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The Jelly Game

Colin Rock

Copyright 2007 by Colin Rock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission by the author who may be contacted via beauxartsltd@

Oral transcript :

BCB Radio. Edward Buchanan: Expedition Pelagia

...your eyeballs ache...God forbid you have a cold because snot freezes. Mountainous seas, plunging valleys of green slush, and the wind, always the bloody wind ripping and tearing. We had these ice spicules they’re called, like mini icicles whipping horizontally into exposed flesh...but this is the convergence, the Antarctic convergence where the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans boil against the Southern seas and it’s thick, surging, choked with fish and sealife and the birds, the hundred million birds feeding on the most desolate ocean on earth. It must be where the world began.

1

Sarah poured herself liquid dioxin from the coffee dispenser and tried to catch my eye. I sidled over and she leaned weightily close. “Who’s the Jap? One of yours?”

I looked around. We were a bit light on the ground today. Usually Piggott insisted that all and only PrimeLine production and research crew be on hand for the dreaded weekly assessment. Fenola and her technician, Rachael, were sitting primly on the goody goody’s leather sofa, but Mathews and his offsider were absent. In fact the Japanese gentleman was occupying Mathews’ favoured chair.

“Nothing to do with me. Where’s Wonderboy?”

Piggott turned to face us, coughed meaningfully, then smoothed the hair back from his large polished face. “Anyone not catch the show last week? No? You all saw it? Good.” He looked up to see if God was watching. “Good. I can at least inform our sponsors that they are not totally wasting their money, oh no...not everyone is watching UpFront on the flannel channel.” He smote his heart like an evangelist. “Is UpFront better than us? Do they work harder?” He gave us his toothy boyish grin, which we knew meant that a maelstrom of fury was churning in his gut. “Perhaps I’m not pulling my weight?”

He paused to give us time to mutter our insincere denials.

“Look at the stories...look at the ratings. A clear pattern emerges, and it is not coincident with Amphibious Aliens or Sex-crazed-voodoo-gurus.”

“Hold on,” I said, “we’ve had great ratings from some of those. What about the Fitzroy Flasher? We actually caught that bastard.”

“That was two years ago, Mike.”

Sid jumped to his feet. “He’ll be out by now, we’ll catch him again!”

Piggott shook his head. “It’s stale, boys. It’s like your Black Witches coven; not a bad story the first couple of times, but there are limits.” He spread his sincere arms and did a Popey sort of thing with his hands. “We’re lacking substance, Mike.”

“Heh?”

“This is not the ABC. We don’t have the luxury to sit around on our arses in ga ga land…we have to work for a living…and that means blood, sweat and tears. I want stories with gravitas!

We nodded solemnly.

“UpFront up five points, PrimeLine down three. Well?”

We shifted uncomfortably. The Japanese man turned around and scrutinized us carefully.

“Fenola’s drawn up a chart and I want you all to look closely...that especially means you, Mike.”

The chart showed blips and lines and shaded columns and other esoteric symbols, all sadly suggesting that some of us were doing much better than other of us. A little sigh escaped me, but at least Mathews wasn’t here to gloat. Was he away on a big story? He always seemed to get the good stuff. I’d once rashly accused Sarah of slipping him the story list. She was the senior Production Co-ordinator for PrimeLine, and my diffident suggestion that the smooth bugger was bribing or blackmailing her to get advance notice had not gone down well. She’d driven her great meaty fist into my belly and told me to think again, ratbag, examine your own pathetic inadequacies before you accuse others.

“The facts speak for themselves,” continued Piggott. “We have to look to the Greater Arena. And what is the Greater Arena I hear Mike ask? The Greater Arena, Michael, is the story Mathews did on paedophilia; it’s Fenola’s incisive expose of the Health System; it’s last year’s award-winning analysis of police corruption: ‘Tarnished Copper.’”

With Sarah’s support Sid and I had pretty well sewn-up Amazing Phenomena and True Life Tales of Human Interest; the so-called jelly game. It’s dead easy to follow-up a corruption scandal or a tale of political intrigue, the awards should go to the dedicated crew that goes out and creates a story from virtually nothing.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s shake-up time.” Piggott somehow managed to look in everyone’s eye at once, which was, of course, the secret of his screen success, then smiled tightly and paused the professional three beats. “You may have noticed that Mr Mathews is not with us today.” Three more beats and a sneer. “He will not be returning.”

I suppressed a squeak and Sid whooped. Piggott nodded soberly. “Let’s say we reached the parting of our ways. PrimeLine has always been a team effort...no one person is more important than another, isn’t that right?” Fenola said it certainly was, Brian.

“In fact our Mister Mathews has decided to join the opposition. His loveable features will soon be appearing on UpFront. I for one will look forward to it.”

Sid and I exchanged vibrant grins of spite. No more Mathews. No more snotty grammar school arrogance. I couldn’t help a proletarian smirk as Piggott came over with the Japanese bloke in tow.

“Mike, I’d like to see you in my office. And you, Sid. Sarah, will you join us?”

A royal summons. God, I hoped Fenola was spewing.

On the wall behind Piggott’s desk were numerous photographs of himself with Presidents, Prime Ministers and Royal-type personages. With one accord we underlings swung to check out the opposite wall: the Plebian display. Sid and I with the (submerged) Amphibious Alien; Fenola lubricating next to Robbie Williams; Sarah carrying a soggy refugee. And a newly-blank frame which had once shown Mathews getting his dubious award.

Piggott sat on the edge of his desk and gave his chair to the Japanese man. “Who knows, perhaps Mathews has done us all a great favour.”

“He’s done me a great favour,” said Sid.

Piggott smiled tightly. “Fortunately his absence will not affect recent negotiations with our Japanese friends. Mathews has learned that we do not succumb to extortionate demands here at PrimeLine.”

I looked at Sarah but she was already looking at me. Negotiations? No-one had negotiated with us. The blue-eyed boy and Piggy had been dancing to a private tune. Sid sniggered, but that could have been for any of a dozen reasons. Piggott glared at him then turned to the Japanese man. “May I introduce a professional colleague, Mister Konu.”

Konu stood up and bowed. “My name is Mister Konu and I am pleased to meet you.” We all shook hands then sat back down. Konu extracted a piece of paper from his open briefcase. “PrimeLine is very popular show. We see some items and we think this is very good show. Australia is a very interesting country and many many Japanese are coming here.” He turned the paper over.

“Australian people are very interested in my country. We see your story on the Tokyo Fish Market and we think Australians are very interested in Japan. We think why do we not share some stories for your programme and for our programme, and both programmes will be stronger.” He abruptly sat down.

We looked at each other. Sarah was biting her fingernails again, naughty girl. I coughed meaningfully. “Does this mean we have to accept regular footage from Japan?” Piggott waved his arms and tut tutted loudly. “Positivity, Mike; seek the positive.”

Sarah spat out another fingernail. “None of us speak Japanese.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Piggott. “Mister Konu will be working with us, and he will provide his own camera operator and interpreter.”

A thought struck me. “Is Mister K going to replace Mathews?”

“It’s not a question of replacement, Mike. Our team will be all the stronger. Some people are too inflexible to embrace a new concept without making extortionate demands...but that doesn’t apply to any of us here, does it?”

Obviously Mathews had known before us and taken a dive.

“So what’s the bottom line?” I asked. The suspicion was growing that our fate had been in Mathews hands; if he had stayed, Sid and I would have been out the door. Maybe Sarah, too. She was looking shell-shocked.

“The bottom line, Mike? Let’s ask ourselves what the top line is. One, we now have a bigger market. Two, we now have better resources. Three,” he looked at Konu and smiled triumphantly. “We now have a new major sponsor!”

We all said yippee, how great, Kawa Communications, wow, what a triumph. Of course we’d never heard of them, but Konu was preening like a pussy cat and two and two wasn’t a terrible difficult equation.

“Four?” I queried.

Piggott nodded sagely. “Yes, four. Four is that you now get your shot at the Greater Arena. Award-winning territory, team!” He passed me the new story-list. “Take a look, Mike, it’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Sid was peering over my shoulder and Sarah was breathing down my neck. “Ah,” I said. I began to feel better about the situation. We were taking over the high-profile stuff at last. Meaty stories; media awards; job satisfaction. I would ring my mother tonight. “I see it.”

“And...?” Piggott prompted.

“It’s uranium, isn’t it? The Middle East connection. Libyan finance for disaffected Aboriginal radicals.”

“Hey, yeah,” said Sid, “Aboriginallah!”

Piggott slapped his desk. “No! Further down.” He turned to Konu and smiled thinly.

“The American satellite station? Yeah, in the koala reserve.”

“The coca koala boys!” cried Sid.

“Keep going!”

“Antarctic and Southern Ocean Fishery Conservation Summit in New Zealand...bor-ing! No, can’t see anything that sticks out like a sore whatsit.”

“That’s it! The Antarctic thing. Green! Green is big. Drift nets, spawning grounds, dolphins, whales. Cut-throat trade politics! The Kyoto protocol. Mineral reserves; the American Deep Freeze base! You can bet your last shekel that UpFront will be there...and just about every other news team in the civilized world.”

“News teams?” I queried. “We’re not a news team.”

“But that’s what we’ve been talking about! The Greater Arena! The whole world will be covering this. We’re talking award winning stuff here, Mike!”

And he pointed to the vacant frame on the wall.

2

One of the many things I couldn’t forgive Piggott for was that he employed the meanest production secretary in the business. I’d been given a little travelguide of New Zealand, which would no doubt be charged to my salary, and I was to remember that all receipts would be scrutinized by a forensics expert.

Sarah would be detouring via Canberra, in Australia, to research acronyms. The only one of Mathews’ contacts who would talk to her was adamant that there was still life in CRAMRA despite CCAMLR and the MERT statement. ASOC and NGO should not be ignored, of course. And remember, SCAR were very ambivalent about ATR.

“I’m bloody glad I’m babysitting the Japs,” Sid had told her, patting her muscular back. “I just want to say GLS.”

“Don’t be a smart-arse, Sid.”

“Heh heh. It means ‘good luck, Sarah’.”

New Zealand had always been ‘Green’. Nuclear-free; anti-driftnet; pro-whale. It was fairly close to Antarctica I remembered, in fact the Americans had their Operation Deep Freeze base in Christchurch. I knew a bit about that, because I’d wanted to go over and investigate the drug smuggling scandal connected with their Antarctic crews. Mathews ended up with that, of course. Sid and I spent a miserable week failing to trap the Tasmanian Tiger.

I’d even done a bit of my own research, listening to some bloke on the radio who’d sailed into the ice and been spiculed with frozen snot.

I dug out my thin file and drank a free beer. Antarctica. Summits; Conferences; Commissions; Protocols; Treaties. More or less biennial events since the first one in 1959. They’d been held everywhere; Holland, France, Chile; Madrid; Bonn; and now Wellington. There was a long list of Antarctic Treaty Consultative members, 26 of whom had established research stations on the continent at enormous cost and for, of course, the purest scientific reasons.

How can a thin file have so much useless information in it? Some countries had wanted to mine the place and some didn’t. Some wanted a World Wildlife park and...I was missing a page. “There’s no reason to take a taxi everywhere...USE THE BUS!”

Wrong page, what a skinflint outfit. I flicked over. The latter countries had won, it seemed. There was now a fifty year moratorium on commercial mining. Underline ‘commercial’. How very cynical. ‘Fisheries: background to, and current state of.’ Ten pages of waffle about something called the Antarctic Convergence and the foodchain. An attached sheet bore sketches of hideous fishy creatures with names like ascidians, hydroids, and something called euphasia superba.

Representatives were converging on the New Zealand capital to establish an accord, to facilitate an agreement, and to reach a consensus. On what? What were we supposed to be looking for here? This wasn’t one of your big Earth Summit conferences, so where was the story? Surely Piggott and Konu weren’t expecting one of those boring documentary type pieces where the conclusion is always summed up by a deep, sonorous voice: “The choice for mankind is simple: preserve, exploit, or compromise.” Then the credits roll as a baby penguin toddles up to the camera and tugs at our heartstrings.

No, that was more Mathews’ pedestrian style. Piggott would expect more from his top team. I riffled back through and found Sarah’s handwritten summary.

The Antarctic Convergence was the bit where cold waters flowing from Antarctica met up with warm waters flowing from the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans. Nutrient rich water encouraged plankton and krill and a whole food chain to develop. Some said the future of our whole planet depended on preserving that unique marine eco-system. Think of the birds alone, she’d written, forty different species were said to breed in the area, a hundred million of them each year.

I had a little giggle to myself because Sarah keeps budgies. For some reason she loves the horrible little things and I was sure that her mind’s eye had seen huge flocks of brightly coloured birds flying over the ice fields. We all have our weaknesses.

I fought against my low boredom threshold and read on. An unusual feature of the Southern ocean was that its open waters were rich in life blah blah blah, while its intertidal and sub-littoral zones were almost barren. Rich sponge fauna; weird ice fish; anenomes; pelagic fishes; something called gorgonion growths...rare, ugly, unique, and therefore under great conservation pressure. So who were the baddies in the scenario?

Foreign fishing boats? I turned the page. Yep, foreign fishing boats of driftnet fame. Trawlers, krill-processors, factory ships, squid boats. High tech operators who took everything in their path. Dolphins, I remembered. They were always getting tangled in nets. Whales. A few countries were still slaughtering them despite the recently established Southern Ocean whale sanctuary. Representatives were converging on New Zealand to...I’d read that bit. They’d be the political mouthpieces, nimble of brain and slick of lip. There’d also be observers from Greenpeace, the Antarctic and Southern Coalition, Concerned Scientists for Peace and many others. And the Media. That was us.

They were miserly with the beer. Next page: Miko Nakumura onboard the Nihon International. Arrange accreditation; photos attached. Sid, Sarah, me, Nakamura, Konu, Hanada. Ah so. I had to meet a Jap bloke on a Jap boat in Auckland and get last-minute media passes. I flicked through the photos and saw that Miko was a woman. Maybe she was Konu’s geisha girl.

I wiggled my empty can at a blind stewardess. Would I please help Miko with her research in Auckland and escort her to Wellington. See flight details. Two nights in Auckland. All crew to arrive Wellington Thursday morning to cover the historic signing of SOFT, the Southern Ocean Fisheries Treaty. How could we get a story from a bunch of boring foreigners signing a piece of paper?

You can’t smoke on airplanes anymore, but it’s always fun to shove an unlighted one in your mouth and wait for the stewardesses to converge. I never believe those stories about stewardesses picking up lone male passengers and taking them back to their hot love nests to show them how a flight simulator works...but oh God, wouldn’t it be nice. If I was a famous face...well for a start I wouldn’t be stuck in economy with the plebs; nope, I’d be luxuriating up front fighting off flying groupies. Someone else would have to face the unknown foe and jack up a story so that I could swan in and take all the credit.

Pamela, my ex-wife, had sent me a paperback written by a whizzkid investigative reporter who was always in the right spot at the right time. The title page had been inscribed ‘Happy birthday, Mike, why don’t you take a leaf out of this book?’ And I had. Torn the page out and hurled it into the rubbish bin. But I’d kept the book for just such an occasion. The hero and I were now colleagues. He might even be at the Conference.

Whizzkid Investigative Reporter reckoned he obtained his best inside info from local taxi drivers. I leapt into the first cab on the rank, deftly sidestepping a determined party of Chinese businessmen, and asked the driver to take me to a decent though inexpensive hotel in the city and what was the inside buzz on the Conference? Any scandal? You can tell me, I won’t pass it on. He didn’t know anything about it, bro. What about Greenpeace, then? Are they for it or agin it?

“Aw yeah. Rainbow Warrior. Bloody French eh?”

I already knew about that. Back in the 80’s French secret agents had planted a bomb on the Greenpeace boat and sunk it at its moorings. Some bloke had been killed and the local cops had nabbed a few of the culprits. It was a bit ancient history for my liking but what if, say, our Gallic friends returned to assuage their humiliation? ‘Rogue Agent Swears Vengeance!’ I jotted it down in my book of potential headlines.

We pulled up outside a large and ugly hotel. The driver was still boring me with rugby stories so I tipped him with the Fijian coin I’d found in the airport urinal.

They say you don’t get jetlag crossing the Tasman, but sweariness hit me in the elevator and I barely had the strength to find my room, collapse on the bed and light up a duty free cigarette. Sarah had given me a list of people to ring, prominently Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. The plan was that I’d background a few of these and maybe buy some stock footage from the Television New Zealand Archives Library. She’d be doing much the same in Canberra and Wellington. “Get a hold of Roy Fitzsimmons; he’s organising the conference. His secretary’s a bitch, but be sweet, lover boy, she’ll give us late accreditation.”

The delegates were due to assemble in Wellington on the coming Friday. The organisers had faxed us an itinerary which was basically indecipherable because of air turbulence and spilled beer. The Americans were offering to fly delegates on a sight-seeing cruise to the white continent, from Christchurch, but why should they get the glory? Air France could do the same, sacre bleu. And me and me and me. Not a good idea, said New Zealand Government spokesperson. Air New Zealand had lost a DC10 on Mt Erebus many years before with terrible loss of life. Let’s just forget it, shall we?

The local paper had devoted the front page to that argument. National dignity versus commonsense. Roy Fitzsimmons featured with a wimpy comment saying yes and no to both factions. Some guy had crossed the harbour in a huge pair of inflatable shoes. Dignity’s a funny thing; who’d be seen dead in a pair of inflatable shoes?

I woke up a couple of hours later with a full bladder. I was hungry, too. I almost used my cellphone to ring Sid, then remembered it was on roaming price schedule and the accounts troll was already getting snotty with the last bill. So I used the hotel phone. Sid’s answer phone, the production office, then a few numbers from Sarah’s list. No replies at all. Office hours were obviously over, which meant I’d wasted my first day. Tomorrow I was really going to get into it, no worries. Meet up with Miko, get hold of Greenpeace and a few other Conservation outfits. ‘Save our Acquatic Mammals’. I absolutely had to talk to those people.

Then I’d hit the film banks for backup stock footage of fishing boats, sunken Rainbow Warriors and anti-nuclear demos. Get some shots of drift-netted mammals and maybe that plane crash on Mt Erebus. Footage of a whale being harpooned and gutted. Seabirds wallowing in oil spills. A little glow grew in my belly, because I could do it. Cover all the angles; show them that I could do as good a job as Mathews. Better than Mathews!

I looked out the window at the brick wall opposite. Night had fallen. I’d been undervaluing myself for too long. Even the bloody technicians turn their noses up at working the jelly game. The bastards give out awards and you don’t even feature as fifth runner-up. It’s totally arse about face. But now we had a shot at a straight documentary. I thought of that prick Mathews and his smug, supercilious attitude. There was no way a ratbag like him had it over me. I’d been the good guy for too long; it was time to become totally ruthless.

3

The Dolphin bar was full of non-smoking, sexually responsible people with beautiful teeth. The public bar, next door, had a sort of walrusy flavour to it. A big Maori bloke waved a side of beef under my nose and convinced me to buy a raffle ticket. Everyone seemed to be wearing scruffy jackets with gang patches sewn on.

That beef had once been a happy cow chewing away on juicy green grass. This country had grown strong upon the back of the cow. And the sheep of course. Especially the sheep, in fact, but also the cow. Sturdy and honest animals, both, and not a bit like the ridiculous, stuffed beast I found at the top of the stairs. This was the Penguin bar.

I’d been pretty ruthless on the phone. The second Roy Fitzsimmons in the book was the right Roy’s wife. She told me that hubby was in Wellington organizing the Conference, did I know that? Of course I did, I said, me and Roy were buddies from way back. Oh, she said. His Auckland office should be able to help you if you ring during business hours.

I’d have to go around there anyway to pick up background guff and get the accreditation. Sarah wouldn’t be in Wellington until Thursday morning. She’d be pretty impressed if I fronted up with reams of facts and figures as well as the media passes. But she would be more impressed if I could arrange an interview with the guy who was actually co-ordinating the conference.

She was sure Roy would give PrimeLine an interview, but he was a very busy man; did I know she hadn’t seen him bar a few hours for a whole month?

“As long as that?” Oh hum.

“I’m not complaining, mind.”

“No.”

“And as for Monica, well, say no more.”

There was a pause while I said no more and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

“I agree,” she said. “But I’m afraid they never have got on together since she joined that silly group.”

“They do silly things when they’re young.” I never did, of course. In fact, silly things were done to me.

“Well it embarrassed him in his position, his own daughter. You won’t mention that, will you?”

“Oh no.” That was the ruthless bit, because it was a lie.

“But the funny thing is,” she went on, “Roy and Monica are exactly the same at heart.” She lowered her voice. “I think he secretly approves.”

Utilizing chapter four of Whizzkid’s adventures with the Angolan death squads, I cunningly extracted the info that daughter Monica was a screaming Green radical. Concrete in the sewer outlet; plastic milk cartons delivered to Parliament; bring back the ozone or we’ll blow up your fluorocarbon factory. At the moment she was Saving Antarctica and the Southern ocean. But weren’t we all? I said. Ah, but Monica wanted everyone out; fishing boats, passenger liners, military aircraft. She even wanted all scientific and support staff to leave Antarctica. Let the penguins live.

Booting everyone out of the place sounded like a new angle to me. She might be a gorgeous valkyrie of a leftie crusader. All I’d have to do then was find a photogenic rabid right winger, always easy, and I’d have the full spectrum covered. So where would I find Monica and what does she look like? Ah, do you know the Penguin bar at all?

I could tell from the reverent silence that I’d walked into a poet’s nest. My ex used to drag me along to similar dark holes in Carlton and Fitzroy. There was always a bald guy reciting ‘The Man From Snowy River.’ Sid reckoned it was T. S. Eliot.

I stood back and watched as painfully earnest people prowled around the microphone and read their poetry. One guy punctuated each poem with Tai Chi gestures. I bought a beer and sidled up next to one of the several pale faced, black-haired women who fit Mummy’s description. This one looked fragile and timid and was the type of woman I could relate to. In a few minutes I would turn to her and smile shyly. I would tell her I was a romantic poet.

Suddenly she banged down her glass, sprang to the microphone, threw back her head and screamed. I spilled beer all down the front of my trousers. No-one else seemed in the slightest surprised.

“Pull back the foreskin of the ape

And slice the pink meat open

Like a grape.

Rape!”

She opened up that vein for a while. Meat; blood; violence. She was either a radical subversive majoring in clinical pathognomia or the daughter of a butcher.

We all politely applauded her final poem and she acknowledged us with a brief lip twitch. I raced across as she approached the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Piss off.”

“No, I wanted to talk about your poetry. Rape. What a statement.”

She looked at me and the barman passed her a glass of white wine. I pushed my beer glass across.

“That was no statement. That was a cri de coeur.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Statements are blunt instruments.”

“Maybe. Who are you?”

I told her straight. “I’m Mike. I suppose you could say I’m a poet.”

She perked up. “Read me some.”

“Ah. Actually I don’t have any with me.”

“Don’t tell me you can’t remember even one?” I could see the interest dull in her eyes.

“Well I’m not much of a performer really. I write my poetry...then destroy it.”

“Yes?”

“Like an anarchist. A literary one.”

We turned to watch an enormous young woman read a poem about a butterfly. A drunken hoon applauded between verses and asked her if she’d like to butter his fly. “People don’t respect artists anymore,” I told my twitchy neighbour. She looked up at me and sneered like Elvis used to do. And still does, if you believe that story about the fat old American hermit hiding out in Arnhem Land. Sid had met a guy whose mate had seen him with his own eyes.

“Of course I wasn’t meaning her,” I said. “No way!” I shook my head as we poets are wont to do. “Where’s the social comment in a butterfly poem?”

“Social comment?”

“Yeah. Or political comment. Poetry should be a cri de whatsit, don’t you think?”

She looked at me for a long time, without blinking, then reached out and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Monica Fitzsimmons. You’re all right, Mike.”

And lucky. A feeble Blues band started playing and we couldn’t hear ourselves over the feedback. She put her mouth to my ear and shouted. I mimed “unh?”, and she beckoned me to the door. “I’m going to have a coffee!”

“Coffee?”

“Yes! You can come if you like!”

I followed her skinny body down the street. She walked very quickly, obviously hyperactive; obviously the sort that lived on coffee and cigarettes and the heady smell of revolutionary tomes. Lucky lucky lucky.

I caught a glimpse of the closing door and wriggled through on the rebound. The place was full. Eight or ten tables chock-a-block with arty student types. There was even an old hippy or two. Monica was flitting between tables and acknowledging greetings. My attention was distracted by a burst of laughter and when I looked again she was gone. I stood there, feeling foolish, wishing I’d drank just one more beer.

Then she waved at me from a solid knot of hairy people and I found myself roped into place between two busty women on a narrow wooden bench. My arse was aching after 45 seconds.

A guy with a head like a shaggy cabbage sat opposite. He had the kind of burning eyes you get from watching too many snuff movies. His dirty fingernail tapped against the ashtray as he itemized all the fundamental problems that philosophers have wrestled with throughout all the ages of the earth.

I was sweating like a pig between the two women and raised one pinioned arm to mop my brow. “Yeah?” He grunted.

“Eh? Nothing.” My armpit stank.

He cocked a crooked grin at Monica. “Thought he wanted to leave the room and do wee wees.” Monica declined to join in the general snigger, so he reached over and patted my hand. “It’s all right, friend, just having you on.”

I looked around the table while they babbled on about utilitarianism and political ethics. Most of them were wearing badges of one sort or another, like the big Maori guy back in the bar. Greenpeace; No Nukes; SPASO; Gay Rights.

Cabbage Head made a rare pause for breath and suddenly everyone was looking at me. “What do you think, Mike?” asked Monica.

“Heh?” I said.

A couple of them nodded in agreement.

Monica glared at me. “Well,” I continued, “I think we should always consider the abstract, even if only as a metaphor.” The same few heads nodded. I had the feeling I was on a roll. “So what do you all think about S.O.F.T?”

One of the hippies suddenly roused himself from a 60’s reverie and pulled out a flute. I wondered aloud if any of them had any specific thoughts about the Southern Ocean Fisheries Treaty? Or indeed, any general thoughts. Shush, Sufi is playing.

I joined in the applause because I’m basically a wimp. Monica then told us that if you move a man from his natural environment and place him in a sack with a rat, before long he’ll start squeaking. But if you place a woman in the sack, the rat will start speaking.

What did I think?

“What sort of sack?”

“That’s it! The guy says we’re asking the wrong bloody questions!” Cabbage Head reached over and patted my hand again. I withdrew it at an unseemly speed and he turned to the others. “It just goes to show you can’t underestimate the native wisdom of the simple Aussie.”

I watched his eyes greedily follow Monica as she went to the counter. The poor unfortunate bastard was enamoured with her. He was thinking dark thoughts about the tall, handsome stranger who had escorted her here. I’m such an ugly vegetable, what chance do I have?

She came back carrying two coffees. One of them she pushed almost equidistant between me and Cabbage Head. Who was it for?

Philosophers can spend forever talking about rats and sacks and does a moocow moo to a deaf man, but there’s a lot of instinctive guff that we all know. I’d had a brief affair with a psychology student once, and vaguely recalled post-coital discussions about the collective unconscious and male inadequacy. I suddenly knew what she’d meant, the first bit, I mean, because everyone at the table was eyeing that cup of coffee and each of us knew that an epic battle was in progress. Cro-magnon man versus neanderthal vegey.

Was Monica just playing games? Was I the rat in the sack? In the deep dark jungle of Africa, Whizzkid had to face down the witchdoctor and eat the eye of a baboon. Cabbage Head moved his hand infinitesimally closer and I snarled it back. I could hear his tortured breathing. The hippy flute player shimmied by then froze with the gravity of the moment. Cabbage Head lifted his eyes to mine. Wolves facing each other on the frozen tundra. The ancient struggle for male domination. I dug deep and poured forth the years of frustration and pain; the thousand trials and tribulations; the long fucking ache of having to wake up every morning and face the same old enemy again.

He blinked and it was all over. Eyes empty with failure. In that slow blink I could read ugliness, inadequacy, years of schoolboy repression. For a moment I felt a frisson of pity wash through me, then I reached out and took the coffee.

The conversation turned to poetry and I reminded them that I was a private poet. Of course I wasn’t just a poet, no way, I was also a seeker of truth. They informed me that truth was beauty; beauty truth, and I said that went without saying because the new poetry was all about truth and beauty. Cabbage Head rallied enough to suggest that I was talking through my arsehole, but Monica was surprisingly enthusiastic.

“The ‘new poetry?’”

“Yes, tele-likeitis-avision. People-power, we call it.”

“And you have genuine editorial control?”

“Well of course I do.”

“PrimeLine is a quality programme, then.”

“Yep, we’re always winning awards and stuff.” Cabbage Head sniffed disparagingly, so I put the boot in. “And I’m the power behind the throne.”

The beer was catching up with me and my bladder was bursting. I stood up, actually to ask where the toilet was, but Monica got up with me and told everyone that we were off. See you all tomorrow.

I was in real danger of wetting my pants by the time we reached her small flat. I rushed to the toilet, unzipping enroute, not even pausing to close the door behind me. When I stepped back to avoid splash-back, she was standing there watching me.

“Sorry”. I zipped up.

“It’s all right,” she said, “it’s a natural function. You notice there isn’t a door.”

There wasn’t. The second commune story I’d worked was like this. Everyone sat in a communal toilet and had little chats while they moved their bowels and inserted tampons and so on. They even let us film them in action. Incredible. Prime spot that month. Piggott had come over and shaken my hand.

We sat on a lumpy couch and drank instant coffee. She read me a few of her poems and I said gee they’re good, I bet you and your revolutionary group really have interesting meetings. She played dumb at first.

“What about the hairy bloke,” I said, meaning Cabbage Head, “he looks like an anarchist.”

“No. Don’t be silly.”

Without warning she suddenly turned off the main light and a figure leapt out at me. I bleated, then realized that it was my reflection in a full length mirror.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” She grinned and pulled me to my feet. I stood looking at myself and she joined me. It was strangely fascinating. We often used lights and reflector boards on a shoot, but I’d never seen quite this effect. There was the slightest of halos around our bodies and I felt a great urge to reach out and touch the image.

We stood there, swaying slightly. In the mirror I could see her slowly stretch her arms high in the air, then bring them to rest upon her hips.

It was so quiet in the room. I wanted to say something but could only manage a dry gulp. She breathed deeply and I felt her tremble against me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her hand move up to push back her hair. She was totally absorbed in the image. Slowly she raised her arms again and stretched to full height. Her long black hair framed the stark whiteness of her face. As she smiled I could see her slightly uneven teeth, white as a glacier. She suddenly poked her tongue out.

“Sorry,” I said, “I was staring.”

“Don’t be. I often stand in front of the mirror.” She squinted hard. “I want to see who I am, as others see me. I want to be exposed in every minute detail for what I am. I want to have no secrets from myself.”

“Heh.”

“Who are you?”

“Heh?”

“How do you see yourself?”

“Well.” I eyed the man in the mirror. It suddenly wasn’t me. “Sort of biggish, brownish hair, a bit ugly.” I squinted closer. I didn’t want to say it, but the guy looked slightly stupid. The effect of the lighting gave the impression that the image was suspended in a soft, black vacuum, a three dimensional image which could slip and disappear at any moment into a yet deeper dimension.

She ran her hand over my chest. “I could be blind for all I know of you. These are your ribs.” She stroked them lightly and I shivered. “I can feel your muscles, and your shoulders. I can feel your pulse throbbing beneath my fingers....”

I was getting nervous. Me, her, our separate images. I tried to step back but she gripped my arm.

“I can feel your inner spirit respond as I stroke, as I gently stroke...relax, don’t move...let me explore.”

I bleated. Her probing fingers drifted between my thighs and squeezed gently.

“Don’t move. Look in the mirror. It’s not Mike, it’s not Monica. It’s them. We are voyeurs.” I gulped and felt a droplet of sweat slide down my face. My arms hung limply at my sides. She whispered. “Watch them.”

I watched the woman slip her hands inside his shirt, then nuzzle close into his chest. She unbuckled his belt and slid the jeans down to his ankles. I gulped faintly as she shrugged off her own clothes and ran her hands over her hard, boney body until the sinews and corded muscles softened and filled out. I watched her wrap herself around him and lick at the soft skin of his throat.

It seemed like forever.

“Monica.”

“Shush.”

We sank to the floor and I felt gritty carpet beneath me. I could smell her hair and the sweet tang of sweat. She rose on top of me, teeth nibbling at my chest, hand sliding down once more to cup my testicles, then tugging gently at my barely erect penis. I was almost frightened, but felt myself respond and grow to meet her.

Concentrate mate, I thought. Hard breasts, tight nipples. That incredible belly dancer Sid and I had seen last week. Oh shit. Monica was trying to roll on a condom and oh shit, my erection was dying. I sat up quickly and took over, stuffing my wilting penis into the thin tube, jamming the rubber down as far as it could go. I didn’t want to think about old failures or near misses, I didn’t want to be that exposed kid in the mirror, I didn’t even want to be here...not like this, with my dick stuffed in a plastic bag and Monica masturbating me furiously.

I savagely gripped her buttocks with both hands and drew her closer, feeling her wetness, then the throbbing heat of her groin. She tossed back her head and I caught a look of feral triumph as she guided me into her, smooth as warm satin, then tight and hard; a long slow groan of pleasure.

We eventually peeled apart. I’d managed only a feeble ejaculation, but she seemed content. I had carpet grit impregnated into my buttocks and cramp in my left arm. She rolled back and smiled at me. “That was nice.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

“Monica?”

“No I don’t usually do this with guys I’ve just met.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that!”

“Anyway, we’re going to be working together aren’t we? It’s just getting to know each other, that’s all. SPASO and PrimeLine. We need the publicity, Mike. I think we need each other.”

“Well...”

I’d forgotten that I’d boasted about both my and PrimeLine’s commitment to conservation and Green politics.

She suddenly pecked me on the lips. “Of course business and pleasure do not make good bedfellows, Mike. It’s to be business from now on.”

“Eh? I’m not sure I agree with that.”

She hauled me up and handed me my clothes. “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

“Well I don’t know...”

She grinned. “You do now.”

4

Unfortunately I’d forgotten to recharge my cellphone battery and it had died sometime last night. I rang Sid from my room phone. Sarah was in the air at this very moment, he said. “She’s been trying to ring and email you all last night and she’s fucking ropable, mate.”

Piggott grabbed the phone off Sid.

“Well, Mike?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’ve been flat out from go to whoa. Interviews and research and stuff.”

“Well turn your bloody phone on and leave it on.”

“It’s got a dodgy battery...I’ve been saying that for ages....”

“Buy yourself a new one. How are you getting on with our Japanese friend?”

“No worries. Can I charge it to expenses?”

“You what?”

“The battery. They’re about sixty bucks, maybe even more...”

There was a moment’s silence. “Yeah, but don’t start sticking your snout in the trough, mate. Got your pen? We’re picking up Konu and his cameraman at the airport....”

“Hang on.” I hunted around for a long minute and dashed back to the phone. Piggott had handed it over to his miserly production secretary and I could hear Sid practising ‘konnichiwa’ and ‘sayonara’ into her dictaphone.

She gave me the details of Sid’s flight into Wellington and told me to make sure the customs carnet was okay because you know what Sid’s like. She wanted me to go through the list with her and say “Roger Tango Check, Charley Zulu over and out,” but I told her she was holding me up from attending an important meeting at Television New Zealand and I had to run. Sid grabbed the phone and yelled “Sayonara, Mike san!” I hung up on the sound of them wrestling over the receiver.

Before I’d left we’d sat in his living room drinking beer and listening to a language tape. “Hajimemashita watashi wa Sid desu.” How do you do? My name’s Sid. Sid reckoned he could understand nearly half the words when he was drunk. That was the secret; drink like a fucking fish and you can suss it all out. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that fifty percent of the tape was in English.

I took a quick shower and changed my clothes. There was a carpet burn on my bum. I had about a hundred things to do before I rang Sarah. I was confused in my mind about Monica and her organisation, SPASO: The Society for the Preservation of Antarctica and the Southern Ocean. Not as catchy as Greenpeace, and certainly not as well known. I might have made a rash promise or two, but luckily I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to get stuck with a bunch of losers.

