* * *
It was after dark when Harry reached Ma Chang’s hotel. He showered his disgusting filth away, threw his soiled clothes down from the veranda onto the kitchen garbage heap below and changed into a clean shirt and pants. While the captain waited at his side, he placed a telephone call to Kerry but couldn’t reach him at either his home or the mine.
Harry’s military escort then pushed him into an army jeep and drove to the Presidential Palace.
Shortly after six o’clock Harry was received in Raki’s office.
“I am truly glad to see you, Mr. Scott.” The President’s voice sounded concerned, but his eyes contradicted his friendly words as he said, “I’m glad you’re safe. I want no more disappearances.”
Harry thought, That’s genuine. No way could Nexus have persuaded any of their personnel to work on this island, however high the salary offered, had he not returned. He said, “I’m even more relieved than you are. Thank you for helping me.”
Raki smiled. “You really mustn’t, at the moment, move around the island wthout an armed escort.” He added, “I insist.”
Harry said nothing.
The President continued. “The proverbial dust has not yet settled on Paui, and you need protection.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I don’t require an armed escort. I shall be more careful in the future.” He didn’t want Raki’s spy moving around with him.
The President shrugged. “As you wish. But think about it. Now, I hope you will join me for a meal.”
At the mention of food, Harry became aware of his rumbling, empty belly.
It was clear from the meal that had been prepared for him that Harry was the President’s honored guest. In a shuttered, thirty-foot dining room six attendants wearing white lap-laps served the two men. The room was hung with curtains of pink silk shot with gold; the dining table, covered in ecru lace, reminded Harry of his mother’s Sunday dinners. The food was served on Royal Doulton, patterned with blowsy roses.
All the food came from a can: sardines in tomato sauce, which were followed by game soup, breast of turkey with cranberry sauce, potatoes and beans. Dessert was canned Australian peaches smothered in canned cream. The entire banquet—for imported canned goods cost a fortune on Paui—was accompanied by a bottle of green crème de menthe, which is considered by islanders to be a truly sophisticated drink.
Harry was being softened up.
He watched Raki shovel food into his mouth, sometimes with a knife and fork, sometimes with his fingers. He never took his eyes off his plate. Raki was greedy, Harry thought—and really greedy people can never be satisfied. They always want more—more food, more drink, more women, more children, more flatterers, more followers, more power, more money … Better than anyone, Harry knew what wealth Raki had amassed in the past ten years. He had a fortune large enough to enable him to leave Paui and enjoy life somewhere far more comfortable—California, Florida, Switzerland, the Riviera. But Raki was clever enough to know that once he left Paui he would be nobody, so he stayed on the island, preferring to be the biggest fish in a small pond.
After the meal, Harry was offered a Romeo y Julieta Havana, doubtless a gift from the Cuban diplomat’s pouch. Fragrant smoke filled the room.
“And now to business.” Raki leaned back in his chair. “You know my terms. I’m not going to alter them. I want a decision tomorrow.”
Harry knew that Third World leaders were notorious for their cat-and-mouse negotiating, their changes of mind and their mercurial decisions, so he was not surprised by this sudden ultimatum. Smoothly, he stalled. “I’m unable to give you an instant answer, sir. I have to refer to Pittsburgh.”
Raki looked contemptuously at Harry. “We both know that if we don’t have an agreement by the first of April, copper production will halt—and so will your revenue and my taxes.”
Harry said, “My company prefers not to sign until we’ve located our missing personnel.”
Raki said smugly, “It’s a pity that you’re so obsessed by this hopeless search.”
“I don’t think it’s hopeless,” Harry said firmly, thinking of the two watches locked in the safe at Barclays Bank.
“Your competitors from Manila will arrive on April second, Mr. Scott.” Raki blew a hazy gray smoke ring toward the ceiling. “The longer you search, the less time you will have for business. The choice is yours, Mr. Scott.”
