man’s rifle and roughly pulled Patty off him. He flicked the man over and slit his throat. Then, M-16 in hand, he stood on the path, his head moving from side to side as he listened for any movement.

  Eventually he whispered hoarsely, “You all right, Patty?”

  “I think so,” Patty said, and scrambled to her feet. She was covered in blood. It even dripped from her eyelashes.

  Nothing in the jungle moved as Jonathan jerked Patty’s knife from the man’s body, wiped it swiftly on the grass and handed it back to her.

  He whispered, “I think he was alone. Let’s get his backpack off, drag him off the track and bury him. You take one foot and I’ll take the other. Then we’ll get back and clear up the path.”

  Patty didn’t move, because she was staring at the man. She was thinking that she’d just killed a human being. She was horrified and revolted.

  Jonathan also stared at the body. He saw an AK-47 rifle, a khaki uniform; a soft-peaked cap, a long-sleeved shirt, a tee-shirt beneath it, a vestcoat, covered with zippered pouches, and a bottle hanging from a webbing belt.

  Jonathan touched Patty’s shoulder and whispered, “Boots!”

  They dragged the body into the jungle. Then they cleared up the path, although Jonathan knew that any native would be able to tell in ten seconds that someone had just been killed on that spot.

  They stripped the skinny brown body, shoved it into the vegetation and covered it with debris from the jungle floor. Again, Jonathan knew that anyone who was looking for the soldier would find the body very quickly.

  Sitting back on his heels, Jonathan said, “If he was aiming to kill me, then the bastards must still be on the rampage.” He checked the backpack. It contained twenty-five rounds of ammunition, two one-day ration packets, four packs of local cigarettes, six boxes of matches, a small glass bottle of crème de menthe and a length of flowered pink cotton. “Looks as if he was heading for Katanga with Christmas gifts. Oh, yes, it’s also a holiday on Paui. The missionaries started it.”

  Jonathan stood up and looked thoughtfully at Patty. “So long as we stick inside the Golden Triangle and don’t get caught on William Penn, we’re reasonably safe from the natives. If terrorists come from the sea, then we’ve time to hide in the cave. But if they come overland from
Paradise Bay, they’ll have to cross the Burma bridge. So I’m going to show you how to sabotage it; it’ll only take thirty seconds to slash through the two top ropes. It’s not to be done except in an emergency, if we think they’ve deliberately come looking for us, because once we’ve done it, they’ll know we’re here.”

  21

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1984

  There was nobody in sight on the trail behind him. Harry pushed up his ski goggles, screwed up his eyes against the brilliant sun and looked across at the jagged white peaks which surrounded the valley. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend Christmas Eve, but within the miserable situation, he felt cheerful for the first time in weeks.

  The early arrival of the cyclone season had stopped the search on Paui, not only from the air but also on land. If the downpours didn’t wash tracks away, then they caused landslides which blocked the tracks. The multitude of streams and small rivers that flowed from the hill to the sea became muddy, foam-flecked torrents. During the Long Wet, the whole of Paui was impassable.

  Dejected, Harry had flown back to Port Moresby on November 29. On the evening of Monday, December 3, he caught the Qantas 6:30 P.M. flight to Honolulu, then on to San Francisco. On the morning of Tuesday, December 4, the badly jet-lagged Harry rode the elevator up to the thirty-sixth floor of Nexus Tower. Seated in a pigskin swivel chair at the vast zebrano table in the hushed, understated luxury of the boardroom, he reported to the acting board.

  When Harry finished, Jerry Pearce leaned forward and flicked off his cigar ash. He said, “We’re currently operating here on two assumptions: one, our people will turn up; two, they won’t.” Being chief executive clearly suited Jerry Pearce. Behind rimless eyeglasses, the brown eyes were alert, but relaxed. He wore a superbly tailored dark-gray suit and looked handsomely crisp and immaculately dynamic, but somehow he remained as unconvincing as some male model who was acting the part of a corporate president for a Fortune ad. But Jerry was about to get a surprise, Harry thought. Perhaps, after all, Jerry would have to vacate that seat at the head of the table which fitted him so snugly.