Mole creek, p.10
Mole Creek, page 10
The last part of this homily frequently changed, making the preceding lecture worth sitting through countless times. ‘Another zit on the chin of existence,’ was one. ‘A flat tyre on the road to contentment,’ was another. ‘A hang-nail on the fickle finger of fate,’ was a particular favourite of Xander’s.
He texts Althea. ‘I’ve been a tool. I hope you’ll understand why and forgive me. Thanks for trying to help.’
But then there are the circumstances surrounding Pete’s death and Danzig’s reluctance to investigate. ‘Never ascribe to malice anything that can just as easily be explained by stupidity,’ was another of Pete’s favourites.
Danzig. Maybe now he can get him to take Pete’s death seriously – if he hands in the gun and silencer, Danzig won’t be able to ignore him any longer. Xander calls the police station and eventually gets through to Danzig’s PA.
‘Commander Danzig’s office. How can I help you?’ a woman with a practised calming voice asks.
‘Hi. It’s Xander McAuslan, I’d like to come in and speak to Commander Danzig, today if I can.’
‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’
‘It’s regarding Pete McAuslan. I’m his grandson.’
‘I know who you are, Mr McAuslan, and I’m sorry for your loss. But Commander Danzig is very busy so if you could just tell me …’
‘Look, I need to talk to Danzig, okay? It’s important.’
‘Hold on a second,’ the voice is laden with weariness, letting Xander know that he is near the wrong end of a very long queue of requests for urgent discussions. ‘I’ll see if he’s available …’
There’s a click on the line followed by some jangling music that Xander surmises is deliberately irritating to deter impatient callers. The music stops with another click. ‘I’m afraid Commander Danzig is terribly busy at the moment and is likely to be tied up for the next few days. If you could give me your number, I’ll …’
Xander hangs up and gathers up his newly acquired laptop and phone, pays for his coffees, then heads back to the hotel. Assuming the Launceston police are working the percentages rather than the facts, one of which being they didn’t know Pete like he did, is it so surprising that they want to wrap this up as a suicide? Moreover, it’s a problem that chance has lain on their doorstep. It’s highly unlikely that there’s going to be a series of killings of police, retired or otherwise, or anyone else in Launceston. In the unlikely event, in their view, that this turns out not to be suicide, then it’s a blood feud that’s been imported from the mainland like a blight on their apples. It certainly isn’t a straightforward murder-robbery. There are more conveniently located places with richer pickings than a holiday cottage outside a tiny town no one has ever heard of. And nothing else of Pete’s is missing. His expensive Breitling watch and his wallet stuffed with credit cards and cash were handed back to Xander along with his overnight bag, although the gun, obviously, had been impounded. Not their cop, not their crime. Everything points to suicide, so why fight it?
His first task is to convince Althea that the threat is real so he sends her an email.
Hi Althea
Didn’t get the chance to tell you I had an intruder in my room last night. He had a gun, which I now have in my possession (long story, happy ending). I’d really like you to take it off my hands and show it to Danzig. Maybe then he will understand that I’m not bullshitting.
Xander could and should wait for a response but that’s not in his nature. He’s fucked if he’s going to wait for some multilingual psycho to hunt him down again. If anyone’s going hunting, it will be him.
His phone rings again and he checks the screen. It’s his office.
‘Xander speaking,’ he says, wondering, half-hoping they have a job for him to do while he’s in Tasmania, so he can justify staying on a little longer.
‘Xander, sweetie,’ the familiar croak of his editor, Stella McGear’s voice rasps in his ear. ‘Tell me, you don’t happen to have lost your laptop have you?’
Chapter 13
Pete had grown to hate the drive from Vung Tau to Saigon and especially back again. It wasn’t just the rough-as-guts road, or that he’d occasionally have to veer off to allow a convoy of military vehicles to pass unhindered. It was the mixture of tedium interspersed with bouts of anxiety when he realised he was alone on the track, and therefore a prime target for a sniper, land mine or ambush. Or all three.
He could have grabbed a seat on a chopper out of the airfield, or on a speedboat up the Saigon River, but there was always the problem of how to get around once he got there. And then how to get back if he couldn’t bum a ride home.
Once a week he had to check in with the Australian Army Intelligence guys at the headquarters of the pompously mis-named Free World Military Assistance Organization in District 10, if only to establish his bona fides as a floater between the Australian MPs, Intelligence and Logistical Support. But he liked the FWMAO building, which was very French Indochina, with a low, flat podium supporting three floors and two elegant towers. It reminded him that this city had once been a hub of civilisation rather than a focal point of a war.
He also didn’t mind being there as it tended to feature a hubbub of voices wrangling the incoming and outgoing troops from Australia, New Zealand, South Korea, the Philippines and Thailand. It was also where the flows of non-military support like medical supplies, transportation, construction and agriculture were traffic-managed.
Pete was usually glad to see the Intel guys, and they him, as his stories from the den of iniquity that was Vung Tau never failed to entertain, but this morning was different.
‘Muldoon’s on the warpath,’ one young officer said. ‘Watch your back.’
