

BIG DIRT

By Peter Menadue

### Copyright 2015 Peter Menadue

Cover illustration: copyright Michael Mucci at michaelmucci.com

CHAPTER 1

"You interested in politics?"

Darcy Gresham, sitting on his couch, scratched his crotch thoughtfully and shook his head. "Nah."

I suppressed a sigh. "But you can name the Prime Minister, right?"

He played another big chord on his balls. "Yeah, guy called Brown. Shook his hand before the All Blacks test match."

"No, Green - John Green."

He looked pleased. "Knew it was a colour."

"So, what're your main hobbies?"

"You mean, besides rugby?"

"Yeah."

"Chasing chicks."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, banging 'em."

"Anything else?"

"Watching TV, I guess, and hang out with me buds."

Out of habit, I glanced at my tape recorder on the coffee table, still spooling, preserving this dross.

Gresham had played 20 tests for the Wallabies as fly-half and recently entered Australian sporting folklore when he won the deciding game of a Bledisloe Cup series, in front of 50,000 baying Kiwis, with a nerveless after-the-whistle penalty kick from the touchline into the teeth of a howling gale. That feat inspired one of the few remaining local book publishers to commission me to ghost-write his autobiography. The target audience was Australian males who thought Dan Brown was a literary genius.

Unfortunately, Gresham had the IQ of a well-watered pot plant. He obviously dispatched "the kick" with such nerveless precision because no thoughts or fears gummed up his system. The kick was the only meaningful thing he'd done in his whole unripe life. Yet even when talking about that signal event, the most illuminating insight he could give was: "Well, I just lined it up and popped it over - easy." After interviewing him in his Bondi apartment for almost three days, I had almost nothing to write. I would obviously have to reprise my career in journalism and make up a lot of stuff.

Fortunately, despite being dyslexic, Gresham wanted to claim sole authorship. I would receive no acknowledgement. I had no intention of fighting that.

Back to panning for specks of information. "OK. Tell me about your nickname."

He picked up his mobile and tapped away. "You mean, Mugsy?"

"Yeah."

He frowned. "Some dickhead in high school called me that - I forget why - and the other dickheads joined in 'cos they knew I hated it. Everybody else got a good nickname and I got a crap one."

"Why do you hate it?"

"Sounds stupid. Me agent hates it too: says it's bad for me brand image. I wanta change it."

"To what?"

"I thought about 'Golden Boots', but that sounds kinda wanky, huh? So maybe 'Ace' - 'Ace Gresham'."

Did he think he was a fighter pilot? "Ace"?

"Yeah. In the book, say that's me nickname."

"But it's not."

"Now it is."

"OK." I switched off the tape recorder. "Let's break for a while. I'm going to pop out and get some lunch. Let's start again at three o'clock."

"Can't. Got team training at the SFS."

Thank God. "OK then, nine tomorrow morning?"

"Sure. You getting good stuff for the book?"

"Of course. But I've still got more questions to ask."

He shook his head. "Jesus, you've already asked a million."

"I'm a nosey guy."

"Sure are. Had no idea writing a book was so hard."
CHAPTER 2

How did I end up ghost-writing the autobiography of a 22-year-old rugby player who seemed to have started, rather than ended, his career with brain damage?

I was a political journalist in Canberra for almost 20 years, until nobody would employ me anymore. My biggest sin was breaking too many big stories. I even solved the murder of a Cabinet Minister and destroyed the career of an Opposition Leader. In the circle-jerk of federal politics, nobody likes a journo who digs up real news, particularly other journos. They find it embarrassing.

My other big sin was being rude and arrogant to editors and colleagues. Over the years, various editors labelled me a "disruptive element", an "arsehole" and a "fuckin' cunt". One, who'd actually read a few books, called me a "miscreant". True, most editors are the scum of the earth. But it was hard to ignore such consistently negative appraisals.

As a result, I didn't have to endure the death throes of the newspaper industry. I got sacked before I could.

Still, I left journalism with few misgivings. I was tired of politicians who thought politics was a branch of advertising, media moguls who used news as leverage, and lazy colleagues who wrote press releases instead of news stories. I was also sick of pretending to be the best friend of a source so I could be his worst enemy; telling him what he wanted to hear so I could write something he didn't want to read.

Fortunately, my partner Anne was a well-paid solicitor, so I didn't starve, and I got a call from a literary agent called Sue Prideaux. She said a publisher wanted someone to write a biography of a rising political talent. Was I interested? I said "yes" and slapped together a brutal hatchet job which sold well, especially after voters ignored my dire warnings about his character and elected him Prime Minister.

A few months later, Sue asked if I wanted to write another book.

I sighed. "Not really. I'm tired of pollies - dreadfully tired."

"Understand. But I'm not talking about a political biog. What do you know about Aussie Rules?"

My favourite contact sport was Rugby League, a game in which glitzy poker machine palaces sent out teams of working-class kids to committed grievous bodily harm for the delectation of inebriated fans. I always laughed when I heard someone say a particularly violent incident set a bad example for kids. The whole game set a bad example. That's why I loved it.

I wasn't quite so keen on Australian Rules because it had fussy rules that adulterated the violence and the players looked like seagulls chasing a chip. Still, I'd watched lots of games in my underpants.

I said: "I love Aussie Rules. I've already logged 10,000 hours on the couch."

"Good. A publisher wants you to ghost the autobiography of a footie player."

"Who?"

"Wally O'Keefe."

Glen "Wally" O'Keefe had recently retired from football after a career during which he captained the Fremantle Dockers to four premiership titles, won three Brownlow medals and twice kicked eight goals in a grand final. However, even more impressively, he was twice divorced, busted for drink driving four times, suspended for violent play six times and admitted to drug rehab twice. In other words, if he'd never kicked a football, I'd have still worshipped him.

I said: "Wally's on-board?"

"Definitely. The front cover will say it's his story 'as told to Paul Ryder'."

"What's my advance?"

She named a figure that set my pulse racing.

"Wow."

"The publisher's got big hopes for this one."

Lots of Australian women would give this tome to their partner as a Chrissie present, to test whether the dumb bastard really could read. "I can imagine."

You'll do it?"

I couldn't wait to meet Wally. "Beam me up."

Smart move. Ghosting Wally's autobiography was one of the great experiences of my life. The published book - "On the Ball" - was a gripping tale of a man who, after his Aboriginal birth-mother abandoned him, grew up in tough foster homes before carving out a brilliant football career while battling a booze addiction, a drug addiction, a sex addiction and a gambling addiction. I thought his private life was all public. Not so. The book revealed for the first time how: during his teens, he burgled homes to survive; two successive financial planners stole all of his money; a coach caught him in bed with his wife, and he played a whole grand-final with an erection due to a misplaced pain-killing injection. Finally, in a moving last chapter, he described how, soon after he retired, he located his birth-mother and reclaimed his indigenous heritage. Unfortunately, he also discovered God and repented his wicked ways, but no story is perfect.

On the Ball won a sports book award \- which unfortunately had no cash prize - and sold nearly 100,000 print copies. That was an incredible number, even for a sports book. One over-excited journalist proclaimed that paper books were making a come-back. He must have been drunk.

The success of the book felt weird, because I got no fame or glory. Indeed, I felt kind of ripped off. I was still wrestling with that emotion when Sue asked me to write Darcy Gresham's autobiography.

"What's the advance?"

The figure she mentioned was quite reasonable if I only wrote one draft, which I would try to do, as a challenge.

I said: "He's very young: he got anything to say?"

"Probably not. But I'm sure you'll make him sound interesting \- that's your skill."

Her cheap flattery sealed the deal.
CHAPTER 3

I stepped out of Gresham's apartment block onto Campbell Parade, which overlooked Bondi Beach. A heavy salt breeze rippled the beach umbrellas of pavement cafes and buffeted seagulls squawking overhead.

Bondi is a sacred destination for sun-worshipers. Local and international pilgrims wearing T-shirts, tank-tops, shorts and bathers flip-flopped along the pavement. Below them, on the beach, tanned bodies were sprawled everywhere, as if an invasion force of Scandinavian backpackers, desperate for sunlight, had stormed ashore into the teeth of heavy machine-gun fire. Now, their corpses lay rotting in the sun. Further out, surfies sliced across the waves; in the hazy distance, two tankers crawled along the horizon like slugs on a razor.

As I perved at the women on the beach, my groin started buzzing. I pulled out my mobile phone. "Hi."

"Paul, it's Sue. How's it going?"

"Not well."

"Why not?"

"He's very dim."

"That's no surprise."

"I know. But it makes my job hard."

"Think of him as a blank canvas on which you can paint whatever you like."

"I'm not Rembrandt."

"Don't sell yourself short. And remember, you've got one month: otherwise, it'll miss the Chrissie sales."

"Sure."

She hung up.

Whining made me feel better. I strolled along the pavement, careful to avoid Kiwi beggars and pick-pockets, and sat in an outdoor café with a good view of the beach. I ordered a focaccia and flicked through an abandoned Daily Telecrap. While I munched on the tourist-standard focaccia and scanned the sports section, someone sat opposite. Damn. I'd spread out the newspaper to prevent that.

I looked across at a guy big enough to pull up trees. Heavy stubble covered his face and climbed over his skull. A dark suit, collarless shirt and sunglasses were perched dickhead-style on top of his head. He looked like a mobster dressed for court. The slight bulge in his suit suggested he was weaponised. A wire ran out of his ear and down under his suit, and connected him to god knows who. I resisted the temptation to scan the neighbourhood.

The focaccia went sour. Did he mean me harm? I pissed off lots of people when I was a journalist. Hell, I'd pissed off lots of people since. But surely nobody would step out of my past to step on me; I wasn't worth the trouble, particularly now I was a humble ghost-writer. Stay calm. "Afraid that chair's taken."

His look said I might soon wear it. "Really?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for someone."

"I won't be long. Just got to give you a message."

"What?"

"My boss wants to talk to you."

"Who's your boss? Why?"

"Here's his card."

He handed over a heavily embossed business card:

BRIAN TAYLOR A.O.

CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER

THORNTON MINING CORPORATION

Thornton Mining Corporation was the corporate vehicle of the legendary West Australian mining magnate, Bruce Thornton. But Taylor was nobody to me. "Chat about what?"

"I understand he wants to make you an offer."

"What sort of offer?"

"No idea."

"When?"

"His limo's circling the block right now. He'll be back here very soon."

"He's going to get out?"

"No, you'll get in."

I was about to protest when, in an inspired piece of street theatre, he touched his earpiece and glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, here it comes."

A big black stretch limousine with heavily tinted windows stopped menacingly at traffic lights, 50 metres away.

I said: "Sorry, I don't get into strange vehicles."

"Mr Taylor is the CEO of one of Australia's largest companies. You have nothing to fear."

"He should get out and have a cup of coffee."

"He's an important man: he doesn't sit around in cafes."

"Then he should make an appointment."

"How? You don't have an office or a secretary." The lights had changed and the limo was closing fast. "Make up your mind."

If the business card told the truth, I had nothing to fear and might even benefit from the encounter. If it was a lie, and I was kidnapped, tortured and fed to the fishes, I wouldn't have to interview Darcy Gresham again. Hell, why not? I nodded. "OK."

"Good". He stood - without getting much taller - and talked into his sleeve. "Pull up - he'll talk to Mr Taylor."

I rose. "I haven't paid the bill."

"I'll do it."

The limo stopped. The brick-with-eyes danced across the pavement and yanked open the back door. "Get in."

Sitting inside was a guy about fifty, encased in a pinstripe suit, with silver hair, sun-blasted skin and a mashed nose. He could easily be the CEO of a major mining company or a mob boss, or both. He edged away slightly, to give me room.

I am addicted to having the last word. "Don't forget to tip," I said over my shoulder and ducked into the car. The door slammed behind me.

The chauffeur in front of me had more hair on the nape of his neck than the top. The man who called himself 'Brian Taylor' leaned forward and said: "Drive off". The limo swung back into the traffic and he glanced at me. "You know who I am?"

"I saw your card."

"Good. And you've heard of my boss, Bruce Thornton?"

"Of course."

"He asked me to contact you while I was in Sydney."

"Why?"

"Mr Thornton has read your book."

"Which book?"

"On the Ball. He's the honorary president of the Freemantle Dockers Football Club and a personal friend of Wally O'Keefe. He loved the book and hopes you'll write a similar book for him."

"You mean, ghost his autobiography?"

"Yes. He's got a great story to tell. His life story and the history of Western Australia - in fact, this whole nation - are intertwined. He's planning to call the book "King of the Pilbara."

"Not very modest."

A frown. "He has no reason to be modest. But, before he offers you the job, he wants to have a chat, to make sure you're suitable."

"How much is he prepared to pay?"

"You'll have to discuss that with him."

Thornton was a fascist plutocrat who'd already chosen a shit title for his book. However, I was keen to observe the West Australian mining boom and grab a slice of the action. The only question in my mind was why Thornton wanted me. Sure, I did a good job ghost-writing On the Ball. But a quick search on the internet would have revealed I had a rocky career in journalism during which I often bit the hand that fed me. Obviously, he either did no research - because nobody's interested in the past anymore - or the google algorithm let him down.

I said: "OK. When does he want to talk?"

"Tomorrow morning, in Perth."

"I'm in Sydney."

"You'll have to fly over there."

"We can talk on the phone."

"No. He prefers to size people up, face-to-face."

It would have been smarter for him to do some basic research. "I can't go to Perth; I've got commitments."

A wry smile. "You mean the book you're writing for Darcy Gresham? Forget about that. By the time you're finished, he'll be washed up."

"Why?"

"He's a lovely kicker under pressure - I accept that - but he tackles like he's afraid of catching Ebola. The All Blacks are starting to use him as a doormat."

"You're an expert on rugby?" I said tartly.

He pointed to his mashed nose. "Got this playing first grade, for Sydney Uni."

"Maybe, but I've got a contractual deadline."

He raised his eyebrows. "That so? Fly to Perth this afternoon, meet Mr Thornton tomorrow morning, and you'll be paid $10,000, plus expenses."

Almost as much as I hadn't been paid yet for ghosting Gresham's book. Stuff him. "Really?"

"Yes."

"When would I get paid?"

"Now." He fished a white envelope out of his jacket and handed it over. "Inside you'll find a bank cheque, a business-class airline ticket to Perth - the plane departs at 4pm - and a taxi voucher. You'll be picked up at Perth Airport and taken to a five-star hotel. In Perth, you'll be given a return airline ticket when needed."

I thought I was tired of dealing with rich and powerful men, and their nasty and treacherous ways. The cheque proved me wrong. I took the envelope and fought a desire to tear it open. "Alright, I'll go to Perth."

"Good."

Taylor told the chauffeur to pull over, which he did. As I opened the door, he said: "Enjoy your flight."

Plenty to do before I boarded the plane. I dashed into a nearby bank and deposited the bank cheque, then caught a taxi to the grotty motel in Bondi Junction where I'd already spent four nights listening to heavy traffic rumble past. The sound was so constant it seemed to be coming from inside my head. I grabbed my suitcase, full of dirty clothes, checked out and caught another taxi to the airport.

On the way, I phoned Darcy Gresham to solemnly explain that a much-loved grandmother had died in Perth and I had to pop over there for the funeral. I'd be back in a few days.

A peevish tone. "I thought we were almost finished."

Thanks for your condolences, arsehole; I loved my fictitious grandmother. "We'll wrap it up when I get back."

"OK."

Next, I called Anne at the law firm in Canberra where she was a senior associate. For six years now, we had sailed our tramp steamer, the SS Love Boat, across a storm-tossed ocean, looking for a safe port. The weather abated somewhat when Tommy was born. However, when I started gallivanting around the country, ghost-writing for peanuts, the weather glass dropped again. Anne didn't even bother reading On the Ball, claiming sports books weren't her thing.

I said: "Hi, Darling, got a moment?"

A weary tone. "Not really. Got a client arriving in a few minutes. What's happening? You finished talking to Gresham?"

"No, I've had to suspend our interview."

"Why?"

"Another opportunity's arisen."

"What do you mean?"

I snappily described how, in the back of a stretch limo, a mining company CEO offered me $10,000 to fly to Perth and chat with Bruce Thornton about ghost-writing his autobiography.

"Bruce Thornton, the mining tycoon?"

"Correct."

"He's a shit-head."

I hoped she didn't talk like that to her clients. "I know."

"Why does he want you?"

"Loved On the Ball."

"Does he know you're a ratbag?"

"Evidently not."

"So what're you going to do?"

"I just banked the cheque and I'm heading for the airport."

"Thornton's a pig. It's dirty money."

Said by a lawyer, no less. "True, but he's not hiring me to torture or assassinate anyone."

"What about your reputation?" What she meant was: what about my reputation among my leftie public servant mates?

"Nobody will notice my involvement. I won't be advertising it."

"So you're saying that, if nobody knows, it's OK?"

"Well, yeah."

A three-octave sigh. "It's up to you. But if you get the job, don't cause any trouble, OK? Just write the book and piss off home."

"That's the plan."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, of course. I'm a ghost-writer now. I work in the shadows. How much trouble could I get into?"

"A lot. How long will you be gone?"

"Depends on Thornton. He might not even want me. I'll give you a call after I've talked to him."

A short pause. "It's probably best if you go to Perth right now."

"Why?"

A longer pause. "I've invited Mum to stay."

I know many claim their mother-in-law is a nasty, meddling cow. But Freda was the real deal. It was as if her sole ambition in life was to be a bitch. Her visits were a nightmare. When she wasn't stabbing me in the back, she stabbed me in the chest. I often fantasised about chasing her out of the house, then hated myself for not having the balls.

"Why?"

"Because I need help with Tommy."

The mention of Tommy pierced me with loneliness. "Fair enough. I miss you, I really do. I'll be home as soon as I can."

"Good," she snapped. "Now, I've got to see my client. Speak to you later."

"Sure."

I hung up and felt a tickle of concern. At some point, I had to resuscitate our relationship. But I couldn't do that until we were in the same city.

In hindsight, I should never have got on the plane to Perth. Then I would have avoided a lot of murder and mayhem. However, I really thought that being a ghost-writer was a shield against trouble and I boarded the plane with the lightest of steps.

The plane took five hours to sail over several ochre deserts and reach Perth. To kill time, I watched a new-release Hollywood musical about an ex-hitman who comes out of retirement to slay a host of enemies and, quite literally, sing and dance on their coffins and graves. I needed a few drinks to get into the mood. After that, I rather enjoyed it.

I made the most of flying business class. I'd just finished my eighth, ninth or maybe tenth glass of Margaret River Riesling, when the plane swooped over the endless multi-hued roofs of Suburbistan - where nobody dreamed of growing up to be a ghost-writer - and landed at Perth Airport.

Early evening. The terminal teemed with scruffy tourists bound for Bali, and fluro-vested miners and oil-rig workers transiting to and from the north. I felt sober until I tried to drag my suitcase off the baggage carousel. It fought back ferociously and I skated like Bambi on ice. We tumbled over, me on top. After a few deep breaths, I rose slowly to my feet, ignoring curious stares, and zig-zagged towards the exit doors where a cluster of chauffeurs held signs. A trim dark-suited Indian in his mid-thirties held a sign that said: "Paul Rider". Close enough.

I stopped and identified myself.

He said: "Hi, I'm Ragnesh. I work for Thornton Mining; I will take you to the Chancellor Hotel."

He grabbed my suitcase and towed it out to a big white Merc in the car-park. I hopped into the front passenger seat and he slung the suitcase in the boot.

The first time I visited Perth, twenty-five years ago, it was an isolated hick town. Mining-boom money had now turned it into an endless suburb that stretched along the coast, with an eruption of ugly skyscrapers in the middle. The hicks were now wealthier and still thought it the greatest city on earth, despite never having been anywhere except Bali, which was the same as going nowhere. They thought easterners belonged to an inferior race which siphoned off the wealth that West Australians had boldly and skilfully found in the ground and got foreign multinationals to dig up.

He drove out of the car park. "Been to Perth before?"

"Many times, but not for a few years."

"I've been here ten years. It's changed a lot: new people, new money - it's pretty crazy."

When I was a journalist, my best stories often came from underlings, like cleaners and chauffeurs, who heard politicians and senior bureaucrats blithely talked about highly sensitive matters. "Where'd you come from?"

"Bombay, with my wife and daughter. I was a specialist in Bombay."

"Specialist what?"

"Paediatrician."

"Then why are you driving me around?"

A frown. "Australian doctors don't like competition. The Medical Board says my qualifications are not good enough." He snorted. "I mean, I went to Bombay Medical School, you know. Anyway, I've got to pass a lot of exams."

"You've already passed some?"

"Yes. But there are so many. Take me another two years, maybe."

"I thought they let foreign doctors practice if they worked in rural areas?"

"Yes, but I am a paediatrician. I can't work in a little town in the middle of nowhere. Enough of my problems: why are you here? For business? I have to take you to see Mr Thornton tomorrow morning. What is that about?"

I admired his nosiness. "Got to see him about a job."

Feigned casualness. "Really? What job?"

"A writing job. He wants someone to write his autobiography."

A small frown. "Autobiography?"

"Yes."

"Really? Don't you have to write an autobiography yourself?"

"Sometimes people employ people like me to do the job: we're called ghost-writers."

He smiled. "Ah, I've heard of you guys. You don't look like a ghost."

"I've heard that joke before."

The airport was close to the city centre. We came out of a tunnel and dove into a clump of skyscrapers arrogantly puncturing the sky.

Ragnesh said: "I will read your book. Mr Thornton is a great man. I often drive him around. He doesn't say much. But I believe in him. I've invested most of my money in Thornton Mining. When the Eucla Mine starts production, I will be rich. My wife says I'm crazy, but I trust Mr Thornton."

The rich are very good at making the poor think they can also be rich when they don't have a chance in hell. Filling their brains with hope is a lot cheaper than filling their pockets with money. Share trading was a game for crooked insiders, not chauffeurs. However, he wouldn't thank me for pouring cold water on his dreams. "Good luck."

"Do you know anything about the mine?"

"No."

Frown. "Well, if you hear something, let me know."

"Sure."

Ragnesh pulled up inside a big marble porte-cochere. We got out and he extracted my suitcase from the boot. "Your appointment with Mr Thornton is at 10 o'clock, so I'll pick you up at 9.30, OK?"

"Fine."

A bell-boy in a monkey suit grabbed my suitcase and scampered towards the front doors, me in hot pursuit. I'd checked out the Chancellor on the internet. Five frickin' stars. I had a free pass into heaven. My temples pounded and my stride quickened. The five stars flashed on and off behind my eyes. I imagined slipping into a fluffy bathrobe and poring over the room service menu like a Talmudic scholar.

A doorman with hussar whiskers, top-hat and frilly frock-coat dragged open a heavy glass door. I followed the bellboy into a London Club-style foyer with red-leather armchairs, ornate gold mirrors and newspaper racks. It was obviously designed to make mining-boom carpetbaggers feel like Old Money. No package tourists or other riff-raff disturbed my gaze as I strolled past the grand piano to the grey-marble reception counter.

The gorgeous woman behind it turned her gorgeous eyes on me and made me feel gorgeous. I identified myself and said that Thornton Mining Corporation had booked me a room.

Long fingernails clicked on the computer and long eyelashes fluttered. "Yes, there is a booking."

"The corporation is picking up the tab?"

She smiled. "Of course, Mr Ryder. We don't even need your credit card details."

"Excellent," I blurted out.

She gave me a swipe card and told the bell-boy to take me to a room on the fifth floor. We caught a lift up there. He swiped us into a huge room that overlooked the gold-flecked mouth of the Swan River and the silvery Indian Ocean beyond. I tipped him with a sum that seemed a lot to me. The little beast scowled and stalked out.

I flopped onto the orgy-size bed and munched a complimentary apple while staring out at the fading vista. Though scenery was not my thing, I wanted this moment to last forever.

Eventually, I stuffed most of the contents of my suitcase into a laundry bag and asked room service to collect it. Soon afterwards, a heavy-set woman dressed like a Victorian Era maid arrived. She turned down my bed and staggered out with the laundry bag.

I phoned Anne in Canberra, to announce that I'd arrived safely.

"Where are you staying?"

"Place called the Chancellor."

"Any good?"

"It's OK, but I don't think it deserves its fifth star."

"It's got five stars?"

"Yep, though I suspect it's overrated. I won't really know until I check out the restaurant."

"Hah, hah. Well, don't get too comfy, because I want you back here as soon as possible."

"Sure. Has Freda arrived?"

"Yes, about an hour ago. You want to talk to her?"

Was she pulling my leg? "I'd rather jump off a cliff."

I felt her annoyance cross the continent, bouncing up and down off the stratosphere like radio waves, before reaching me. "Don't be smart."

"But I'd love to chat with Tommy. He around?"

When Anne revealed, four years ago, that she was pregnant, I was horrified. She claimed it was a big mistake - oh, please, spare me the bullshit - and offered to bring up the child alone. I was sorely tempted. After all, I'd already failed once as a father and had no reason to think I'd improve. However, after a painful period of adjustment, I fell in love with the little bugger and realised I'd do anything for him.

Four years later, he was still the centre of my world. He was a ball of energy, bouncing around like a pinball, or following me like a puppy, not realising there were much better dads out there. He even improved my relationship with Anne, because she realised he needed a father figure in his life, even if it was me. However, he took some of the pleasure out of traveling, because I missed the little rat.

Anne said: "Of course not. He's gone to bed. It's nine o'clock over here."

"I forgot - fair enough."

"He misses you, you know."

"I miss him. I'll be home as soon as possible."

"OK, speak later," she said and hung up.

I slipped into a fluffy bathrobe and struck a master-of-the-universe pose as I stared out the big window at the scenery. Then I opened the room menu. The ugly prices didn't stop me ordering a deluxe hamburger - medium rare, please - and a ridiculously expensive bottle of local red.

Twenty minutes later, a waiter entered pushing a trolley laden with my food. He took off the lid and I saw a burger, sitting on a nest of chips, float towards me on a magic carpet of air. My saliva glands went into overdrive. I was so enraptured that I tipped the kid $5, though I instantly regretted my generosity.

The burger had real beef, the hand-cut chips had real potato and the $150 bottle of wine was value for money. While scoffing the burger, I reflected that, in my younger days, as a journalist, I'd have drifted down to the bar to check out the local talent. However, I was getting too old for that and this wasn't that sort of hotel.

Though I already knew a fair bit about Thornton's life, I wanted to fill in some gaps before we met. I opened my laptop, accessed the internet and learnt that the first Thornton in Western Australia was a poor Scottish cobbler called Angus Thornton, who disembarked in Perth in 1895. After plying his trade there for three years, with no great success, he trekked 600 kilometres north to the Wolga Downs and established the Bularoo cattle station. He then spent forty years turning it into one of the largest in the state. His oldest son, Graham, inherited the station and bought several more scattered around the state to create a cattle empire.

Graham's only child, Bruce, was born at Bularoo just after the Second World War. He lived there - educated over the airwaves - until aged twelve when he was sent to a private boarding school in Perth. Gold prospecting had always fascinated him. So, after leaving school, he studied at the Western Australia School of Mines and emerged with a diploma in metallurgy. He then returned to Bularoo to help his father manage the station. But whenever he could, he and a young station hand, Dirk Carter, drove huge distances in a battered Land Rover searching for gold and any other valuable minerals they could find.

In the early seventies, they located a massive iron ore deposit in the Windeyama Gorge of the Pilbara region. The moment of discovery was the stuff of legend. The radiator of their Land Rover sprung a leak and they ran out of water. They were marooned in the gorge and dying of thirst when a miracle occurred: a heavy rainstorm filled all their jerry cans and turned the sides of the gorge bright red - a sure sign of iron ore. They fixed the radiator and followed the seam of iron ore for dozens of kilometres. Then Thornton drove to Perth and claimed a mining lease in his own name.

Soon afterwards, tragedy struck. Thornton was piloting a Cessna from Port Hedland to Bularoo, with Carter in the passenger seat, when the engine caught fire and he was forced to make an emergency landing on a salt-pan. The plane somersaulted several times and only Thornton crawled out alive. It took him four days to stagger fifty kilometres to a cattle station where he arrived with severe heat stroke.

A week later, a small police expedition in a four-wheel drive vehicle reached the burnt-out plane and found no signs of Carter. His body was either incinerated or eaten by wild animals.

Soon afterwards, the State Government granted Bruce Thornton a mining lease that covered the whole Windeyama Gorge. He assigned the lease to his corporate vehicle, Thornton Mining Corporation. The corporation then sub-leased the deposit to Rio Tinto, which built a massive mine and paid a huge annual production royalty. The corporation spent that royalty stream on further mineral exploration and accumulated a vast number of mining leases throughout Western Australia. Several more deposits were sub-leased to major miners which paid big royalties. The corporation now received about $500 million a year in combined royalties. It was estimated that every time Thornton took a crap he earned about $50,000 unless, of course, he was reading a newspaper, in which case he earned a lot more.

In other words, Thornton made a fortune out of the mining industry without actually doing any mining. He was obviously sensitive about that fact because his corporation had retained its prize lease - over the Eucla iron ore deposit in the Pilbara - so it could do the mining itself. That wouldn't be easy, because the deposit was in a trackless waste, 300 kilometres from the coast. Indeed, according to the financial press, despite having already spent $2 billion on the project, the corporation needed another $10 billion to finish it. That was why Thornton had spent the last three years trying to persuade a consortium of Chinese steel mills to stump up that money in return for a 30 percent stake in the project. He was rumoured to be close to a deal.

The project had its detractors. The "Pierpont" columnist in the Australian Financial Review recently wrote:

"Bruce Thornton had bet his entire wealth on the Eucla Mine. If the project doesn't get off the ground and make a profit, his corporate vehicle, Thornton Mining Corporation, will collapse like a house of cards and Thornton will be broke. Unfortunately for him, several prominent mining analysts think the project hasn't got a prayer..."

Maybe the chauffeur, Ragnesh, was reading the wrong news media.

Thornton's other big claim to fame was his far-right political views, particularly his belief that Western Australia should secede from the Commonwealth. It's a near-forgotten fact that, in 1933, the Labor state government held a referendum on whether the state should break away and 68 percent of voters said: "Yes". The government then petitioned the British Parliament to revoke the imperial legislation that created the Commonwealth, but was turned away. After that, the secessionist movement waned until the late-70s, when Thornton took up the cudgels and started funding any nutty organisation that supported it. It also gathered momentum when the mineral boom finally changed the state from a taker to a giver in the federal system. Many West Australians didn't think that was fair.

Thornton also espoused abolishing the minimum wage, importing foreign workers on subsistence wages, create a tax-free zone for miners in northern Australia and using nuclear bombs to turn back major rivers. Need I mention his attitudes to climate change and gun ownership? In the late 80s, he also called for the forced sterilisation of Aborigines, though the public outcry forced even him to back-track.

Until recently, his personal life was superficially drab. In his early thirties, he married a woman called Margaret, and they had one child, Robert. However, six years ago, she died of breast cancer and, like most lonely old billionaires, he didn't stay lonely for long. He jumped out of the silly-old-bugger closet and married a super-sexy 31-year-old Chinese called Quilin Chen, who acted as his translator on a business trip to China. At the time, a few scurrilous media outlets claimed she was already married to a Chinese Government official. However, her first hubby - if he ever existed - never came forward and the allegations evaporated.

On the internet, nasty cowards hiding behind gravatars claimed she only married him for his money and snared him with deviant sexual practices only practised in the Orient. Some of the slime bags even listed those practises, several of which - I must admit - were unknown to me. Clearly, they didn't understand the effervescent charm of the average Aussie senior citizen, which is why sexy young women flock to RSL bars.

For their honeymoon, Thornton flew his new wife around the world on his private jet. They danced on Waikiki Beach, played roulette at the Monte Carlo Casino and held hands in front of Victoria Falls. On their return, he threw aside his hatred of the media and gave a gushy silly-old-fool interview to Woman's Weekly in which declared: "I've finally found my soul-mate. I know people say 'Q' only married me for my money. Untrue. We have a deep, deep connection."

Oh, really.

I turned off the laptop and flicked on the TV. After watching the end of an Aussie Rules game, I flicked over to the ABC for the late night news. The main story was about a new conflict somewhere in the Middle East. My eyes were drooping when I heard Thornton's name and roused myself. On the TV, a small group of Aborigines was waving signs and chanting slogans on a city street.

A male voice-over: "This afternoon, a group of Aborigines from the Yamatji tribe in the Pilbara held an angry protest outside the headquarters of the Thornton Mining Corporation in Perth. They claim the company has not offered their community enough compensation for building the Eucla Mine on their traditional land. The leader of the protests, Mr Vincent Pilingili spoke to reporters."

A handsome curly-haired young Aborigine, wearing a shirt, tie and heavy frown, appeared on the screen. Microphones waved about under his nose. "My people have owned that land for 30,000 years, but Bruce Thornton thinks he can just barge in, open a big dirty mine, and offer the locals almost nothing. What he's offered so far is ridiculous. We will keep coming back until we get a fair deal."

The news announcer started reading the next item and my eyes drooped again. I undressed down to my jocks, turned off the TV and lights, and put my head on the pillow. A little to my surprise, I thought about Dirk Carter, who died young and missed his share of the immense wealth Thornton accumulated. I felt a kinship with him. Then I thought about the exotic sexual techniques Quilin Chen supposedly used to snare Thornton. If she did use them, it was hard to believe a man of Thornton's age could have survived the ordeal.
CHAPTER 4

Bruce Thornton stood at his huge office window, staring down at central Perth. He had a shock of white hair, square face and ruddy complexion. His body was surprisingly short, with narrow shoulders and wide hips. Still, billions in the bank gave him a special aura.

He spoke in a near-extinct ocker accent. "You know, I haven't walked on the pavement down there for years. These days, I'm always in a plane or car; that's making me soft." He turned and stared at me. "You were a journo in Canberra, right?"

Jesus, had someone finally done a proper background check? If so, I was rooted. I shifted uncomfortably and the leather couch squeaked. "Yes, but I never really liked journalism. That's why I started ghost-writing books."

A grunt of approval. "Smart move. Most journos are cunts."

"Totally agree," I said sincerely.

"But you know the biggest cunts?"

Too easy. "Politicians?"

"Bingo." His face turned radioactive. "Fuckin' parasites. Love to put every one in a boat and sink it in Lake Burley Griffin. I'd have a barbie and listen to them scream." A deep grunt. "Anyway, down to business. You know what people say about me?"

I fumbled the grenade. "Umm, not really."

He glared. "They say I'm not a real miner: just a prospector who got lucky and got big multis to do the mining."

"Really?"

"Yes. But I'm gonna prove the bastards wrong."

"With the Eucla Mine?"

He scowled. "Yes. I've spent fifteen years getting it off the ground. But, for the final stage, I need about ten bill. I've almost convinced some big Asian steel mills to invest. Once they've done that, it'll take me about three years to finish the project. Then I'll be shipping 100 million tonnes of iron ore a year. That'll show the pricks who've doubted me - who claim I'm gonna fall flat on my face."

Strange that someone so rich could be so angry. But maybe that was the key to his success.

"It sure will."

"Opening that mine will be the pinnacle of my career. That's why I want to publish my life story."

In other words, he wanted me to ghost his autobiography because he was a rich egomaniac, desperately afraid of death, who thought the book would pump life into his collapsing veins and give him a measure of immortality. He would send it sailing towards posterity, which wouldn't give a shit.

"And you want me to write it?"

A rueful smile. "Yes. Never been a big reader and I'm no good at putting words together. But I read On the Ball and loved it. Ripper yarn. You know what I liked most.

"What?"

"You showed that, despite his flaws, Wally's a great man. I want people to read my book and think the same about me."

No need to tell me the ropes. The primary task of a ghost-writer is to disclose a few of his employer's less odious faults - to make him look modest and human - and use them to backlight his greatness. "I'm sure I can manage that."

"Good. I also want to correct all the lies that lefty politicians and fuckwit journos have made up about me over the years. That's why I want to call it "Setting the Record Straight". What do you think?"

Even worse than "King of the Pilbara". But nobody had invited The Truth to pull up a chair. "Excellent title."

"I know. Now, on the cover of Wally's book, it said you helped him write it, or something like that. I don't want that, OK? This book's got to look like it's all my work."

I couldn't believe my luck. After depositing this literary turd in the front room, I could slip out the back door. Just show me the money! "Sure, no problem."

"Good. And I don't want any fancy writing. It's gotta be short and to the point, like me."

For fun, I'd compose Thornton's book in hard-boiled prose, as if he'd knocked out two guys and downed a bottle of whiskey before sitting down to write it. Might even read some Raymond Chandler to get my juices flowing. "Can be done."

"Excellent. Glad we see eye to eye. I was worried you might be some kind of pointy-headed writer. But you seem OK. In fact, you're hired."

I was oddly annoyed that he didn't ask if I wanted the job or mention my fee. I also had to finish ghosting a book for Darcy Gresham. However, I had no track record of saying 'no' to billionaires. "I am?"

"Yes."

"Umm, what are the terms?"

A dismissive wave. "Speak to Miss Gourlay outside," he said, referring to his personal assistant. "She's prepared the contract."

I'd vent my spleen to her. "OK."

"Good. Now how do you go about writing this thing? I guess you've got to interview me?"

"Yes, quite a few times. I'd also like to hang around with you a bit - to see how you live - and I'll do some of my own research."

"That's what you did with Wally?"

"Yes."

A sigh. "OK, but I'm a busy man. Don't want you taking up too much time."

"I won't."

"Good, then let's get started soon as possible. Got a reception at my place tonight. Come over and see where I live. Tomorrow, I'm flying up to the Eucla Mine with some potential investors, to give them a final look. We can talk on the plane and you can watch me in action."

I wanted to say I already had a book to write, for Gresham. "OK."

A harsh smile. "Great. Write a good book and I'll pay you well; write a lousy one and I'll sue you to death."

My laugh was dead on arrival.

Without bothering to dismiss me, he retired behind his desk, picked up a document and started reading. The plush carpet licked my ankles as I strolled the length of a cricket pitch to the door.

In the next room, his personal assistant, Lauren Gourlay sat behind a desk, typing on a laptop. She was a gorgeous brunette with a self-satisfied expression, as if she designed her cheekbones herself. How personal did Thornton get with his personal assistant? I certainly couldn't have kept my hands off her, even with a classy Chinese wife at home.

"Finished?"

"Yes. He offered me the job; wants me to sign a contract."

She handed me a bulky document. "Good. This is it. Sign on the last page."

"I'd better read it first."

She shrugged. "Up to you. You can sit over there."

She pointed at the couch on which I'd spent an hour waiting for my audience with the great man.

I sat and ploughed through the endless legal guff. The guts of it seemed to be that I would use my "best endeavours" to assist Bruce Thornton to write "a chronicle of his life" and obey all of his "reasonable and lawful directions"; in return, he would reimburse all of my "reasonable expenses" and pay to me "the Advance set out in Item 1 of the Schedule and the Completion Sum set out in Item 2 of the Schedule."

Wow. I flipped over to the "Schedule" on the last page. It said:

"Item 1: $100,000;

Item 2: $200,000."

Bloody hell. I would have traded a kidney and thrown in a testicle for that sum. A Vegas-style neon sign flashed in my head: "$300,000... $300,000... $300,000 ..."

I eventually managed to turn it off and look at the personal assistant. Stay calm. Think Cary Grant. Too bad my voice shook. "Umm, it says that I get a $100,000 advance. When will that be paid?"

"As soon as you sign the contract. Do that now and I'll process the payment. It should appear in your bank account tomorrow."

Blood charged into my brain. My hands trembled. "And the $10,000 I've already received?"

She shrugged. "That's an extra amount, non-refundable."

I quickly flipped through the rest of the contract, which gave Bruce Thornton complete ownership of everything I wrote - he could have it - and contained sub-headings like "confidentiality", "waiver", "exclusion-of-liability" and "indemnity". So what? Lawyer mumbo jumbo. Laws were just squiggles on a page anyway. My mind kept looping: $300,000... $300,000... $300,000 ...

Most of my previous dealings with the rich and powerful had ended in tears \- usually mine. However, I wasn't a journo anymore and would take care not to annoy Thornton. Just take the money and run. Still, my heart fluttered as I signed the contract and handed it back.

"Thank you." She proffered another document. "You'll have to sign this too \- it's very important."

"What is it?"

"A Non-Disclosure Agreement." Her huge eyes narrowed. "While you're working for Mr Thornton you will become privy to sensitive commercial information. You must not disclose it to anyone, under any circumstances, without written permission. Otherwise, a pack of very nasty lawyers will attack you, and probably give you rabies."

Of course, I should have paid more attention to what she said, but was just eyeing the money. "Didn't I just sign something like this?"

"You did. But this one is with Thornton Mining Corporation."

"Fair enough." I signed the document and handed it back.

She put it to one side. "Good. I'll send you copies in due course."

"OK. Mr Thornton invited me to his place tonight, for a reception."

Arched eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll arrange for a car to pick you up at, say, 6.30."

"Thanks. He also wants me to fly up to the mine with him, tomorrow morning."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think we hit it off."

A half-smile. "That's unlikely. Then a car will pick you up tomorrow morning at nine and take you to the airport. I'll see you there."

"You're going up to the mine too?"

"Of course."

"OK. So I'll be staying at the Chancellor while I'm in Perth?"

"Yes. Is there somewhere else you want to stay?"