It wasn’t a good morning. Earthtrust were a little disorganised today, sorry, but if you were to come back later in the week.... Friends of the Earth would be back tomorrow almost surely. Save our Acquatic Mammals had seen the PrimeLine programme before and no thank you, but do enjoy your stay in Auckland. Greenpeace had kept me waiting for an hour in the nicest possible way, but you can see how busy we are. Janet would be the one to see, really, but of course she’s just flown to Wellington. Just a moment, isn’t she working with an Australian film crew? Are you sure it isn’t you?

The remainder of the morning had been spent getting accreditation which I could have done in Wellington, silly man. I told Roy Fitzsimmon’s secretary that I knew that, of course, but we were tightly parametered time-wise and anyway, I was liaising with a high profile media crew from Japan, arriving on their own ship if you’d really like to know. It was, of course, an exclusive arrangement and so I would appreciate a little more co-operation thank you.

After a snatched lunch at good old McDonalds, I made my way to the Television New Zealand Archives Library and checked out some stock footage in their film catalogue. There was nothing that really appealed and certainly nothing that any other film crew couldn’t buy. That made it only marginally less useless than the tonne of boring reference material included with the media passes. I now knew a great deal about the Antarctic landmass and the surrounding ocean. I knew all about the terrible climate which fishing boats had to contend with. I knew that the lowest temperature in the world had been recorded at the Russian Vostok station. I knew that a lot of nations had made territorial claims and spent a hell of a lot of money building permanent bases there. But mostly I knew that the Antarctic region was the coldest, most desolate area in the whole universe. And therefore the most boring.

Eventually I was obliged to limp back and rest on the couch in the hotel foyer. If I went up to my room I knew I’d flop on my bed and go to sleep. On the other hand I could have a shower, a cool beer from the mini-bar, and see if my cellphone battery was recharged. I was still trying to make up my mind when Monica walked in.

“Oh good, you’re on time.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re coming to SPASO. You did promise.”

“Did I?”

“Last night. You’re going to interview us. Not Greenpeace. You do remember?”

“Course I do. Hah, Greenpeace!” I watched her head bob. “Yeah, who needs them.” There was a large philosophical gulf betweeen SPASO and Greenpeace which was very apparent after you’d had a few drinks, but rather less so in the cold light of day. Surely I hadn’t compromised PrimeLine’s integrity? Vague memories of large boasts came back to me. Had I really said we were networking through CBS, Fuji Television and the BBC?

The SPASO office was up a flight of ricketty stairs in the downtown area. I paused halfway up to look at the view. Yachts scudded across the harbour and the bridge was full of traffic. Across the other shore I could see a few naval vessels. Probably those frigates we’d made them buy.

A strongly built blonde woman looked up as we entered and said something welcoming in Scandinavian or Dutch. I was frogmarched over and introduced. Gretel. The two phones on her desk suddenly rang and I stepped back politely as both women made a dive.

It wasn’t much of an office, but was obviously busy. I drifted over to the far wall and examined a huge map of Antarctica. I could see little dots scattered around, probably penguins, and I made phoney notes in my filofax and muttered to myself. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Monica nodding with approval. Gretel put her phone down and wandered across.

“It is disgusting, is it not?” she said. I turned to her.

She pointed a fat finger at the dots and I said “Yes, useless. Quacking all the time; making a mess on the white snow. They eat all the fish too, you know.”

She stepped back. “They are rubbish sites.”

“Well yes. But they attract carrion. And pestilence. I ask myself why?”

“That is what we must ask of the world. Why? Why are they polluting the last pure place on earth?”

Her phone rang again and I gravitated over to the coffee machine. It tasted like acorn juice. Monica took a phonecall from the secretary to a member of parliament and arrranged an appointment in Wellington.

“Who pays for the travel then?” I asked her.

“They do. We’re selling expertise.”

“Selling?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How do you survive....you and Hansel?”

“Gretel. We get donations. And some grants.”

I nodded wisely. “Rainbow Warrior compensation.”

She sighed deeply. “Why does everyone get us confused with Greenpeace? Our members have rejected Greenpeace. It’s all very well to go out and save the world but you have to focus your energies.” She smiled thinly and pushed me across the room. “No half-measures, Mike. Antarctica is the heart of the sick body that is the world. It must be left to beat in peace.”

“Right.”

I sat on the couch and read some of their literature while the two of them answered more phonecalls. Who would be phoning them if not agents of foreign powers trying to subvert their principles? Monica put her phone down and lit a cigarette. I trotted over with a burning match. “Have you had much increase in membership and enquiries and stuff since the conference was announced?”

“Have we ever. Haven’t we Gretel?”

“Ja. All the day. I work every day.”

I didn’t believe them. Even the New Zealand Herald had barely mentioned it this morning. Your average person doesn’t care about krill or Antarctic cod. I smiled to myself, how very human of them to want to impress a big-noter like me.

“How come there’s only the two of you?” I was writing some of this down.

“There’s lots of us, but only four paid workers. Others come in the afternoon. Stuff envelopes, answer correspondence, arrange meetings...that sort of thing. We go around schools a lot.”

I’d drawn an elephant seal or a walrus. Which was the one with the hairy snout?

Monica took another phone call and Gretel removed my cup of coagulated coffee. She grinned. “I will make us tea.” She gave me a cheaply produced handout to read and hovered expectantly. I groaned inwardly, but tried to look interested.

Was the reader aware that seismic surveys of the Antarctic continent and the surrounding waters had been conducted by at least fourteen nations? In fact the Japanese, French and Brazilian surveys had been blatantly carried out by their national oil companies, what did the reader have to say about that? I caught Gretel’s eye but said nothing. She took the handout and turned it over. “You must read this, too.”

Just in case I doubted the sworn testimony of writer one, writer two now informed me that Texas consultants had sold many copies of their Antarctic Oil Reserves analysis at a giveaway price of only one hundred thousand dollars each. The reader is left to draw his own conclusion. A smart guy with a photocopier could make a bomb.

We sat and smoked and drank herbal tea, and I idly flicked through a sheaf of newspaper cuttings. The Society for the Protection of the Antarctic and Southern Ocean, SPASO, had been prominent in promoting the concept of Antartica as a world park. I snorted.

“They think we’ll die out,” sneered Monica. “They think a fifty year moratorium is enough.” I nodded thoughtfully. Actually I’d been snorting because anyone could see that SPASO should really be TSFTPOTAASO. They were eyeing me expectantly.

“Umm. 1959. ‘The Antarctic Treaty’. How interesting.”

Gretel squashed up close and pointed her stubby finger. “You see it was a conspiracy even then.”

“Conspiracy, wow.” I don’t believe in conspiracies. You need things like trust and honour to make them work. There hasn’t been much of that around since Baden-Powell died.

“You see...your Australian Prime Minister wanted ‘To ensure the use of Antarctica for peaceful purposes only and the continuance of international harmony.’”

“Very noble.” I was pleased we Aussies had got in quick.

“And by what right did they sign it?” demanded Monica. “What gave a handful of privileged countries the right to dictate to the rest of the world?”

Was she talking to me or, yes she was talking to me.

“Hah.”

“Exactly! By right of conquer.”

“That’s the usual way isn’t it? Anyway,” I tried a little Aussie humour, “there were no people there. Just a few polar bears and things.”

Gretel pulled back and looked at Monica. “But Mike, there are no polar bears in Antarctica.”

“Of course not; those explorer blokes ate them all.”

The first recorded landing on Antarctica had been by an American or a Russian in 1819. Though in reality it had probably been a lost Viking. ‘Scientists have discovered a frozen Long Boat with the crew intact!’ I made a mental note for future reference. Sid would look good in a horned helmet.

1819 was a while back; you would have thought we’d have done something to the place by now. Since then various adventurers had criss-crossed the white wasteland and, of course, a number of scientific stations had been established, but so far the only real wealth had been discovered in the rich fishing grounds. Early Whalers who braved the grim southern seas had been able to kill a prodigious number of the giant beasts. In one month, in the year 1926, 900 humpback whales had been slaughtered.

There was a cartoon about a penguin saying something to another penguin which looked as though it could be very funny, but they made me turn the page to read about International Geophysical Year. In that year, 1957-8, nearly ten thousand scientists had descended upon the place and set up forty base stations. The goldrush was on.

I leaned back to rest my weary eyes and light a cigarette. “Do you wish to know who these countries are?” asked Gretel.

“I certainly do.” Out with pen and notebook again.

“They are Argentina, Australia; Belgium; Chile; France; Britain; Japan; Norway; Russia; South Africa; USA; New Zealand.”

“Well there’s a few baddies in that lot.”

Monica took yet another of my cigarettes and nodded ruefully. “And they became the Antarctic Treaty Nations. Thirty nine have signed now.”

I wrote down 39 and circled it heavily.

Herbal tea is a great laxative. I sat on the toilet reading the calendar on the door. Grainy black and white pikkies of intrepid Antarcticans walking over snow bridges and mushing huskies along. Edmund Hillary and his mates waved from the cab of what had to be an old farm tractor. Typical Kiwi ingenuity. It was a Kiwi bloke who’d first split the atom. They also claimed to have built and flown the first plane. Put those two things together and you equal what? Hiroshima.

I washed my hands in the basin and looked at my large, honest face in the mirror. That’s how we’d start off; a quick montage of ancient explorers; aviators; atom-splitters. Then a mushroom cloud and the cold dark winter that would one day spread over our world. Explore; conquer; exploit. Man interferes and man destroys. This was award-winning thinking.

Monica was on the phone again reading out some quotations from an American magazine. Gretel was nodding violently and muttering “ja” at the juicier bits. They had a huge library of overseas magazines and pamphlets. Hopefully Sarah would be googling in Wellington with her head stuck into a similar repository of knowledge. She could dig out meaty snippets faster that a Zen master could pluck flies from the air. Like in those films Sid always makes me go and see.

Monica put the phone down and laughed. “They just leave themselves wide open,” she crowed. Gretel clapped her hands and they both turned to me.

“That was another reporter. We’ve had dozens in the last few days. A Japanese one this time.” Gretel nodded agreement.

“Japanese?” I asked.

“Oh yes. They’re very interested, of course.”

“Well.” I hadn’t told them about my Japanese connection.

Gretel pulled out a diary and opened it up. “Ja, they wish to be liked by everyone, especially in the South Pacific.”

“Because of the fish,” said Monica.

“Yeah that’s right.” I knew about that. “Driftnetting and walls of death and dolphins.”

“And whales.”

“Are there any left? 1926 was a bad year.”

“They are all bad years,” said Monica. “They still conduct scientific research. With harpoons.”

Gretel started reeling off figures about the latest minke whale kill. The Japanese alone have taken 900 tonnes and did I know that minke whale meat retails for $80 per kilogram in Japan?

I wasn’t very interested in that. The Japs eat everything, maybe even jellyfish. “But they’re going to sign SOFT aren’t they? They’ve signed all the others.”

They both shook their heads. Monica pursed her lips. “It’s not just the Japanese is it? What about the Russians and Koreans and Taiwanese? Look, the Japanese Fisheries Agency have dozens of so-called scientists backing them. They claim they use appropriate conservation and management methods to minimise damage. Tell that to the one million dolphins they kill each year!”

I wrote down “one million”.

‘Three hundred thousand seabirds,’ said Greta.

‘Wow.’

Monica poked me in the chest. ’Up to ten billion longline hooks set on lines up to one hundred and fifty kilometres long.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘But your threat abatement plan is working,’ said Greta. ‘The Australian Antarctic Division accepted revised guidelines in 2006 and the Eastern Tuna and Billfish Fishery has lowered their kill rate to .03 birds per one thousand hooks.’

‘That’s because we care,’ I said proudly. ‘So I guess that means everyone will sign and abate their threats?’

Greta touched my arm. “Mike, how do we know? How will you know? Some of it is in closed session.”

“That’s right,” said Monica, “we’ll be able to see the signing; the so called photo-opportunity.” They sneered in concert. “But who knows what secret deals will have been struck?”

“What? That’s a bit on the nose! How are we supposed to capture the drama of this historic event?”

“Exactly! And that’s why we’re insisting on observer status.”

The guy that could get a camera in on that would be a hero.

Gretel went down the street and returned with some wholesome and nourishing food. I had to keep my mouth full because I couldn’t answer their pointed questions about PrimeLine’s editorial philosophy. I don’t think I’d heard the phrase before.

I also had to hear all about our PM’s cunning volte-face on the World Park thingy. Our poor Kiwi cousins had mooted a World Park back in 1975 and we’d gone haw haw, grow up, not a hope. According to Monica the New Zealand Government had then advocated setting up an International Minerals Convention with the noble idea of keeping a tight rein on the baddies. But the Greenies had started getting stroppy in the late eighties. I remembered how Sid and I, hot on the trail of the Tasmanian Tiger, had been thwarted and disarmed by anti-pulp millers and conservationists. Naturally the PM had thought umm, trees; native birds; ozone; Greenpower; preference votes. And suddenly it was Australia poo-pooing the Minerals Convention and calling for a World Park.

Ex Prime Minister Hawke had taken credit for kick-starting the moratorium agreement. I wrote that down. It had been Australia’s international advocacy and vision for a mining ban that had forced the change. I wrote that down too. And when France had backed it, the whole world had taken note.

I asked Monica to repeat that, because surely the French were principal baddies in the scenario? I dug out the article next to that excellent cartoon about the penguin talking to another penguin, and yes, there it was: the French had been laying airstrips on top of mating penguins. Greenpeace observers had seen it with their own impartial eyes.

The phone rang again and I thought of making a surreptitious exit to disgorge the sprout and lentil salad. I looked at my watch. In a couple of hours I’d have to pop down to the passenger wharf and meet Miko the Japanese woman. But another article in the same magazine caught my eye. Did we know that Britain had maintained secret links with Argentine bases in the Antarctic even during the Falklands war? Did we know that the CIA held documentary evidence that they had foreknowledge of the French bomb attack on the Rainbow Warrior? Did we know that certain nations were subcontracting their Antarctic bases to commercial organisations for nefarious purposes?

Great stuff. I flipped a few more pages. One byline kept recurring: a writer named Turnball. He even accused the Americans of causing the Erebus disaster; in his version all the radar operators in McMurdo Sound were gaga with the fairies and either missed the flightpath of the DC10 or thought it was a hobgoblin. There was a terrible picture of the smashed Air New Zealand plane spread across the white wasteland. More disgusting black dots.

And Turnball was accusing the splintered Soviet fishing fleets of denuding the Southern waters. Japanese fishermen were still slaughtering whales and dolphins and hey, they took a million tonnes of krill this year. The Peruvians were spilling oil. So were the Argentinians. Aeroplanes were squashing penguins. The French were being French. Americans were leaking carcinogenic polychlorinated biphenyls and hurling fastfood wrappers onto the glaciers. Through his eyes the region was a heaving maelstrom of blood, filth and slaughter.

Monica was saying something about the last pristine wilderness.

“Apart from oil and gas in the continental shelf....”

“Heh?”

“There’s gold.”

“Gold?” I’ve always had a soft spot for gold.

“And chromium and copper. And then what? They rape the place for minerals; fish the oceans bare...and then They’ll want to tow icebergs to the Sahara and process the penguins for cattlefood.”

“Would that be economical?”

Gretel heaved her bulk up and stamped her clog. “Profit and power. That is men!”

I smoked another cigarette while Monica arranged an interview for me with the guy Turnball, quite a long process this, as he didn’t have a phone. Fortunately his obliging neighbour did, and fortunately it gave me time to secrete some reference material up my shirt.

Turnball worked from home, which was in Devonport. Ironically enough, it was across the harbour adjacent to the Naval Base. I’d board the ferry, give him forty minutes of my valuable time, then catch the return trip and be almost on the spot to meet Miko. I belched the taste of lentil. With luck they might sell meat pies on the ferry.

I stood at the bow as we eased into Devonport wharf and felt a bit like Captain Cook making his first landfall. They were the good old days; an empire behind you, surrounded by huge cannons, and a handful of beads to keep the natives happy. What’s gone wrong with the world?

Turnball lived in a boarding house overlooking the harbour. An old stone building, solid and boring. Narrow stairs curved up onto a gloomy second floor landing, and I could hear a savage woodpecker at full peck.

It turned out to be the man himself. He opened to my knock and glared out savagely. He was aged about fifty, and there was no hiding the fact that the hard fist of life had smashed him in the face. Lines, blotches, huge baggy eyes. A cigarillo was stuck in the corner of his mouth and he coughed ash all over me.

“You the TV bloke?”

“Mike.”

“Come in.” He stomped ahead of me and took up his seat behind a cheap desk covered with grungy stuff and the old typewriter he’d been beating. He must be the last guy to resist having a wordprocessor. I said that, to break the ice, and he gave me a ten minute spiel on technology and decadence and he hoped I wasn’t one of those buggers who cared more for the medium than the message.

“Not me. That’s why I’m here.”

“So what do you want?”

“What have you got ha ha ha.” He looked as if he was going to hit me. “I’ve read some of your work. It’s tough. In fact it’s honest.”

“I tell it like it is.”

“And that’s rare, you know.”

“You’re bloody telling me. Want a coffee?”

He removed a kettle from the gas ring, spooned instant crud into a begrimed plastic mug, then said he hoped I didn’t take milk because I was shit out of luck if I did. He had an earth-shattering theory on every subject under the sun. “You getting all this, mate? Here, have a read of this...what d’you think? ‘Antarctica: The rotten Pavlova.’”

What a great title, I told him, and he preened and showed me his especially hard-hitting chapter on Driftnetters. Phrases like ‘mass-genocide’ and ‘fascist conspiracy’ leapt out at me. I felt good about this guy. Give me a raving maniac any day of the week; the public love them.

He was being funded by SPASO to attend the public forum and report on the Treaty talks. He had a theory about a secret agenda. Sorry, couldn’t tell me. The public forum was a fucking anodyne anyway. He could write the whole show chapter and verse right now. Nah, get amongst the delegates and see what’s really happening. Ecological conservation? You must be joking. It’s a splitting up of fishing rights, mark my fucking words. Same with the Andersen 2 protocol...your mining moratorium on the continent...keep your eyes on the bastards who are staying put; they’re scientists, oilmen and the fucking military.

“So what can we do about it?”

“You’ll make me heart break. We’ve done everything we can. The New Zealand public are behind us 100 percent...don’t know about you bloody Aussies, you must have licked Uncle Sam’s arse clean by now. It’s about time you buggers stood up and were counted.”

I bridled. “Some of us are very committed, you know.” He should be, for a start.

“Not getting at you, mate. People like you and me put it all on the line. And that’s what we’re going to have to do.”

“How’s that then?”

“Put it all on the fucking line, mate. If they come up with a dodgey treaty, we’re going to fuck them!”

I tottered downstairs and sat on a parkbench. I was pretty sure I could convince him to front up for an interview. I was reasonably pleased with the way things were progressing; I certainly seemed to have earned SPASO’s confidence. Even Sarah was going to have to give me brownie points for that.

I ate a cake and drank milky coffee in an outdoor cafe while jotting down a brief scenario to email to Sarah. Secret agendas; conspiracy; whispers of threatened terrorist action. Was all that too unlikely? I finished the soggy cake and lit my last cigarette. I had some more duty frees back in the hotel and didn’t want to pay the small fortune required for the local product. A young couple at the next table ostentatiously sniffed and shifted further away. I was going to give them Sid’s theory about ozone, that cigarette smoke created the magical stuff...how come the only holes are above places where there are no smokers? Like Antarctica. But the ferry was chugging back into shore and I had far more important things to do. Miko would be waiting.

5

The return ferry trip took us close to the Overseas Passenger Terminal and a near miss with a suicidal windsurfer. Everyone in Auckland seemed to have a boat of some kind, or inflatable shoes. Miko’s ship, the Nihon International, was snugged up to the Passenger Terminal and we could see and intermittently hear an orchestra playing on deck. It was a small ship as ships go, and would have been ugly except for some inspired artwork on the sides. Clouds and doves and trees and prancing porpoises. A half dozen slings over the side held teams of young people who were cleaning off rust and pollutants.

Groups of schoolchildren were being given tours of the ship by English-speaking Japanese. I joined a crocodile of trainee thugs and we filed aboard. Any one of the guides could be Miko, and I checked her photograph to save embarrassment.

First impressions are always important, especially so to members of a society noted for conservatism and heirarchical attitudes. I was talking about the teenage thugs, of course. My mob descended on a bank of computers lined up on one side of a large lecture room, and a beaming Japanese man clapped with delight. “So very glad you bring your children to me.”

I shuddered with revulsion. “They’re not mine!” Hurry up Miko. Where was she? Why was that cute little kid with the ponytail eyeing me up?

She looked at the photograph she was carrying. “You must be Mike. I am Miko.” She smiled up at me and offered her hand. We shook solemnly and the schoolkids snorted and poked elbows into ribs. I was scared I might break her little toy fingers. “I am ready to come,” she said, and the kids hooted like elephant seals.

Her cabin was down on C deck and I stood at the rail while she said goodbye to her room mate and collected her suitcase. Gliding past us was an ugly old sailing vessel, a poor copy of Captain Hook’s pirate ship. The sails were brown with age and the rigging was old-fashioned rope. I was sure I’d seen it before somewhere, maybe in the Bicentenary Tall Ships fleet. I was leaning over to see where it tied up when Miko staggered out with her suitcase and tapped me hesitantly on the arm.

“Are you all right, Mike?”

“Yep. Here, I’ll take that, you’d better lead the way.” Ships are like mazes. Steep stairs and narrow passages. You usually end up where you started from and there’s always a guy named Kafka laughing at you from behind a peephole.

We caught a taxi in Quay street and she gave me an obviously much-delivered lecture on the valuable contribution of the Nihon International to world harmony. With education came understanding; with understanding came peace and love. The youth of Japan wish to share their knowledge and culture with the young people of all nations. No, you are mistaken, Mike, the Nihon International is sailing the Pacific on a goodwill mission, there is no propaganda message. We have much to learn from your culture and perhaps we have something to offer also.

Surprise, surprise, a Japanese trade mission was also aboard. The ship would be sailing down to Wellington tonight to be on hand for the historic signing of the Southern Ocean Fisheries Treaty. And the trade mission? I asked. Come to do a little fishing have they?

“Ah Mike, I think you are teasing.”

Her English was better than Sid’s. She was proud of it, too. “Mike, do I pronounce ‘PrimeLine’ correctly?”

“Yep, perfect.” Poor old Sid would be disappointed, he’d been working for days on a joke about the Japanese r’s.

She checked into her room and told me she’d be ready for dinner in one hour. Where were we going and with whom? Hopefully it would be the Greenpeace representative, or shall we instead stay and examine your research notes? Scrub the theory that she was Konu’s geisha girl.

Gretel thought she was lovely. “She’s so small is she not? Like a doll.” Monica nodded grimly and sat as far away from me as she could. I felt awkward. Monica and I had shared what an old fashioned guy like me had thought to be a fairly intimate moment, but I’d been secretly happy about her emphatic stance on the business versus pleasure issue. Was she backpedalling on that...or was she just anti-Japanese?

While Miko had been settling into her room, I’d tried to ring Piggott or Sid at the office, but got the dreaded secretary. Both were out with our Japanese buddies, no doubt enjoying themselves while she worked her fingers to the bone. She had reminded me to go easy on expenses and Sarah was still trying to ring you, Mike, she was already in Wellington and getting very angry with you. Of course you have her hotel details...and her mobile number, yes you do, it’s a different prefix that’s all. Read your fact sheet, Michael.

I’d emailed my preliminary ideas to Sarah’s hotel, reasoning that she’d only be unnecessarily stroppy on the phone and anyway, she wouldn’t be able to truly appreciate the brilliance of the proposed opening sequence without seeing my superb sketches of the coming Apocalypse. Of course she’d be even more impressed when I fronted up with Monica and Turnball for in-depth interviews. Which was another reason to invite the two SPASO representatives to dinner.

I now took the opportunity of thanking Monica for putting me on to Turnball and said I would have invited him too, but of course he didn’t have a phone.

“He does not like electricity,” said Gretel.

“Why’s that?”

“He says it destroys polarity.”

Miko looked up from her menu. “What is ‘polarity’?”

“What are you folks having?” I asked in a host sort of way.

They all ignored me. Monica still wasn’t being very nice. I told them the shishkebab is always a goodie.

“Turnball is a very intense person,” Monica told Miko. “He believes that the earth is subject to a magnetic field which we disturb at our own peril.”

“I see.”

Or maybe they’d prefer the vegetarian curry?

Gretel stood up at her end of the table and raised her arms above her head. Monica nodded at her. “Now she’s the North Pole, Miko. The lines of magnetism travel along the north/south axis. Stand up, Mike.”

I stood up with my arms in the air and they made me bend towards Gretel. The Maitre d’ hovered by in case I was going to dive into the salad bar. Monica took advantage of my frozen pose to steal one of my ciggies for later. “Now you see what happens if I push the South Pole away...he falls over. I’ve interfered with the lines of magnetism. Turnball believes that the indiscriminate use of electricity similarly affects this north/south alignment. We all become unbalanced. Like Mike.”

I picked my dignity up and carried it back to my chair. Miko was making copious notes in a green notebook with a large peace symbol on the cover.

“I bet Turnball uses a fridge,” I said.

“No he does not,” said Gretel.

“It’s not possible to live without electricity.”

“Lot’s of people in the world live like that,” said Monica.

“Yes Mike, I have seen it in many places.”

“Ja, I too have seen many countries where they have no water or electricity.”

“Yeah, well I’ve seen Aborigines on walkabout, too, but I meant here, in New Zealand. How does the guy find out what’s going on in the world?” How did he make toast?

Monica stubbed out her cigarette in the butter dish. “Like all of us, Mike, he does compromise.”

We ordered our meals and made small talk about small things. Monica reminded me that the SPASO crew were going down to Wellington tomorrow and that she and Turnball were appearing on Radio Talkback on Friday morning. Your people might be interested in that, Mike. I asked them to forgive me while I got out my book and wrote that in right away before I forgot. Miko told us how wonderful it was to be here in a country which led the world in conservation and the pursuit of peace. Gretel said it certainly was. Monica pointed out that New Zealand men were in fact the most aggressive beasts that ever walked the earth. I stuck up for Aussie jokers.

I cunningly deflected the resulting flak by ordering a slice of pavlova. “This is an Australian invention,” I informed Miko, “see? It looks a bit like Uluru.”

“What a load of rubbish,” spat Monica. “That’s a Kiwi creation. You Aussies are always claiming you invented things.”

“No we’re not.”

“We Japanese invent many things.”

The rest of us shared a look. “No you don’t,” I said. “You’re very good at improving stuff, no argument, but what have you ever invented?”

“We have brought much prosperity to Asia and the Pacific. Japanese scientists....”

“...are still killing whales!” Monica had risen from her seat and was glaring furiously. It was up to me, the host, to calm things down. “Hey,” I said, “it was Pavlov who invented the pavlova, remember? He used to try out recipes to make his dogs salivate.”

I went to the toilet for a think. I needed SPASO to put spice into the world’s most boring news story. Turnball’s brilliant theory about magnetic polarity would fit in well with the nuclear bomb intro. With luck we could get a whole programme with only a few minutes devoted to false smiles and political backslapping. But Miko would soon blurt out that we were working on a project for the Japanese market. My instincts warned me against that. Several possibilities occurred to me, but I immediately snatched at the old tried and true. I would obfuscate.

Someone had eaten a bit of my dessert while I was in the toilet and I suspected Gretel. I always make a little mark because Sid is a bugger for doing it. I ordered coffee for us all and ate the bottom edge of my pav so that the walls would collapse. Monica sniffed disparagingly. “That’s how the Berlin wall collapsed,” I told them. “Start at the bottom and the rest comes tumbling down.” Of course I was speaking allegorically, or maybe metaphorically. The peasants had started to pick up Western TV. Half a dozen episodes of ‘Wheel of Fortune’ and the lowliest of serfs rise up and demands more.

Miko had hauled out a notebook and was preparing to interview the others in depth. She sat there with poised pen and I gabbled on to drown her polite coughs. “Miko wants to say something, Mike,” said Gretel. She smiled encouragement.

“We don’t have time for that,” I said, as the waiter came trotting over with bill. “We all have an early flight tomorrow and Miko’s looking really tired.” I yawned hugely. “Goodness, is that the time already?”

I lay in my lonely bed and pondered. Tomorrow Miko wanted to visit various embassies and consulates in Wellington. I couldn’t see the reason for it. It’s always nice to include a stock shot of an official looking residence behind our intrepid reporter saying ‘Today, behind these closed doors....’ But who ever bothers to go inside? I’d told her that we couldn’t make an appointment just like that; we needed letters of introduction and advance notification.

“Yes, Mike. That is all arranged.”

I tried to immerse myself in an unlikely erotic fantasy involving Miko, Monica and Gretel, but my heart wasn’t in it. Advance notification. That meant Piggott had known about the story for at least a week or two. And that meant Konu must have been in the background all along. So why hadn’t Sarah and I known? It only confirmed my earlier suspicion that Piggy, the devious bastard, had given the job to Mathews from the word go, and he’d only passed it on to us because Mathews had jumped ship at the last minute. I lit a cigarette and smoked in the dark. Like Sid always says, finding answers is the easy part; working out the questions is the hard bit.

The SPASO contingent were on our flight next morning. Monica was sitting next to the window, which showed status, and had her eyes closed, which showed style. Turnball was sandwiched between her and Gretel, who waved excitedly at me as I fought my way past a noisy television film crew. Half the flight seemed to be made up of camera operators, sound recordists and bossy production people. Turnball was alternatively scowling with derision and trembling with polarisation. I kicked a nagra tapedeck out of the way and deftly perched on Gretel’s armrest.

The engines started up and Turnball began to shake uncontrollably. Monica was still feigning sleep, but Gretel reached over and held his hand. The attendant came down the aisle and asked me to please get back to my seat. The guy with the nagra tried to trip me. I spent the whole fifty minute flight feigning sleep to avoid Miko’s incessant questioning.

Sarah hadn’t called me last night, which was ominous. I’d punched out her number a couple of times enroute to the airport, but no luck. Finally I’d left a message on her phone giving our flight number.

Of course she wasn’t waiting. The SPASO crew leapt into a dirty Bedford van driven by an anthropoid, while Miko and I stood lonely and unloved outside the terminal. We ended up catching a taxi.

Wellington must have been built by accident. Steep hills; twisty roads; constant wind. Melbourne was flat and planned and beautiful. I was missing the place already, and even missing Piggott and the office. But Fenola would be there, slyly whispering into receptive ears. Give me the plum jobs. Give me give me give me. Miko reached over and patted my clenched fist. “It is good to be here, Mike. We can start working straight away.”

“I thought we could book in and have an early lunch.” I’d missed breakfast. “Then I’ll head back to the airport and pick up Mister Konu”.

“Sidney will be with them, will he not?”

“Of course.”

“He can drive them to our hotel and they can check out their equipment. We must visit the places I mentioned.”

“Ah.”

“We must meet with Ms Bereton first.”

“Sarah?”

“She has a copy of the schedule.”

“What schedule?”

“I forgot to show it to you, Mike.” She’d never forgotten anything in her life. I was a bit hurt; Sarah should have slipped me the details.

We registered at the reception desk and inspected our rooms. My minibar was empty. There was an envelope on my table next to an apple core. Sarah’s calling card. “Must have words in private, hence connecting door. Something strange is going on.” She’d underlined “strange” about six times, but the most prominent word to me was “connecting”. I went over and locked it.

The taxi dropped Miko and I off outside the Japanese Embassy. A Television New Zealand Film crew were lounging about outside and turned expectantly to us as we climbed out. One of them bummed a cigarette off me and we told each other a few lies about how important we both were in the world media stakes.

For some reason Miko suggested that I stay outside and talk to my colleagues.

“These aren’t my colleagues,” I said, “you are.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I must talk to this person myself.”

I was going to nod agreement when I noticed the TVNZ crew hiding their sniggers.

“Well I’m sorry too, Miko, but this is part of my job.”

She stood there, irresolute, as if it was some big deal. I was scared she was going to cry.

“But Mike, this appointment is for only one person.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“So you see I must enter alone.”

One of the TVNZ guys winked at me. I turned my back on him. “Don’t worry, Miko,” I said, “PrimeLine are way ahead of you. You go see your bloke and I’ll just pop in and have a word with the Ambassador.”

She looked at me with respect. “Mike, you know the Ambassador?”

“More or less. I’ve got a letter of introduction.” I did, too, signed by the Governor General of Australia. Please extend all courtesy to the bearer. Hardly anyone knows who the GG is, so they’re easy to fake.

It got me as far as the second secretary to the Ambassador’s chief offsider. Miko had disappeared into some inner sanctum. My guy invited me to sit and we smiled at each other. The sod filed away one of my few remaining name cards, then cleared his throat and bowed. I did the same thing in reverse.

“This is a big occasion for us all, isn’t it?” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” He was eyeing Sid’s fake signature and itching to inspect his diplomatic gazette. “The Southern Ocean Fisheries Treaty. Joining hands across the world.” He nodded again. “We’re here in force to cover this momentous event,” I continued. Surely the guy must have heard of it? He was being deliberately inscrutable.

His secretary brought in coffee, smiled briefly, then left. He rose and poured it, then took a chair on my side of the desk. I was probably stuffing up the whole protocol ritual.

“I’ll tell you what I’m after,” I said. “We would very much like to interview the Ambassador for our programme.”

“I see.”

“It would be beneficial all around. He gets publicity...we’re talking nationwide stuff here...Australia and Japan. We would, of course, treat this in a dignified way....”

He was nodding steadily.

“A few words on what it means to the Japanese people. Conservation; international friendship; fresh fish.”

He was still nodding away.

“Of course, we would like to make this an exclusive interview.”

He shook his head.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be exclusive. We could shoot it here.” I indicated his desk with the excellent lithograph of Mt Fuji as backdrop.

“I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“I am sorry, but we do not give ad hoc interviews. It is our policy, you understand?”

We probably wouldn’t have used the boring old fart anyway. I shrugged. “It’s your loss.”

I only wanted to be able to tell Sarah that I’d been to the embassy and tried. Konu would think that was a pretty decent effort and would pat my back. But I hadn’t finished my coffee yet.

“You could probably help me with some details on the forum agenda.”

“Certainly.” He put his cup down neatly and I couldn’t help noticing that it was empty. Everybody seems to be able to drink hot coffee faster than I can.

“I have the details here.”

He pulled out a copy of the same glossy folder I’d already been given by the Conference office secretary. “Our representatives are flying into Wellington tomorrow morning. There is a media reception this evening, for your colleagues and your good self, and tomorrow there will be a civic reception for all delegates at the Michael Fowler Centre.” He closed it up and beamed. Useless prick, everyone in the whole world knew all that.

“I was thinking more of the specific agenda. We’re all interested, of course, in what sort of concessions Japan will be making on the ecological front. Whaling. Dolphin fishing. Quota levels for the Southern Ocean. Your recent dealings with the Food and Agricultural Organisation wing of the United Nations...that’s the big one at the moment. Rumour has it that you wish to promote a new regional organisation to establish guidelines for marine resource preservation....”

God, he was inscrutable.

I stuck in the knife. “Is the Japanese Government prepared to sign the Southern Ocean Fisheries Treaty in its present form?”

Our eyes locked and I would not be the one to blink first. I ostentatiously opened my battered notebook and clicked my ballpoint. His eyes began to water. They don’t like meeting a real pro face to face. The occidental and the oriental minds locked into a titanic struggle.

“So sorry,” he blinked, “I am not a party to government decisions.”

The best I could do was call it a draw.

6

There was a lot of activity back at the hotel, but none of our crew had arrived. Two tourist coaches were blocking up the entrance and we had to fight our way into the lobby. Sarah had left a message on my phone and at the desk to say that she was meeting Konu at the airport and I’d better be back here reading this by 3 pm at the latest.

It was 3 pm. If I went up to my room to grab that apple core and comb my hair, they’d arrive and I’d earn a black mark. I turned to discuss the problem with Miko, but she was pacing nervously and didn’t want to know.

A Toyota minibus pulled up outside and Sarah hopped down from the front passenger seat. Miko fairly sprinted out. I was far more dignified, and signalled the exhausted porter to follow her while I stayed at the desk and arranged the room keys into an interesting pattern. Sarah had written up room lists putting Sid and I on either side of her, with the Japanese all together a comfortable corridor away.