The space around them cleared when the aforementioned Major Muldoon spotted Pete and called his name, cornering him in the main office.
‘We had a platoon of our sappers ambushed by Vietcong two days ago on their way to clear passage for an American convoy,’ Muldoon said. ‘Know anything about that?’
‘Should I?’
‘Charlie must have known they were coming. As a so-called liaison, you were one of the few soldiers outside the immediate planning group who were aware of the operation.’
‘I knew they were planning it. What’s your point?’
‘What’s your point, sir?’ Muldoon scolded. ‘Who else did you tell about this?’ he continued in a tone that was just one bright light in the face short of an interrogation. ‘Who could have told the VC we were coming?’
‘Apart from the Yanks?’ Pete said, to not even a flicker of amusement from the officer who was two ranks his senior but barely a year older than him. ‘And I know our ARVN allies leak like old buckets used for target practice. But with a fair percentage of them being patriots caught on the wrong side of the war, their loyalties would be divided, wouldn’t they?’
‘I heard you were a bit of a commo,’ Muldoon said, sniffing to punctuate his speech rather than because of any tropical allergy. He was a round-faced, dumpy man whose unfulfilled promise to himself to eat less and exercise more meant his uniform was the right size for the man he hoped to be. His discomfort in the heat added to his general air of irritation. His barely controlled hair would have tested Vidal Sassoon, let alone the brigades of army barbers who’d fallen in that battle.
‘Some people – and I’m one of them – are concerned about you moving between us, Logistics and the Provos, not to mention our allies,’ he said. ‘Picking up bits of information here and there.’
‘It’s kind of my job, isn’t it? Liaising does involve talking to people.’
‘Well, it depends who you are liaising with. I’m worried about pillow talk with that whore who runs your so-called office in Vung Tau.’
Pete blinked and could feel his hands itching to clench into fists.
‘You know, if you’d care to repeat that some time when we are both off duty, I’d be happy to engage in a frank and free discussion with you,’ Pete said eventually, murmuring through a smile. ‘Maybe somewhere quiet where we wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘There’s no need to take that attitude, Lieutenant McAuslan,’ the Major said, visibly leaning away from Pete. ‘We just want to get to the bottom of this. It could have been an innocent comment … a slip of the tongue …’
‘To my whore in Vung Tau, you mean, you charmless cunt?’ Again, his smile belied his fury.
‘And I’d caution you to remember our respective ranks.’
‘Well, when you’re done getting to the bottom of the shit in your brain, sir,’ Pete said softly, ‘feel free to go fuck yourself and don’t forget to grease up the horse you rode in on.’
The major took a breath. They both knew that, with no witnesses to the content of this conversation, any complaints against Pete for abusing an officer would harm the complainer more than him. All anyone watching would have seen was Pete smiling and talking too quietly for anyone to hear.
‘About this Weighorst fellow?’ Muldoon said after a brief staring contest, clearly glad to have something else to discuss. ‘Any progress?’
‘Apparently he’s hiding deep in Soul Alley and our American friends don’t want us upsetting that particular apple cart,’ Pete explained.
‘Not good enough, McAuslan,’ Muldoon said. ‘Our soldier, our problem, our fucking apple cart. Get it done.’
With that, Muldoon walked out, smiling at having won at least one small victory. In fairness, Pete could understand his concerns about security. When information means life and death, careless words are like stray bullets. Pete had no idea how the VC had acquired the info they’d have needed to set up an ambush in exactly the right place at precisely the right time. Luckily, the would-be attackers had been accidentally flushed by an infantry patrol and found themselves trapped in an unintended pincer movement with the advancing sappers. It could have been a lot worse, but it was bad enough, just for what might have happened and, pertinently, how the enemy knew the platoon was coming.
The Weighorst thing bugged Pete too. The Intel major was right – their deserter, their problem. He decided to swing by Long Binh on his way back to Vung Tau, phoning ahead to make sure Donnie would arrange for him to get into the massive US Army base – more like a small town, really – about five clicks from the Bien Hoa military airbase.
With about fifty thousand troops and support staff on its massive campus, Long Binh was bigger than many country towns in Australia, and with much better facilities. Bars, a cinema, bowling alley, craft workshops, even massage parlours, maybe it was to remind the enlisted men what they were fighting for, Pete thought as he stop-started through the afternoon chaos of bicycles, buses and military vehicles that converged on the city centre then dispersed again on the spokes of Saigon’s intersecting traffic wheels. Elegant and wealthy Vietnamese women were being ferried from one bridge game to the next coffee date on pedal-powered tri-shaws called cyclos, seemingly unaware that there was a war on. Their less fortunate countrywomen balanced baskets of produce on quang ganh, long bamboo shoulder poles with a basket suspended at either end. Some even managed this feat of strength and skill while riding a bicycle.
Pete needn’t have bothered calling ahead, the gateman waved him through peremptorily, safely guessing that a tall white man in an Australian uniform posed little or no threat to the security of the camp or its inhabitants. When Pete pulled up outside the 18th Military Police HQ hut, Donnie was overseeing the loading of three truckloads of MPs. When he had banged the door of the last truck to send it on its way, he turned and smiled broadly at Pete.