I shrugged. "Nah, it's fine."

"Good. You have any questions or problems, give me a call. Here's my direct line." She handed me a business card.

"Thanks."

She resumed typing on the laptop and I slipped out the door, excited about the money I would be paid and hoping I hadn't signed away too many legal rights.

I strolled across the road to a park and used my mobile to call Anne at work, glad to be delivering good news for a change. "Babe, it's Paul."

"Hi. Have you talked to Bruce Thornton?"

"Yes, and just signed a contract to write his book."

"You sure that was wise. He's a total arsehole."

"Totally agree, but he's gonna pay me $300,000, with $100,000 upfront."

"Sheeeiiittt. You're kidding?"

"Totally serious."

"That's a crazy amount."

"To him, it's just spare change."

She paused. "Then I guess you didn't have much choice."

I didn't expect her to crumble that fast. "True, and don't worry: my name won't be on the book. He wants to claim all the credit."

"Excellent. How long will you be over there?"

"Two or three weeks, I guess - I hope - I'm not sure. You know, he's invited me to his house tonight, for a reception."

"To Fleur-de-lis?"

"Yep."

"How exciting. Will you meet Quilin Chen?"

"Dunno. Why do you care?"

"She's fascinating."

"You mean, because she's the greatest gold-digger of her generation?"

"Yes. And good luck to her: she deserves every cent she gets for humping that nasty old git. If you meet her, see if she's wearing the Hopeville Diamond."

"The what?"

"It's the huge pendant diamond Thornton gave her as a wedding gift. It's worth $5 million."

If I stumbled across it during my internet research, I paid it no mind. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Fine. So, umm, when do you get the first payment - the $100,000?"

"They're putting it into my account right now - as we speak."

"Wow."

"But don't rush out and spend it, OK?"

A dangerous pause. "Oh, don't worry. I won't touch it."

"Good. Maybe now your mother won't think I'm such a dead loss."

"She doesn't think that - you just imagine stuff." She'd still be saying that after Fred put a knife through my chest. "Anyway, got to go. Work to do. Congratulations, Darling."

The line went dead.
CHAPTER 5

Bruce Thornton lived two kilometres from the hotel, in a neighbourhood where the local council zoning only seemed to permit ugly mansions. Everywhere I looked there were faux-classical motifs, two-tone brickwork, towers, turrets, fairy-tale flourishes and monster garages. Architecturally, the mansions were the equivalent of bad breath. Fleur-de-Lis, at least, had a unified theme: it was a Gone-with-the-Wind style mansion that celebrated plantation slavery.

Ragnesh deposited me outside. "You want me to collect you?"

"No. Go home. I'll walk back to the hotel."

"You sure? I will get overtime?"

"Claim it anyway. See you tomorrow morning."

"Okay."

The iron gates would have stopped a tank, if locked. I slipped through a narrow gap and strolled up the gravel driveway, past a couple of concrete crouched lions, conscious that my tired blue jacket and green tie didn't look happy with each other. I would have to fall back, even more than usual, on my natural dignity. Style isn't about clothes - it's about knowing who you are and not giving a damn, if possible.

I passed under a massive porte-cochere with Doric columns and slammed the brass knocker. The oak door swung open to reveal a grey-haired guy in a morning coat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Wow. My first butler.

He did not share my excitement. "Yes, sir?"

"Hi, Paul Ryder. Mr Thornton invited me to his soiree."

A touch more respectful. "Yes, you're expected, though you're a little early. Please come in."

I stepped into a huge entrance hall with a domed ceiling, massive chandelier and green-marble floor. A Tara-style grand staircase curved upwards. But what really grabbed my attention was an enormous portrait, hanging above an ornamental fireplace, of the lord of the manor, standing in a desert landscape wearing khaki bush clothes, inspecting a big lump of iron ore. Too bad I had no sunglasses.

The man himself appeared out of a side-door wearing a white jacket, blue-striped shirt, grey slacks and canvas shoes without socks. Trendy? Maybe in Perth.

After a brief frown, he recognised me and frowned harder. "Hello Paul, you're the first here." He looked at the butler. "Michael, I'll look after Mr, umm..."

"Yes sir," the butler said and disappeared through a side door.

Thornton looked at me. "Come into the drawing room and I'll get you a beer."

After we'd taken a few steps, someone appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Quilin Chen. The internet photos didn't do her full justice. She was tall and willowy with the exquisite porcelain features of the great Chinese beauties. Her red dress had a plunging neckline and long side-split. As she glided down the stairs, her boobs and legs played peek-a-boo before a rapt audience. A rivulet of social sweat ran down my back.

When she reached the bottom, I saw a big sparkling pendant. The Hopeville Diamond? Quite possibly. I tried to take a mental snap-shot so I could describe it to Anne, but the picture turned out pretty blurry.

The only flaw in her beauty was a cashier hardness around the eyes and mouth. When she was good to a man, she was obviously very good, and when she was bad, she was horrible. She didn't just kick men out of her bed, she threw them out of a ten-storey window. Ironically, I'd always liked women like that because I started relationships with my heart dipped in brine and, when it was time to break up, didn't want a lot of crying, heart-to-heart chats and tantrums.

Thornton looked like a horny old bastard who'd struck gold. "Darling, this is Paul, umm, Ryder, who's going to ghost-write my autobiography. I told you about him: he wrote Wally O'Keefe's autobiography."

A puzzled expression. "Wully? Wully who?" She spoke with a heavy Chinese accent.

"Wally - Wally O'Keefe. He played Australian Rules for the Dockers. In fact, you've met him."

"I have?"

"Yes, I took you out to a game."

Her expression said she belonged to a great and ancient civilisation, and wasn't interested in barbaric local sports. "You mean, the funny game with funny ball."

"Yes, Australian Rules. Wally was the captain of the Dockers. I introduced you to him after the game."

"I not remember."

Thornton laughed like a love-struck fool. "Well, anyway, Paul wrote his autobiography. I read it a while ago, remember?"

"I remember you read a book..."

"Yes. Anyway, Paul's going to write a book like that for me."

A frown. "An auto-what...?"

"Autobiography. It's a book you write about yourself - about your life."

She nodded towards me. "But he will write it for you?"

"Yes, I haven't got time to put the words together."

She shook her head. "Why you want to tell people about yourself? Tell no-one anything. Keep all secrets. That is smart."

He smiled. "I know. But I'm Australian: we say what we think."

"You say too much. Will I be in this auto-thing?"

A sheepish expression. "A little bit - not much. Just a few nice things, sweetie."

A frown. "You will let me read this auto-thing first, OK?"

"Sure, sure."

Afraid she might persuade him to can the book, I made a sweeping gesture. "Lovely house you've got here."

She frowned. "Is OK. Soon we move to bigger one."

"Where?"

Thornton interjected. "Somewhere on the ocean, with a long jetty where I can park The Esmeralda."

His yacht had recently arrived from a Taiwanese shipyard and was now moored off Fremantle. It was about the size of a naval frigate and festooned with telecommunications equipment.

Dead air fell between us. But we were marooned together in the middle of the floor. A knock on the front door. Their heads spun around with relief.

The butler re-materialised and opened it. Two Chinese men in their forties, with near identical round faces, pitch-black helmets of hair, dark suits and shoes. Even their silver lapel pins matched.

Thornton smiled broadly. "Welcome gentlemen, to my humble abode."

He pumped their hands.

One spoke with a plummy English accent. "Our pleasure. Thank you for inviting us."

Mrs Thornton bowed and said something in Chinese. They responded in kind and glanced at me.

Thornton half-shrugged. "This is Paul Ryder, who works for me."

The one with the plummy accent said: "Hello, I am Wei Kim."

His pal stepped forward and also spoke like he belonged in the House of Lords. "And I am Li Wong."

We all shook hands. "Pleased to meet you."

Thornton said: "These gentlemen represent the Dai-Go Steel Works of Shanghai, a potential investor in the Eucla Mine. They'll be flying up there with me - us - tomorrow morning."

Kim reached into his jacket and pulled out a lapel pin, identical to the one he was wearing, and held it out. "Let me present to you with the pin of the Dai-Go Steel Works."

I stuck it on my lapel. "Thank you. I bet you make good steel."

"Of course, the best. What do you do Mr Ryder?"

Thornton interjected. "Paul is a writer. He's going to help me write my autobiography."

Kim smiled at me. "You mean, you are a ghost-writer?"

No flies on this guy. "Yes."

He looked back at Thornton. "Tremendous idea. I will definitely read your book, because you are a great man." He spoke with such patent sincerity it had to be bullshit.

Thornton beamed. "You're too kind. Anyway, come into the drawing-room and I'll get you a drink."

The mega-billionaire chivvied his two guests towards the drawing room, wife trailing, leaving me with the butler and the potted plants. That was fine by me.

I turned to the butler. "Mind if I look around?"

"Matter for you. We have an art gallery, a library, a snooker room or you can stroll around the grounds."

"Want a game of snooker?"

A flicker of a smile. "I've got things to do, I'm afraid."

"Then I'd better stretch my legs. Which way?"

He pointed. "Through the French doors."

"OK, cheerio."

I strolled out onto a flagstone patio where several white-coated waiters stood behind a long table groaning with booze, waiting for guests. Beyond the patio was a huge lawn with a marble cherub fountain in the middle. Huge flower beds flanked each side of the lawn, which ran down to the sludgy Swan River.

I tramped around the edge of the immaculately cut lawn, annoyed that Thornton had so much money. When I was young, I assumed the rich deserved their gains. Now I knew they either stole their money or inherited it from someone who stole it. Thornton was Exhibit A. He stumbled upon an iron ore deposit in the Windeyama Gorge, scattered around a few claim pegs, applied for a mining lease and, hey presto, owned the lot. There is no way that, in a just society, he could have converted that good fortune into a real fortune. Hell, in a just society, he would have been convicted and sentenced to death for building Fleur-de-lis.

Of course, my misgivings would not stop me working for him. I was an ex-journalist, now ghost-writer - in other words, a professional observer and note-taker - not a revolutionary. However, having said that, if an angry mob turned up and ransacked Fleur-de-Lis I would, after applauding their efforts, souvenir any valuables I could find, set fire to the drapes and flee the scene.

Anyway, it was best not to get too envious of Thornton. Ghost-writing his autobiography would be hard enough. It would be even harder if I seriously disliked him. I'd try not to reach that stage until I was finished and paid in full.

While I trekked around the grounds, about forty guests had congregated on the patio, drinking and laughing. Most of the men wore blue blazers and open-necked shirts. Sun and booze had scuffed up their faces. Many of the women looked like they'd gone to trainee vets for cosmetic surgery. Their puffy lips, frozen foreheads and diseased eyebrows made them look like wax replicas of themselves. Exotic head-pieces floated about. Heavy jewellery abounded.

The host and his wife had congregated with his CEO, Brian Taylor, personal assistant, Lauren Gourlay, and half-dozen sober-suited Asians - including Messrs Kim and Wong - who looked like they'd been die-cast in the same Chinese factory.

As I headed thirstily towards the drinks table, a woman said: "Paul Ryder."

I turned and saw a petite young woman with short blonde hair, untarnished features, real boobs and no headgear, wearing a pencil dress and cradling a glass of wine. Easily the most attractive woman present, after Quilin Chen of course. Did I know her? Jesus, it was Tanya Larsen.

The last time I saw her, about eight years ago, she was a talented and ambitious young cadet reporter in the Canberra bureau of the Sydney News. We parted on bad terms because - after setting my balls on fire and not dousing the flames - she stabbed me in the back so hard the blade poked out of my chest. In the old days, that sort of behaviour would have quickly earned her an editorship. However, the newspaper industry was too small to support her ambitions and she quit journalism soon after me.

A broad smile. She'd obviously forgiven herself for betraying me. "How are you?"

I said: "Fine. What're you doing here?"

"I work for Thornton Mining Corp."

"Doing what?"

"Head of CorpCom."

"What?"

Corporate Communications."

Jesus. She was a coin-operated corporate shill, probably pulling in at least half-a-mill a year. The little green man woke in my brain. "You mean, you lie for a living?"

She scowled. "Still sanctimonious, I see. Actually, the big new trend in public relations is telling the truth."

"If it is, it's no longer public relations."

"You always were cynical."

"It's the people I meet." I had to control myself. "So how's life? Found love? Got kids?"

A sneer. "Of course not. Got a career instead. You know, every morning, I thank God I'm out of journalism - or what's left of it."

"It's a killing field."

She crossed her arms. "What're you doing here? You still a journo?"

"Hardly. As you know, in journalism, my talents were never fully recognised."

"Hah. You mean you pissed everybody off. So what're you up to?"

"If you must know, Bruce Thornton hired me to ghost-write his autobiography."

She cackled and splashed some wine on her wrist, without noticing. "You're pulling my leg?"

"I'm not."

"Rubbish. Why the hell would Bruce Thornton hire you?"

"Because I ghosted the autobiography of Wally O'Keefe. He read that and loved it."

"Wally who?"

"He played Aussie Rules - a big star."

"Not interested in football. I still can't understand why Mr Thornton would employ you."

"What's wrong with me?"

"You're a ratbag."

"I've changed. I read the bible every morning and pray before bed."

Her braying laugh attracted stares. "And you call me a bullshit artist!"

Jesus, was she going to stab me in the back again and cost me $300,000? "You won't make waves, will you? I sorta need this gig."

A twisted smile. "I probably should after the way you treated me in Canberra."

What a hide. "The way I treated you?"

"Yeah, you got real shitty at the end."

"Only because you betrayed me."

"I did not."

She was born to be in CorpCom.

"You did."

A shrug. "OK, when the editor asked me what you were doing, I was a bit indiscreet. But you totally over-reacted."

I couldn't afford to antagonise this self-absorbed arsehole and shrugged. "Anyway, let's forget about all that."

"Sure."

"So, you won't piss on my swag?"

She sipped her champagne. "Don't worry, your past's safe with me."

"Thanks."

Another shrug. "I'm protecting myself. I'm going to pretend I don't know you. Then, when you pull everything down around your ears, I won't be blamed. From now on, let's act like we've never met."

"Fine."

"Good. I'll be on my way."

As she wriggled past several guests and disappeared into the house, I realised that, despite her meanness and treachery - or maybe because of it - she still made my balls simmer. I had only cheated on Anne once, in a foreign country, a long time ago. That dereliction still buzzed around in my conscience like a gnat, and I was too old and poor to have a serious affair. My days sneaking around like a secret agent, afraid of detection, were over. Still, it would be hard to refuse a quick shag on the road.

I stood on my own for a while, sipping champagne, trying to look like my date had gone to the bathroom. Eventually, I camped on the outskirts of the large group gathered around Bruce Thornton and his wife. Thornton, beer in hand, was telling the legendary story of how his Land Rover broke down in the Windeyama Gorge and a rainstorm exposed the iron ore on the sides of the gorge. All of the versions I'd read on the internet had mentioned the presence of Dirk Carter. However, Thornton airbrushed him out. Presumably then, Thornton wouldn't want him mentioned in his autobiography either. Fine by me. I was a hack writer, not a historian. I'd peddle any brand of bullshit Thornton wanted to sell, as long as I got paid and my name wasn't on the cover.

Thornton segued rather clumsily into a yarn about how, swimming in a billabong in the Northern Territory, he encountered a huge crocodile. "We were eye-to-eye. I was naked as Adam and my rifle was on the bank. So I punch the croc right on the snout. He just blinked and swum off."

While the Chinese investors look quizzical, Taylor said: "The croc was showing you professional respect."

Thornton guffawed. "Got that right."

It was encouraging to know Thornton had so much bullshit on tap and I just had to pour it onto the page.

Thornton started describing a safari in Africa during which he shot a couple of rhino. He claimed he hit them both right behind the ear from four hundred metres. As he talked, a tall man in his early forties with thinning sandy hair, a prominent nose and large jaw appeared on the patio. He was, I knew from photos I'd seen on the internet, Robert Thornton, the son and heir; I'd also read media reports that he had a fractious relationship with his father. Indeed, in his late twenties, he resigned from Thornton Mining Corporation and set up a small info-tech company which quickly went from "burgeoning" to "bust". Now he was back working for his dad, waiting to inherit the whole show. The gossip mags had labelled him Perth's most eligible bachelor, which was another way of saying "prove you're not gay".

The butler intercepted him and asked what he wanted to drink. He asked for "the usual whiskey", then slid through the throng, moving towards his father. On the way, he bumped into his step-mother. Frosty stares. Mmm, no love lost there.

Bruce Thornton scowled. "Ah Robert, finally made it."

"Sorry, got caught up."

Bruce Thornton suppressed a frown, slapped his son on the back and turned to the investors. "This is my son, Robert. One day, he'll inherit Thornton Mining and all my dreams."

Robert Thornton started shaking hands and I wandered inside to take a piss. I found a marble bathroom the size of a squash court and relieved myself.

Not wanting to return to the ugliness outside, I embarked on an unguided tour of the mansion. I strolled down a long hallway with antique clocks standing sentry, slipped through a snooker room and entered a large room lined with garish paintings of sheep and gum trees in flat landscapes.

I was no art connoisseur. My one tour of the Louvre left me physically, rather than emotionally or intellectually, exhausted. I barely reached the gift shop near the exit. But I knew these paintings were pure dreck. They were a half-wit's dream of the Outback. Every brush stroke was a lie. They were the sort of works that famous Austrian painter, Adolf Hitler, would have produced if the Outback was his subject. So, I wasn't surprised to see most were signed "Pro Hart".

The next room was a library with several deep leather armchairs and six sets of mahogany bookshelves, evenly spaced, jutting out from a wall. The calfskin-clad books looked like they were bought by the metre. Curious to see if they were real books, I slipped into a recess and pulled out a copy of Don Quixote. Every page was blank. I could understand a few fake books behind a desk for decoration, but a whole library of fake books seemed a bit excessive.

Footsteps approached - the solid tread of a man and the high-heel clatter of a woman. Still holding the book, I slipped further into the recess.

A man spoke: "God I'm tired of the way he talks to me - like I'm his footman. And that bitch, she's even worse."

A woman's voice: "Stay calm. Don't let them worry you."

A sigh. "OK, OK. But I haven't seen you for days. That always makes me tense."

I peeped through a small horizontal gap between bookshelves. Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay were holding hands.

He kissed her on the lips. "God, I miss you. Can I drop over to your apartment tonight?"

"Definitely not. We should be very careful right now. In fact, we shouldn't be meeting like this."

"OK. OK. Have you bought the suitcase?"

"Don't worry. That's all taken care of."

"Good. Leave the rest to me."

"Sure. Now, you'd better get back to the reception, before someone comes looking for you."

"Will do."

After one last smooch, he headed back towards the patio. She stood and looked around, as if afraid someone might be watching. No need to worry about that. I resisted the temptation to duck, converted my breathing to "shallow" and waited, trembling. Eventually, she turned and followed him out. I exhaled loudly.

I'd barely scratched the surface of the Thornton household and discovered it was a soap opera. Until now I'd wondered if Bruce Thornton was shagging his personal assistant. If he was, he was sharing her with his son. Something told me that Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay were star-crossed lovers. I just hoped I was around when the moment of truth arrived.

I didn't bother to ask myself why they needed a suitcase; I wasn't interested in their travel plans.
CHAPTER 6

A cool and luminous evening. I walked a few kilometres along the darkening Swan River, to reach the hotel. As I swiped myself into my room, my tummy demanded I call up room service and order a treat. Will do, I replied.

I stuck the card into the wall slot and the lights came on. I shivered slightly. Something wasn't quite right. What? Had something been moved? Was something missing? A new smell? The reptilian cortex at the base of my brain told me to scuttle away. However, the small rational compartment told me to pull myself together. A maid had probably cleaned the room and moved something. Steady the Buffs.

I had just decided I was jumping at shadows and was considering ordering a rump steak - with chips, of course - when a huge figure in a balaclava mask leapt out of the bathroom and landed squarely in front of me. Before I could have a heart attack, he smacked the top of my head with something hard. A sharp pain and lights out.

I woke with tangled thoughts and eyes glued shut. Distant pain tramped ominously towards my head and kicked its way inside. Ouch. I felt like someone had removed my brain with a hammer and chisel, baked it in a fan-forced oven for an hour and put it back. Thoughts zipped around and crashed into each other like dodge 'em cars. After several minutes, I tried to open my eyelids. They rose like rusty shutters. As my vision cleared, a strange pattern appeared in front of my eyes and I realised I was face-down on a carpet.

What carpet? Where? How did I get here?

Now my face hurt. I tried to touch it. But my arm wouldn't move. Paralysed? Before I could erupt in panic, I passed out.

I woke again, the pain even worse but my head clearer. I popped open both eyes. Still face-down on the carpet. I slowly moved my right arm - not paralysed, thank God - and touched my face. Sticky. My hand came away smeared with blood. Oh, Jesus. What happened? I dry-vomited.

For a couple of minutes, a tone-deaf idiot yodelled away in my head. The carpet pattern got crisper. Fragmentary memories of my visit to Fleur-de-lis tumbled around like balls in a lottery barrel. Did I drink too much and now had a bad hang-over? Then I remembered returning to my hotel room, contemplating an evening snack, and getting clobbered by an intruder. Hang on, that couldn't be right? Five-star hotel rooms were supposed to be safe places. I gnawed away at the memory and realised it was true. Shit. What did I do to deserve that?

I dragged my watch in front of my face and glanced at the time. Only 8.30pm, hopefully on the same day.

Time to assess the damage. I climbed up the wall to a standing position and hugged it hard for a while before staggering into the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw a haggard looking guy with a heavy bruise on his right temple, a big cut on his forehead and a stream of dried blood running from his hairline. The poor bugger looked in pain. But his most striking feature was a look of stunned disbelief.

I slowly cleaned up with a damp towel. What the fuck was going on? Maybe I stumbled upon a burglar. But how could a burglar break into a high-security five-star hotel room? And why target me? I felt around inside my jacket. Still had my wallet with all my plastic. Didn't look like a robbery.

While a political reporter, I pissed off a lot of people. But surely none would wait this long to exact revenge. To my enemies, I was something nasty under their shoes, nothing more. And why attack me in a secure hotel room, rather than out on the street? Nor had I done anything as a ghost-writer to provoke an assault. I'd only offended good taste and literature.

Several axemen were now using my head as the block in a wood chopping competition. I phoned room service and asked for some Panadol, before sitting on the bed and pondered my predicament. Perth was now a dangerous and spooky place. I wanted to immediately pack my bags and skedaddled back to Canberra. However, I'd just received a $100,000 advance that was probably already in my account. Maybe I should repay it and head home before I got attacked again.

As cowardice and greed crossed swords in my head, the phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello."

"Hello, Honey." The woman sounded like Anne, but Anne only called me "Honey" on very special occasions.

"Hello...umm...Anne?"

"Of course it's me, Honey."

Weird. "Hi. How are you?"

"Fine. You OK?"

"Yes, why?"

"You sound a bit tipsy."

Was I slurring? Maybe I was still concussed. My credibility with Anne was around my ankles. So if I told her I'd just been attacked in my hotel room, she'd think I was lying and trying to cover up something. I'd have to carry this burden alone. "Nah, I've only had a few drinks."

"OK. Have you looked in our account?"

"Account?"

"Bank account."

"What about it?"

"This morning there was only $510; now, there's $100,510. When I saw that I couldn't stop laughing. I'm so-o-o-o proud of you."

Oh, shit. No wonder she was calling me "Honey" and treating me like a hero. Now I couldn't return the money and flee. Trapped. "Umm, thanks. But don't spend it until I get back, OK?"

Anne had a black belt in shopping; she shopped off scratch. "Of course not."

My stomach knotted. "Good."

"Did you go to the reception at Thornton's place?"

"Yep."

"What was it like?"

"Crass mansion; crass people."

"I bet. Did you see Quilin Chen?"

"Yes, even chatted to her."

"Really? What about?"

"Nothing much. Just chit chat. She's already forgotten what I look like."

"And the Hopeville Diamond?"

"Oh, she had something around her neck - sparkled a lot. Might have been a diamond; might have been plastic."

"You're not sure?"

"I'm not a jeweller."

"You could have paid more attention."

"If I did, she'd have thought I was looking at her boobs."

"I bet you were anyway."

"Untrue \- totally untrue."

"Was she stunning?"

"Not compared to you."

A giggle. "Crawler. Were you smitten?"

"Of course not. She had no effect on me at all."

A pause. "Hah, hah. Tell the truth."

"I am. Anyway, I have some common sense: she tears men apart with her teeth."

"Really?" she said doubtfully.

Wanting to change the topic, I chose a worse one. "Your mum arrived yet?"

"Yes, last night. She's impressed you're writing a book for Bruce Thornton. She's a big fan."

"I'm not surprised. She's a right-wing nut."

"She's not that bad."

"Yes, she is. She's probably got SS insignia on her nighties."

"Don't be rude. But she hates Quilin Chen. Reckons she's a gold-digger who's mesmerised Thornton."

"Hah. Your mum hates her because she's Chinese."

"Well, Mum's a bit prejudiced, as you know."

"She's a flat-out racist."

"She's a product of her generation."

"That's what I mean."

"You shouldn't criticise her so much."

Then I'd have no hobbies left. "Why not? She attacks me all the time."

"No, she doesn't."

Anne didn't carve her facts out of objective reality; she baked new ones to suit the occasion. But surely she didn't believe that.

I said: "Yes she does."

"You should try to be nicer. It takes two people to make a nasty mother-in-law, remember that."

No, it doesn't. But criticising Freda was a serious addiction harming my relationship with Anne. I shifted gears. "OK, OK. I hope she's impressed with how much Thornton's gonna pay me."

"She was rather surprised."

Bitch. I walked into that one. "You see, she can't help herself."

"How long will you be in WA?"

"About two or three weeks, tops. Then I'll be home, I promise." Another lie. After this gig, I'd have to finish interviewing that idiot rugby player.

"OK. But don't be too long. We miss you."

Hearing that, after getting bashed in my hotel room, almost brought me to tears. I wanted to announce my return home, immediately, but thought about the $100,000 and the words stuck to my tongue. "OK. I miss you too."

"Take care."

She hung up, leaving me lonely and afraid. I stared forlornly out the window.

A knock on the door.

I padded over to it, suspicious of strangers. "Who's there?"

"Hotel staff. You asked for Panadol."

I threw open the door and spied a wispy-bearded young guy in a blue monkey suit. He stared at my forehead. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Yes, fine. Bumped my head."

"Do you want a doctor?"

"No, I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I do this all the time - no big deal."

"Umm, OK." He held out a small pack. "The Panadol."

I took it. "Thanks."

As I closed the door, I realised it bore no signs of forced entry. My attacker was either a hotel insider or very clever. Neither thought was consoling.

After washing down a couple of Panadol in the bathroom, I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. To my surprise, I stopped worrying about the intruder and started worrying about what Anne would do with the $100,000 in our account. She'd promised she wouldn't touch it. Sounded like garbage to me.

The Panadol deadened the pain and slowed my thoughts. I fell asleep and dreamed I sat outside a small wooden hut in a forest clearing - dressed like a gamekeeper in a shooting-vest and work-shirt - polishing a shotgun. Heavy rain swept across the clearing and drummed on the awning above my head. Quilin Chen strode towards me, holding an oil-paper umbrella, totally naked. I polished the shot-gun even harder. Suddenly, it discharged and brought the awning down on my head. Oblivion.
CHAPTER 7

When I woke, the pain in my head quickly reminded me that I got mugged the night before. Dull morning light streaming through the window. I grabbed the pack of Panadol on the bedside table, scoffed several more and lay still until the pain dissolved.

Who bashed me? Why? How could I avoid a recurrence? Not a clue. At least, in a few hours, I'd be leaving Perth and heading for the Eucla Mine. Surely, I'd be safe in a mining camp in the middle of the Outback.

After showering, I dressed in a polo shirt and chinos just back from the hotel laundry. I phoned room service and ordered half the breakfast menu. Twenty minutes later, a waiter arrived with my breakfast. I ate it next to the big window, watching central Perth wake up.

I packed a small overnight bag and reached the lobby about a minute before Ragnesh pulled up in his limo. I sat next to him, bag on lap.

He stared at my noggin. "Morning, boss. You OK?"

I touched my forehead. "Yes, had a fall last night."

"You should be more careful."

"I'm getting old."

He eased away from the curb. "I've got to take you to the airport, right? You're flying up to the mine?"

"Yes."

"With Mr Thornton?"

"Yes."

A pause. "Bet you'll find out a lot about the mine?"

"Maybe. So what?"

"You hear anything interesting, you'll tell me, right?"

"Why do you care?"

"If the Chinese agree to invest in the mine, the share price of Thornton Mining Corporation will jump. I've already bought a lot of shares. If I know they're going to invest, I'll buy a lot more."

"Sounds like insider trading to me."

"No, it's business."

"Mmm. All I know about share markets is that there are insiders and outsiders. Guess who rapes who?"

"You think I'm an outsider?"

"You're from outer space."

He frowned. "Nobody rapes Ragnesh."

"That's what they want you to think."

"But you will tell me what you find out?"

"Sure," I lied.

"Thank you. Australia is a great country - the Lucky Country - and I want to be a big success. But it's not easy. My mother-in-law has come from India to visit. She wants to know why I'm driving a car and not a doctor with a big house. I tell her it's hard for foreign doctors here because they won't let us practice. She doesn't understand. She's a nasty woman."

"I understand. My mother-in-law's a bitch. Her mail gets delivered to Hell."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What can we do?"

"I've thought about murdering her, but I haven't got enough experience. I mean, what do you do you do with the body? The murder weapon? How do you avoid leaving DNA at the scene? I could look up that stuff on the internet, but if the cops find out you've been accessing that sort of shit, you're in even worse trouble."

He stared across at me. "You serious?"

"You haven't met her."

An uncertain giggle. "Maybe, if I help you kill your mother-in-law, you will help me kill mine?"

"Forget it. One thing I do know is that accomplices are bad news: I'd squeal on you, and you'd squeal on me."

He chuckled. Ten minutes later, he drove past the main terminal and, after showing his identity card at a security check-point, turned down a short road to a large hangar with "Thornton Mining Corp" emblazoned on the side. On the tarmac outside were two executive jets: one large, one small. Both had black and red livery and the initials "TMC" painted on each wing.

Several black limos with tinted windows were parked beside the hangar. Nearby, chauffeurs, Chinese investors and weather-beaten workmen stood in groups.

Ragnesh parked near the other limos and we waited in the vehicle. He kept complaining about his mother-in-law. I didn't want to hear any more about his domestic problems. I tried to treat everyone as an equal. But why was this chauffeur taking such liberties with me? There are boundaries.

After several minutes, a big white chauffeur-driven Merc, festooned with aerials, pulled up. Bruce Thornton and Brian Taylor got out wearing well-pressed khaki bush gear. Thornton also wore a Hi-Viz vest as if, at the mine, he was going to jump straight onto some heavy machinery.

Thornton's personal assistant, Lauren Gourlay, emerged from the front seat, looking glamorous in a white blouse and tight blue skirt, wielding a clipboard. No wonder Robert Thornton was shagging her. However, when he emerged from a parked car, they studiously ignored each other.

Bruce Thornton shook hands with the Chinese investors, then held up his hands. "Morning, all. Because there are so many of you flying up to the mine, we'll be using both planes. Miss Gourlay will tell you which one you're on."

He trotted up some stairs into the large plane, son trailing behind. Everyone else, clutching their luggage, queued in front of his personal assistant who consulting her clipboard and assigned them a plane. The Asian investors were dispatched to the big one; the workmen to the other.

As I stood at the back of the queue, a grating voice wafted over my shoulder. "So, you got the job?"

I spun around and saw the CEO, Brian Taylor. Bright sunlight exposed the deep fissures in his ruddy face.

"Umm, yes."

He glanced at the purplish bruise on my temple. "What happened to you?"

"Came a cropper in the hotel bathroom."

He raised his eyebrows. "Well, don't kill yourself before you finish the book."

"I won't."

"You've signed confidentiality agreements?"

"Yes."

"Good. So remember that everything you see and hear is now top secret. Breathe a word and I'll have your guts for garters, understand?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Any problems, come and see me."

I wasn't that stupid. "Of course."

He strode off and I found myself looking over the clipboard at Lauren Gourlay.

She glanced at the bruise without interest. "Morning."

"I'm on the little plane?"

"No, the big one."

"Really?"

"Yes. Mr Thornton wants to chat about the book if he gets a chance."

"OK."

"And I want to keep an eye on you."

I smiled. "I won't be any trouble."

No smile. "I hope not."

I skipped up the steps and entered an executive jet for the first time. The interior was even plusher than I expected: chestnut panelling with gold trim and a thick red carpet. A budget airline could have squeezed in a hundred passengers. Instead, eight huge bucket seats lined each side. The Thorntons and Taylor sat up the front. Two gorgeous female stewards fluttered around, helping passengers stow their luggage in overhead racks.

When I got tossed out of journalism, I thought I'd enjoyed my last all-expenses-paid luxury junket. My glory days of sucking on big erect corporate teats were over. However, I now realised that a merciful God had taken pity on me and given me another shot at heaven. Indeed, if this was my last junket, I was going out on top.

I slung my bag onto a rack, dropped into the seat closest the rear door, and started reading a history of Operation Barbarossa. I'd only read a few chapters. The Nazis were spearing into the Soviet Union and Soviet generals were pig-headedly sending wave after wave of their men to a certain death. The generals were almost as nasty and incompetent as newspaper editors.

Lauren Gourlay was the last aboard. As soon as she turned to throw her valise onto an overhead rack, I perved at her well-shaped legs and firm bottom. As she turned back around, my gaze jumped like a scalded cat from her bottom to her face, where it clung desperately lest it plunge into the dark canyon between her breasts, never to reappear.

She slipped into the seat opposite and glanced at me. "Good book?"

"Yes. Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union. War on steroids."

"You're interested in war?"

"Only if not personally involved."

"Very wise. I heard you were once a journo, in Canberra."

"For a while," I said cautiously.

"Why'd you quit?"

Thankfully, she didn't seem to know I was chucked out. Best to put the shutters up. I shrugged. "I achieved all my KPIs and decided it was time to move on."

A doubting smile. "Really? To become a ghost-writer?"

I shrugged again. "Change is as good as a holiday. How long have you worked for Bruce Thornton?"

"Five years. Started just after I got my Ph.D."

"In business?"

"No, art history. I wrote a thesis on the Heidelberg School."

"But you always wanted to join the iron-ore industry, right?"

A half-smile. "No, I wanted to be an art curator. But it's impossible to get a job, and I didn't want to wait on tables."

"Understand that. You still keen to do something artsy-fartsy?"

A tight smile. "Not anymore."

I suspected her new ambition was to marry Bruce Thornton, wait until he inherited his father's wealth and accumulate an enormous art collection. If so, I wouldn't bet against her.

The plane started taxiing. She opened her laptop and tapped away. I went back to my book. Soon, the plane took off - it almost leapt into the air - and soared into the burning blue. After a few minutes, the seat-belt sign went off. Lauren Gourlay spied an empty seat just behind Bruce Thornton. She closed her laptop and scuttled forward to claim it, studiously ignoring Robert Thornton just across the aisle.

The plane cleared the far-flung suburbs of Perth and crossed a sea of wheat before sailing over a parched landscape spattered with prehistoric wrinkles. The rugged terrain reminded me that I had pioneering blood in my veins. In 1905, my paternal great-grandfather loaded his family onto a bullock dray and trekked from Sydney to far-western NSW to establish a wheat farm. The land was dry and inhospitable. The farm only grew debt. After five years, now flat broke, he put his family back onto the bullock dray and returned to Sydney, where he spent the next thirty years working as a ticket inspector on the railways. He was the last Ryder to venture into the Outback. His descendants prudently hugged the coast and stayed in their natural habitat - suburbia. Their refusal to venture into the vast interior helped make Australia the most urbanised country on earth. Of course, they pretended they had a psychic connection with the Outback and were the hardy children of a wide brown land, but they feared the bush and jumped at the sight of a domestic spider.

I'd maintained their uninspiring tradition. At school, I learnt that the interior was where a big rainbow serpent once slithered around, carving out rivers and knocking down hills, and where nutty English explorers - and the odd German adventurer - went for no sensible reason and died of thirst or got speared by the Aborigines. My history teachers thought those explorers were rather impressive. I thought they were insane. Certainly, I grew up hopelessly addicted to the internet, takeaway food, beer-on-tap and indoor plumbing - indeed, any modern amenity that kept Nature at bay. Fortunately, at the Eucla Mine, I would rub up against the romance of the Outback without experiencing any of its hardships.

I soon lost interest in the view and gnawed away at who assaulted me the night before. The effort only made my head hurt. I got a hostie to bring me a Panadol and glass of water.

Thornton spent the first hour moving around the cabin, showing the Asian contingent maps and documents, and praising the Eucla deposit. While pretending to read, I listened intently. The biggest concern of his guests - who all spoke better English than him - was the future price of iron ore. Thornton promised it would double in the next ten years.

One said: "What if it drops 50 percent?"

A fierce shake of the head. "It won't, but even if it does, the mine will still make money because it's such a fantastic resource." His tone had a hint of desperation. That was a bad sign, because if I could detect it, so could these wolves.

Eventually, Thornton realised his audience was tuning out and noticed me. He dropped into the empty seat opposite and ignored the bruise on my forehead. "Hello, Dave."

"Paul...."

A dismissive wave. "Of course, of course. Enjoying yourself?"

"Definitely. You're very busy."

"Got to keep these guys happy." He leaned across the aisle and smirked. "You know, a couple found hookers in their hotel rooms last night. No idea how they got there."

Why didn't I get a hooker? Or maybe I did and her pimp beat me up.

He glanced out the window. "You know, whenever I return to the bush, I feel like I'm going home. When I die, I want to be buried out here in a simple grave." To my surprise, he sang, in a cracked tone:

"Wrap me up in my stock whip and blanket

And bury me deep down below,

Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me

In the shade where the Coolibah grow."

Well, that was embarrassing. However, if you deposit $100,000 in my bank account, you always get a good review. "You've got a good voice."

"I know. Anyway, let's get started on my book. Ready?"

I pulled out a pad, annoyed at having to work. "Of course."

"What do you need to know?"

"Let's start at the beginning. You were born on the Bularoo cattle station, right?"

"Yep, in the middle of a terrible drought. According to my mother, I was born in a cowl, which is a sign of good luck."

Or, in some cultures, the devil. "What were your parents like?"

"Dad was a fearsome bugger. Tough as teak; drank like a fish; had an evil temper. Loved giving me the strap. You know, when I was about eleven, I gave him some cheek, so he drove me into the desert and left me there. No water, no compass, nothing. Had to walk 20 miles to get home. Passed out twice and arrived after dark. Flopped right into a cattle trough and drank a gallon of filthy water."

"You could have died."

"Yes. These days, they'd call that child abuse. But Bularoo was a tough place and you had to be tough to survive. No welfare workers hanging about. Looking back, he did me a favour."

"You want me to put this stuff in your book?"

"Of course. Today's lazy fucked-up kids should read what I went through."

Hard to imagine those kids, members of the post-text generation, would abandon their games consoles long enough to read the autobiography of a rich old fart like him. Smart kids. "Did you ever sort out your relationship with your father?"

A smirk. "Yeah, when I was about 15, he belted me once too often and I decked him."

"Really?"

"Yes. One punch. Put him on his arse. After that, I got a lot more respect."

I smelt bullshit, which was good, because I didn't want to carry the whole burden of making stuff up. I wanted a creative partnership. "I bet. You want that in the book too?"

"Of course."

"And your mother, what was she like?"

"An angel. Had a tough life, stuck on a cattle station in the middle of nowhere, putting up with Dad, but she never complained."

"Your father was tough on her?"

"He yelled at everyone."

"Was he ever violent?"

"To her? Don't think so. He was tough and mean, but very old school like that."

"You were their only child, right?"

Yeah. Had a brother, but he was still-born."

"When did that happen?"

"A couple of years before I was born - Mum never talked about it."

I scribbled some notes. "OK, so what it was like growing up on a remote cattle station?"

He shrugged. "Tough, of course. We had droughts, windstorms, food shortages and - like I said - Dad was a bastard. But, looking back, I had the time of my life." He told me lots of Huck Finn-ish anecdotes about how he rounded up cattle, swam in water-holes, caught snakes, shot wallabies and attended school over the radio. His playmates were the children of Aboriginal stockmen. "Lots of dickheads claim I'm a racist. Bullshit. I grew up with Abos; played in the dirt with 'em. I know 'em and like 'em. But I know their flaws: they're no good with booze and money, and hate work. It's not racist to say that."

Not if you live in the 18th Century. "And you want that in your book?"

"Definitely. People should know where I stand."

I scribbled furiously on my pad. "Your parents sent you to a boarding school when you were twelve, I understand?"

"Yeah, and I hated it. The other kids were cry-babies and I missed the bush."

"Then you got a diploma in metallurgy?"

"Yep. I wanted to become a gold prospector. I'd dreamed about doing that since I was a kid."

"Why?"

He smiled. "When I was about eight, a friend of Dad's called Lex Hanlon stopped at the homestead. Lex was about sixty: a runty guy with a big bushy beard. Tough as nails. He'd spent about thirty years driving his Land Rover all over the State, looking for gold. Anyway, he told Dad he found a big gold reef in the Hindmarsh Hills, about sixty miles away. Showed us some quartz rocks with big gold seams."