Sarah barged through the doors carrying several suitcases and turned to yell something at Sid. The vehicle started up and moved away to the carpark. Konu came in with Miko and looked carefully around. Sarah patted him on the shoulder and he flinched. I waved from my key display and pointed to the register. She bounded across.

“How’s it’s going?” I asked her. She snorted and pulled a face. Miko trotted up and asked for Mister Konu’s key. “Have you two met?” I asked. “Miko, Sarah. Sarah, Miko.”

“Yes Mike, we have just met. Mister Konu is tired and must go to his room. Mike, will you help Hanada san with the camera equipment?”

Hanada was a small podgy bloke, with a pencil moustache and dark sunglasses. He looked a lot like the Mexican guy in the corn chips commercial. I shook hands and introduced myself. He whipped his business card out and I read it. It said Hanada. Sid sauntered into view with his usual disreputable travel bag in one hand and a driving mirror in the other. He handed me the mirror and sat on his bag. Hanada was looking up at the sky through mirrored sunglasses.

“That just fell off I suppose?” I said.

“Yep. Jap crap. Oops, sorry Honda.”

“Hanada,” I corrected.

“Hondada?”

“Hanada.”

“Ah shit. I backed into a tree. It was loose when I picked the minibus up.”

“How was the flight?”

“A bit rugged. Had to sit next to Konu the whole way.” He grimaced. “What’s thingy looking at?”

Hanada turned to me and bowed briefly, then headed inside. Sarah popped her head out the door and whistled.

“Come on,” I said, “we’d better go in.”

The porter emerged out of the lift with an empty luggage trolley and we pushed past him. I handed Hanada his room key and he said “Domo.”

Sid put his fluttery lips against my ear and whispered “That means thanks. Domo Arigato. He doesn’t speak much English.”

I wiped the spittle off. Sarah had her finger against her lips and was standing behind Hanada. He could fit right into her and still leave a substantial margin for error.

We escorted him to his room, stashed his camera gear inside, then made a beeline to Sarah’s room. She closed and locked the door. “Make us a coffee will you, Sid?” She drew the curtains against possible directional microphones and laserscopes. “Right, folks, we’ve got to talk.”

I started to pull out my notes and she waved me away. “Just give us the guts, Mike. What’s this Miko bird doing?”

“Researching. We’ve been flat out.” She gave me a disbelieving look. “I haven’t even stopped to eat yet,” I said.

Sid squeezed one of those little milk sachets and it squirted all over the floor. He treated it philosophically. “Fuck”.

“But what is she researching?” Sarah pulled out a wad of papers from her briefcase and spilled them on the bed. “That’s what we do! I’ve got the whole guts of it right here.”

“What’s this about the schedule?” I asked.

“Has she got that, too?”

“It seems to me that she wrote the damn thing. How come I haven’t got it?”

“Yeah,” said Sid. “What schedule? Does it say anything about me having to make the coffee all the time?”

We pulled over the bedside table and the phone fell onto the floor. Sid jumped onto the other bed and wondered aloud whether he’d ever get a chance to look at his room, he did have a room didn’t he? Sarah put three sacharine tablets in her cup. “Shut up, Sid. Look, Piggy came out to the airport with me and handed it over just before take off. Go on, read it.”

Sid tried to grab the schedule off me and I had to slap his hand away. We both pretended we didn’t see Sarah whack a bit of duty free whisky into her coffee. Page three was a cartoon storyboard highlighting significant shots we were expected to get. The phone in my room rang, but we ignored it. Sid snorted at the sketch of Konu interviewing the New Zealand Prime Minister, and did a double snort at the concluding storyboard illustration, where Konu was standing amidst all the delegates with his arms around at least six pairs of shoulders.

“This is pathetic,” I said.

“Isn’t it.” She swigged the rest of her coffee and shuddered. “It’s all Konu, you know. Did you see the bit about the Kiwi PM? You haven’t by any chance arranged an interview with him have you?”

“Ha ha. Nearly got the Jap Ambassador though.”

“You’re not supposed to use those bodgey letters.”

Sid grinned. “Hey, did they go for it? I signed it left-handed. That makes the difference.” He drew a scrawl in the air and dotted the “i”.

Sarah snatched the schedule back and spread the pages out on the floor. I gave her my list of film library footage and doodles and she tossed it aside. Sid jumped back on the bed and started fiddling with the TV remote control. She threw her pen at him. “Don’t fuck around, Sid, we’ve got to make this work.”

On those rare occasions when we worked to a storyboarded plan, we always followed the same pattern. Pro and contra points of view; injured victim; shots depicting injustice, carnage or emotional trauma. Pinpoint the Big Baddy...then Piggott to the rescue displaying all the virtues that each of us know we have deep inside us. Our great Flasher of Fitzroy story was a classic example. But of course Piggott wouldn’t be featuring this time.

Sid was muttering that he’d left a bit of gear in the minibus and what did we think? Bunch of thieving bastards round here you reckon? We ignored him. Sarah’s square face was clenched like a fist. She was scanning my borrowed SPASO material and looked up to see me watching her. “Don’t gawp like a kid. What’s this ‘Operation Deep Freeze’ bit? What’s it got to do with fish?”

“It’s connected with the US Antarctic base in Christchurch.” I handed over the photocopies of Turnball’s chapter.

“I know that much,” she said. Sid stuck his face in close and she swatted him away. “Don’t do that!”

“There was a big drug scandal. Turnball reckons they’re all on fairy dust. The Erebus disaster thingy.”

“Well Piggott won’t have a bar of it,” she said. “Or should I say Konu won’t.”

“How come?”

“Yeah, how come?” said Sid.

She ignored us and flicked pages. “Where’s the Greenpeace guff?”

“They were useless. Waffle waffle waffle. SPASO have it all over them. A young, vibrant organisation with fire in their bellies and solid political connections. Greenpeace are just...”

“...a well-known international organisation...shit, Mike, it’s not what we’re after...read the schedule!”

“But this guy is great!” I waved Turnball’s chapter at her. “He’s over the top. He’s talking terrorism!”

“Don’t be a wanker, terrorism’s boring. And we don’t want that sort of shit this time. Piggott says play to Konu’s tune and keep it straight.” She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray and shook her head sadly. “I dunno, guys, I think I’m out of my depth.”

I wasn’t going to lose Turnball. I waved the chapter at her. “Why don’t we fax the guts of it to Piggy and see what he says?”

“Yeah, and why don’t we run to mummy and ask her to change our nappies? Come off it, Mike.”

“All right then we won’t,” I said. “Piggy”s done the dirty once too often for my liking anyway. You know whose job this was don’t you?”

Sarah nodded. Sid tried to look as if he knew, but failed. “You mean it wasn’t us?” he said.

“No, it was supposed to go to Mathews. Piggott got stuck with us, that’s all.”

“Bullshit, we’re the best!”

Sarah smiled tightly. “You tell ’em, Sid. No-one else will.”

“We’re better than Mathews any day of the week!”

“Of course we are,” I said, “but Piggott doesn’t care who he uses. He’s sold out for a chance at the Jap market. The new sponsor will be calling the shots. Piggy’s ego tells him that if he can get exposure on Japanese TV he’ll be home and hosed, so when they say they want to use PrimeLine’s credibility to get this story, he says “Okay, use the dummies...let them make fools of themselves. They’ll work their guts out for you because they’re total pros, then let’s discard them like used condoms and spit on their failed dreams.”

We ran through the film archives stock list and ticked off a few items. Infamous footage of driftnetters and huge foreign trawlers; oilspills and dead birds; Antarctic wastelands and innocent Adelie penguins; ominous scientific stations and obscene rubbish dumps; rusty food chains and harpooned whales. And of course my brilliantly conceived images of nuclear detonations and pioneer aviators, and why not a clip of Chernobyl and the Gulag camps?

“Hardly any of that’s in the storyboard, Mike.”

“I know,” I told her, “but it’ll work. We’re being paid for our expertise. Konu probably thinks he knows what he’s doing, he’s probably read the Reader’s Digest guide to doco making, but his bosses are going to vomit with boredom.”

My telephone rang for a long long time and we looked at each other. It finally stopped and almost immediately Sarah’s cellphone started ringing. We finally found it under her chair.

“Hello?”

Sid and I could hear lots of squeaky sounds.

“Well if it’s that important you should have rung us earlier, Miko.”

God, we were ruthless.

“Oh no, they’re both with me. We’re having a production meeting. Just stay put and we’ll be right down.”

It’s only a game, but you might as well play to win.

They were waiting for us in the lobby. Konu and Miko were perched together on one couch and Hanada sat opposite. Miko jumped up and came over. Konu didn’t even bother to turn his head.

“We could not find you anywhere, Mike. Mister Konu is angry.”

Sarah snorted. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “but there’s so much to be done. Sid hasn’t even had time to see his room yet, and I haven’t eaten for about two days.”

“Mister Konu and I must visit the ship.”

“What, the old Nihon International? Is it here already?” I turned to the others. “That’s the floating university Miko came on.”

“We are invited for dinner tonight.”

“What time?” asked Sarah. It was only about 4 pm now.

“We would like to go now. Is that possible?”

“I’ll have to change my dress.” Sarah looked down at herself with loathing. I think I’d forgotten to shave.

“No, Sarah. Mister Konu and I are only going. We would like to be there soon, but we will come back by taxi.”

Everyone was looking at me. “Hang on, I’ve got phonecalls to make and stuff.” They were still looking at me and to my disgust I realized that I’d been cast in the role of lowly driver. “Well all right then.”

Sid went back upstairs to find the missing keys and Miko turned to me. “Next you will take Hanada san to see the locations?”

“What locations?” asked Sarah.

“Those locations like in the storyboard. You have the schedule?”

“Oh, those,” I said. “Yep, can do. Just have a squizz, you mean?”

“Pardon?”

“He means we’ll just have a look.”

Miko nodded. “And tomorrow we will take many shots before the conference starts.”

“Yep,” I said. “We can do that.”

Sarah insisted on sitting in the front passenger seat and navigating. Historically she’d always been atrocious in that role, but this time she directed me straight to the docks and the familiar Nihon International, without a single detour. We waited while Sid did his greasy door-opening flunkey act in the back, then I complimented her.

“Yeah, well I used to live here.” She said it in such a way that I refrained from making one of my witty comments. We watched Konu and Miko climb the gangway to the ship. Sarah turned and gave me a thin smile. “A bloody long time ago, Mike.”

Sid and Hanada explored each other’s camera gear for a while, until Sarah told them to stop farting around and sit still. She spread the map and the newly acquired schedule on the front seat and the two of us pencilled in a few likely locations for background filler. I drove slowly, as instructed, and every so often we’d stop and Hanada would leap out and take photos. Sid would pose for him and count off angles and distances and point to where the sun would be at a particular time of day.

The object was to find pick-up shots to cut in with our coverage of the convention, which would start tomorrow night. In the morning we’d be rushing around shooting left, right and centre. The airport, for arriving VIP’s; various hotels and consulates; a shot of security forces checking out the Michael Fowler centre; two or three shots of the myriad photo-opportunities pathetically arranged for each dignatory by their PR sycophants; and we’d also be fixing interviews with such luminaries as my rabid SPASO lot and maybe a delegate or two.

Many of the lesser delegates had already arrived and were checking out the golf courses and cocktail bars, closely accompanied by public relations people and tame media representatives. The rest of us had to work for our living. Our Aussie delegate would be flying in at mid-day, co-incidentally timing his arrival with that of the American and Japanese delegations. What was the bet that there’d be an impromptu press conference in the Airport V.I.P. lounge?

We drove around for a while, ending up back at the waterfront close to the Inter-Island Ferry terminal. It was getting late and the sun was setting over the harbour. Hanada muttered excitedly and snapped a series of photographs. Sid pulled a face and yawned. Sarah came over and hid behind me while she lit a cigarette. The wind was quite cold. “We should be able to get a few fishing boats,” she said, “maybe even a Russian trawler.” A woman jogger padded by and Sarah looked wistfully after her. “Silly bitch.”

“This is no different really,” I suggested. “In fact I reckon it’s easier than normal.”

“It’s shit.”

“Well yeah, it’s shit.” I thought for a bit. “But I suppose there are people who like to just see what’s going on in the world. Educational stuff; nature documentaries; political analyses.” I was thinking of my brother-in-law, the South Yarra nerd. She grinned sourly. “Frankly my dear, it’s fucking boring.”

She blew a cloud of smoke into the air and coughed. “Piggott said just do it...‘Konu’s calling the tune.’” She threw her cigarette butt into the sea and put on her Shirley Temple voice:

“Konu’s calling the fucking tune!”

Sid was tossing stones at a seagull and missing by miles. Hanada was busily writing in his notebook. Sarah and I sat on the seawall and ran through the storyboard yet again. Konu wanted to be seen arm in arm with his international buddies as they triumphantly waved aloft their complimentary treaty-signing pens. He wanted to be seen chatting to the New Zealand Prime Minister, and to be seen sharing a bagel with the resident American Ambassador. He wanted to raise his public profile and be so famous that Network executives would crawl on their bellies and thrust millions of dollars at him. He wanted geisha girls to wiggle their inviting bottoms and lick him all over with adoring tongues. He wanted just what everyone else in the business wanted.

“And that’s our job, Mike.”

I stood up on the wall and gazed out to sea, letting the clean wind ruffle my ratty hair. Sarah was watching Sid show Hanada where the Southern Cross would be if it was visible. And if you took those sunglasses off, mate.

Beyond the Ferry terminal I could see the funnel of the Nihon International. Miko and Konu would be on board, sitting at the Captain’s table, mindless of the fact that I hadn’t eaten for a small eternity. It was obvious that they would be getting a few pointers from the Trade mission reportedly on board. They’d be toasting the ‘Greater Asian Economic Sphere’ and planning dastardly deeds of commercial warfare.

I’m not up on Big Business affairs. Where I come from we were taught to think small and only shoplift from Coles. You need a nasty-minded, devious bastard like Mathews to work those stories. Not that there was much of a story. Konu was obviously pretty friendly with his business buddies, and I was sure the so-called ‘Floating University’ was essentially a commercial vehicle...but so what? Any high profile international forum attracts opportunists. The cynical PrimeLine viewing public wouldn’t give a shit. They’d probably say ‘good on ‘em’ and turn their ipods up a notch.

And for their part, the Japs couldn’t lose. For a start, they might actually sell something to the artless Third World delegations, but more likely, and this sort of thinking showed the benefit of a clean wind blowing directly into my watering eyes, they would arrive back with greatly increased credibility. Our man Konu is a major player on the world stage. Witness this documentary proof. And our man Konu is shortly to launch our brand new environmentally pure whizzbang. See how Konu stands tall amidst his smiling and influential friends. See how he is greeted in person by the host Prime Minister. See how Konu holds up our whizzbang and shares the bagel of unity with the American Ambassador.

It was suddenly dark. Sid tooted the horn and turned the lights on. It was way after seven and the streets were full of people heading off to restaurants and movies and discos. Sarah was flipping through the guff I’d picked up from the Conference office and found our accreditation cards. “What time are you supposed to pick them up, Mike?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Konu and sweetie pie. What time?”

“They’re catching a taxi. We’ve got the media bash.”

Sid sat up. “What media bash? It’ll be overtime, you know.”

Sarah turned and threw a balled up sheet of paper at him. “Don’t be a fuckwit, Sid, and why don’t you ever read your info sheet? Do I have to spoonfeed you all the time?”

“No way. You’re not getting your spoon near me.”

I clambered into the driving seat and adjusted the rear view mirror. Hanada was sitting lonely and ignored. I leaned across and whispered in Sarah’s ear. “What about our little friend?”

She turned and gave him a friendly tap on the head. “Spunky little guy, isn’t he? Why don’t we take him with us, he’s accredited.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“He might enjoy himself.”

“Yeah.”

I pulled into the hotel forecourt and stopped at the front door. Sarah was eyeing Hanada’s podgy body and thinking lascivious thoughts. Sid reminded us that he hadn’t actually seen his room yet. And his bag was in Sarah’s room. He didn’t want to hurry us, take your bloody time, but a little consideration for the worker was surely not too much to ask.

“Don’t pull my tit, Sid. Twenty minutes everyone?” She repeated it very slowly for Hanada’s benefit and he nodded. “Yes. I understand. Big party tonight. Nijuu... twenty minutes.”

I didn’t like the depraved glint in his eye and I nudged Sarah. “You’re going to be a good boy, aren’t you?” she queried.

He grinned mightily. “Oh yes, very good boy.” His eyes were wide with anticipation and Sarah and I exchanged a look.

“If he misbehaves it’s your fault,” I told her.

“Shut up, Mike.”

“It’s not my job to babysit people.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

“As long as you know, that’s all.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

7

The Michael Fowler Centre is a fine looking building, and absolutely perfect for hosting a major international conference, which in fact was what it would be doing from tomorrow afternoon. We turned up dressed in our finery and I’d even polished my shoes. The doorman looked at our passes and snorted. “Media? Round the corner, mate.” He winked at a large security man who was chewing gum and acting tough, then escorted us back out into the street and pointed to the bad end of town. “You can’t miss it, mate. Looks like a big barn.”

It sounded like one, too. We could hear chooks clucking and farmyard animals braying. We stood in a queue and had our accreditation cards checked against a master list and were let in one by one. I was last.

Someone had tried. The huge hall was decorated with balloons and streamers, and a raised dais at the far end was laden with microphones. Tables and chairs were scattered on either side of a central aisle which had all the trimmings associated with a food buffet, except for actual food. My heart dropped into my empty stomach.

The wall to my left was plastered with posters and photo essays, and it seemed to be good form for new arrivals to file past them and make appreciative noises. Sarah was showing Hanada something and he was nodding vigorously. Where was Sid? Where was the bar?

There was a cheer and a procession of waiters started bringing in food. My initial guess that there were only fifty people here quadrupled as the bar cleared and everyone trooped back to their seats. Sarah had commandeered a table and waved me over. What about the food? Surely it was self-service?

I took a chair and made space for Sid. He was carrying bottles of wine and clean glasses. “You gotta be quick,” he said, “guess who I just saw?”

“What about the food?” I asked. “Don’t we just go and bog in?”

No-one was eating. Maybe we had to wait until everything was set up. Yeah, that would be it. My belly rumbled.

Sarah sculled a glass of wine and grimaced. “Have you two seen those photo-essays yet? You haven’t, Sid.”

“I’m going to have a look in a minute.”

“I hope we’ve missed all the speeches,” I said. I needed food desperately.

Sid nodded. “Yeah, Joe was saying we’re late. Should have been here an hour ago.”

“Which Joe is that?”

“You remember the bugger,” he told me, “the Yank. Based in Canberra. Joseph. Always wears that necklace thing.”

“Is he here?” I looked around. They’d turned on a bank of lights over the buffet aisle and the rest of us were plunged into comparative darkness. Someone boomed a deep African chuckle and there was a sudden hush, then everyone burst into laughter.

Hanada’s little head was flitting around like a sparrow. He bobbed up and down in his seat and appeared as if he was going to burst at any moment. Sarah suddenly hid her face.

“What’s up?” I asked. “You all right?”

“You okay, Sarah?” Sid gave me a puzzled look and shrugged. Hanada took off his dark glasses and folded them up. We all shared the look that men share when a woman does something inexplicable.

Then I saw Joe. In fact, he saw me. Our table was fairly secluded because of angles and shadows and broken streamers, and he’d been walking from table to table to find us. I wondered why?

“Michael.” We shook hands.

“That’s fairly formal, Joseph.”

“Is that Sarah, perchance?”

She looked up and sighed. “Hello Joe. Hurray, the yanks are coming.”

“Don’t be like that. Keeping the pecker up, Mike? Still churning out the crap?”

He sat down uninvited and Sid poured him a wine. I wanted a beer, but I wanted food even more. They were still bringing out trays of chicken and beef, and now there were people making lightning forays to steal loose nibbles. Two guys wearing chef’s caps were hitting at the roving hands with metal tongs. I started to rise.

Sarah gripped my arm. “Don’t go, Mike.” She peered cautiously over her shoulder and I sat back down. Sid giggled because he’d eaten on the plane and was a selfish bastard. Hanada patted his arm and said “We eat?”

“No, mate. Got to wait for the invite.”

“Ah so.”

So they really did say that.

Joe was attached to the American Consulate in Canberra as a sort of trouble-shooting PR guy. He tried to dignify his position with the title of ‘Media Liaison Officer’, but was more commonly referred to as the ‘Media Leaking Orifice’. He was a great source of diplomatic gossip and had the invaluable gift of being able to provide inside information to provide maximum embarrassment for all, except of course, the American Government.

We’d first met up with him when we were working on the Woomera thing. Radiation fallout, genetic mutations. Well, Mathews had covered that side of it; we’d come up with a beaut story about ghosts. A tribe of Aborigines had been in the blast area and their bodies had vaporised, but now their spirit bodies roamed the outback and caused many strange phenomena.

Joe had been there to stir up some shit for the poms, thereby making the American nuclear excesses look better. Then we’d run into him in Canberra after 9/11 screwing our mob up to invade Saddam, not the hardest job in the world. We’d been stalking steroid dealers at the Institute of Sport.

I introduced him to Hanada and they shook hands. He turned to me. “Funny, these little nips, aren’t they?”

“Hanada san speaks perfect English,” I lied.

“American, you mean.” He laughed and punched Hanada on the shoulder. “Just kidding you, buddy.”

“How come you’re here, anyway?” I asked him.

“Liaison, Mike. Just holding hands.”

Sid snorted. “Bullshit. You guys are trying to fuck things up.”

Sarah and I exchanged a flat look. Why was Joe wasting his time talking to us? We were nothing in the scheme of things.

He suddenly turned from staring at Hanada and looked at me. “This is not the boss bloke is it?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

“Why?”

He twisted his lips and stood up. “You guys might have bitten off a bit more than you can chew. See you around.”

Sarah was still acting a little strangely, but I was too distracted by hunger to ask why. Organised phalanxes were making kamikaze raids on the smorgasbord and several more chefs were patrolling the outer perimeters. I located a weak point by the boiled potatoes and started to creep towards it. A burst of feedback froze us all and we looked toward the dais. A little grey man was waving.

“May I have your attention please!” Surely that deep voice belonged to the African bloke with the big laugh. “I know you’re all hungry...” Loud cheers.

“...And I know you’ve had enough speeches for one night...”

“Bloody right!”

“...My name is Roy Fitzsimmons and I’m the man responsible for all this...”

Ah, I thought, Monica’s daddy. “Don’t forget to pick up your new programme schedules on the way out. There”ll be a band playing after the food is finished, but in the meantime perhaps you’d like to take a look at the display here to my right...every one of the participating nations has presented us with an exhibit for this commemorative display, which will also be on view in the Michael Fowler Centre lobby from tomorrow afternoon. So enjoy the company; enjoy the music...and enjoy the food!”

There were suddenly hundreds of people. Ninety percent of them got in ahead of me and stole all the juicy tidbits. I ended up in the corner guarding a paper plate of boiled potatoes and a raw carrot. I snarled over it like a lion at bay. Jackals and vultures skipped just out of reach. I’d seen Hanada go down in a heaving mob but it was each man for himself. Sid had headed straight for the drinks bar, and he’d soon be circulating with a tray of drinks to barter for food. The guy was a total pro.

My back was to the wall and I sidled along looking for our table. There was a little more feedback from the dais and I could see the hairy heads of musicians fiddling with their gear. I hoped it wasn’t going to be Country and Western. A lovely young blonde woman bumped into me and touched me with her hand.

“Sorry.”

I saw Joe deep in conversation with Monica’s father, the guy who’d given the welcoming speech. I knew I should be doing that sort of thing, sucking up to the bignoters and getting quotes, but I’ve never been comfortable with people in positions of authority. I blame my school teachers.

I saw a Canadian guy whose name I could never remember and even worse, he could never remember mine. I saw a few familiar faces from the Auckland flight and also that woman with the stupid grin who always fronts the political debates whenever we have one of our boring elections. This must be where she goes in between. I thought I caught a glimpse of Gretel, from SPASO, which made sense. Monica would be here for sure, with daddy at the helm. Maybe Turnball, if he could stand the electrified music. And I saw Mathews.

I pushed someone’s handbag from a chair and slumped down. Of course UpFront would be here...it was just Mathews’ cup of tea. It was probably only good fortune that we hadn’t run into him today during our location search. I looked around to share my horror with Sid or Sarah, but they were lost in the dark and the crush. Joe shook Fitzsimmons’ hand and moved over to Mathews and they scanned the room in a vaguely threatening way.

A Spanish-looking woman came up and collected her handbag. I stood up and said sorry, is this your chair? She wrinkled her nose and stalked off, checking the contents. I sidled further along the wall, still keeping the enemy in sight. Where was bloody Sid? And who was that stupid idiot with the fat arse crawling under the dessert trolley?

I think I found our table, but there was no-one there. I remembered Sarah’s strange demeanour and thought about complicated female things like, maybe it was sudden menopause. At what age did menopause set in? How old was Sarah?

I drank someone’s wine and put my boiled potatoes down. They weren’t quite as nice as they looked and they looked horrible. Sid and I had worked with Sarah for five years now. Would she be forty? Not quite. She wasn’t the sort of person you could think of as a woman. She was a comrade in arms; a workmate. I didn’t even know where she lived. A bedsit? A boarding house? All I knew was that she had lots of budgies. Did anyone ever ring her up and ask her out on the town? Of course they didn’t. She was fat and ugly and aging. You can get by with any two of those, but you’ve really struck out with all three. She used to go to the movies a lot. I remembered that. That’s all I remembered. And on a job she drank too much, then offered herself around a little desperately.

I saw the little blonde woman again and she gave me a quick smile. The bald Englishman had cornered her and was pawing at her strapless shoulder. If I was a hero I’d zip over and extricate her and she’d thank me with a sexy murmur and our eyes would meet. That’s what I’d do if I was more sure of myself. But I already had two strikes against me. With my current food intake I’d never be fat.

Sid was talking to Monica! I shot out of my seat and barged over. “Hey,” I said. “Monica!”

“Hello Mike. Sid here was telling me you work together.”

Sid had his tray piled high with bartered chicken legs and I took one. “Go ahead,” he said, “I only worked like a Trojan to get them.”

“Trojan? You’ve been reading those condom packets again.”

“Sid’s been telling me about that horrible outfit who only do sensationalist stuff.”

I looked at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “UpFront. Bloody Mathews and Bob. They give the industry a bad name.”

“Some of the stuff they’ve done is disgusting,” I told her. “Remember the Bunyip story?”

Sid snorted. “You know, we do our best to get the message across. I mean, we’re providing a public service...that’s not too big a thing to say is it Mike?”

“No, not at all.”

“Yeah, and then these guys fabricate. They cheat.” He beckoned to Monica, who for some reason seemed fascinated with the ugly sod. “You give them an interview and who knows how they’ll edit it. They could distort the truth!”

I was hoping that Monica would make some secret, intimate acknowledgement that we shared a special relationship. I gave her a shy seductive smile, and looked deep into her dark eyes. She couldn’t help but respond.

“You look like you’ve had a very recent lobotomy,” she said.

Sid chortled. “There’s no way he’d let them play around with his bottom.” He gave me a lip twitch which said, hey, go find your own woman. I remembered I hadn’t been able to adequately embellish the story of the mirror episode. In fact I’d been too embarrassed to mention it to him at all. Sid has the sensitivity of a goat.

“You’re still okay for the interview tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.

“Yes, on my terms. Where?”

Sid was quick. “My room at the hotel.”

We both ignored him.

“What about Turnball?” I asked. “We’d like to talk to him as well.”

“I don’t think so.”

Sid and I shared a look. I’d told him all about Turnball and made a pretty big deal of it. “Any reason?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “He saw you with Miko and, well, he’s a funny guy you know...the Japanese commercial ethic....”

“Miko is just an interpreter. We’re quite separate from her lot.”

“Miko who?” said Sid feebly.

She eyed me closely and I felt a sudden unease. Things were going on that I wasn’t aware of. She seemed to be trying to draw a hidden truth out of me, something rich and strange from about five fathoms deep. But I had nothing down there.

“It doesn’t matter what you’re up to,” she said. “I don’t care what your game is...we’ll use you just as much as it suits us...you can get that straight from the start. So it’s in your own interests not to fuck us up.”

I shook a sad head. “There’s so much distrust around these days.” Sid patted me on the shoulder and gave me some more chicken. We were going to go into our well-rehearsed spiel about integrity and responsibility and we’ll pay if necessary, but I suddenly saw Mathews grinning at me and my tongue turned into jelly and began making wobbly noises.

Sid saw him too. Mathews gave a tight grin and strutted over. He bowed to Monica and inclined his sharp head at me. “Hello Mike. Sidney.” We didn’t shake hands.

I introduced Monica and caught a glimpse of Joe talking to Treacherous Bob, Mathews’ cameraman. The net was drifting tighter.

“Having fun, are you?” he asked.

“We were,” said Sid.

Mathews reached out and touched Monica’s arm because that’s what they taught you at super-salesman seminars. “I’m surprised to find PrimeLine here at all,” he told her. “Unless of course, correct me if I’m wrong Mike, they’ve found evidence of what? An Iraqi assassination squad? John Lennon”s secret hideaway? Or have those aliens landed yet again?”

Monica was looking warily at me. A group of Greenpeacers pushed by us and one of them waved to Mathews. Monica looked warily back at him. “He’s just joking,” I told her, confident that she’d never seen our programme. “Mathews was working with us up until a short while ago.”

“Yeah,” said Sid. “Sorry we had to let you go.” He turned to Monica and whispered very loudly. “Ethical considerations.” Mathews blanched and stepped back. “Still,” continued Sid, “you managed to get some sort of job in the end, didn’t you?”

I eventually did my duty with regard to the display and sidled along it making cryptic remarks about fairly esoteric things and eating more of Sid’s chicken. Gretel was talking her foreign language with a compatriot and flashed me a smile. I told her I was looking for Turnball and she said he’d gone home almost immediately. The electric guitars, you know?

These were now in evidence at the far end of the room, but I hadn’t really noticed because it was extremely noisy at this end, where the bar was. I was feeling slightly guilty because poor old Sarah would have been entertaining Hanada for the past hour.

There was a slight commotion behind me and a crowd of devout drinkers raised their voices in protest. I saw a couple of blokes I knew from my Sydney days, going way back, and they recoiled in mock surprise. They had thought I’d retired and bought the boat I was always threatening to buy, and sailed away across the Pacific to find a lovely Polynesian wahine. I’d never even thought about them.

They gave me a beer and told me about the little Jap bloke who was now asleep under the dessert trolley. “Drink? Even Ed wasn’t in the hunt.” Ed nodded sombrely and sculled his glass. “You can see his little fat arse sticking out.”

There must have been twenty Japanese people at the function but I knew straight away that it was Hanada. Ed helped me drag him out and prop him in a chair. We stood back. “Well,” said Ed, “never had much time for the little buggers before. Willing little bastard though.” He shook his head in admiration. The real test of a decent bloke was not how much you could drink, but how fast. There were representatives from 20 or so countries in the hall, but the bar was almost totally populated by Aussies and Kiwis. Who says there’s no such thing as antipodean culture?

I had a quick look for Sid and Sarah but with no luck. Ed would have helped me carry Hanada out but had to help John demolish the jug, you know how it is mate.

I carried him in my arms like a fat baby and took him outside. His eyes opened briefly and he muttered something in Japanese, then flopped back on the front steps. It was cold, but the night was very clear. Someone had once told me that the Japanese lack a certain enzyme and that was both good and bad. They became drunk rapidly but never suffered from hangovers. I couldn’t decide whether to pity or envy them. A hangover at least reminds you of the night before and suffering is very character-building. On the other hand, getting drunk quickly can be quite an advantage.

There were a few other people suffering outside in the cold Wellington night. I ignored them. The Media Bash was designed to enable us to socialise, to share our impressions, to pool our resources. I’d been to about one million of them and of course nothing like that ever happened. In whizzkid’s book, foreign correspondents from all the world’s leading newspapers would share the same hotel and the same pink gins, and would help each other with their stories. Whizzkid was either a liar or an idiot, as I strongly suspected all journalists were, because a true pro is a savage beast and would never throw even a crumb to the enemy. Unless he thought they would choke on it.

I sighed a deep philosophical sigh. Of late, after a couple of beers, I’d found myself lacking a little enthusiasm for life’s great journey. The steady plod on the blinkered path, back and forth, trudge trudge trudge. An ever deepening rut. Then one day the big spade will drop a load of dirt front and back and you”ll realize that it isn’t a trench anymore but a grave.

So you can’t blame people for wanting to be distracted from their boring path. They don’t want to be told what the scenery’s like up ahead, because it’ll only be the same as it was for the last whatever it was number of years. No, they want to be transported from there and carried off into regions of fantasy and excitement and glamour. They want to believe that the most incredible things can happen; that aliens will land in their back yards; that untouchable Rock singers and Filmstars will one day approach them and find them interesting and sexually irresistible; they want to believe that virtue is its own reward and that the meek shall inherit the earth. They want to believe in a life hereafter.

I took a deep breath of clean night air and stood a little straighter. It was people like me who gave them that hope and happiness.

Sarah was talking to someone. I’d seen her large silhouette out of the corner of my eye, but hadn’t made the connection because of the intensity of my deep philosophical think. The smaller silhouette was, of course, Hanada, now miraculously back on his feet and once more searching for the elusive Southern Cross. Sarah was holding his finger and pointing it and I could hear him giggle.

“Break it up, you two,” I said. They spun around and stepped apart. “Mike?”

“’Tis me. I’ve just rescued the little bloke from under the table, so don’t excite him too much.”

“I wondered where he’d got to.” They came over and sat next to me. Hanada gave himself a gentle slap across the face, pointed up into the sky, then giggled again.

“Southern Cross?” I guessed.

“Yes. Hanada san and I have been having a very interesting conversation.” He nodded and put his sunglasses back on.

“Have you now? Well I’ve been chatting to a few interesting people in there.” I didn’t really want to sound prim and proper, because she’s usually very good at circulating amongst the enemy.

“Like who?”

“Whom.”

“Don’t pull my tit. Whom, then?”

“Mathews.”

“I saw him. Yech. What about Treacherous Bob?”

“Yep. I didn’t talk to him though. Had a little chat with Ed and John...and the SPASO people. We arranged that interview tomorrow.” It didn’t sound enough. “Poor old Mathews is stuck with those losers from Greenpeace.”

“That include the bloke?”

“Turnball. Well, a bit of a problem.”

“Get him.”

“You didn’t think he was very important a few hours ago.”

“Rubbish. We don’t want one of your silly dolly birds again.”

Sarah gets very belligerent when she’s drunk. I hesitated, did she look drunk now? “I’ll do my best,” I said. “I always do.”

She belched, then came and sat heavily down beside me.

“Ah shit, I had to get out of there.”

“Sorry, I forgot. How’s the head?”

“It wasn’t my head, Mike, it was my ratbag of a husband.”

“You what?”

“Don’t say anything, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Your husband? I didn’t know you were married!”

“I’m not.”

“Oh. I thought you said....”

“My ex-husband, The Prick.”

“Well.” I was shocked. She’d never mentioned a hubby. A budgie, yes. And she’d been here before.

“You lived here with your husband!”

“Whoopee, give the man a cigar.”

“And you saw him tonight? Wow.”

“Get stuffed, Mike!”

Hanada suddenly pushed past me and started dabbing at Sarah’s eyes with a handkerchief. I was taken right back. Children cry; sensitive men and women cry. Not Sarah. Just hang on there a minute, mate. I took the handkerchief off Hanada. Sarah wasn’t crying, she just needed to blow her nose. And if she needed help to blow her nose, I would be the one to do it.

I applied the handkerchief once again and Sarah blew lustily. “I feel like such a silly bitch,” she said.

“Nah.”

“I’m so pathetic. I’m fat. I’m an ugly bitch.”

“Hey, come on.”

“I’m so bloody tough and independent. I did it all on my own you know. I just said Fuck you all, I’m going to Australia.”

“Good on you.”

“No one cared. The Prick just set up with his little dolly bird...in my house! In my bed!”

“That’s the way it goes.”