‘What’s up?’ Pete said, genuinely baffled. ‘You got a riot on your hands in the city?’
‘Big win in the Delta,’ Donnie said, like he was reporting a football score. ‘No ARVN involvement so the Marines went in clean and found themselves the proud captors of a couple of hundred POWs and civilians. Hard to tell which is which. Our boys will sort them out. And we need the MPs to guard the flank in case Charlie circles back.’
‘Shit, you really are a fighting unit too?’
‘Sure are. I wasn’t here at the time, but if it wasn’t for the resistance our guys – our MPs – put up during Tet, we’d all be eating with chopsticks right now and waving Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book.’
‘That would be Das Kapital,’ Pete said. ‘The Viets are Stalinists, not Maoists.’
‘Same-same,’ Donnie said. ‘Now, you said you wanted to talk.’
‘I need you to get me into Soul Alley,’ Pete said. A passing Black grunt, having overheard, stopped open-mouthed but then thought better of whatever he was going to say and moved on.
‘And I need you not to ask for that, old friend,’ Donnie said. ‘Exceptionally high-risk, extremely low potential reward. That would be a “no”.’
‘I’m not asking for permission,’ Pete replied. ‘Help, yes. But I’m going in, with or without you.’
‘Pete …’ Donnie looked concerned. ‘Listen to me. That is not a good idea.’
‘This whole fucking war is not a good idea,’ Pete replied. ‘But we all have orders and mine are to find Weighorst. Consider this a courtesy call.’
He turned to leave.
‘How long have we got?’ Donnie asked.
‘Some time in the next week would be good,’ Pete said.
Donnie’s brows furrowed as he calculated the logistics and risks. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he said. ‘I guess it’s about time we had a look in there ourselves.’
Chapter 14
Stella McGear’s mention of his laptop drops a dread bomb into Xander’s gut. Stella is a good friend but a straight-to-business kind of boss, so this would not be idle chit-chat.
‘Funny you should mention it,’ he says in a tone devoid of amusement, ‘but my laptop is toast and I’ve lost a lot of my files. Why do you ask?’
‘It seems someone has sent your friend Mr Vella notes on a story you were working on. A very damaging story.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, “oh”. And he’s also been sent copies of emails you sent to some of your contacts that were very uncomplimentary about him and suggest you were out to get him.’
‘Okay, I suppose I was,’ he says. ‘He is an evil piece of shit.’
‘Yes, but, sweetie, that’s an indication of intention to damage his reputation,’ McGear says. ‘If he sues for defamation, any defence of absence of malice or fair comment goes out the window.’
‘Shit!’
‘Shit indeed,’ she says. ‘If he comes after us, it could cost the paper millions, if we had millions. In reality it could shut us down, especially in this climate.’
‘What do I need to do?’
‘Look, there’s no easy way of saying this, but there was some pretty colourful language on your emails.’
‘And?’
‘And we are overdue for another round of redundancies.’
‘Vella wants me sacked?’ Xander says, thinking none of the highly abusive terms he’d used to describe the former criminal had not been said to his face.
‘Not Vella. Our lawyers. They say we need to get in front of this before he issues any threats. Put some distance between us.’
‘And me?’
‘All your holiday pay, a decent redundancy package and no restrictions on you working elsewhere.’
‘Oh. Shit. Right. That’s way past “Can I freelance?”,’ he says. ‘I suppose I don’t have any choice.’
‘None of us do, sweetie,’ she says.
‘Okay, let me think about this,’ he says.
‘Nothing to think about, sweetie,’ she replies. ‘You can go with our blessing and pockets of dosh, or you can just go. The lawyers say it’s a sackable offence.’
Xander falls silent. With no Plan B, no bargaining chips, he has nothing to say. He knows Stella well enough to guess that she has already considered and rejected any arguments he might have had.
‘Do you have any idea who would want to do this?’ she says, the aching silence proving too burdensome. ‘And how they got a hold of your files?’
‘Someone broke into my flat the night before Pete died, remember?’ Xander says, deciding not to tell her about his more recent encounter with the Russian.
‘One of Vella’s crew, do you think?’
‘Maybe. Probably not. Who knows?’ He knows exactly who did this even though he’s not sure why.
‘And are you okay? Are you safe?’ she says, concern colouring her voice.
‘Yeah, all good, Stella,’ he says. ‘Just working out what to do about Pete’s funeral.’
‘Well, be sure to give us plenty of notice. Everybody will want to be there for it.’
‘Could be tricky,’ Xander says. The thought of endless consolations and rose-tinted recollections sinks to the pit of his stomach and instantly firms up his plan. ‘I’m thinking of here, in Tassie.’
‘Okay,’ she says, disappointed. ‘You could always arrange a memorial service here.’
‘Yeah, or just a wake, maybe. That’s more Pete’s style,’ Xander says. ‘Anyway, I guess you don’t need me back there any time soon.’
‘We’ll look after you, Xander. Anything you need,’ she says.