"You saw them?"

"Yes. Remember it like yesterday: we were all in the dining room; Lex pulled the rocks out of a sack and put them on the table. Dad picked one up and whistled. Asked Lex to show him on a map where he found it. Lex just ummed and ahhed, and said he didn't know the map reference."

I was hooked. "He was lying?"

"Course he was lying. Nobody finds a gold reef and can't find it on a map." Good point. "Just didn't trust us. Anyway, he left the next day and we never saw him again."

"Why not?"

"He died about six months later, in a hospital, in Kalgoorlie - prostate cancer, of all things."

"And nobody's ever found the gold reef?"

"Correct, though Dad and I looked for it. Every year or so we drove out to the Hindmarsh Hills and scouted about. Found nothing."

"Maybe Hanlon was lying about the reef?"

"Nah. Dad knew a lot about gold and reckoned the rocks Lex showed us were the real deal. If Lex was lying, it was probably about finding the reef in the Hindmarsh Hills. Maybe he found it somewhere else and tried to put us off the scent."

I quivered because I'd struck an autobiographical mother-lode. I would make the near-mythic appearance of Lex Hanlon at the homestead the defining moment of Thornton's life. Everything he did after that would be, sub-consciously, a search for Hanlon's gold reef. That quest would provide the book with its engine and narrative arc. A spurt of joy. Finding the key to a book - any book \- is definitely better than sex, particularly when you're past forty. I almost said "rosebud".

However, I first had to bring Thornton on-board. "Maybe you've spent your whole life looking for Hanlon's reef?"

His brow furrowed and he missed his cue. "I gave up looking for the reef a long time ago."

"I know. But you've been looking for something just as big - a replacement."

After a brief frown, he took the hint and smiled. "Maybe you're right."

"And you found it when you discovered the Eucla deposit?"

A grin. "Yes, yes - I see what you mean. The Eucla Mine is the end of a long journey." He paused. "You know, I've never thought about it like that."

Of course you haven't, because I just made it up. "I know. But now you have thought about it, you agree you've been searching for Hanlon's reef your whole life?"

"Yeah, I have."

"Good, then I'll put that in your book."

"Yeah, do that."

"You've certainly had a lot of success as a prospector."

"I know. But I shouldn't get all the credit. When I was out prospecting, I'm sure that, sometimes, God was talking to me. A voice inside my head told me where to look for minerals."

"And that voice gave you the right directions?"

"Of course."

Obviously, God loved helping miners rip the guts out of the natural wonders He now realised it was foolish of Him to create.

"And you want that in the book too?"

"Definitely."

Now he was getting carried away. I wanted him, through me, to describe his life as an epic quest to find a substitute for Hanlon's Reef. That narrative would get confused if he also portrayed himself as a prophet-prospector channelling God while getting filthy rich in the process. He was already in serious danger of looking like a deluded narcissist. If the book mentioned his chats with God, it was game over. Still, if he ended up looking bad, I didn't care. My goal was to keep him happy until I'd escaped over the hill with his boodle. "Will do. So, after you got a diploma in mineralogy, you went back to Bularoo, right?"

"Yes. Dad wanted me to help him manage the station, and I needed a base for prospecting."

"You were still single."

"Yes. I'd already met Margaret, in Perth, but we didn't get married until I was 30. Wasn't easy for her at Bularoo, particularly when I was off prospecting. I feel a bit guilty about that now, I suppose."

"It was a happy marriage?"

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced out the window. "We survived. But maybe we weren't quite right for each other. Anyway, I don't want to say much about her in the book. It's supposed to be about me. Just say I was very upset when she died."

"Sure. I understand that, in the early days, you prospected with a man called Dirk Carter?"

A suspicious stare. "Yes. He was a station hand. I know some people say we were partners, but that's untrue. Dad paid his wage and let him go prospecting with me. We were never partners."

"Of course. And he was there when you discovered iron ore in the Windeyama Gorge?"

"Yes. But I discovered it, not him. That's one of the things I want to clear up in my book."

"I understand. Then you'd better tell me what really happened."

He described how their Land Rover broke down in the gorge and a rainstorm made its sides glisten red. "When I told Dirk that the hills were full of iron ore, he had no idea what I was talking about. It took me a while to explain. Then we fixed the Land Rover and spent a whole day following the iron ore seam, putting out claim pegs."

"Then you went to Perth and claimed a mining lease?"

"Yes. There are stories that Dirk wanted a share of the lease. Not true. He didn't ask for a share; he wasn't involved."

"Because he was an employee?"

"Exactly."

"Then he died in a plane crash?"

He looked impatient. "Yes. I was flying a Cessna from Port Hedland to Bularoo. Dirk was in the passenger seat. Engine caught fire. I tried to land on a salt pan, but the plane flipped over and exploded. I was thrown clear, Dirk wasn't. Very sad. Took me four days to reach the nearest homestead; spent most of the last day crawling on my belly. But I don't want to say much about the crash \- it's still quite painful."

I would have liked to include a lot about the crash in the book, because his survival showed he was Destiny's child, carefully protected for greater things. Certainly, the journo in me wanted to ask more questions about the crash. However, the over-paid ghost-writer backed off. "Sure."

We chatted for a while about how he arranged for Rio Tinto to mine the Windeyama Gorge and pay royalties. He started to look bored. "That's enough, for the moment."

"Sure. But we'll have to chat again, of course."

"Yeah, when I get a chance. But I hope you'll be able to, umm, fill in any gaps."

Tired of the project already. At least that would make him less demanding. "Of course. In fact, I'd love to go up to Bularoo and look around - get a feel for the place - before I write up your memories of it."

"Fine. I'm off to China next week. Go up then. Lauren Gourlay will organise it." He started to rise and hesitated. "I've been thinking about the title: "Setting the Record Straight" sounds a bit clunky. What about "My Struggle"?

Hell, why not go the whole hog and called it "Mein Kampf" or, even better, "Mining Kampf". I got a kick out of saying: "Sounds excellent."

"Good. That's what I'll call it. Catchy and true." He stood up and smiled. "Oh, yeah, one last thing: when we get to the mine, there's someone you'll want to meet."

"Who?"

"Wally O'Keefe."

"Wow. He's up there?"

"Yep. I've employed him to liaise with the Aboriginal community. They love him."

"I look forward to seeing him."

"Good."

He headed up the aisle to join a conversation between his CEO and one of the Chinese investors.

I got a hostie to bring me a Scotch, which I sipped while making notes of my conversation with Thornton. How much of what he said was true? Didn't really matter. I wasn't a historian. I just collected baloney and turned it into words.

So, Wally was working at the Eucla Mine. Be good to see him again.
CHAPTER 8

The executive jet carrying a semi-inebriated ghost-writer swooped down over scrub, spinifex and anthills to land on a red-clay runway. Numerous emus, kangaroos and bush turkeys haughtily moved off the strip, while wedge-tailed eagles made long, slow, lumbering take-offs.

I was the first out. The landscape shimmered. Sub-tropical heat coated me with sweat. Above me, beneath a blazing sun, two wedge-tailed eagles looped around each other, looking for prey and reminding us we were guests out here.

I descended the steps. A couple of huge earth-graders roared past, levelling the other side of the runway. No sign of the smaller plane. Where was the township?

The passengers slowly gathered beside the plane, holding their luggage. A four-wheel-drive mini-bus cruised towards us, throwing up dust. A couple of kangaroos hopped back onto the strip and eyed us suspiciously. Several Chinese businessmen quick-drew massive cameras and clicked away. I ignored the fuss, like a true Australian.

Wei Kim \- or was it Li Wong - stood next to me, wearing a Panama hat and white cotton shirt. A heavy-calibre camera protruded from his chest. Enigmatic smile. "Ah, Mr Ryder, the ghost-writer. You don't look like a ghost."

His posh English accent and affable manner didn't disguise his hard face and wary eyes. A dangerous man to cross. I bet he could maintain eye contact while strangling someone.

I said: "I'm not. In fact, I've got a big mortgage to prove it."

His laugh didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure mine's bigger. Why are you here?"

"To work on the autobiography with Mr Thornton, and get a feel for this place."

"Will your name be on the book?"

"No."

"Do you mind?"

"Nope, I'm just a tradesman. I join words together."

"You are very modest."

How could I explain I was desperate to keep my name off the book? I waved at our surrounds. "Your first time in the Outback?"

He glanced about. "Yes. I knew it was big and empty, but this is amazing. Now, I must photograph the kangaroos, to show my daughter \- she is only ten." He snapped away and squealed with delight. "One has a little baby - a joey, right? My daughter will be so happy." His doting dad, happy-snapper tourist routine didn't lull me into a false sense of security.

As the mini-bus came to a halt, Bruce Thornton finally emerged from the plane with his son, CEO and personal assistant in tow. Cameras were reluctantly lowered. "Gentlemen, as you can see, we're still working on the strip. In a few weeks, we'll start sealing it. Then it'll be strong enough to take jumbo jets. First, we'll take you to your accommodation units, so you can drop off your bags. Then we'll have some lunch and I'll show you around."

Thornton climbed into the mini-bus with his small retinue. They sat just behind the driver and everybody else sat behind them. I was the last aboard and squeezed onto the rear-most seat.

The mini-bus zoomed back along the runway, veered left and drove along a graded dirt track for about a kilometre, kicking up reddish dust, before passing serried rows of accommodation units and a cluster of large tin buildings. It stopped in front of eight adjoining accommodation units.

Thornton leapt from the mini-bus, trying too hard to look vigorous, and waited for everyone to assemble in a horseshoe. "The buildings we drove past are all temporary. By the time the mine's fully operational, there'll be a permanent township about two kilometres over there." He jabbed his finger at nowhere. "It'll accommodate 1,500 workers; the mess hall will have seating for 500 and there'll be a lap pool, running track, infirmary, cinema and even a driving range." He chuckled. "I'm thinking about calling it Thornton Town. Miss Gourlay will give you keys to your units. Put your bags inside, then we'll have lunch."

His personal assistant handed each of us a key with a unit number attached. My unit had a small living room. Adjoining it was a bedroom, bathroom and tiny kitchen. I dumped my bag on the couch.

When everyone had re-gathered outside, Bruce Thornton - now sporting a white safety helmet - told us to follow him. He led us 100 metres across an open space, into a large tin building in which about sixty dusty workers sat at long tables eating buffet food. The air-conditioning tickled my bones.

Thornton said: "Workers usually spend three weeks here, working every day, then get a couple of weeks off. They commute from Perth, Sydney, Melbourne, New Zealand, even Bali. We pay them well and they work hard. Our table's over there."

He led us to a roped-off area where a couple of white-jacketed waiters guarded a long table with a formal dinner setting. "The head chef owned a two-hat restaurant in Perth, so you'll enjoy the food."

He sat in the middle of the table, his CEO and personal assistant on either side. I slunk down to the end of the table and studied the one-page haute cuisine menu. Robert Thornton plumped down next to me. Fortunately, he spent the whole meal chatting to the businessmen - casually spruiking the mine - while I gorged upon a lovely Northern Territory lobster with croutons and fresh vegetables, washed down with an excellent Margaret River Riesling. I had nothing in common with these guys: they'd spent their whole careers making deals and I'd spent my whole career not making them.

Only after coffee - while his guests wielded tooth-picks - did Thornton fils turn to me. "You're the writer, correct?"

"Yes, Paul Ryder. I'm going to ghost your father's autobiography."

A snort. "Total waste of time, if you ask me - a big distraction. He should focus on getting this mine up and running."

"I won't take up much of his time."

"You're still a distraction. I told him that but, of course, he never listens to me."

"I see your point of view. But I'd love to chat with you about your father if you have time. You might remember stuff he doesn't - make my job a lot easier."

A wicked smile. "He might not like what I remember."

I didn't want to get caught in the cross-fire between father and son. "Matter for you."

"I'll think about it." He turned away and resumed hustling the East.

Soon afterwards, Bruce Thornton ordered everybody back to the mini-bus. Nobody told me to piss off, so I snared a seat near the back.

We were driven a kilometre into the desert and deposited in a bush clearing where an old guy and young guy, both wearing safety-hats, fluro-vests and khaki shorts, stood next to a jeep.

Thornton said: "I've brought you here, because the main ore body starts right below this spot and runs three kilometres in that direction." He pointed towards nowhere, before jabbing his thumb at the older guy. "This is our chief geologist, Tex Moran. He'll give you the details. Tex..."

Moran was a beanpole with a sun-scorched face, big red nose and prominent Adam's apple. He cleared his throat. "Afternoon, gents. In the ground right below us is 25 metres of overburden and, below that, fifty metres of microplaty hematite - iron ore - that's eighty percent pure. That means every tonne yields about 800 kilos of iron which your mills, of course, convert into steel. So this is an outstanding deposit. But why are we so sure there's iron ore beneath this spot? Follow me."

He led us 150 metres to an adjoining clearing in which hundreds of blue barrels formed a huge pyramid. "We've drilled almost ten thousand test holes; this is the drum farm where we keep the core samples." He nodded towards his young companion. "My number two, Todd Barnett, will show you a core sample."

Todd was another beanpole, with a stringy beard. He nervously strolled over to a collapsible table. On it lay a metre-long tube of compacted dirt. As everyone gathered around, he used a trowel to cut the tube in half, exposing moist soil and rock. "The shiny stuff is silica: it's an impurity the drill has polished." He pointed at some purple-grey material. "And that's the hematite. It was created about three billion years ago, when this rock formation was at the bottom of the sea and the iron combined with oxygen. This area has some of the oldest rocks found near the surface of the earth."

Bruce Thornton interjected. "That's why, at full production, this mine will produce 100 million tonnes of iron ore a year, for at least 30 years, probably more. The big trick will be getting it to the coast and onto a ship. Let me show you how that'll be done."

He bundled us back into the mini-bus, which circled up to the top of a nearby hill and stopped next to a tall telecommunications tower. We got out and Thornton kept pointing into the distance while describing how the iron ore would be extracted from a large open pit and taken to a massive crusher. "The crusher will be over there. Then trains will take the refined ore 300 kilometres to Port Hedland for loading. We're going to build a big operations centre in Perth that'll co-ordinate ever step, from mine to port, by remote control. We'll even have driverless trucks and driverless trains. Obviously, the most expensive part of the project will be building the railway and loading facility at Port Hedland, including dredging the harbor. That's why Thornton Mining needs you to invest."

He seemed to grow a foot as he spoke, oozing confidence. For a few brief moments, my in-built cynicism fell away and I was a believer. I'd have leveraged every asset I had to buy a slice of his dream.

However, this was a tough audience. A businessman said: "Many things can go wrong?"

Thornton waved dismissively. "Of course. The risks are big, but the profits will be huge. We don't take this opportunity, someone else will and reap the rewards."

"What's your timeline?"

"We've got all the government approvals we need and can start the final stage as soon as you guys provide funding. It'll take three years to build the railway and the loader - four tops."

Another cynic spoke up. "What about the local Aborigines - have you reached an agreement with them?"

Thornton shuffled slightly. "The Yamatji? We're close. A liaison team's working with the Abos - I mean, traditional owners - on a land-use agreement. We've even employed a famous footballer called Wally O'Keefe, who's part Aboriginal, to help with negotiations. They all respect him."

Mr Kim spoke up: "I understand some Aborigines don't want a mine."

"Some of the young guys are causing trouble. But the elders call the shots and they're all on-side, or soon will be. Don't forget, I grew up with Aborigines; know them well; I can handle them. And if we can't reach a deal, the courts will decide what's fair."

The first dude again. "I heard the railway track will go over some sort of Aboriginal snake?"

"Yes, the T.O.s claim it'll wake a Dreamtime snake. Our anthropologists say that's complete bullshit - just a negotiating tactic. We'll sort it out. Right, let me show you some more sights."

For the next three hours, we were driven from one blank and dusty location to another so Thornton could excitedly describe exactly where the township and ore crusher would be built, the trains loaded and other stuff would be done. The last event on our tour, and definitely the highlight, was watching some blasting experts bring down the side of a small hill with an enormous explosion which rippled along the brow.

The light was fading as the mini-bus pulled up in front of the mess building. As I got out, last off, a battered white Holden Ute zoomed out from behind a couple of sheds and headed toward us, revving hard. An Aboriginal flag flew from a tall aerial and "No Mining" was painted in white on the bonnet. Three young Aboriginal men in T-shirts and jeans stood on the back tray, holding onto the roof of the cabin.

The vehicle slowed as it got close. One of the guys in the back was Vincent Pilingili, who I saw on TV. He spotted Bruce Thornton and shook his fist. "Get off our land, you prick; no mining; no mining."

Thornton went scarlet and shook his fist. "Fuck off. This is my land."

The Ute had almost stopped. "It's Blackfella land. We've owned it for 40,000 years. It's ours."

"Yeah, but I've got a mining lease, so fuck off. And your name's not Pilingili anyway. It's McKay, you prick - Vincent McKay."

"I'm Vincent Pilingili."

Thornton's head jerked around. "Security - where the hell is security?"

On cue, a Land Rover with "Security" stencilled on the bonnet and a red strobe light on the cabin roared out from behind the same sheds and headed towards us.

Pilingili slammed his fist on the roof of the Ute. "Go."

The Ute sped off, creating another dust cloud. The Land Rover whizzed past in hot pursuit.

Thornton scowled and looked at his guests. "Young thugs - troublemakers. Don't worry about them. The elders make the big decisions."

Someone behind me said: "Where did they come from?"

"There's a small community of Abos - Aborigines - about a ten kilometres from here. We've tried to get rid of them, but they won't go and we can't make them." He gave his CEO a peevish look. "Brian, find Wally. I want to see him."

Taylor said: "Think he's over at the community, talking to the elders. I'll get someone to bring him back."

"Do that."

Thornton turned back to his guests, still red-faced. "Gentlemen, forget about this - just some hot-heads who don't count. Let's have dinner."

Thornton stomped into the mess hall and led us back to the roped-off table. He sat next to Lauren Gourlay. His son and CEO had disappeared.

I sat below the salt and wolfed down another sumptuous meal, while the businessmen beside me chatted in Cantonese or Mandarin, or something else, oblivious to my presence. After dessert, while everyone drank coffee, Wally O'Keefe strolled into the mess, wearing a cowboy shirt and jeans, and approached Bruce Thornton. He was about five kilos heavier than during his playing days and his curly dark hair was flecked with grey, but he still looked like he could scoop up a ball at a dead run and kick it 70 metres.

He didn't notice me. "Boss, you want to talk?"

Several beers had improved Thornton's mood. He smiled. "Ah, Wally, thanks for coming." He turned back to his guests. "Everyone, this is Wally O'Keefe, the footballer I told you about. Wally is one of the greatest players in the history of Aussie Rules. Pace, power, guts \- the complete package. I once saw him catch a ball and get knocked out. Was still holding it when he woke up in the ambulance.

Thornton stared at his Chinese guests. Nothing inscrutable about their puzzled expressions.

Wally shrugged modestly. "I don't remember that."

A cackle. "I bet you don't. Anyway, Wally's a big man in the Aboriginal community." He turned back to Wally. "The elders listen to you, don't they Wally?"

"Yeah, think so."

"Did you hear that little bastard Vincent McKay turned up this afternoon and screamed at me and my guests?"

"I heard. He's just a hot-head; only talks for himself. The elders will sign a deal."

"Good, good. We'll talk again later."

Thornton turned back to his guests and Wally headed towards the door, shoulders rounder than when he arrived. I slipped off my chair and caught up with him on the verandah. "Hello, Wally."

He spun around and smiled. "Paul. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was inside, at the table with Bruce Thornton."

His eyes flickered. "You were? Why? What're you doing here?"

"You won't believe it, but Bruce Thornton hired me to ghost his autobiography."

"Fuck no."

"Yep. Read On the Ball and decided I was the right man for the job."

"That's funny: I also got my job because he read the book."

"And now you negotiate with the traditional owners?"

"Not really. His suits do that. I just chat with the elders, play footie with their kids - keep everybody happy. Make 'em think Thornton Mining ain't so bad after all."

"Like the job?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

He slapped a mosquito and glanced around suspiciously. "Want a beer? There's a wet mess around the corner."

"Sure."

He led me around the corner and into a small building with a bar. About twenty workers sat at plastic tables, drinking or played pool. He bought us both schooners. We took them onto the verandah and sat on the steps, watching the dying sun spill its golden blood on the horizon. A hot and dusty breeze sweetened my taste buds.

Wally leaned back and sipped his beer, looking a lot more comfortable in the great outdoors than me.

I said: "I thought you gave up booze after you found God?"

He smiled. "Tried to, but people read On the Ball and think I'm a wild guy who drinks all the time. If I won't have a beer with them, they get upset."

I'd often worried the book dwelt too much on his dark side. However, he did have final approval. "And you can't disappoint them?"

"Course not."

"You still believe in God?"

A smile. "Of course. Just don't think He cares if I have a few drinks."

Conversations about God always creeped me out. "So you don't like your job?"

"Hate it. Only took it because Thornton offered so much fucking money: I've got two exes and five kids to support..."

"I thought you only had four kids?"

"I did, until some chick - used to be a cheerleader - popped up six months ago and said I was the daddy. Had a paternity test - bingo!"

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl. Six. Cute as a button."

"Congratulations. Anyway, continue..."

"...So when he offered me this job, I jumped at it. But it don't feel right."

"Why not?"

"I'm selling out my people. Thornton claims he's gonna provide houses and jobs and schools, and stuff like that. Bullshit. He'll make billions and Blackfellas around here'll still sleep in the dirt, and die from booze and drugs and sniffing. This is their land, you know. He's like one of those shit-head coaches who always talks about teamwork but only cares about himself - who makes a player have a needle before a game, even if he'll end up a cripple. Always hated those bastards."

Wally had always known he was part Aboriginal - his looks gave that away \- and put up with his share of racial abuse. But only after he retired from football, and located his Aboriginal birth mother, did he try to sort out that side of his identity, though he obviously still had a long way to go.

I said: "Your mum's not from up here, is she?"

"Nah. She's Wankai, from down south. Blackfella up here are Yamatji. But they're still my people."

I said: "Understand. So Thornton's gonna screw them?"

"You betcha. Got the elders around his little finger."

"How come?"

He rubbed his fingers together. "Money. Thornton's paying them off."

"Bribes?"

"Yes."

"Any proof?"

"Course not. But I watch and listen, and connect the dots. It's obvious."

A smiled. "Remember the time you called the ref a cheat and got a six-week suspension?"

A grin. "Yeah. I called him that 'cos he was a cheat."

"You couldn't prove it."

"So what? The bastard deserved it."

"Yes, and you got six weeks. You gonna tell the truth about the elders?"

A long pause. "Nah, can't afford to - I've got bills to pay."

"Fair enough. But what about the young guys like Pilingili? They gonna stop Thornton?"

"Nope. The elders call the shots. Vincent don't count. I know he looks impressive on TV, but out here, he's nobody."

"You've spoken to him?"

A frown. "Yes. Know what he called me?"

"What?"

He looked sad. "Uncle Wally. Said I've sold out and, you know, I reckon he's right - I have."

Hard to disagree. But who was I to pass judgment? I was going to help a billionaire, who was trampling over Wally's people, spruce up his image. True, few would read, and even fewer would believe, what I ghost-wrote. But no moral philosopher would give me a free pass on that basis. "You haven't sold out. Don't be hard on yourself."

"Yes, I have. But it probably doesn't matter. If the elders don't sign a land use agreement, Thornton can get a judge to decide what's fair \- and guess what a white judge will do?"

"What white folks have always done to Aborigines?"

"Got that right." He sighed and took another sip. "At least, if I'm lucky, I won't need Thornton's money pretty soon."

"What do you mean?"

A raised eyebrow. "Haven't you heard?"

I felt like I was standing in a foggy cemetery, listening to someone approach. "Heard what?"

"About the movie."

"What movie?"

"Some director wants to use my... your... our book to make a movie about my life."

Fireworks exploded in my head. "Who?"

"Guy called Terry Cable - made that zombie movie last year."

Jesus H. Christ. Cable was a young Aussie director who'd recently made a movie called Zombie Apocalypse about an old gay couple in a retirement village who... - only kidding. It cost $2 million to make and made almost $1 billion worldwide. If he wanted to make a movie about ice curling, it would be made. "Is he serious?"

"Very keen, I've heard."

Nervous sweat gurgled up through my skin. I slopped beer on my wrist. "Who told you that?"

"That agent woman, Sue Prideaux. She said Cable wants to use On the Ball as the basis for the movie, so his movie studio will have to pay me a bucket-load of money."

What was my cut? Did I get a cut? Sue had said nothing to me. The signs weren't good. Looked like I was heading for a Personal Apocalypse. A hot breeze crossed my tongue. "Did she mention me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did she mention how I'll be, umm, involved?"

"Nah, she didn't, actually. You mean, she hasn't talked to you?"

"No."

He shrugged. "You'd better give her a call."

"I will." All my life, I'd dreamed about being courted, pampered and corrupted by the movie industry. Then I would, at least, have a good excuse for suffering a mid-life crisis. People would say: "Poor bugger - Hollywood knocked on the door and he couldn't help himself." Now that crisis looked like being a sad and meaningless affair. I pasted on a smile. "You must be excited about this news."

"Def. But nothing's confirmed. A movie studio's negotiating with Sue to buy the right to use the book. Then it'll bring Cable on-board."

Did I own some of the rights? Didn't sound like it. "What movie studio?"

"MGM, I think."

Bloody hell. My smile started to hurt: I felt like I'd pulled a cheek muscle. "Impressive. Wonder who'll play you? Have to be able to kick a football."

"According to Sue, Gary Baumer's very keen. He played footie as a kid - I was a hero - and he wants to make a local movie."

Baumer was another Aussie who'd struck gold in Hollywood, as a heart-throb.

"Oh," I croaked, not trusting myself to say more.

"Yeah. He'll even take a big pay cut. But, know the best thing?"

A wrecking ball whispered towards me. "What?"

"They want to make me a consultant: I'll get to hang around the set, meet all the stars and crap on about myself."

He merrily drained his glass and the wrecking ball knocked me flat. "Want another beer?"

I sighed internally. "Sure, why not?"

We drank several more beers while Wally commented on the current football season with his usual acuity. He was disappointed with the form of the Dockers.

I said: "I don't know why you bother ..."

"Bother what?"

"... supporting a particular team. I love sport, but I've never been loyal to a club."

"Really?"

"Yes. I mean, it's not as if clubs - or players - are loyal to their fans: they just want to sell them tickets and crap merchandise. I watch sport to be entertained, so I follow whichever team's winning at the time."

He looked aghast. "You're kidding?"

"Nope."

"That's pretty cold."

"No, just means I haven't swallowed a lot of garbage. I mean, the Dockers didn't even give you a testimonial. Why do you give a damn about them?"

"If everyone was like you, there'd be no pro sport."

I leaned close and smiled. "That's why we've got to keep this to ourselves."

He laughed. "Good."

I kept thinking about the potential movie. How could I get a slice of the action and glory? I needed time to think. I drained my glass, put it on the verandah and yawned. "Getting late. Gotta sleep."

"Sure. Keep in touch."

"Will do. And if you hear anything more about the movie, let me know, OK?"

"Will do."

I wouldn't sleep until I'd chewed over Wally's revelations about the movie, and probably not even then. I strolled to the edge of the township and started walking around the perimeter. The half-moon and scattered streetlights barely illuminated my path. Surely a bunch of Hollywood big names couldn't use my book - because it was really mine \- and give me nothing. Talentless cokehead bastards.

I glanced at my watch: almost seven-thirty. Sydney was two hours ahead. Sue Prideaux was probably at home with her merchant banker hubby and their two toddlers. Be rude to call her now, but I was in a very dark place.

I dialled her mobile and she answered. "Hello?"

"Sue, Paul Ryder. Can you chat?"

"Well, I'm at home right now," she said peevishly. I'd always sensed she didn't respect me as a writer. In the mansion of literature, I worked in the cellar, stoking the furnace so her aristocratic chums could live in comfort upstairs and win prizes. She didn't know I could throw a tantrum like the best of them.

I said: "Sorry to bother you. Won't take long. I'm still in WA for, umm, the funeral I mentioned. Anyway, I ran into Wally O'Keefe. He said something about MGM and Terry Cable wanting to make a movie about his life, using our book. You heard anything about that?"

A pause. "Yes, they're very interested."

"Wow. And Wally said Gary Baumer's keen to play the lead?"

"That's what the guy at MGM said. But it's early days."

"Why didn't you tell me all this?"

A long pause. "I didn't think you'd be interested."

"Why'd you think that?"

"Because there's no money in it for you."

The cliff-edge crumbled and I plunged into the void. "What?"

"There's no money for you."

"Why not?" I half-screamed.

"It's Wally's autobiography. You assigned him your copyright. So he owns it. You got an advance and a percentage of the book sales. That's all you're entitled to. You've got no rights to sell. You were like an employee."

I hadn't imagined the humble book trade could be so brutal. I'd just been bashed and robbed. "Jesus H. Christ. You're kidding?"

"Afraid not."

"I knew I should have got a lawyer."

"I gave you that option."

And I decided to cut corners. "I wrote the damn thing. I sweated blood over that book. Without me, there'd be no movie."

"Really? It was his life story - you just wrote it down. Someone else could have done that."

As I'd suspected, she thought I was a hack. "Then why don't they hire me to write the script, or something like that?"

"I'm sure they've got a scriptwriter lined up."

"Bet he knows nothing about Wally or Aussie Rules."

A giggle. "Aussie Rules - is that what the book was about? Anyway, you know nothing about scriptwriting."

"I'm very disappointed. You understand that? Very disappointed."

"Yes I do," she said as if I was a toddler. "When will you finish the book for Darcy Gresham?"

"Don't know. I'll be at least a week - maybe two - over here. My grandfather - I mean, grandmother - left a lot of loose ends to sort out."

"Can't her kids do that?"

I sighed. "Useless, totally useless. They just came down from the trees."

"I understand. But I need that book within a month. Got to have it in the stores by Chrissie - otherwise no point."

"Will do."

"Good. Now, got to go: daughter's getting close to the stove. Ciao."

The phone went dead. Damn. The treatment I was receiving, from everyone else on Planet Earth, was flat-out outrageous. I almost hoiked my mobile into the surrounding darkness.

OK, OK, calm down. Wally and Sue were kidding themselves. A movie about Aussie Rules would have zero traction in overseas markets: the Yanks only liked sports movies about heavily padded robots smashing into each other at scheduled intervals; the Chinese only liked Kung Fu. I chuckled mirthlessly. Why the hell was I tramping around, in the middle of nowhere, worrying about a movie that would never get made? I seized up that thought and decided I'd better get to sleep before it disappeared.

I looked around. On my left, the temporary township emitted an eerie glow; on my right was a long rolling plain, bathed in moonlight, where slinking, sliding and fluttering creatures chirruped, whistled, screeched and croaked. Stars peppered the sky. Loneliness enveloped me. Instead of being out here, in this vast emptiness, among nasty strangers, I should be at home with those I loved.

I'd head back into the township and try to get my bearings. As strolled past a large machinery shed, someone dashed around a corner and barrelled straight into me. Pain exploded in my chest. We tumbled to the ground and something silvery flitted past my eyes. Gasping for breath, I called him a "fucking idiot" and tried to make out his features. Too dark. He sprung to his feet and ran off like a death row escapee.

I stood and slowly dusted myself off, chest sore, wondering what the hell that was all about. Nothing seemed broken and I continued in the direction from which the mad runner came. I turned the corner and saw six modular accommodation units, each unusually large, with a three-metre gap between them. Obviously, the posh end of town.

The corner unit was unusual because a light flickered in a window and a strange sign - like an Aboriginal flag - was stuck to the door. Suddenly, a flame darted out from under an eave and folded back to lick the metal roof. Holy shit. Despite the safe distance, I took a couple of steps back. Was someone getting roasted inside? Should I find out? Not if I ran the slightest risk of getting burnt.

I looked around for help. Nobody. OK, I'd open the door and yell... what? That the unit was on fire? Hardly a revelation. But at least I'd have done something.

Still nobody around. I leapt onto the verandah. The flames licking the roof were several metres away, but heat pressed against my flesh. Yep, a small Aboriginal flag on the door. What the hell was it doing there?

Maybe, if I was lucky, the door would be locked. It wasn't. Damn. Handle already hot. I twisted it and recklessly flung open the door. Heat and smoke poured out, pushing me back, scorching my throat. Bugger. Done my duty. No point going inside. Time to retreat.

However, the smoke thinned and curiosity, rather than courage, nudged me forward. Hand over mouth, eyes weeping, I stepped into the living room and glanced about. Wall-mounted TV. Couch. Sideboard. Flames racing up the far wall. Oh God. If someone was in the bedroom on the other side, he was fucked, and I'd be fucked too if I didn't get out. Total death-trap.

I turned, tripped, fell flat and coughed out my last reserves of oxygen. Jesus. Did I just kill myself? I probably had about 20 seconds, max, before I passed out and became an overcooked idiot. I wouldn't need to be cremated.

Flames slid across ceiling, crackling and showering cinders. A blanket of heat landed on my back.

Get moving.

I reared up, put my arms in front of my face and stormed through the open doorway. Momentum carried me right across the verandah and off the edge. I landed hard and lay face down, writhing like a beached whale, gasping for air, eyes gummed shut. I fired off a volley of hacking coughs to clear my aching throat. Drool coated my chin.

I peeled open my aching eyes and glanced over my shoulder. The unit was engulfed in flames. I rolled over several times to get further away and ended up on my back, eyes closed, still gagging for breath.

Running feet. Approaching voices.

Someone said: "Let's get him further away."

Rough hands picked me up, carried me about twenty metres and laid me down on my back.

I painfully re-opened my eyes and saw a tatterdemalion crew of workmen looking down at me. Fluro-vests. Singlets. Shorts. Tracksuits. Pyjamas. Boots. Thongs. It obviously wasn't fashion week at the mine.

A big fat guy with massive mutton-chops and the ubiquitous fluro-vest kneeled down. "You alright, mate?"

My mouth could have baked bread. "Yes. Anybody inside the unit?"

"You mean, it's not yours'?"

"Nah. Saw fire and went inside; couldn't get into the bedroom. Dunno if anyone's in there."

The fat guy looked at the flaming unit. "If anyone's still in there, he's been fucking cremated. The Doc should be here soon."

"Water."

Someone lifted my head and put a bottle of mineral water to my lips. Bubbles exploded on my tongue. I choked and coughed, and the pain subsided. I rolled onto my side and sucked in deep searing breaths. More drool.

Eventually, I sat up and nodded towards the burning unit. "Someone gonna put that out?"

Someone behind me: "With what? No fire-brigade here, mate. Waste of time, anyway. It's rat-shit."

"What about the unit next door? Anyone inside?"

Another voice. "Nope. We just checked."

A skinny grey-haired guy, about forty, wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, jogged up, a little breathless, carrying a bright red backpack, and asked Mutton-chops if anyone was inside the burning unit.

A shrug. "Dunno. This guy went inside. Didn't see anyone, but didn't stay long."

"OK." The guy kneeled beside me. "Hi, I'm the doctor - David Tyson. That was brave."

"Bloody stupid."

"That too. How do you feel?"

"Like I ate a plate of gravel."

"Not surprised. Anything broken?"

"Don't think so."

He checked my pulse and busily tapped my chest and back. "Main signs are OK. I'll take you back to the infirmary and dress those burns."

"What burns?"

"Your face and arms. You'll feel them pretty soon."

I held up my arms, turning bright pink. "Shit."

"Think you can walk? It's not far."

"Yes."

There were now about 20 gawkers. Several hands lifted me up.

I said: "Anyone know who was staying in that unit?"

Shaking of heads.

Mutton-chops said. "Those units are usually reserved for VIPs."

"You mean, like Bruce Thornton?"

"Yes."

"You don't think..."

Someone said: "He wasn't inside. Saw him over at the main building ten minutes ago."

Robert Thornton burst into the group, wearing a blue polo shirt and jeans, and pointed at the burning structure. "What the fuck's going on? How'd the fire start?"

I said: "Nobody knows. I was walking past and saw the flames. Went inside. Didn't see anyone, but couldn't get into the bedroom."

"Don't worry. There was nobody inside. That was my unit. I was out having a stroll, thank God." He studied me closely. "Anyway, thanks - thanks a lot for trying to save me, even if I wasn't inside. You OK?"

"Yes, be fine. Just got a bit scorched. The doctor's gonna take me over to the infirmary."

"Well, thanks - I hope you'll be OK." He looked around. "Anybody know how this fire started?"

For the first time since all the excitement began, I connected the guy I collided with in the dark and the small Aboriginal flag I saw on the door. Looked like an Aboriginal activist torched the unit, trying to kill Thornton, then barged into me while running away. Maybe the firebug was Vincent Pilingili.

How much should I reveal? First-hand experience had taught me that, when the police investigate a crime, the first accuser is often the first accused; and political journalism had taught me to respect sensitive information, because it's only got value when coated with secrecy. Further, why should I care if a rich bugger like Robert Thornton got murdered, particularly by an Aborigine defending his land? He had plenty of money to employ bodyguards. The odds were stacked in his favour. Not my job to improve them.

The doctor had already moved off. I ignored Thornton and trailed after him. We circled around a large tin building. At the rear, a sign above a door said "Infirmary". We entered. Inside was a small waiting room with three doors. Their nameplates said: "Doctor", "Theatre" and "Ward".

My face and arms started to burn and itch. "Can I have something for the pain?"

"Yes." He led me into the theatre and sat me on the operating table. He handed me a pack of pills and a glass of water. "Here, Panadol Forte - should do the trick. Only take a couple."

I surreptitiously took out "a couple" - that is, four - popped them in my mouth and sluiced them down. "Can I have something a bit stronger? I hear Pethidine's wonderful stuff."

"It's also addictive."

I shook my head. "Really? I hear lots of doctors take it."

"That's a myth. Now, I'd better fix you up." He studied my forehead. "That's an existing injury, right?"

"Yup. Slipped in a hotel bathroom a few days ago."

"Not having any luck, are you?"

"Can't argue with that."

"So, out of curiosity, what're you doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like a miner or construction worker - don't talk like one either."

"I hope not. I'm a ghost-writer."

"A what?"

"A ghost-writer. Bruce Thornton hired me to ghost his autobiography."

"Seriously? That's what you do for a living? I've never met a ghost-writer before."

"I'm not surprised. I used to be a newspaper reporter."

"Not many of them left."

"Fewer every day."

"So, this autobiography, is it gonna be worth reading?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

Since he was a doctor, he had to keep our chat confidential. "Whether you want to read right-wing, racist clap-trap."

"It'll be that bad?"

"It'll be appalling. So what're you doing here?"

He opened a cabinet and extracted some cotton wool, bandages and tubes of ointment. "What do you mean?"

I grinned. "In the movies, doctors in mining camps are always running away from something: women, drink, debt, malpractice ..."

He laughed. "Really? This isn't a movie."

"Come on Doc, you can level with me."

"OK, want the truth?"

"Yes."

"I'm here because I get paid a fortune to work two weeks a month."

"That's a pretty dull reason. You busy?"

"Yep. Apart from dealing with colds and flu, I've got to deal with motor accidents, heart attacks, fistfights, suicide attempts, fires. Around here, nothing happens until it happens."

After daubing my face and arms with antiseptic, he smeared them with gunk and wrapped my arms in bandages. "You'll be OK, though it'll hurt for a while. Take two Panadol every six hours - no more."

"Sure," I lied. "Can I go?"

"Yes. Pop back tomorrow morning, after eight, and I'll check the bandages."

"Will do."

"And no scratching."

I climbed off the operating table. He was helping me put my shirt back on when Bruce Thornton steamed into the theatre with his CEO behind him.

An accusing stare. "I've heard about the fire. What the hell happened?"

Thanks for the sympathy. I shrugged. "I was out having a stroll, saw the fire and went inside to see if anyone was trapped." I raised my arms in a manly but modest fashion. "Got singed in the process."

"But the unit was empty."

"So I found out."

He frowned and glanced at my arms. "You going to be OK?"

"Yes."

"Good." He stared at the doctor. "I want to talk to Mr Ryder in private if you don't mind."

A puzzled look. "Umm, sure."

"Good. Won't be long."

The doctor strolled outside and Thornton turned back to me. "Looks like the fire was deliberate. Any idea who started it?"

I still saw no reason to squeal on the local Aborigines. Thornton didn't care about me and I cared even less about him. "Nah, just saw the fire and charged inside."

Thornton stepped closer. "You see a flag on the door?"

I swallowed hard. "What flag?"

"A guy who arrived after you claims he saw an Abo flag on the door, before everything went up in flames."

I shrugged. "Could have been there, but it was dark and everything happened so fast. I was worried about getting burnt to a crisp. The guy sure about the flag?"

A scowl. "Yeah. Looks like a black guy tried to kill Robert. Probably that prick Pilingili. Lucky Robert went out for a walk."

"What're you going to do - tell the police?"

A frown. "Don't be stupid. Negotiations with the investors are at a delicate stage; don't want to spook them. So you're going to keep very quiet about this, understand? Remember, you've signed a confidentiality agreement, which means I own your tongue."

"Of course. But if someone started the fire, he might try again."

"Don't worry. From now on, we'll have plenty of protection."

"My lips are sealed."

