Sal and Jed were arguing. They both agreed that I should head into the DMZ and track Zeph and Sammy’s progress across the island. The disagreement was over the interception point. Sal said not until they reached the top of the waterfall, putting some faith in the obstacle course. Jed said earlier, as early as possible, although he seemed reluctant to explain why. Personally, I was siding with Sal, although I kept my mouth shut.
Interception point aside, they both agreed on what to do next. I was to tell the rafters that they weren’t welcome and that they should leave at once. That failing, I was to keep them from descending the waterfall. Any way I saw fit to delay them was acceptable, in Sal’s words. If necessary I would stay up there with them, missing Tet. It could be explained to the rest of the beach later. Nothing was more important than making sure they didn’t arrive at camp until Christo was dead. After that, we would work out whether to let them down or keep them out.
By the way Sal was talking, I was sure she had a fall-back plan that she wasn’t telling us. I knew the way her head worked and she wasn’t the type to say, ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Especially with something so important. The thing I particularly didn’t understand was the idea of turning Zeph and Sammy’s group back. If we got to the point where I was forced to intercept them, turning them back seemed as problematic as letting them stay. You could as good as guarantee they would talk about what they’d found back on Ko Pha-Ngan or Ko Samui, and we’d have lost our secret status.
If it had been anyone else but Sal, I’d have pointed this out, but with her I didn’t feel it was worth bothering. I felt sure that if I’d been able to think of it, she would have too. I don’t think I remember her asking my opinion about anything, unless it was to lead me into something by making it seem like my idea. Come to think of it, I don’t remember her asking anyone’s opinion. Not even Bugs’.
If it needs saying, the argument about the interception point was eventually won by Sal. A big surprise. I honestly don’t know why Jed even tried.
♦
Mister Duck was waiting for me at the pass. He was dressed in full combat fatigues with an M16 over his shoulder and his face all painted up with green and black camouflage stripes.
‘What’s with the gun?’ I said when I saw him.
‘Just making sure I fit the bill,’ he replied flatly.
‘Does it work?’
‘Works for me.’
‘Guess that’s a yes…’ I walked past him so I could see down the pass to the DMZ. ‘So how you feeling? Nervous?’
‘I feel good. I feel ready.’
‘Ready for the recon?’
‘Well…’ He smiled. ‘Just ready, that’s all.’
‘Just ready,’ I muttered. I always felt suspicious of his lopsided grin. ‘Daffy, there’d better not be something going on here that I don’t know about.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Mmm what?’
‘Mmm let’s get going.’
‘I’m serious. Don’t start any of your shit. Not today.’
‘Time is ticking, Rich. We’ve got an RV to keep.’
I hesitated, then nodded. ‘OK…If you’re all set.’
‘All set.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
‘Fuckin’ A.’
∨ The Beach ∧
82
Their Big Mistake
By setting off so early, I was hoping that Zeph and Sammy would still be with their raft. Finding them would be a lot harder if they’d already entered the jungle. I was also trusting that they’d have landed on the same stretch of beach where Étienne, Françoise and I had first come ashore. I was fairly confident that they would have, but you never knew. They might have tried to circle the island, not realizing they’d passed the only open stretch of sand. Either way, the more time I gave myself to play with the better.
At least dodging the guards wasn’t a problem. They were dozy enough at the best of times, but at seven a.m. they’d definitely still be sleeping off their dope hangovers. In a way, my biggest problem was Mister Duck. He was badly out of shape, wheezing like an old coalminer, frequently pausing to lean against trees and catch his breath. I tried to tell myself that his ghostly status made it unlikely that anyone else could hear him, but all the same, each time he barked a swear-word my heart would miss a beat. I’d turn and glare at him, and he’d raise his hands apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered after a stream of abuse at a razor-leaf thicket. ‘I’m not as good at jungle warfare as I’d imagined.’ A few minutes later he tripped and fell on his gun, letting off a round into the bushes. He didn’t have his safety-catch on, the idiot, and he’d been walking with his finger on the trigger. After that we decided the gun was more trouble than it was worth – seeing as it couldn’t kill anything real – and we left it hidden in the undergrowth.
About thirty metres before the tree-line along the beach, I made him wait behind. Even though I was sure that no one else could see or hear him, he distracted me. If I wanted to get close to the rafting group, I couldn’t afford to be compromised.
Unexpectedly – though clearly hurt – he took it in good grace.
‘I understand, Richie,’ he said gamely. ‘You hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you,’ I sighed. ‘But like I said, this is serious.’
‘I know, I know. You go ahead. Anyway…’ His eyes became slits and flicked to the side. ‘In my experience these types of jobs are one-man affairs.’
‘Exactly.’
I left him under a coconut tree, using a serrated bowie knife to pick the dirt from under his nails.
♦
The early-morning effort paid off. The rafters were still on the beach.
Even though I’d been watching them for months, it was a shock to see the group close up. It confirmed that it actually was Zeph and Sammy we’d been watching; that our assumption had been correct and that the blame for their presence could only come down to me. It was also curious because I’d been anticipating this moment for what seemed like ages, but the reality of their presence left me feeling cold. I’d anticipated something more dramatic than the bedraggled figures who sat huddled around their raft. Something a lot more sinister, considering that – as outsiders – they represented a threat to the secrecy of the camp and a threat to me. I still hadn’t worked out what I was going to say to Sal about the map. I didn’t have the nerve to countermand her orders, so I just had to rely on the island’s obstacle course. That failing, my only hope was that I could explain the situation to Zeph and Sammy while I kept them delayed above the waterfall.
From my spy point – about twenty metres from where they sat, lying flat under the shelter of some ferns – I could see only four of them. The fifth was obscured behind their raft. Of the two visible Germans, one was a boy and one was a girl. With some satisfaction, I saw that the girl was pretty but not as pretty as Françoise. No one on the beach was as pretty as Françoise and I didn’t want her usurped by a stranger. The girl would have been prettier if it weren’t for her nose, which was tiny and turned-up so she looked like a tanned skull. The guy, however, was a different matter. Even though he was clearly exhausted, weakly hauling his (pink-pastel) backpack off the raft, he had the same build and appearance as Bugs. They could have been brothers, even down to the long hair which he kept having to flick out of his eyes. I took a comfortably instant dislike to him.
Eventually the fifth popped up to finish off the team. Another girl, and annoyingly, I was unable to find anything to hold against her. She was short and curvy, and she had an attractive quiet laugh that rolled cleanly across the sand to where I lay. She also had very long brown hair that at one point, for a reason I couldn’t fathom, she wrapped around her neck like a scarf. It was a surreal sight, and it made me smile, until I remembered I should be scowling.