I wasn’t terribly good at showing sympathy. I’d spilled my guts a few dozen times during my extremely traumatic breakup when I’d been the good guy and Pamela had been the black-hearted witch, and all Sarah had said was “You’re well shot of that bitch.”

“You’re well shot of that bastard,” I said.

“I know that, Mike. It’s not that, it’s everything. It’s being back again after so long and seeing all the changes. I went and saw some friends when I arrived.”

“And?”

“They were all right. But, you know....”

“Couldn’t remember you?

“They remembered me all right...but they weren’t really friends. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just chattered on. I couldn’t stop myself sounding like a bloody chook. Then I drank too much, you know how it is.”

“Sure do.”

“They thought “‘God, hasn’t she got fat?’” She eyed herself with loathing. “I wasn’t always this big, you know. I used to love dancing. There used to be a whole bunch of us who used to dance all night!”

Behind us I could hear the band playing ‘You picked a bad time to leave me, Lucille’. A decent bloke would drag her inside and dance with her.

Hanada took her hand and drew her to her feet. I stood up and watched them enter the building. Sarah turned and gave me a twisted grin, then shrugged. I shrugged back, then followed at a decent interval.

I found Sid sitting at an empty table with an empty glass in front of him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’ve been looking for you lot. And talking to Joe.”

“What did he want?”

“Something about Konu. Said he’s a bit fishy.”

“I know that. He’s tied up with the Trade Mission, so’s Miko.”

“Fishy as in fish.”

“As in fishing industry? That makes sense.” It did, too. I’d read that the Taiwanese and Korean fishing industries earn about $12 billion dollars a year from fishing international waters, and the Japanese over $40 billion dollars a year. Naturally they’d want to safeguard that sort of income. Naturally they’d pay a guy a few bob to keep them informed.

It was after ten and quite a few people were leaving. I saw Treacherous Bob, the cameraman, arm in arm with a woman. Mathews was by the door beckoning him to hurry up. Sid blew a raspberry which sort of spluttered out through boredom. “We can’t get bloody started on this job,” he said. “It’s the first time I’ve ever missed old Piggy. Of course it might be because we’re in a foreign country.”

“It’s not a very foreign country though. Did you know Sarah was married to a bloke here?”

“Yeah?” He craned his boney neck around. “Which one?”

“She didn’t say. She got pretty upset. Funny.”

“Yeah, weird.”

“Makes you think.”

“Yeah. I bet he’s a little guy with glasses.”

“He probably looks like Arnold Shwarzeneggar.”

We both checked out the room. Apart from ourselves, every other male was a freak or a nerd or a dissipate. We looked at each other and chortled.

“Nope.”

The band had been taking a break and now burst into a song about True Love and Broken Hearts. We turned our seats around and watched the dozen or so dancing couples who were now illuminated by one of those tedious revolving lights. The Spanish-looking woman was attempting the lambada with the bald Englishman, but the music was against them. Two vaguely familiar guys at the next table were sobbing and showing each other photographs of their mothers. Sid and I were sharing his empty glass.

“Fuck me,” he said. “It’s time we all went home.”

I infiltrated the dancers and found Hanada and Sarah. They were an incongruous couple on the floor, but quite graceful. Hanada looked more Mexican than the Cisco Kid, who’d been a hero of mine in the dim dark past. Sarah was Pancho, the fat sidekick.

Gretel was standing by the desk in the foyer and gave me her telephone number. It almost seemed as if she’d be waiting for me. I asked where Monica was and she winked. Sid thought it was for him and gave her his seductive leer.

“Tomorrow we are on the talkback,” she reminded me.

“Oh good, we’ll definitely listen to that.”

“With Greenpeace too, and some others.”

“Good-oh.”

Maybe she wanted to keep the conversation going so that I’d make a move and whisk her off to my hotel suite where we’d wrestle naked in the bath and do the clog dance together. Or maybe she was waiting for the noisy group of drunken foreigners who now engulfed her and carried her off with much jollity and laughter.

Sid and I watched them go and shared a rueful grin. Par for the course; the wallflower twins had dipped out yet again. The four of us made our way outside and stood for a long minute to get our bearings. Then we descended the steps and trudged our slow way into the dark Wellington night.

8

To my great surprise Sid beat me down to breakfast. The dining room was full of a large coach party of Japanese tourists, who were being hurried along by a very bossy guide.

“You’re early,” I said.

“Been up for half an hour. Checked my gear, read the paper.” There was a little glow around his head which might have been the beginnings of a halo.

I checked my watch. “Have you seen Miko or Konu?”

“Nuh.”

The coach party trooped off to comply with their rigid schedule. We’d be doing much the same today, hence the early start. Sarah came in and elbowed her way through the exiting tourists. Miko and Konu were waiting politely at the desk until the way was clear. I couldn’t see Hanada anywhere.

Sarah and I had spent an hour last night revising today’s schedule. She now waved it at us and pulled up a chair. “Better read through this, Sid. What’s the weather like?”

He looked out the window. “Good.”

She yawned mightily and nodded to Miko. Konu was already over at the breakfast bar loading up his plate. I went over and grabbed a bowl of muesli in the faint hope that it would stimulate my bowels.

Konu beat me back to our table and stole my seat. I sat next to Miko and watched her neatly slice up a grapefruit. Sarah returned with a stack of pancakes and Sid stole one when she wasn’t looking. “Well Mister Konu,” I said, “today’s the day.”

“Pardon?”

“Today’s the day to get the old teeth into it. Get something in the can.” His English comprehension was atrocious. I tried again. “You know...do our stuff.” You try your best to make polite conversation and the rest of them just sit there stuffing their faces.

“Today we must work very hard.”

“Yep. Exactly.” He gave me a searching look and then turned back to his scrambled eggs. Umm, scrambled eggs. Bacon. I might have some tomato as well.

There was still no sign of Hanada, but other guests were now filtering in. I stood in the scrambled egg queue behind a Chilean TV crew and in front of a mixed bunch of newspaper reporters. One of them was moaning about having to share a room with Fred because every hotel was full and the bastard snores all night, isn’t that right Fred you bastard?

When I returned, Miko was scrawling all over Sarah’s schedule and Sarah wasn’t very happy. Hanada had materialized and was hunched over a cup of black coffee. He was dressed all in black today, like a gunslinger. Konu gazed imperiously at the far wall and snapped questions at Miko in Japanese. He stood up as I sat down, bowed briefly, then strode off to his room. Miko handed Sarah the revised shooting schedule and, just as suddenly, relaxed.

“I am sorry,” she said, “Mister Konu can be very....” She was searching for the right word.

“Arrogant?”

“Asiatic?”

“Constipated?”

She waved us down. “No...serious. It is very important for him, this opportunity.”

“Likewise,” we all mumbled.

“Yes. And I know you are working very hard to produce a high class programme for PrimeLine.”

“Oh?” said Sarah disingenuously, “we’re doing this for PrimeLine are we?”

Miko smiled at her. Nice little smile, too. “But Sarah, of course we are. We are sharing our experience and our resources. Mister Konu is a very important man in Japan. He was a senator.”

“Pull the other one,” said Sid.

She ignored him. “And PrimeLine has credibility for us, with excellent researchers and production crew.” She meant us. “We have been very impressed with stories we have seen. The Immigration investigation, and Japanese property investment on your Gold Coast.”

“And the Tokyo Fish market story,” I said.

“Yes, that was very good.”

Mathews had done all those.

We spent the first part of the morning retracing our steps from the day before. We ran into about a dozen other crews filming the same boring shots. Pull up; leap out; set up; frame up; shoot; pack up; leap in; set off.

Every now and then Konu would step in front of the lens and give a little spiel, first in Japanese then in fair English. He was quite good. We shot him entering the Michael Fowler centre, and standing in front of 206 Tinakori road, the Prime Minister”s official residence. Sid was handling the sound gear and I could tell he was a little miffed that Hanada was hogging the camera. I did all the driving of course, being, as Sid continually pointed out, the only supernumary on the staff. Sarah navigated and conferred with Miko over the shooting schedule.

About eleven a.m. we pulled up outside the Japanese consulate. I helped Hanada manhandle the video trolley out and this time I took a look at the schedule. Miko was applying a little make-up to Konu’s face and neck and Sarah, who fancied herself as a make-up artist, heaven knows why, was hovering around with a small mirror.

“We’re going okay,” said Sid, as I climbed back into my seat. We were only allowing smoking in the front, so he and Sarah were taking turn about. The ashtray was already jammed full of butts and now he flung them out the window.

“That’s a bit anti-social,” I told him.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have done it.”

I jotted down the next shots. We had to zip along the waterfront and find a fishing boat or two, and maybe a shot of a young kid hauling in a healthy looking fish. Image 72, chapter 4, volume 1: stock shots for the well made documentary.

“Reckon we’ll have time for lunch?” Sid asked. According to the schedule we were supposed to be at the airport at 12:30 to pick up V.I.P. arrivals. Sarah tapped on the window. “They’ve gone inside.” She opened the door and climbed in. “Shove over. What’s happening?”

“Sid’s been littering the streets.”

“Don’t do that, Sid, we’re not in Australia now.”

“I always knew you had a funny accent,” he said. “Notice how it’s changed, Mike? Say fush and chups, go on.”

“Get stuffed. Who are they talking to in there?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but she met some bloke on Wednesday.” She hadn’t wanted me to go in, I remembered.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “We should be in there.”

Sid snorted. “Let’s face it, we’re just along for the ride. Did I tell you what Joe said to me last night?”

“Yeah, you did,” I said.

“You didn’t tell me,” said Sarah.

“Because you spent all night dancing with Honda.”

“Hanada.”

“Yeah.” He winked suggestively at her. “Did ya? Umm? Umm?”

“Go and die, Sid.”

After ten minutes we’d exhausted all the reasons why we were insulted by not being invited into the embassy. Sid was developing a very complicated theory about Pearl Harbour, Sumo wrestling, and the way it stood to reason that people looking out through slanting eyes viewed the world from a different perspective. We told him to shut up and go down the road to buy us some hamburgers. While he was doing that I suddenly remembered the radio broadcast.

We caught the tail end of Turnball slugging it out with a tough female broadcaster. He was claiming that radio waves rot your centre of balance and that explains why there are so many people reeling stupidly through the streets with vacant faces and eyes like peas. She said he’d done wonders making it to the studio in that case. He called her a reactionary racist puppet and a token Maori. She told him she wasn’t a puppet, she was a Maorionette. Monica tried to read one of her poems but got bleeped out three times in the first verse and gave up. An advert came on for Toyota cars and by the time that was over they’d obviously subdued the pair of them.

Sarah punched my arm. “They’re fantastic, Mike!” I fell forward onto the horn and Sid, approaching with both arms full of food, broke into a stupid grin and a trot. He wrenched open the door and climbed in.

“What’s going on?”

“Shut up,” said Sarah.

The Announcer introduced two Greenpeace representatives and I had a sudden lurch of self-doubt. Maybe I should have persevered with them. The woman speaker was particularly good, very professional. The essence of it was that, yes, like SPASO, they refused to believe that the delegates would agree on a resource management treaty. And even if they do, it’ll be a form of compromise as evidenced at the signing of the New Environmental Protection Protocol. Remember, the protocol has to be ratified by domestic legislation in each country and even then it’s largely a symbolic act, and not a guarantee that the regime will come into force.

Turnball fought his way back to the mike and bellowed that you couldn’t trust any of the bleepers, and Monica said leave him alone because he’s absolutely right: past international agreements show the difficulty of chastising determined and powerful nations, money-muscle is what counts...hang on, everyone’s heard Greenpeace, now let me have my say...they sign a protocol banning mining and oil exploration for fifty years, but inside information suggests that exploratory drilling is still being continued. Who will be there to monitor it? Who will monitor the fishing fleets?

United Nations observers, suggested the host. Oh oh oh, chortled the male Greenpeacer through a muffling beard. That’s the one thing we agree with SPASO on. Who will watch the watchers? Look, we’ve been there and seen it with our own eyes. A million dead dolphins; a drop-out rate of ten percent minimum. Waste! Exploitation! Witness the Base stations on the Continent: They don’t tell the public when they spill oil and kill seals, penguins, seabirds, krill, squid and everything else in the immediate vicinity. We’re the ones who have to report it. Wait until they start drilling!

Sid dropped the contents of his hamburger onto the dash, so stuffed it back in and swapped it with one of the others. I wiped my hands on his jumper when he wasn’t looking.

Monica wanted to know why Greenpeace had abandoned their so-called “World Park” base in Antarctica then? Why had they laid off staff in Auckland? Have the public started to see through their naive political posturing? Was Greenpeace just playing games...?

Greenpeace were not playing games! Why are we listening to SPASO? Does anyone listen to SPASO?

Of course they don’t, said the Greenpeace woman. She had one of those lovely Latin accents. We’re not prepared to sit back while greedies exploit our heritage, our children’s future. Why is there a Japanese trade mission in town at this very moment, with their own public relations team, if not to seek to influence public opinion with their blatant propaganda? Did we honestly believe that they were not holding whole countries to ransom with trade threats? You don’t believe that? You don’t believe that the French held your own country to ransom with the release of Prieur and Mafart from Hao Atoll? That’s strange, because David Lange, the Prime Minister at the time, seems to think so. The International Tribunal seemed to think so. The French Prime Minister even seemed to think so.

“What’s she trying to say?” asked Sid.

What did they mean by ‘their own public relations unit’? Not us, surely. There were at least two other Japanese Television crews here. Maybe the Nihon International had their own PR unit aboard...but if so, why was Konu with us? And why was he in the Japanese embassy at this very moment?

I was so caught up with the conundrum that I ate my hamburger without noticing it. The same thing always used to happen to me when I had an extra nice cake to eat on rare family feast days. Someone, somewhere, owed me something.

“Here’s your change,” said Sid.

“Where’s the receipt?”

“They wouldn’t give me one.”

“Jesus, Sid.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got my collection with me.” He meant us collection of receipt books, but we never admitted that to Sarah.

She looked at me. “I hope you’re not going to produce one of those receipts with the Governor General’s signature on.”

Mitsubishi Electrics were having a fantastic sale and Toyota cars were still a great buy. The Greenpeace woman was telling us that certain parties deliberately seek out crazy radicals...interjection from host... “Like our recent friends?” ...look, we don’t want to point the finger, because we all know who we’re talking about and what we’re talking about, which is essentially irresponsible journalism.

“How much was that Toyota?” asked Sid. He was trying to divide New Zealand dollars by Australian dollars or did we think it should be the other way round? Sarah said she’d seen four different camera crews drive by us, and try not to strain your brain, Sid. I thought that we should knock on the embassy door and tell them to hurry up, what did they think?

The Radio host was taking calls from various organisations who all talked in acronymic terms which Sarah translated for us. The Antarctic and Southern Ocean Coalition wished to point out that the Convention on the the Regulation of Antarctic Mineral Resource Activities, was now superseded by the Antarctic Environment Protection Convention. The Hawaiian based Earthtrust Organisation wished to point out that they too rescued marine wildlife from drift nets. The South Pacific Convention Protection Society, representing twenty nations including the Federated States of Micronesia and Palau, wished to inform us that Japan had refused to accept the Tarawera Declaration on driftnet banning and exclusive economic zones and wasn’t that a good example of powerful nations using their economic muscle? The Antarctic Policy Group reminded us that the proposed SOFT Treaty was merely a re-statememt of the original CCAMLR fisheries management convention, and it required ‘the maintenance of the ecological relationships between harvested, dependent and related populations’ and also, and this was most important, ‘the restoration of depleted populations.’

A caller with a pronounced Asian accent and of indeterminate gender said it wasn’t fair to Japan-bash in the guise of conservation. “Rather than seeking criminals, isn’t it much more important for all of us to find the data we need to assess the impact of fishing methods?” Several people in the studio made very rude noises and a few bleeps sounded. The caller said he/she had no particular axe to grind but didn’t we think it funny that Americans and Australians and New Zealanders were trying to force the Japanese to buy their beef, and at the very same time they were trying to stop the Japanese from fishing?

“Do they go on like this all the time over here?” asked Sid. “What about some music?”

My hand was cramping from taking notes and I wasn’t too sure how to spell ‘Palau’. My pen wasn’t working very well either, because the page was greasy with hamburger gunk. Anyway, Sarah was better at that sort of thing; she’d evolved a simple shorthand technique over the years and it wouldn’t be fair to waste that skill.

The New Zealand Prime Minister gave a pre-recorded interview full of platitudes and optimism, and the leader of the opposition said exactly the same thing, but his party had said it first and the public are not going to be taken in by those who jump on popular bandwagons for political gain. The American Ambassador, who must have been in the wrong place at the right time, and who seemed to think that she was talking to a bunch of primary school kids, said that her Government was totally in favour of preserving the Antarctic status quo and was considering an Aid package for Palau.

The Host asked did she mean preserving Antarctica as it is, or as it was? Were the Americans going to abandon Scott Base?

The Americans were always willing to help their New Zealand friends and would continue to do so. The meteorological station at McMurdo was very important to responsible resource-credible fishermen and...and farmers. The Host asked if there were any farmers listening. “We’re asking for input into the value of Antarctic meteorological information to the Dairy industry. And all those yachtsmen who regularly sail into the pack ice, we’d like to hear from you too.”

We switched off when dozy old pensioner, grandfather of 17 and fought in the war, started talking about how his roses were losing colour because of the ozone hole. Didn’t anyone ever talk about football anymore?

Konu came out with a smug and satisfied smile on his face which even the cold hamburger couldn’t wipe off. Miko confirmed that it had gone well, a good interview, and now Mister Konu would like to talk to the New Zealand Prime Minister. Had we arranged that yet? Perhaps after the airport press conference would be convenient.

Sid offered to drive the others to the airport while Sarah and I attempted this impossible feat. The two of us repaired to my hotel room with a healing cup of coffee and exchanged a weary sigh. Konu had an inflated sense of either his or our importance. Piggott had got us into this, so we decided to let Piggott worry about it.

The lazy sod wouldn’t answer his cellphone when Sarah rang, nor was he in the office. “But he’ll ring you back as soon as possible.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Denise, all hell’s breaking loose here.” I tooted and whistled a bit in the background. “Put a call out. Go and find him. Just get off your chuff, Denise, we’re on the coalface here!” She hung up.

“What’s the coalface?” I asked.

“You know what I mean.” She checked her fat gold watch and belched. “Excuse I.”

The phone rang. “Sid here, that you, Mike? Hey, why don’t you answer your cell phone?”

“It’s flat. What’s up?”

“They’re having a quickie press conference. Guess who’s here to meet the yanks? Well go on, guess....”

“Joe the Orifice Leaker, of course.”

“Shit. Hey, Konu still thinks he’s going to talk to the PM.”

“He will eventually, but tell him he can’t get an interview.”

“Hey, I tried. He won’t believe me. He says Piggy jacked it up.”

“Well he didn’t.”

The operator interrupted us. “There’s a toll call on your line, room 208, do you wish to take it?”

“Yes please,” I said. “Hang up, Sid.”

“What was that?”

“Hang up!”

“Who’s speaking? Is that you Mike?”

“Sorry Brian, I thought you were Sid.”

“Sid? Where is he?”

“At the airport with Konu.”

“They should have arrived yesterday!”

“Is that Piggott?” asked Sarah.

“Yes.”

“Yes? What does that mean?”

“I was talking to Sarah. Sid’s at the airport filming a press conference. He was just ringing to say Konu still thinks he’ll get that interview with the PM.”

“I’m relying on you, Mike.”

“There’s no way!”

“But you knew how important it was!”

“No I didn’t. You didn’t mention it.”

Sarah grabbed the phone off me. “That’s right, Brian. Don’t blame him. We don’t need the interview.”

I could hear his voice booming right through Sarah’s skull.

“Don’t you two understand that this is the bottom line? Do I have to carry everything myself? If we don’t make a good fist of this story we might as well pack it in. Kawa won’t confirm their sponsorship unless we deliver the goods!”

Sarah banged the handpiece against her head and rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you come over, Brian? Konu seems to be running his own show.”

“Don’t let him do that! Pull your fingers out you two. I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do!”

“No, you don’t. We’re doing a good job, but Konu just doesn’t want to know. Look, Mike has a theory about....”

“I don’t want to hear it. Discipline yourselves. The Greater Arena. Give me a ring back tonight.”

He hung up.

“Oh well, whoopee fucking do,” said Sarah. “That was a nice, reasonable discussion. I think he listened to our point of view, don’t you?” She pulled a flask from her bag and drank deeply. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

She looked at me and juggled unwieldy things in her brain. Native cunning and years of experience combined to give her the answer. She picked up the flask.

“Right. Well I’ll have your bloody share then.”

9

I wasted twenty minutes trying to ring Monica. Gretel had given me the number of the private house they were staying at but the selfish sods had all gone out. I opened the connecting door to Sarah’s room and told her that I hated nearly everybody and why do people deliberately not answer their phones these days. When I was growing up phones were revered and people were more reverent then. She told me to stop whinging and get that interview whatever, do something right for once...ring the bloody Prime Minister’s office.

I spent about an hour being pinballed around the city by unhelpful drones. The Queen bee was in the beehive but one must appreciate that she was very busy at present, and I’m sorry, no private interviews will be given until after the conference is ended. Fair enough, I said, just tell me where she’s having dinner tonight, the Australian Governor General wants to join her. Yes, we already have that in hand. Thank you for your concern.

Number two on Konu’s wish list: breaking a bagel with the American Ambassador. Very efficient, this lot. In no time at all I was given a cellphone number for the ‘liaison officer’.

“What do you want, Mike?”

“Joe. Surprise, surprise, I thought you were at the airport holding hands.”

“I am, I’m watching your mate Sidney and his Jap buddies. What kept you away?”

“I was covering the presidential assassination.”

“Hey? Ah you’re a kidder, Mike.” We listened to a burst of static. “You should have told me about this nip guy, Mike. I thought you were up to your old tricks with the Pig.”

“Piggy’s still grunting, but Konu’s calling the shots this time. Look Joe, you’ve got access to the right ears. What do you think? Remember we’re talking huge exposure and prestige stuff here....”

He was wary. “What do you want?”

“Two things. Your Ambassador to have a little chat and a snack with an important Japanese Senator....”

“Ex-Senator. No way. Number two?”

“Konu wants to talk to the Kiwi PM for ten minutes.”

He laughed harshly. “We yanks don’t have too much of a say in New Zealand affairs, especially a small-time PR guy like myself. Now if it was the Aussie PM you wanted....”

Insulting sod. I suggested that our man was playing a more subtle game, just pretending to kowtow to the U.S. line, but in reality being independent and full of integrity.

“No he isn’t,” said Joe. “He’s just playing it smart.”

I almost put the phone down, then had a thought.

“You still there, Joe?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on, Joe? You can tell your old buddy.”

There was a long pause. “You got something in mind, Mike?”

“How come the warning? Why are you concerned about Konu?”

“Just a warning. You’re out of your depth...know what I mean...nah, you wouldn’t know what I mean. Listen, now don’t take this wrong, are you listening Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a fucking pawn, Mike.” He hung up.

I lit another cigarette. The phone rang and Reception told me that there was a message from Ms Fitzsimmons. Sorry, but your line has been engaged for some time. Well I am sorry, sir, but guests should check at the desk when they enter the hotel if the message is that important.

She’d given me a number to ring. I rang it. She was there. “Come for coffee,” she said, “we can talk about the interview.”

“Including Turnball?”

“We’ll talk about it.”

I told Sarah I was popping out to convince Monica to convince Turnball to give us an interview. She told me not to stuff it up by being a wimp and I said did she remember she was talking to the guy who interviewed the Flasher of Fitzroy? And she said a ten minute discussion on the size of the average Aussie dick did not an interview make. She was wrong, of course; we men know the true measure of these things.

I found the grotty little coffee shop despite the taxi driver’s sense of direction. Through the plate glass window I could see Monica sitting on her lonesome in a corner booth. A bus pulled up next to me and Turnball leapt off. He punched me in the arm. “You bastard. Working for the Japs!”

“No I’m not.”

“You should have told us!”

“After you.” I held the door open because politeness is one of the few virtues I have left and it always shuts ratbags up.

Monica saw us enter and stood up. She didn’t look very happy either.

“Hello” I said.

“You can buy me a cake if you like.”

“A cake!” roared Turnball. “I’ll go a cake.”

We spent a considerable time deciding which cake to buy, because the carrot cake was definitely bigger but the afghan was exceptionally nutritious. I said they could have one of each if they wanted and Turnball sneered. “That’s right, the big Jap expense account.”

I told them the Jap connection was both recent and peripheral. “Just part of the deep research we’re so famous for.” I gave Turnball an honest look. “That lady with me is an interpreter. Who knows when we’ll need accurate confirmation of what their delegate says?”

“That’s deep research, is it?” asked Monica.

“Don’t underestimate us,” I said, “we’re better than we look.”

Turnball found one last crumb and sucked it off his wrinkly fingers. “We don’t trust you.”

“I don’t know if I trust you.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Well I can’t just repeat your allegations without some sort of proof, can I? It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Oh, you’re into ethics are you?” said Monica.

“Yeah,” said Turnball, “you people wouldn’t know an ethic if it came up and bit you on the bum.”

“I can tell you’re a writer,” I told him.

“I’m a communicator.”

“Well so am I. So are we. It’s all right for you in your little room in Devonport...you can write what you want, you can say anything you feel like saying. If people don’t like it they just won’t read it. But it’s different for us; we have a captive audience.”

Monica gave me a thin smile. “So you give them what they want.”

“Well no. But we do have to think about little kiddies and frail old people. We have a huge cross-section watching PrimeLine, it’s quite a responsibility.”

When I was at high school I’d won a similar debate on the fate of the dinosaurs. “It’s all about balancing palatable facts with harsh reality. Mammals are better than reptiles.”

“What?” They looked at each other.

“That was an analogy we often like to make.” I now remembered that I won the debate by punching stupid Parkinson in the teeth.

“But you’re working for the Japs!” snarled Turnball.

“Rubbish. Working with them maybe. Trying to help them understand. This is all new stuff to our Japanese friends, they’ve never thought about global responsibility and stuff, they were only interested in money and power and screwing the gaijin. Now they’re awakening to the sound of the ecological drum.” Sarah, if you could hear me now. “We’ve made it our mission to selflessly promote a greater international understanding.”

Turnball hooted like a goose. “Oh pull the other one, it’s got little furry bells on.”

“Look, I’m not doing this for money. Just a few minimal expenses, that’s all.” I didn’t want them to gorge up on those expensive cakes. “My co-worker is a Kiwi, and she’s as straight as a die. One cannot help but be impressed by you Kiwis. Single-handedly defying the American nuclear monster....”

Turnball snorted. “Capitulating to the French.....”

I ignored him. “The Antarctic Wildlife; all those funny little birds you’re always conservating...what about the Maoris? You saved them didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you didn’t kill them off in the Land wars did you?” I was proud of that. “Land Wars.” Read it over the shoulder of a Yank tourist while on the plane.

“Yeah well,” he sneered, “the Maoris didn’t actually get beaten, they signed a treaty at a place called Waitangi. Of course, any treaty signed by a so-called civilized power isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”

“It is when the event is captured on film.”

“Bullshit. Anyway the real reason I don’t trust you is that I know you fucking film crews deliberately recreate acts of atrocity, even torture and murder, just to get those fucking ratings.”

“Yeah, recreating, not creating it in the first place. There’s a big difference. And who’s to say that doing that sort of thing isn’t good in the long run? It was guys like me and whizzkid who stopped the Vietnam war and pulled down the Berlin wall.”

“What a load of rubbish!” snapped Monica. “What a load of unmitigated bullshit!”

“Yeah, what a fucking insult to the people!”

“Well whatever,” I said. “But why don’t you grab the opportunity to say all this on a major international network? Let the public decide.”

They looked craftily at each other, then Monica gave a slow smile. “So what would you want from us, Mike? What would we have to do?”

“Nothing different. We do all the usual things, the contrived shots and the press conferences; but you people are prime movers in this. Right from the beginning you’ve been in there making submissions and keeping the bastards honest. And you’ve got observer status. You can be like our eyes and our conscience. We don’t want them to kill all the gorgonion growths! But we just can’t come out and say that. We have to woo our audience; we have to show them both sides of the coin and let them flip it for themselves. We just want to make sure that it comes down “heads”.”

“The fact that my father is one of the organisers doesn’t come to into it?”

“Of course it does.” Bluff, honest Mike. “But it’s not enough in itself. I like what you’re doing. But you’re being held back in the shadows, is that a fair thing to say? Greenpeace...I heard them on the radio today, what was it...? ‘Naive political posturers.’ They’re too big for their boots, those guys. The ASOC delegates? Half a dozen other International watchdogs? And then there’s you. I don’t want to know what Greenpeace thinks, everyone already knows what motivates them and what their ambitions are. They’re like an institution; four million members in 20 odd countries. That’s bigger than the whole population of New Zealand! Ever thought that they might want to move in and take over one day?”

Turnball sprayed out a mouthful of cakecrumbs.

“Crap!”

“Well it was just a thought. Whatever, SPASO is small and totally Kiwi. The voice of the little guy being heard.”

God, I wished I was writing all this down. I smashed my fist into my hand. “A major decision affecting the whole world, and it’s happening here in New Zealand. Every pressure group under the sun is here somewhere, hidden behind labels and false political smiles. Who can the people trust? They can only trust those who have made a total commitment and have no monkeys riding on their backs.” I gave them a hundred watts of sincerity. “And that means you.”

Sarah was fuming and foaming when I returned. A taxi driver was leaning against his car and reading out prime numbers to her from the meter. “Mike! Get a move on, Konu’s already on his way.”

I sat in the back and tried to tell her about my brilliant efforts and she should have been there to write it down. She said how could she? She was too busy writing down the hundreds of dollars on the taxi meter which was my fault because I hadn’t returned when I said I would return. Of course, she plunged the hot knife into the soft butter of my soul, all would be forgiven if I’d managed to arrange an interview with the PM.

I told her to book the cab to my expenses and we might have to use plan B.

10

The taxi dropped us off by a side entrance because the driver reckoned there were too many silly buggers around the front. Sarah and I waited until he’d driven off then trudged around the building. Sid was parked up on the footpath revving the motor and arguing with a gatekeeper.

Sarah ushered our Japanese friends out of the minibus and I knocked on Sid’s window. The gatekeeper suddenly stepped back and waved a waiting Mercedes into the small parking area.

“That’s bloody typical!” shouted Sid.

“He’s probably the Mayor,” I said.

“Yeah? Well look carefully old buddy. The Hertz van...see?”

The gatekeeper waved two fingers at Sid and told him succinctly to please leave. There was a solid slap on the side of the van and Sarah stuck her head in.

“Come on Mike. Sid, pull your finger out and park this fucking van!”

“But UpFront’s got parking....”

“Yes, and they’re already inside aren’t they? Move it!”

Konu and Miko were standing at the entrance watching Hanada struggle along with the camera. Sid had resigned himself to being the sound man, and hadn’t moaned as much as I’d expected. I shooed them inside, then waited for Sid to trot up with the obscene looking directional microphone.

It was bedlam. Reporters from the press, radio and television fought for the better seats. The more determined of us were hacking our way forward to place tapedecks on an already crowded speaker’s bench. Technicians were hanging from the side rails fiddling with lights and elbowing stills photographers aside.

The little grey guy, Monica’s father, was standing at the rostrum trying to find which of the many microphones were actually working. I fought my way through and found Hanada, perched tip toe on a chair, already panning around the room. Sid was crawling along the wall trying to get closer to the front, wielding the microphone like a machete. His first priority was to set our little cassette deck up on the rostrum to record the speeches. Then he’d be free to chase the real business.

Sarah pulled at my arm. “Konu’s down front, centre. I’ve just had an argument with him. Go and kiss it better.”

I stretched to my full height and swatted a few heads aside. Konu was sitting rigidly in his chair seething with indignation. One of the lighting gaffers let a lamp spin and a dozen cameramen screamed at him. Direct light can do nasty things to a video camera.

Miko was manhandling Hanada closer to the action but they didn’t stand a chance against the ruthless media pros already in situ. One Kiwi crew seemed to be made up of All Black forwards and I saw the bald Englishman take a tumble. Sid was somewhere in the crush, out of sight now, but he’d pop up triumphantly when it counted. I caught a glimpse of Sarah fighting a bearded guy for his seat.

I stomped my way down to Konu and tapped him on the shoulder. A minute French reporter told me to do something painful with the plume of my tante. Konu swivelled his head and gave me a blank look, then turned back and did his impression of a novice monk staring at the Buddha’s belly button.

Piggott would have been up on his feet with a foghorn and a flashing light. The terrible realization struck me that Konu was essentially a jelly baby, so far out of his depth that he’d soon start suffering from the bends. Would it be culturally insensitive to slap him into action?

Fitzsimmons was still tapping microphones and deflecting subtle comments like “How long are we gonna wait?” and “Hey shorty, where’s the booze?” There were probably other comments as well, but my ear is best attuned to the strident Trans-Tasman accent.

And yet they often do provide drinks and munchies at these sort of functions. They want us to be friendly and say nice things about them. Sometimes they even mingle with us and laugh at our rotten jokes. It’s all so brittle and false; that’s why I love it. I love the phoney camaraderie and the slick cliches; I love the smooth political back-slap and the honeyed handshake. I love it, because these bastards never got this far by being nice guys...they’ve had to fight for position like wild beasts and behind every one of them lie wastefields of slaughtered enemies. And though we enjoy despising their foul carnivorous natures, we media people also thrill to the same smell of raw meat and the sweet scent of spilled blood.

A rumour started running around the room that the delegates and the chairman, the New Zealand Prime Minister, were locked in a dispute over who would sit where. There was a double bank of benches on the stage, the rear row higher than the former but, of course, that magic one metre further back.

Treacherous Bob had found himself a good pozzy almost directly in front of the podium. The various New Zealand Television crews were incredibly competitive and were constantly manoeuvering for better positions. The Belgian crew suddenly made a break for the rear door and several others followed. The rest of us rose to our feet and worried if we were missing something. I caught a glimpse of Sid disappearing through the door and felt my heartbeat move down out of the red area. You had to give the guy full marks for following up every lead. One in ten might take you to the sexual orgy in the back of the chop suey shop. Sarah must have lost her battle with the bearded bloke because she was now over with Hanada and Miko, trying to bully a better position for Hanada to film from.

I felt my skin crawl. Intimations of evil. A snake in the grass. A redback in the dunny. I looked up from Konu’s paralysed face and saw Mathews leering at me. I nodded back. The guy was a bastard, but what a pro. He was well-lit from a couple of spots and of course he’d have some extremely intelligent questions to ask. In comparison Konu looked as though he was suffering the after effects of a toxic enema. Sarah waved madly at me, but I pretended I couldn’t see her. She wanted me to start pulling the strings of our puppet.

A wild cheer went up as Fitzsimmons got microphone feedback, and those outside raced back in. I watched Sarah push and propel Hanada closer to us. The little guy took some savage knocks, but never moved his eye from the viewfinder.

Out came the delegates to polite applause and an ironic cheer, which meant that Sid was back. The Kiwi PM had a big grin on her face and waved excitedly. Flashbulbs popped and cameras whirred and the sound recordists started cursing because the presenter, who we were now calling Fitzy, was still having trouble with feedback.

Thirty technicians gave their expert advice and he was finally able to introduce the delegates, one by one. Each stood, bowed, then sat. The PM grinned hugely and shook each delegate’s hand despite having to contort herself into some extremely uncomfortable positions. Everyone smiled enormously and kept their best profiles exposed even if it meant they had to appear to be talking to the smelly Third Worlder on their left.

Sarah surged up and bared her teeth at me. “Get him up on his feet!” she hissed.

“Yerch, you’re spitting.”

“Get up, Mister Konu!” Sarah could barely keep her hands off his throat. I swivelled around to see Hanada waving feebly at me, camera poised to roll. We were in direct line of sight to the New Zealand Prime Minister! I hauled Konu up and jumped back out of shot. He stood there helplessly. Someone yelled for him to sit down, but it was too late by then, Hanada had a nice two-shot of what seemed to be Konu listening to the PM’s response to a question he had asked. And would ask, when we had a little more time to play around with things.