"Good." A crocodile smile. ""And don't worry, I appreciate what you... you tried to do. I won't forget it."

Yes he would, soon as he walked out the door. "Thanks."

He glanced at the bandages on my arms. "I'm flying to Port Hedland tomorrow, with my guests. You get on the plane, looking like that, they'll start asking questions. So stay out of sight until we're gone, then head back to Perth. Lauren Gourlay will arrange your flight."

I shrugged. "Will do."

"Good. When I get back to Perth, we'll do some more work on the book."

"OK."

He spun around and disappeared out the door, consigliere in tow.

The doctor re-entered. "What was all that about?"

"Can't tell you, because the Thornton Mining Corporation owns my brain and mouth."

A shrug. "Fair enough."

I trudged back to my unit wondering where Robert Thornton was when his accommodation unit was being firebombed. Out having a stroll, like he claimed? Or was he shagging his father's personal assistant? He did seem rather well dressed for someone out having a stroll.

I didn't care if Robert Thornton got bumped off. But I was a little worried that Bruce Thornton might be. If he was, would I get paid the rest of my fee? I wasn't given a copy of the contract I signed. I'd try to find a pretext to ask for one.

Back in my unit, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. A big patch of plaster on my forehead, lots of pink ointment on my face and both arms bandaged. At least I didn't have to explain to Anne how I got injured. She'd have called me either a liar or an idiot. Which would be worse?

I scoffed several more Panadol tablets, collapsed fully clothed onto the bed and fell asleep. I dreamed that I was kneeling on the sidewalk of Hollywood Boulevard, ready to leave an impression of my palms in wet cement. A phalanx of cameramen and photographers formed a horseshoe around me. I pushed down hard into the cement and tried to lift my hands. Stuck. Damn. Someone screamed. I looked over my shoulder and saw a huge fireball roaring along the street towards me. I desperately tried to extract my hands and couldn't. The media ran away. I was trapped. The fire engulfed me. I woke screaming and bathed in sweat.

It took me a long time to get back to sleep. I managed, but the pain in my arms woke me several times and convinced me the doctor's pharmaceutical regime was far too conservative. Several more Panadol sailed down the hatch.

Just after dawn, arms sore, I padded into the en-suite bathroom and sluiced down several more little white friends. As the pain ebbed, I clumsily performed my bathroom chores before getting dressed. I could only slip on a polo shirt, which meant the bandages were exposed.

Thornton told me to lie low. However, I deserved a good breakfast and would not be denied. I strolled towards the main mess, the air crisp and the sun a low-slung white orb setting fire to wispy clouds. Inside the mess, at least fifty workers were already tucking into a magnificent buffet breakfast. Many were serious fatties, presumably because after work there was nothing to do except eat, drink and watch porno movies. Several glanced at my bandages and obviously assumed I was an idiot who couldn't operate his machinery.

No sign of the Thorntons or their guests.

Despite my raw throat, I ate a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, and pondered who I collided with in the dark the previous night. Must have been a male, because no woman could knock me on my arse like that - not yet, anyway. But was the guy an Aborigine? I had no idea. I stopped speculating and drank a cup of coffee while flipping through several-day-old Perth newspapers looking for something worth reading, without success. They convinced me the newspaper industry deserved to die.

For amusement, I casually eavesdropped on the conversations at nearby tables. I heard a lot of complaints about wives, children and bosses. The only chat which really pricked my interest was between two guys behind me. One said someone had stolen some detonators and explosives from the explosives shed the night before. "The bugger knew what he was doing: cut through the wire fence and disabled the alarm."

"Who the hell would swipe that sort of shit?"

"Dunno. It's valuable stuff. Maybe he's gonna flog it off somewhere."

"What's the company gonna do about it? Bring in the cops?"

"Don't be silly. They'll change the records and pretend it didn't happen."

I didn't hear any more about the theft, because one of the guys started talking about his recent holiday in Bali.

There was something very appealing about hanging out in the mess. It took me a while to understand what it was. Then I realised: no women. It was like being in a war zone, without the shittiness of war.

I'd almost finished my second cup of coffee when Lauren Gourlay entered and broke the spell. Heads rotated, eyes swivelled, testosterone levels jumped. I felt ashamed that so many grubby bastards were ogling her besides me. She scanned the room, ignoring their stares, and headed in my direction, giving me a legitimate reason to check her out. Even in a blue linen jacket and jeans, she had to be the best looking woman to ever visit this mining camp, with daylight second. Robert Thornton was a lucky guy.

She slipped onto the chair opposite and studied my bandaged arms and battered face with feigned sympathy. "Hi. You OK?"

I tried to casually throw my arm over the back of my chair, felt a jolt of pain and gave up. "Sure. Why?"

"I heard you were very brave last night, running into a burning unit."

I smiled. "Not really. We ghost-writers are trained for those sorts of situations."

An unforced chuckle. She leaned forward. "What happened? I heard you were strolling past and saw a fire in Robert Thornton's unit."

I described my involvement, editing out the guy I bumped into and the Aboriginal flag on the door.

When I mentioned the arrival of Robert Thornton, she nodded. "Lucky he went out for a walk."

I studied her face for some hint Thornton spent the evening with her, but she was very hard to read. "Yes."

"The Boss thinks the fire was deliberate - an Aboriginal activist tried to kill Robert."

"That's what he also told me."

"What do you think?"

"I think I'm a ghost-writer, not a detective."

"You mean you've got no idea how it started?"

Her boss had pumped me for information the previous evening. Now she was here trying to charm it out of me. However, plenty of pretty women had tried to sweet-talk me, without success. Indeed, I prided myself on my resilience in such situations.

I shrugged. "I don't know how it started and don't care. I'm just a ghost-writer. I join words together, then go home. I keep my nose out of everything else."

A frown. "You don't give much away, do you?"

"Nothing to give away."

"Really? You're a hard person to figure out."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

A strangled sigh. "Anyway, I'm here because Mr Thornton said you're going back to Perth."

"That's right. He said my injuries might upset the investors."

A half-smile. "He mentioned that. The small plane's going back at two. You can catch a ride."

"Do I need a ticket or something?"

"No, I've told the pilot. He'll make sure you get a seat."

"You're going to Port Hedland?"

"Of course." She started to rise.

I said: "Before you go: Mr Thornton said I could go up to Bularoo Station and have a look around. That'll make it easier to write about the place. Could you arrange that?"

"Yes. When do you want to go?"

"He said he's going up to China in a few days, so maybe while he's away."

"No problem. I'll contact the Station Manager and make the arrangements."

"Thanks."

"OK. See you back in Perth."

Many eyeballs clung to her fine figure as she left the mess.

I got myself another coffee and savoured the return to Blokes' World while thumbing through a tattered copy of Bikie Tattoos. Just after 8 a.m. I drained the cup and decided to re-visit the doctor, as requested, and try to cadge some stronger pain-killers.

On the way out, I ran into Mutton-chops, still wearing khaki work-wear. His fluro-vest barely covered his huge girth. He nimbly blocked my way. "Hey buddy, good to see you're OK..." - he glanced at the bandages - "...well, almost OK. Hah, I guess you can't wank no more."

Oh God, how many times would I hear that joke? "I'll find a way."

"That's the spirit."

"You starting work?"

"Nah, just finishing: breakfast, then bed."

"Much happen after I left?"

"Not really. Bruce Thornton turned up and fussed about. Told us to forget about the fire - say nothing about it."

"He explain why?"

"Nope. But he's the boss."

"True. Stay well."

"Sure, and good luck with the wanking."

I was suddenly very tired of male company. "Thanks."

I ducked off the verandah and headed around to the infirmary, where I found the doctor sitting in his office, typing on a computer, dressed in jogging gear.

I said: "Hi. Open for business?"

He spun around. "Sure, though I'm going for a run soon, before it gets hot."

"Where to?"

"The top of the hill, then back."

"Wow. You know, don't you, that running up a hill in a desert is one of life's most dangerous activities."

"It's early morning and this is not a desert."

"What is it?"

"It's a semi-arid plain."

"Your funeral, anyway."

"I know. Let's go into the theatre."

In there, he examined the wounds - which had started to blister - applied more gunk and put on fresh bandages. "You'll survive. When're you going back to Perth?"

"This afternoon."

"Good. In a couple of days, you can take off the bandages and let your arms heal naturally. Just no picking or rubbing, OK?"

"Sure. And you'll give me a prescription for pain-killers?"

He smiled. "You're determined to avoid any suffering, aren't you?"

"I save my courage for when I really need it."

He laughed. "You must have a lot stored up. Well, you don't need anything stronger. I'll give you another pack of Panadol Forte - that should see you out." He opened a drawer, extracted a pack and handed it over. "No more than six a day. Stay well."

I'd obviously get no sympathy from a man who jogged in a desert. "Thanks."

He set off on his run and I headed back towards my unit. On the way, I wondered what Robert Thornton's accommodation unit looked like the morning after. Might as well check. I strolled over there and found a smouldering ruin, almost pancake flat. Robert Thornton was a lucky man.

The guy who barged into me obviously started the fire. But who was he? If I revisited the spot where we collided, I might see where he was heading and get a clue. I had nothing better to do.

I strolled a hundred metres to the patch of reddish sand behind the machinery shed and stared in the direction the guy skedaddled. Nothing out there, except the drum farm. Maybe he panicked and didn't really lock on a destination.

I'd almost reached the middle of the open space when something glinted on the ground. At first, I thought the object was a bottle-top or shard of glass - there was plenty of rubbish scattered around the mining camp - but it had a regular shape and something inscribed on it.

During the collision, something shiny darted in front of my eyes. Was this it? I bent over and picked up a small lapel pin inscribed: "Dai-Go Steel Works". Oh shit. The pin felt hot in my hand. The representatives of the Dai-Go Steel Works were Wei Kim and Li Wong. One of them must have started the fire and dropped the badge when he collided with me. Fuck. Panic grabbed my throat; sweat gurgled from my skin.

Hang on, calm down. Maybe this lapel pin was the one Wei Kim gave me in Perth, and I dropped it. No, it couldn't be, because I put that one in my wallet. Better check. I fished out my wallet and glanced inside. Pin snug inside.

Blood rushed to my head; air fled my chest. One of the Chinese dudes obviously tried to fricassee Robert Thornton. Why? They were here to invest in Bruce Thornton's mine, not bump off his son. Only two things were certain: this had nothing to do with me, and I wanted nothing to do with it. The sooner I got rid of this lapel pin, the better. I wound up to throw it away.

A cultured voice behind me said: "You have found something?"

Bloody hell. An ice-cold hand squeezed my heart. I spun around. Wei Kim - or was it Li Wong? - no, it was Wei Kim, stood just behind me, wearing a khaki bush jacket, sizing me up. I instinctively knew he tried to kill Robert Thornton. Our eyes locked and his hard stare said he knew I knew.

I closed my hand over the badge. "Ah, nothing. A bottle-top, I think."

His casual tone glinted in the sunlight. "Really? It looked like a pin."

I opened my hand and glanced down. "Oh yes, you're right, it is."

He pointed to his empty lapel. "I think it's mine."

Terror produced brain-lock. We were obviously playing a deadly game in which he was the only deadly party. For a brief moment, I thought he would kill me then and there, and cringed.

"Yours? Really? Then you'd better have it back." I held it out.

He took it, stuck it on his lapel and smiled coldly. "Thank you. I went for a walk last night and saw a unit on fire. I ran to get help, and bumped into someone and lost this pin. Maybe I ran into you?"

There was no point denying that we collided because he either knew, or would soon find out, that I was in the vicinity the previous night and ran into the burning accommodation unit. "I did bump into someone in the dark. Must have been you."

He studied the bandages on my face and arms. "You've injured yourself \- what happened?"

"After we bumped into each other, I saw the fire. I ran into the accommodation unit, to see if anyone was inside."

Raised eyebrows. "Was someone inside?"

"No. But I burnt my arms."

"You were very brave. Much braver than me. I hope you don't think I was a big coward."

"No, of course not. You were very wise to go for help. That's what I should have done."

"Thank you. But I am very worried that people will think I was a coward. So I hope you won't tell anyone that we bumped into each other or I was even here last night. You will keep all that to yourself won't you?"

The day before, I watched this guy excitedly photograph a kangaroo for his eight-year-old daughter. Now, his face wore a sinister shadow that put a deep chill in all regions of my body. I wanted to tell him that, not only would I keep my mouth shut, I approved of him trying to bump off Robert Thornton. No, keep it simple. "Of course I won't. My lips are sealed, I promise."

His stare said he meant business, and his business was death. "Good. Very good. Because, if you tell anyone, I will get very, very angry."

"D-d-don't worry. I won't say anything."

A hard smile. "Excellent. I will see you on the plane."

Fortunately, I would be on a different plane. "Yes, see you then."

A grunt. "Good. Thank you for the pin."

As he strolled off, I knew with absolute certainty that: he was no coward; he was no businessman; he started the fire in Robert Thornton's unit; he tried to frame the local Aborigines and, worst of all, he knew I knew all that. Damn. Would he try to silence me, permanently? Probably. After all, he had no inhibitions about trying to ice a prominent citizen like Robert Thornton. Indeed, I sensed that, when it came to murder, he had plenty of experience and no shortage of enthusiasm.

Sheee-it. My legs wobbled like I'd taken a big uppercut.

I could, of course, tell the police what I knew. But my previous dealings with them in Canberra had left me distinctly unimpressed. Indeed, they once tried to frame me for murder. Surely, the local cops weren't any better. Further, it was highly unlikely the incompetent bastards would believe a word I said.

Another option was to tell Bruce Thornton everything and beg for his protection. But after I told him that a representative of a huge potential investor had tried, for some unknown reason, to bump off his son, he'd call me stark raving mad, sack me on the spot and force me to pay back $100,000. I'd be in an even worse hole than before.

The least shitty option was to keep quiet and hope Wei Kim appreciated my discretion. At least, when I returned to Perth, there'd be plenty of distance between us.

As I stumbled towards my accommodation unit, it occurred to me that the future of the Eucla Mine was very grim. Bruce Thornton desperately needed the Dai-Go Steel Works to invest in the mine. The fact that a representative of that organisation tried to murder his son did not bode well for the mine or its share price. Certainly, I tossed out any thoughts I had of buying shares.
CHAPTER 9

I lay on the bed in my accommodation unit, door locked, staring at the ceiling, calculating the odds that Wei Kim would try to kill me. I remembered his hitman stare and concluded they were very bloody high.

Just after ten o'clock, I heard the wonderful screech of the big executive jet lifting off for Port Hedland, taking Wei Kim with it. Thank God. Rejoicing at my reprieve, I gambolled over to the main mess and drank several cups of coffee while reading my book about Operation Barbarossa. After eating a buffet lunch, I hiked almost a kilometre to the airstrip, carrying my overnight bag. A hot wind stuck fine sand to my sweaty skin.

The baby executive jet sat on a small concrete apron, engine humming. I climbed the rear stairs and shivered as the air-conditioning froze my sweat. The cabin decor was a bit ratty. Half-a-dozen functional seats ran down each side to an exposed cockpit. Several mine workers were already aboard, a couple dozing. Up front, a grey-haired pilot was consulting a checklist and flicking switches with comforting authority.

I strolled up to him. "Hi, I was told I could catch this bus back to Perth."

He showed me his weather-beaten features. "No probs. Take a pew. Taking off in about ten minutes. There's a fridge up the back if you're thirsty. But don't get pissed, because I can't fly and wrestle with drunks at the same time."

"Roger wilco."

My tongue felt like bitumen. I fished a can of beer out of the fridge, sat in the waist of the plane and sipped from it while staring out the window. My mood brightened. Surely, once I was back in Perth, the Chinese dudes would let me continue my epic quest to die in a nursing home from some form of -oma or -ema or -itis. Still, every so often, I sensed I was kidding myself and felt a stab of terror.

I lifted the can to take a sip and realised it was empty. Damn. When did that happen? I ducked back to the fridge and grabbed another. I'd just regained my seat when a Land Rover pulled up outside and several men got out. I paid them no attention until they stomped onto the plane and one sat across the aisle: the beaky chief geologist, Tex Moran, I saw at the drum farm the day before.

He'd already grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. He slipped one into a cup holder and ripped the tab off the other. After chugging down most of it, he groaning with pleasure and stared at me. "Hello cobber, we met before?"

"Kind of: yesterday, at the drum farm - I was in Bruce Thornton's party. You're the chief geologist, right?"

"Yeah, Tex Moran. You work for those Chinese blokes?"

"No, for your boss. I'm writing a book for him - his autobiography."

"You're kidding? You're a writer?"

I held up soft white palms. "Do I look like a worker?"

"Hah, no." He downed the rest of the can and absent-mindedly burped before slipping it under his seat. "You mean, Bruce is gonna tell you lots of lies and you're gonna stick them in a book?"

I had no reason to trust this guy. "I'm sure he'll tell the truth."

A loud guffaw. "Not likely. I've worked for Bruce for about 30 years and love the guy. But, if he tells you the truth, he'll get put away for life. Even his legal eagles won't save him."

I knew I shouldn't gossip about my employer, but rumour was my staple diet. "What do you mean? What's he done wrong?"

A dismissive wave. "You really don't wanta know."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't." He nodded at my bandaged arms. "What happened to you?"

"There was a fire in an accommodation unit last night. I ran in to see if anyone was inside."

"Oh, heard about that: some Abos torched Robert Thornton's unit. Robbo was bloody lucky."

The pilot strolled past us, closed the rear door and returned to the front of the plane. "Alright gents, I'm about to take off. Imagine I'm a sexy airline stewardess who's already told you the safety drill. Buckle up please."

As he taxied out onto the strip, and everyone buckled up, it occurred to me that, if Wei Kim wanted me dead, he could have easily planted a bomb on this plane, maybe even using the explosives I heard were stolen. Jesus, why didn't I think of that before? Would my flaming body parts soon be twirling around each other in a field of aircraft debris?

The engine roared. I thought it was an explosion and gripped the armrest. "Shit."

Moran glanced at me. "You OK, pal?"

The plane accelerated along the runway. Despite the arctic air-conditioning, sweat dribbled out of my hairline and plunged towards my eyebrows. My voice quavered. "Umm, yeah. Just hate take-offs. Bad flier."

The plane zipped into the air without bursting into a million pieces. However, the flight to Perth took two hours and the bomb could detonate at any time. I tried to shut down my imagination, but couldn't. Would the explosion knock me out or would I stay conscious during the long descent through thin air?

Moran took a big swallow from his second can, crumpled it up and laid it to rest beside the other. A gargantuan burp. "Christ, I need another beer. You want one?"

I shook my can and realised it was also empty. The possibility I was sitting on a flying bomb magnified my thirst. "Sure. Thanks."

"Back in a jiffy."

The plane was still climbing. He walked downhill to the fridge and hiked back up with two cans. He passed me one and opened the other.

I should have felt guilty about putting everyone in danger. But what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, until it did, very briefly. I opened the can, took a big swallow and felt a deep urge to connect with someone - anyone. "So, you've worked with Bruce Thornton for 30 years?"

"Yep. I was his third or fourth employee. We often spent months together, driving around the Outback, looking for minerals. Great days. Never knew when we might see a rock formation that screamed gold, or nickel or iron ore. You know, I can look at a piece of land - just the shape of it - and tell you what's a thousand metres below. No kidding. Bruce never had that sort of instinct. I made him a hell of a lot of money."

"But you never got a share of the profits?"

"No. Bruce told me right at the start we weren't partners."

I seized the chance to talk about someone who's life, and death, intrigued me. "Did you ever meet the first guy who worked with him, Dirk Carter?"

A sideways look. "You've heard about him?"

"He's mentioned on the internet."

"Nah, he was before my time. Died in a plane crash. Bruce was the pilot. Shitty luck, huh?"

"Did Bruce Thornton ever talk about the crash?"

"Not to me. Guess it's a sensitive topic."

"Fair enough. Has Thornton changed much over the years?"

He crumpled another can. "Shit yeah. He's got a lot unhappier."

"Why?"

"Too much money; too much responsibility; everyone wanting a piece of him, and now he's obsessed with building the Eucla Mine before he drops dead."

"I thought he found true love and was happily married?"

"Poor bastard thinks he's found love, but there's a shit-storm brewing, mark my words: one of these days she'll clean him out and leave him in a gutter."

"How?"

"Don't know. I've heard that, in his Will, he's left everything to his children - which means Robert - and she's signed a pre-nup. But she'll find a way to grab the lot; she's cunning as a shit-house rat, that one."

"Surely, Robert will stop her."

"He'lI try. But he's pretty useless. Ten years ago, he tried to strike out on his own and set up some sort of tech company - with dad's money, of course - and went broke. Now he's back working for daddy. He's no match for Madam Chen."

"They don't seem to like each other."

"Wrong - they hate each other."

"If she's so tough, what does Bruce Thornton see in her?

An arched eyebrow and a smirk. "You kidding? I bet she's the first woman in 20 years who's made his dick hard." A crude grin. "How she does it, I don't know - and don't want to know - but I bet she swallows."

An involuntary giggle. "He's a lucky guy."

"Too right."

"What was his first marriage like?"

"To Margaret? Pretty lousy. By the time I turned up, they basically led separate lives." He cackled. "She, I'm bloody sure, didn't swallow. In fact, I bet it never crossed her mind."

"They didn't divorce though."

"Nah. She was a strict Catholic and he didn't want to give her a big slice of his wealth. So they were stuck together."

"Did he see other women?"

"Yeah, mostly hookers. Then he met Madam Chen and thought he'd reached heaven. Silly old goat."

"I've read he's staked his whole fortune on the Eucla Mine. That true?"

"Yep. All his money's tied up in the corporation, and the corporation owns the mine. So, if the mine doesn't succeed, he'll go bust."

"Will the mine succeed?"

"It should: it's a fantastic resource - and I should know." He leaned closer. "In fact, we haven't told anyone yet, but we've found another big seam running off the main one, with huge potential. Of course, that won't mean anything if the Chinese investors don't give us ten billion. So Bruce has got to persuade them. Otherwise, he'll have to toe-tag the whole project."

"Will they invest?"

He shrugged. "Ask them. But they should. Like I said, it's a fantastic resource."

"Some of the Chinese said they were worried that Chinese demand is slowing down and prices will drop."

Another shrug. "Don't matter. The mine would ride out the storm. It's that good. Another beer?"

"Sure. Leave it to me."

I strolled up the aisle to the fridge. In one sense, it was a positive sign that the chief geologist had great confidence in the mine. However, he was a loud-mouth and a piss-head. Further, he didn't know that a representative of a big potential investor tried to murder Robert Thornton for a reason unknown. I bet that, if he knew that, he'd change his tune.

I fished a couple more beers from the fridge and handed one over. As he pulled off the tab, he glanced out the window, obviously revving up for a big speech. "Desert looks pretty tame from up here, don't it? But it's a harsh bitch. You don't tease it, you don't play with it and you don't lie to it, because it will find you out." He gulped some beer. "You know, one time, I was driving a four-wheel drive across the Nullabor when the axle broke. Thought I was dead. Spent three nights walking 100 kilometres to the nearest town. Even had to drink my own piss."

He looked at me as if he expected applause, but I was disappointed he didn't have to eat his jocks as well. Anyway, if the story was true \- big if - he deserved to die for being so goddamn stupid. "Interesting story."

A dismissive wave. He obviously thought he had a personality as big as the Outback and I should be honoured to bath in its light. "I could tell you dozens of stories like that. You know, one time, I was swimming in a billabong and a big old croc appeared right in front of me and opened his jaws, wanting me for dinner. Guess what I did?"

"Punched him on the snout?"

A surprised expression. "Sure did. How'd you know?"

"Bruce Thornton told the same story, about himself."

Didn't miss a beat. "Not surprised. Bruce heard it from me. What a bullshit-artist. And I suppose he told you he's a great shot? Can hit a water-buffalo from 300 metres?"

"Actually, 400 metres."

"All crap. Bruce couldn't hit a water buffalo if he stuck his rifle up its arse and pulled the trigger."

Jesus. Who was plagiarised who? Or were they both plagiarists? Probably. The stories sounded pretty generic. One thing was sure: I never wanted to share a campfire with either of them.
CHAPTER 10

After ten cans of beer, I stopped worrying about being blown to bits and let Tex Morton's bullshit stories flowed through me like Higgs bosons. Fortunately, he took my occasional nod as a sign of goggle-eyed interest.

The plane landed in Perth with my body still in one piece rather than decorating the great outdoors. As it taxied across the tarmac, Morton, who'd consumed twice as much booze, finally had the decency to slur. "See, that weren't too bad, was it?"

"Whaddaya mean?" I counter-slurred.

A blood-shot, booze-raddled stare. "Ya looked shit-scared the whole flight. Nuthing to be ashamed of. Lots of brave guys 'fraid of flyin'. Did I tell you 'bout the time I was flying up ta Broome in a Cessna with a coupla miners and we run into a huge fuckin' storm?"

Did he? At some time, during the last few hours, my brain had malfunctioned and crashed landed in fog. "Ah, no, don't think so." Damn, wrong answer.

"Good, 'cos the plane started buckin' like a stallion. Chunder flew everywhere. Pilot couldn't get over the storm, so he drops down ta a hundred feet and follows a creek all the way ta Broome, wings almost touchin' the hills. Guy next to me kept screaming we was all gonna die. Had ta sock him in the mouth ta calm him down. Least I didn't have to do that ta you. Woulda though."

As he described in graphic detail how the Cessna landed in blinding rain and almost overshot the runway, our plane stopped outside its hangar. He peered out the window. "Bugger."

"What?"

"The Missus is here ta pick me up. You married?"

"Not quite."

"Well, don't do it. Once they've caught ya, they think they can torture ya as much as they like."

He dragged his case down off the rack, stumbled out of the plane, and shambled over to a stout-looking woman standing next to a late-model Merc. They exchanged stiff nods and got inside. She drove off.

A little further away, Ragnesh stood next to his big limo, immaculately dressed as usual. I assumed he was picking up someone else. He waved to me.

I unsteadily strolled over. "You here for me?"

"Yes. Got a call from Miss Gourlay."

Why was she being so attentive? Mere efficiency? Or was Ragnesh keeping tabs on me for her? Or was I deep in the grip of paranoia? It was bloody hard to stand outside myself and know.

He was, at least, a familiar face, which counted for a lot. "Good. So you'll take me to the hotel?"

"Yes."

I sat beside him on the front seat of the limo as he whisked me back towards town. I kept glancing over my shoulder, in case we were being followed.

He studied my battered face and bandaged arms. "You got hurt? What happened?"

"There was a fire in a building, at the camp; I ran in to rescue anyone inside."

"Was there someone?"

"No."

"Too bad. You were brave."

"That's one perspective."

"So, umm, how's everything going up there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is the mine going well?"

He was obviously still worried about his bet on Thornton Mining Corporation shares. I considered telling him that a representative of a major potential investor had tried to incinerate the son of the man piloting the whole project. However, I remembered Wei Kim's threats and flinty stare and decided to keep quiet. "A lot of people seem very busy, if that's what you mean."

A grunt of annoyance. "And the Chinese guys you went with - they're going to invest?"

Actually, at least one seemed more intent on arson and murder. "Ragnesh, I'm a ghost-writer; they didn't confide in me."

"Mmmm, you're not very helpful."

"Can I give you a word of advice?"

"What?"

"If you're asking a ghost-writer for advice about an investment in shares, you probably shouldn't be investing."

A frown. "I know what I'm doing."

"Glad one of us does."

A long pause. "I'm going to hold onto my shares."

I shrugged. "Up to you."

Ragnesh dropped me at the Chancellor Hotel, where I was allocated a room on the same floor as before, again overlooking the Indian Ocean. I showered off the remnants of the Pilbara Desert, flopped naked onto the bed and tried to convince myself I was no longer in danger. Not easy when my heart was thumping like a bass drum. The room got smaller. I felt terribly lonely and wanted half-a-dozen bodyguards for company. I was torn between returning to Canberra, which seemed the safe option, and staying Perth so I could keep the $100,000 advance and try to earn the $200,000 final payment. Usually, Fear ruled the roost in my head. I hadn't realised Greed was such a tough fighter.

Like all men alone in a foreign city, afraid of death, I phoned home.

Anne picked up the land-line. We exchanged hellos and I said I was back in Perth from the Eucla Mine.

"Oh, how was it?" she said with unusual brightness.

If I told her about the trauma I'd endured, she'd accuse me of lying or being stupid. I'd have to carry this cross alone. "Dullsville. Hot and dusty; lots of sweaty guys with B.O."

"Then I bet you felt right at home."

Touche. "How's Canberra? How's work?"

"I spoke to Kevin today..."

"Kevin?"

"Kevin Arnold, the head partner. He said the management committee's going to meet in a few weeks time, to choose new partners."

Snell & Tomkin had seven partners, which made it a big firm by Canberra standards. Anne handled commercial litigation. "That's good. What're your chances?"

"Pretty good. Kevin's right behind me."

"Great. Fingers crossed." I tried to sound jocular: "Now, I hope you haven't spent all of the $100,000 I got from Thornton."

"Of course not. But, umm, I think we need a new car."

My stomach knotted. Anne would charge a machine-gun emplacement, waving her credit card, if she though a discount sale was going on inside. If she spent any of that money, I would be forced to stay in Perth and risk getting whacked by Wei Kim. "Let's not rush into that. We'll talk about it when I get home."

"The Holden's crap. You've always said that."

"I know. But let's talk about that when I return."

A long pause. "OK. But I can start looking around, right?"

My bargaining position was weak. "Yes, I suppose so. Just don't do anything without talking to me first."

"Sure," she said in a tone I'd learnt to distrust.

I fell asleep and dreamed that a ninja warrior was creeping along a dark city street. He clambered up the side of a tall building, like an insect, and flowed over a railing onto a balcony. Moonlight struck his face. Wei Kim. Hell. Brandishing a long knife, he slid open a glass door and approached a snoring man on a large bed. In the dim light, I saw the man was me. Kim raised the long knife.

I woke screaming.

Despite my dazed condition and thumping heart, I soon realised Kim wasn't standing above me waving oversized cutlery. My room didn't even have a balcony. However, it was a long time before my pulse steadied and sleep returned.

For the next two days, the walls of my room slowly closed in and my head became an echo chamber. I hung around the hotel, afraid that Kim would return from Port Hedland and try to check me into a morgue. I also reflected on the searing injustice of my predicament. When I was a journo, I accepted that I might tread on some toes and provoke a violent reaction. But now I was a ghost-writer, for God sakes, trying to mind my own business. I shouldn't have to skulk in a hotel, fearing for my life.

Whenever I came close to convincing myself that Wei Kim would not harm me, I remembered his dead-eyed stare when he saw I had found the lapel pin. On the second evening, my fragile courage finally cracked and I became absolutely certain he would try to pop my clogs. Best for me to forfeit the $100,000 advance and return to Canberra, even though he might follow me there. Having made that decision, relief flooded through me. Now, my biggest concern was telling Anne I was quitting the job and returning the advance.

I phoned her and, after making some polite inquiries about Tommy, who kept misbehaving, dropped my bombshell: "Look, Honey, I've done some thinking and, you know, I don't want to write a book for Bruce Thornton."

A pause. "Why not?"

"I'm not comfortable working for a greedy fascist pig."

"You weren't worried before."

"I know. My conscience is getting the better of me."

"Not like you."

Thanks. "Maybe I'm growing up. Anyway, I'm going to quit and pay back his money. I'll be home in a day or two."

A long pause and a strangled whisper. "Pay him back?"

"Yes."

"Umm, that won't be easy."

Oh God. "Why not?"

"I've, well, spent some of it - a lot of it."

Bugger. "How much?"

"About fifty thousand."

"Fuuucckkk. You're kidding?"

"No."

"What'd you spend it on?"

"An Audi \- it's a lovely car."

The hotel room shook, or I shook, or we both shook. I slumped onto the bed, not sure if my face was sweating or I was crying. The lack of $50,000 meant I was stuck in Perth, a dead man walking. "Hell. We agreed you'd look for a car, not buy one."

"That's not what you said."

Like most women, Anne didn't carve her facts out of solid reality; she moulded them out of Play-Doh. Normally, I went along with that. Not this time. "Yes, it is."

My anger put her off balance. "I thought you'd be pleased, because it was on sale. The guy at the car yard said the offer would expire at 6pm."

How could she be so dense? "Of course it was on sale, because it's a car. They're always on sale. It's impossible to buy one not on sale."

A long and hostile pause. "Not true."

"Yes, it is. You should have called me."

"Why? You'd have told me to wait until you got back and I was tired of waiting."

"You still should have called."

"It's just a car. Why are you so upset?"

Because you've just given me a death sentence. "We had an agreement."

"No, we didn't. Anyway, I got a good trade-in price for the Holden."

"How much?"

"Three thousand."

Despite being a pile of crap, the Holden deserved more respect than that. "That all?"

"I was lucky to get anything. Don't you want to hear about the Audi? It's got leather seats and a four-speaker sound system."

Standard accessories. "Not really. Let's talk about it later." I hung up, filled with despair, and had to breathe hard to re-inflate my chest.

For the previous few days, I had been sliding down a cliff face, trying to grab a tree-root. Now, I plunged off into a dark void. I spent most of the next 24 hours laying on the bed, watching crap TV while I consumed room-service food and bar-fridge snacks. That, of course, was counter-productive because, the more bloated and shittier I felt, the more afraid I became of Wei Kim and the angrier I got at Anne.

However, it eventually dawned on me that, if I did get snuffed, Anne would be one of the few mourners at my funeral, and the only one to give a damn. Tommy would take his cue from her. That thought - and a potato chip I had just swallowed - choked me up. A strange emotion stirred in my body which I sensed was love. I shouldn't have criticised her for buying the car. She deserved better than that. Feeling lonely and afraid, I phoned her to apologise.

She answered her mobile and snapped. "What do you want?"

"To see how you're getting on," I said tentatively.

"You bastard. You yelled at me and hung up."

"I got a bit upset about the car; I'm not upset anymore - honest. I want to apologise. I was childish. You deserve a new car, you really do."

She softened slightly. "You mean that?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad you're seeing sense."

"I am. Sorry how I behaved, it was just a bit of a shock. I'm over that now."

"Good. Then, umm, you're forgiven."

Now that was sorted out, I pined for my son. "Thanks. Now, is Tommy Boy still awake?"

"Yes, little bugger won't go to bed."

"Can I speak to him?"

"Just a mo."

She went away. A minute later, Tommy came on the line. "Hello, Daddy," he said with unalloyed pleasure.

"Hello, little man."

"I just did a poo, Daddy."

"That's good."

"In the toilet."

"Even better."

"Where are you, Daddy?"

"In Perth. It's a big city on the other side of the country..."

"What's a country?"

"Our country - Australia."

"Daddy..."

"Yes, Tommy?"

"Mummy's got a new friend."

"Really? Who?"

"He's very, very tall."

He? Did I have a competitor? Had someone crawled into my bed? "Who is he?" I barked.

"Daddy..."

"Yes?"

"I've got to take a wee."

The line went dead.

Crap. Did Tommy drop the phone, or was he deliberately cut off to keep me in the dark? I desperately phoned back.

Anne said: "Hi."

"Tommy cut me off."

"He raced off to the toilet. He's very proud he can pee solo."

I reminded myself I was in a paranoid fugue and that the fact I once cheated on Anne - albeit a long time ago in a foreign city - tended to heighten my bouts of jealousy. Stay calm - sound calm. "He said something about you having a new friend..."

"I heard that. Don't know what he's talking about. He's only three. Speaks lots of crap - like his dad."

I analysed every strand of her voice for a hint of betrayal, and just got confused. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"OK, goodnight."

I put down the phone, afraid I was a cuckold. Who the hell was her tall new friend? She often talked about a colleague at work called "John" whom she found amusing. She claimed he was gay. Maybe that was a smoke screen? Or were there, as I sometimes suspected, two "Johns" and the straight one was getting his leg over? I should have paid more attention to her nattering about office politics.

Or maybe her new friend was Kevin Arnold. I met him at the law firm's Christmas party - a tanned, smooth bastard with come-hither eyes. He was of average height but, to Tommy, everyone was tall.

"Kevin is right behind me."

Yeah? Doing what? Where were his hands? Why was he promoting her career? Maybe they started an office romance after I left - or even before. She'd been suspiciously good-natured recently.

I was strongly tempted to call her back and accuse her of infidelity. However, there was no chance I'd get the truth and every chance I'd get a bollocking. After a savage internal struggle, I decided to hold fire. If I miraculously survived Wei Kim and made it back to Canberra, I'd give Tommy a long bath and ply him with ice cream until he spilled the jelly beans.

I paced around, pondering my predicament. Unfortunately, my fear that I was a cuckold did not distract me from my fear of getting murdered. The two fears seemed to intertwine and feed off each other.

My mobile phone rang. I answered the call. "Hello."

"Hello, this is Lauren Gourlay."

It took a few moments for her name to register. "Oh, yes. How are you?"

"Good. We're back from Port Hedland and I've organised your trip to Bularoo."

I'd almost forgotten about that. "You have?"

"Yes. Mr Thornton will head for China tomorrow, to finalise the deal with the investors. He'll be away for five days. You may as well go up to Bularoo while he's gone."

If I stayed much longer in this hotel room I'd crack up, and maybe I'd be safer away from Perth. "Fine."

"Can you leave tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll send you some instructions and tickets this evening."

"Thanks. And, umm, what's happened to the investors who went to the Eucla Mine and Port Hedland?"

A pause. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I promised to meet one of them - Mr Kim - for a drink in Perth."

"Then you're out of luck. They've all flown home."

Fantastic news. I did a little hip swivel from some dance style I once knew. "That's sad; nice bloke."

"Yes, I'll be in touch."

I put down the phone and felt a burst of joy until I realised Wei Kim might have associates in Australia who could do his dirty work.
CHAPTER 11

An hour after I spoke to Lauren Gourlay, a bell-boy knocked on my door and delivered a large envelope containing written instructions and tickets.

The next morning, I checked out of the hotel and, just in case some associates of Wei Kim were around, zig-zagged through two department stores before catching a taxi to the airport. Once there, I boarded a twelve-seat passenger plane that flew me towards Wynardo, a parched wheat-belt town in the centre of the state. I was tired of reading about the Russian Front - I couldn't keep track of all the encirclements – and read a novel in which the hero solved all his problems by shooting people, usually many times.

The plane landed just before noon. At the only petrol station in town, I rented a six-cylinder Holden Commodore and headed for Bularoo Station.

The heavy sun tracked me like a drone as I zoomed along a two-lane sealed road. Heat haze rose like smoke off the molten bitumen; the broken stripes of the centre-line flew at me like tracer bullets. Occasionally, a big truck roared past on the other side of the road and I prayed the driver had remembered to take his uppers.

For a while, I drove past scattered farmhouses and huge paddocks of wheat, until they thinned out and disappeared. I sliced through open plains dotted with spinifex and ant hills, occasionally spotting a kangaroo or emu in the distance. Insects smacked into the windscreen. The land outside my air-conditioned car was a zone of madness and death I hoped never to visit.

The further I drove, the more relaxed I became about the threat that Wei Kim posed. However, the less I worried about him, the harder I gnawed on the possibility that Anne was cheating on me. Who was her "new friend"?

Following Lauren Gourlay's written instructions, after an hour I turned onto a gravel road which I followed for almost another hour, seeing no traffic. A couple of times I saw, in the distance, large homesteads sitting on verdant lawns and nestled among eucalypts. Surrounding these oases were cattle yards and machinery sheds.

Eventually, I saw a large bluestone bungalow with a wide wrap-around verandah on a slight rise. It sat on several hectares of lawn dotted with hedges, poplars and palm trees. On one side were a tall windmill festooned with solar panels and communications equipment, several large tin sheds, empty cattle yards, half-a-dozen fibro houses and a helicopter on a concrete pad. The desert surrounding the whole site was waiting patiently until the bore water ran out and it could reclaim every square centimetre.

I drove up the driveway between tall poplars. A man stood on the verandah, watching. He wore a battered Akubra, sweat-stained shirt, jeans and workboots. Lauren Gourlay's written instructions said the station manager, Thomas Brockman, would expect my arrival. I parked under a tall palm and got out. "Thomas Brockman?"

He approached and took off his hat, revealing a pinkish forehead that contrasted with deep-brown cheeks and neck. "Yep. Paul Ryder?"

"Yes."

"Call me Tom. Been expecting you. Told you'll be here for a couple of nights. You're writing some sort of book about Bruce Thornton?" He spoke in a decaffeinated drawl. I must have sounded like a chipmunk.

"I'm ghost-writing his autobiography; I want to poke around and get a feel for this place, so I can describe it in the book. I'll try to stay out of your way."

"No problem. I'll give you all the help I can, but there's not much to see: walk 100 metres in any direction and you're in the desert. Grab your bag and come inside. The missus is in Perth right now with our baby boy, visiting her folks, so I'm batching."

I took my overnight bag from the back seat and followed him towards the homestead. "I went past a lot of dry country."

"Worst drought in 30 years. You know the most beautiful sound out here? Rain on a tin roof. Haven't heard that for a long time. Twelve months ago we ran about 60,000 cattle; now we've got about half that."

I glanced about. "Where are they? You've lost them?"

He chuckled. "No. Scattered all over the place, some a hundred kilometres away. I've got to go out in the helicopter tomorrow and do a survey."

