Then Lovell saw Saun, Taiang, Daru, the men who always loaded the Beechcraft, watching and waiting in the shade of nearby trees. They were all but invisible, some distance away, but he knew that if he made a run for it theyd get to the Beechcraft before he did.
Come on, Pius, we can sort it out.
Pius called something and his men came at a run from the trees. They took Lovells arms and led him toward a hangar while Pius drove away on a scooter. No-one spoke to Lovell. He sat on an overturned jerry can and flipped pebbles into the jaws of a wrench lying in the dust. For ninety minutes nothing happened, only an old DC3 rumbling in from the coast, banking over the jagged green ridges that surrounded the airfield.
Then Pius returned. Someone want a word with you.
Who?
Youll see.
They went around to the rear of the Nissen hut. A black Mercedes was parked there. A costly car two years ago, it was now mud-spattered, sideswiped, pocked with dents. The man who got out said hello, said Lovells name. The accent came from New Zealand. Turn over a rock in PNG, Lovell thought, and youre sure to expose an expat.
The New Zealander introduced himself as Hughes. He was ruddy and mild-looking, with receding sandy hair that grew thickly behind his ears, as though hed pushed his scalp back like a hat. Lets sit in the car and talk.
They got in the front seat. Hughes fired up the motor and turned on the airconditioning, then leaned back against the drivers door to look at Lovell. Pius informs me you didnt bring the full amount.
I can make it up. I got ripped off, thats all.
Hughes had a fleshy smile. Does your Mr Bone know?
Jesus Christ, leave him out of this.
It seems to me youre in strife, old son. Now, the thing is, youve got a plane, you know the terrain, you could be a great help to us.
Like how?
Hughes said, Up till now its been sweet, right? A handful of Aussie currency in exchange for bulk amounts of New Guinea Gold worth a mint back home. Except now the locals want to branch out a bit and I can see a quid in it for both of us.
Get to the point.
Simple, Hughes said. Guns.
I dont need any guns.
Arsehole, I mean the locals want guns, some of them. Hughes ticked them off. Youve got your raskol gangs in Moresby, your tribal factions here in the Highlands, your OPM freedom fighters, your Bougainville rebels.
It was all politics to Lovell. So?
So they want guns. They cant get them here, apart from the odd. 303 left over from the war.
Lovell shook his head. Where am I supposed to get guns? What kind of guns?
Hughes took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Body damp had made it limp. Pius gave me a shopping list.
Lovell ran his eye down the page. It listed semi-automatic rifles, preferably AK47s, rocket launchers, surface-to-air missiles, preferably Stingers or RP7s. The names meant nothing to Lovell. You could fight a war with this stuff.
Too true.
Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, these guys are strictly stone age.
Theres a buck in it.
These surface-to-air missiles: what the hell do they want them for?
Hughes laughed. Yeah, I know, unreal. Its the helicopters, Australian Iriquois on loan to the PNG forces. They hate them on Bougainville. In the Solomons theyre pissed off because they reckon their air space gets violated all the time.
Politics again. Lovell held onto the page by one corner. Where am I supposed to get this stuff?
Use your initiative. Youve got blackmarket mates in Singapore? Use them.
I dont have to deal with you. I could kiss goodbye to this and find another source for the Gold.
You could also find sugar in your fuel tank one day, Hughes said, no mildness about him now. You could find Mr Bone knocking on your door. The cops waiting for you.
You bastard, Lovell said. He paused. Ill need cash, big cash, to buy arms.
Unfortunately, thats your problem, old son. Youll find a way. But look at it this way: PNG is loaded down with cannabis. Pius and I could fill one jumbo jet a week for you for the next ten years if you were interested, all for a few guns now and then. So, how about it?
Lovell was already putting it together in his head. Buy from his blackmarket contacts in Thailand and Singapore, the guns moved by fishing boat or yacht to somewhere in Torres Strait or the Gulf country, then fly them into PNG. If he played this right, hed be able to cut himself free of Bone eventually.
If he could get hold of upfront money first, that is.
I tell you one thing, he said. From now on Ill be supervising every time my kites refuelled.
Hughes winked, as if Lovell had made a joke.
Twenty-five
Nurse had a compartment in his mind for Lovell, the seventy-five thousand dollars worth of stolen heroin, his gambling debts on top of that. The door to this compartment was always open, so he always remembered it was there, but it was only one compartment after all, and for most of that week he managed to ignore it, going about his normal life at home, on the freeway, in his office. His wifes cottagey kitchen, Radio National on his car radio in the mornings, Angie, the teller with the boobs these things were familiar, unsullied reminders that life was okay after all. Not great, but he was hanging in there.
Then on Thursday Lovell came to his house, and the badness spilled out like a stain. It was eight oclock at night, big day tomorrow with the money transfer, so he was only half paying attention to Joyce and Mignon. They were doing the dishes, Joyce washing, Mignon drying, Nurse stacking the plates away, when the knock came.
Mignon answered it and she came back stricken, as if Lovell were a god. Lovell looked tall and lean beside her and his teeth flashed white in his tanned pilots face. He grinned at Mignon, eyes crinkling nicely. He grinned at Joyce. He wore a bomber jacket and seemed slangy and reckless and huge in the little kitchen overlooking the good private school at the bottom of the hill.
Nurse stumbled through the introductions and they stared at one another, Joyce and Mignon with their lips slightly apart. Nurse said, Actually, were a bit tied up at the moment.
Joyce came to life. Nonsense. Get Mr Lovell a drink.
Ian, Lovell said.
Get Ian a drink.
Lovell asked for scotch, ice, no water. Joyce said shed have a martini. She never had martinis. Mignon asked for one too, but both parents packed her off to finish her homework. Nurse poured himself a scotch as well, and he, Lovell and Joyce sat far apart in the well-upholstered chairs in the best room at the front of the house.
Having Lovell there seemed to open Nurses eyes to the room for the first time. It was all Joyce and he hated it, the berber-look carpet and the chintzy fabrics over everything, an old copy of Vogue on the coffee table. Then Lovell raised his glass, said Cheers, and everything about the man was insinuating and mocking.
Joyce sat like a fulcrum in the room. Nurse and Lovell both directed the conversation through her. Nurse said, Ian is one of our biggest clients. Lovell grinned at her, confirming it. Both men waited.
What is it you do, Ian?
Aviation business.
That must be interesting.
It is.
Finally Lovell leaned toward her. It was a careless, masculine gesture, full of promise. His brown forearms were on his knees, his glass dangled from one slender hand, his eyes were crinkling: the force of the pose hit her like a blow. Nurse saw her swallow. Actually, Joyce, your husband and I have got some tricky matters to sort out before the New York exchange opens tomorrow.
Joyce flushed. Of course. Ill leave you to it.
She went out, closing the door behind her. Lovell watched her go, then turned to Nurse. Lovely. Over here, me old mate, so I dont have to yell.