Miko twittered up and goggled her eyes at me. What were we doing to the boss man? I smiled sweetly and gestured for her to sit back down because she was dealing with pro’s here and we brooked no argument on our home turf. It was a very complex series of gestures and an Italian reporter thought I was telling him that the chianti was rough and warm and so were the women.

Mathews was directing Bob and awaiting his chance to big-note himself. He’d seen our little episode with Konu and gave Sarah a grudging nod. Konu was hissing away at Miko and not looking quite as impressed as he should have been.

Then suddenly everyone was sitting and paying polite attention as the delegates made their short statements about fraternity, harmony and rhubarb. The French bloke, Le Prohon, got a bit of gentle ribbing about Penguin Politics, and the miniature French reporter stood up and glared about the room. A donkey heehawed rudely from down the back and Sarah got Hanada to shoot the reporter’s shocked reaction. Another plus to Sid.

A number of impeccably dressed delegate flunkeys sat stage left, trying to look interested in a sober, politically ambitious sort of way. They were in strong contrast to the observers sitting stage right who had large, domed foreheads and bright, intelligent eyes. These were obviously the official observers, the ones designed to keep proceedings honest. Scientists; ecologists; conservationists. And writers, too, because that was Turnball chewing on an unlighted pipe. Monica was next to him.

The PM said quite a bit about ‘harmonious relationships’ and ‘old differences forgotten in the cause of international brotherhood’, nice bland wallpaper to hide the cracks. Our job, of course, was to uncover them.

Monica’s father then opened the floor to questions and it was the cue for us all to leap to our feet and wave madly. Fitzy would point someone out and we’d all sit down until the next cue. It was a bit like an aerobics session and probably explained why we were all so fit and mentally alert.

Sid was now over with Hanada and he gestured at me with the microphone. Sarah was jotting down phrases which we’d cunningly include in our coverage and I jostled her elbow. Time to make our move. She passed me a note to pass on to Konu, but Miko intercepted it and frowned mightily. She shook her head. I turned to Sarah and shook my head. Someone asked a question about sovereignity and independent observer status which no-one seemed to understand. There were a few interpreters enclosed in a glass booth and even they looked mystified. The PM gallantly reinterpreted the question and told us that we were all fortunate to be here to witness this historic occasion. Not a pen moved; we’d written that phrase down before we arrived.

A couple of conservationists tried to ask questions but were shouted down. The media was not impressed by their presence. I heard a North American voice bemoaning the fact that bloody pressure groups should be allowed to interfere with the rights of the free press. Turnball got up at one stage and twitched violently, but Monica pulled him down.

Sarah passed another note and this time I avoided Miko’s grasp and placed it in front of Konu. She nudged me. “Get him up. Go on!” Sid prodded Hanada, and the camera lens swung to cover us. Sarah made a circling motion with her finger and he back-pedalled around to get a frontal shot. Konu was standing stupidly holding his little bit of paper and being ignored by everyone.

A human beanpole of a delegate waffled on in a silly made-up language, and the interpreter’s voice droned over. There was a momentary silence as we all strained to follow the twisted argument that a Russian had been first to set foot on Antarctica, but being non-imperialistic, the Russians did not wish to lay claim to the continent, nor the ocean surrounding it, and wished only for respect from other scientifically minded countries.

Several more questions were asked from the floor, including one from Mathews which was extremely boring and designed only to make him look like a sincere and caring person. You just knew that he’d practised for three hours in front of the mirror this morning.

Konu was trying to sink back into his seat, so Sarah leaned across and poked him savagely in the ribs. He shot up with a squeak and suddenly everyone was looking at him. The squeak was only worth 2.5 seconds of reverent silence... Go, Konu! Read out the question!

Konu spoke. “I would like to ask the delegates if they value the continuing research being carried out by Japanese scientists in the Southern Antarctic waters...?”

I couldn’t hear the next bit and I was too slow to cringe out of Turnball’s sight as he leapt to his feet and roared in fury. Fitzsimmons strode to the mike and asked for order, please; please, everyone, order! Sid yelled out that he’d have a hamburger and chips. Hanada did a quick pan around the room and I retrieved the paper from Konu’s nerveless hands. It hadn’t said anything like that. Sarah had suggested he ask if the delegates had all agreed on their stance and, if so, why have a private meeting and exclude the media? Not that it mattered much, because we were only after a frontal of Konu with his mouth moving.

I looked over at Sarah and she gave me the thumbs up. That was it; job over. Let others stay and record the boring finale. Let them feel they were doing something useful. A bit of compassion never hurts.

We left our Japanese friends to enjoy the ambience and pushed our way outside into welcome fresh air. The small courtyard boasted a well-kept garden, with flowers and shrubs and dinky ornaments set around a large goldfish pond. Sid had beaten us out and was sitting on a stone wall looking at a gnome.

“Hey you guys,” he pointed to the gnome. “It looks just like Piggott.” It did too. Its eyes were close together and sort of followed you around. In fact there were four or five of them, all with little pointy hats. Now I thought about it, Piggott’s head was fairly pointy.

Sid was trying to lift it up, but of course he was a puny sod, so I had to give him a hand. The pointy hat fell off.

“Hey, look in here.” The hat was attached to the head by an electric wire. Sid gingerly pushed his hand inside and found a switch. “It’s a bloody torch!”

Sarah told us to turn it off and put it back and grow up. I looked at the goldfish pond. If it was night, and all the gnomes had their hats turned on, I bet you it would look beautiful. To kids, of course, because we adults don’t care about things like that. I remembered I used to love the Myer window displays at Christmas time. They always had fairies and pixies and stuff.

A woman came out of the building and lit up a cigarette. Sid grinned at her and she smiled back. He winked at me and muttered “This is a lucky gnome, you know. I’m going to keep it.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“You can’t even lift it by yourself. Anyway, it’s stealing.”

“It’s a souvenir. It’s a mascot. Hey, look at this!”

He’d found a removable panel in the gnome’s belly. The beast was made out of fibreglass and had been filled with stones to stop people like Sid stealing it. The woman stubbed out her smoke and went back in.

“Give me your coat,” said Sid.

“No way.”

“C”mon, quick quick!”

Sarah stomped across and threw her jacket over it.

“Go and shove the thing in the minibus, Sid. Either that or put it back.”

He chortled with triumph and scampered down the street. I looked at her with disapproval. “Well bugger it,” she said, “you have to admit it’s the spitting image of Brian.”

We sat around for another twenty minutes and smoked deeply satisfying cigarettes. Sid came back cackling to himself and making rotten gnome jokes. A rolling gnome gathers no moss. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like gnome. I threatened to hit him if he didn’t stop it and he said I was just jealous because I couldn’t make up a good gnome joke. Sarah told us to shut up because everybody was coming out and I said I’d already noticed that because I was regnomed for my powers of observation.

Konu and Miko surfed out with the crowd. The former was looking very unhappy and poor Miko was on tenterhooks. Sid and I barged our way back in to retrieve the cassette deck and give Hanada a hand with his gear. To my great pleasure I found Mathews and Bob arguing with each other.

“And what the fuck was I supposed to do then?”

“You were supposed to film me!” spat Mathews.

“You should have fucking said!”

“Hello boys,” I said sweetly. “Get everything did you? Wasn’t it rivetting?” Sid came over with a dopey look on his face and with his hand stretched out. “That was a beautiful question you asked, Matty. Hey Bob, me old colleague in arms, me old trustworthy buddy. Put her there!”

Bob turned angrily away and pushed through the crowd.

“Nice to see you in action again too, Sid,” said Mathews, “using plan B again?”

“Plan B? What’s that then?”

Mathews turned to me and sneered. “Typical SlimeLine performance. I thought you might have learned something by now.”

“We have, this is the Greater Arena.” I looked around. “You know, I feel that we’ve really arrived now. I think we’re mixing with the right sort of people.”

“Ho ho. And where’s Brian?”

Sid snorted. “Piggy? Hey, we’ve gone all international now. Old Piggy’s back home emptying the spittoons.”

“Sold out to the Japanese.”

“No we haven’t,” I said. Why did people keep saying that?

“Sold out for thirty pieces of silver.”

“What?” cried Sid. “Mike told me it was ten!”

Hanada was standing at the side entrance looking bewildered. About half the media contingent had left, while the remainder were chasing up wallpaper shots and interviewing chauffeurs and assistant interpreters. Even the doorman had a waiting queue.

We escorted him around to the front where Sarah was trying to calm Konu down. His English seemed to have gone downhill somewhat. Miko was sitting on the wall next to a little pile of stones where the gnome had once been. Konu turned to me and looked suddenly vulnerable, not in the least inscrutable.

“Mike,” he said, “I did not speak to the Prime Minister Chairman or even one of the delegates!”

“Yes you did,” I told him. “A bit of editing, a little creativity and zap! No worries.”

“I’ve been trying to tell him that,” said Sarah, somewhat put out. Miko had told me that the Japanese are still a bit patriarchal and don’t really like to be told what to do by a woman. Don’t know why, I quite like it myself.

Konu strode over and started jabbering away to Hanada, who kept shaking his head and pointing at nothing in particular. Cameramen really hate being criticised, they like to think that they’re important in the scheme of things. Not true, of course. These days a retarded teenager can point a CCD and get a decent image. In fact, now I thought about it, most cameramen were retarded teenagers.

Sarah jerked her head at me and I sidled up. “You should have heard him tear into the poor bitch.” She nodded at Miko. “Told her to shut up and sit over there.” Sid suddenly began to whistle off-key and act innocent, a role well beyond his capabilities. Sarah and I looked at each other. She sighed tiredly, “What’s the silly shit done now?” Then we immediately pretended to be deep in conversation because a ratty looking bloke started scrabbling madly around the flower beds.

The poor sod was looking for his missing gnome. Sarah tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped. Sid immediately went over and confessed. Yep, he’d definitely seen a bloke steal a gnome. It may have been one of those guys from UpFront, but he couldn’t swear to it. I went over and sat by Miko and smiled at her. A woman once told me that I had a nice smile, pity about the rest of the face.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I am okay, Mike.”

“Well, that’s good.” I tried another smile.

“You are happy?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say happy, but I’m not unhappy. I’m sort of happyish.”

She nodded. “Mister Konu is very unhappy, but you are smiling.”

“My mother said I had a nice smile. I just wanted to cheer you up.”

“Mister Konu says we are unprofessional.”

“Does he? What, all of us?”

“He says we have spoiled everything and he cannot continue.”

“Continue to what?”

“To finish this programme.”

“Rubbish.” A thought struck me. “Has he ever worked with a video crew before...I mean, you know, been right through from go to whoa? Editing, post-production etcetera?”

“He has often appeared on television.”

So he hadn’t.

Sarah had talked the gnome inspector into letting us use the cloakroom annex. She waved us to follow and pointed to the fellow in a meaningful way. I persuaded Miko that she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life sitting on the stone wall developing piles and if she came along with me she would receive an education in the art and technique of The Interview.

The backing décor was just perfect; congruent with the main hall. We propped Konu up and got him to ask his questions of the rather bewildered gnome inspector, while Sid, Sarah and I threw arms and microphones and notepads into shot. We’d dub an overlay for atmosphere and, naturally, cut to various delegates and the chairman when appropriate. In fact the gnome inspector would only appear for continuity sake. Sarah had a list of pithy responses already recorded by Sid which would more or less gell with Konu’s questions. An interview with the Kiwi PM? Hey, they were bosom buddies. The American delegate? Wasn’t it Konu who elicited the reply that old grudges must be forgotten and the situation reinterpreted in the light of recent events. And wasn’t it Konu who asked if recent Japanese concessions to fishing quotas would result in removal of unfair trade restrictions?

The interviewee stood there like a dummy. He cast a beseeching look at us and Sarah took pity on him.

“Just one more question, sir.” She handed Konu a quickly scrawled note, the old tried and true question for all occasions. “Ah yes.” He looked sincerely into the man’s eyes. “Is it true that there has been a major breech in security in the last few hours?”

The guy’s jaw dropped, then swung back and forth like a pendulum. There just had to be footage of the PM and several delegates saying “Oui. Ja. Hai. Yes.” And we’d use them all. But what would this guy’s answer be?

“Bloody right! The bastards have stolen my gnome!”

11

We three intrepidos went straight to the hotel bar for drinkies.

“He’s very quiet still,” said Sarah.

“Hey, did you notice Miko was a bit upset?”

“Whoopee do, Sid,” said Sarah. “It’s good to know you’re still as alert as ever.”

“Well, you guys are a bit insensitive.” He nodded knowingly. He was probably thinking of the few times we’d been obliged to leave him to his fate for the sake of the story. Like at the Lucifer Ladies Bikie Convention.

“You’re not still moaning about that bloody camel race last year are you?” she asked.

“Eh? No.” He looked at her narrowly. “I could have won that with decent back-up.”

“Bullshit.”

“I could, couldn’t I Mike?”

“You kept falling off!”

“You guys were too cheap to buy me a saddle!”

A woman came into the bar and sat at the next table. She was impeccably groomed and her head had been carved by Faberge. Way out of my league. Sid eyed her hopefully and me balefully in case I moved in ahead of him. An international financier glided in and sat next to her, and she kissed him lightly with elegant lips. We all grunted and passed the peanuts around.

I was feeling a bit flat, maybe we all were. No-one said anything for a few minutes. It was too much for Sid. “Hey, we’re not going to hang around here tomorrow are we? We could go for a bit of a sightsee.”

Tomorrow was Friday. According to the Conference schedule, the nuts and bolts of the SOFT agreement would be oiled and tightened by teams of flunkeys while their principal delegates repaired to a secret retreat to squander New Zealand taxpayer money. The rude mechanicals would then fly home, leaving their refreshed masters with the arduous task of attending a multi-media extravaganza at Auckland’s Aotea Conference Centre on the Sunday afternoon. This would be the Treaty Signing session, which of course we had to cover.

Our programme schedule, provided by Fitzsimmons’ office, naturally assumed that all media and observers would spend the next two days absorbed in the detailed machinations necessary to effect the successful conclusion of the Southern Oceans Fishing Treaty. It was also assumed that both media and observers would respect the privacy of delegates as they enjoyed their well-earned recreational opportunity. Of course the bone of contention for SPASO and others, was that any real negotiations would be done between principal delegates, well away from prying eyes. Why was that session closed? Where was that session to be held?

Aw, fair do’s, said the organisers. Everyone’s entitled to a bit of R and R. And that’s all it’ll be, rest and recreation. It’s taken eighteen months of negotiations to get this far, just to get everyone to meet here in Wellington. Only a miserable cynic would suggest there was a secret agenda. You know we wouldn’t allow something like that.

Miko came in on cue and waved brightly. She sat down next to me and I bought her a white wine.

“Well,” I said, “you’re looking much happier.”

“Mister Konu thinks that we may be okay now.”

“Yeah, course he does,” said Sid. “We’ve got most of it now. Just need that Auckland thingy and we’ll be right.”

Sarah grunted. I was a wee bit drunk. “We were just talking about food,” I said. “Any preference?”

“We would like Japanese.”

“I thought you might.”

“Is that all right with everyone?” she asked.

“Yep,” said Sid, “you’re the one with the money.” He was still put out that we hadn’t given him his own cash float.

We went up to our rooms to shower and change for dinner. I turned the TV on while I was dressing and listened to some of the ads. It almost felt like home. I gave my shoes a bit of a shine with a towel and watched an item on the Conference. It was really a bit of a plug for famous New Zealand tourist lodges. Where was the so-called ‘secret’ session to be held? Was it here, at beautiful Mt. Cook, where you can hear the glaciers tumble into the ice cold river? Or was it here at Huka lodge, world famous for it’s elegance and fish. There were a few others, but if I had to guess, I’d plump for the fishing lodge. It was near Taupo, which was about halfway to Auckland, and it was also close to Rotorua, where they had geysers and mud pools and mineral springs. About half of the delegates were physical crocks and would love to immerse themselves in mud and spa pools.

I idly wondered whether we could jack up a few filler stories while we were here. There was no reason why the three of us couldn’t take Sid’s suggestion of a quick sightsee up country. Maybe we could find an old codger who’d fished Lake Taupo for years and had seen a dreaded lake monster. Maybe there was a killer geyser at Rotorua. Piggott would go a couple of pieces like that. We might even find a disaffected Maori radical who’s tribe claimed ancient water rights and were fighting for compensation. I wondered if there were any of those around?

I was lovely. Freshly shaven, hair combed. I was seriously thinking of giving my shoes a proper polish when Sid burst into the room and flicked the channels. “Fuck fuck fuck! Which channel?” He pushed all the buttons and yipped with triumph. A buffalo herd stampeded down the corridor and Sarah galloped in, dressed only in her bath towel. “The news! The news!” She gasped breathlessly and flopped wetly onto my bed like a small beached whale.

“...officials refuse to confirm this.” Cut to gawky looking bloke: “We are following a number of leads and hope to make an arrest shortly.” Cut to woman drooling over a hand mike: “Principal delegates will now be transferring to an alternative location.” Shot of helicoptors clambering into the sky. Cut to studio. “A Government spokesperson concedes there was always a contingency plan for such an event. Staff at the lodge....”

“Are moaning because they lose out on fat tips to keep their mouths shut about disgusting sexual orgies and drug abuse...”

“Shut up, Sid,” said Sarah

“I knew they were going to be at Huka Lodge,” I told them.

“Rubbish!”

“I did!”

“Quiet, you lot!”

“...secrecy as a further precaution. The venue will be strictly off limits to both the public and members of the media. However, the final press conference will go ahead as scheduled on Sunday afternoon from Auckland’s Aotea Centre.” Two talking heads in the studio reminded each other of exciting news items coming up after this short break, and Sarah hit the mute button.

“But what happened?” I cried.

“A bomb.”

“A bomb? Aagh! We missed a bomb!” My worst nightmares had come true.

“Nah,” said Sid. “It didn’t go off. Just found an old suitcase in the lodge. A few sticks of gelignite and a mickey mouse clock.”

“God,” cried Sarah, “I’m almost naked!”

I ignored her. “You’re telling me they just up and cleared out for that? What a load of rubbish!”

“Well that’s what they said!”

“It makes perfect sense, Mike,” said Sarah. She sat up on the bed and adjusted the towel a millimetre or two. “Apparently the lodge location was a very poorly kept secret anyway. So why didn’t we know?”

“I was just saying that I guessed....”

“No you didn’t,” said Sid.

“I was just going to say we should go there for a look.”

He made a noise like a hooting owl. “I believe you, hee hee hee.”

At school I would make incredibly witty jokes which only Parkinson would hear, but the bastard would repeat them in his braying voice and the whole class would crack up. And I’d know the answer to the name of the first guy to discover electricity but it was far too obvious so I’d say nothing, and then thicko with the sellotaped glasses would pipe up and I’d been right all along!

“You know what I reckon,” he said between pathetic sniggers, “they jacked it up themselves...just wanted an excuse to keep us out.” He meant the media contingent.

“They can’t do that,” I said.

Sarah popped a bosom back under her towel. “That actually makes sense. You can’t whinge about freedom of the press when there are security considerations.”

“Right,” said Sid, “and I bet they don’t all go to the same place at the same time. Remember my cunning whatsit?”

“Your analysis, you mean?”

“Yeah. The bigwigs head off somewhere and make their secret deal...but they pretend they’ve gone scuba diving or something...and the deadwood arrive later on the bloody metropolitan bus...and they don’t even know what the sneaky deal is! Or even that there is a sneaky deal.”

“Out of the mouths....” said Sarah.

“The cunning bastards.” It made a sort of sense. The delegates would be trying to minimise leaks among their own staff. But that meant the New Zealand Government was a party to it all; were they that devious and dishonourable?

If they had been pros like us, they would have watched the News and not been so jolly in their ignorance. When was the opportune time to apprise them of the latest development? Konu was so much happier this evening, it would be cruel to ruin his digestion when I was so hungry. Let’s face it, everyone deserved a decent meal, and why not order myself a second cold Steinlager?

“You’d better help us choose, Konu san,” said Sarah. She winked at me. Hanada had cunningly nabbed the seat next to her and was ogling her with adoration. She was probably a dead ringer for the sacred Mt Fuji.

Konu said something rapidly to Miko and leaned across the table. “Miss Bereton, may I suggest...?”

“Suggest all you like, Mister Konu.”

He bowed. “Teriyaki chicken is nice. Like shiskebab. You like this?”

Sarah shrugged. “Give anything a go.”

“We should all have soup. That is miso.” He ran through the menu and ordered sashimi and sushi and tempura and pickles and hot chinese wine. Sid was drinking Sapporo beer and warning Sarah about sake, because he’d heard this incredible story about a woman who’d sloshed back so much of the stuff that she’d actually exploded!

“Shut up, Sid.”

He and I shared shabu shabu...thin strips of beef and raw veges which we cooked ourselves in a bubbling pot. We were supposed to eat the stuff barely cooked, and we were welcome to dip it in raw egg should we so wish. Sid did his impression of a Macbethian witch and the Japanese applauded politely. Miko told us that we could join in karaoke singing, which is very popular in Japan. Konu paused from shovelling in boiled rice and told us that he very much enjoyed karaoke, and would sing for us after the meal. Sid said he’d have a go if they paid a decent rate. Konu said that in Japan one has to pay for the privilege, maybe ten dollars a time, and Sid said pull the other testicle.

Finally Sarah put down her chopsticks and looked meaningfully at me. I did likewise and coughed politely. They all paused and looked up.

“There’s been a few developments,” I said. Konu froze into stone. “The delegates have moved to a secret location. Another secret location. Naturally we already knew where the first one was.”

Miko looked at Konu, then back at me.

“Pardon?”

“I said the delegates have moved. The authorities claim to have found a bomb...”

“Bomb?” Konu rolled the word around his mouth and frowned. Miko burst into a quick interpretation and Hanada seemed to get into a torrid argument with her. How long can it take to translate the word “bomb”?

“It didn’t explode,” said Sarah.

“No.” Had I forgotten to say that?

“And it might not have been a bomb,” said Sid.

“Not a bomb?” Konu looked back at me.

“Yes it was a bomb.” I glared at Sid.

“But we don’t believe the buggers,” he said.

Miko took her hand away from her shocked mouth. Why do people do that? “You do not think they are telling the truth?”

“Nah,” said Sid. “They just want to keep us out of the secret conference.”

“But why would they want that?” asked Konu.

Sarah laid a hand on his arm and he flinched. “It’ll be because they expect a lot of argument between certain delegates. Some good old-fashioned mud-slinging, which they won’t want reported.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just a little ploy to keep us away because they can’t legitimately ban us in this country.” I sniggered. “I don’t know why they even bothered ...who’d be interested?”

Konu nodded. “I see.”

I waited for him to say, don’t worry guys, our tame Japanese delegate will tell us what went on behind closed doors or, failing that, our deep-throat source at the embassy will spill the beans. I waited for quite a long time and our eyes locked in silent conversation. You’ve got nothing to tell me, Konu? I’ve got nothing to tell you, Mike. You wouldn’t be doing the dirty on us would you Konu? I’ve got nothing to tell you, Mike.

Sid misinterpreted the moment. “Hey, Konu san, that don’t mean we can’t rig something up, right Mike? We could try the old security guard punch-up bizzo...”

Sarah thumped him on the arm. “Shut up, Sid.”

“It was just an idea. I could be the guard this time...”

“Shut up, mate,” I said.

Konu gave me a pleading look. “Please...was there a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“It did not explode?”

“No,” I said. “They had a shot of it on the news. Suitcase, gelignite, clock. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“But we have footage of that?”

“Well. No.” Bugger, what did he expect?

“I see.”

Sarah nodded and patted Konu’s arm again. “We can get a stock shot of the suitcase and news coverage of the delegates flying out.” We. Me. I made a mental note to ring the Archives Library tomorrow. She continued: “But I think it would be a good idea to get our own footage of the lodge anyway. Talk to a few people. A little bit of colour.”

Miko snorted. “That is a waste of time!”

Sarah and I both said “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is, Mike. We must find the new secret location.”

Konu nodded soberly and Hanada banged the table.

“Hai!”

I looked at the others but they were already looking at me. “Yeah, goes without saying. We’ll look, of course we will. But,” I laughed matily, “it’s Friday tomorrow and they’re due to finish on Sunday afternoon. Anyway, we’ll want to cover tomorrow’s slog at the Michael Fowler Centre, like everybody else.” What a reasonable presentation of the facts. No one could argue with that.

Except Konu. “It is no importance!” He gave Miko a burst of Japanese and she nodded vigorously then turned to me. “We can shoot all the locations you have arranged, Mike. Sid will take us. You and Sarah must find this secret place and we must be there first! Tomorrow we will follow where you tell us. You must find out tonight! All your contacts and your important friends in the Government. PrimeLine must use all its resources. We must find this place!”

We drove back to the hotel and deposited the Japanese in their rooms. Don’t you worry, folks, the team will be in action while you get a nice night’s sleep. Don’t worry; drink up your cocoa and have pleasant dreams. Don’t worry at all, because Sarah and Sid and I enjoy spitting blood and working up a lather of sweat while the rest of the world lie back on the fluffy pillow of insouciance.

The long night began.

12

The long night began with an argument over who would make the coffee. Sid lost of course. He went downstairs to see if he could get some real milk instead of that horrible UHF stuff in the impenetrable plastic packs. Konu’s mob were paying the hotel bills, so of course we opened up both connecting doors to use all three hotel phones. I set each television to a different channel.

Sarah made a list. “Someone must know,” she said.

“Think of all the flunkeys they must have left behind. The Consulates must be in on it.”

“The police would know.”

“Write it down.”

“The Air Traffic Controllers!”

“Good one. Just brainstorm. Write everything down.”

My phone rang and Sid told me that he’d have to pay extra for milk, did I think that was fair? I told him not to be a fool and hurry up. Sarah was ringing the Beehive, The New Zealand Parliament, and having the same trouble I’d had the day before. Her telephone cord was long enough for her to lie on the floor in my room and stick her head into her room. I turned to face the other way for decency’s sake and started tapping out the first of many numbers.

No luck at all. Maybe no-one knew the new location, but more likely they were being deliberately evasive because I had an Aussie accent. I tried an upper class English voice a few times but the effort of explaining what “pip pip, old bean” meant was too enervating. Sarah had an enormous argument with someone from the Defence Department. At one stage they were arguing over who was to blame at Gallipolli.

Sid finally arrived with the milk and a cardboard box full of confectionery and potato chips. I was busy telling our Embassy that we had important documents to deliver by hand to the Australian delegate. The receptionist was all sweetness and light. “We can arrange to forward it through official channels.”

“Not these. Eyes only. To be handed over by special courier...in fact he’s just arrived here with the package....”

“I’m sorry, the best we can do is to arrange an official messenger...or you could deliver it to the Conference headquarters at old parliament buildings.”

“No way.” Sarah was waving a piece of paper at me.

“Look, we have a letter of authorisation from our Governor General....”

“Sorry. Thank you for calling.”

Sarah rang a friend of a friend’s acquaintance at the Press Liaison office and sobbed. Sid exchanged her cold coffee for a new cup as she told a tale about the Australian delegate’s private secretary’s father who was dying and wanted to hear from his daughter before he passed on into the netherworld. Could we have the phone number to relay this vital information?

“Why not? Well stuff you too!”

She hung up and slurped her coffee. “Fuck them, they’re making it bloody hard.”

“No luck?” said Sid stupidly.

“We have yet begun.”

We started to pick up rumours. They’d flown down south. The Americans were being active at their Operation Deepfreeze base at Christchurch. The University at Palmerston North was not that far away, and it was empty at this very moment. Nudge nudge, say no more. The Huka Lodge bomb scare was a cover, they really were going to Huka Lodge in a sort of reverse machiavellian ploy. Not so, unscheduled flights were seen heading up North to Auckland.

The local television stations lost interest after midnight and CNN was equally useless. We were now keeping our ears attuned for radio broadcasts. Sid rang several stations in the guise of both the Minister of Broadcasting and as a lost delegate urgently seeking his missing comrades.

I told him to lay-off the Talkback programmes and try the newspapers. I was suddenly resentful that our Japanese friends were lying in bed sleeping while we were working our fingers to the bone. And so was Piggott, the bastard.

I rang him up. It was only midnight over there. “Use all your contacts, Brian, Konu really wants this.” We did, too. I hate being beaten by a bunch of ratbags.

“But you’re on the spot, Mike. What can I do? And why is it so important anyway?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t important...except for one storyboard shot with Konu and the delegates. How do I know what’s important anyway? No-one bothered to give me a schedule....”

“Not now, Mike.”

“Well. Ring around...ring all your buddies in Canberra, they must know.”

“I can’t do that now!”

“Of course you can, they love you. Look, it’s important. Old Konu thinks we’re shit hot because we got that interview with the PM....”

“Well done! I knew you could do it! How did you manage it?”

“All part of the service.” I thought about third world poverty and my rotten car. “Of course we had to spend a bit of money under the counter.” A pause. “No receipt unfortunately.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“It came out of our own pockets.”

“Yes yes yes.”

“UpFront are here, with Mathews and Bob.”

“Well of course they are, Mike. He didn’t get that interview did he?”

“No. I mean, the guy’s a jelly baby. I don’t know how the hell he got that award, I reckon it was....”

“Hang on, the other line.”

Sid was poring over a map of the country and drawing arrows and rings. Piggott”s voice squeaked in anger. “It’s Sarah! Where the hell is she?”

“Next door.”

“Well get your bloody act together! Look, I’ll ring around and do my best but it’s bloody late over here, I can’t promise anything. Someone must know...have you tried the Greenpeace lot? And the pilots? What about the bloody newspapers?”

Sarah stuck her head through the door and shrugged. She was looking very tired. I gave her a sympathetic grin and she came over and sat on my bed.

“What are we going to do, Mike?”

“We’re going to keep ringing.”

Answerphones and sleepy curses. It was getting too late. I knew we were getting really desperate when I heard Sid ask a farmer if he’d heard a chopper or a plane fly overhead recently. Look, this was a national emergency so stop whinging. Well go and milk the bastards now if it’s that early!

We took a break and pored over the map again. Sarah had jotted down all the hints, rumours and guesses, and they seemed to cover every single square centimetre of the country. Piggott rang back and told us that he’d found out exactly nothing. Tighter than a baby’s bum. If they’re knowing, they’re not saying. Had we tried the embassies?

Of course.

“You”ll have to follow your nose, Mike. That’s what you’re paid for. Results.”

We both hung up savagely.

The Yanks were usually free and easy with info and we’d taken turns at haranguing them with various sob stories, Sid even going to the length of admitting he was John Wayne’s son. Eventually I tracked down Joe’s hotel, you never know, he might just let something slip.

The night clerk was bored and chatty. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

“Maybe he’s a deep sleeper. Could you keep trying?”

“Maybe he’s already heard about the incident and is flying back?”

I’d mentioned something about his mother being mugged in the Bronx. “Oh yes.” My tired old head shuddered and a thought slipped out. “There wouldn’t be something on your computer would there?” One of my eyes fell asleep.

“Cle-ver! Right. Yep, he’s paid up and cancelled his booking. Paid a day’s cancellation. Probably on the plane right now to New York is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Check out the flights.”

“Yeah. Nothing in his box I suppose?”

“I’ll have a scrute.”

Scrute? What was that?

He came back on the line. “There? Yeah, there’s a note for Marion Galbraith. She’ll pick it up in the morning.”

“Marion? She’s just arrived! I’ll send her right over.”

“All right with me, mate.”

We quickly rewrote the Governor General letter in the name of the Honourable Marion Galbraith, and Sid affixed his signature thereto. We helped him find the car keys and he and Sarah raced off into the dark morning. I crawled on to my bed and lay down. I should get thirty minutes sleep while I could. Who was Marion Galbraith? One of Joe’s colleagues? Too much to expect. Don’t build up your hopes.

I smoked yet another cigarette then wearily picked up the phone. With my fourth call I found UpFront’s hotel and yes, they were still booked in. I put down the phone. Mathews would be doing what I was doing at this very minute. Probably all around the town there’d be lights burning in hotel rooms and Telecom would be racking up profits. Was this letter the edge we needed?

I ate a Snickers bar from Sid’s stash and felt sick. Coffee sloshed in my belly and I emptied about a gallon into the toilet. My face hung in the mirror like a dirty chunk of ectoplasm. I had a thousand lines dug into the skin of my face and I could tie every one of those lines in with a night like this. I tried to scrub a few of them away in a sink of cold water.

Then I thought of Monica and Turnball. They were virtually allies; maybe they had a few leads. Gretel had been careful to give me their telephone number, but it could be anywhere. My room was a total mess. Sid had spilled coffee and milk all over the bench and he’d thrown paper darts everywhere. Someone on the radio was complaining about Mormons who kept knocking on his door and why don’t the Police do something about it?

I found the number in yesterday’s shirt pocket and immediately tapped out the digits. The phone rang and rang. Finally a sleepy male voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Is that Turnball?”

“No.” The phone slammed down. I rang again.

“Yeah?”

“Hey don’t hang up, this is important. Is Monica there? Or any of the SPASO people?”

“They were, but they’ve all gone. They fucked off hours back...shit, it’s 4 a.m., what the fuck you ringing at this time for?”

“Her father’s had an accident.”

“Bullshit, she was talking to him just before she left.”

Sometimes you fluke it.

“Oh yeah. He’s organising the Convention isn’t he?”

“So she says. What a fucking laugh.”

“I have to get hold of her urgently, it’s a matter of state security.”

“So who gives a fuck?”

I chortled with anarchic solidarity.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing. So, where is she?”

“Go to bed, mate.”

“Hang on! Where did she go?”

“Gretel and her and the weirdo flew up on the 9-30 pm flight. Shit, you took your time ringing. They said you were a bit slow.”

“Hey?” He must be confusing me with someone else.

“I was glad to get rid of the weird bastard I tell ya.” He could only mean Turnball.

“Yeah, what a weird bastard he is. To...?”

“Auckland, mate. Where else?”

Sarah came back cursing and spitting. Sid followed her through the door and flinched as she slammed it back at him. “Listen to this! Pathetic! “Darling Marion, sorry about the fight. My fault. Have to rush on urgent business. Call you later to find out results. Tell clinic I’ll pay. All my love, Joe.” The slimy bastard!”

“What a dork,” said Sid. “She’ll be itching to find him...d’you get that?”

“Shut up, Sid,” said Sarah. She threw the letter at me. “We’re right back where we started.”

“Oh no, we’re not,” I crowed. I quickly filled them in on my epic breakthrough which only came about because I never for one moment relaxed my efforts and perhaps there was a lesson to be learned from that example?

“Don’t pull my tit, Mike.”

Sid went along the corridor and woke up the others. I rang the airport and booked the only two seats left on the early morning flight. Sarah rang Piggott, but only the answerphone was on, lazy bastard. I flung clothes into my suitcase and an accidental hotel towel. Sid came back grinning. “So what do I do?”

“Just follow the schedule and be a good boy,” said Sarah. “Film anything that moves and make Konu look good.” She turned to me. “He’d better ring us every so often.”

“Yeah you’d better do that, mate.”

“No worries.”

Sarah went into her room and we could hear the whiskey flask gurgling. She popped her head back through the open door. “Make sure you have all the luggage in the minibus, Sid, and get the receipt when you dump it at the airport.”

“I know. What about the mirror?”

“Fuck the mirror.”

I called a taxi to make the 6 a.m. flight and scampered down the stairs, pausing only to refasten my suitcase. I could hear Sarah kicking the lift door two floors up. The night clerk was standing in the foyer looking dubiously up the lift shaft. I trotted by. He saw my suitcase and bleated, then made a step forward. “Mister Konu is paying,” I told him. Our taxi was pulling into the forecourt. The lift descended and Sarah and Sid spilled out. The clerk reached out a despairing hand and Sid stopped to assure him that we weren’t doing a flyer, so bring the trolley upstairs mate and give us a hand with the luggage.

Sarah clambered into the taxi and dragged me after her.

“Don’t wave like a bloody schoolboy, he can handle it by himself for once.”

We shared a dubious look and she pursed her lips.

“Well if he can’t, it’s their bloody lookout.”

I sighed wearily. It had been a long night. I suspected it was going to be a longer day.

13

I never break the law if I can help it. It’s more satisfying to play the game according to the rules, however stupid they are, and of course I don’t ever want to be put in prison and have a large number tattooed on my arse. So I let Sarah kick the door in.