"You're the pilot?"

"Yep."

"You like it out here?"

"Love it. The air's clean, the sky's high, no commuting to work. Of course, it gets a bit lonely when my wife's away, so I'm glad you turned up. Come inside."

He led me across the wide verandah into a huge living room with a heavy cedar mantelpiece above a large brick fireplace, mahogany cabinets full of china, plump fabric sofas and a plush tartan carpet. It looked like the abode of an English country squire.

One wall was plastered with photographs - mostly black-and-white - of three generations of Thorntons. Several showed Bruce Thornton as a boy sitting astride a horse, playing cricket with Aboriginal kids - always holding the bat - or cuddling a dog. There was also one of him, in his early thirties, standing in front of the homestead with his first wife, Margaret, holding their baby son Robert. Most people in those days seemed to stare at cameras with gloomy intensity, but they looked especially unhappy.

Brockman said: "Angus Thornton built this homestead in about 1910. This room's hardly changed since then. The wife and I use a small living room at the other end of the house, near the kitchen."

A sepia-toned photograph grabbed my attention. It showed a grizzled old guy in a bush hat standing in front of a battered Land Rover. Handwriting, bottom left, said: "Lex Hanlon - 1954."

I pointed at the photograph. "Bruce Thornton told me about Hanlon: said he was a prospector who claimed he found a big gold reef in the Hindmarsh Hills. They're fairly close, right?"

"About a hundred kilometres away. I've never heard that story. What happened to him?"

"Died soon afterwards in Kalgorlie - cancer. The reef's never been found."

"Sounds like bullshit to me. Spend some time in the bush and you'll hear lots of whacky yarns."

I smiled. "So you're not going to search the Hills?"

"Nope, too busy."

I studied a faded photo of a group of Aboriginal stockmen standing under a eucalypt.

He followed my gaze. "This station wouldn't be here without Aboriginal stockmen. When Angus Thornton arrived in this area, more than a hundred years ago, there was a big Aboriginal tribe. He wiped out most of them."

"How?"

"Poisoned their springs or just shot them."

"Nasty bastard."

"Lots of nasty bastards back then - and now. Then the bugger realised he needed Aborigines to work the place, so he paid the survivors with food and tobacco. He and Graham - Bruce's dad - got away with that until the early seventies, when the stockmen went on strike and the Industrial Commission forced Graham to pay them a decent wage." He smiled. "Guess you won't put that in Bruce's book."

"Probably won't have space. You employ any Aboriginal stockmen?"

"Yes. Got four Blackfellas and three Whitefellas - all good workers."

There are many fervent racists in the Outback, and many who rise above racism - like this guy.

I said: "Anyone still on the station who was here when Bruce Thornton was growing up?"

"Only old Mick."

"Who?"

"Mick Naganjara. Born on this station and worked here for about fifty years, till he retired. Must be past eighty now. Lives out the back with his wife. Be here till he drops."

Sounded like Mick was about ten years older than Thornton and might have some useful information. "Can I talk to him?"

A shrug. "I'll take you over to his place tomorrow morning and introduce you. It's up to him."

"Thanks. He still got his marbles?"

"Every last one. He'll pretend he's a dopey old black bugger, but he's cunning as a fox. Now, I've got a special treat for you..."

"What?"

"I'm going to put you in the bedroom Bruce Thornton used as a boy. That might inspire you."

I smiled. "I'm a ghost-writer: I don't need inspiration. But that would be nice."

He took me down a carpeted corridor lined with pressed floral wallpaper to a large bedroom full of more mahogany furniture. The single bed had a frilly white bedspread. A photograph on a wall showed a teenage Thornton, standing next to a motorbike, looking like the sole heir of a huge cattle station.

I said: "Have you ever met Bruce Thornton?"

"Nope. He probably hasn't been up here for 20 or 30 years."

"Has anyone else used this room?"

"Just a few visitors. Hungry?"

"Yes. What's on the menu?"

"Like omelette?"

"Sure."

"Come with me."

The kitchen was state-of-the-art, with a huge marble island, two ovens and a massive fridge. I asked him how he became a station manager. He sat me down at a pine table and, while efficiently making a ham-and-cheese omelette, explained that he was born on a wheat farm south of Perth, obtained a Master's degree in Agricultural Science at Curtin University, and then managed a string of cattle stations before taking over Bularoo about six months ago. "I couldn't live and work in a city: too many traffic jams and uptight people."

He put the food on the table and sat opposite.

The omelette tasted excellent. "This is great."

"Thanks. I'm an amateur chef. One day, I want to appear on Master Cook. Tell me about ghost-writing - fun?"

I shrugged. "It's better than having the bank repossess my home."

"Hah. How'd you get into it?"

"I was a journalist."

"Really? That's an exciting profession."

"It is if you've got a job. But there aren't many left."

"So what have you ghost-written?"

"One book: On the Ball for Wally O'Keefe."

"I've heard about it, but haven't read it I'm afraid. Not a big reader. Still, loved watching Wally play. What a beast. He had incredible balance - impossible to knock off the ball."

While we ate, I told him several stories about Wally so salacious I had to leave them out of the book.

He raised his eyebrows. "Jesus, after all that, I'm amazed he had the strength to kick a football."

"A freak of nature."

He put our plates in the dishwasher. "OK, I'm turning in. Big day tomorrow. After breakfast, I'll take you over to see Mick."

"When's breakfast?"

"About seven. That OK?"

It was disgraceful. I sighed. "Your station, your rules, I guess."

He grinned. "Good. Don't miss the dawn - most beautiful time of the day. You can hear God breathing. See you then."

Just before seven, the sun reached through a gap in the heavy lace curtains and jabbed me in the eye. Five minutes later, it jumped between them and slapped me across the face. OK, OK.

I slouched down the hallway to a large ornate bathroom where the bore-water shower almost knocked me over. After dressing, I slipped out onto the verandah and caught the sun, almost close enough to touch, as it detached itself from the horizon and blasted off towards the heavens. God wasn't just breathing, he was yelling, although I had absolutely no idea what he was saying.

I found Tom Brockman in the kitchen, making porridge. He slopped it into two bowls and we ate it with dispatch. "OK, let's go and see old Mick."

The sun was now a blister in the clear blue sky. He led me across the wide lawn, and past several tin sheds, to a row of six shabby fibro homes which had the desert as their backyard.

Brockman said: "This is where the stockmen live, plus Mick and Jenny. Dunno how Mick hung onto his place when he retired, but he did. They're the only couple. The rest have to play with themselves."

A huge eucalypt towered over the nearest home. Brockman stepped onto its cracked concrete verandah and knocked on the rusting wire-screen door. An old Aboriginal woman in a floral frock opened it. Crinkly grey hair, round features and a huge bosom.

"Hi Jenny. Mick around?"

"Yeah, he up."

A gnarled old Aborigine, black as a burnt stump, wearing a tattered cowboy shirt and jeans, materialised out of the dark hall. He had a pouchy face, thick grey hair and imposing whiskers. "Who's here?" He spoke as if there was a vent in his throat.

Brockman stepped in front of him. "Mick, it's me." He nodded in my direction. "This is Paul Ryder. He wants to talk to you about Bruce Thornton."

He gave me a preternaturally impassive stare. "Bruce? Why?"

"I'm a ghost-writer."

"What?"

"A ghost-writer. I'm going to write a book about Bruce Thornton's life. Then he'll say he wrote it."

A rumbling sound which might have been a laugh. "Why don't he write it himself?"

"Too busy, I guess."

"You know, I never went school. Can't read much. Never read a whole book."

"You won't have to read this one. I just want to talk about what the station was like when Bruce Thornton was a kid - what you remember."

A small shrug. "Can't remember much. Long, long time ago."

Brockman interjected. "Mick, I've been asked to help Mr Ryder as much as possible. So I want you to talk to him, as a favour."

A long pause while Mick stared at his desert backyard, seeing far more out there than I could ever hope to see. "This is humbug Boss, but I'll talk." He looked at me. "When you wanna yarn?"

"Now?"

A slight nod. "OK. Come into my camp. Gonna get hot out here."

Brockman looked at me. "I'll leave you with Mick. I'm going out in the chopper. Won't be back till late arvo. You get hungry, there's Bolognese in the fridge. Pop it into the microwave."

"Thanks. See you later."

Jenny Naganjara had already disappeared. Mick turned and hobbled slowly down the dark corridor, lined with peeling green wall-paper, and led me into the living room. Sunlight poured through ragged curtains, illuminating a dilapidated couch and two armchairs facing a cathode-ray TV. A pine sideboard was lined with family photographs, an extensive collection of sea-shells and two full bottles of Bushmills Single Malt Irish Whiskey. Cracked linoleum covered the floor.

The armchairs creaked as we sat down.

Out of politeness, I nodded towards the sea-shells. "Nice collection."

"Yeah. Got them at a beach, in Perth, maybe 30 year ago. Whole mob of us went down on a bus to see the ocean. Took off me shoes and stood in the water. So much water." His wheezy voice seemed to emerge from the air around us. The tempo of his life was obviously much slower than mine. I must have seemed a strange, agitated creature.

"That the only time you've been to the coast?"

"Yeah. Too far away."

I casually pulled out a pen and pad. "So you've lived here all your life?"

"Yeah. Born here. Dad worked as stockman for Graham Thornton - Bruce's dad."

"How long?"

"Maybe 40 years. Dad died in 1960. Fell off horse, broke his leg."

"That killed him?"

"Yes. Graham Thornton shoulda called the Flying Doctor. But Dad got put on truck and sent to Wynardo. Died on way."

"Why didn't he call the Flying Doctor?"

"'Cos, back then, gubbies didn't call Flying Doctor for Blackfella."

'Gubbies', I knew, meant white folk. "And now?"

A slow shrug. "Maybe. I mean, Tom woulda called the Flying Doctor."

If I was still a journalist, I'd have been excited to learn Mick had a good reason to throw dirt at the Thorntons and was probably too old to care about the repercussions. However, I was now employed to bury their reputational turds, not dig them up. Still, if he wanted to attack the Thorntons, I wouldn't block my ears.

I said: "What was Graham Thornton like?"

"Tough man - very tough. Didn't like my mob. Always yelling at Blackfella. Liked his dogs more. Paid us no money till judge made him."

"Was he tough on Bruce?"

"Nah. Never yell at Bruce; Bruce was like little king: he want horse, he get horse; he want car, he get car. His dad give him whatever he want."

That shot down Bruce Thornton's claim he had a tough upbringing, though I would still put his version in his book.

"Did you play games with Bruce when he was a kid?"

"Nah. I was too old. He played footie and cricket with some of the Aboriginal kids. Always wanted to win; got angry and cried when he lost. Aboriginal kids was afraid of him."

"Was he any good at sport?"

Finally, a solid chuckle. "Nah, crap."

Mick obviously wouldn't supply any cute anecdotes about Thornton's childhood. "When he was about twelve, he went to Perth, right?"

"Yeah, to a school where the kids have beds. Gone maybe ten years."

"Do you remember his wife, Margaret?"

"Yeah. Nice woman. Always respected Blackfella. But she don't like it out here. Like the city better. Always arguing with Bruce. They had a bad time."

"How long was she here?"

"Maybe seven or eight years. Soon after Bruce find iron ore at Windeyama Gorge, they go to Perth to live and take Robert with them. Only seen Bruce once after that - maybe 20 year ago - when he come back to visit."

I was curious about the death of Dirk Carter, because it left Bruce Thornton free to claim the whole Windeyama Gorge iron ore deposit. Thornton was piloting their plane when it crashed. "You knew Dirk Carter?"

Mick was more opaque than any politician I'd ever met. However, a hint of wariness flickered across his face. "Dirk? Yes, course. Stockman here. Good guy. Liked Blackfellas. Was sorry when he died; was a sorry business. You know, I saw the plane."

"You what?"

"Saw the plane."

"That crashed?"

"Yeah."

"How? Why?"

"The gunjies wanted a Blackfella to help find it."

"...the gunjies?"

"...the cops. Four cops drive up there to find plane; took me with them. We was gone for six days."

"Bruce Thornton didn't go with you?"

"Nah, still in hospital, I think."

Bruce Thornton claimed that, when he tried to land the Cessna on the salt-pan, it somersaulted and he was thrown clear. "What did the plane look like, when you found it?"

"All burnt."

"Together in one piece, or spread out?"

He paused and shrugged. "Long time ago. Can't remember."

That surprised me, because I sensed he forgot very little. "Did you find Dirk Carter?"

"Nah. Gone. Dingoes or crows musta ate him."

"Did you ever talk to Bruce Thornton about the crash?"

A wisp of a smile. "Nah. Didn't see Bruce much after crash. He don't talk to me anyway: I'm just Blackfella."

Something wasn't quite right about his story, but there was nothing I could do about that. We chatted for an hour about what it was like at Bularoo Station when Bruce Thornton was growing up: how supplies were delivered; the daily routine; how the cattle were rounded up and driven to market, and so forth. I often had to prise information out of him.

He started to look tired. "Cripes, you ask a lot of questions. Got enough for your book now?"

"Yes."

"OK." He levered himself out of his armchair and hobbled back to the front door, me trailing behind. He pushed through the screen door and stood on the verandah.

I said: "Thank you very much."

"No worries." Something twinkled in his bloodshot eyes. "You know, maybe I do remember what the plane look like."

A jolt of adrenalin. "You do?"

A throaty chuckle. "Yes."

"What?"

"Plane was all together, sitting on its wheels."

"You mean, in one piece?"

"Yes."

"Like it landed safely?"

"Yeah, then burned up."

My God. If that was true, Bruce Thornton lied when he claimed the Cessna crash-landed on the salt-pan. Further, if he landed without mishap, how did Dirk Carter die? Did Bruce Thornton kill him? "You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Long time ago, but that's fair dinkum."

"Then why'd you tell me before that you forgot what the plane looked like?"

"'Cos I didn't know you then."

"But you know me now?"

"Yeah, I reckon you don't like Bruce either."

He was a shrewd old bugger. "I don't. So, when the cops saw the plane, did they say anything about it being in one piece?"

"Nah. They just wanta find a body and go home."

The cops were probably either plodders who missed the clue, or noticed it and didn't want to open a can of worms.

"Have you ever spoken to anyone else about this - what the plane looked like?"

"Only Blackfellas."

"Not the cops?"

A genuine chuckle. "Shit no. Gunjies don't listen to Blackfella. Anyway, long time ago. Don't matter now."

He stepped back into the house and let the screen door closed behind him.

I stood there for a while, strongly tempted to follow him back into the house and ask more questions. But why bother? Dirk Carter died more than forty years ago and, if Mick now told his story to the police, they'd laugh. Anyway, this was none of my business. I was being paid $300,000 to write Bruce Thornton's autobiography, not solve an antique mystery. Write his book; take his money; make sure Wei Kim didn't kill me; go home. I had plenty on my plate. It was vital I didn't get distracted.
CHAPTER 12

I spent a couple of hours wandering around the homestead and its environs, making notes and taking photographs with my mobile phone. Later I'd use this material to write Bruce Thornton's memories of childhood. I hoped to make them so realistic and evocative that even he'd think they were true.

While strolling around, I spied several stockmen driving around in vehicles or working on machinery. They all ignored me. Around noon, I microwaved the spaghetti Bolognese and ate it at the kitchen bench. Then I phoned the small airline that flew me to Wynardo and discovered it had a plane returning to Perth the next morning. If I drove to Wynardo that evening, I could stay in a motel overnight and catch it.

After packing my bag and putting it in the back of the Holden Commodore, I sat on the verandah and read my book about Operation Barbarossa. The Germans troops were close to Moscow, but winter was even closer. Their generals, of course, were a long way from the front and getting very toasty in their snug bunkers, thank you very much.

The helicopter buzzed back in just before five o'clock. Brockman strolled towards me, wearing mirror sunglasses and carrying a helmet, looking unhappy. "Worse than I expected. Cattle dying everywhere. God, we need rain. Got trucks out there with feed, but it's nowhere near enough. How was your chat with Mick?"

"Very helpful. I've got all the information I need. So I'd better head back to Perth and leave you alone."

"You can stay tonight if you want?"

I explained that I'd booked a morning flight out of Wynardo.

He shrugged. "OK. Got enough water for the drive back?"

"Water? Why do I need water?"

His expression branded me a lunatic. "You mean, you didn't have any coming up here?"

"A couple of bottles of mineral water."

He shook his head. "Silly bastard. You'll need a lot more than that if your car breaks down."

"Someone'll come past."

"If you're bloody lucky. Sometimes, at this time of year, there's no traffic for days. Let me get you a water container."

He shot back into the house and returned lugging a clear-plastic container holding several gallons of water, which he slung onto the back seat of my car. "As insurance."

"Thanks."

"And your mobile - what sort of mobile you got?"

I'd tried to call Anne the previous evening and found it didn't work. "It's 4G, but it's no good out here."

"Not surprised. You should have a sat-phone."

"Maybe, but I'll be OK."

He sighed. "At least you've got plenty of water."

A nice guy. "Thanks for looking after me."

"Pleasure."

We shook hands.

I drove down the driveway onto the gravel road and back across a sandy plain strewn with spinifex, mangy grass, shrubs, mulga and ant-hills. The road was fairly smooth and I stepped on the gas. It was nice to be in the Outback - where nobody could bother me - while insulated from the Outback. Almost heaven. I even stopped worrying about whether Wei Kim would try to kill me and started mentally composing the part of Thornton's autobiography that would deal with his childhood on the Bularoo Station.

After about forty minutes, the fading light started peeling away the harshness of the landscape. I reached a straight stretch of road and a huge plume of dust appeared ahead. A willy-willy? A speck formed beneath the plume. In five minutes, it grew into a massive semi-trailer with a huge bull-bar roaring towards me, tyres spitting out stones. A driver and passenger sat behind the dirty windscreen.

Fifty metres away, I nervously slowed and hugged my side of the road, expecting the other driver to reciprocate. Instead, the semi-trailer veered across the road and headed straight at me.

Faaarrkkk. My adrenal system detonated. I tugged the steering wheel further over and stamped on the accelerator, trying to squeeze past on my side. I thought I'd just managed when the bull-bar crashed into the rear passenger door just behind me. The windscreen exploded, and the car rotated several times in mid-air before landing and spinning once more. My brain turned to mush and G-forces battered my body. Pain radiated up and down my spine. Vomit projected out onto the bonnet of the car.

Through glazed eyes I saw the semi-trailer come to a halt, 100 metres away, shrouded in dust, air-brakes wheezing like a monster. Brief stillness. The driver jumped out and stared at my car. His comrade circled around and stood next to him. Both wore T-shirts and jeans. A brief chat and they walked towards me.

My thoughts swirled around like dead leaves on a windy day. I tried to grab some. Not easy. Finally, I seized on a simple question: why were they approaching? To help? Maybe the driver swerved to miss something on the road - a kangaroo.

That pathetic glimmer of hope ended when I saw that, unlike most long-distance truck drivers, both were Asian and, even more unusually, both carried pistols. Christ. Run, run.

Fear brought crystal clarity. Pain vanished. I desperately unbuckled the seatbelt with shaky hands, pushed open the door - which fell off, thank God - and stumbled out. My legs collapsed and I pitched face-forward onto the ground. Someone yelled. I grabbed the car and dragged myself aloft. The two guys were about fifty metres away, jogging towards me.

One lifted his pistol and cranked off a shot which thwanged into the car. Jesus. My legs turned from liquorice to steel. I dashed off the road into the low scrub. One yelled "Stop" - as if that was likely - with a heavily Chinese accent and shot a branch off the closest bush.

I want to live, I want to live.

Despite being totally unfit and a car crash victim, I ran over soft sand like I had hot wax in my shorts.

More yelling, much closer. A couple of shots fizzed over my head.

We must have been near a dried-up creek bed, because the mulga and spinifex bushes were quite lush, often more than two-metres high. When the Asian guys lost sight of me, I considered diving behind a bush and laying low. But they were still too close.

The fading light would finally disappear in about 20 minutes. I had to evade them until then. For five minutes, I ducked and weaved between bushes, feet barely touching the ground, lungs gulping in oxygen. But fear giveth and fear taketh away. Suddenly, an invisible fire consumed my whole body, my lungs erupted and my legs buckled. I flopped under a small bush, gasping and heaving. More vomiting. The pain of the car crash and the agony of exercise joined forces. A bullet would be a lovely treat.

It took several minutes for my breathing to regularise and the pain subsided to pure misery. Change of plans: I wanted to live, desperately.

I thought my nightmare was over - except for being stuck in the middle of a desert with no car - when I heard yelling in Chinese, very close. Bloody hell. I burrowed my face into the ground.

A twig snapped behind me.

I wanted to turn and look, but the slightest movement could mean death. I prayed my body odour didn't betray me.

A loud yell, very close. I braced for a bullet in the back of the head and imagined my head exploding like a watermelon. Would I feel the bullet? Surely not.

The other Chinese guy shouted from some distance away. The guy behind me shouted back and ran in that direction. Thank God. I'd held my breath for almost a minute and clenched my buttocks so tight they hurt. I writhed around like a beached whale, gasping for breath, and dry retched several times.

Night fell. I flipped onto my back and stared up at the star-smeared sky. Proximity to death intensified its weird beauty. I did a quick inventory. Still had my wallet and useless mobile. But no transport. No water. No food. No map or compass. No fucking hope, really. If a bullet didn't get me, hunger and thirst would. I had just crash-landed on an alien planet and lost all communications with my home world.

How the hell did someone who rarely left the city, and worked as a ghost-writer, find himself stuck in the middle of a desert being stalked by two murderous Chinese guys he'd never seen before? Fate was laughing its head off.

My mouth tasted metallic. I focused on the big water container that Tom Brockman put in the back of my car. Had to reach it. True, the bad guys would probably anticipate that move, but better to be shot dead than die of thirst.

I stood and cautiously peered over the top of the scrub. Half-a-kilometre away, a couple of torch lights flickered around, moving away. Thank God.

Because I had no idea where the car was, I couldn't move until daylight arrived. I lay down and stared up at the stars while clumsily licking my lips and wondering why two Chinese guys tried to flatten me with a semi-trailer. I'd hoped Wei Kim would leave me alone. But he'd obviously decided to silence me, permanently, and sent two henchmen to do the job. Yet I still had no idea why he originally tried to kill Robert Thornton.

I tried to remember all the bush survival tips I picked up watching wildlife programs on TV. A few obvious ones sprung to mind: conserve water, ration food and stay out of the sun. Too bad I had no water, no food and it was night. I tried to remember if I was supposed to drink my own piss or not, and couldn't. I couldn't Google for the answer either.

My body cooled down and sent vicious messages to my brain. If, miraculously, an ambulance had turned up, I would have been put in a neck-brace, stuffed full of painkillers and rushed to the nearest hospital. Instead, I had to lie out in the open and pray that each crackle and rustle in the surrounding bush didn't herald the return of the Chinese thugs. After a couple of hours, exhaustion swept over me and sleep descended. I rolled onto my side - so I wouldn't snore - and let the world dissolved.

I woke with every part of my body competing to cause more pain. I opened my eyes and stared straight up into the blazing sun. Ouch. I slammed them shut and waited for the dancing motes to dissolve. I put a hand over my eyes for shade and gingerly re-opened them. When my eyes had adjusted, I staggered to my feet and looked around. I was in the middle of an enormous salt-pan, almost perfectly flat, shimmering in the heat. Strange: I thought I fell asleep under a bush.

A speck appeared in the shimmering haze, moved towards me. It slowly turned into a man on a camel - a grizzled old bloke wearing a battered hat and canvas jacket. I'd seen him before, in a photograph on a wall at the Bularoo homestead. He was Lex Hanlon, the prospector who claimed he'd discovered a huge gold reef in the Hindmarsh Hills. The fact the photograph was more than 50 years old and Hanlon died soon after it was taken, didn't cross my mind.

When he stopped in front of me, his bushy beard didn't hide a savage smile. "What the hell're you doing out here?"

"Car crash. Water."

He looked around. "What car? You're following me, aren't you? You want to steal my gold. Forget it - you'll never find it; nobody'll ever find it."

"No, no, was a car crash. Water, water."

A shake of the head. "Sorry mate, you're on your own. Oh, and don't drink your piss - it doesn't work."

"Water," I croaked.

He turned his camel around and disappeared back into the throbbing heat haze.

That, of course, was the cue for me to wake up and discover it was still night-time and the temperature had gone off a cliff. I shivered and ached from my injuries and thirst. I wasn't supposed to die like this. I was supposed to be called into a doctor's office - many years hence - and get told by an -ologist that I'd soon die like a lab-rat in a sterile high-tech hospital. Instead, I was locked in a primal fight with Nature - real Nature - which I thought went toothless long ago. This was bullshit.

My semi-delirious mind locked onto the plastic water container in the back of the car. Somehow, I had to get it without running into the bad guys and their bullets. But I still couldn't go looking until daylight.

Every movement was agony, so I lay on my back for an hour, the cold drilling into my bones, until the sun peeked above the horizon and gold seams appeared in the sky. Tendrils of heat stroked my body. My tongue was so bloated I couldn't swallow. I had rusty razors stuck in my throat. This looked like being the worst day of my life, and the last.

The night before, I surely ran less than a kilometre. The car must be fairly close. But in which direction? I clambered in agony onto a small ant-hill. On top, I tried to turn my head. An invisible cattle prod zapped my neck. When the pain subsided, I rotated my whole body. In every direction, the huge blue sky was neatly tucked under the flat horizon. However, the scrub was too high for me to see the road. Damn. There was also something strange about the scene. What? No truck. It was much taller than the scrub and should be visible. Looked like the bad guys drove away, leaving the desert to kill me off; unless, of course, one left and the other waited in ambush.

In which direction should I walk? Think. Think.

I stumbled off the ant-hill and searched for the footprints I made the night before. My blundering about had already destroyed any tracks in the immediate vicinity. I examined the fresher soil just outside that area and saw what looked like tracks, though whether I left them, or an emu did, was hard to tell.

I followed the tracks for about a hundred metres until they suddenly disappeared. Oh God. Despair overwhelmed me. This was the end. Maybe I should just lie down and die. No, I couldn't give up this soon. I had to struggle. I'd walk a bit further then flop down and die.

I continued in the same general direction as the tracks, muscles screaming, tongue snap-frozen and throat aching. A lizard merrily scuttled across my path, mocking the oversized brain which got me into this mess and now consumed too much vital energy.

My mind was so focused on the water container that I limped onto the gravel road, and had almost crossed it before I noticed it. Jesus. I turned to my left and saw the road stretched far into the distance; I turned to my right and saw my shattered car, about two hundred metres away. No sign of the Chinese thugs. Fantastic. I might just survive. The lump in my throat almost choked me.

Forgetting that I might be greeted by a hail of bullets, I hobbled as fast as I could to the wreck. I'd convinced myself the water container would be on the back seat and was stunned when it wasn't. I kept staring at the seat as if it might reappear. No, gone. I opened my mouth and emitted a silent wretched scream.

Maybe I put the container in the boot of the car and forgot. I rushed around to the back. The collision had popped off the lid and flung it ten metres away. My eyes scoured every centimetre of the interior. No water container. The Chinese were probably drinking the water right now, laughing their heads off. I'd done enough. Now it was time to lie down and die. I slumped to the ground, in the shade of the car, and passed out.

Not surprisingly, I dreamed I was under a waterfall with water pouring into my mouth. Indeed, I started drowning. Then I realised my mouth was full of real water. I opened my eyes and looked up. At first, I only saw two large objects covered in floral fabric dangling above me. Looked like tits. What were they doing there? The smiling face of an old Aboriginal woman peered over them. What the hell was going on? This must be a hallucination.

She used a metal cup to pour more water down my tight throat. It was warm and brackish, with a hint of motor oil, and tasted magnificent. I chased the cup with my lips, knocking my head against her boobs.

A big laugh made them jiggle. "Thirsty huh?"

She refilled the cup from a clear-plastic container and pressed it against my lips. The water reached a little further down my throat before vaporising. She refilled the cup and repeated the dose. My whole body screamed for more water. I sat up, grabbed the container and skulled the water until my stomach ached and I started drowning. I lay down and rolled onto my side, gasping and spluttering. "Jesus, wow."

She sat on the road, cross-legged. "Feeling better?"

I burped, sat up and put my head between my knees. The hostile sun was almost directly overhead. "Much better. Tell me, are you an angel?"

She cackled. "Shit no."

That wasn't angel-speak. "Well, thanks anyway. You've saved my life."

Her round, creased face broke into a brilliant smile that several missing teeth did not impair. "Boy, you're lucky we turned up."

We? I looked around. Behind me, standing in front of a dusty four-wheel-drive pick-up truck, was a spindly young Aborigine in a cowboy shirt, jeans and riding boots. A shy wave. "Hi, I'm Martin - Martin Windsor. This is me mum, Shirley."

"Pleased \- very pleased - to meet both of you."

He nodded towards the smashed car. "What happened?"

"A semi-trailer hit me."

"Wow. Bastard didn't stop?"

Only to hunt me with a pistol. "Nope. Just kept driving. What're you doing out here?"

"Come from Punakana - community 'bout 100 Ks north. Heading to Wynardo to visit Mum's mob. You're damn lucky: not many cars go this way."

I was especially thankful that Aborigines had rescued me. I didn't have a goddamn clue how to survive out here, but this was their backyard. They would know all the tricks. I was a helpless baby in their loving arms.

"Wynardo? Wow. That's where I'm going. Can I catch a lift?"

"Course. Just gotta squeeze in next to Mum. Hope she don't squash ya."

She scowled. "Rude little bugger."

I rose gingerly. My thirst was gone, and my aches and pains had returned.

Martin's eyes devoured the shattered car. "I guess you don't need your car no more."

"Got no big plans for it. Why?"

He shuffled. "Can I take some parts?"

Shirley said: "We don't waste stuff out here."

Surely, they weren't serious. I was afraid the Chinese might re-appear and was desperate to get back to civilization. Yet, I was in no position to complain. "Be my guest. It's a hire-car anyway. I like recycling."

While Shirley and I sat on the ground in the shade of the pick-up truck, saying little, Martin took a toolbox out of its cabin, prised open the bonnet of the smashed car and swiftly ripped out dozens of engine parts, which he dumped onto the back tray of the truck. Then he removed the two tyres still in good condition, stripped out the two front seats, and removed the radio and God knows what else. He moved with incredible efficiency and, despite the blazing heat, barely raised a sweat.

After about an hour, he smiled. "All done."

I said: "Sure you've got everything?"

Big grin. "Yeah. Can almost make me own car."

I rose and searched the denuded car for my overnight bag. Gone. The Chinese must have taken it. There wasn't much in it though - just a toilet bag, some dirty clothes and a notebook.

We climbed into the cabin of the pickup truck with Shirley in the middle. It was a tight squeeze. Martin drove off.

Shirley turned to me. "You're a city-boy, huh?"

"How'd you guess?"

She cackled. "Only city-boys drive around out here with no water."

"I thought there were plenty of petrol stations."

A louder cackle. "Hah. You're a city-slicker alright. Why're ya out here?"

Best not to mention I was ghosting the autobiography of a man most Aborigines regarded as a mortal enemy. "Visiting a friend at Bularoo Station."

"Who?"

"The station manager, Thomas Brockman."

"Bruce Thornton owns Bularoo, don't he? He's a nasty gubbah - real nasty."

"You don't like him?"

"Hate him. His father used to shoot Blackfella - hunt them down and shoot them like dogs. Bruce ain't much better."

"Bad times."

"Bad people. Anyway, your friend shoulda given ya water or told ya how to find it."

"Find it?"

"Yeah, there's plenty around. I mean, ya coulda drained the water from your air-conditioner, or sucked water from roots or found a waterhole."

"A waterhole? How?"

"They're easy to find. Just gotta follow animal tracks or watch birds head for 'em."

"That makes me feel pretty stupid."

"Don't worry, you're safe now. Anyway, even Blackfellas make mistakes. When I was a lil' un' me mob went walkabout in a drought. First two waterholes was dry. Coupla elders died before we get to third hole and find water. Lots of sorry business at that waterhole."

"So, what's at Puna...?"

"...Punakana. It's a Blackfella community. About 300 of us, all Arakaru tribe. We got an airstrip, police station, school and little swimming pool. Even got satellite TV."

"Where does the water come from?"

"Two bores."

Mick intervened. "Mum's a painter. Sells her stuff in Sydney and Melbourne. Got a big name."

"Dot painting?"

Shirley said: "'Bark."

I said: "So you're rich?"

She cackled. "Nah, community gets most of the money, the Blackfella way."

I looked at Mick. "What do you do?"

"I'm a stockman."

"Which station?"

"Punakana's got its own station. We all own it."

Shirley said: "Mick's lucky. Got a good job. Lots of kids at Punakana got nothing to do, so they get into trouble with booze and drugs, and petrol sniffing."

"You don't want to live in the city?"

"Nah. Born out here; die out here."

"Fair enough."

We spent the next three hours chatting about our respective lives, which meant we often had no idea what the other person was talking about. I didn't know much about Aboriginal society. I just had a vague idea that the Dreamtime, song lines, rainbow serpents and walkabouts were a big part of it. Shirley filled in lots of gaps.

They dropped me off outside the Post Office in Wynardo. I got out and offered Shirley a couple of hundred dollars "for petrol".

She leaned out of the window. "Thanks, sweetie, but we were coming here anyway. Take care."

They drove off.
CHAPTER 13

Wynardo was a sun-baked wheat-belt town, clustered around a tiny railway station, with about two thousand residents. On one side of the station were a dozen towering grain silos; on the other, half-a-dozen shops, two cinderblock motels, a post office, a café, a service station and a lawn bowling club. The highlight of the day was usually a truck pulling through town or two dogs squaring off for a fight.

I bought some pain-killers at the convenience store, scoffed several and booked into a motel. Inside my room, I flopped onto a bed, exhausted. Despite the rattling air-conditioner, I slept for almost sixteen hours. I woke soon after dawn, wishing I could insert a new brain and oil my joints.

An hour later, now half-alive, I slouched into the café where three huge Maori shearers in singlets - I bet they each fleeced at least 200 sheep a day - were devouring huge plates of bacon and eggs. I'd always had a deep respect for horny-handed sons of the soil, without wanting to work shoulder to shoulder with them.

I sat in the corner. A frizzy-haired sullen-looking waitress, about forty, approached. I wondered if a tragic series of missteps dumped her in Wynardo or she was born there. Then she asked what I wanted in a shrill voice and I knew she was born and bred in the town. I ordered strong coffee, and bacon and eggs.

While sipping the coffee, waiting for the food, I nervously started assessing my situation and soon wished I hadn't. Until yesterday, I could pretend that Wei Kim might spare my life. No longer. He'd obviously assigned two associates and plenty of resources to the task of killing me. I remembered the bullets buzzing past my ear and imagined them thudding into my flesh. My hands shook and the coffee went from tasteless to bitter. I even glanced out of the window, just in case the Chinese were lurking in the main street, waiting for a showdown. Couldn't see them.

"You OK, Honey? You look pale."

I turned. The waiter held a big plate of bacon and eggs.

I put my shaking hands in my lap. "Ah, yes - got the flu."

She slid the plate in front of me and strolled off.

Despite suffering from anxiety-induced nausea, I slowly munched the food and considered my options. I could, of course, tell the cops that unknown assassins were trying to kill me for unknown reasons. The unimaginative bastards would have a few good belly-laughs and commit me to a psych ward. No, my only hope of survival was to flee back to Canberra and lie very low. Maybe, if I was very lucky, Wei Kim and his pals wouldn't notice where I'd gone or, if they did, would leave me alone. To placate Bruce Thornton, I'd tell him I couldn't write his book because I had a very sick child who needed my urgent attention. Big lie, of course, but Shit Creek was brimming its banks and I'd lost my paddle. He would, of course, demand that I repay the advance of $100,000. I could only repay him half, because Anne had spent the rest on a car. Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd now spent a big chunk of the residue. However, better to be chased by a process server than Chinese thugs with pistols.

Having evolved a plan, albeit a shitty one, I felt a touch calmer.

After breakfast, I used my mobile - now working - to call the airline that flew me to Wynardo and book a seat on the next flight back to Perth, which left at ten. I checked out of the motel and strolled half-a-kilometre, past a scruffy golf course with kangaroos on the fairways, to the one-shed airport where four other passengers waited. An eight-seater plane flew in, deposited a few passengers, and flew us back to Perth Airport, arriving two hours later.

I didn't intend to wait in Perth until Thornton returned from China so I could quit face-to-face. I'd fly home tomorrow if I could book a flight, and phone him from Canberra.

That meant spending a night in Perth. It was obviously dangerous for me to return to the Chancellor Hotel. However, even though Death had its bony hand around my throat, I was a cheap bastard and Thornton Mining Corporation would pay for my room there. I also believed, quite irrationally, that I was less likely to get murdered in a five-star hotel. So I checked back into the hotel and was given a spacious room with a great view of the city.

That evening would be my last sucking on the tit of the Thornton Mining Corporation. So I went up to the rooftop restaurant and read my book while eating a $70 steak washed down with a $200 bottle of red. While I did, the sun dumped its last rays on the ocean before retiring for the night.

I returned to my room wondering how to break the news to Anne that I was terminating my contract and returning home. She wouldn't be pleased. I opened the door to my room and recalled that, on my first night at the hotel, a masked man jumped out of the bathroom and assaulted me. That's why, as I entered the room, my eyes were nervously focused on the bathroom and it took me several seconds to realise that an uninvited guest sat in the corner.

Eventually, I looked straight ahead and saw a huge bullet-headed man sitting in the armchair next to the window. He wore a casual grey jacket, white shirt and blue slacks. My heart thumped hard. Then I realised that I knew him and it almost exploded.

During my previous career as a journalist in the political capital of a security state, I often ran into spooks, generally when I didn't want to do so. Far from being glamorous super-heroes who protected society from evil-doers, most were pathetic fantasists who were a positive threat to it. However, this guy, who worked in a black-bag section of ASIO, was smart and dangerous. A few years ago, when some professional killers tried to ice me, he saved my life, though only because he calculated I was worth more to him alive than dead. Back then, he called himself "Mr McDonald", though his fore-bearers obviously came from the Balkans.

He smiled and casually spread his legs, as if his balls were too big, which was quite possible. "Hello, we meet again."

I didn't bother asking how he got in. He was a clandestine operative with clan warfare, moonlit raids and ancient vendettas running in his blood. Maybe he just walked through a wall. "What the fuck're you doing here?"

"I want to chat."

"About what?"

"Why you're in Perth."

"You still a spook?"

"Of course."

"Still called Mr McDonald?"

He grinned. "Is that what I called myself the last time we met?"

"Yes."

"Then it's still my name. Now tell me: why're you in Perth? Why've you been spending so much time with Bruce Thornton?"

I was desperate to know what game he was playing. But unless I gave him some information, he'd tell me nothing. "I'm here to write his autobiography."

A puzzled stare. "His what?"

"Autobiography. He's employed me as a ghost-writer."

His laugh ended with a nasty snort. "You're kidding?"

"No. He wants to tell posterity what a great guy he is, with my help."

A frown. "You're out of journalism?"

"Yes."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Have you seen a book called On the Ball by Wally O'Keefe?"

A smile. "The football player? It rings a bell."

"I ghosted it. Bruce Thornton read it and decided to employ me."

"And that's why you went up to the Eucla Mine with Thornton: because you're writing his autobiography?"

"Yep."

I associated him with primal emotions and was surprised to hear him giggle.

"What's so funny?"

"You came here to ghost-write a book and you've landed face-first in steaming shit; you attract trouble like a magnet."

"What do you mean?"

"While you were at the mine, you stumbled upon a fire in an accommodation unit, didn't you?"

My whole body quivered. "You know about that?"

"I know a lot of things."

"Yes. Wrong place, wrong time. Charged in to see if anyone was trapped, but the unit was empty." I held up my still pinkish arms. "Got a few burns."

He barely glanced at my arms. "You know, don't you, that Robert Thornton was staying in that unit?"

"Yes. But he went out for a stroll."

"Do you know the fire was deliberately lit?"

I considered playing dumb, but I needed allies and, while I didn't know what game he was playing, he did at least work for my government. "Yes. In fact, I know who lit it."

He lifted his eyebrows. "You do? Who?"

"Chinese guy called Wei Kim. He works for the Dai-Go Steel Works."

He looked impressed. "How do you know he started the fire?"

"When I ran towards it, in the dark, I collided with someone running away."

"Kim?"

"Yes, though I didn't realise it was him until the next day, when I found a lapel pin he dropped on the ground."

"Did you tell Bruce Thornton that Kim started the fire?"

"Course not. You think he'd believe that a representative of a major potential investor tried to incinerate his son? He'd have thought I was mad."

"Sure would."

"But, umm, now I'm in terrible trouble."

"Why?"

"Kim knows that I know he started the fire."

A boisterous laugh. I'd really added some sunshine to his day. Arsehole.

"Oh, Jesus, really?"

"Yes. He was there when I found his lapel pin."

"That's bad news - very bad news - for you, I mean."

A bug seemed to go down my throat. "I know. In fact, some of his friends have already tried to kill me."

A hard stare. "Really?"

"Yes."

"When?"

I described how I went up to Bularoo Station to do some research and, on my return, got swiped by the semi-trailer and chased across the desert.