* * *
Back at Ma Chang’s, Harry headed for the bar, where he called for a cold beer to wash away the sickly, peppermint taste of the crème de menthe. As he waited for his can of Fosters, Harry listened to the nightly tintinnabulation of rhythmically banged oil drums and garbage can lids, transistors turned up full blast, the occasional gunshot.
“Thought we’d seen the last of you,” called Sandy the journalist. There was nobody else in the bar, and he sat at his usual dark corner table.
Harry carried his beer over and sat down.
Sandy said, “Hear you had a spot of bother upriver.”
Harry nodded. “Raki sent a khaki nursemaid for me. I was bloody glad to see him.”
“You’ve missed a new black market scandal. Tons of raisins in wooden boxes stenciled ‘Gift of the American People to the Children of Paui’ were suddenly being sold by street vendors. There was also a similar deluge of cooking oil and powdered milk.”
“What’s new about that?”
“A lot of mission-educated islanders could read those stenciled words. One of your blokes from Mount Ida called a meeting about it. Fellow called Mindo.”
“He’s a decent bloke,” Harry said.
“His meeting was busted by the military, and he was thrown into jail. Without a trial, of course. Accused of conspiracy against the government, if you please.”
Harry put down his beer. “I’d better telephone Kerry.”
“Aw, finish your drink, mate. There’s nothing you can do.”
Harry downed his drink and then telephoned Kerry, who was relieved to hear Harry’s voice.
When the helicopter pilot reported that Harry hadn’t fired his final flare, Kerry had immediately ordered a river search. His men had found themselves lost in a spiderweb of waterways, and Kerry had been ordered by the Minister of the Interior to stop searching. Kerry had ignored the order, but was relieved that now he no longer needed to defy the Paui government.
“I’ll need another gun,” Harry said apologetically.
“I’ll get you one tomorrow,” Kerry said, wondering how many pistols Harry was planning to go through before he fired one.
Briefly, Harry explained what had happened to him, then asked, “Is it true they’ve jailed Mindo?”
“Yes.” Kerry was clearly furious and unusually indiscreet on the telephone. “Raki made a big mistake there. Our men at the mine have already shown that they can organize themselves. They acted with considerable force in last year’s strike. They’re not scattered, ignorant natives. Mindo is their leader, and there’s going to be trouble about putting him in jail. Mindo’s father is an important tribal chief—with a lot of warriors. I reckon the lid is about to blow off the kettle. In fact, I’m thinking of sending Betty to Sydney.”
Harry said, “Raki didn’t look as if he was expecting trouble.”
“No, Raki doesn’t seem to notice. But then, he’s preoccupied. You wouldn’t have heard, but he suddenly married again. She’s not yet fourteen years old, a hot little number from one of the hill tribes. The celebrations took place the day before yesterday. We had fireworks, pig feasts, palm wine, the works. Haven’t you noticed that everyone still has a hangover today?”
“What about his other young wife?”
“Ah. She died of blood poisoning, just before Christmas.”
* * *
At eleven o’clock that night, Harry’s call came through from Pittsburgh. Harry told his news and added, “Jerry, I believe the disappearance of our people is somehow linked to this deal. That’s why I don’t want to close.”
> “Bullshit!” Jerry shouted. “You’re supposed to wrap up that deal as fast as possible. Don’t let Raki get cold again.” He didn’t give Harry a chance to speak again, but ranted on. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Harry? Three months ago, before Christmas, there might have been a slight chance of finding some trace of our missing party. But now, any further searching is an obsessional waste of the company’s money! In fact, if you’re not back here in Pittsburgh exactly one week from today, with a good explanation of why you wasted a quarter of a million dollars this month on something I ordered you not to do, you’re through, Harry.”
The line went dead. Harry decided to have another beer.
* * *
The next morning, wakening, Harry first wondered why he felt so terrible. Then to his great joy he remembered that he was free! He started to sit up in bed but fell back with a groan. He winced as someone tapped on his door.
