had very possibly made its way to Australia.
No, it hadn’t been wise to drink away most of his life’s earnings and “piss it away” at a dozen pubs in London’s east end. But that was behind him now; now he had to succeed—this once—and earn the nest egg his indulgence had hatched prematurely.
His mind raced in time with the train as it made its way to Heathrow. How had his career come to depend on this: a “pre-retirement send-off,” an anticlimactic “one for the road?”
He closed his eyes, let his head slump against the cool window pane. The lights striking his closed lids merged with a tired reverie of the trip he was embarking upon. A trip to what was once an English convict’s last stop, what was now, instead, an island paradise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The house was dark as Harriet pulled into the driveway. She got out of the car, swung the door closed, caught it, reached back in and scooped up her purse, balancing it with her keys in her right hand; the envelope tumbled out as she re-closed the car door. It lay on the wet gravel in front of her, a gem in a rustic setting. Harriet bent over to retrieve it and dropped her keys. She grunted and crouched down, grabbed all of her things and unlocked the door. She flicked the light switch with her elbow.
World War Three had been fought in the living room of No. 10, Lindon St.
She gasped, dropped her purse, and her keys, slumped into the sofa, rested her heels on the hardwood floor.
The envelope lay in front of the fireplace, center stage.
“What on earth is happening to me?” she asked herself in the quiet of the Sydney evening.
The envelope was magnetic; her eyes were fastened to it now. It seemed almost to taunt her, to dare her to open it and further complicate her life, to add intrigue to extra-marital affair. Her mind reeled. She thought of Tom, of the intrusion of “romance” into her life, and at “her age.” She folded her arms, clutched herself, feeling the pain of her infidelity. “Money, marriage, madness!” she thought as she brooded over her relationship with Tom. And he was gone, in America. “And you’re here, alone,” she thought, lashing herself with her words.
“What was in that envelope?”
She slid off the sofa and sat, Indian-style on the bare floor. She picked up the envelope, turned it over, ran her long, ruby thumbnail along its edge, breaking the glue and tape sealing it. The “precious cargo” was a nearly blank sheet of typing paper, blank except for one lone word in the center of the page:
Kawanga.
CHAPTER NINE
Donald Brant was in one helluva mess.
He lay there, thinking about the plush surroundings of the hotel room back in Sydney. How he longed for a shower, some food, a return to civilization. He was sure he hadn’t been abandoned here more than a day and a half. His athletic background assured him of survival without water for three days, without sleep for four, and a month or more without food.
He was all right.
It took all the strength he could muster, but he did it. He pushed and strained and finally flipped himself over onto his back. He guessed it was after six o’clock. The sky above was a deep purple. He lay in the sand trying to get his bearings. He sat up slowly, resting most of his weight on his elbows, surveying the situation. The air was clear, the night quiet, a few faint stars watched overhead. He scanned the horizon and then eased himself up onto his feet. He swayed, regained his balance and began the slow trek toward town.
A mirage at night?
The sound of a Jeep engine approached him from a distance like a bullet. The vehicle spun in front of him spraying him with sand. Toby, one of Harley’s men, sat there, poker-faced, the engine idling roughly. The only sound was Toby’s voice, nasal, unemotional. He ordered, “Get in.”
Brant barked, “Get in? First you and the others leave me here to die and now you expect me to give you another crack at it?”
“Get in, now! Quick, before Harley and Jim get wise to this, Mate. Look, we didn’t know nothin’ ’bout no killings. The money...that’s all we’re about, Jim and me. Just the money, Sport; now get in!”
Brant swung himself up into the Jeep and the pair sped off, back to the town, back to Kawanga.
* * * *
The Jeep’s lights illuminated the hotel sign reading “Dew Drop Inn.” Toby reached in the back and tossed a duffel bag at Brant who stood, hands on his hips, in front of the hotel door. He caught it, letting it dangle from his hand. Two strange bedfellows stared at each other in the moonlight.
“Look, Brant, as far as Harley and the others are concerned, you’re dead...or as good as. They’re not even going to look for your corpse. You just get outta here. First thing tomorrow get to Adelaide...get to Timbuktu for all I care. Get a few thousand miles between here and you and you’re apples, Mate.”
Brant shook his head in incredulity. “Why are you doing this?”
“I done told you, Sport, killing’s not in me plans; never was. That bastard, Harley, crazy sonuvabitch, Mate. Crazy as a loon he is. Me and Jim? We’re off to the west in a few. Tom’s back in the States already the way I get it. Man, I tell you, this whole thing’s over.”
Brant’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘over’?”
“Take my advice: get outta here. Stay one helluva long distance from Harley. Stay clear of him and she’ll be sweet, Mate. Oh...and I reckon you could say you owe me one.”
Toby sneered a parting grin at Brant and shot away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Brant stood still, hands on his hips, still shaking his head in disbelief. To himself, he sighed, “What the hell?”
CHAPTER TEN
Conley poured himself another glass of apricot sherry. He let the glass just gently touch his lips while he inhaled the fruity aroma. The sun was just setting outside his Yorkshire home. He slid his chair back from his desk, swiveling it around to face the window. He licked his lips and surveyed the lush green acreage belonging to his mansion. Everything could remain intact, everything. His standing, his influence, his power, his wealth; he could keep it all. Her Majesty’s public servant had hired an efficient “eraser” to remove even the memory of this misfortune. As he mused along these lines, Anderson, his butler, entered the office. “Any word from Bonnington, Sir?” he asked.
Conley swiveled his chair back to his desk, ran his fingers back and forth against the cool leather chair arm as he faced Anderson. “Not yet, but I’m satisfied he has the situation well in hand. I’m quite sure the document will be returned by the end of the month...perhaps sooner. Actually, I believe Mr. Bonnington has all the makings of quite an effective ‘cleaner.’”
Anderson countered, “And the American woman?”
Conley inspected his study with a regal look. He sat here as king, never mind that “technical Sovereign’s” home in London. He replied, “You’ve been with me for a long time. My ‘relationship’ with Rita is a memory...a slight libidinous excess.”
Anderson blushed, replying, “Yes, Sir. I only meant....”
“Meant