He looked rueful. "When you disappeared, I wondered where you'd gone."

"Now you know. So tell me: what the hell is going on? Why'd they try to kill Robert Thornton? Why are they trying to kill me? Why are you involved?"

"You don't know?"

"No idea."

He paused, considering how much to reveal and shrugged: "OK. I'm going to tell you what's going on because you're entitled to know who's trying to kill you, and I think you could be very useful to me. But if you tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, I'll kill you myself, understand?"

I shivered. "Yes."

He scratched his bald scalp. "Alright, let's start with why my organisation is involved. We aren't fighting the Cold War any more. We have two main tasks. The first is counter-terrorism. That's what gets all the publicity and that's why politicians keep throwing money at us. However, our other big task is to protect strategic economic assets like the Eucla Mine. We've got to stop them falling into the hands of foreign powers."

"And that's why you're here?"

"Yes. This country's in the middle of a huge mining boom. We sell massive quantities of iron ore to China. But the Chinese Government hates relying on foreigners to supply strategic raw materials. It always wants to control foreign sources of supply. That's why it's so interested in the Eucla Mine. The mine will eventually produce 100 million tonnes of iron ore a year. If the Chinese Government can control the mine, it'll have a secure source of supply and a lever to drive down international prices."

"And that's what it's trying to do - grab control?"

"Yes."

"How? Thornton Mining Corporation owns the mine, and Bruce Thornton owns most of its shares. He won't sell them to the Chinese."

"I know. And even if he wanted to, our foreign ownership laws would stop him doing so. So the Chinese Government is trying a more indirect route."

"What?"

"Unlike us, the Chinese are very good at long-term planning. Their civilisation's been around for thousands of years. They work with longer timelines than us; they've got patience and dedication. Their plan to grab control of the Eucla Mine is a very good example of that. It started many years ago. The first step was to get a silly old mining magnate to stick his decrepit dick into a Chinese spy and marry her."

"Wow. You're kidding?"

"No."

"She's a spy?"

"Yes. She's an agent in the Chinese Ministry of State Security, assigned to Unit 856."

"Unit what?"

"Unit 856. It's their elite - and I mean elite - intelligence unit. It handles the most sensitive and dangerous overseas operations. When she married Thornton, she had the rank of major. Not sure what her rank is now, but if they promote on merit she must be a general."

"Holy shit. Does Thornton know this?"

"Course not. He still thinks he married an English translator. Anyway, the next stage of the Chinese plan is to ensure that, when he drops dead, she gets control of his wealth - all of it - including the mine."

"But Robert's his only child: he'll inherit all of his wealth."

"Only if he's still alive."

The burning accommodation unit - Robert Thornton's unit - imprinted itself on my mind. "My God. You mean, the Chinese Government set fire to Robert Thornton's unit at the Eucla Mine?"

"Correct. Bruce Thornton took a group of potential investors up to the mine, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"It included two representatives of the Dai-Go Steel Works?"

"Yes, Wei Kim and Li Wong."

"It's quite possible they are, in fact, employees of the steel works. However, they are also intelligence agents assigned to Unit 856."

Christ. I almost wet myself. Spies working for an authoritarian superpower had tried to kill me. They missed me once, but surely wouldn't miss again. I was dead, dead, dead. I tried to tighten my slack jaw. "You're kidding?"

"No. They both hold the rank of colonel. Their arson attack on Robert was an attempt to eliminate him and blame his death on Aboriginal activists. But they slipped up."

"You mean, they'll try to kill him again?"

"Of course."

"So that, when he's dead, Quilin Chen can inherit everything?"

"Not quite. Bruce Thornton's Will leaves his estate to any children who survive him. She signed a pre-nup. Whatever happens, she only gets a small fixed amount."

I was perplexed. "So killing Robert won't help her."

"Not directly. But it will help her child."

"What do you mean?"

A magician's smile. "She's pregnant."

If a cow had flown past the window behind him, carried on an updraft, I would not have been more surprised. "Wow."

A grin. "She's quite an agent."

I sat down on the bed. "My God. You mean, a Chinese spook tried to kill Robert Thornton so another Chinese spook - or at least her child - will inherit the Eucla Mine."

"Correct. And you stumbled right into the middle of that scheme, so they want to eliminate you as well."

My legs shook. "You mean, they'll try to kill me again?"

"Of course they will. You endanger their operation."

I'd hoped he wouldn't say that. "No, I don't. I haven't been to see the cops; I've kept quiet."

"They won't see it that way. And even if they did, it wouldn't matter. Agents of Unit 856 are very meticulous. Once they start an operation, they finish it. Those guys hate loose ends."

Oh God, I was going to get whacked because a bunch of Chinese spooks was anal retentive. "And I'm a loose end?"

"Flapping in the breeze."

"Why don't you just tell Bruce Thornton what's going on: dump the whole problem in his lap? That'll fix it."

A frown. "You mean, tell him that his wife, who's carrying his child, is a major - maybe a general - in Unit 856 of Chinese intelligence and her colleagues are trying to kill his son. You think he'd believe us?"

"No."

"That's why we can't tell Robert what's happening, either. We would have to reveal that his father's wife is a Chinese spy."

"I get your point. Then why don't you just round up Kim and Wong, and their mates, and toss them out of the country. Declare them persona non grata."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"We can't afford to upset China. It's our biggest trading partner. We have to proceed cautiously."

"You mean, our government's shit-scared of the bastards?"

"Terrified."

"OK. So what're you going to do now?"

"I'm going to make sure Quilin Chen doesn't grab control of the mine."

"Without offending the Chinese Government?"

"Correct."

"You've got a plan?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"You don't need to know it. But I do need your help."

Did he have a plan? Or was that just bullshit from a professional bull-shitter? Hard to tell. I said: "What sort of help?"

"You're on the inside. I want you to keep an eye on Bruce Thornton and his wife, and report anything suspicious. My guess is that, like a lot of people, they're quite indiscreet in front of the hired help."

"That all?"

"No. I'll want you to do a few tasks."

"What tasks?"

"I'll tell you when the time is ripe."

I was recovering my savoir-faire. "Do I get a gun?"

"Don't be a smart-arse."

"I'm not a spy."

"True. But, from what I've seen, you are resourceful."

I shrugged. "Look, I'd love to help, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm going back to Canberra."

A frown. "What?"

"I'm going back to Canberra."

"Why?"

"You just told me that a crack team of Chinese spies is trying to kill me."

"Yes. But returning to Canberra won't improve your situation. It'll just make it worse."

"How?"

"If you stay in Perth, and help me, I'll protect you. Go back to Canberra and you'll put your whole family at risk."

A big jolt. "How?"

"They'll follow you and eliminate you. And when they do, they won't care about bystanders."

My heart thumped. "Surely, ASIO can protect us in Canberra."

"We have limited resources, very limited."

"You mean you'll hang us out to dry?"

"I wouldn't put it like that."

"And if I stay and help you, you'll protect me?"

"Yes."

"How? I'll get a bodyguard?"

"Don't be silly. We'll keep an eye on the Chinese and, the moment you're in danger, we'll step in."

"Moment I'm in danger? I'm already in fucking danger. I couldn't be in more danger."

"I'm talking about a clear and present danger."

Jesus. I hoped he didn't get that from Tom Clancy, I really did. During my career in journalism, I asked a lot of stupid questions. Now I went for Olympic gold. "How do I know I can trust you?"

I don't know how he kept a straight face. "I've saved your life before."

"Only because you thought I was useful."

"And you're still useful." He shrugged. "This is the best offer you're going to get - in fact, the only offer. Take it or leave it."

I couldn't go back to Canberra and put my family - even that arch-bitch Freda - in danger. His offer of protection sounded like rubbish, but it was the only one on the table. And maybe, if I stayed in Perth, I could stay close to Bruce Thornton and his protection.

"I won't have to do anything dangerous?" Another stupid question, because I'd be in danger just walking down the street.

"Of course not."

"When will your operation be over?"

"Quite soon."

"When exactly?"

"Stop worrying."

I sighed. "Alright. I'll help you out."

"Good."

He rose to his feet, fished a mobile out of his jacket and handed it to me. "If you need to contact me, press "0"."

I took the phone. "Will do."

A hard stare. "Now, before I go, let me emphasise one thing: I don't think you'll tell anyone about this conversation because there's no-one you can tell; but if you try to tell anyone, I'll nail your balls to a wall, understand?"

I shivered. "Fully."

"Good."

He headed for the door.

When he was half-way there, I said: "You know, someone broke into my hotel room a week ago, and hit me on the head..."

He turned and, for once, looked uncertain. "I know."

"How?"

"That was someone from my outfit."

"You're kidding?"

"No. You turned up and started paling around with Bruce Thornton, so a colleague broke in to find out who you were."

"You already knew who I was."

"I wasn't on the scene at that time. I'm only here because of our past contact. My superiors decided I was the best person to deal with you."

"The fuckwit knocked me out."

"You caught him by surprise."

"Idiot."

"He has been counselled. But you're dealing with me now, so you've got nothing to worry about."

I wish he hadn't said that.

I said: "Oh yes, and one last thing: why do they call it Unit 856?"

"We don't know."

He left the room and I sat for ten minutes pondering our conversation. What a mess. I arrived in Perth to ghost-write a book. Now a super-duper super-power wanted to crush me like a bug because I'd blindly stumbled into the midst of one of its major intelligence operations. Further, my own government had enlisted me in its service. I'd always believed my only patriotic duty was to pay a smidgen of tax whenever I felt like it. I only knew half a verse of the national anthem and I never went to Anzac Day ceremonies. I certainly never signed up for this sort of nonsense.

It also occurred to me that, if Mr McDonald wanted me to help him, his operation must be pretty hopeless.
CHAPTER 14

The next morning, I phoned Lauren Gourlay at work and announced I'd returned from Bularoo Station.

As usual, she sounded annoyed at having to waste time on me. "Learn much?"

"I got some useful information."

"Good. I got a call from a car-hire company: said that you didn't return your car."

"I had an accident. Semi-trailer swiped me on the way back from the station. The car's a write-off. I was lucky to survive."

"Where's the car right now?"

"On the side of a road, in the middle of nowhere. It's junk."

"How'd you get back?"

"Passing vehicle picked me up."

"You alright?"

"Bit bruised, but still functioning."

"OK. I'll speak to the car-hire company and tell them what happened. Insurance will cover everything."

"Thanks. When does Mr Thornton want to see me again?"

"He's still in China. Won't be back for a few days. When he wants to see you, I'll let you know."

"Sure."

I put down my mobile knowing the delay would just increase my stress. Indeed, for two days, I cowered in my hotel room, except when I made quick trips to the coffee shop for a bite to eat or the roof-top pool for a swim. Every noise in the hallway made me jump and I was deeply suspicious of bellboys, waiters and cleaners, particularly if they looked Chinese, which they all did. I stayed away from windows in case a master sniper tried to pick me off.

When not gripped by fear, I lapsed into self-pity. Ghost-writing was supposed to be a dull and faceless profession. Yet I'd somehow got stuck in the middle of a geopolitical power play and targeted for assassination. Further, when I got whacked, my family wouldn't know the huge sacrifice I made. Anne thought I was living the high life in Perth. Instead, I was nobly exposing myself to Chinese killers to protect her and Tommy. Maybe I should write a note so she would appreciate my bravery, posthumously. No. Why bother? She wouldn't believe a word of it.

After I'd consumed all the booze and snacks in the bar fridge, my body felt like hell. Despite that, I regularly called room service and ordered more food upon which to gorge. As a precaution, I got the waiter to leave it outside the door.

A couple of times, I pulled out my laptop and tried to do some preliminary work on the autobiography. However, my concentration was shot and I soon went back to watching TV and eating crap while worrying about my predicament.

Several times, to distract myself, I wondered if Anne was cheating on me. However, that fear was small beer compared with the nagging terror of receiving an assassin's bullet.

Blessedly, on the third day, with my nerves at breaking-point and my gut ready to burst, I got a phone call from Lauren Gourlay. "Mr Thornton's back and wants to see you again, about the book."

A life force surged through me. Anything was better than lying on a hotel bed all day eating chips. "When and where?"

"Tomorrow at 10 a.m., at Fleur-de-lis."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"You want overtime?"

"Of course not. I'll be there. Will a car pick me up?"

"None available. Catch a taxi or walk."

Damn.

The next morning, fearing an ambush, I dashed out of the Chancellor Hotel and dove into a taxi that a passenger had just vacated. The paunchy, red-faced driver looked over his shoulder, startled at my sudden appearance. "Hi, mate. Where to?"

"Fleur-de-Lis. Know where it is?"

"Course. Pile of shit next to the river."

"That's it."

Five very long minutes later, the taxi reached our destination unscathed. The driver stopped in front of the big gate. I slipped through a gap, scurried up the driveway and slammed the big knocker on the front door.

Jeeves answered, looking dressed to serve at the Mad Hatter's tea party. He wore his usual Kabuki expression. "Mr Ryder, you're expected. Please follow me."

Neatly lined up, just inside the door, were four identical brown-leather Bally suitcases.

The butler saw me looking at them. "Mr Thornton's flying down to his Margaret River estate this afternoon, with Mrs Thornton." Margaret River was a lush wine-growing district about three hundred kilometres south.

He led me through the house and across the patio to the pool. Thornton lay on a recliner, wearing only Speedos. A heavy tan, man-boobs, grey chest hair and doughy belly made him look like a sex tourist in Asia, which he probably was at some stage. An empty bottle of Scotch and glass sat on the wooden table next to him. He was reading a thick business report.

I glanced around. Two thickset guys, wearing dark suits and dark glasses, sat under an awning. Definitely not pool cleaners. The fire at the Eucla Mine obviously made Thornton step up his security. Excellent. For the first time in days, I started to relax.

Thornton noticed the butler and frowned. "Michael. Where the hell have you been? I need more Scotch."

I was close enough to see anger flit across the butler's eyes. "Sorry sir, will do."

As he retreated, Thornton glanced at me. "Ah, Peter, thanks for coming over."

"Paul."

He frowned as if I was trying to trick him. "Ah, yes, Paul." A quizzical look. "You got hurt up at the Eucla Mine, right - got yourself burnt?"

"Yes."

"OK now?"

The bandages were gone and the skin had peeled and scabbed up nicely. "Fine. Did you catch the guy who did it?"

"Nah. Just know it was a black bastard trying to kill Robert. We'll catch him."

Too bad I couldn't reveal that the culprit was really a Chinese secret agent working with his wife, another Chinese secret agent. "You worried the guy might try again?"

He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "'Course. That's why Alex and Tim are watching my back. Both ex-SAS."

I rode his good mood. "How was your trip to China?"

"Great. The investors all signed on the dotted line. After they've done their due diligence, they'll hand over the money and I can finish the project."

"Due diligence?"

"Their geologists have to check the size of the deposit. Just a formality. If anything, we've underestimated its size."

"That's good."

"Lauren says you went up to Bularoo?"

"Yes. Stayed overnight."

"How was it?"

"Hot and dusty."

He chuckled. "Sounds right. Haven't been there for 20 years. Keep thinking about going back, for old time's sakes, but I'm always too busy. Maybe I should sell it because it keeps losing money."

"When I was there, I talked to an old guy called Mick Naganjara."

"Mick? He's still there?"

"Yes, lives in one of the houses."

"Didn't know that. Must have hung around after he retired. Station manager should have kicked him out. Typical Abo. Always looking for a hand-out. Must be at least 80 now. Tell you anything interesting?"

Best not to mention that Mick effectively told me that Dirk Carter didn't die in a plane crash. "A bit. Told me what the station was like when you were growing up; gave me some colour I can use in the book."

"Good."

Sensing someone behind me, I turned and saw Quilin Chen had emerged from the house, wearing a broad straw hat, simple blue dress and sandals. I felt a stab of panic, because it's not every day you meet a pregnant major - or possibly general - in Unit 856 of the Chinese Ministry of State Security, and you know that's her job, and she doesn't know you know. I'd met some intimidating women in my time, but she shrivelled everything that made me a man.

Her colleague, Wei Kim, must have informed her that I caught him trying to kill Robert Thornton at the Eucla Mine and his buddies tried to kill me near Bularoo Station. So I wasn't surprised when she gave me a long stare. Her stare made my knees wobble and I almost fell into the pool.

I steadied myself and took a deep, slow breath. "Hello".

"Good morning," she said calmly.

Thornton said: "Hello Darling? Thought you were going shopping?"

When she glanced at him, I scanned her for signs of pregnancy and saw none. Still, it was early days.

She said: "I am. Just came to say goodbye."

"OK." He waved an airy hand in my direction. "This... this is Paul Ryder, who's writing my book."

Another cool look. "We met last week."

"Oh yes, that's right."

Her stare made me shiver. "I hear you went up to mine with Bruce; somebody try to kill Robert and you save him?" Her voice was quite metallic, and her Chinese and Aussie accents still didn't get along.

"Not exactly. He wasn't in the unit when the fire started."

"Very lucky," she said dryly. "Did you see who start the fire?" She was obviously testing my promise to Wei Kim that I'd keep my mouth shut.

I gulped. "Afraid not. Got there too late." Hopefully, my discretion would persuade her comrades not to kill me.

She half-smiled. "Too bad. You mention Bularoo. You went there?"

"Yes."

"You know, I like to go there one day - have a look."

Thornton looked surprised. "You've never said that."

She shrugged. "Now I do." She looked back at me. "What was it like?"

I again showed discretion and didn't mention the murder attempt outside Bularoo. "Like I told your husband, hot and dusty. Very boring, I'm afraid."

A half-smile with a trace of suspicion. "Oh well, maybe I not go there." She turned and kissed Thornton on the forehead. "Anyway, I go shop now - spend lots of your money."

He grinned. "Ouch. Don't forget we're catching the plane to the Margaret River at two."

"Sure, be back by one."

Major - or was it General - Quilin Chen of Unit 856 of the Chinese Ministry of State Security and expectant mother, wandered off. I, understandably, breathed easier.

Thornton looked at me, love shining in his eyes. "What a great woman. I'm so lucky."

Yes, an amazing CV. But there's no point telling a total booby that he's a total booby. "You sure are."

"In fact, we've just had some very good news."

"What?"

"She's pregnant."

I feigned surprise. "Wow. Congratulations. Boy or girl?"

"Don't know. But keep this to yourself. We don't want anyone to know right now, including Robert - in fact, especially him."

"Sure."

He suddenly remembered I was just the hired help and glanced at his watch. "Anyway, I've got a couple of hours; let's get back to the book. What do you want to talk about?"

As I sat on a recliner, the butler reappeared with a bottle of Scotch, filled Thornton's glass and slipped away. I fished a small cassette recorder out of my jacket and was about to start asking questions when Lauren Gourlay wandered out of the mansion, adding even more glamour to the morning. She wore a plain black dress which emphasised her lack of plainness.

Thornton looked a touch surprised. "Hello. Wasn't expecting you this morning."

"Thought I'd drop by and give you the board papers you wanted to see."

He frowned. "I can look at them when I get back."

She shrugged. "Matter for you."

He sighed. "OK, hand them over. I'll have a look when I'm down south, if I get a chance."

She fished a small bundle of documents out of her handbag and handed it over. "Need anything else?"

"Nope."

"Alright. Have a good trip."

As she strolled back into the house, he dropped the documents onto the table and turned back to me. "OK. What do you want to talk about?

Best to choose a topic close to his heart. "Let's discuss your political views?"

He beamed. "Great idea."

While I stared over his shoulder, watching cotton-ball clouds chase each other across the sky, he articulated his political philosophy. At its core was a Manichean belief that everything honest and decent came from the bush, and everything dark and depraved from the cities, particularly those in the eastern states where a poisonous combination of politicians, intellectuals, greenies and lefties sucked money from "wealth-creators" like him and gave it to bums and grifters. In other words, he hated the only group in our society that still bought books and might buy his. Setting the Record Straight would not be a runaway bestseller.

He took another sip of Scotch: "Democracy doesn't work - it's too inefficient. The Asians have worked that out. We should do the same."

"What sort of government should we have?"

"A board of directors under a top-notch chairman."

"Would you like to be that chairman?"

"Of course. I know how to run an organisation."

"How would the chairman and board be appointed?"

"A poll of top business leaders."

"Many people would object."

A snort. "So what? It'd be for their benefit. You know what the board should do first?"

"What?"

"Stick some gelignite inside Parliament House and blow up the whole fuckin' joint."

"Then what?"

He outlined a whole list of measures the board should implement, including: a flat-rate tax of five percent; axing all welfare payments; sterilising anyone of low intelligence or earning a low income, and importing cheap foreign workers. At various points, I wondered if he truly believed what he was saying. However, his spittle seemed authentic.

I said: "You still think Western Australia should secede?"

"Not if the nation takes the medicine I've prescribed; but if it doesn't we should close the border and tell Canberra to fuck off."

"And govern Western Australia with a board of directors?"

"Yes."

While many people, particularly inner-city trendies, hated his political philosophy, nobody had ever called it incoherent or petty. I nodded in agreement while he advocated: universal military conscription; increasing carbon dioxide production to boost crop yields; turning back major rivers with nuclear bombs and abandoning the United Nations. Eventually, he drained the rest of his Scotch and said: "Anyway, that's enough for the moment. Didn't realise this book would take up so much time. You got many more questions?"

"We'll need to have a few more chats."

A frown. "Really?"

"Yes."

"I thought you'd be almost finished by now."

Jesus. I was no artist; I didn't intend to write his autobiography while riding on an updraft of inspiration. But I wasn't a clerk pumping out a business memo. "I've made a good start," I lied. "But it'll take three or four weeks. I mean, I want to make sure I capture your essence and your true voice. That takes a bit of time."

His scowl suggested he was losing interest in the project and me, but it would be a tragedy if I didn't capture his full glory. "If you can speed things up, do it."

"Sure."

"In fact, if you do a good job, I'll give you some credit."

"Credit?"

"Yes, I'll mention on the cover that you helped me write it."

Oh, Jesus. That was the last thing I wanted. All I wanted was money and obscurity. "No, no, that won't be necessary."

"You don't want any credit?"

"People should think you wrote it yourself - that way, it'll speak to them more directly."

He shrugged. "Mmm, you may be right. I'll give that some thought and let you know. Anyway, time for a swim. I'll see you when I get back from the Margaret River. Michael will show you out."

The future Chairman of Australia rose and shuffled towards the pool in his Speedos, revealing narrow shoulders, wide hips and a flabby arse. As he slid into the pool, I realised that he was the archetypical privileged white male. When he died, an era would end.

The butler stood just behind me. "This way please, Sir."

As he led me back through the mansion, I sensed that our status as underlings gave us a common bond. "Your name's Michael, right?"

"Yes, Michael Barker."

"Pleased to meet you. You been here long?"

"Fifteen years."

"How'd you get the gig?"

"As a butler?"

"Yes."

"If you really want to know, I was an under-employed actor. Saw an ad and applied. I pretended I was auditioning for a Noel Coward play and got the gig."

I laughed. "Is it like being in a Noel Coward play?"

"No. It's bloody hard work and I get no applause at the end."

We reached the front door and he said: "I'll call a taxi. Do you want to wait inside or out on the pavement?"

An image of Wei Kim appeared in my mind. "I'll wait in here, if you don't mind."
CHAPTER 15

Bruce Thornton and Quilin Chen never made it to his Margaret River estate.

I caught a taxi back to the Chancellor Hotel. The whole way I feared a Chinese ambush and was braced to dive beneath the dashboard. However, I really started sweating when I approached my hotel room. Had the Chinese booby-trapped the door? I stood to one side as I pushed it open so any explosion would only cost me an arm. In the end, I only lost some dignity.

Once inside, my gaze ricocheted around the room, looking for an intruder. I even peered into the bathroom. Nobody, thank God. Heart still pounding, I flopped onto the bed, knowing I couldn't keep living with a target on my back: if a bullet didn't get me, stress would.

I spent the rest of the day laying on the bed, trying to relax in front of the television, consuming the contents of the bar fridge. At six o'clock, I was digging the final crumbs out of a chip packet when the evening news started. A bouffant newsreader with big teeth appeared on the screen. I half-listened as he said: "In a just-breaking story, it appears that a plane carrying the billionaire mining magnate Bruce Thornton has crashed south of Perth..."

My God. I dropped the packet. A head-shot of Thornton appeared behind the newsreader. "...It is believed that Mr Thornton and his wife Quilin Chen were passengers on the executive jet which crashed in a paddock near Octavia, just after three o'clock. The police hold grave fears for their safety, and the safety of the pilot and two other passengers. The Seven Action News chopper has just arrived at the scene and we can show you exclusive live footage of the crash site."

The program showed aerial footage of plane wreckage strewn across a large green paddock. I heard someone say "bloody hell" and realised it was me. The tiny compartment of my head devoted to rational thought said Thornton must be dead. Nobody could have walked away from that crash. But the rich and powerful seem so potent, so blessed by fate, that it was hard to believe he was dead. Just that morning, I chatted with him next to his pool. How could he now be shaking hands with the devil?

The newsreader's voice overdubbed the aerial footage: "Seven Action News Reporter, Simon Kerr, is in the chopper. Simon, it doesn't look like there are any survivors."

The program showed a helmeted reporter sitting in the helicopter, yelling above the roar of rotor blades. "You're right, John. No survivors. A police spokesman has just confirmed that they have recovered the bodies of Bruce Thornton and his wife Quilin Chen from the wreckage; they have also recovered the bodies of the pilot and two other passengers who I understand were bodyguards - their names have not been released."

"Do you have any idea what caused the crash?"

"No. However, I understand the pilot did not send out a mayday signal, which suggests the plane went down very suddenly."

The newsreader reappeared on the screen. "Bruce Thornton's death will send shockwaves through the West Australian mining community. Just a few days ago, he announced that Chinese investors had agreed to pump $10 billion into a massive iron ore mine that Thornton Mining Corporation is building at Eucla in the north of the state. Action Nightly News has prepared an obituary."

In the next segment, a reporter's voice-over recounted Thornton's life while archival footage filled the screen. I ignored it and wondered whether the plane crash was an accident or due to sabotage. If sabotage, the obvious culprits were the Chinese spies who'd previously tried to kill Robert Thornton and me. However, I saw no reason why they would kill Bruce Thornton - not yet, anyway - or their colleague, Quilin Chen, and her unborn child. Indeed, the deaths of Quilin Chen and her child surely ended the Chinese Government's attempt to take control of the Eucla Mine.

Another potential saboteur was Robert Thornton. Maybe he brought down the plane to thwart Quilin Chen and fast-forward access to his inheritance. However, it was hard to believe he would kill his own father.

The only other candidate was "Mr McDonald", acting on behalf of my own dear government, which had a big incentive to bump off Quilin Chen and stymie the Chinese Government's attempt to grab the Eucla Mine. However, I was fairly sure that no politician in Canberra had the balls to order the downing of the plane. Further, Mr McDonald might not have obeyed such an order. I sensed he was a bastard, but not a fucking bastard.

So, maybe the plane crash was just an accident.

In any event, a far more important question grabbed my attention: did the plane crash mean the Chinese spies would stop trying to kill me? Surely, now their plan to seize control of the Eucla Mine had been thwarted, they had no incentive to bump me off. I felt a surge of joy until I realised they might not need an incentive. Mr McDonald said they were an anal-retentive crew who liked to tie up loose ends. Maybe that would keep them on the job. Christ. I might still die because somebody had to tick a box.

Still, the plane crash had obviously improved my chances of survival. For that, I was thankful to whomever or whatever caused it.

I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. One thing was certain: my ghost-writing gig was over. Surely, I would be allowed to keep the $100,000 advance, because it wasn't my fault Thornton ended up fertilising a cow paddock. Indeed, I might be entitled to the remaining $200,000. Too bad I didn't have a copy of the contract I signed, so I could find out. As soon as was decent, I'd ask Lauren Gourlay for one.

The bedside phone rang. I picked it up and heard Anne's desperate voice. "Paul".

Why was she so upset? "Yes, it's me."

A long sigh. "Thank God, thank God."

"Thank God for what?"

"You're still alive."

"Of course I'm still alive. Why're you worried?"

"I just saw the story about the plane crash and thought you might have been on it."

Oh, shit. I should have called her to say I was safe. Now I was in deep do-do. My heart also skipped because I realised I could have easily been aboard that plane. I gulped. "Well, I'm fine."

"You should have called me - you should have called."

For once my feeling of guilt matched my actual guilt. "Sorry about that - sorry, sorry, sorry."

"You've got no idea how terrible I felt."

"I know, I know."

She spent a couple of minutes complaining about my insensitivity while I backpedalled and mollified. Eventually, she said: "So what happened? What caused the crash?"

"I don't know."

"It seems very odd."

"I know. But I don't know what's going on."

"So when are you coming home?"

"Soon. Maybe in a couple of days."

"Why so long?"

"I've got a few loose ends to tie up with my contract and so on."

"You get to keep the advance, right?"

"I'd better. That's one of the things I've got to check."

"OK. Tommy and I will be waiting for you."

"I can't wait to get home, believe me."

My chest started buzzing. For a moment, I thought I was having a heart attack. Then I realised the mobile phone Mr McDonald gave me was in the top pocket of my shirt and he was calling me. When I realised that, I almost did have a heart attack. What to do? Surely I couldn't ignore it.

I said to Anne: "Sorry, Honey, got another call, umm, from someone at Thornton Mining about my contract, I think."

I hung up and tentatively pressed the "receive" button on Mr McDonald's phone. "Hello."

Mr McDonald barked: "Ryder - that you?"

"Umm, yes."

"Good. What the hell is going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Bruce Thornton and Quilin Chen are dead, if that's what you're talking about. I just saw it on TV."

"I know they're dead. Who killed them?"

"You mean, you think this was deliberate?"

"I've spoken to the police. That's what they think. They think a bomb went off."

"Why do they think that?"

"You don't need to know. So, you got any idea who did it?"

"You mean, it wasn't you?"

He sounded genuinely surprised. "Why the hell would I sabotage the plane?"

"To stop Quilin Chen grabbing the mine."

"Well, I didn't. ASIO doesn't go around bumping off local billionaires or pregnant women, or anybody else for that matter."

"Then why do you care who brought down the plane? Why don't you leave this to the police?"

"I can't because a top-level Chinese agent got killed and the Chinese will be very, very pissed off about that. I don't want them running around looking for revenge. Things could get bloody."

I seized the chance to talk about my problems. "Maybe. But they'll leave me alone now, won't they? I mean, their operation to grab the Eucla Mine's gone tits up, so there's no point killing me?"

"You're probably safe, though I can't be sure. I don't get their emails," he said sarcastically.

"But you think they'll leave me alone?" I said desperately.

He sounded annoyed. "They probably will, but I can't guarantee that. Now, tell me, you got any idea who sabotaged the plane?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm just a fucking ghost-writer."

"You're supposed to be my eyes and ears on the inside."

"I didn't say I'd solve a murder for you."

A pause. "I'm very disappointed in you."

"And I'm disappointed in everyone - so I must feel worse than you."

"Smart arse." He sighed. "What're you going to do now?"

"I'm going home, of course. And when I get there, I'll try to forget this nightmare. Goodbye."

I hung up, tossed aside his phone and prayed I never had to speak to him again.
CHAPTER 16

When I woke the next morning, the events of the previous day seemed so strange that I felt the need to confirm Bruce Thornton was really dead. I flicked on the TV and watched the saturation coverage of the plane crash. Every channel showed white-overalled crime-scene technicians picking their way through plane wreckage strewn across a verdant paddock. It was hard to believe the gods had hugged Thornton so close and then thrown him away. But he was dead alright.

An ABC newsreader said that the Prime Minister had announced that Thornton and his wife would be given a State Funeral, and revealed that the police had also recovered the body of the pilot, Thomas Williams, and two still unnamed bodyguards. A picture of the pilot popped onto the screen: the grey-haired guy who flew me from the Eucla Mine back to Perth. Poor bloke.

Next, the ABC screened an interview with a local farmer who claimed he heard a loud bang just before the plane burst into flames and plunged to the ground. Mr McDonald said a bomb brought down the plane. Seemed he was right.

I pulled out my laptop and surfed the internet for more news. I learnt the police were already treating the crash as "suspicious" and had started a homicide investigation. Further, Robert Thornton had issued a press release.

"I want to express my deep sorrow at the tragic deaths of my father, Bruce Thornton, and my step-mother, Quilin Chen. My father was a great Australian and a great dad. I will miss him terribly. He dedicated the last decade of his life to opening the Eucla Mine. Unfortunately, he won't see his dream realised. However, I share that dream and will ensure it is fulfilled. I offer my deepest thanks to all who have extended their support at this difficult time."

The press release cleverly combined a tribute to his father and an assurance that the Thornton Mining Corporation would continue to conduct business as usual. Quilin Chen was damned with faint praise.

For the next few hours, I tracked the story on television, radio and the internet. At noon, the ABC TV news bulletin reported that, according to an anonymous police source, Homicide Squad detectives suspected that an Aboriginal activist, protesting against the Eucla Mine, had sabotaged the plane with a bomb. The newsreader said: "The detectives believe that an Aboriginal activist recently staged an arson attack at the Eucla Mine in an attempt to kill Bruce Thornton's son, Robert. They believe that same activist planted a bomb on the executive jet in which Bruce Thornton died."

Wow. The speed with which the police had fingered an Aboriginal activist would have been very impressive if it wasn't totally wrong. I already knew that an Aborigine didn't try to kill Robert Thornton: a Chinese spy called Wei Kim did.

Yet someone had accused an Aborigine. Journalism had taught me that it usually doesn't matter if a rumour is true or not; what's important is who spread it and why. I was very keen to know who spread this one.

I was strongly tempted to ignore the deaths of Bruce Thornton and his wife, two greedy people who spent their lives taking a lot more than they gave. When they died, the bell didn't toll for me: not a ding-dong or even a ting-a-ling-a-ling. Nor did I have much sympathy for the two bodyguards who perished. They wagered their lives and lost. However, two innocent people - the unborn child and the pilot - died and the Aboriginal community was being falsely accused. Further, the hitherto dormant journo inside me wanted to know what the hell was going on. Maybe, if I identified the saboteur, a news organisation would publish my story. And, if one wouldn't, I'd get the satisfaction of unlocking a great mystery.

I already had a strong suspicion as to who sabotaged the plane. But how could I turn it into solid proof? As I've mentioned, when a journo, I loved talking to the hired help because the rich and powerful often talk indiscreetly in front of them. For that reason, my mind focused on one particular man.

Now I was back hunting a big scoop, I forgot that the Chinese might still want to kill me - if only for the sake of tidiness - and blithely caught a taxi to Fleur-de-lis. Ten years ago, Bruce Thornton's death would have resulted in a small army of media hounds camping outside his mansion. Now, media organisations were bare-bones operations and the pavement was clear.

I knocked on the front door. The butler, Michael Barker, answered, dressed like Albert in Batman. His turn-out was very impressive considering the lord of the manor's body parts were now tucked inside a body-bag gathering dust in a morgue.

I said: "Hi."

A suspicious frown. "Mr Ryder. What can I do for you?"

When I was a pimply cadet journalist in Sydney, on the police round, I often did death knocks. The trick is to convince grieving families that you want to help and share their pain. "I was just passing and thought I'd extend my commiserations. Terrible news about Mr Thornton. Tragic. A great man. Anything I can do to help?"

A stony expression. "No."

I was never any good at death knocks. "OK. But, umm, can we have a quick chat?"

"What about?"

I tried to whet his curiosity. "It looks like your boss was murdered. I think I know who did it, but I need you to confirm a few things."

"What things?"

"Can we chat? It'll only take a few minutes."

Still stony-faced. "Why do you care what happened to Bruce Thornton?"

I shrugged. "Quite frankly, I don't give a toss about him or his wife: he was a fascist and she was a gold-digger. But the pilot didn't deserve to die; nor did Quilin Chen's unborn child."

His eyes bulged. "You know about that?"

"Yes. I know a lot; I just need to know a bit more."

"You should leave this to the police."

"Maybe, but I used to be a journo - so I'm a nosey bugger - and I've never had much faith in the cops. Most couldn't find a turd in a sewer."

I'm not sure why he decided to talk to me. Maybe attacking Thornton and his wife struck a chord; maybe he was curious to know who sabotaged the plane; or maybe he just wanted to chat to someone - anyone. Anyway, after a long pause, he nodded. "OK, come in. Let's go to my office."

He led me across the foyer and down a short corridor to a small windowless room with a pine desk, several tall metal lockers and a couple of wall-mounted TVs showing footage from external CCTV cameras. I sat in a comfortable leather armchair and he slipped into a swivel chair behind the desk.

I said: "You must be stunned."

"Gob-smacked."

"When'd you hear he was dead?"

"I've got a small apartment out the back. Heard about the plane crash on the evening news. Couldn't believe it, particularly when I heard there was sabotage."

"Did you like Thornton?"

A frown. "Not really. He was my employer and paid me bloody well, but he wasn't someone I'd have a beer with. Most of the time, he was rude, demanding and crass - I mean, look at this place, it's a tasteless monstrosity."

The butler obviously had a lot to get off his chest. Good to see him board the Schadenfreude Express. Just had to keep him chatting. "It's atrocious."

"Horrible." He smiled. "You know, I've always wanted to throw the Pro Harts on a bonfire. Maybe this is my chance..."

I shook my head. "Don't. Pro's not worth going to prison over."

He laughed. "You're probably right."

"And Quilin Chen? What'd you think of her?"

A half-smile. "Total bitch, without qualification."

"Really?"

"Definitely. Nasty, rude and arrogant. Thought everyone, and everything thing, in Australia was second rate."

Should I mention she was a top-level Chinese spy tasked with seizing control of the Eucla Mine? Our chat was flowing very nicely. Why freak him out? "You thought she was tough?"

"Made of barbed wire. And guess who she hated the most?"

"Robert Thornton?"

"No. He was number two. The person she hated the most was her dear husband. She tried to hide her contempt, but sometimes it just leaked out."

"Did he notice?"

"Nope. Totally cunt-struck. I thought rich people were supposed to be tough and smart."

I imagined Thornton and Chen falling out of the disintegrating plane together. Did he try to grab her hand? Did she refuse to take it? "Most of them are just lucky. And, as the Italians say: there are none as foolish as an old man in love."

"True. So you found out she was pregnant?"

"Yes."

"How? They were keeping it secret."

"Can't tell you, I'm afraid - sworn to secrecy."

"OK. But one thing's sure: she didn't get pregnant because she loved him. She obviously wanted to make sure that she - or at least her child \- inherited half of Bruce Thornton's wealth."

In fact, her plan was more extravagant than that: she was going to kill Robert and make sure her child got the lot. "Did Robert know she was pregnant?"

"Don't know. I saw no sign that he did."

"Did Lauren Gourlay know about it?"

"Of course. She arranged all the appointments with the paediatrician."

How very interesting. I leaned back. "What do you think of Ms Gourlay?"

"Another tough cookie. Not in the same league as Quilin Chen, but getting there."

"Do you know she's in a relationship with Robert Thornton?"

His eyes bulged and he blew out his cheeks. "Wow. You're kidding?"

"Nope. So you didn't know?"

"Had no idea, though I'm not surprised."

"Why not?"

"She's a ball of ambition and he's got a very handsome bank balance."

"So Bruce Thornton didn't know about their relationship either?"

"Course not. If he found out, he'd have gone ape-shit. He had a weird relationship with Robert: very competitive; very suspicious. Certainly didn't tell Robert a lot of things. So if Bruce knew she was shagging Robert, and telling him secrets, he'd have fired her on the spot. "

"And, of course, one big secret she knew was that Quilin Chen was pregnant."

"My God, that's right."

"And she, presumably, told Robert."

"Must have."

"So Robert has known, for a while, that Quilin Chen was carrying a child who threatened his inheritance."

"I guess so."

I made a temple with my hands. "So, let me summarise. Robert Thornton, the son and heir, has lived most of his life expecting that, when Bruce dies, he will inherit everything. Recently, he started a relationship with Lauren Gourlay. She broke the news to him that Quilin Chen was pregnant. Suddenly, he realised that he stood to lose half, if not more, of his inheritance. Soon afterwards, someone put a bomb on a plane in which Quilin Chen was a passenger. Boom. Robert's problem was solved."

"I understand all that. But Bruce Thornton was also on that plane. Surely, Robert wouldn't kill his own father."

"Why not? If you can't kill a family member, who can you kill?"

"You're being facetious."

"Only slightly. Anyway, I'm just speculating he did it. If I was going to accuse him of murder, I'd need a lot more evidence."

"What sort of evidence?"

A thought had been swimming around in the murky depths of my mind. Now it shot to the surface and leapt into the sunlight. "Robert Thornton likes whiskey, right?"

"Yes."

"In fact, when I was here, at the reception, he asked you for his 'usual' whiskey, didn't he?"

"Yes, he always drinks the same stuff."

"What's that?"

"Bushmills Single Malt Irish Whiskey."

Bingo. I almost punched the air. "Really? An expensive drop?"

"Very expense. Why do you care what he drinks?"

"When I was up at Bularoo, several days ago, I visited an old Aboriginal guy called Mick Naganjara. He had two bottles of Bushmills on his sideboard."

"So what? Probably a coincidence."

"I don't think so. Robert obviously went up there recently to chat with Mick and gave him the two bottles as a present."

"Why'd he go and see him?"