Mrs. Chang wobbled in. She wore a furtive expression and blue cotton coolie pajamas. She whispered, “I am so sorry to compromise you, Mr. Scott, but I thought it best not to talk to you last night.” Primly, she sat upright on the scarred bentwood chair at the end of Harry’s bed. “I have top-rate, top-price information, Mr. Scott. On Wednesday last, President Raki visited a village about twenty miles south of Paradise Bay. The day before, a group of white women had killed some soldiers near this place. They also stole the soldiers’ boat, their guns and their uniforms.”
Harry jerked upright. The bedsprings protested. Mrs. Chang girlishly covered her face with her hands, to hide the sight of Harry’s bare chest.
“What’s the name of the village? How do you know? When did you hear?”
“This story comes to me from barracks talk, Mr. Scott. There was also an air search for the women, but they did not find them. Mr. Scott!”
Harry had leaped naked from his bed. He grabbed the threadbare towel and twisted it around his hips.
Mrs. Chang said sharply, “You are not to check this story or the President will hear of it. My source will be tracked down and beheaded.”
Harry wound his arms around Mrs. Chang, squeezing her in a mighty hug. His towel fell to the floor.
Mrs. Chang cried, “Mr. Scott, you are compromising me.”
* * *
As the helicopter started its descent, agonized squeals came from the two shackled piglets in the rear. A misty-gray veil subdued the irregular blurs of black, olive and emerald on either side of the sump-colored river on which Katanga village lay.
Stepping from the helicopter, Harry was greeted by the luluai of Katanga. The cigarette ceremony took place and the piglets were presented, one to the village and the other as a sacrifice for the spirits by the waterfall. Both animals were graciously received.
Harry’s interpreter then confirmed that white women had been in the area. Tentatively, he suggested an immediate appeasement of the spirits. The medicine man was consulted, but shook his head. Such ceremonies took time to prepare. Tense with anxiety, Harry found it hard to control his impatience. He had to see if there were any traces of the Nexus party at Waterfall Bay. Somewhat nervously, the interpreter explained that before he left Paui this white master wished, in person, to appease the spirits of the itambu area.
Harry’s trump card—a transistor radio—was fetched from the helicopter. Harry demonstrated it, with an appropriate blast of “Banana Revolution.”
The medicine man delicately touched the tuner, and Madonna was displaced by slightly more melodic static. The medicine man scratched his head and agreed that it might be in order for the white man to make a sacrifice, then with great bravery he offered to travel in the rear of the helicopter, in the space vacated by the piglets.
Ten minutes later Harry jumped from the helicopter onto the sandy curve of the beach. A few moments later, laden with yellow orchids, he scrambled up the cliff path and followed the river upstream until he spotted the ravaged, burned-out camp.
He looked around the silent clearing and carefully laid the orchids on the ground, then moved slowly around the blackened grass and the charred stumps of the huts. He picked up an empty cigarette pack and a couple of spent cartridges. He could find no trace of the women.
As the helicopter droned back over the headland, the medicine man crouched, terrified but triumphant, in the rear. At the village he descended from the machine with the slow dignity of one who had just visited the gods.
Instructed by Harry, the interpreter asked when the white women had left.
Harry waited, holding his breath. Did they know anything? Would they tell him?
The luluai spoke and pointed to the headland.
The interpreter reported. “The women had left in one small boat for an inlet on the headland, just before moonrise two night’s previously.
Harry had missed them by less than two days.
Simultaneously overjoyed and disappointed, Harry asked, “How can this be proven?”
The luluai clacked an instruction. A youth hurried to his hut. He returned with a small bit of lacy black cloth.
Triumphantly the luluai held it up. “Banis b’long susu white missus.”
Harry grabbed the tattered black rag.
The interpreter explained that the women had left the bra as a sacrifice for their gods in a sea engine, but their gods had no power to raise the sea engine from the water for them.
Harry reckoned that a tattered, black bra wouldn’t be sufficient proof of identity for a hard-nosed insurance assessor.
All right, Harry thought, here goes another one. He unstrapped the plastic digital watch that Mrs. Chang had sold him that morning and said, “I offer this watch for any other thing that belonged to these women.”