We jumped into the office and pressed ourselves against the wall like they do in those gangster movies. Nothing moved. It was a bit of an anti-climax because I could now see that the door had been left unlocked. Very slack security. Directly across from me was that large chart of Antarctica with all the disgusting black dots on. What had Gretel said? Rubbish dumps, I think.

I told Sarah what they were and she snorted. “Close the door and keep an eye on the stairs.”

“I can’t do both.”

“Close the door then. What are we looking for?”

“Clues.”

We’d argued with each other during both the flight into Auckland and on the taxi ride into the city. Sarah wanted to know what I’d been doing all that time in Auckland if I couldn’t even come up with a single contact at this precise moment in time. I said that she was the New Zealander and even someone as bossy and unsympathetic as her should have friends who knew something or someone, so if she couldn’t do better she would have to follow my lead.

I was only about ninety seconds, but Sarah still moaned.

“Go on, let everyone know we’re here by flushing the dunny.”

“I forgot.”

“What time do they open?”

There was a notice on the door showing SPASO office hours of nine to five, which gave us an hour before anyone would arrive. Sarah would try to cut it fine.

“Eight thirty,” I said.

She was searching through Gretel’s desk and had unearthed an apple and a muesli bar. She put down the core and unwrapped the bar.

“Don’t eat that.” I said.

“Oh it’s hardly the crime of the century. Start looking!”

I opened a filing cabinet and riffled through about two thousand folders. It was mostly cuttings and pamphlets and old correspondence. Untidy piles of similar material lay on tables and chairs and even the floor. I hadn’t noticed what a bunch of slobs they all were. Sarah grunted and threw me a desk-top diary. It was written in a foreign language, probably Gretel’s. Turnball’s name featured a few times, and mine turned up twice. And Terry. Terry? It rang a bell of sorts. I did a quick flit around the room to look at the charts and photographs, and found another meusli bar over by the coffee machine. I ate it. Terry. Terence.

On the wall was a superb photograph of the American nuclear submarine ‘Thresher’ entering Auckland’s Waitemata harbour. The photographer had captured a moment of high drama; protest craft of all types, a helicopter beating directly overhead, American sailors lined up on the deck. Next to that photograph was a rather poorly exposed shot of what seemed to be an old pirate ship. I immediately recognised it. Seen it down the waterfront when I’d taken the Devonport ferry.

I pointed it out to Sarah, who stomped over and plucked it off the wall. A little bit of plaster came off with it.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I told her, “now we could be up for malicious damage.”

“Why don’t you go out and wait on the street if you’re so sensitive.”

“I’m not. Just pointing out a legal ramification.”

“Who’s the ugly guy with Monica?”

“Is that Monica?” Her hair was very long in the photo. She was sitting on a coil of thick rope with four other people. One of them was playing a guitar. The ugly guy was standing next to her, gazing out to sea like Long John Silver.

“His name’s Terry,” said Sarah.

“How did you know that?”

“It’s written on the back, you berk.”

The man playing the guitar was actually a woman named Rhonda. Turnball was there, cunningly disguised as a heap of sailcloth. Terry was the captain of the good ship Pelagius, which was probably a very significant name indeed. He seemed strangely familiar.

“My, what a magnificent vessel,” she sneered. “I can just see this powerful craft slicing its way through the Antarctic pack ice...that heap of shit would be lucky to get out of port!”

“Rubbish. They probably sailed heaps of times to Mururoa Island to stop the French Nuclear Testing.”

“Well they didn’t succeed very well, did they?”

“It all adds up. You can’t afford to be too cynical. These guys are putting it all on the line. How would you like to sail across the raging ocean on a crappy old boat like that? I bet they cut drift nets and save whales and charge up to French warships...and basically I think they’re a bunch of heroes.” I didn’t really, but the office might be bugged.

“If you were more observant, you would see that they hire the thing out for trips around the harbour.”

There was a sign to that effect which was partly obscured by Captain Terry’s large cabbage head. Cabbage Head! Of course I knew the guy! We’d almost shared a cup of coffee together on my first night in New Zealand. I told Sarah that and she said golly gee isn’t that interesting? Perhaps he’ll take us for a little cruise around the islands to fill in some empty hours. Get your bloody a into gee, Mike.

Monica’s desk was empty of everything but rubbish, but I remembered a thousand old movies and ripped the top sheet off her desk pad. Some lousy artist had drawn a large swordfish on it, but drawn it so badly that I wouldn’t have known what it was if they hadn’t labelled the thing in bright red ink. I screwed it up and threw it in the bin.

Was that an indentation on the pad beneath? I rubbed a pencil across the surface and letters magically formed. Sarah leapt across at my bleat of triumph and snatched it off me.

“Oh whoopee do. ‘Two falafels and a bean salad.’ Well done, mister detective.”

She flung it down and lit up a cigarette. I was sure I could hear policemen stealthily approaching. The pad was upside down. They were pulling out their truncheons and smelling blood. There was writing on this side. Would Monica return David’s call as soon as possible. Would Monica phone her mum re: lunch on Wednesday. Terry called and said okay.

“It’s all very cryptic,” said Sarah.

“No it’s not. David’s probably her re-birth therapist, and Terry is the stalwart sea dog...obviously letting her know that he’s ready to set out on a mission. And Mum....”

“Is probably her mother. Big deal.”

“Yes, but mother knows all. Daddy rings wife to tell her that he’s not in Wellington anymore, but at place X. Mother blurts it out to beloved daughter Monica, who immediately hotfoots in pursuit. Followed in turn by us.”

“Followed to where? A grotty little office in Auckland?”

“No. We ring Mummy and elicit the information in a cunning way. I’ve already talked to her once; she’s a walk over.”

I rang the Fitzsimmons number for five long minutes. “Bugger.”

“Any other cunning plans, Mike?”

“Yep.” I phoned Piggott’s home number on my cellphone. His wife answered, breathing heavily, and for a moment I was quite taken aback. “Is Brian there?”

“He’s gone for his morning jog.”

“Really?” Why was she breathing so heavily? She must have caught the lascivious thought because she burst into chuckles. “I’ve been doing my aerobics, Mike. Brian”s not up to much these days.”

“Well he’s been up half the night I expect.”

“You’re joking. The slug?”

I was incensed. “You mean he hasn’t been ringing around for us?”

“What?”

“We’re in a situation red sort of situation here. Bombs are exploding and international incidents are occurring at every moment...”

“Yes, Mike, isn’t that the norm?”

“Well, I was sort of hoping for a bit of back up.”

She cackled hysterically and hung up.

I rang Monica’s mother again and waited another five minutes. Plenty of time for someone to have gotten off the toilet or out of the shower. Surely mother hadn’t joined the travelling political carnival? Every instinct told me that she was out watering the garden or playing bridge. 8-30 a.m. She’d spill the beans under intensive interrogation all right or, failing that, I could break in and read her secret diary. Repressed women of a certain social class always keep a secret diary. She may have a big, exotic lover. ‘Diplomat’s wife says leave my Zulu alone!’

We successfully avoided any early-rising SPASO staff and caught a taxi to a leafy street in Remuera. Most of the streets in wealthy Remuera were leafy. I was brought up in a town boasting only two scarred gumtrees and a reputation as the fly epicentre of Victoria. We were also blessed with a huge population of snakes. When I lucked out and became rich, I’d buy a thousand of the hairiest trees available and plant them in my old street. The neighbours would shuffle out of their brick veneers and sit under the leafy trees and talk about politics and religion and culture. Young women would gravitate there and yuppie professionals would move in and settle down. I’d be able to sit in my rocking chair and watch the pigs fly overhead.

There was nobody home. No-one watering the hibiscus. No-one had collected the mail. Just a few nosey neighbours peeping through curtains. I walked around the back and nearly fell into a large goldfish pond. An old man was watching me from the next door property.

“Can I help you?” The old bloke had a voice like gravel. I walked over to the fence and introduced myself. To my surprise he shook my hand. Sarah popped her head around, then withdrew. He had a dog with him which yapped pathetically and jumped up about five centimetres. It looked like a bladder of whale fat.

I told him I was a colleague of Roy’s and he’d asked me and my secretary to pop in and pick up an important document. Can’t really tell you what it pertains to, wink wink. Well I was to say no more about that, young fella. Can’t help you, I’m sorry. Nora’s away for the day you see. Oh dear, I said, the Minister will be upset. Minister? Say no more, young fella. Politics had been his game, perhaps his face was familiar...? Of course, of course! Let me shake your hand again. Always been an admirer of yours. Tell you what, young fella, you and your secretary wait here for a moment and I’ll get you the key. He winked at me. “I feed the cats.”

Sarah recognised him from days long gone when the poor bloke had wielded power and influence. “It happens to us all,” she said sadly. “A bored old man waiting to die. He’s so lonely he even wanted to talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

She stubbed her cigarette out in a pot plant. “I was scared of that. I was scared I’d just be a bit of cheap furniture for my hubby to put his feet up on and then one day throw me out to warp in the sun.”

“I can’t imagine anyone treating you as a piece of furniture.”

She looked at me strangely. “Why, thanks Mike.”

The old bloke fumbled the key into the back door and opened up. We stood back while he went in and fed the two cats. They were extremely large and ugly. I looked at Sarah. “Let me help you,” she said to him. I shimmered off. I could hear Sarah asking him if the cats were pedigreed, surely they must be to be so beautiful?

Nothing by the phone. Not even an index book. Nothing in the living room. Nor the drawing room. Nor the annex with the grand piano. Monica must have had a cushy life, but I’d already guessed that. People like me who’ve had to struggle for every crumb can never afford the luxury of being naive and idealistic. And we could certainly never afford French Vogue magazine.

I wrapped it in a sheet of music paper so that the old bloke would think it was the important ministerial document. Upstairs to the bedroom. Lots of them. His and hers were joined by an en suite bathroom with a lovely slate floor. Her room was decorated with floral wallpaper and a whole shelf of porcelain dolls. There was a strong scent of some exotic perfume which made my sensitive nose twitch and quiver. There were a half dozen portrait photographs of Monica at various ages, obviously an only child.

Sarah would be getting desperate by now. I flicked through an index file under the telephone, but of course it was useless. Should I look for her diary? She’d been reading ‘The Frozen Asset’, yet another book on Antarctica, and it had been turned face down on the bedside table. You shouldn’t do that to books, it breaks the spine. I picked it up and revealed a box of tissues which was extremely fortuitous because my sneeze was building up to a beauty.

My whole body whiplashed. Someone had told me that a sneeze is the most violent physical act of all. The tissue fluttered in the air and landed on the far side of the bed. I picked it up and noticed a number handwritten in ink. My eyes flicked to the bedside table and registered a ballpoint pen. If I was lying in bed at night and my husband rang me up to say, hey Nora, I’m on my way to location X but don’t worry, here’s the number, must rush, kissy kiss, ‘bye. I’d naturally write it down on the bit of paper closest to hand.

I rang the number and felt my heartbeat thudding up into the danger area. “Swordfish Lodge.”

“Hello.” Thud thud thud.

“Swordfish Lodge.”

“Yes, good. Do you have any vacancies?”

“For what period, sir?”

“Tonight...and tomorrow.”

“Sorry, we’re all booked out for the weekend. Can I make a reservation for you at a later date?”

“Ah no. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I should have asked who was staying there. But they wouldn’t have told me. But they might have revealed all by the deviousness of their reply. But they might have become suspicious and tied me in with the break in at the SPASO office. But it must be the right place!

Sarah was desperate. “And the cat you had that died, was it a Persian too?” Her face sagged with relief as I entered. The old man suddenly remembered me and started, a glint of suspicion forming in his rheumy eye. I indicated my French Vogue.

“Sorry for the delay...had to check the seal.”

“Ah.” He nodded knowingly.

“Do you think Roy and Nora would mind if I used their phone to call a taxi?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I will then.”

I filled her in during the taxi ride, though I used a secret code because these taxi drivers are nosey buggers. When we arrived at the Ferry buildings, she made me tell it again.

“So what’s the bit about ‘ring-a-ring-a-rosy’ then?”

“Atishoo...a tissue. It was written on a tissue.”

“And they admitted the conference was being held there?”

“Not in so many words. Undercurrents.”

She sat down on a wooden bench. “You’ve done well, Mike. We have to go with it, don’t we?”

“Yeah I reckon.”

“We could be wrong.”

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“I wish we had confirmation.”

So did I. Sarah rang Piggott while I bought us some takeaway food. They wouldn’t give me a receipt. Sarah said she’d talked to Piggott and told him he was a selfish shit. I said I bet you didn’t.

“I should of, the bastard, except he’d take it as a compliment.”

My phone went. “Yeah?”

“I’m on a card phone...dropped my cellphone in the dunny, stuffed, fuck...time’s nearly up...hey, I had a puncture but fixed it, fuck me these calls are expensive...are we coming up? Miko wants to talk...ah shit...”

Sarah sighed. “Don’t tell me...Sid’s cocked it up again.”

“Nope, the guy’s a hero, except he’s not your great communicator.”

We sat on our bench and watched the boats moving around the harbour. A huge catamaran took a load of people off sight-seeing and a beautiful old schooner sailed past the Overseas Passenger Terminal.

“The Japs will be spitting tacks,” I said.

“Why’s that?”

“Well they sailed their ship down to Wellington for the conference and now they’re stuck without an audience.”

“The ship’s just window dressing. They’ll have got their message across to where it counts.”

“I wonder what Konu’s thinking.”

“Please slow down Sidney san.”

My phone rang. “Hello Sid.”

“Hey, good guess. So what do we do? Sorry about that other call, fucking cards are useless.”

“You come up, Konu will pay.” Sarah handed me a scribbled note and I read out the hotel.

“Got it, mate. Did I tell you about the puncture?”

“Yeah. Better get a move on, Sid.”

“Sayanora!”

It was a lovely day, but the sun was making me sleepy. Sarah went off to get some guff on Swordfish Lodge and I strolled up Hobson street to the Television New Zealand complex. I bought two minutes of the Huka Lodge news footage and asked them if they knew where the Conference was now being held. They tapped their noses and tried to pretend that they did, but no way was an Australian crew going to find out from them. Oh please, I said, have pity on your trans-Tasman cousin. I left with maniacal laughter ringing in my ears.

Sarah had booked rooms for us all in the City Travelodge hotel across from the waterfront. The others would be tired, but surely not as tired as me. I desperately wanted a little snooze. Sarah was already in her room, but she wouldn’t be sleeping. A huge yawn wracked my body and the bed called to me like a lorelei. I’m soft and I’m warm, rest your tired limbs on me and drift away into peace and tranquillity.

A lesser man would have succumbed. I gritted my teeth and went back outside. The pirate ship. The Pelagius. Captain Terry must know something. I mean what if I was wrong? What if I was sending everybody on a wild goose chase? What if every other media crew in the whole world knew where the new venue was, but not us. We’d be a laughing stock for evermore and I’d have to trade-in what was left of my soul to work on a television quiz show.

I’d never get my award then.

14

A dead rat rolled belly up and sank. Under that scummy surface a large fish or maybe even a shark would be homing in on the bloated carcase. It was all part of the food chain, the links of which stretched from the gorgonion growth of the Antarctic Ocean to the highly evolved antipodean mammal.

A very basic example of the latter was watching me through dark sunglasses. I waved. He was pretending to fish from the old wooden wharf, hoping that I’d mistake him for an out of luck ex-serviceman trying to provide food for his large, handicapped family. No way; I can pick a dole-bludger at fifty paces.

I walked forty-five of these and coughed meaningfully. He hauled back on his line. “Got something have you?” I asked. Apart from dirt, disease and a heavy aura of failure.

“Not much.”

“Been here long?”

“Nuh.”

A seagull swooped down and squawked. Enough polite chitchat. “I’m looking for the old pirate-type boat that was here, haven’t seen it, have you?”

“Yep.” He pointed to where the dead rat was resurfacing. Two Japanese tourists were taking a photograph of it.

“Been gone long, has it? A friend of mine was on board.”

“Wasn’t here this morning.”

“Ahh.”

“But it was here last night.”

They were taking a lot of photos of the dead rat. Didn’t they have rats in Japan?

“You didn’t see it go, did you?”

“Me mate did. Helped to shove her off.”

One of the Japanese men took a photo of a typical New Zealand fisherman. I stepped back to give him a clear shot. It struck me that most Japanese tourists, even honeymoon couples, preferred to tour as a group, like that mob back at our Wellington hotel. These two blokes lacked the twittering excitement of tourists despite the fact that they were wearing the standard souvenir All Black football jerseys. One of them made a gesture of thanks to me and I nodded back. Of course! It was obvious from their athletic build that they were rugby players here to pick up a few tips. Perhaps they thought I looked like an All Black! I puffed out my chest and flexed a bicep.

The fisherman was eyeing me warily.

“Did he say how many were on board apart from my old buddy Terry?”

He strained his feeble fisherman brain. “Couple of women, he reckoned. Couple of blokes. Got ya, ya bastard!” He hauled up a sardine and cut its head off with a huge knife. I shivered a bit; there was death in the air today. Rats and fishes first; who knew what would be next?

Traitorous Bob held my arms while Mathews plunged the stuffed swordfish into my exposed ribs. I groaned awake and flung up a protective arm. Sid’s ugly face grinned down at me. “Cunning swine,” he said, “been sleeping all day have you?” He grabbed my pillow and threw it against the wall.

“Rubbish. Forty feeble winks is all.”

“Yeah and the rest.” He sat down on the bed and rolled a cigarette. “How are you anyway? Sarah reckons you’ve been a bit of a hero.”

“Does she?” Let’s face it, I had.

“Konu’s pretty chirpy. We’re supposed to meet in the lobby and have a coffee.”

“Have you just arrived? Get all the shots?”

“Yep, bit of a rush, though. Miko can get pretty bloody bossy. I got lost going to the airport.” He did a feeble impression of a hysterical Japanese woman.

“‘Oh we’re going to miss the plane! You’re going the wrong way, Sidney!’ It’s like a fucking maze that place.”

I scrubbed my face and we went downstairs. Sarah was playing mother with the coffee pot and looking rather pleased with herself. I tried to recall recent developments, because my head was aching with exhaustion and someone had shovelled a load of camel dung into my mouth. Hanada was absent.

“He’s checking the camera gear,” said Sid. “I had a blow-out and it got a bit bumpy. Honda nearly went through the window.” He chortled at the memory.

“Hey, there was a message for you at the hotel, from Monica. I got it somewhere. Bugger me. Nope. Shit. Lost it.”

“Geezes Sid.”

“Ah. Something about sorry we couldn’t go fishing together, or, no, maybe it was...something about a big fish.” He screwed his face up with effort. “Monica says, ah shit, I think it was just ‘see you guys later.’ “He waved his arm vaguely. “It was old, anyway. It had been at the receptionist desk all along.”

I nodded. “Probably to do with the interview.”

Konu stood up and clapped his hands lightly. Good God, it was applause. He and Miko were beaming at me.

“You have done very well, Mike,” he said. Miko nodded energetically.

“Well thanks, but it was a team effort,” I lied.

He nodded and the three of us patted each other’s backs.

“I have rung my office and they are very impressed with PrimeLine. They wish me to tell you this.”

“Great.” Last night it was all brickbats. It would be again if we’d guessed wrong. As Sid was oft known to say, the more they grease you up, the easier it is to shaft you.

I told them how I’d professionally established confirmation that the SPASO boat was on its way to location X. Konu looked carefully around and nodded at my caution. Actually I’d forgotten the name of the place.

Sarah spread out a map and showed us where the Lodge was. It didn’t seem to be anywhere in particular.

“It must be an old map,” said Sid, “they don’t show the road.”

“There isn’t a road,” she said. “Well, there is a road, but it’s just an access track. Everyone comes in by sea.”

Miko was sketching the scene into her green book and her little tongue flickered in and out like a snake. Sarah had picked up a couple of pamphlets and a second-hand book with a picture of a Maori warrior on the front. Swordfish Lodge was sited just inside Whangaroa harbour. She adopted her horrid school-marm’s voice, which I particularly hated because it brought back rotten memories. Most of my memories are fairly rotten, in fact.

She told us that the harbour was one of New Zealand’s deepest natural harbours, and it had quite an interesting past...the French were there as well as the British. Even Captain Cook landed there. Yes indeed, there was a lot of interesting history attached to that part of the country, please pay attention Sidney.

Out of the corner of my mouth I asked Sid if Konu had rung Piggott at all.

He shrugged. “I dunno. We had to call in to that fucking ship, but. That’s what nearly made me late.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. They took the little gnome aboard to show everybody. That was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Charming.”

Sid yawned hugely while I thought about Konu. I didn’t know anything about the bloke. He wasn’t your standard TV frontperson, at least not by Western standards. Why had Joe warned us to stay clear? What was the American interest? All Konu was doing was sticking to the script. We were taking it as read that he was feeding info back to the trade mission on board the Nihon International, but big deal. Yet now the guy was strangely excited with the prospect of finding the delegates secret pozzy. Why? The public wouldn’t care. Mathews would be ropeable and maybe we could dine out on that petty triumph for a week or two, but still, it was a lot of effort and expense for a minute of filler.

“What are you looking so constipated about, Mike?” Sarah hates to lose her audience. I looked around. Konu was scratching kanji characters onto Miko’s drawing and Sid was asleep.

“I’ll get Sid off to bed,” I told her. “What are the plans for tomorrow?”

Miko reached out and touched my arm. “Mike, can we fly to this Whangaroa village?”

“Uh?”

“No we can’t,” said Sarah. “We’ll have to fly into Russell and then hire a boat.”

“That sounds a bit rugged,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. We’ll have to have a boat, and we’re going to pretend we’re fishing.”

“Aw not fishing!” God, I hated fishing. I hated fish. I wasn’t all that keen on boats.

“And we’re going to have to be careful.”

In fact I was careful, but I still got Sid’s hand caught in the lift door. He screamed.

“Shush!” I said, “Don’t be a wimp.”

“I dreamed the Ayatollah had got me.” He shuddered. “I need that hand.”

“Well don’t flop it around everywhere.”

He tumbled into his room and collapsed on the bed. I heaved the duvet over him and took off his shoes. His feet stank, but they’d been depressing pedals all day so I forgave him. Sarah knocked on the door and beckoned me out. We went into my room.

“I’ve blown the budget out and hired a plane to Russell.”

“Good-oh.”

“But I had a horrible thought.”

“You should have heard Sid’s dream.”

“You rang Mathews, didn’t you?”

“Just his hotel.”

“What if he rang us? Did you say where we were going?”

“Bugger.” I’d booked the flight from the reception desk. He wouldn’t miss that lead.

“They”ll be in Auckland by now.”

“But they won’t know where to go.”

“You betting? What if he tries to ring the SPASO office? He saw you talking to Monica.”

“He might, but so what? Monica’s not there and the other SPASO people wouldn’t tell.”

“So he rings the home number. And there’s no reply. So he goes around and knocks on the door. And who’s looking over the fence...?”

“So what?”

“So Mathews will know it’s us,” she said. “The old fart will tell him, then he’ll get hold of Monica’s mother and then what?”

“Then he’ll feel sick to the depths of his soul because he’s been beaten and humiliated by us.”

She glared at me as if it was my fault. “I don’t want to lose to that slimy bastard, Mike.”

We left a very grey Auckland at six a.m. next morning and arrived in Russell to a beautiful sunny day. The plane was very small and the pilot was a schoolboy with acne. I had to look after the gnome because Sid closed his eyes the whole way and practiced death.

A helicopter was warming up fifty metres from where we landed and I turned to Sarah with gratitude. Piggott never let us fly in helicopters unless we were really hot on the scent of a big story. A crappy old long-wheel base landrover wheeled up and a skinny Maori bloke got out. He eyed us over carefully and nodded to himself. Envy. He’d do anything to be a part of a high profile film crew and fly around all the time in helicopters. I gave him a hard-luck-mate grin and turned my back. No need to rub it in.

He tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m your ride, bro.”

“Hey? Oh yeah, right, the experienced bush pilot type.”

He stared blankly at me. “You better get in, mate. These guys speak English?” He was looking at Sid who was in the slow process of ressurrection.

I trotted over to the helicoptor and tried to open the door. It was a bit small, surely? What about our luggage? I’d have to carry the gnome on my lap. A huge bloke jumped out of a nearby shed and yelled. I heard him even above the chopper motor. I looked around. The others were sitting quietly in the landrover, except for Sid, who for some reason was rolling around on the ground holding his boney ribs.

So I made him sit in the back with Hanada and the camera gear. They were perched uncomfortably on fold down seats and every now and again a pale Sid face would appear at the dividing window and make horrible grimaces. I turned to Sarah, who was wedged against the side door.

“Those poor sods will be black and blue by the time we get there.”

“I’ve got the bloody door handle jabbing into me. Anyway it’s not far.”

“I think it is.” I turned to our driver, “How far, mate?”

“We’re here, bro.”

He pulled up at a very small service station and jumped out. The others clambered out and stretched their limbs. Sid did one of his theatrical collapses and Miko rushed to his aid. I stroked Piggy the Gnome’s pointy head and sighed deeply. It was still very early, I was still very tired.

Russell was basically a small holiday resort full of boats and fishermen. As we’d flown in I’d seen the scattering of bushclad islands which gave the region its mundane name, ‘The Bay Of Islands’. They were a funny bunch the Kiwis. Half the places had melodious Maori names, redolent of mystery and romance; the remainder were uninspired, prosaic efforts. The North Island. The South Island.

“Come on, Mike, we’re supposed to be organising this!” Sarah tugged at the door and I spilled out. Sid was letting Miko massage his leg and had discovered a severe cramp higher up, yep, a bit higher....

The driver came round and clicked his fingers at me. Sarah reached into her wallet and shelled out a few dollars. He looked at her blankly. She shelled out a few more and he climbed back into his vehicle.

“Hey,” I said, “where are all the ferry boats?”

He grinned and pointed. “Down the wharf, bro.” He grinned again. “Good luck.”

Sid and I had once crossed a crocodile-infested lagoon in a flimsy canoe. About halfway across an ugly snout had broken the surface and started to give chase. We paddled for our lives, but no matter which way we went, yet another snout would poke up and smell us out. We only escaped because our quarry, the Secret Hermit of Billabong Bend, had risen out of a patch of duckweed and frightened the crocs away.

I related this tale to the guy on the wharf. He was tall, extremely weather-beaten, and had enormously large hands. He was also very proud of his feeble tin taxi boat. “Haven’t you got anything a bit bigger,” I asked. “Like that one there?”

A beautiful, white, burbling fizzboat hove into view and tied up at the wharf. “Nah, that’s from Paihia. Cost you a bit. Where you going?”

“Ah.” I couldn’t tell this guy, he’d pass it on to the locals and the locals would pass it on to their mothers, and their mothers would ring their sisters in Auckland and tell them and so on. Mathews would know in no time at all. “Just cruising around the bay. We might catch a fish.”

“You might.” He sucked in his cheeks and looked around at the bay which was chock full of moored yachts and fizzboats. “Course, you could charter a big fish boat. Or go and talk to Rainbow.”

“Rainbow?” Did he mean the Greenpeace boat?

“They charter out about a dozen boats at Opua, cross the way.”

“I suppose they cost a bit.” Our budget was already blown with the charter flight.

“Depends. I could crew for you. “Ragamuffin’s still there, saw her last night.”

Miko, surprisingly, was at the end of the wharf talking to the owners of the white fizzboat. I turned around and found Konu at my shoulder. I shrugged.

“Not good news, Mike?”

“It’s not too bad. I’m just going to phone a charter outfit. You lot can have breakfast.”

“I wish to phone also.”

“Do you?” Why? Who? Or should that be ‘whom’?

We all ended up eating breakfast in a dinky little cafe on the waterfront. Our luggage was piled on the verandah because there really wasn’t anywhere else to put it. We’d lugged it over, a mini safari, but an extra trip for me because of the gnome. So far it hadn’t been earning its keep.

Konu had commandeered Sarah’s phone to make his mystery call, but I was sure it wasn’t international because I counted the digits. Someone answered my phone and told me I was out of luck, all available boats were on hire at present. Most surprising. Why surprising? I asked. Because they always had a couple available at this time of the year...it was a motor boat I wanted? Of course, I said, as if anyone would want to hire a sailing boat. You can’t even sail in a straight line with them, and they get becalmed in front of approaching oil tankers. Yeah, surprising, because the phones have been running hot this morning. The White Lady’s gone and we could have given you the Ragamuffin ten minutes ago.

People always say that to me. Ten minutes ago. If only you’d been here then! I put the phone down. Konu was standing behind me, blatantly listening.

“We are in luck, Mike?”

“Nope, all booked out.”

“To who?”

“Whom. Just a fishing party. Trout fishermen.”

“Trout?” He looked puzzled. “Are not trout in the rivers?”

“Some are. But they have famous trout here,” I guessed. “Big fat sea trout.”

Sarah had her map spread out and was measuring the sea distance from Russell to Whangaroa harbour.

“Doesn’t look far,” said Sid. His gnarly finger reached out and poked the yolk of my egg. It burst.

“Leave it alone, Sid.”

“Mine was hard.”

“Bad luck.”

“I ordered a soft one.”

“Shut up, Sid,” said Sarah.

The Japanese were sitting at an adjacent table, but Miko came over and stood next to me. “Mister Konu says we must hurry up, Mike. Where is our boat?”

“Yeah,” said Sid, sucking his eggy finger, “where is our boat?”

Hanada suddenly bleated, then raced outside and tore at the camera cases. The white fizzboat’s motor burbled into life and it moved smoothly away from the wharf.

Sid trotted out in solidarity and we watched the two of them scurry down the wharf with camera and tripod. I couldn’t help wondering why Hanada hadn’t filmed the fizzboat earlier, it now looked as if he’d miss a decent close-up. Why was he interested anyway? Why had Miko been talking to the crew? I would have checked it out but Konu had distracted me with his telephone call.

We strolled down to the end of the wharf and watched the craft disappear towards Opua. A little wave of depression washed over me. I’d have to find a charter boat somewhere. It would probably take me all morning and be hideously uncomfortable. I suddenly froze as I heard the camera whirr behind me...if they weren’t filming the fizzboat what were they filming? I turned.

An old pirate ship was sliding into the dock.

15

I scooted along the wharf and was there to catch the lasso when Turnball threw it. Gretel hopped nimbly off the stern and wrapped another rope around a big post. She came up and refastened my effort. Captain Cabbage Head was yelling out things like ‘Hard a larboard’ and ‘Watch the gunnel!’

“Hello Gretel”, I said.

“Mike! What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I think. Am I right?”

“How do you know we are here?”

I chuckled knowingly. “We’re professionals, kiddo. It’s our business.”

Hanada was filming as he approached, and I stepped aside to give him a clear shot. The others, Konu included, were struggling along with assorted baggage and camera gear and the tall guy with the tin taxi boat was standing with hands on hips watching us.

A small crowd began to form and Turnball jumped on top of the boat’s cabin to glare at us.

“What do you people want? Don’t point that bloody camera at me, mate!”

“Turnball!” I shouted, “it’s me, Mike. PrimeLine!”

“I know who it is!”

He leapt down and disappeared into the cabin. Gretel looked at me and shrugged. I turned around to seek inspiration but could see only Sid. I turned back to Gretel, but she was gone, into the cabin, all gone, no-one left.

Miko pushed through the small crowd and gave me Sid’s stupid gnome. I caught a glimpse of Konu prompting Hanada to film the transaction, and couldn’t help grinning to myself. It seemed that everyone was growing attached to Piggy the gnome. Hanada swung the camera back and took footage of the crappy old Pelagius and I wondered whether he’d also filmed the white fizzboat, which had strangely returned and was now idling about two hundred metres away. Nosey sods. Miko tugged at my arm.

“We are now going on this boat, Mike?”

“Well,” I said.

Sarah pushed a family of gawkers aside and panted heavily. “Of course we are,” she said. “Go get ‘em, Mike.”

“I dunno.”

“Go and talk to them!”

“I will.”

Everyone was very bossy. I watched Sid trudge back with another load of baggage. He’d roped the big guy into helping him. Konu was talking furiously with Hanada who had stopped filming and was smoking one of his little cheroots. I jumped aboard.

“Hello?” They were hiding. “Hello? It’s me, Mike. Is Monica aboard?” I bent down and looked through a porthole in the cabin. Four conspirators were seated around a table arguing savagely. Why didn’t they look up and see me and invite me in? The crowd on the wharf were making snide comments and beginning to titter at my undignified position. Bugger this, I was going in.

I could hear Sid cheer as I sank from sight. Down a set of steps, knock knock, no answer. Open up, poke head through. “Hello,” I said. “Guess who?”

“Mike.” Monica stood up and walked over to me.

The cabin was quite large, though very untidy. Lots of shelves and nooks and even a few crannies. The other three sat back in their wooden chairs, like cowboys in a saloon, and just stared at me in an ornery way. Even Gretel’s jolly face was stern and forbidding.

Monica put her hands on my shoulders and gazed into my eyes. “Mike. We were beginning to wonder.”

“Eh? It’s good to see you, Monica. All of you. Great. Yep, we’re out there, the whole crew, cameras rolling...SPASO leads the way and we’re going to tell our viewers exactly that. Greenpeace? No way. Down the track. This is where it’s all happening. The point of the arrow; the van of the vanguard; the tip of the iceberg!”

“Get out of it.” Turnball snorted and pushed his chair back further. If it was the old west we’d be eyeing each other and poising our hands over our gun butts. I’d have to put little Piggy down first.

“This is our lucky mascot,” I said stupidly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, thought you’d like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Gretel.

Cabbage Head poured himself a cup of coffee from a large aluminium pot. He wasn’t going to get caught out this time, and he certainly wasn’t going to offer me a cup. What a petty bastard.

Monica and Gretel shared a significant look. I bet it was surprise; I bet they never thought to see us here, miles from anywhere. I bet they never in a million years thought that we’d track them down. I bet those little smiles they were now smiling were rueful ones; how could we ever hope to have eluded professionals like the Primeline team?

“We’ve called in for fuel, Mike, and some food,” said Monica.

“Where are you going to after that?”

“Just cruising.”

“Just cruising? Like maybe...to Swordfish Lodge?” Take that.

Turnball snorted again. Cabbage Head looked startled. “Very clever. I’m quite impressed.”

“We have our sources.”

“I’m sure you do. You were in that chopper, weren’t you?”

“Hey?”

“Don’t deny it, you flew right over us. I could see the little Jap faces sticking out. It must be nice to have an unlimited expense account while we have to function on the bones of our arse.” He turned to the others. “It’s a bit much when the parasites of the world get all the perks.” He swung back. “So what do you want from us?”

Choppers? Parasites? These were foreign concepts.

“We want to help you,” I said.

“Oh bullshit!”

I sat down on a lumpy bench. “Is it bullshit? Is it bullshit to want to give you maximum exposure in the media? We’ve had fifty Greenie groups to pick from but we chose you...why?”

“Why?” asked Monica.

“Ja, why?”

Were Gretel and Turnball an item? Had Cabbage Head fought his way back into Monica’s bed? Such a lot of questions.

“Why?” I echoed. “Personalities. I know Monica and Gretel; I’ve been in the office while they’ve done their stuff; I’ve been impressed by their expertise. And Turnball, come on mate, I’ve read your work...it’s great. You have a mind like a razor and you can’t be bought!” He was almost simpering, poor bastard. It’s easy to flatter writers. And Cabbage Head.

“Terry, isn’t it? I don’t know much about you, except that you’re a top sailor in a nation of sailors and that you’re a thinker. I still remember what you said the other night in the coffee bar.” Supercilious shit. “I spend so much time with phoney people that I can pick out a person of integrity like that!” I snapped my fingers.

A small tsunami rocked the boat and I looked up to see Sarah’s face pressed to the window. Her lips rippled against the pane like fat rubber worms. What was she trying to say? There was a clatter and a large bang as Sid slid into the cabin.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Sid,” I said. He lay on his back and waved a hand. Terry went over and roughly hauled him upright, then tenderly gathered together the broken remnants of a pottery ornament.

“Sorry about that,” said Sid. He grinned at the two women and recoiled as he caught a glimpse of Sarah’s pressed face.

