Читать книгу Redback - Lindy Cameron - Страница 6

Laui Island, Pacific Ocean

Tuesday evening

Dr Jana Rossi pledged a silent oath of allegiance to anyone who could get her out of this mess. With the same breath she also hoped that this time the rebels would shoot her companion, otherwise she'd have no choice but to kill the stupid bastard herself.

She also knew that developing a grudge was better than sitting in fear, and the desire to hurt Alan Wagner was quite empowering. If this was anger management, then it worked for her.

Alan, meanwhile, was giving his testosterone a pep talk as he got ready to get them both seriously hurt. He actually gave Jana a patronising in-charge wink. The sound of returning bootsteps did not bode well for either of them. She knew that.

She hit Alan as hard as she could.

When the two gunmen flung their door open they found her waiting quietly, and him doubled over groaning about his balls.

'You come now,' the taller one said. 'Both you.'

Jana did as she was told. It was more sensible than giving lip to a teenager with a semi-automatic.

Once outside their bure they were shoved along the winding path through the tropical vegetation. She knew it led towards the dining room, about 50 metres away on the far side of the waterfall-pool and beach volleyball area. As soon as they cleared the private gardens, Alan stumbled and fell. One soldier laughed, the other kicked him in the ribs; both trained their weapons on him.

Jana stopped and waited. Unlike her roommate, she knew it was pointless to make a break for it. There could be no escape from here without outside help. And that was unlikely. Still, and ever the optimist, she scanned the grounds between them and the lagoon for any signs of rescue.

Twilight in the tropics, she noted irrelevantly, is just a state of mind. The sun sinks so fast near the equator that day becomes night in a blink of the eye. And while Jana had never seen a sunset look so ominously like blood smeared on the horizon, she caught her breath in that moment before dark and hoped that what she'd glimpsed was a conning tower. Then she laughed silently at her wishful thinking. Given her luck this week, she'd just seen the arse end of a cruise ship.

Alan was now dusting himself down and shrugging the boy soldiers off, as if they were nothing.

What kind of rebels are these? One of the men pushed her in the back to hurry her on. If she so wanted to kill Alan, why the hell didn't they?

Movements to her left caught her attention. A magnificent banyan tree, the focal point of the resort's three swimming pools, was still covered in streamers and coloured lights from the traditional welcome they'd been given nine days ago. Now she saw it was occupied by four grotty rebels inside a circle of mounted machine guns. All directions were covered, but one of the guns was aimed at the five-star bures - the cabins - of Laui Island's East Garden. They were now nothing more than superbly appointed thatched prison cells that held the other randomly paired-off members of the Pacific Tourism & Enviro-Trade Conference.

The dining room was shut-up. While the bures were self-contained and lockable, most of the resort's communal buildings like the bar, theatre and convention room, had folding timber storm doors rather than permanent walls. Ordinarily, they were rarely used. Given the balmy evening and crystal-clear sky, why was the dining room closed in?

Their escorts stopped in the sand below the outdoor deck and ordered, 'You wait.'

Jana grabbed Alan's sleeve and yanked him to a stand still. 'Don't aggravate them any more Alan.'

'Stupid bitch. We'd be outta here now if you'd follow me.'

'No. We'd be dead now. Didn't you see that little arsenal?' She pointed to the banyan tree.

Alan looked up. She saw his shoulders stiffen but he was not about to admit his near death error. Jana strained to identify the voices coming from the dining room. One belonged to Mila Ifran, the leader of these island rebels, but while the other man's first language was obviously English, his accent was hard to determine. Not a rebel or a staff member then.

Jana allowed herself a grain of hope: perhaps all the other delegates were inside. Maybe the rebels' demands had been met and their release had been secured.

And perhaps you're already dead and stuck forever in a nightmare. No one negotiates with rebels, terrorists or kidnappers any more. No governments, no agencies, no one.

As if verifying that notion, Jana heard Ifran say, 'What is taking so long? Do they not believe we are serious? What is wrong with these Australians?'

'The Americans probably,' the other man said. 'What did you expect, Mila? If you only wanted to deal with the Aussies or Kiwis, you should've made sure there were no US citizens here.'

'But there are only two of them,' Ifran shouted. He appeared in the doorway and motioned at them with a toss of his head.

Jana led the way up steps, while Alan whispered in her ear, 'Let me do the talking.'

'I don't think so, Alan. Let's see who he wants to talk to.' She was, after all, the conference chairperson and official delegate of the Australian Economic Tourism Council, while Alan Wagner was merely a Sydney TV journo on a travel junket. She was also a trade negotiator of some international renown, and far less obnoxious.

There's that other thing too, she thought, but there's no way these rebels could know about that.

As Jana entered the dining room, she noticed two things immediately: Mila Ifran was alone; and the space had undergone a technological transformation since she'd been dragged here seven days ago. Then the rebels hadn't cleared away the mess they'd made in the initial attack; now the place was clean, tidy and full of high-tech equipment. Highly suspicious, high-tech equipment.

Jana frowned. These were island rebels. Dressed in a motley assortment of tourist T-shirts and camouflage pants or khaki shorts; their 'uniforms' reflected the grassroots poverty that topped a long list of grievances against their government. Yet here were several tables covered with laptop computers and state of the art communication and surveillance gear.

While Alan tried to take control of the situation, Jana's already baffled attention was drawn to the swinging kitchen door, through which she caught sight of a departing soldier. Obviously it was the man with whom Mila Ifran had been talking, but why was he alone wearing pristine combat fatigues? And since when do Pacific Islanders - rebel or not - have red hair?

Sixth rule of survival, Rossi style: never admit seeing or knowing anything you weren't meant to.