The watch was passed around the men of the village. The flashing green numbers were much admired. A loud argument followed.
The interpreter murmured, “Man have magic something, no want give you me.”
Harry asked for the return of his watch.
More heated discussion followed.
Harry dug in his pocket and held up a pack of playing cards. He flipped the cards from one hand to the other.
The men fell silent. The medicine man held out his hand for the cards.
Harry shook his head.
It was no contest. The medicine man gave an order and a youth ran off. When he returned, he handed something to the headman, who gravely held out two objects in the palm of his hand.
Harry saw an ordinary chrome key ring. Attached to it was a shark’s tooth and two rusted keys. One was a door key and one an ignition key. He turned his attention to the other object in the luluai’s palm. It was a leather thong with a compass attached. It might have belonged to anybody.
The interpreter pointed to the headland and explained that the women had dropped these articles when they departed.
“Let’s get out of here as fast as possible,” Harry said. His impatience was great, but he knew the importance of making proper thanks before they departed.
After the interpreter’s droning speech, the luluai shyly asked if he too could travel in the mixmaster b’long Jesus Christ. Harry knew that if he agreed, the whole village would want a joyride. Apart from precious time lost, the pilot’s face had been sour enough when he smelled the medicine man, after the pigs. Harry told the luluai that there wasn’t enough time to give him a ride now, but perhaps if he visited the village again….
And, showering cigarettes like confetti, the helicopter took off.
“Right,” said the jubilant Harry. “Get Mount Ida on the radio. They can plot the area the women could have covered in two days. Head straight out to sea.”
“Can’t do that, sir,” the pilot said. “It’s breaking the air regulations of every country in the world to go beyond gliding distance of land in a single-engine aircraft with no fixed floats.”
“I’m ordering you to do it!”
“Sorry, sir. Against regulations.”
“Look, this could mean the difference between life and d
eath to those women!”
“Me too, sir. This is a shark-infested sea.”
“Get me Mount Ida on the radio!”
Harry took over the headphones to tell Kerry his news. He ordered him to get the Cherokees back and reactivate the air search immediately. Harry added, “Raki didn’t tell us this news. Obviously, he doesn’t want us to find our people.”
“Careful what you say on the air, Harry,” Kerry warned. “There’s no reason why our friend should report a rumor that may or may not be true.”
“To hell with that. God knows how long those women can last in a dinghy. But I’m not making any deal until they’re found!”
31
THURSDAY, MARCH 14, 1985
The rising sun gilded the white dinghy; it smiled upon their pinched faces and thawed their cold bodies inside the soggy khaki uniforms. Nobody spoke until Annie said, “At least we still have some water.”
“Four pints isn’t going to last long,” Patty said. She glared at Silvana. In the darkness of the previous night’s storm, Silvana had lost her bailer overboard. She had crawled forward to get another water container from the locker in the bow, and hadn’t properly secured the catch. When the women had clambered back into the boat, they saw the locker door hanging open. All the contents of the locker had vanished except a small mirror that had once been in the cluttered junk of Annie’s purse—they’d intended to use it for signaling or as a cutting tool—a bamboo container of smoked fish slivers and one coconut.
Annie immediately took an inventory of what remained of their equipment. Everything that had been tied to the thwart had survived; the two flimsy bamboo beds had disappeared, although the ropes that had held them were still attached to the transom. So were the ropes that had bound the rifles—all now missing. The women still had their boots, the oarlocks, the oars, the tin bailer, the empty jerry can and the anchor. They had lost the coils of rattan rope and string but still had plenty left, which had been used to tether objects and people to the boat. All their caps had been lost, but they still had their uniforms. All objects that had been stuffed in their pockets or thrust down their tunics had also survived, including the waterproof rocket flares, but the compass glass had smashed in Patty’s hip pocket. Gloomily Patty said, “Probably happened as I left the boat—I remember cracking my hip against the outboard.”