"I'm not sure. But I find it very suspicious that he went up there, to talk to an old Aboriginal guy he hardly knew, shortly before Bruce Thornton's plane got blown to bits."

"You think there's a connection?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I think Mick gave Robert a motive - a strong motive - for killing Bruce Thornton."

"What was that? Do you know?"

I smiled. "I think I do. But I'd rather not say just yet. Let me speak to Mick. Then I'll tell you what I find out."

He frowned. "You promise?"

"Definitely."

Back in my hotel room, I turned on the television and watched the start of a news bulletin. The announcer said that Homicide Squad detectives had "questioned" the Aboriginal activist, Vincent Pilingili, about the sabotage of the Thorntons' plane and then released him without charge.

I turned off the television and stared out the window for a while, pondering that development. Even though Pilingili wasn't charged, I bet that, sooner rather than later, he would be the victim of a miscarriage of justice. I had to go and see Mick Naganjara as soon as possible.

I used my mobile phone to call Wally O'Keefe.

Thankfully, he answered. "Wally here."

"Wally, it's Paul Ryder. Where are you?"

"Back in Perth. I quit my job at the Eucla Mine."

"Why?"

"Got tired of screwing my own people - gotta be better ways to make a buck."

"You heard the news?"

"About the plane crash. Yes. Wow. Doesn't matter how much money you've got, Death's gonna kick its way into your house. A lot of the bros will be happy about this." He obviously shared their pleasure.

"Did you see they're trying to pin this one on a bro?"

"Yeah, fuzz are already talking to Vincent Pilingili. That's gotta be bullshit. Thornton deserved what he got, and more. But my mob doesn't do shit like that. They should, but they don't."

"I know. In fact, I'm pretty sure a white guy pulled this stunt."

"Really? Who?"

"Robert Thornton."

"Bullshit."

"Dinky-di."

"Why do you think he did it?"

I told him what I'd discovered since the plane went down and why I thought Mick Naganjara had some missing pieces of the puzzle. I didn't mention the involvement of Chinese and Australian spies.

He said: "So you think this Mick guy can tell you why Robert Thornton wanted to kill Bruce Thornton?"

"Yeas. So I've got to go back to Bularoo Station and talk to him. In fact, that's why I called: I need your help."

"What sort of help?"

"I want you to drive me up there."

"You're kidding. It's a thousand Ks from here: long way. Can't you drive yourself?"

The main reason I wanted him to drive me was because, after wrecking my last hire car, I couldn't hire another. But I had another reason for wanting his help. "I could. But Mick might not talk to me. He'll respect you a hell of a lot more than me."

"You mean, you want me to suck up to him?"

"You'll be helping Your People."

"I always get worried when white folk say stuff like that."

"I don't blame you."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Trying to pin this shit on Robert Thornton? I always thought you were, well, just a writer guy."

"You mean, a bit of a weasel?"

"I didn't say that."

"You were right: I'm a writer and a card-carrying weasel. But, on my days off, I like to cause trouble."

He laughed. "Fair enough. But if Robert Thornton finds out what we're up to, he'll get real nasty."

"You mean, you'd rather sit at home and watch TV?"

"Fuck no. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. We'd better start early. What about 7.30?"

"Sounds good."

"OK. Where you staying?"
CHAPTER 17

Wally arrived outside the Chancellor Hotel in a four-wheel drive station wagon just before the appointed time. To make sure Thornton Mining Corporation was still on the hook for my accommodation when I returned, I didn't check out and left most of my luggage in my room.

I sat in the passenger seat. "Many thanks. Are you sure you still want to do this?"

"Yeah. I've been home with the wife and kids for a week, bored shitless. Now, I feel like it's the morning of a big game: got sweaty palms; butterflies in my tummy; can't wait for the ball to bounce."

"That's the spirit."

He started punching buttons on the dashboard and Slim Dusty assaulted my ears, literally. "Hope you don't mind country western."

I'd rather listen to electrified bagpipes in a tin shed. "No problem."

I was now fairly confident the Chinese spies had decided to spare my miserable hide. But, just in case I was wrong, I kept glancing over my shoulder. There wasn't much traffic and none of the vehicles had a big sign that announced it belonged to the Chinese Ministry of State Security.

We soon passed through desolate suburbs with names like Treeless Grove, Flat Hills and Swampy Meadow. As we left the wasteland of suburbia and entered the wheat belt, I nervously remembered my near-death experience in the desert. "Have you got plenty of water in the back?"

"Water? Why?"

"In case we break down."

"We're not going to break down. Don't worry."

I shrugged. "OK. But, if we do, you know how to find water, don't you?"

He laughed. "Of course."

"How?"

A grin. "I'll phone a bro and ask."

"Your phone won't work out here. You mean, you've got no survival skills?"

"Zero. I grew up in the city, mate. Last year, some TV guys tried to get me to go on Celebrity Outback Survivor. They wanted to drop me in the middle of a desert with a can of coke and no clothes. Offered good money. I said no fuckin' way."

"Why were they going to give you a can of coke?"

"So I could cover my dick, I guess."

"But you turned them down?"

"'Yeah, 'cos I can't survive in the desert. I'd have looked an idiot."

"You know, if this car breaks down and we die of thirst, you'll be a laughing stock. People watching your funeral on TV will say 'didn't he have Aboriginal blood'?"

"It won't break down; we won't die of thirst. Stop worrying."

Shirley told me I could find a waterhole by following animal tracks or the flight of birds. Which animals? Which birds? Obviously, in the desert, details like that really count.

We cruised past seas of golden wheat. An issue had been festering in my mind. Time to lance it. "Heard any more about the movie?"

He stared straight ahead. "Yes. Looks like it's going ahead."

"That's good news, really good," I said, trying to act like a decent guy, even though I didn't believe in the role.

"Contracts are being drawn up right now. They expect to start shooting sometime next year." He obviously sensed my pain. "Don't worry. They reckon that, when it comes out, we'll sell a lot more copies of On the Ball."

I didn't want money, I wanted glory. I wanted to hang out with movie stars, go to A-list parties, kid around on the movie set with the actors and stroll down a red carpet with a starlet on my arm, or Anne if necessary. "Good. Anything I can do to help with the movie?"

"I don't think so."

"You sure? I mean, if they need an actor for a tiny role nobody else wants, I'll do it." That sounded pathetic, but I was desperate.

He looked surprised. "You want to act in the movie?"

"Yes, a little role."

"Can you act?"

"Nope. It'd just be a cameo. I wouldn't say anything unless, of course, the director wanted to give me some lines. I know, I could be one of the masseurs who rubs you down before a game."

He snorted. "With your hands? I don't think so."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're pretty weak."

I help up my puny fists. "If I got the role, I'd turn them into steel claws."

"I don't want to be massaged by steel claws."

"You know what I mean."

He laughed. "Not really."

"Anyway, just a thought. Keep me in mind."

He smiled. "Will do. But I reckon you've gotta belong to an actor's union or something like that."

"Bugger." I'd return to the movie later, and attack from a different angle.

We proceeded in silence for a while, listening to a song about a truck driver who has to choose between the dog that travels on his rig and a waitress in a roadside café who serves fantastic waffles, or something like that. He chose the dog and I respected his decision.

Wally said: "You know, I've told you all about myself, for the book - and some of it was even true - but you haven't told me much about yourself. You were a journo, right? Why'd you become a ghost-writer?"

"It's a long story."

"It's a long drive."

I shrugged. "OK, you asked for it."

While he listened attentively, I described my long career in journalism. In other words, I recounted a series of spectacular debacles in chronological order.

When I'd finished, he said: "Jesus, you're a real troublemaker, aren't you?"

It didn't take him long to work out why my career went off the rails.

I said: "I was misunderstood."

"I don't think so. You know, when a good football coach takes over a team, he goes looking for the one or two jokers in the team who don't believe in team-work, and gets rid of them. Doesn't matter how good they are, they've got to go. The coach has got no choice because, if he lets them stay, they'll destroy morale."

"Are you saying that, if you were a coach and I was a football player, you'd get rid of me?"

Wally giggled. "I'd tie you to a rocket and fire you over the closest hill."

I wasn't sure whether to be upset or not. "Even if I could kick 100 goals a season?"

"Even if you could kick 200. You're a team killer." He smiled. "But, if it's any consolation, I'd be sad to see you go, because you'd be fun - a lot of fun."

"Thanks."

He laughed. "Anyway, we've all got flaws. Look at me: I've stuffed up my life."

"You're kidding, right? You won three Brownlow Medals; Hollywood's going to make a movie about your life."

"Maybe. But I've been a lousy husband and a lousy dad."

"So what? I've messed up those things too, much worse than you."

He obviously wondered why he agreed to chauffeur me north. "Jeez, you're competitive."

"Only when it comes to self-pity. Anyway, out of curiosity, where do you keep them?"

"What?"

"Your Brownlows."

A shrug. "Oh, somewhere around the house."

"If I had three Brownlows, I'd wear them around my neck like Mr T; I'd have them on 24/7: in the shower, on the can, in bed, while I was shagging - I'd be wearing them under my shirt right now."

"Then you'd be a wanker."

"So what? I'd be a wanker with three Brownlows."

"You know, honestly, when people talk to me about my footie career, I get bored, because I feel like they're talking about someone else. I'm not that guy anymore."

"Why not?"

"'Cos that guy had an incredible physique. On the footie field, I could do almost anything. Now I'm a slob like everybody else. For the rest of my life, I'll be stuck with a crap body that's falling apart and complains all the time."

"You were also great because of your attitude, your commitment."

"Rubbish. I was great because of my muscle fibres. That's all. And now they're shit."

"I didn't realise you were so philosophical. If you'd told me that stuff earlier, I'd have put it in your book."

A raised eyebrow. "No, you wouldn't, because that stuff wouldn't have sold any copies. They're only making a movie about my life because of the drugs, booze and bonking."

"At least you're famous for something."

We spent the next four hours listening to a succession of guys sing about getting drunk because their prutty little wumin' had dumped them. None realised they got dumped because they sang country western. Eventually, we reached Wynardo and lunched in the sole café. I had high hopes it served good old-fashioned hamburgers. It didn't.

The burger I ate sat in my stomach, making angry threats, as we strolled back to the car. I instinctively glanced around, looking for Chinese spies. None. Imaginatively, I glanced up and scanned the sky for a drone piloted from a command bunker in Peking. Nothing. It really looked like the Chinese weren't going to waste a bullet or an air-to-surface missile on me. Good for them. Despite standing in the dull and dusty main street of a remote town, where boredom covered everything like dust, I felt a piercing love for all creation; I wanted to reach out and put my arms around the whole world.

Outside the town, the terrain seemed even harsher than before, with all life forms clinging to survival. After about an hour, we turned off the bitumen highway onto the dirt track to Bularoo Station. Despite my conviction that the Chinese had gone, I felt a shiver of apprehension when vehicles passed going the other way. The first was a Ute. But my fear evaporated when I saw an Aborigine behind the wheel. The second was a big semi-trailer that thundered towards us like a snarling beast, kicking up dust and stones. I braced myself and almost screamed for Wally to pull over. The truck roared past. Stones rattled the windscreen and dust poured through the air-conditioning vents. Bloody hell.

"You OK?"

"Why?"

"You look like you shat yourself."

"Hate trucks."

"Obviously."

Half an hour later, we reached the shattered wreck of my rental car. Wow. Hard to believe I walked away from that smash.

Wally slowed as we passed it. "Nasty. Wonder what happened to the poor bastard behind the wheel."

"We'll never know."

"Must have collided with another vehicle. Where'd it go?"

"Dunno."

Just after three o'clock, we spotted the Bularoo homestead, sitting on a green island in a spinifex-flecked brown sea.

Wally said: "Out of curiosity, does the station manager know we're coming?"

"Nope. Maybe, if we're lucky, he won't be there."

We weren't lucky. As Wally turned off the dirt track and drove up to the homestead, Thomas Brockman stood on the verandah watching us approach. Wally parked his vehicle.

As I got out of the car, he strolled towards us and took off his battered bush hat, wearing a puzzled expression. "Hi. Nobody told me you were coming back."

"Well, umm, I've got a few more questions to ask Mick."

Wally emerged from the car.

The station manager looked surprised. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Don't I know you?"

"I used to play Aussie Rules."

"Ah, thought so. Three Brownlows?"

"Yes. I'd have four if I wasn't suspended for striking during my best season ever - totally bullshit charge."

"Remember that. Honoured to have you here." He glanced back at me and frowned. "What's this about?"

"Like I said: I've got a few more questions to ask Mick."

"Why? Bruce Thornton's dead - murdered. You can't be working for him anymore."

Foolishly, I hadn't thought up a good lie and had to improvise. "No, umm, I'm writing a different book now: an official biography."

A suspicious frown. "That so? I'd better call Perth and confirm that."

Too bad this guy wasn't a rural hick. I told one more lie and he'd kick me off the station. "OK, OK. To be honest, I've got a few questions of my own to ask."

"Your own?"

"Yes, I'm trying to work out who sabotaged Bruce Thornton's plane."

"And you think Mick knows who did it?"

"I think he's got some important information."

"What sort of information?"

It would take me half an hour to explain why I wanted to talk to Mick, and this guy probably wouldn't understand anyway. "If you want to find out, come along and listen."

He looked at Wally. "How're you involved?"

Wally smiled. "Paul wrote my book, On the Ball. I'm just giving him a lift. Don't know much about what's going on."

I looked at Brockman: "You don't have to get involved if you don't want. This has got nothing to do with you. I just want to chat to Mick."

Brockman paused and shrugged. "True. But this is my station and this sounds exciting. Come on, let's go and see the old bugger. He should be at home right now."

A minute later, Brockman knocked on the screen door of Mick Naganjara's fibro house. The frame rattled. Mick hobbled up the dark hallway and peered out of the gloom. "Hello Boss."

The station manager stepped back. "Mick, this is Paul Ryder. You spoke to him about a week ago."

The old Aborigine opened the screen door and stared at me. The folds of his face jiggled slightly, suggesting surprise. Then he noticed Wally. His eyes widened to reveal bloodshot corners. "Wow, you look like Wally O'Keefe."

"I am Wally O'Keefe."

A big smile with yellow teeth. "Shit no."

"Shit yes."

"The real Wally O'Keefe?"

Wally beamed like a whole stadium was screaming his name. "The only Wally O'Keefe."

"Cripes. Saw you a lot on tele. Jesus, you was good."

Wally was no friend of false modesty. "True."

"What the hell're you doing here?"

I interjected: "Wally's a mate of mine: he drove me up here."

Mick looked back at me. "Yeah, and what do you want?"

"You've heard Bruce Thornton died in a plane crash?"

"Yeah, heard it on the radio: someone blew up his plane. Boom." He shook his head and chuckled. "His money's no good to him now, huh? Better to be a poor old Abo with diabetes and a bad hip."

"Definitely. Anyway, I'm trying to find out who killed him."

"Why? You a cop?"

"No, I'm a sticky-beak."

"Well, I can't help. I'm old Abo. Don't know who killed him. Hell, I ain't been off this station for maybe ten years."

"I know. But I want to ask a few questions."

"'Bout what?"

"About why Robert Thornton recently came up here to see you - what he wanted to talk about."

Mick had lived a long life in a harsh land, under the thumb of white men, and was good at hiding his emotions. Now he flinched. "No, he didn't."

"Yes, he did."

A nervous attempt to swat flies. "How do you know?"

"He gave you two bottles of his favourite Irish whiskey, Bushmills Single Malt, as a present. They're sitting on your sideboard, right now."

He shifted uncomfortably. "You saw them?"

"Yes."

A guttural sigh. "OK, Robert come up here. So what?"

"What did he want to talk about?"

"None of your business."

Brockman had been listening keenly. "Mick, please help us. If you do, we won't tell anyone - promise."

Mick instinctively glanced at Wally, who said: "Mick, we need your help. The cops think a Blackfella killed Bruce Thornton. That's bullshit, but we've gotta prove it's bullshit."

Jenny Naganjara had wandered up the hall and now stood behind her husband, listening: "Mick, keep quiet. If we get thrown outa this place, we got nowhere to go."

Brockman said: "Don't worry, Jenny. That won't happen, I promise."

Mick paused for a long time and shrugged. "OK. You wanta hear why Robert come up here, sit over there." A gnarled finger pointed at a dilapidated couch and a couple of rickety wooden chairs at the end of the cracked concrete verandah. He turned to his wife. "Don't worry, honey, we'll be OK."

She frowned and disappeared into the house. I sat on the couch, ignoring the broken springs and layer of dust. Mick slowly sat down next to me. Tom Brockman and Wally O'Keefe sat tentatively on the two fragile chairs.

Mick looked like he had grown out of the earth and would, very soon, dissolve back into it; as if his life had no beginning or end. He stared at me and spoke in a barely audible croak. "You wanta know why Robert come up here to see me?"

"Yes."

"OK. He wanta talk about Dirk Carter."

That was the answer I expected, because I couldn't think of any other possible reason why Robert would travel to Bularoo to see Mick. My pulse raced. "Did he say why he wanted to talk about Dirk Carter?"

"Yeah. But that's none of your business."

"Maybe. But I think I know why: he wanted to talk about Dirk Carter because Carter was his father - his real father - right?"

I finally penetrated Mick's armour-plated reserve. His eyes went for a nervous wander. "Shit. How'd you know that?"

"It's obvious. That's the only reason he'd come all the way up here to talk about a man who died more than 40 years ago."

A long pause during which Mick scanned the desert landscape, then our faces, while I listened to my heart beat. He shrugged slowly. "Yeah, Robert said that, just before she died, his mum told him Dirk was his real dad."

"He didn't know until then?"

"Nah. Then he come up here to ask questions about Dirk and how he died."

"Did Bruce Thornton know Dirk was Robert's real dad?"

"Robert reckons Bruce didn't know; he told me Bruce never said nothing to him about Dirk. But nobody can ask Bruce now, huh?"

"True. So Robert asked you a lot of questions about Dirk Carter?"

Mick shifted slowly and batted away a few flies. "Yeah, wanted to know what I remember about Dirk. So I tell him that Dirk was stockman here. Good guy. Nice to Blackfellas. We like him. Dirk spend a lot of time driving around with Bruce looking for gold and other stuff. They've both got that Whitefella sickness. Then, when Bruce is maybe 30, he gets married in Perth and brings back new wife, Margaret. She hates it out here and hate Bruce: they was always fighting." A chuckle. "But she liked Dirk."

"Did you know they were having an affair?"

"Yeah, Jenny works at the homestead, helping Margaret. They talk a lot. Anyway, one day, Margaret tells Jenny she's gonna have baby and Dirk is the daddy."

"But you reckon Bruce never found out?"

"Don't think he did."

"Then Dirk died, before Robert was born?"

"Yeah, Margaret was maybe five-, six-month pregnant."

"OK. Now tell me about Dirk and Bruce. Were they friends?"

"For a while. Like I said, they was always driving around together, prospecting. Then they find iron ore at Windeyama and start arguing."

"About what?"

"Who owns it. Bruce reckons he owns it all and Dirk just works for him."

"Dirk disagreed?"

"Yes, says he should get half. Says that if he don't get half he's gonna go and see a judge about it - take Bruce to court."

"You heard them argue?"

"Yes, even saw them stand outside the homestead, yelling at each other, almost boxing."

"They knew you were there?"

"Course. But they don't care: I'm just Blackfella. Then a few weeks later Dirk is dead and the gunjies take me up north to find his body."

"Last time I was here, you said you found the plane in one piece?"

"Yeah - burnt, but all together."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I even saw where it land. Then it roll maybe coupla hundred yards on its wheels before it stop."

"Did the cops say anything about the plane being in one piece?"

"Nah. They just wanta find the body and go home - end of story. Lazy buggers."

"The cops didn't find Dirk Carter's body, did they?"

"Nope. But I saw what happened to it."

"What?"

"Got dragged maybe 50 yards from the plane and buried."

"Wow. Did you tell the cops?"

"Not my business. I got wife and good job at Bularoo; I'm not that Sherlock Holmes guy; I don't want no trouble."

"So, you think Bruce Thornton killed Dirk and buried the body?"

A rumbling laugh. "Musta. Kadaitcha Man didn't kill Dirk and bury him."

"That's for sure."

I had assumed that Bruce Thornton murdered Dirk Carter for two reasons: because Carter was demanding a half-share of the Windeyama deposit, and because Bruce Thornton found out that Carter sired Robert. However, it seemed Bruce Thornton only murdered Carter for the first reason. Ironically, he never found out that Carter was Robert's biological father.

I said: "So when Robert came up here, you told him all of this stuff about Dirk Carter and how he died?"

"Yeah, everything."

"In other words, you told him that Bruce Thornton murdered his real father."

A shrug. "Guess so."

Tom Brockman looked at me, wide-eyed. "Are you saying that, a few days ago, Robert Thornton sabotaged the plane because he wanted to kill Bruce Thornton and avenge his real father?"

"That was one reason. He had another."

"What?"

"Robert found out that Quilin Chen was pregnant. That was a direct threat to his inheritance. So he also sabotaged the plane to get rid of her and the unborn child. Then, to deflect blame, he told the police that an Aboriginal activist tried to kill him at the Eucla Mine and obviously tried to sabotage the plane."

"Christ."

"Yeah. So it's now clear he had excellent motives to kill both Quilin Chen and Bruce Thornton. In fact, he made sure Bruce's death was rather poetic."

"How?"

"Bruce murdered Dirk in a small plane; Robert murdered Bruce in a small plane. Nice symmetry, huh?"

"Goodness."

I turned to the old Aborigine. "Tell me Mick, when you heard about the plane crash on Sunday, what did you think?"

Mick had a faint twinkle in his eye. "I think Robert dun' it. Even when he was a little kid, he was a mean little bugger. Bruce wasn't his dad, but him and Bruce were both nasty bastards. Funny, huh?"

Tom Brockman sighed. "On reflection, I wish I hadn't got involved in this."

I said: "Don't worry. As far as I'm concerned, you weren't here. Just leave all this to me and Wally."

"What're you going to do?"

"No idea. I still can't prove Robert Thornton brought down the plane. But he's not going to get away with this - no way." I turned to Mick. "Thanks for your help."

He chuckled. "No worries. But you already knew lots of this stuff before you come here. Why'd you bother?"

I smiled. "Because white folk have to get lots of people to tell them the same thing before they believe it's true."

He laughed. "Yeah, you're funny like that."

I stood up and had a thought. "Oh, one other thing: have you ever heard about a gold prospector called Len Hanlon?"

A faint smile rippled across his features. "Yes, I remember him. He sometimes dropped in here a long time ago - maybe fifty or sixty years - to see Graham Thornton. Always driving around looking for gold."

"Did you ever talk to him?"

"Nah. But I talked to Aboriginal guy who work for him, Tom Nagapindi. Tom drive his Land Rover."

"Did you ever hear a story that Hanlon found a lot of gold in the Hindmarsh Hills?"

"Yeah, heard about that."

"Who told you?"

"Tom."

"So the story's true: Hanlon did find gold?"

"Yes, found a lot of gold."

"In the Hindmarsh Hills?"

"Nah. Hanlon say that to make people look in wrong place."

"He did? Then where is the gold?"

Mick slowly rose and shook his head. "You Whitefellas all the same. Always worrying about money, money, money. Too greedy."

Spoken like a man who never had a mortgage in his life. "I could do a lot of good things with that gold - lots of good things; help a lot of people."

He laughed and, without answering, limped back inside.
CHAPTER 18

Thomas Brockman invited Wally and me to stay in the homestead overnight and we gladly accepted. We met his wife, Barbara, who'd just returned from Perth with their baby son. She was a big Aussie Rules fan and was over the moon when introduced to Wally. After they'd had a selfie session, she got him to sign a football, a Collingwood jersey and lots of baby clothes. Wally expressed some misgivings about signing the uniform of an enemy team, but eventually played along.

The Brockmans cooked a lovely roast dinner which we ate on the verandah while drinking a couple of bottles of red. Wally regaled us with his favourite football anecdotes. Some had changed quite markedly since I put them in his autobiography.

The next morning, just before eight o'clock, we bade them farewell and headed back to Perth. In the early afternoon, about 200 kilometres from Perth, we finally got good radio reception and could listen to news stories about the plane crash. They confirmed that police believed it was a result of sabotage and an Aboriginal activist was responsible.

Wally said: "What're you going to do now - go to the cops?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"For a start, I don't like cops. You try to help them and, before you know it, they try to frame you."

"Hah. You sound like a Blackfella."

"Maybe a tiny bit of me is. But the big problem is that we've got no proof Robert brought down the plane. When we get some, I'll talk to the cops. Until then, there's no point."

"Where are you gonna get this proof from?"

"Don't know. I've got to think about that. Anyway, what're your plans for the future, after the movie of course. Footie commentary? Coaching? Founding your own religion?"

"Not sure. I know it sounds crazy, but I want to do something for my mob. Maybe I'll go into politics or start a charity."

"If you go into politics, will you be on the right or the left?"

"Not sure."

"Well, at least you're flexible, which is good."

About twenty kilometres from central Perth, he asked if I wanted to be dropped back at the Chancellor Hotel.

"Nope, take me to Fleur-de-Lis?"

"Thornton's mansion?"

"Yep. I want to chat with the butler."

"Why?"

"I promised to tell him what I learnt up north." I also hoped that chatting with him would, somehow, give me some ideas about what to do next.

"Sure. You want me to come along?"

"No need. You go home. I'll let you know if there are any developments."

"No worries."

He skirted the Central Business District and dropped me outside Fleur-de-Lis. Now its owner was dead, its tastelessness seemed rather sad. The gates were open. I strolled up the front drive, carrying my travel bag, and knocked on the door.

Jeeves opened it, dressed as if the Queen was about to arrive.

"Hi."

He smiled. "Hello. You're back. Thought I might not see you again. What happened?"

"A great deal. Let's go to your office, and I'll tell you."

"Come along."

As we strolled across the entrance hall towards his office, I said: "Much happen since I left?"

"Nope. Some detectives came and searched the Thorntons' bedroom and his study."

"Why?"

"Said it was routine. Didn't seem to be looking for anything special; didn't take anything away. Said they'll come back in a few days and interview me."

"What about?"

"Didn't say."

"Did anything else happen?"

"Nope. I've been swimming in the pool and waited for someone to terminate my employment."

"Still waiting?"

"Yes."

"I see you're still in costume."

He shrugged. "Why not? I kinda like this rig and won't get to wear it fairly soon. The curtain's about to come down on this gig."

"What'll you do after that? Keep butler-ing?"

"Doubt it. It's a limited field. Might go back to acting."

"Good luck."

We reached his office which had a desk with a small computer, several tall metal lockers and two wall-mounted televisions connected to external CCTV cameras.

He sat behind the desk and I sat facing him. "So what happened up north?"

I described my chat with Mick Naganjara, without mentioning the presence of Wally and Thomas Brockman, and watched his face sparkle with excitement.

Finally, he blew out his cheeks. "Wow. I thought Robert didn't sabotage the plane - even though he wanted to kill Quilin Chen - because his father was onboard. But Bruce wasn't his real father. In fact, Bruce killed his real father."

"Yep. It's a sordid tale."

"Robert's a dangerous guy. You think Lauren Gourlay helped him?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. She's got Robert around her little finger and knew that, with Bruce Thornton and Quilin Chen out of the way, he'd inherit billions of dollars that she could help him spend."

A buzzer sounded and he glanced at a television screen showing black-and-white CCTV footage of the front door and driveway. A guy stood outside holding a parcel. "Damn. Courier. Won't be long."

He shot out of his office and, 20 seconds later, appeared on the television screen opening the front door and taking the parcel. Soon afterwards, he strolled back into the office and tossed the parcel on top of his desk. "Just some dry-cleaning. I'll open it later." He sat down. "So, what're you going to do now?"

"Don't know. Can't prove Robert blew up the plane. In fact, I don't even know how he got the bomb onboard. Did he sneak out to the airport and slip it onto the plane himself, or did he put it in Bruce's luggage."

"How could he put it in the luggage?"

I suddenly remembered the conversation I heard between Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay at the reception.

"Have you bought the suitcase?"

"Yes."

My God. Pieces of the puzzle tumbled into place.

I said: "When I came here, on the morning the plane crashed, there were four suitcases lined up next to the door, weren't there?"

"That's right. That's where I usually put the luggage when the Thorntons are going to fly out. Then, when the limo arrives, they're loaded into the back."

"And when I was with Bruce Thornton, beside the pool, Lauren Gourlay turned up and gave him some board papers."

"Really? I didn't see her."

"You mean, you didn't open the door for her?"

"Nope. She has an access card. She can swipe herself in."

A beautiful thought blossomed in my mind. I nodded towards a wall-mounted TV screen. "Have you got CCTV footage of her arriving that morning?"

"I guess so. The film stays on this computer for a couple of weeks before it's erased, but a permanent back-up is kept on the host computer. Do you want to look at it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Show me the film, and then I'll tell you."

He leaned forward and tapped away on his computer for a couple of minutes. "I think this is it."

He sat back and nodded towards the nearest TV screen. Black-and-white footage showed an Audi convertible driving through the gates and parking next to the driveway. Lauren Gourlay got out and opened the boot. She dragged out a familiar looking suitcase and headed for the door.

I said: "Stop."

He stopped the film.

I said: "What sort of suitcase is that?"

He leaned forward. "Looks like a Bally, exactly the same as the Thorntons'.'"

My head thudded. "You mean, exactly the same as the suitcases sitting just inside the front door on the morning of the crash?"

He looked puzzled. "Yes."

My lungs constricted and face felt hot. "Bloody hell. Continue."

He tapped the keyboard and the footage continued. Lauren Gourlay, still lugging the suitcase, swiped herself into the mansion and disappeared inside.

I said. "Wow. Any idea why she carried a suitcase - particularly that type of suitcase - into the mansion?"

"Nope."

"She wasn't carrying it when she came out to the pool - I'm sure of that. Are there any CCTV cameras inside this place?"

"Only in the room with the Pro Hart paintings. Cameras weren't installed anywhere else, for privacy reasons."

"OK. Got any film of her leaving the mansion?"

"Just a mo." He hit a couple of buttons and the CCTV footage fast-forwarded for several minutes - about twenty in real time - until the front door opened.

I barked: "Normal speed."

He tapped the keyboard and the footage slowed to normal. Lauren Gourlay emerged from the mansion carrying what looked like the same suitcase as before. She put it in the boot of the Audi and drove off.

I'd stopped breathing and had to take some big gulps of air. "My God."

He frowned. "Why'd she take the suitcase inside and then out again?"

"It wasn't the same suitcase. It looked the same, but it was different."

"What do you mean?"

"She swapped her suitcase for one of the suitcases you left sitting near the front door."

His hands shook. "Oh, Jesus."

"The one she took into the house had a bomb inside. She left that one with the other suitcases and came out to the pool. On her way out of the mansion, she grabbed a different suitcase so nobody noticed the new one."

"Then, I put the suitcases in the limo that took the Thorntons to the airport."

"Yep."

"Damn."

"Not your fault, of course. Now we know that she helped Robert sabotage the plane. In fact, she was in it up to her neck. Their relationship is a beautiful love story with murder at its core."

"What're you going to do now?"

Even if I was still a journalist, I couldn't get this story published. The weasels in control of the news media always freaked out whenever they had to publish real news. "Time to go to the cops. Is that footage safe? It won't get erased?"

"Nope. Like I said, it's been backed up onto a host computer."

"Good. Can I have a copy, to show the police?"

He hesitated and shrugged. "OK." He opened a drawer, pulled out a flash drive and quickly copied the footage onto it. The process only took a couple of minutes. He handed over the flash drive.

I dropped it into my pocket and got to my feet. "Thanks. Leave this to me. I'll get in touch with the cops and let you know what happens."

"Alright. Let me show you out."

I strolled along the Swan River to the hotel and up to my room with mounting excitement and self-adoration. I'd nailed who sabotaged the plane and had the proof burning a hole in my pocket. True, no news organisation would publish a story accusing Thornton and Gourlay of murder, but at least I'd solved a dark mystery and uncovered some of the hidden history of our time. Further, with the help of the police, I'd soon experience the satisfaction of knocking two smug and privileged bastards off their pedestals.

Of course, by now, I should have shown caution when entering a hotel room. However, I was too busy indulging in an orgy of self-satisfaction.

Big mistake.

I let myself into the room, strode past the bathroom and slung my travel back onto the bed. Only then did I notice that Wei Kim sat in an armchair in the corner, in almost exactly the same position as Mr McDonald had several days before. Indeed, the parallels were uncanny.

"Holy shit."

I turned to bolt out the door. A huge Chinese guy wearing a jean jacket and brown slacks stepped out of the bathroom and pointed a pistol at me.

I looked around wildly for another exit. However, unless I wanted to smash through the window and plunge five storeys, I was trapped.

"Stand very still," Wei Kim said in his cultured voice.

I froze.

He looked at his henchman and nodded. The muscle stepped forward and patted me down with his empty hand while politely pointing his pistol away from me. He pulled out my phone and wallet - but missed the flash drive - and tossed them onto the bed.

Wei Kim said: "Sit on the bed. I want to talk."

Skin crawling and shaking like a leaf, I perched on a corner. "Umm, talk about what?"

"You know who I am?"

"You work for the Dai-Go Steel Mills."

"I also work for another organisation. You know what it is, don't you?"

I did. He worked for Unit 856 of the Chinese Ministry of State Security. However, if I revealed that I knew that, he'd assume I was also a spy. "Ah, no."

His gentlemanly demeanour evaporated and he gave me a flint-eyed stare. "I think you do. But that doesn't matter. What matters is this: you cause me any trouble, I will kill you, understand? My friend here won't do it - I will, personally."

I swallowed an unpolished cricket ball. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent. So, who are you working for?"

"What do you mean?"

His eyes narrowed. "Who are you working for?"

"I'm a ghost-writer. I was writing a book for Bruce Thornton. Now he's dead."

"I don't believe you're a writer."

"Yes, I am. I was a journalist, now I'm a ghost-writer."

He squinted. "Don't lie to me. You work for ASIO, don't you?"

"No."

"Then you're freelance?"

Freelance what? "No, I'm a fucking ghost-writer. Go down to a bookshop and buy a copy of a book called On the Ball. I wrote it for Wally O'Keefe - he's a footballer. On the cover, it says "as told to Paul Ryder". Hell, you can buy a copy on-line. Let me get my phone and I'll show you ..."

"Stop lying."

"I'm telling the truth."

He paused. "I don't believe you. But I won't care if you tell me what I really want to know."

"What?"

"Who sabotaged the plane?"

Mr McDonald had predicted that Unit 856 would try to avenge the death of Quilin Chen. He was obviously right on the money. But, if I revealed that the saboteurs were Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay, Wei Kim would suspect, once again, that I was a spy. When unsure whether to lie or not, I usually lie. "I don't know."

He scowled, stood up, pulled out a pistol and advanced towards me. "Then you're useless to me and I will kill you now. Tell me who sabotaged the plane or you die."

I gave the pistol a pleading look, as if it would decide my fate, and grabbed the bedspread with both hands. Rivulets of sweat crisscrossed my back and gushed along my spine. "And if I do?"

"I will let you go."

Why was I risking my life to protect Thornton and Gourlay? If I spilled my guts, Wei Kim might kill me anyway. If I didn't, he definitely would. "OK, OK. You really want to know: Robert Thornton did it, with help from a woman called Lauren Gourlay."

He raised an eyebrow. "You mean Robert Thornton killed his own father?"

"Yes ... no ... yes ... I mean, Bruce Thornton wasn't his father - not his real father."

His trigger finger started to glow white. "What're you talking about?"

It took me ten minutes to explain how Robert Thornton learnt from Lauren Gourlay that Quilin Chen was pregnant and a threat to his inheritance, and also learnt from Mick Naganjara that Bruce Thornton murdered his real father, Dirk Carter.

"That's why Robert Thornton decided to sabotage the plane and kill both of them. Lauren Gourlay helped him."

He did, at least, give me a good hearing before unveiling a suspicious stare. "Why've you collected all of this information? What're you up to?"

"Nothing. I'm just a nosey bastard who keeps his eyes and ears open."

"Can you prove those two sabotaged the plane?"

The proof was in the flash drive sitting in my pocket. I didn't want to give it to him. But I didn't want to die, either. Fear made me obsequious. "Yes, I've got CCTV footage of Lauren Gourlay sneaking into Thornton's mansion with a suitcase with a bomb in it. That suitcase was put onto the plane."

"Really? Where's that footage right now?"

"In a flash drive, in my pocket."

"Give it to me."

I dug the flash drive out of my trouser pocket and handed it over.

He briefly glanced at it and slipped it inside his jacket. "Good."

"What're you going to do now?"

He looked bemused. "Quilin Chen was a full general in the Chinese Ministry of State Security. Her death must be punished. We are going to kill Robert Thornton and this woman."

I briefly enjoyed hearing that Thornton and Gourlay were marked for death. Then I smelt a rat. He'd only give me that information if he knew I wouldn't pass it on. There was only one way he could ensure that. Oh, shit.

He turned to his henchman and spoke in Chinese. His curt tone made it clear he was ordering my death. Faaaark. My brain overloaded and went blank. The henchman's pistol swivelled towards me.

The door buzzer went off.

Everyone's heads twisted around and we stared at the door. Kim spoke softly to his henchman in Chinese. The henchman stepped forward and ground his pistol into the side of my neck. I cringed and waited for a bullet that didn't come.

Kim said: "Be very quiet or he'll shoot you, understand?"

I nodded ferociously.

"Good."

While my heart thumped and I turned into a huge sweat-machine, Kim strolled over to the door and looked out through the peep-hole. His back stiffened and he muttered "Ta ma de." He paused and said through the door: "What do you want?"

A muffled reply.

"Why?"

Another muffled reply.

Kim stepped back and pondered his next move, frowning hard. Finally, he stepped forward and opened the door. As he did, his comrade ground the muzzle deeper into my neck.

I never thought I'd be so relieved to see Mr McDonald. The bald-headed spook coolly stepped past Kim into the hotel room wearing a blue blazer, white shirt and grey strides. I almost fainted from relief.

Mr McDonald nodded to Kim. "Thank you."

"What do you want?"

Mr McDonald pointed at the henchman. "That isn't necessary."

Kim barked something in Chinese. The henchman stepped back and stuck his pistol inside his jacket. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my thundering heart.

"You OK?" Mr McDonald said, as if I'd only skinned my knee.

I opened my eyes and rubbed my neck. My whole body tingled, including my tongue. "I'll survive."

He looked back at Kim. "You know who I am?"

"Yes."

"And I know who you are. So perhaps you'll tell me why you've kidnapped one of our citizens."

"I did not kidnap him. I am a guest."

"If you are, you've got lousy manners. What're you doing here?"

A frown. "None of your business."

"Yes, it is. I know your operation: Quilin Chen was supposed to grab control of the Eucla Mine. But that's finished: she's dead; the baby's dead \- it's over."

Kim gave little away, but a trace of surprise popped onto his face. "I will not talk to you about my mission."

"Now you want to find out who sabotaged the plane and avenge her death, don't you? Tell me, was she a major or general in the Ministry of State Security?"

He scowled. "Quilin Chen was a full general; her death must be punished. You should help me punish those responsible."

"What sort of punishment are you planning? A bullet?"

"That's none of your business."

"Yes, it is. You can't just kill whoever you like - not in Australia, anyway." He nodded towards me. "Did this guy tell you who did it?"

"Yes."

Now Mr McDonald looked surprised. "He did? Who did he name?"

"He said Robert Thornton and a woman called Gourlay planted the bomb."

Mr McDonald glanced at me, a little annoyed. "That true?"

"Yes."

A frown. "Why did you tell him that?"

"He was going to kill me."

A shrug. "Fair enough. You're sure they did it?"

"Yes."

"Have you explained why?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd better tell me too."

I gave him the same summary of my snooping that I gave Kim and mentioned the footage that proved Lauren Gourlay swapped suitcases.

"You have that footage?"

"I copied it onto a flash drive. Now he's got it." I pointed at Kim.

Mr McDonald turned to Kim and held out his hand. "Hand it over."

"No."

"Hand it over. I have men stationed outside. You don't want a scene, believe me."

Kim frowned, fished out the flash drive and handed it over.

"Thank you." Mr McDonald slipped it inside his jacket. "The big question is: what do we do now?" He stared at Kim. "You intend to kill Thornton and Gourlay, don't you?"

"None of your business."

"Yes, it is. You can't just waltz into this country and bump off whoever you like."

A sardonic grin. "Why not?"

"There would be an incredible diplomatic row."

"I don't think so. I think your government would try to ignore the whole thing."

Mr McDonald's expression said he was right. "I'll tell you what we'll do. I'm going to consult my superiors about Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay, and you're going to consult yours. Then we'll discuss this matter again in, say, 24 hours. I will give you a call, OK?"

Kim frowned and stared at the carpet before nodding. "Alright, 24 hours \- no more."

"Good. Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."

I interjected. "And tell him to leave me alone."

"Oh yes, and leave this guy alone."

Kim said: "We will discuss his fate when you call me."

I said: "Discuss it now."

Mr McDonald said: "Shut up."

Kim headed for the door with his henchman in tow. "You have 24 hours to call me."

They disappeared and Mr McDonald looked at me. "You alright? How do you feel?"

"Shattered. He was going to shoot me."

"I know. We've got this room bugged. Things were getting out of hand, so I came in."