I thought I’d better press home our advantage. “In the beginning,” I said encouragingly, “we were just going to jump into a fleet of choppers and descend upon the Lodge and do all the usual stuff. You know, face to face interviews with all the bigwigs; break a bagel with the American Ambassador; get an exclusive with your PM...but then we thought, well that’s a bit boring...the well-made doco is all right in its place, and we’ve won many an award in that area, but doesn’t this call for a fresh approach? This conference is too important to be left in the hands of second rate doco makers like say, UpFront. There aren’t many people of integrity left in this world.” I looked at Sid who was nodding with sober integrity.

Monica gave a twisted smile. “Goodness me, isn’t he flattering.”

“It’s not flattery...it’s a mixture of idealism and self-interest. We want to follow you, the caring few, the caring few who are prepared to stand up and confront the massed duplicity of the self-seeking, hypocritical, institutionalised bureaucracy!” I was on a roll. “So let us join you on the good ship Pelagius!”

There was a moment’s reverent silence, then Monica smiled at me.

“You talk a lot of bullshit, Mike.”

“Sincere bullshit, though.”

She nodded and looked at the others.

“Of course we’d be prepared to pay our way,” I said.

“Fuel and food and er, charter rates. Navigatory expertise.”

“And interview fees,” said Sid.

“And we’ll do the dishes.” Sarah wouldn’t mind.

The fizzboat roared by and rocked us with its bow wave. We hung on to various things and Turnball waved a boney fist at the universe. If Monica said no, maybe we could hijack the boat and force Cabbage Head to sail us there anyway. Maybe she read my mind and realized their danger.

“Okay Mike,” she said. “Get them aboard.”

We used the motor to go east out of Russell, which was quite fortunate because the wind was blowing directly into our faces. Hanada stayed on deck hoping for gambolling dolphins or other exciting fish to leap into camera shot. Sid had decided to help Captain Terry steer the boat, and had commandeered a yachting cap from somewhere. Sarah was in the cabin with Miko, Konu and the two SPASO women. Turnball and I stood in the bow and watched every other boat in the harbour race by us.

“This is a very slow boat,” I said to him.

“So?”

“Well, we might be late.” Once we got out of the harbour the waves would build up and I might get washed overboard. We seemed to be going about half a knot a week. The land crawled by and I swear a guy in a rowboat was overhauling us.

“Don’t be in such a hurry. That’s the problem.”

“What?”

“Hurry. Burn-out. Change.”

To our right I could see the Cape Brett lighthouse. It slowly fell behind as we turned left. Sid yelled out that in fact we were now heading due north and Turnball and I had better watch it down the front because the polarity meter was running very high. Gretel came out on deck and she and Terry hauled up the mainsail. A beautiful ocean going yacht swooped down towards us with her sails taut and white and a seagull floated overhead. I looked up to see our dirty canvas sail cracking in the gusty wind. Horrible creaks and groans came from the hull and I thought I could hear water rushing into the hold.

Sid was hollering with triumph as he single-handedly steered the boat while the other two pulled up another sail. Suddenly the motor was switched off, and all I could hear was the slap of water against the bow and the wet flap of sails. Turnball was grinning at my expression.

“What say, hey?”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

“No motor. Just the elements. The wind and the sea.” He snorted in a fathom or two of air and poked out his chest. I took a little suck and coughed.

“You’ll get used to it. You ought to sail the Southern waters! He suddenly crossed his eyes in concentration and quoted some intrepid Kiwi hero he’d sailed with. It might have been Harry the hobbit.

“‘It’s so cold your eyeballs ache...God forbid you have a cold because snot freezes. Mountainous seas, plunging valleys of green slush, and the wind, always the bloody wind ripping and tearing...’”

I didn’t listen to the rest of it because Miko popped on deck and called us down for lunch. I took one more suck of air because I wasn’t feeling quite as good as I should have been, perhaps because I hadn’t had a smoke for an hour or two. Poor old Hanada had abandoned his camera and was hanging his head over the rails like someone who desperately wanted to die.

It was a leisurely lunch. Sid and Terry took it in turns to steer us along the coast. Sid loved it. “Hey it’s simple! You just point where you want to go and that’s it!” He snorted. “Me bloody old Grandpa used to waffle on about rounding the Horn. What a bullshit artist!”

Monica told him that it wasn’t always as easy as this. One doesn’t always have the luxury of sailing in a set direction with a steady wind on a beautiful sunny day. Think yourself lucky. He nodded, but winked at me as he went back up on deck.

Miko and Konu had prepared a meal from cans and vegetables and fresh fish. It was all beautifully presented and the SPASO people loved it. I would have preferred a decent steak and chips, but didn’t want to moan. Turnball ate about half of everything on the table and kept telling Miko that she was bloody marvellous and if she ever wanted a job as cook, well say no bloody more.

Sarah had been spending the last hour making notes and drawing up a shot list. She spread it on the table and I pulled up a stool. Had we really done that much? The story’s in the editing, of course, but it seemed to me that we’d covered all the angles. There was a separate list of stock footage as purchased from various agencies in Australia and New Zealand. We had the interviews to record, and Konu would want to work in a bit of studio footage to tie it all together, but essentially we had all the ingredients of the well-made doco. All that was missing was the ceremonial signing of the Treaty, which would be a straight forward shot and we could actually buy it if necessary.

Sarah looked at me. “We should do the interviews here.”

“Yeah, good idea.” It would be great atmosphere. The boat was a bit bumpy, but that’s all in the nature of verisimilitude. Most of the interview would be voice-over anyway. Naturally we’d let them waffle on for as long as they wanted, but prune it down to the bare minimum. It wouldn’t be totally necessary to tell them about technical things like that.

“It’s too dark here,” said Sarah, “okay if we do it on deck?”

“Of course,” said Monica. “What about the little man?”

I’d forgotten about Hanada.

“He will be all right,” said Miko. “He must do his job.”

“And you’d better, too,” said Sarah to me.

“What?” I don’t do interviews.

“The dishes.”

“Ha ha.”

“Not ha ha. You’re the only supernumerary.”

“Me? What about...?” Who? “What about Sid?”

“He’s steering the ship.”

“I could do that!”

She smiled sweetly. “Mike, we all have to earn our keep.”

A ring of cruel faces stared down at me.

“But I’ve got very delicate hands!”

Gretel handed me a dish towel.

“I’m very clumsy and I might break something!”

“Hey, don’t worry,” said Turnball, “they’re unbreakable dishes.”

“But!” I cried.

Their cruel faces distorted into grins and one by one they left. I had a sudden sense of deja vu.

Crocodiles in the Billabong.

16

Sid came down to tell me that if I stretched my neck over the sink and looked through the window I’d be able to see the Cavalli Islands. I thanked him very much for that information and he said that’s all right, you seem to have got the hang of it very nicely now.

I was on my second lot of dishes, because the interviews had gone so well and the great on-deck political discussion had been so stimulating, that everyone had trooped down for a late lunch, and bugger it, why not have early afternoon tea?

Sarah came down, opened several cans of baked beans and whacked stale bread under the gas grill.

“All you guys do is eat,” I said, “I’m the only one working.” My fingers had turned pink and corrugated from excessive dish-washing. She ignored me. “Have you heard Turnball’s theory of polarity? The man’s got a twisted logic.”

“I know. Have you seen my hands?”

“Konu wasn’t interested, but Brian might be.”

“Piggott? He might, I suppose.”

“Do you think this is enough food?”

“Not for that greedy lot, I’m only just finishing the afternoon tea dishes. I don’t think I should have to do any more.”

“What? Don’t whinge, Mike. It’s the sea air.”

“Are we at sea? I wouldn’t know. I feel like I’m in the back room of MacDonald’s.”

She burnt the toast and cursed. “Sid can have these ones. Yeah, Brian could do a sidebar on Turnball. He’s just been reading us some of his book....”

“His unpublished book.”

“Don’t be catty. We have to eat dinner now because we’re almost there.”

“Are we?” I threw the last plate onto the rack and climbed up on deck.

“Te Ngaire,” said Sid, who was reading from a chart. Captain Terry gave him the thumbs up. He turned to me. “We saw some dolphins and stuff an hour back. You should have come up, mate.”

I showed him my waterlogged hands and he tried to hide a snigger. “When we get around that pointy bit we should be able to see Whangaroa Harbour...that right, Captain?”

“That’s right, Sid. Hard to see, mind. What direction?”

Sid sniffed the air and took a sneaky look at the compass. “Westish?”

“Not bad for a landlubber.”

Landlubber. What a posey bastard. What a rotten, slow boat. I looked over the starboard fence and saw a few boats way out to sea, mostly yachts. Low in the water, but closer to us, was a flash looking motorboat which may have been that white fizzboat we’d seen back in Russell. I asked Sid if it was.

“Yep. We reckon it’s a smuggler.” He looked cautiously around in case a seagull was listening.

“Drugs.”

“Rubbish.”

“No it’s not. Terry’s seen a lot of smuggling around here, isn’t that right Captain?” He moved his lips close to my ear. “He likes to be called that.”

Cabbage Head twirled the wheel in a cleverdick way and snorted. “You’d better believe it. Ever heard of the Mister Asia business?”

I said I had, oh hum, wasn’t that very ancient history?

“He built this big house at Opua, across the way from Russell. Underground tunnels and all that sort of thing.” The main sail flapped violently and he twiddled the wheel again. “And I’ve seen a few suspicious boats in the wee small hours.”

Why do they call them “wee small hours”? They’re long and cruel. Of course, time is relative, three or four hours spent washing the dishes can be like forever. A pile of rubbish groaned and I looked down to see Hanada, all curled up and miserable. “Are you still seasick, mate?” I asked.

Sid came over. “The poor little guy’s sick as a dog, right Honda? We thought he’d be better up here than in the bedroom.”

“Bedroom?”

“Well, whatever they call it. The others are catching a snooze there.”

I looked around. Sarah was downstairs, we three were up here...did that mean there was another cabin somewhere? I walked to the bow and almost fell into a hole. I bent down and shoved my head through. More steps, a little alleyway, and voices.

Captain Terry yelled something unintelligible and suddenly the swollen sails collapsed. Gretel burst up out of the hole and nearly knocked me overboard. Monica and Turnball followed and they all grabbed onto ropes and started pulling them viciously. I rolled over and leapt to my feet to face a giant wave or tornado, or were we on the dreaded lee shore?

“That was very good, Sidney,” said Gretel. I looked at him. What had he done? Nothing. Just hung on to that stupid wheel while the rest of us were fighting for our lives. I walked along the deck and sat on the side bit next to Monica.

“What was all that about?”

“We were just gybing.”

“Oh.”

“We’re coming into the Heads. Just changing direction. Can you see the entrance?”

I squinted mightily. “No.”

She laughed. “Neither can I, but we should be there in an hour.”

“About time, too.” I remembered a thought that had struck me during my long hours of toil. “So anyway, why are you people going to the Lodge? We’re going to film them, but what are you lot after?” It was more or less rhetorical, because I was pretty sure I knew.

“I thought you’d never ask. We just want to register our presence. We want to let them know that we’re watching them and they’d better not fuck things up.”

“Huh. Think that’ll work do you?”

“Moral watchdogs, Mike. Don’t knock it.”

Feeble, feeble. All they wanted to do was to show the world that SPASO, and not Greenpeace, were number one. The needed our publicity. That’s what it’s all about; send your liberal donations to the winning team! SPASO leads the way!

“We need to keep a low profile,” I warned her. “They could scream out fascist stuff about security considerations and then just boot us out.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m not, but we need a cunning plan.”

“Have you forgotten already?”

“I didn’t hear in the first place! I was doing the dishes!”

Sarah popped her head up. “Food’s up! Come and get it!”

“But what about the plan?” I cried. To Hanada, because he was the only one left. And stupid Sid, of course, who was singing a horrible sea shanty while he steered.

“Hanada, old fellow,” I said, “how’s it going?” He retched drily and it sounded very similar to Sid’s singing.

“I am not well, Mike san.”

“No. You look a bit green.”

“We are near?”

I could barely face the plea in his eyes, so I lied.

“Yep. Hai. A few minutes. As soon as we get you ashore you’ll feel great.”

“I wish to be on land.”

“Well of course you do, who doesn’t?” I suppose I should have mopped his brow with a wet cloth. Why hadn’t one of the others done it for him? Selfish sods. Was I the only humanitarian on board?

“You didn’t happen to hear the plan did you?”

“I am sorry?”

“The plan. The whatsit. The cunning scheme we have to get close and film the bigwigs.”

“Bigwigs? Wakarimasen.”

“What?”

“So sorry.”

Maybe they didn’t have a plan. Maybe they were waiting for me to formulate the strategic manoeuver. It wouldn’t surprise me. I looked up at the sky. It would be dark in a couple of hours, because we’d been sailing for about eleven weeks at the speed of a jellyfish. I caught a flash of sun reflecting off something shiny on the fizzboat, probably a champagne bucket. What the hell were they doing anyway? If Sid was right about the drug smuggling bizzo, they’d be waiting for dark before sneaking ashore with their contraband cargo. So why had they been shadowing us for most of the day? Maybe Cabbage Head was their contact!

I thought about it. He was definitely a deviate of sorts, and his eyes had that rabid look which I always associate with junkies and vegetarians. What an ideal cover for a major drug smuggling ring! Pretend you’re a greenie idealist, load up with a highly respectable film crew, and who would suspect an ulterior motive? Wasn’t it a coincidence that they’d arrived at Russell the same time as us? Wasn’t it suspicious that they’d persuaded us to come aboard despite my personal misgivings? Wasn’t that sudden flash of light a reflection off a pair of high-powered binoculars?

Terry came back up on deck and relieved Sid at the wheel. I waved his did-I-want-to-eat query away. This was no time to be stuffing yourself. I had to think.

“Hanada,” I said, “have you been watching that boat over there?”

“Sumimasen?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He hung his head. “I think of my wife.”

“Hey? Are you married?” I’d forgotten people still did that.

“Yes. I have two children.” He gave me a brave smile.

“Well, that’s very nice.”

“I think they would laugh at me.”

“No they wouldn’t.” Of course they would. He was looking more like Kermit the frog every minute.

“New Zealand is so beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“Japan, too, is very beautiful. But very crowded.”

“Yeah, I saw a doco on the Tokyo Fish market once.” Don’t get maudlin, mate. A thought struck me, maybe he thought he was dying.

“We’re nearly there, mate. Just a few more minutes. You’ll make it.” Maybe he was one of those spiritual people who foresee their own deaths. I wouldn’t want to be like that, it’s bad enough forseeing your own life.

I looked up as Terry shouted, and saw that we were close to the shore. The others spilled up out of the cabin and the mainsail was pulled halfway down. Our slow progress slowed even more. Sid came up last with a plate of cold baked beans in his hand. “For you, Mike. Sorry about the burnt toast.”

Hanada struggled gamely to his knees. Sid beamed at him. “Good on you, mate. Hey, you must be hungry by now, have some beans.” He thrust the plate forward and Hanada gagged. With a convulsive effort he spun and dragged himself up to the rail. We stood back. “Well,” said Sid, as we watched the little guy heave and heave again, “as I always say, better out than in.”

Sarah tapped me on the shoulder. “Better get him below deck.”

“Why? The poor guy needs fresh air.”

“But he’s Japanese isn’t he? Wake up, Mike.”

“There’s no need to remind him, he’s miserable enough as it is.”

She punched me on the arm. It hurt like hell but I pretended not to feel it. “He’s noticeable. We don’t want to make it any harder than it is. It’s going to be too dark to film tonight, so we’re going to anchor as close as we can and wait for morning.”

“What a pathetic plan!”

“You didn’t have much to say on the subject.”

“Of course I didn’t. I didn’t get a chance.”

“We don’t want them to be on their guard. So we’re playing tourists and we’re very interested in the ‘Boyd’ incident.”

She wrapped one meaty arm around Hanada and proferred me a book with her free hand. His little face was haloed in the setting sun, pale and sweaty, but he looked a bit happier in Sarah’s surprisingly tender embrace. She helped him down into the main cabin and I looked at the book.

I checked out the pictures first. Sunsets and scenic views. The author and his buddy diving for wreckage. Wreckage of what? I flipped through to the back to see if there was a summary. Nope. But the front cover shoved a picture of a burning boat, and there was a strong clue in the title. ‘The Burning of the Boyd’.

Culture clash and duplicity; stupidity and a jolly sense of fun. That’s basically the story of all human history. The ‘Boyd’ had anchored inside the harbour, pretty well where we were going to anchor I suspected, and one night in 1809 the local Maoris had snuck aboard and set it alight. They’d also killed and consumed most of the passengers and crew. Consumed? Cannibals? No one had warned me of this.

Terry banished Sid from the wheel as we approached the Harbour Heads. From my map I saw that these two promontories had been named ‘South Head’ and ‘North Head’. More good Kiwi nomenclature. The Harbour was quite long and narrow, except for the bits where it wasn’t, and of course it came to a dead end. Inside the Heads, on the right, was Pekapeka bay, which itself bifurcated into two other bays. But we’d sail on a bit, past Pekapeka Bay mouth, right up to Peach Island. Just before we reached that, we’d take a sneaky peek sharp left, or sharp port, as we seaman say, and there would be Swordfish Lodge.

Peach Island was very close to the Lodge, but we’d sail past that and park by the bigger Milford Island. If we wanted, we could sail down the harbour and reach the village of Whangaroa where, I was pleased to see, there was a pub. And more or less opposite that, was the ancient wreck of the Boyd.

I put the book down and rested my weary eyes. The sun was dropping behind some hills, and we were halfway through the Heads. The point to our left was quite flat and grassy and an old concrete pillbox threatened us as we passed. A man was standing behind it watching us. He was holding something to his mouth, a phone or a radio, or possibly a piece of fruit.

Our three Japanese friends were all below while the rest of us craned our necks to see the Lodge. God, the boat was slow. Darkness was rolling over us like the cloak of Doctor Death. A few lights speckled the sides of the Harbour and it was suddenly quite cold.

I looked behind us and saw the fizzboat follow us through. They now had a canopy over the flying bridge and there seemed to be three people on deck. Another twenty minutes and they would have been lost at sea. I shuddered. What if we’d been twenty minutes slower and couldn’t find the harbour entrance? We would have been sailing blindly in treacherous waters surrounded by reefs and lee shores. Why do sailors take so many risks?

I turned back and caught my first sight of Swordfish Lodge, a cluster of buildings seemingly trapped between a small wharf and the steep hills behind. A string of lights illuminated the wooden jetties, and a few small boats were tied up for the night. There was no-one there, or maybe they were all in the long building that fronted the sea entrance. An amplified voice suddenly boomed out and I flinched. Immediately a small speedboat curved around the back of Peach Island, which of course looked just like a peach, and it shone a spotlight right at me.

Monica and Turnball dropped the remaining sail and the engine kicked, then started. Both boats were idling in the still water and I was a little bit worried that the tide might wash us into the jagged rocks which looked extremely close on just about every side. A man stood up in the cockpit and bellowed through his loudspeaker. “Identify yourself please!”

Sid and I both yelled out our names, but Terry, with an enormous bellow, said that we were the Pelagius out of Auckland and was that you, Harry?

No, it wasn’t Harry, and what was the purpose of our visit? Sid sidled up to where I was hiding from the spotlight beam and nudged me in the ribs. “What’s the proper word for it?”

“For what?”

“Orni something. Theology?”

“Orni...thology? Bird watching?”

“Yeah. That’s what we’re doing.”

“No we’re not you stupid twit! It’s ‘Boyd’ watching. We’re supposed to be looking at a ship that got sunk.”

The guy in the speedboat yelled out something about anchoring somewhere but not here if we wouldn’t mind, then revved up and started saying much the same sort of thing to the fizzboat behind us. I walked down to the bow to check out the lee shore and do a sneaky piddle over the side, but I ran into Sarah and Hanada crouching down behind a thwart.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Shush. Pretend you can’t see us.”

“Why? They’ve gone.”

“We’re being watched from shore, I can sense it.” She was probably right, I trusted her instincts.

“Did you get anything?” It was a bit dark and you have to be careful shooting into light.

“Yep, good atmos. We’re still recording.”

“Oh, sorry.”

I moved to the other side and tried to urinate as quietly as possible. Little phosphorescent gleams rippled in the water. I thought I could see an old skeleton beckoning up at me. The massacre must have been just about here.

The walls of the harbour were closing in on us. Peach Island loomed heavily to our left and I calculated that an athletic Maori with a killer lust could easily leap on board from there and attack us. We passed Milford Island, turned left and the boat suddenly shuddered. I yelped. This was the very worst shore to be shipwrecked on, because even with these still waters, I could see foam break upon jagged teeth. It was worse than a close-up of Sid’s smile.

The shuddering stopped and I realised that it had been the engine thrown suddenly into reverse. There was a brief pause, then the anchor chain rattled out. Someone had put a light on in the cabin and long shadows poked their way across the deck. Sarah ushered Hanada past me and I followed them down the steps. A strange animal howled from the undergrowth. The fizzboat slowly burbled by and anchored fifty metres away. I looked up at the sky. No Southern Cross tonight; no stars at all.

It was the kind of night when ghosts would walk.

17

“It’s a bit early to go to bed,” said Sid. We guests were all jammed up in the so-called sleeping cabin.

“No it’s not,” said Sarah, “we want to be in good position at first light. Isn’t that right, Miko?”

“Yes. We must go ashore by then.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they will stop the boat from getting close, and they will hide from us.”

Sid nodded. “Yeah, the bastards.”

“I still don’t know our plan,” I whined.

“Sometimes you can be very irritating, Mike,” said Sarah.

“But no one’s told me anything!”

Sid patted Konu’s shoulder and grinned horribly at him. “We’re going to get Mister Konu among them, aren’t we mate?”

Konu nodded carefully. “I wish to be woken thirty minutes before dawn. What time is that, Mike san?”

“Eh? About six. Or seven. Five?” They looked at me with prim faces, even Sid. “I’ll find out from Captain Cabbage,” I said.

Miko pulled out her little pad. Sarah squeezed into my end of the semi-partitioned cabin. “We’d better double up,” she said. “There’s only four berths.”

Sid poked his head over the partition. “If we knocked this down we could sling some hammocks.”

“No, we don’t want to do that,” I said. “Bad for the spine.” Because Konu could have one bed, and Sid could share with Hanada. The biggest bed for Sarah...and me with Miko!

Sid snickered. “Yeah, right.” His eyes sought out Miko and flickered with lust. I scowled at him. He scowled back. Sarah measured Hanada with her own burning eyes and smiled serenely.

“Please,”said Miko. “We must work out our preparations.”

“Well there’s six of us and four beds....”

“Not that, Mike. You must show us where to go.”

Sid got out the chart. “We’ve got to consider high tide,” he said.

“Rubbish.”

“He glared at me. “What do you mean? The tide goes up and then down, but I suppose you never knew that?”

“Rubbish, everyone in the whole world knows that. But the boat still floats on top exactly the same.”

“So?”

“So.”

“So shut up both of you.” Sarah grabbed the chart and turned it around. “Right. You land here.” She drew a cross on a little jutty bit of land close to our island.

“Mike will have to row Mister Konu ashore, and you, too, Sid.”

“Me?”

“You can escort Mister Konu to there.” She drew another cross close to the lodge. “Then you wait until the delegates come out and Mister Konu joins them.”

“Hang on,” I said, “there’s about a million things wrong with that! How do you know the delegates will come out? And what about the rest of us?”

I stretched over to look as she drew another cross.

“We’ll be climbing up Peach Island.”

We all banged our heads trying to see. Konu said something to Hanada and he scrambled his way to the table. They had a very long discussion and Konu puffed up with ancient Japanese samurai spirit, for was this not akin to a Kamikaze mission? One brave warrior putting himself on the line for the greater glory of the team.

But what would the SPASO mob be doing during all this? Had anyone else thought to ask them why they were here? Hadn’t Sarah been suspicious at the way they’d avoided answering my probing questions? What about the drug angle? What time was dawn? Why were we going to climb Peach Island? Why didn’t one of them turn around and listen to me!

I sat back to light a cigarette then didn’t. Sid had just finished rolling one of his ratty constructions and winked at me. We sidled our way out and clambered up the ladder to go on deck.

“What d’you reckon?” he said.

“It’s a bit dodgy but it might work.”

“No worries. We just wait until a few delegates come out to look at the sunrise, they always do that, then I push Konu out to join them and you guys film from Peach Island.”

We moved over by the main cabin and crouched down out of the light wind. Sid took my lighter and flicked it about ninety times. A distant forest monster barked and groaned. I shivered.

“Bit spooky ain’t it?” said Sid.

“Yeah. We’re parked on the graves of slaughtered sailors.”

“Yeah?”

“Give it to me you useless twit.” He was using up all the gas. I could hear voices inside the cabin.

An obvious thought struck me. “What if the wrong delegates come out. We’ll want the big-noters.”

“Sarah and I reckon only the big-noters are here. This is where it’s all happening, we reckon.”

“Do you?” I was a bit snarky. “For all we know this might be a dentists convention.”

“Bullshit.”

I looked over at Peach Island. “Pity we couldn’t get the camera on shore.”

“They’d confiscate it.”

“Yeah.” We’d get it back, of course, but the tape would be mysteriously missing.

Sid suddenly snickered. “I got an idea! I could take our sound gear, what d’you reckon?”

“What for?”

“I could sneak up to one of the bedrooms and get something.”

We looked at each other.

“You wouldn’t get much in the morning,” I said, “it’d be better to go tonight.”

We swivelled our necks to take in the cold, dark night and the fearsome glow of predatorial eyes on the rugged shore. I had a sudden image of soft, warm Miko lying in bed, pert nipples throbbing with desire, drifting slowly into that erotic prelude to deep sleep. She’d given me that big smile earlier on.

“Yep, tonight would be better,” said Sid.

“You’re quite happy to go by yourself?” I asked.

“No fucking way.”

He was so predictable.

We finally got the lighter working and sucked in soothing smoke. The world was suddenly a better place. He sniggered. “I think Miko’s got the hots for me. See that big smile she gave me tonight?”

An amplified voice boomed out in the distance and a powerful motor burst into life. We listened. There was movement in the main cabin and a dark figure scrambled up on deck. It looked like Captain Terry. He stood and listened for a long moment then turned and looked right at where we would have been if we hadn’t crouched back down again. The bulk of Milford Island obscured the distant activity.

For activity it was. A deep diesel sounded, and a big motor boat chugged into view. It was high in the water and nowhere neer as sleek as the fizzboat which, now I looked, was riding quietly in the water behind us with a dim light showing through its curtained cabin windows.

Another figure clambered up from our main cabin, one of the women, and we all watched the boat glide slowly by. Terry turned to her. “The Ragamuffin, charter out of Opua. Bloody Gin Palace.”

It chugged slowly on by and went out of sight. Sid and I stayed quiet.

Monica lit a cigarette at her first attempt. “Who do you think it is?”

He put his arm around her and she snuggled close.

“Could be anyone. Very late for a charter, though. They’re not supposed to travel at night.”

They turned around and looked towards us, but we were still cunningly concealed. Terry lowered his voice.

“Mumble mumble mumble.”

“It’s simple enough even for them.”

“Grunt.”

“We’ve had to hold their hands this far.”

“Mumble mumble.”

“No they won’t.”

They went back into the cabin and Sid and I looked at each other. “What are their cunning plans for tomorrow then?”

“Dunno,” I said. “Maybe they’ll write some graffiti or block the sewer pipe. They just want a bit of publicity to blow Greenpeace away.” I felt a surge of warmth for the simple creatures. “We’ll give them plenty of coverage; it won’t hurt us.”

He nodded. “Konu seems happy enough.”

“So he should, we got a nice shot of the Lodge as we came in. You do your stuff tomorrow...happy as Larry.”

“Piggott will love this. Mathews is going to fucking squirm!”

We chortled to each other and thought about awards which were now merely a formality. “We’d better get back,” I whispered, “Sarah’s holding the fort.”

“Yeah. Bags not sharing with her.”

Konu had commandeered the best berth, the one with the pillow. He was lying on his back staring blankly at the bunk above. Somehow Piggy the gnome had found its way into the cabin and was guarding Konu’s feet. Sid tippy toed over and stole it back. Konu didn’t stir.

In fact he’d been remarkably quiet considering how excited he’d been last night. Maybe he was worrying that we were in the wrong place. I whispered the thought to a gloating Sid.

“Nah, as soon as that patrol boat came out he knew we were on target.” He sniggered knowingly. “I reckon he’s shit-scared.”

Miko sat up on the top bunk in Konu’s cabin and looked over the partition. Whoever had the top bunk in this room would be only centimetres away from her. I wondered if she’d planned it like that? Who was she smiling at, Sid or me?

Hanada was checking through the camera gear and Sarah was rubbing out something on the map.

“Where have you two been?”

“Having a smoke.”

“Well come and look at this, you too, Sid.”

Miko had climbed over onto what would be my top bunk and was dangling her naked toes in front of a mesmerised Sid.

“This is where we land.” Sarah pointed to Peach Island, the bit closest to the mainland. “We paddle over in the rubber boat and Mike climbs up with a rope.”

“Goodie,” I said.

“It’ll be easy. Then you pull Hanada up with the camera and Miko and I come back here.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair!”

“Of course it is! We can’t leave the dinghy there can we? That patrol boat will see it. They’re not going to be very happy about us filming them, you know.”

“I know. Maybe we should wear camouflage.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ll be highly visible on top of that bare pimple.”

“You hide in a bush, Mike, or lie on your belly.”

“For how long? It could be all day!”

“Well you’ve got nothing else to do, have you? When the delegates come out Sid will get Konu to nip in amongst them, if you”ll excuse the expression. Hanada will be filming all the time.”

“But.”

“Don’t keep butting all the time.”

“There’s a hundred things that could go wrong and it doesn’t seem worth the effort!”

“Go to bed.”

Sid was restless. We were top and tail on a piece of warped board which was doubly discomfiting because above us was an even flimsier construction that sagged dangerously. Sarah was up there. “Quiet you two, get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” I told her. “Piggy’s pointy head is hurting, and Sid keeps kicking me.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“I’m trying to get comfortable.”

Sarah’s head leaned precariously over the top and I gave a little bleat of fright. “And stop making stupid noises, Mike.”

Sid kicked me in the armpit and I booted him back. We struggled quietly for a few minutes. His feet stank, even with his shoes on. He wouldn’t take them off because he didn’t trust me with his bare toes.

“I know why not,” I whispered.

“Eh?”

“You fiddled with Miko’s toes didn’t you?”

“Rubbish. Anyway, it was an accident.”

“It’s sexual harassment, you know.”

“No it’s not...”

The top bunk creaked dangerously. “Shut up!”

Water lapped against the hull and I strained my ears to see if there was a pattern. I sometimes think there is a pattern to all things; a sort of thaumaturgical integrity, whereby all things are interconnected and compatible and everything can be explained in a mathematical way, like a formula. The tides keep turning; the seasons rotate; the stars are up there for a reason, and life really does has meaning. But most times I think the opposite.

A distant motor faded and Sarah gave a little pre-snore grunt. Sid was still awake, because he tittered. A bird squawked in the surrounding bush and a fish bumped against the hull.

I directed my ears into the adjoining room and could hear soft movements and a Japanese mutter. So they weren’t all asleep either. Their cabinette was slightly bigger than ours, but I’d still like to see their sleeping arrangements.

“Are you awake?” whispered Sid.

“No.”

Sarah shifted restlessly above and her hand dropped over and dangled down. Another fish bumped the boat. Amazingly stupid, fish. Do they also bump into islands and reefs? No wonder they get caught in nets so easily. Mind you, any creature that spends most of its time in the water grows stupid. Bondi surfers, for instance.

There was sudden movement next door and we held our breath, except for Sarah, who was now snoring in three/four time. Sid’s white eyes looked up at me and I put my finger to my lips. Floorboards creaked.

Someone was moving next door. I eased off the bunk and squatted down next to Sid. He pushed his head into the passage and waved his hand at me to stay put. I thought I could hear someone climbing the ladder. I thought I could feel the boat lean slightly as if someone was climbing aboard. Maori warriors? No, they don’t eat people anymore. Who, then? Definitely someone. Or something. A rattle.

Chains? Or. Imagine a decomposing tongue slobbering at your face. Or a skeleton stroking its way up from a watery grave on the night when ghosts would walk. The hair stood up on my body and I shivered. Another creaking floorboard. I remembered hundreds of horrible movies which Sid had made me go to, and they were all about creatures which crawled and slithered toward the hero, who didn’t always escape.

Sid got to his feet and tippy toed into the passage. I trod as quietly as I could, almost in his footsteps, then followed him cautiously up the ladder. He paused at the top, then gestured me up, and we crawled quickly across the deck to hide behind the main cabin structure. Not so long ago we’d shared a cigarette here.

He put his lips to my ear and pointed. “See? Over by the other boat.”

I strained my eyes and saw a dark shape crossing the water. An oar flashed phosphorescence, and I could see two figures hunched over.

“Bet you that’s Konu.”

“Bet you you’re right.”

We watched as the rowboat tied up to the stern of the white fizzboat. I looked up. The stars were bright and shiny, but there was only a small moon. The surface of the water was soft, strangely so. Mist. Fog. A bank of soft fog was rolling up the harbour towards us. It was like a thick and soaking blanket, reaching almost to the deck we stood on. I wanted to reach down and squeeze it.

“That was a rowboat,” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

We didn’t have a rowboat on board, just the rubber dinghy. Konu, if it was him, had been picked up and taken to the white fizzboat.

“Told you,” said Sid. “Drugs.”

“Rubbish, they’re part of all this.” I waved vaguely around. Those two Japanese men who had followed and photographed me in Auckland. The suspicious activity on board the Nihon International. Konu’s mystery phonecalls. The insistence that we find this location.

Sid was thinking similar thoughts and stroking his chin.

“Well?” I said.

“I should have had a shave.”

“What shall we do?”

“Ignore it. Probably gone aboard to play poker.”

“No way,” I said. “They’re hatching up a plot.”

“Yeah, so what? We knew Konu was up to something.”

“He’s probably getting last minute instructions.”

“What for?” said Sid. “He’s just got to mingle for a minute with the delegates, then he gets booted out and it’s all over. Job finished.”

“So who’s on the boat?”

“Well it would be his boss, wouldn’t it. That explains all those fucking phonecalls.”

“It all seems unnecessarily devious,” I said.

“Shit, it’s the oriental mind. Konu will probably commit hari kari if he fucks this up.”

The fog was playing strange tricks. We both thought we heard a motor burble, but couldn’t agree where it was.

“Could be the patrol,” I whispered.

“Nah, it’s over there.” He pointed to the opposite shore.

We listened. There it was again, a definite burble and then nothing.

“It’s stopped.”

“Or gone behind an island,” I suggested.

“Someone’s rowing.”

I could hear it too. A creaking of oars and a clink of metal. Konu returning? We crawled to the rail and stuck our heads over. The fog was about a metre deep and it felt as though we were hanging in a cloud like that time we’d gone up in a hot air balloon and nearly crashed.

Maybe that was a dark head gliding by. We lay flat. Sid patted my arm and I jumped. “That’s a different one.”

“How do you know?” The fog was making my throat sore.

“It’s a bit bigger, I reckon, and it’s coming from over there.”

Over there, was across the harbour in Pekapeka bay. The big charter boat that had arrived late, the Gin Palace. The same thought struck us both. What if it was another media crew? What if we weren’t first? We stared at each other in horror.

“Bugger this,” I whispered, “let’s get going.”

We crawled on hands and knees down to the stern and searched for the rubber dinghy. I couldn’t find it.

“I can’t find it,” hissed Sid.

“Neither can I.”

Konu’s boat hadn’t been rubber. Had someone moved it after we’d gone to bed? And if so, why?

“Bugger!” Sid stood up suddenly and kicked a pile of rope.

“Shush!”

“Why? You know what’s happened? The SPASO bastards have taken it. Every bugger in the whole world is over there except for us!”

“Let’s check!”

I ran down into the main cabin and switched on the light. Nothing. No-one. They were all ashore. “You bastards!” I screamed. Wasn’t the captain supposed to stay with his ship?

Sid clambered down and looked around wildly. “It’s just Konu gone, the others are there...I woke up Sarah.”

She burst in on us. “What’s going on? Where are they?”

“Ashore,” I said. “They’ve taken the rubber dinghy.”