Mila Ifran meanwhile told Alan Wagner to shut up and sit down and then turned to Jana.

'Dr Rossi.'

'Mr Ifran,' she nodded.

'I trust my men are taking good care of you,' he said, indicating she should sit opposite him.

Jana shrugged. 'More than one meal a day would be nice but, given the circumstances, they are being quite, ah, polite.'

'Good. I,' Ifran began.

'Bloody hell, woman!' Alan exploded. 'We've been held hostage for over a week by a bunch of filthy bastards with guns.'

Ifran raised his hand. 'Have you been harmed?'

Alan opened his mouth.

'Not by your people he hasn't,' Jana interrupted, with a smile. First rule of negotiating, Rossi style: charm or disarm with polite composure. No matter how scared you are.

'Are the other delegates okay?' she asked.

'Yes. They are fine.' Ifran leant forward, turned a TV on and picked up a remote control. 'Your famous mediating skills, Dr Rossi, would involve being able to read people, yes?'

'Of course.'

'Then I would like you to tell me, if you can, what you think your government is up to.' He pointed the remote at a video recorder. 'This was recorded about five hours ago.'

The tail end of a Sky News update on an Aussie cricketer was followed by the latest on the Pacific Island Hostage Crisis.

Jana shook her head. 'Straight up, I can tell you that news of an injured sportsman is more important than anything our government is ever up to.'

The TV newsreader, backed by a graphic of an island, was recapping the events of nine days ago:

Thirty-six trade and tourism delegates from Australia, New Zealand, Japan, the US and several Pacific nations were taken hostage at the Coral Isle Resort on remote Laui Island.

One-time Opposition Leader Mila Ifran and members of his Pacific Rebel Alliance have claimed responsibility for the attack. Despite initial witness reports of explosions and gunfire, the rebel leader maintains that none of the hostages or remaining staff had been hurt. Before normal communications with Laui were cut, 17 resort employees were cast off the island in a launch. They confirmed that the rebels had then sunk the hotel's remaining commuter vessels.

The rebels used fishing boats to reach the resort atoll from their base on the main island 13 kilometres away. As these vessels and their crews have since been impounded and arrested by the Australian Navy, it's believed that the PRA are also, effectively, confined to the island of Laui.

'Is that true?' Jana asked.

'Effectively,' Ifran agreed. 'Watch now,' he added.

The newsreader continued:

The Foreign Minister today postponed his visit to Kuwait for talks with the US Secretary of State, to meet instead with ministers from New Zealand, Fiji and the Philippines in an attempt to find a solution to the hostage crisis. Representatives from Taiwan, Japan and the US are also en route to New Zealand. Many of these same ministers will be meeting in Canberra in a fortnight when Australia hosts the fifth SETSA meeting. High on the agenda for the now annual Southern Economic Trade and Security Alliance will be new initiatives to fight the rise of militancy, insurgency and cross-border terrorism within the 'South Pole to 23 degrees north' zone.

Mr Danby had this to say before flying out to Wellington:

'The purpose of the emergency meeting in Wellington is to discuss ways of opening a dialogue with the rebels on Laui. From all accounts Mila Ifran is a reasonable man; much loved and respected. We should have no trouble finding a solution.'

When a reporter asked the Minister if he was going to agree to the PRA's demands, he said:

'No. We don't negotiate with kidnappers. But we will open talks with Mr Ifran and try to resolve the issue.'

Jana noted the Foreign Minister looked smug and smarmy, as usual, but also more harried than she'd ever seen him. Aaron Danby, great with the big-picture spin but hopeless with the personal detail. It was one thing to grip the tailgate of the US bandwagon and commit troops to overseas duty with the American posse, but another altogether to be responsible for the lives of nine Australian civilians. Especially when their names and mugshots were running across the screen as he spoke.

Ifran hit the pause button. 'What does he mean, Dr Rossi? How can he say he doesn't negotiate but he will talk to us?'

'He means that he will ask what you want in exchange for our release.'

Ifran looked puzzled. 'Isn't that negotiating?'

'Only in the real world, Mr Ifran.'

'Will he give us what we want?'

'It won't be up to him alone and it depends what it is. What do you want?'

'For our government to hold a free election monitored by the United Nations. Or by Australia.'

'This is a bloody stupid way to go about it.'

'Quiet, Alan,' Jana snapped. 'Is that it? Sorry. I know that's a huge thing, but is that all you want?'

Ifran shrugged. 'And for the aid that has been provided by Australia to reach the people it was meant for; instead of lining the pockets of our corrupt politicians.'

'I don't mean to be a cynical hack,' Alan interrupted again, 'but foreign aid never goes from a country to a people. It goes from one government to another; and even then only when the government with the dosh has an agenda to keep the other one in power.'

'We seek to change that,' Ifran said.

'I'm sure you do,' Alan said nodding.

Ifran glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers in the doorway. 'Take him back. Then escort Dr Rossi to the other cabins, so she may check on her delegates.'

'Thank you.' Jana smiled her best smile.

'You may not go inside. Just a few words with each to make sure they are well.' Ifran dismissed them both with a wave and turned his attention to a laptop and its incoming-email chime. Jana had barely reached the door when Ifran threw a final, apparently casual, question at her.

'Will he negotiate for you Dr Rossi?'

Jana's stomach lurched from hungry to queasy. 'I'm not holding my breath, Mr Ifran. So I wouldn't count on it.'

'What did he mean by that?' Alan demanded, as soon as they were back on the path.

'I've no idea, Alan,' Jana lied, wishing she'd had the sense to beg to be locked up anywhere else.