"What're you going to do now?"

"Like I said: consult my superiors who will, I assume, put this matter before the security committee of Cabinet."

"How long will that take?"

"Less than 24 hours, I hope."

"And you'll make sure the Chinese leave me alone?"

"Don't worry, I'm on the job."

"Good. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. Wait for me to contact you. You've still got the phone I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Keep it close."
CHAPTER 19

The next day, at noon, I sat in the ground-floor coffee shop of the Chancellor Hotel, eating a crepe, drinking coffee and wondering when Mr McDonald would resume contact. Suddenly, the man himself plumped down opposite.

"Hello."

I looked up and spilt some coffee. "Hi. What's happening?"

"I've received instructions from Canberra."

"What?"

"I'm to take you to see the Homicide detectives investigating the sabotage of the plane, so you can tell them what you know."

"You mean, our government doesn't mind if Thornton and Gourlay are convicted of murder?"

"Correct."

And the Chinese have agreed to that?"

"Yes. I've spoken to Wei Kim. His government has agreed that if Thornton and Gourlay are convicted of murder, and get long sentences, they'll take no further action. They're not happy about that arrangement. But they will abide by it."

"And if Thornton and Gourlay aren't convicted?"

"That eventuality was not discussed."

"You mean, they'd be dead meat?"

"I expect so."

"So you're effectively saying that I've got to make sure they're convicted, otherwise they'll get murdered?"

"I guess so."

I wasn't sure if that was a big responsibility or not. "If Robert's convicted of murdering Bruce Thornton, he won't be able to inherit anything under his Will, correct? That's the law, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then who'll end up controlling Thornton Mining Corporation and the Eucla Mine?"

"The residuary beneficiaries under the Will are various major charities: hospitals, schools, universities and the like. They'll receive Bruce Thornton's shares in the corporation and, presumably, will sell them on the stock exchange."

"Our Government doesn't mind that?"

"No. It just wanted to stop the Chinese Government getting control. It doesn't care if someone else ends up owning the mine."

"Fair enough." I popped some crepe into my mouth. "I assume that, when you spoke to Kim, he agreed not to kill me."

Mr McDonald glanced away. "Umm, that wasn't discussed."

The dickhead obviously forgot to mention me. I gave him a full frown. "Why not?"

"Because it goes without saying. It was an implied term of our agreement."

"Oh, fucking great. My survival is an implied term of an unwritten agreement between two spooks."

"Don't worry. You're safe."

"I'd better be. Alright then, when do we see the cops?"

"Now."

"I haven't finished my lunch."

"Then hurry up."

While he watched impatiently, I resumed eating the crepe and stewed over his failure to make my safety an express term of his agreement with the Chinese. My mood turned nasty. I said: "Out of curiosity, how did ASIO find out the Chinese Government was trying to take over the Eucla Mine?"

"It's our job to know these things."

"I know. But, let's be honest, you don't belong to one of the world's great intelligence organisations. Ferreting out this sort of information is well beyond you guys."

A deep frown. "Bullshit. How would you know?"

I stuck more crepe into my mouth. "I've had dealings with you guys. Quite frankly, I was not impressed - not impressed at all." Time for the coup de grace. "Oh, I know how you found out: the Americans tipped you off, didn't they? They put you in the loop. That was nice of them."

He stiffened. "That's none of your business."

I'd obviously hit the mark. "Ah yes, now it all makes sense."

He scowled. "Finish your meal."

"Frankly, I don't know why you bother."

"Bother what?"

"Trying to stop the Chinese. In ten years' time, we'll all be working for them."

Five minutes later, I followed him out the front entrance of the hotel and along the pavement to a white limousine which looked remarkably similar to those the Thornton Mining Corporation owned. Indeed, when we got close, I saw that Ragnesh was behind the wheel.

I said: "Holy shit."

Mr McDonald grinned at me. "Ah, you recognise the driver?"

"He works for you?"

"Yes."

"You mean, he's been keeping tabs on me?"

"You, among other people."

Mr McDonald slid onto the back seat of the limo and I sat next to him.

Ragnesh glanced at me. "Hello Paul."

"Ragnesh. You said you were a paediatrician from India who was forced to work as a chauffeur. That's rubbish?"

Ragneesh had stopped imitating Peter Sellers imitating an Indian and adopted an Aussie accent. "That was my cover. My parents came from India; I've never been there."

"So you work for ASIO?"

"Correct."

"And you don't own a stack of shares in Thornton Mining Corporation?"

"I'm not that stupid."

"I'm amazed. What should I call you?"

"Ragnesh is fine."

His spy colleague leaned forward. "Mr Ryder calls me Mr McDonald."

Ragnesh smiled. "Righty-o."

I said: "Who owns this limo?"

"The Thornton Mining Corporation. I haven't had much to do since Bruce Thornton died, so I'm driving Mr... umm... McDonald around."

"Out of curiosity, did you drive the Thorntons to the airport on Sunday?"

"No. They went in a different limo, unfortunately."

Mr McDonald said: "Alright, take us to Police Headquarters."

It only took "Ragnesh" ten minutes to reach the main headquarters of the West Australian Police Force. On the way, Mr McDonald explained that we were going to see Detective Superintendent Ross Lightfoot, the head of the Homicide Squad investigation into the plane crash. "He knows I work for ASIO and has already given me a briefing. When we get there, tell him what you know, but don't mention the involvement of Chinese spies. That sort of information will just confuse him."

"It still confuses me."

Ragnesh stopped outside a curved 1960s steel-and-glass building next to the WACA cricket ground. Mr McDonald and I strolled into the foyer where he introduced himself to the Duty Sergeant as "Robert Silver" and asked to see Detective Superintendent Lightfoot.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I don't need one. Just make the call."

The Duty Sergeant frowned, dialled a number and told someone a "Mr Silver" wanted to see him. He listened briefly, put down the phone and gave Mr McDonald a more respectful look. "He won't be long."

A few minutes later, a bulky, beetroot-faced man in a crumpled brown suit \- he looked like he had a fashion allergy - sauntered out of a lift and made a bee-line towards the ASIO man. "Ah, Mr Silver. Good to see you again. How can I help?"

McDonald/Silver nodded towards me. "This guy knows who sabotaged the plane."

The detective's face glowed even brighter. "Really? And you think he's right?"

"Yes."

The detective shook my hand. "Ross Lightfoot. Pleased to meet you."

"Hello, Paul Ryder."

"Follow me."

We caught a lift up to the third floor, where the detective led us across an open-plan office with about a dozen desks. It looked like an old-fashioned newsroom without the piles of newspapers and wall-posters. Standing in a corner, chatting, was a bunch of guys with number-one haircuts and number-two suits. Lightfoot beckoned one, who detached himself and strolled over.

Lightfoot looked at me. "This is Detective Inspector Grace. He's my number two on the investigation."

I shook Grace's hand. "Hello, Paul Ryder."

Lightfoot pointed at Mr McDonald. "And you've already met Mr Silver, from Canberra?"

Grace nodded. "Yes, how do you do?"

Lightfoot said: "Mr Ryder here says he know who sabotaged the plane."

"Really?"

"Yes. Come and hear what he's got to say."

The Detective Superintendent led us into a large windowless room, where a triple-reel tape machine sat on a Formica table with eight chairs. He told everyone to take a seat.

Mr McDonald and I sat on one side of the table, the two detectives on the other.

Lightfoot said: "I hope you guys won't mind if we tape this conversation."

Mr McDonald frowned. "I mind. There will be no record of my involvement in this case or the involvement of my organisation. No tape."

I said: "I won't talk if this is taped."

Lightfoot frowned. "OK. Do you mind if Detective Grace takes notes?"

Mr McDonald shrugged. "As long as he doesn't mention me or my organisation."

"OK."

As Grace opened a notepad and pulled out a pen, Lightfoot looked at me. "Tell me, what do you do?"

"I'm a ghost-writer. I was employed to write Bruce Thornton's autobiography."

Lightfoot glanced at the ASIO man. "That true?"

"Yes."

He looked back at me. "You know who brought down the plane, do you?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Robert Thornton, with the help of his partner, Lauren Gourlay."

The detectives looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

Lightfoot said: "You sure? We think a boong did it."

I'd met too many nice Aborigines recently to put up with that. "Then you're a pair of racist clowns."

Lightfoot recoiled and frowned. "No need to talk like that."

"I hate listening to racism from people with no right to act superior."

Lightfoot glared at Mr McDonald, who put his hand on my arm: "Cut this shit and tell them what you know."

Mr McDonald had told me not to mention the involvement of Chinese spies. I was happy to oblige. Indeed, I planned to reveal as little as possible.

I looked at Lightfoot. "Alright. Have you guys done a post-mortem examination of Quilin Chen?"

"Yes."

"Then you know she was pregnant?"

The detectives exchanged surprised looks, and Lightfoot said. "Yes. We found that out."

"For his entire life, Robert Thornton expected that he would inherit all of Bruce Thornton's wealth, including Thornton Mining Corporation and the Eucla Mine. Then he found out Quilin Chen was pregnant and realised he'd only get half. Indeed, if she bumped him off, he'd obviously get nothing."

"You reckon he knew about the pregnancy?"

"I'm sure he did. He was having an affair with Bruce Thornton's personal assistant, Lauren Gourlay. She knew Quilin Chen was pregnant and must have told him. When she did, he realised his inheritance, and probably his life, was in danger."

"So he sabotaged the plane to get rid of her?"

"Correct."

"But his father was on the plane."

I reached deep into my magician's hat and grabbed a pair of big rabbit ears. "Bruce Thornton wasn't his father."

Lightfoot looked puzzled. "Of course he was."

"No he wasn't - not his biological father, anyway."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"His real father was a man called Dirk Carter, who died more than 40 years ago. He was murdered. Guess who killed him?"

"Who?"

"Bruce Thornton."

"Holy Moses. You're kidding?"

"Nope."

"Are you saying that Robert Thornton knew Carter was his real dad?"

"Yes, and he knew that Bruce Thornton murdered him."

"How'd you discover all that?"

"A couple of days ago, I went up to the Bularoo station and talked to an old Aboriginal guy called Mick Naganjara." I spent fifteen minutes telling them what Mick told me.

When I'd finished, Lightfoot said: "Jesus. Blowing up the plane ticked a lot of boxes for Robert Thornton, didn't it?"

"Sure did. And because he was the saboteur, he wanted to send you off on a wild goose chase. I bet that, when you talked to him after the plane crashed, he blamed it on an Aboriginal activist."

"Yes, he was very insistent about that."

"I'm sure he was. And I'm not surprised you thought he was right, because it's easy to blame an Abo."

Lightfoot glared at me.

Grace intervened. "It's interesting that Robert Thornton has been in the mining industry for a long time. He must have learnt a lot about explosives."

I said: "When I was up at the Eucla Mine, about a week ago, I heard that some explosives were stolen. Robert was there at that time. I bet he nicked them."

"I'll check that out."

The Detective Superintendent leaned back. "What you've told us is very interesting. Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay obviously had strong motives to sabotage the plane. In fact, I'm sure they did. But we can't prove that in a court of law. You've got no direct proof."

"Yes, I have."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was coming to that. I've got evidence that, on the morning of the crash, Lauren Gourlay took a suitcase to Fleur-de-lis and swapped it for a suitcase that was put on the plane."

Lightfoot looked stunned. "You're joking?

"Nope. There's CCTV footage of her doing that."

"Where is it?"

I looked at Mr McDonald. "You've got the flash drive?"

Mr McDonald fished it out of his jacket and put it in front of Lightfoot. "The tape's stored on that drive. It shows Lauren Gourlay doing a suitcase switcheroo."

Lightfoot told Grace to get a laptop. Grace raced off and quickly returned with one. They used it to watch the CCTV footage stored on the flash drive.

When they'd finished watching, Lightfoot said: "Wow."

I said: "You'll charge them now?"

"We can charge her. But we still can't charge him. We've got no evidence that directly connects him with the sabotage. A good silk would tear our case to shreds."

I'd suspected that the cops would adopt that attitude, and had spent the last hour cooking up a plan to trap Robert. "I can help you build a water-tight case against him."

"How?"

I leaned forward. "Listen closely."
CHAPTER 20

After I'd divulged my plan, the two detectives went away and discussed it. They returned twenty minutes later and Lightfoot nodded. "Alright. We'll give it a go. What's your mobile number?"

I told him and he wrote it on a piece of paper.

"OK. Detective Grace will contact the surveillance unit and arrange for all calls to that number to be recorded. Won't take long."

He gave the piece of paper to his fellow detective, who disappeared. While Grace was away, we discussed the finer details of my plan. Half-an-hour later, Grace returned and nodded. "Done."

Lightfoot looked at me. "OK, call Lauren Gourlay."

I called her direct line at the headquarters of Thornton Mining Corporation.

She answered: "Lauren Gourlay, here."

"Hello, Paul Ryder."

As usual, she sounded annoyed at having to deal with me. "Mr Ryder, I'd forgotten about you."

"I'm not surprised. Bet you've been very busy. My commiserations."

"Thank you. What do you want?"

"I've been wondering where Mr Thornton's death leaves me contractually."

"Contractually?"

"Yes. Do I get to keep the $100,000 advance?"

"I don't have the contract in front of me. But, from what I recall, you get to keep it."

"Good. And the $200,000 final payment?"

An icy tone. "Under the contract, Mr Thornton's death is an Act of God."

"What does that mean?"

"The contract becomes void and you don't get the final payment."

"That seems unfair."

"You signed the contract."

"OK. But that's not the main reason I called."

"What is?"

I wet my lips. "I want you to pay me half-a-million dollars."

She spat out her reply. "What?"

"I want you to pay me half-a-million."

"You're kidding? Why?"

"I've done some digging around and discovered some very interesting facts. I've found out that you and Robert Thornton are in a relationship and you told him that Quilin Chen was pregnant. That's why you and Robert sabotaged the plane, isn't it, to protect his inheritance?"

"That's a disgusting assertion," she said without hanging up.

"Robert also wanted to kill Bruce Thornton because he'd found out Bruce murdered his real father, Dirk Carter."

"Who told you that?"

"You don't need to know. But you made one big mistake."

"What?"

"You didn't realise that a CCTV camera covers the front entrance of Fleur-de-lis. I've got footage of you taking a suitcase into the mansion and taking one out on the morning of the plane crash. The one you took in had a bomb in it, didn't it? You swapped it for one of the Thorntons' suitcases."

An audible intake of breath. She croaked: "Bullshit."

"Give me $500,000 in cash and I'll give you the footage, and keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I'll take the tape to the cops."

"That's blackmail."

"Definitely. This deal has got to be done today: give me $500,000 in cash and you get the tape."

"I don't have that sort of cash," she wailed.

"I know. But your boyfriend does. He can get it in a few hours. Tell him to give me a call. You have my number. If I don't hear from him within one hour, I'll contact the police."

"You bastard."

I terminated the call.

Ten minutes later my phone issued forth the James Bond theme.

I answered it. "Hello, Paul Ryder here."

A tense voice. "This is Robert Thornton."

He was definitely on the hook. My confidence took wing. "Ah, Mr Thornton. You've spoken to Miss Gourlay?"

"Yes. She said you have a tape."

"I do. If you want it, you've got to give me $500,000 in cash, today."

"How'd you get this tape?"

"I got it from your father's butler, Michael Barker. We're acting together \- as a team. You give me half-a-million and I'll give him his cut."

"He'll shut up?"

"Definitely. Just wants some money."

"You guarantee that?"

Silly question. "Yes."

A long pause. "Where do you want to meet?"

"At the mansion, in three hours. Let's say, five o'clock sharp. You give me the money, and I'll give you the tape. You can also destroy the host computer to make sure there's no trace left."

"Alright. I'll see you there."

"Don't wear a jacket - just shirt and pants - and make sure you've got the money. Otherwise, I'll go straight to the cops, I promise."

"I'll be there."

I hung up and looked across the table at Mr McDonald and Detectives Lightfoot and Grace. They'd been monitoring the call on headphones attached to a laptop.

Lightfoot took off his headphones. "You've got a big future as a blackmailer."

"Thanks."

Mr McDonald said: "He'll probably try to kill you, you know?"

"Yes, but not until he gets the tape." I looked at Lightfoot. "Then you'll step in, right?"

"Of course."

Mr McDonald's warning hit home. Until now I'd been so excited about my plan to trap Robert Thornton that I hadn't really considered the danger. That was starting to change. Maybe I should have minded my own business.

Three cars of Homicide detectives arrived at Fleur-de-lis just after three o'clock. I was in the last one with Mr McDonald, and Detectives Lightfoot and Grace. The butler, Michael Barker, got a big surprise when he saw a pack of detectives at the front entrance. I explained why we were there and persuaded him to stay out of the way.

Once we were inside, Lightfoot got me to don a light bullet-proof vest and one of his men wired me with a listening device.

Then I had a tense wait while Lightfoot fussed around the mansion positioning his men and setting up electronic surveillance equipment.

Robert Thornton was right on time. At five o'clock the front buzzer sounded and I fearfully opened the door. Thornton stood on the front step, nervously looking around. He wore a white shirt, no jacket, and carried a large briefcase.

My voice almost cracked. "Got the money?"

His voice was just as reedy. "Of course. You got the tape?"

"Definitely. You're unarmed, right?" Dumb question.

"Yes."

"Turn around."

He turned around and I saw no suspicious bulges. Looked like Mr McDonald's prediction that Thornton would try to kill me was wrong. In any event, I probably wasn't in danger until he had the tape and I'd told him how much I knew.

I said: "Follow me."

We kept a wary eye on each other as I led him across the entrance hall, down a corridor and into the butler's office.

I pointed to a chair. "Sit down."

He sat, briefcase on his lap, and studied the two wall-mounted television screens showing CCTV footage of the outside.

I sat behind the desk. "You didn't know there was a CCTV camera out the front, did you?"

He frowned. "I did, but forgot. You say you also speak for the butler?"

"Yes. We're working together. You give me half-a-million and I'll take care of him."

"Does he also have a copy of the CCTV tape?"

"No. I've got the only one."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can because I don't give a shit about Bruce Thornton or Quilin Chen. They were rich arseholes who deserved to die. You did the world a big favour bumping them off, seriously. Give me half-a-mill and you'll never hear from me again." It was easy to sound convincing, because I believed most of that.

"I'm still not sure."

"Look, once you've given me $500,000, I can't go to the cops, can I? They'd arrest me too. Giving me the money is your insurance that I'll play ball."

"I guess so."

I leaned back. "You know, I spoke to Mick Naganjara a couple of days ago."

He flinched. "You did?"

"Yes. He said you went to see him recently and asked about Dirk Carter. Your mum told you that Carter was your real dad, didn't she? Then Mick told you that Bruce Thornton murdered him?"

"So what?"

"Very poetic, the way you made sure Bruce Thornton died in a light plane, like Dirk Carter."

A sudden scowl. "Arsehole deserved to die. Treated me like shit all my life. I was so happy when I found out he wasn't my dad and I could kill him."

Bingo. Book him Danno.

"And then you found out Quilin Chen was pregnant and decided she had to die as well."

"Fucking gold-digger. She deserved it too. Where's the tape?"

I opened a drawer, pulled out a flash drive and put it on the desk in front of me. "It's stored on that. The CCTV footage is also backed up onto a host computer. You should destroy that before you leave. Now, where's the money?"

"In here."

He slung the large briefcase onto the desk.

I expected him to reach out and grab the flash drive. Instead, to my surprise, he jumped up and sprinted out the door.

For a moment, I was stunned. Why leave the money and the flash drive behind? The answer was obvious: he expected the flash drive - and me \- to disintegrate very soon.

"Oh, shit," I screamed.

I jumped up and surged towards the door, feet hardly touching the ground.

I'd just passed through it, several seconds behind him, when an enormous explosion threw me against the opposite wall of the corridor. Darkness descended.

I woke on my back, ears ringing and the smell of burnt carpet in my nostrils. A bright light danced in front of my eyes, which slowly adjusted. Detective Inspector Grace was crouched over me, shining a penlight into my eyes. What the hell did he think he was doing?

"How do you feel?" he said.

My jaw felt tight. "Wart the ferkk happened?"

Mr McDonald and Detective Superintendent Lightfoot stood just behind him, staring down at me. Recent events tumbled back into my soggy brain. I remembered Robert Thornton dashing out of the office with me in hot pursuit.

Mr McDonald spoke to Detective Grace. "Will he be OK?"

"Think so." He held some fingers in front of my face. "How many?"

"Three."

"Good. Do you want us to call an ambulance?"

I slowly sat up and put my back against the wall. My head was clearing and the ringing in my ears abating. Through a blackened door-frame, I saw the charred wreckage of the office. Inside, a detective was using a fire extinguisher to put out spot fires. My jaw seemed back to normal. "No, not yet. What happen?"

Mr McDonald said: "Robert Thornton tried to kill you with a bomb in his briefcase. You've been unconscious for about five minutes."

"Shit-head. Where is he?"

Detective Lightfoot said: "We arrested him in the entrance hall, as he tried to flee the scene. We're going to charge him and Lauren Gourlay with murder."

"Have you arrested her?"

"Not yet. Will shortly."

"So you've got enough evidence now to charge both?"

"Plenty. We've got him on tape, confessing to you that he brought down the plane. I bet we'll even find that the explosive he just used is the same as the stuff used to sabotage the plane. Looks like an open-and-shut case to me. So, well done."

Detective Grace said: "And, of course, if all else fails, we can charge him with attempting to murder you. Can you stand up?"

I rose gingerly.

"Good. How're you feeling?"

"I'll survive."

"Great. Sure you don't want an ambulance?"

I hated hospitals. "No, I'll be fine."

"My God," someone said.

I glanced sideways and saw the butler, Michael Barker, staring wide-eyed into his office.

I said: "Sorry about that. Things got out of hand."

He shrugged. "Forget about it. It's not my property."

I looked around for Mr McDonald, but he had disappeared.

CHAPTER 21

For the next few days, the fates of Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay dominated the news media. After their arrests, they were taken to police headquarters and charged with murdering everyone on the executive jet. Then they were kept in the cells overnight. The next morning, they appeared before a magistrate for a bail hearing. During the hearing, the crown prosecutor claimed they killed Quilin Chen and her unborn child to protect Robert's inheritance, and killed Bruce Thornton to avenge the murder of Robert's real father, Dirk Carter. The prosecutor said the police had a tape recording of Robert Thornton confessing to sabotaging the plane, and had obtained CCTV footage of Lauren Gourlay delivering a suspicious suitcase to Fleur-de-lis on the morning of the flight.

The magistrate said that, while the prosecution had a strong case against both accused, there was no danger they would re-offend and granted them bail on condition they each deposited $1 million as security. That evening, TV news programs showed them rushing out of court, amid a phalanx of lawyers, and jumping into a waiting car which whisked them away.

The price of Thornton Mining Corporation shares had sagged after the death of Bruce Thornton. Now it plunged by two-thirds and the Australian Stock Exchange suspended trading. The finance press reported that Chinese investors, who had agreed to invest $10 billion in the Eucla Mine project, now looked certain to pull out of the deal.

As I expected, because I deserved all the credit for Thornton and Gourlay being brought to justice, I got none at all. My name wasn't mentioned at the bail hearing and, afterwards, Detective Superintendent Lightfoot gave a curbside press conference during which he didn't mention me. Instead, he denied ever suspecting that an Aborigine sabotaged the plane and claimed the arrests resulted from "patient and probing" police work. The man was wanking in public.

Lightfoot later privately told me that, at the trial, I would be his star witness. In the meantime, I was free to go.

I called Wally, to tell him what had happened. He congratulated me and said I'd turned in a "Brownlow Medal performance" which put a small lump in my throat.

Next, I phoned Anne and told her I was catching the next flight back to Canberra. She asked me if I had any inside information on the arrests of Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay. I said I'd reveal what I knew when I got home. That seemed to mollify her. I would work out, on the flight home, how much to tell her about my recent escapades and then give her the edited version face-to-face.

She said: "I look forward to seeing you. But I warn you that I've made some changes back here."

My heart thumped. After Tommy told me "Mummy's got a new friend" who was "very, very tall", I was terrified Anne was having an affair. Was she preparing to give me a big heave-ho?

"What sort of changes?"

"You'll see when you get here."

"What changes?" I said desperately.

"You'll see," she said and hung up.

Shit. Surely, I didn't survive gun-toting Chinese spies, a night in the desert without water and a bomb explosion, only to discover I was a cuckold and Tommy was going to get a new dad.

When I checked out of the Chancellor Hotel, I didn't have to pay for my room because Thornton Mining Corporation had booked it, though I bet that crumbling entity would never pay the bill. However, I had to buy my own economy airline ticket back to Canberra, which really pissed me off.

My plane left Perth at mid-morning. I spent the flight in a state of high anxiety. Was Anne having an affair? Would she dump me when I got home? She got very upset when she thought I might have died in the executive jet crash. However, I couldn't take much comfort from that, because she was a very decent stick and I was the father of her child.

I wondered if any close friends could tell me if she was having an affair. Embarrassingly, the only candidate was my neighbour Alex Parmenter, a dope-smoking archivist at the Department of Finance. I normally wouldn't trust him to put out my bins. But, when stalking your partner, you can't be choosey.

Somewhere over South Australia, I pulled out my mobile phone and gave him a call at work. We exchanged hellos and he said, in a stoner drawl: "I haven't seen you for a while, mate. You in Canberra?"

I'd told him twice that I was going to Sydney to interview Darcy Gresham, but he obviously forgot. Maybe calling him wasn't a great idea. I said: "I'm away on business. In fact, I'm calling because I'm a bit worried about Anne. Want to make sure she's safe. Have you seen anyone strange lurking about the neighbourhood?"

Long pause while he rubbed his last two brain cells together, and blew one up. "Nah, don't think so."

"Has Anne had any, umm, visitors?"

"What's that got to do with her safety?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering, I guess."

"Hah. Getting a bit suspicious, are you?" He wasn't as dumb as I hoped.

"Yeah, just a bit."

"Don't blame you. Nah, haven't seen any visitors. But I don't pay any attention. You want me to keep a look-out?"

I'd be home in a couple of hours. "No, don't bother."

"OK. When you get back, drop over and we'll have a beer - I've brewed a new batch."

"Will do."

I hung up and sighed loudly enough to drown out the plane's engine.

After the plane landed, I caught a taxi to my townhouse in Ainslie and arrived just after six o'clock, light fading. I struggled up the footpath with my suitcase and knocked on the door. To my surprise, Anne answered, home early from work, still wearing a business suit.

She looked nervous and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Hi."

"Hi."

Jesus, something was wrong. I was obviously going to get the Order of the Boot and have to spend the night in a hotel. Maybe she'd already packed my bags. At least, if she had, that would save some embarrassment.

She said: "Freda's taken Tommy out for a walk. Should be back soon. Put your bag down and come into the kitchen."

She'd obviously come home early - and told Freda and Tommy to clear out - so she could give me the big kiss-off in private. I wanted her to dispatch me now, but she'd already disappeared up the hallway.

I nervously followed her out to the kitchen. When we got there, I noticed something was very odd. What? To the best of my recollection, the cupboards and benches used to be red? Now they were blue. It fact, they used to look ratty and now looked new. The oven and fridge were sparkling white.

"She said: "What do you think?"

"It looks different."

She frowned. "Of course it looks different. I told you I've made some changes back here. I've had a new kitchen installed. I also bought some new garden furniture, and a guy's going to do some landscaping next week."

I didn't know whether to be happy or pissed off. I wasn't going to get dumped - not yet, anyway - but she'd bought an expensive new car without my approval, and now a new kitchen which must have cost a bomb. "Where'd you get the money from?" I said with deep foreboding.

"From your account, of course. The furniture only cost a few thousand, but the kitchen cost about $30,000 and the landscaping will cost about $10,000. So, after we've paid for all that, there'll still be about $8,000 in the account." She spoke like she deserved a good housekeeping award. It would have been nice if she'd put some money aside for tax, but she obviously forgot about that.

"Christ, $10,000 for landscaping? You've already accepted the quote?"

"Yes. I think it's cheap. This is the guy's card."

She picked up a business card and handed it over: "Mike Friendly - Landscape Gardener" was embossed in gold.

Mike Friendly. My heart leapt with joy. "Oh, is that why Tommy said you had a new friend: he was referring to Mike Friendly?"

"I guess so. He gets a bit confused."

"So do I, sometimes."

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "You didn't think, did you ...?"

"Of course not," I said stoutly.

"Good. So what do you think of the new kitchen?"

No good crying over spilt money. "It's great. You've done an excellent job."

She was easy to convince. "Thanks. I knew you'd like it."

I usually keep my inner Don Juan shackled in the basement of my mind. However, my relief that I wasn't a cuckold and my guilt that I'd been away for so long, made me careless and I allowed him to escape. "You said we'll have $8,000 left in the account?"

"Yep, about that."

"Maybe we should spend it on something nice for you, like some jewellery?"

"You mean, like a ring?"

Damn. I hadn't thought she'd demand a ring. Dumb, dumb move. "Umm, OK, a ring if you want."

"You mean, like an engagement ring?"

I started off talking about jewellery and now, with two brilliant moves, she had me in checkmate. I'd made a blunder of epic proportions that would change my life forever.

"Are you saying you want to get married?" I squeaked, hoping she'd back off.

A beady stare. "You offering to marry me?"

My brain said "No" and my cowardly tongue said "Yes".

She smiled. "Then yes, I do."

I started to wish she was having an affair. "OK."

A look of poorly concealed triumph. "Good. We are now officially engaged. When do you want to get married?"

Stall, stall. "I'll have to look in my diary."

"You don't keep a diary anymore."

"True. Then let's tie the knot in, say, a year or so. That'll give us time to arrange everything and give our guests plenty of warning."

To my surprise, she shrugged. "OK."

Having got a commitment, she dropped the issue. She would keep circling back to it, tightening the noose each time. I'd started a doomsday machine which I could only hope to slow down, not stop.

She showed me around the new kitchen, extolling the quality of the fit-out and appliances. She didn't need to. Any kitchen that cost $30,000 couldn't be rubbish.

She said: "Do you want to go and see the car?"

"No, I'll see it soon enough."

Just then, Tommy and Freda returned. Tommy raced across the floor and slammed into my knees. "Daddy, Daddy."

I picked him up, tossed him in the air several times and listened to him scream with delight. When I put him down, I was so happy that I even smiled at my mother-in-law. "Hello, Freda."

A tentative smile. "Good evening."

Freda looked across at Anne. "Ready for dinner?"

Because Freda was the cook, I can't tell you what dish we ate, except to say that it contained tough meat and over-cooked vegetables. Tommy, the lucky little bugger, got to eat beans out of a can.

Freda and I sat across from each other like gunfighters playing high-stakes poker, coldly polite but always ready for gunplay. To her credit, she praised me for paying for the car and kitchen, though her tone said: "It was about time you were generous". She also opened up her heart to describe her sadness at the death of Bruce Thornton. "He was a great Australian. He did so much for this country."

I said: "True. And he paid for our car and kitchen."

She missed that barb. "I bet you were one of the last people he talked to?"

"Yes. We discussed his political views."

"I bet that was interesting."

"Yes, and totally frightening. He really was a shocking fascist."

Freda frowned and Anne shot me a warning glance. I backed off.

After dinner, we moved to the lounge room and watched a cooking competition on television. Anne and Freda reacted with malevolent glee when the contestant they hated most got booted off the show. "She put too much paprika on the chicken," Freda crowed viciously. Who was she to talk?

Emotionally sated, Freda sighed and went to bed, leaving Anne and me alone.

"How much longer is Freda going to be here?" I said, trying to sound indifferent.

"Not long. Maybe a few more days. She's been a big help. Now, tell me what happened in Perth."

To punish her for tricking me into making a marriage proposal, I told her everything that happened in Western Australia, even mentioning the Chinese spies. Maybe that would stop her wanting to tie the knot.

However, to my surprise, she often expressed shock and anger, but seemed to believe me. When I finished, she said: "That was very brave of you, staying in Perth to protect us."

"You're both worth it," I said with surprising conviction.

"Thank you. But why didn't you tell me all of this before?"

"I didn't want to say this stuff on the phone, and I didn't want to worry you."

"Fair enough. At least I now understand why that Chinese guy turned up here last week."

My heart thumped. "What Chinese guy?"

"I came home a bit early one day and found him wandering around the front yard in Water Board overalls. He claimed he was looking for the water meter. I had to tell him it was in the back yard."

"Did he go out the back?"

"Nope. Got into his van and pissed off."

"He probably was from the Water Board."

"No, he wasn't. The next morning, I saw him drive past this place in a Merc, having sticky-beak."

"Shit. Sure it was him?"

"Yes."

I shuddered with relief. "I'm sorry about that. I thought that, if I stayed in Perth, they wouldn't bother you back here."

"Don't worry. Everything's turned out alright. But you're a ghost-writer. That's supposed to be a quiet profession. Why the hell do you keep getting involved in this sort of shit?"

"It seems to be my one special skill. You still sure you want to marry me?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not pulling out."

At least time was on my side. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"You know what really pisses me off?"

"What?"

"You won't make any money out of the movie they're making about Wally O'Keefe. That's so unfair. You basically put Wally on the map."

"I'm not sure about that. He did have a glittering football career and win three Brownlow Medals before he met me."

"So what? Every hero needs a troubadour, and you're his."

"Hadn't thought about it like that."

She put her hand on my knee and gave me a warm look. "Anyway, let's go upstairs. I want to see if you're a better root now you're my fiancée."

CHAPTER 22

The next morning I got a call from the literary agent, Sue Prideaux, who dispensed with her usual toffy tone and immediately asked me "why the fuck" I hadn't submitted Darcy Gresham's book for publication. When I blathered about being stuck in Perth because of "difficult family circumstances", she cut me short and said that if I didn't finish the book within two weeks I shouldn't bother finishing it, because it would miss the vital Christmas season. I assured her that I would interview Gresham again very soon and complete the book within two weeks.

That pleased her. "Good. And by the way, I got a call from Wally O'Keefe about you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Remember we discussed the movie about his life ..."

"Yes. It's going ahead?"

"Definitely. Contracts have been signed and shooting starts sometime in the middle of next year. Anyway, Wally said he wants to make sure you get an acting role."

I giggled. "Did he? He's a very sweet guy."

"He is. But I can't force the director to cast you and you're not even in the actors' union."

"And I can't act."

"That too."

"Look, don't worry. When I mentioned that to Wally, I was joking. I'm touched he remembered it."

"OK. Then I won't do anything. But if I hear about a cameo role, I'll mention your name - seriously."

"Thanks."

"Alright then, get to work."

When I told Anne I had to return to Sydney for a few days to finish interviewing Darcy Gresham, she said she wasn't happy that I was going away again. I said I wasn't happy either, but I had little choice after she burnt through about $90,000 in a fortnight and I still hadn't bought her engagement ring. "So I've got to either finish this book or sell my arse - or possibly do both." She went quiet after that.

In the departure lounge of Canberra Airport, waiting to catch a flight to Sydney, I spied a large pile of complimentary copies of The Australian. I grabbed one and sat down to read it. The story below the fold on the front page, jumped out at me.

EUCLA MINING PROJECT CHIEF

GEOLOGIST GAOLED FOR FRAUD

The embattled Eucla iron ore project in the Pilbara region received a further blow yesterday when its chief geologist, Mr David "Tex" Moran, pleaded guilty in the Supreme Court of Western Australia to falsifying the size of the deposit and insider trading, and was sentenced to eight years in gaol.

The prosecution fact sheet handed up to Justice Norton said Mr Moran's fraudulent activities came to light when Chinese investors, who had agreed to invest $10 billion in the project, conducted a due diligence investigation. That investigation revealed that the Eucla deposit has much less iron ore than Mr Moran regularly claimed in reports he submitted to the Australian Stock Exchange. Indeed, the true size of the deposit makes it entirely uneconomical to mine.

The fact sheet said that Mr Moran overstated the value of the deposit so that he and a circle of friends could profit from spikes in the price of shares in Thornton Mining Corporation, which owns the deposit. There is no suggestion that Bruce Thornton, who owned most of the shares in the corporation and recently died in a plane crash, was aware of the fraud.

A close friend of Bruce Thornton, who did not wish to be named, said yesterday: "Bruce was absolutely convinced the Eucla deposit was a fantastic resource. He dedicated twenty years of his life to exploiting it. If he'd known what Tex Moran was doing - that the deposit was a mirage - it would have destroyed him. Maybe it's best that he died before he found out about it."

It now appears certain that the Thornton Mining Corporation will go into liquidation and the Eucla project will collapse.

I couldn't stop laughing. The irony of the Eucla Mine being worthless kneed me in the balls and kicked me in the head while I lay on the ground. It confirmed beyond dispute that life was an absurdist farce.

A little girl with cute pigtails stopped in front of me and stared. "Mummy, the man is crying. Is he alright."

Her mother saw the tears running down my cheeks and looked worried. "Are you alright, mate?"

I wiped them away and struggled for breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm actually laughing."

Her expression said I was a lunatic. She turned to her daughter. "Roxy, come over here."

After giving me a quizzical stare, the child returned to her mother.
CHAPTER 23

Once again, interviewing Darcy Gresham was the verbal equivalent of trench warfare. For two days he responded to my questions with grunts and monosyllabic answers. Then, to my surprise, I asked him what pets he had as a child, and he waxed lyrical about the personalities and idiosyncrasies of his various dogs. Indeed he made them sound much more real than his girlfriends.

While we talked, he insisted on having the television switched on with the sound off. He had just started talking about a dog called Robbie when there appeared, on the screen, footage of several fire trucks parked outside a large mansion engulfed in flames. Firemen were dousing it with water. The tag-line at the bottom of the screen said: "Murder accused die in fire." Photographs of Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay popped onto the screen. Holy shit.

While Gresham babbled away, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the sound. A heavily moustached uniformed policeman stood in front of the now smouldering mansion with reporters clustered around him.

He said: "I can confirm that two people died in the mansion last night: the owner, Robert Thornton, and a woman called Lauren Gourlay. Both were charged last week with murdering Bruce Thornton and his wife, Quilin Chen."

A female reporter yelled: "Can you tell us how they died?"

"There hasn't been a post-mortem yet. However, it appears both were shot dead before the fire started."

"Was it a murder-suicide?"

"We don't think so."

"Why not?"

"A neighbour saw two Asian males run from the house after the fire started. They got into a green Mercedes and drove away."

"Have you identified them?"

"No. Anyone who may have seen them should contact the CrimeStoppers Hotline."

The news program shifted to another item and I turned off the television.

Darby Gresham said: "What's happening? Why was that important?"

I ignored him. The mobile phone Mr McDonald gave me was still in my travel bag, on the floor. I rummaged around inside and eventually found the phone. Thank God. I rushed out of the apartment, down to the pavement and pressed "0".

Mr McDonald answered. "Hello."

"Hello, Paul Ryder here. What the hell's going on?"

"Oh, you've heard about their deaths?"

"Yes. I thought the Chinese were going to leave them alone."

"They broke their agreement." He didn't sound upset.

"Why?"

"I can only speculate. They were already very pissed off about the death of General Quilin Chen. I bet they got even angrier when they found out the Eucla Mine was a dud. Lots of people in China lost a lot of face. After that, all bets were off."

"There's no suggestion Robert Thornton or Lauren Gourlay were involved in the fraud, is there?"

"No. But so what? Robert was a key figure in the project. He was easy to blame. Now, with them dead, the Chinese can close the file on their operation and give themselves medals."

"What's our government going to do?"

"Nothing. Actually, that's not quite right; it will do something: it'll pretend this didn't happen."

"You mean, the Chinese can just strut down here, kill two people, and get away with it?"

"Sure can. They're the biggest kid on the block. We can't afford to offend them. Much easier to look the other way."

"Hell. I'm not voting at the next election."

"I never vote. Now throw away your phone and don't call me again."

He hung up.

I strolled across the beach, past broiling sun-bathers, deep in thought. My chat with Mr McDonald reminded me of the conversation I heard between him and Wei Kim in my hotel room. Something about it had troubled me for a while, though I couldn't work out what. At the water's edge, I tossed the mobile far out into the surf. As I watched it sail through the air and smack into the side of a wave, I suddenly realised what was odd about the conversation: Mr McDonald agreed to consult his superiors about Robert Thornton and Lauren Gourlay, then contact Kim; but he never asked Kim for his phone number. He obviously knew it already. How? Maybe ASIO had Kim under electronic surveillance. But Kim was a top-level spy. Surely he would keep his phone number hidden, if he had one. So maybe Mr McDonald knew Kim's number because Mr McDonald was, in fact, working for the Chinese.

Jeez. I had joked to Mr McDonald that, in ten years' time, we'd all be working for the Chinese. Maybe the Chinese were already cutting him a pay cheque. Or maybe too much exposure to spies had driven me around the twist. That was quite possible.

When I strolled back into Darcy Gresham's apartment, pondering what had just occurred, he was doing push-ups in a track-suit. He stopped and sat cross-legged. "What was all that about?"

"Oh, nothing to do with you. I just discovered, once again, that you can't trust anyone."

"Bloody true - particularly football coaches."

I sat in a wicker chair and saw the tape machine on the coffee table was still running. "Now, where were we?"

"We were talking about Robbie."

"Robbie who?"

"Robbie my Irish Setter."

"Oh, yeah - keep talking."

THE END