“Why? The bastards!”

“And Konu’s gone, too.”

“Right. I’ll have him.”

Sid snickered at the image. “No you won’t, he’s over on the fizzboat.”

She grabbed him by the shirtfront and shook vigorously.

“How do you know? Why are you up and dressed?”

“Ow! Let go!”

She let him crumple onto the floor, then swung around angrily and jabbed me with a savage finger.

“Right,” she snarled. “Let’s go get the bastards!”

18

Sid didn’t want to risk his cheap watch in the water so I stuffed it into Piggy the gnome. It was only eight p.m. Amazing really, although not all that amazing; his watch had stopped.

I unscrewed Piggy’s pointy hat and switched on the light. It didn’t seem very bright considering the size of the battery and the number of wires that coiled everywhere. Piggy would float head down with all that weight, except we were stuffing his little fat tum with Sid’s clothes and the sound gear. I tamped on the belly section and sealed it with gaffer tape, the magic stuff which has kept my old Falcon on the road for the past year.

Sid’s near-naked body was white and boney under the light of the silvery stars. I gripped his hand and Sarah tousled his ratty hair. None of us said anything. He took one last look around the foggy harbour and climbed over the rail. I handed the gnome across and he clasped it in both arms and slipped down into the dark depths.

He was a long time coming up. I bent over and tried to shoo the mist away. Nothing. There was a distant splash and a weak yellow gleam shone momentarily up. Sarah nudged me.

“Yeah, I see it,” I said. He must have been lying on his back kicking into shore.

“I hope he’s okay. It looks cold.”

“I put a towel in there,” I said. Actually a piece of torn curtain from the cabin windows.

I felt a bit guilty. So did Sarah, but we had to have someone on the spot to see what was happening. The poor guy risked pneumonia, reef wrack and the clawing skeletons of long dead sailors. And even if he made it to shore, he still had to find his way along the dark and rugged bank and sneak up to the lodge without being detected.

Guilt’s a funny thing. I shouldn’t have felt any because it had been my plan and Sarah shouldn’t have felt any because she’d been the one to remember the bouyant qualities of fiberglass gnomes. That was a fair distribution of labour. If the SPASO mob didn’t return with the rubber dinghy, and if Konu didn’t get back before dawn, we’d be up this harbour without anything to paddle. Sid was taking the only available option.

We brewed ourselves a cup of coffee in the main cabin and I even had a swig of Sarah’s flask.

“He should be ashore by now,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Unless he got lost in the fog.”

“It’s only fifty metres away.”

“That’s a long way in the dark. In the cold. In the fog.”

I expected her to make a smart remark but she just nodded. “It’s not as much fun as it used to be, is it?”

“It never was,” I said. “It’s only ever fun when you look back.”

“You really believe that?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

I went outside and peered over both sides. Just in case. The wind had dropped and now the fog was still and heavy on the water. I could see the riding light on the radio mast of the fizzboat, and maybe I could see a light on that other boat out in the channel, the chartered Gin Palace. Distances were deceptive. Maybe Sid was finding that at this very moment.

Sarah was swigging away at her flask when I returned. “Nothing?”

“Nuh.”

“I’ve decided, you know.”

“What?”

She sniffed. “Konu. I’m not going to work under these conditions. At least with Piggott you know where you stand.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think Konu is a permanent thing. This is a oncer, isn’t it?”

“Hope so. Whatever, we’re just the little donkeys.”

“What is donkey, please?”

Miko was standing in the doorway draped in a large dressing gown. Konu’s?

“Hello,” I said, “come to join the party have you?”

“What party? Where is Mister Konu?”

“Ho ho ho,” said Sarah.

“I have woken up and he is not there.” She looked around the cabin. “Where are Monica and the others?”

“All gone, sweetiepie. Have a drink?” Sarah took another swig and belched. “Excuse I.”

“They’ve gone,” I said.

“Gone?”

“Yup. The SPASO mob are roaming around in the rubber dinghy, and Mister Konu is over with your friends.”

“Oh.”

Sarah pulled a sarcastic face. “‘Oh’ is right.”

“May I have some coffee, Mike?”

“You may.” I didn’t get up. She looked at me for a long moment then walked over to the kettle.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell us what’s going on?” said Sarah, “or perhaps you’d just like to leave us in the dark, we don’t care do we, Mike?”

“Nope, we’re just the donkeys.”

I thought I heard a cry outside and scrambled up on deck. Was it Sid? Was the guy being torn to shreds on a dreaded lee shore? “Sid? You there Sid?”

Nothing.

It was only fifty metres. And little Piggy gnome was bouyant. He couldn’t go wrong. Milford Island was to his left and even if he missed the point he would still land somewhere in the small bay. The only danger was if he’d swung 180 degrees and headed back past us into the main channel. I crossed to the other side and peered into the fog. Still those few lights but nothing on the surface. Would he have the sense to raise Piggy’s hat high above the fog blanket and signal for help? And if he did what could I do?

Miko was sitting opposite Sarah when I returned. In my seat, actually, but I didn’t complain. Sarah was a little bit drunk.

“So what is your game, sweetie?”

“We are not playing a game.”

“Well you’re not playing by our rules. Tell her Mike.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’ve got to have solidarity in this business.” Sid would know that. He’d be counting on that solidarity to help him if things got rough. In a world of gelatinous values like hypocrisy and deceit, someone’s got to plant their feet in the jelly trough and stand firm.

“That’s right,” said Sarah. “We’re not after the same story are we? Don’t try and deny it, we’re not idiots. We’re not amateurs!”

“I do what I am told. It is my job. Do you not show respect to your employer?”

“It depends how close it is to payday,” I said.

“Anyway, that sort of argument doesn’t wash.” I didn’t want to mention the war because it wasn’t her fault.

Sarah had fewer scruples. “Just obeying orders were you, sweetypie? Bridge over the fucking river Kwai.”

“We have a different culture, Sarah. I have explained to Mike.”

“What?” She might have.

“Our society is very structured, it is traditional. It is heirarchical, and it is so throughout our society, in business and in our family.”

“Whoopee do.”

“Yeah I’ve heard that,” I said. My family would have been like that with a bit more luck.

“You’re talking regimentation,” said Sarah. “A little army of clones.”

“Japanese are very different because of that. We are perfectionists. But we have much to learn in other areas.”

“Yeah,” retorted Sarah. “Like playing fair. Like not dumping your products on the world market and letting a few of ours in.”

“Holdens,” I said, “and Vegemite.”

“Shut up, Mike. So stop trying to take over everything.”

Miko pushed her chair back and looked very small and fragile. “There are so many important things in the world. There are wars and plagues and there is bad famine. Our story here is not so very important.”

Sarah and I looked at each other.

“You might be right, Miko,” she said, “but it’s the only story we’ve got.”

Hanada stood stiffly and made a little speech. Miko translated. “He wishes to apologize for Mister Konu,” she said. “He wishes to say that he did not know of these people. He says he was only to film the storyboard, and he wishes me to say to Sarah that he feels ashamed and....” She turned to him again and said something. He nodded, looking directly at Sarah.

“He says he trusts Sarah very much and admires her very much also.”

Hanada stood again and bowed to both Sarah and I. It was quite moving. What a huge cultural gap; I’d never think of apologizing for Piggott.

My earlier suspicions had been confirmed after a few probing questions. Miko had given us a run-down on the thinking behind Konu’s actions. It was obvious enough that he represented a stroppy branch of the Japanese Fishing Industry, the industry with the forty billion dollar turnover, and it was likewise obvious that they wanted to devalue greenie credibility and somehow scupper the coming Treaty agreement.

Of course she felt obliged to put Kawa Communications case which, unsurprisingly, encapsulated the exact philosophy of the Japan Fishing Industry. Did we not think it unfair that countries who do not even have a big fishing fleet, and who have a vote only because of past imperialism...Western Imperialism...was it not unfair that these countries try to enforce the so called voluntary quota system to be applied in the Southern waters? Tens of thousands of Japanese people in the Fishing Industry will lose their jobs; this has not been considered. We should not be so naive as to think that only Japanese interests were here to oppose that quota; the Koreans and the Taiwanese and the Russian fleet are very active in those waters.

“At least with Glass-snot the Ivanskis are prepared to listen,” said Sarah. “Your people don’t even respond to public opinion.”

“Oh I don’t know,” I said, “they’ve more or less stopped drift-netting and whaling.”

“Bullshit. They’ll never stop.”

“But that is not true!” cried Miko. “It is important that we have time to change. Japanese are responsible people.”

“Exactly,” said Sarah. “You’re responsible for economic imperialism. You seem to think you’ve got a divine right to push your philosophy onto everybody else.”

“But so much criticism is just jealousy, Sarah. Our Government is very generous with foreign aid. We are spending $18 billion to stop the Sahara desert spreading. We wish to share our knowledge. Our investment creates work for your people and it is good for everyone.”

The camels wouldn’t be too happy. “I wonder how old Sid’s getting on,” I said.

“What’s that quote, Mike?”

“Eh?”

“In those notes you gave me. From SPASO.”

She put the whiskey flask back into her handbag and plucked out her notebook. Then she pulled the flask back out and took a swig. “Listen: This is your mister Kiyoshi Katsuyama, a Fisheries Agency Official... ‘We don’t want another World War II to occur as a result of the current situation, but there are people in Japan who now feel isolated and unfairly treated by the outside world in the same way that people did before the war.’ ...and you might like to know that since New Zealanders took up the squid quota in their own waters, the Japanese Fishing Agency have banned all squid imports...now is that fair?”

“Well,” I said, “there might be mitigating factors.”

“Oh go up and see what’s happening!”

What a bossy woman. But I was glad to get back on deck and have another lookout for Sid. He might flash a signal from shore. Where was shore? The boat seemed to have swung around. Milford Island was over there now. Were we drifting onto the rocks?

We were definitely drifting closer to that Gin Palace in the channel, it was within twenty metres!

I ran to the anchor chain and tugged. It felt solid. But it would, wouldn’t it? It was heavy. Maybe the flukes of the anchor hadn’t caught and we were being sucked into peril. I turned to warn the others then heard the motor. Very low, a sort of grumble through the fog. The other boat was moving.

I froze in the bow and watched as it slipped by. Ten metres, five. It was moving right over our anchor chain. Then the motor stopped and it slid on a further fifteen metres closer to shore. The light was on in the cabin, but the driver was on the flying bridge, and I could see his tall figure swing over, then stride down to the bow and drop the anchor.

I crouched down behind the rail. He made his way along the deck to enter the cabin, then paused and looked straight at me. Surely he was the bloke from Russell with the tin taxi boat? I couldn’t read the name of the craft but remembered Captain Cabbage saying it was the Rainbow Charter boat out of Opua. The one I was ten minutes too late to hire.

Sarah crumped along the deck and stood next to me. “Get up and stop playing silly buggers. What’s this? The Spanish Armada?”

“Just about.”

We saw the spotlight first, followed immediately by the sound of a high-powered engine. The patrol boat peeled back the fog as it roared around Milford Island and the light swung over us, swung back, then settled on the charter boat. The distinctive buzz of loudspeaker static was followed by a distorted American voice. The patrol boat heeled up and spun to a stop. We ducked behind the rail.

“Ragamuffin.”

The tall guy slowly climbed out of the cabin and stood in the back cockpit. He looked relaxed.

“You’re late to be changing your mooring, Ragamuffin.”

The tall guy shielded his eyes. “Thought the wind might get up.”

“Where’s your tender?”

“My passengers are out fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Yeah. Fishing.”

The spotlight swung around in a 360 degree arc and we ducked again. “And where are they fishing?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just tell us, buddy.”

“You a Yank?”

Good question, I thought. Why would an American be in the patrol boat? They obviously were a bit sensitive about that, and the loudhailer was passed to the second occupant.

“You have already been advised that this is a temporarily restricted area. Please tell us where your party is fishing.”

“Hey, not a problem. Pekapeka Bay, Rere Bay maybe.”

There was a bit of mumbling and the spot drifted over the surface of the fog. A rowboat could be hidden under that layer if the occupants kept their heads down. The light was directed onto the distant superstructure of the fizzboat, which was all we could see of her, and then swung in a long arc to settle upon us. Miko and the others were standing just behind me, though I hadn’t heard them arrive. The patrol boat circled slowly between us and Ragamuffin, then suddenly burst into full power and headed across the harbour to Pekapeka bay.

Miko came up to me. “Mike, what is happening?”

“The patrol boat is chasing up a dinghy from Ragamuffin.”

I didn’t like it. Terrible premonitions were flooding me. That American voice for one. It sounded familiar. I turned to Sarah. “It could have been Joe, you know.”

She nodded. “It’s very hard to tell, but that was my first thought.”

It wasn’t the most unlikely thing in the world. We knew he’d travelled up with the delegates, and we knew he was liaising between the Yanks and the Kiwis. He’d even made the effort to warn us about Konu. Coincidence? I stopped believing in it years back. All right, so it was Joe.

“I don’t like the idea of Sid being ashore by himself,” I said. Sarah was looking across at the fizzboat. “Yeah, they could play it nasty.” She turned and glared at me. “What the fuck is Konu up to, Mike!”

“I don’t know.”

“How can he hope to disrupt the conference? Well go on, tell me!”

“I don’t know!”

“I do not like it, Michael, I do not like it one little bit.” She clenched her fists and looked back at the fizzboat. “It’s something to do with us, I can feel it in my fucking bones.”

I cleared my throat. “It might be even worse than that, Sarah. Ragamuffin’s dinghy didn’t go fishing... me and Sid saw it heading into shore.”

“Shit.”

“Of course it might mean nothing...”

“Shit!”

I wasn’t going to say it and she wasn’t going to say it.

Miko did. “Mike, there must be another media crew here!”

We hijacked Konu’s boat. I was just looking for some Vaseline to protect my near-naked body with, when Hanada hissed a warning and we all froze. Something bumped against the far side of the hull and there was a muffled grunt. Hanada padded across the deck on tiptoe, his black gunslinger outfit making him appear almost invisible. Miko whispered in my ear. “Like a ninja.”

I crawled on hands and knees and hid behind a large object which turned out to be Sarah. Konu’s head appeared above the rail and he tried to lift himself over, but failed. There was a mumble from down in the fog and another hand appeared to clutch at the rail. A vampire bat swooped out of nowhere and Konu screamed.

I converted my startled cry into a cackle of triumph and bounded across to help Hanada. Konu was pulled onto deck and Hanada was tugging at the anonymous arm. I grabbed it. It was Japanese and very strong. I desperately bent the index finger back and there was a sudden shriek. The fog parted and a head burst up in agony and was headlocked by Hanada. A great deal of Japanese comic book dialogue ensued, then we finally had the guy on deck and the rowboat tied securely to a knobbly iron thing.

Miko translated. Very nervously, because these guys were her bosses. “Spill the beans,” I demanded, and tweaked the index finger a bit more. Behind me Konu moaned and held his head. Sarah was applying a bit of torn curtain to a small gash to his scalp. Don’t mess with us buddy, we’re ruthless.

“He says he is a tourist,” said Miko.

“Pull the other one.” I twisted the finger in a few more directions.

“He says please release his finger.”

“Oh.”

I let go. Hanada stepped forward and snarled out questions. No-one was translating now. Konu was cowering, displaying not one jot of the old kamikaze spirit. Sarah was looking down at the rowboat.

“Sarah,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Shush.”

She sidled up and put her square face close. I felt a sudden flood of affection for her. “I reckon they’ve got a team of saboteurs aboard that fizzboat. What d’you think?”

“I think you should grow up.”

“No no, think about it. They want to wreck the conference, right? What other way is there?”

“Bribery, coercion, diplomacy, trade blackmail...take your bloody pick.”

I snorted quietly and looked around. Miko was talking earnestly to the Japanese guy.

“Look, they wouldn’t bother coming up here in an expensive boat, secretly, if it wasn’t for a nefarious reason.” Nefarious. That was quite good.

They were watching us. Miko took a significant step away from our prisoner and cleared her throat. “Mister Mitsui is from Kawa Communications. He is here only as an observer...”

“Bullshit,” said Sarah.

Miko looked quickly at Mitsui then took another step away. “He says it is important for their business and for Japanese fishermen and consumers....” The guy was suddenly looking at me and grinning. He said something to her and she nodded. “He says he has seen your excellent documentary on the Tokyo Fish Market and we should all live together in harmony....”

Sarah snorted. “Cut the crap. Live together in harmony, my fucking foot.”

Konu groaned once more and Miko sprang over to repair Sarah’s ministrations. Mitsui took the opportunity to hiss a question at Hanada. I put a stop to that by threatening the deadly finger lock, and Hanada nervously explained that Mitsui wanted to know where the poxy was. I told him he was a nice little bloke but he was going to have to work on his language a bit. He then confessed that he’d said that Sid had the poxy, and I said well you might be right but it wouldn’t be a first.

I had it almost worked out. Mitsui had brought Konu back to comply with Sarah’s feeble plan and negate any suspicions that might develop when the shit hit the fan. The fizzboat crew would be creating their havoc ashore...maybe even stealing the Treaty! Yes, and we’d be a perfect alibi. The authorities wouldn’t even be able to deny the event because a topline film crew was on hand to record it all!

“And that’s why they want us on Peach Island at dawn!” I turned to Sarah in triumph, but she was glaring fiercely into the dark night. “Okay, you lot,” she snarled, “we’re going ashore.”

“Sarah!” She was hurrying me and I hadn’t told her the best bit yet.

“Shut it, Mike. Miko, tell Hanada we’re going in. Get the camera.”

“Sarah,” I pleaded.

“I’m not going to sit here on me chuff when it’s all happening ashore, Mike. Jump in the bloody boat!”

Noah had said exactly that, and look what happened then.

19

We left Konu and Mitsui aboard. Sarah was perched in the bow, guiding our way with a hurricane lamp, while Hanada sat in the stern cradling the camera. I was rowing, which was particularly hard on Miko because she was crouched between my legs.

I peered over the fog layer and took a bearing.

“Both oars together, Mike.”

“I’ve done a lot of rowing,” I told her. “I was compensating for lateral drift.”

“You missed the water.”

“It’s not easy to see. Anyway I’m very cramped.”

“Watch out!”

We hit Ragamuffin a glancing blow and Hanada nearly fell out. A deep voice growled almost in my ear.

“What the fuck? That you, Bob?”

None of us responded. I dug in the oars and we spun on the spot. The left oar had fouled their bow chain.

“That you, Phil? Bob?”

Sarah hissed. “Row straight, you idiot.”

“I am. You do better.”

“Well slow down, I can hear the surf.”

Surf. A five centimetre swell which was barely discernible in a patch of clear air. There were several clear patches now, perhaps because we were close to shore. I feathered the oars and almost got it right. Hanada yelped as we tipped, but Sarah shifted her bulk and the boat righted. No-one criticized me because we were almost on land and they could see enormous concentration was called for.

If only there was a little beach with sand and a palm tree. Nothing. Jagged rocks and spikey tree roots. I tried to keep us straight, but straight into what I had no idea. We crept closer to the loom of land and Sarah winced in pain. “Ouch. Quick, grab it!” The boat tilted and swung and then we were still. “Jump out someone,” she cried, and Miko did. A little hand appeared above the water and I hauled her up. “It is all right Mike, I can touch the bottom. I will pull you in.”

Sarah was hauling us hand over hand along a tree branch. Miko splashed and bleated, then suddenly the bow scraped on rock and we were ashore. I gallantly held us steady with extended oars while the others clambered out. What about me?

“Come on, dozy, we’re tied up.”

All we had to do now was follow the shore around to our left until we came to Swordfish Lodge. If we were extremely careful, like ninja, we’d be able to get close enough to see what was happening and, more importantly to my mind, find Sid. Maybe we’d get a shot of drunken delegates in the bar...if we could get close enough, and if it was well-lighted, and if the curtains were not drawn. At the very least we’d get some blurry footage of shadows moving behind windows. With luck Sid would have recorded something worthwhile and we would dub that over.

Whatever, we just couldn’t take the risk of missing out on any action. The SPASO mob were cruising around somewhere, probably with flourescent aerosols and sewer plugs; there was the phoney fishing expedition from the Ragamuffin, our media rivals; and there was Mitsui. What devious hand was he dealing? Why had he sent men ashore from the fizzboat if not to sabotage the conference? Should we wait and see what happened or should we warn the delegates? What would make the best story?

Sarah was right behind me and kept nudging me to go faster. “Don’t push, the footing’s treacherous.”

“Just keep moving!”

“I am! You have to be careful though, I think I heard a snake.”

“We don’t have snakes in New Zealand.”

“Really?” A thought struck me. “You could make a bomb importing some snakes and exhibiting them.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

We reached a bluff. It seemed to be a solid chunk of rock without handholds of any sort. Sarah came up and stood next to me. “We’ll have to go around it.”

“Sid might have left a marker.”

“Sid is probably miles inland totally lost.”

“I bet you he isn’t.”

“Which way?”

We went left, down to the water. I waded into the sea up to my knees and shivered. There wasn’t much fog close to shore because the bush exudes hot gases opposite to the ones we breathe in, and our exhalations co-mingled to produce a forcefield capable of dispersing fog. That was my theory anyway, though Sarah was reluctant to accept it.

“Utter crap. C’mon, hurry up!”

I scrambled back onto shore and gave a little bleat of delight.

“Keep it quiet!” hissed Sarah.

“I found Sid’s towel!”

“That’s not a towel.”

“It’s a bit of curtain from the cabin. He was here. This was where he dried himself and plucked up courage for the final lap.” And it was the final lap, because we could see lights up ahead. It was time to become surreptitious.

We crouched down in a circle. “I think Miko should stay with you,” I said. “Hanada can come with me.”

Sarah shook her head. “Nope, he’s the cameraman, he stays.”

“But he moves like a wraith.” Miko nodded and muttered something to Hanada who smiled and nodded at me. Everyone has a fantasy of being the Phantom Who Walks By Night.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“No, I’d better go by myself.”

“I’m coming.”

We pushed through the scrub for another five minutes and suddenly found ourselves at open ground. We lay flat. The main buildings were set back from the small beach and there was a large grassed barbecue area which we’d have to cross. The jetty area was well-lighted and several boats rocked against the wooden pilings. Behind the main building were two rows of cabins, the second row butting right up to the steep hills behind. We were down by the water’s edge and the smart thing to do would be be go back into the bush and re-emerge opposite that second row, where the shadows were deepest. There didn’t seem to be many people around, just a few silhouetted figures who were standing on the verandah of the main building gazing out to sea.

Sarah whispered and my ear flapped. “Not so loud,” I said, “they might be security guards.”

“Yeah.” She was breathing heavily but mostly because she was incredibly unfit. Not like me, I was very nearly an athlete once and I only smoke low tar cigarettes. It all helps.

The patrol boat came into view and made a slow circle, then turned and headed back out into the harbour. In any other country in the world there’d be helicopters, infra-red beams and fierce dobermanns on the loose. A guy with a torch came from behind the main building and called out something to the others. There was a brief laugh and he turned the torch on himself to make a grotesque face. Childish.

We lay there for a very long ten minutes. All of the cabins had a porch light on. I couldn’t see Sid, or any of the SPASO crew. I had half-expected to see them writing witty graffiti with flourescent paint aerosols. Maybe they were at this very moment plugging up the sewer outlet. What else did radical conservation groups do? And what about old Mitsui? Maybe Kawa Communications had very sophisticated listening devices trained on shore, or perhaps those infra-red nightscopes. So why had he been asking about the ‘poxy’?

I said some of this to Sarah who had finally stopped puffing.

“Poxy? Don’t you mean pixie?”

“Ah, of course! Piggy the pixie. Isn’t that just typical? Getting a pixie mixed-up with a gnome. A pixie is more like an elf, really....”

“Oh shut up, Mike.”

I did, but she couldn’t stop me thinking about it. Sid had told me Konu had taken Piggy aboard the Nihon International. They must have really liked him. No doubt they had a boss back in Japan who was a dead ringer, like Piggott was. No way they were getting him though, because we’d all grown attached to the little fibreglass bloke. On the other hand, the yen was currently very strong against the dollar.

“We can go up round the back,” I whispered.

“Seems pretty quiet.”

She nodded. I eased back into cover and straightened up. My legs were cold from the wet cloth and a few tendons twanged. Sarah grunted and creaked herself erect. “Follow me,” I said, because I’ve always wanted to say that, and we headed back into the bush. I fixed my eye on a star and headed towards it.

Small dark creatures scuttled off and bushes clawed at us. Sarah had the night vision of a rhinoceros and a similar delicacy of movement. A branch smacked me in the head and I whimpered. Sarah stood on my heel and I whimpered again.

“Stop fucking around, Mike. Are we here yet?”

Someone coughed. Definitely a human cough because animals don’t gather it all up and spit. Disgusting. We dropped to a crouch and I crawled forwards. My head emerged into a patch of cultivated flowers which smelled sweet in the heavy night air. A dark figure was strolling along swinging a torch and humming a tune in between coughs and spits. I waited until he turned the corner and then reached behind to grab Sarah’s hand.

We were opposite the back row of cabins, and the first of these was only thirty metres away. I sprinted across and scuttled around the back. Sarah had let go my hand; where was she?

I poked my head out.

Petals and flower stalks shredded about her as she pawed at the earth for traction. Surely the guard would see her? But no, she bounded across like that woman in the slo-mo soap commercial and collapsed next to me. Her lungs sucked in huge quantities of air.

“Wow. Never thought I could move so fast.”

“Shush, someone could be inside.”

We inched our way along the back wall. The cabin was built almost into the cliff face and there was very little room to manoeuvre, but at least there were no windows on this side. There were about ten cabins in each row, which was a bit disheartening. I bumped into Sarah.

“There’s space under here, Mike.” She was crouched down pulling at a slatted wooden door. I gave her a hand and poked my head in. Wooden posts supported the floor on concrete blocks and left an average height of about a metre. We’d be safe under there.

“Do you reckon you could go and get the others?” I asked.

“Yes. What about you?”

“I’ll try and find the Jap cabin and the Poms, and our lot. And maybe the Yanks.” We couldn’t speak any other languages between us. “I’ll also see if we can get closer to the main building. It looks like they’re still at it over there.”

“We’ll come the same way. Hanada can get a shot from where we rested up. Give us, what, forty minutes?”

“Yeah. Hey, Sarah...”

“What?”

“Take care.”

“And you, Mike.”

There didn’t seem to be any set patrols around the cabins. Not that it was a big deal. I’d been caught a few times in the past in similar situations and all you get is a smack on a wrist because who wants to alienate the media? We add a bit of excitement to their lives. Guard duty is the most boring duty of all, especially in a place like New Zealand where the only interesting thing that has ever happened was the French sinking the Rainbow Warrior about twenty years ago. Even the police don’t carry guns.

I flitted from cabin to cabin. Only a few of them were occupied, probably flunkeys warming hot water bottles for their bosses. The front row of cabins was only ten metres from the back of the main block and I paused in their protective cover. Something wasn’t quite right.

A shadow moved. Half a dozen bulky shadows. It made sense. No need to guard the individual cabins if the delegates were slugging back booze in the main bar. There weren’t many windows on this side of the building, but they were all lit and all had curtains drawn. No way we could get close enough to shove a lens or microphone through an open window and catch the lads at play, but I could live with that; we’d catch the bastards back in their cabins. All I had to do was find which delegates belonged to which cabins.

Was it midnight yet? Does the moon lie directly overhead at midnight, or is that just on the Equator? There was a surprising amount I didn’t know about the universe. The moon must be there for a reason, but what about the stars? I lay on my back in a little clump of shrubbery and tried to count them. Impossible. There were so many that it was extremely unlikely that any two people would be looking up at the same star at the same time. I sent an imaginary laser beam up to my star and I thought of things like apexes and angles and the sum of the square on the hypotenuse. Miniscule debris from shattered asteroids deflected the returning beam and I watched as it plunged down into the neighbouring shrub patch. Then I froze. Somebody was in there.

It could be one of the SPASO crew. It could be one of the phoney fishermen from the Ragamuffin. Or a Mitsui minion from the fizzboat. It could be a particularly enthusiastic security guard, or a very lazy one. It could be someone that I had never even thought of, like the local voyeur. Or it could of course be Sid.

I did my impression of a Kookaburra. The figure jerked and rolled over. I did it again, but very softly this time. He looked towards my shrub. “Mike?” Quietly. “Is that you Mike?”

Heh heh heh, a brownie point. “Yep, over here.” I stuck an arm through the bush and waved. He rose to a crouch and scampered across. “You beauty,” he said, “I knew you’d come.” He was still carrying Piggy the gnome, but the little hat wasn’t blinking anymore. He saw me looking.

“It’s stuffed. I fiddled with the little time clock but I think the battery’s shot. Hey, how did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t, that’s why I did the call.”

“Ducks don’t quack at night.”

“What? That was a kookaburra!”

“Bullshit. They don’t have kookaburras here, anyway.”

We crouched down as a guard walked slowly by. He put his sloppy lips to my ear. “They do that every ten minutes or so. The other guys just stay put. D’you see them?”

“Yeah. Did you get anything?”

“Nah, tried, but couldn’t pick it up. Got some guard coughing his guts up every few minutes.”

“Yeah, we saw him.”

“We?”

“Me and Sarah.” I told him all the details of our heroic trek and the good bit back at the boat when I’d almost single-handedly captured Konu’s buddy.

“I bet.”

“Ask Sarah.”

“I will.”

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I said. “We thought we’d hide under one of the cabins.”

“Yeah, I’ve been doing that. I came out to see if I could find out who’s in which cabin. We could record the Russians.”

“We could, except none of us speak Russian do we?”

“The Aussies then.”

“No way, we’re the good guys.”

He thought for a moment. “Has to be the Canadians, the Poms, the Yanks or the Japs.”

“Yeah.”

“Or the Kiwis.”

“Forget them.”

I told him that I’d take the gnome back with me and wait for Sarah. If he saw the delegates come out he was to watch where they went. He said thanks for telling him because otherwise he would have gone to look for his grandmother because she had some eggs he could teach her how to suck.

“But there must be twenty cabins here,” said Sarah.

“Yeah, but Sid will know which ones. He’s placed himself centrally, see, almost perfectly in fact, except the one next door where I was, was perhaps just a little bit better...”

“We all know how good Mike is don’t we everyone?”

They missed the sarcasm and gave me nice Japanese words of praise. Miko was sitting next to me, she was the only one sitting actually, because the ground was very uneven and there was hardly any headroom under the joists.

“Anyway,” I continued, “he’ll have a fair idea and we can work it from there.”

Miko wasn’t looking very happy, but I supposed she was due for the chop anyway and in Japan they probably blackball you from working in the same industry and throw you onto the scrap heap. If worse came to worse she could always get a job as a dwarf in a Snow White pantomime. I envied her diminutive stature because I was getting claustrophobia and could barely restrain myself from screaming.

“Does he know where we are?”

“I told him. The end cabin.”

“This end?”

This end? I must have. “Of course. But the delegates could be hours yet, I think they’re having a party.”

“I don’t like hanging around, I want to do something!”

“We could play ‘I Spy’.”

“Don’t be silly. Miko, what’s going to happen to you?”

“I do not know. I think, maybe I shall resign.”

“Don’t do that,” I said, “let them boot you out. Think of all that lovely redundancy.”

“What is that?”

“You know, blood money. Years of service and all that stuff. They put the knife in...you make them pay for the operation.”

Hanada asked her something and I recognized a few words. Maybe I was becoming multilingual. She turned to me.

“Hanada san says they will not want to lose face.”

“But you don’t agree do you?” I said.

“Kawa are very big company with much influence.”

“Good old Kawa,” said Sarah, “aren’t we lucky to have a sponsor like that.”

“Yeah, we should be able to get cheap fish.”

I thought I heard a distant voice so crawled over and peered through the slats. There were figures walking back to their cabins. Just a few; probably the lesser lights or the ones who’d got drunk quickest. I crawled back to tell Sarah.

“Right, everyone quiet,” she said. “We wait for Sid. One of us on each wall. Keep completely still, they might check under here.”

I took the side closest to the main building. After a while I could see in the dark, like I used to be able to when I was a kid. My lightshade would turn into a pterodactyl, and my teddybear into a bunyip. Imagination is a terrible thing in the dark. At one stage I could have sworn I saw three or four werewolves dash into the cabin opposite us. And maybe that was a vampire over to my right. I was quite relieved to see the torches approaching. I hissed a warning. A couple of guards were walking on either side of the cabins in the front row and flashing their torches underneath. It wasn’t a very good inspection, but we had enough people to put on a Shakespearian play, and it was unlikely that they’d miss our Lady Macbeth.

I snake-bellied across to Sarah and told her what was happening. “Get the others then. Tell them to hurry.” She looked frightened, but her eyes were alive with excitement. “Hang on,” she clawed at my retreating leg. “We can hide under the ones they’ve checked.”

It wasn’t fair; I’d just been going to think of that.

20

Hanada cradled the camera in his arms and belly-crawled out the door like a real pro under fire. Treacherous Bob would have moaned about spider webs and icky dust. A thought struck me. “Sarah, Mathews’ name is Philip!”

“You mean shitface.”

“No, seriously.” The guy on the Gin Palace had called out to Bob and Phil. I reminded her of that ominous incident.

“Shit.”

I scuttled across and tried to open the little door under the opposite cabin, the one into which my ridiculous imagination had seen werewolves enter. It was locked. I hauled on one of the adjoining planks and fuelled my strength with the thought of Mathews and the award he was trying to steal off us. There was a terrible graunching noise and it came free at one end. Hopefully the guards would think it was a delegate vomiting into a bush. I tugged again, carefully this time, and the plank pulled free. The next one was easier because I could get my arm and shoulder through and push from the inside. I flitted back to the others.

“Why didn’t you blow a fucking trombone while you were at it?” said Sarah. I told her that I’d done yet another heroic thing tonight and one sometimes appreciates a word of praise or were my standards perhaps too high? Some of the impact was lost because they all ran ahead of me and I had to direct the last part of my question to the gnome.

I scooted after them, back across the grass, ducked through the door, then stupidly straightened and banged my head on an overhead beam. Sarah watched me crawl painfully towards her. Was that a gleam of sympathy in her eye?

“Why don’t you leave that stupid thing somewhere?” she said.

“What? Little Piggy? He’s our good luck charm.” Miko reached out to pat the pointy head and Hanada did the same.

“See? Some of us appreciate him.”

The small door suddenly creaked open and we froze. Sarah was lying next to me, caught in the motion of drinking from her flask, and I leaned over and whispered. “Must be Sid.” The door swung further and a dark figure wriggled in. I was just about to call out when a second figure followed and bumped its head.

“Ouch!”

“Mind your head, mate. Christ, what a shithole.”

“Hello Bob,” I said.

“Hello Matt,” said Sarah.

“Konnichi wa,” said the rest of our crew.

“Fuck me dead! What are youse guys doing under here?”

Mathews had a bit more class. “Hello Sarah, hello Mike. Where’s the inimitable Sidney?” He crawled closer.

“He’s not here,” I said.

“We’ve seen him running around out there. What’s he supposed to be doing?”

“Like a headless bloody chook,” sneered Bob.

Sarah screwed the cap back onto her flask. “He’s minding his own business...not like some I could mention.”

“Mike, what is happening please?”

“It’s all right Miko, these guys are old friends of ours.”

Mathews bridled. “Friends?”

“Yeah,” said Bob, “if a fucking rat is a friend to a sleeping baby, yeah.”

Sarah sat up and banged her head. “Look, we were here first.”

“Uh uh,” said Mathews, “we were.”

“No you weren’t,” I said.

“Yes we fucking were, tell him Phil. We were on shore first.”

“It doesn’t make any difference anyway,” said Sarah. We all knew the unwritten law; there was no unwritten law. “But don’t you stuff it up for us.”

Sid arrived. He dived in, commando-style, and managed to slam into Bob.

“Mind the fucking camera you skinny bastard!”

“Watch the noise!” hissed Sarah and Mathews. They glared at each other. Bob probed his camera with a small torch and muttered savagely. Sid crawled over to me.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he whispered. Mathews craned an ear and Sid pushed him away.

“It’s the next row down, two across.”

Sarah raised a finger to his lips but Mathews had heard. He scuttled backwards and hissed to Bob to follow. Sarah punched Sid in the arm as they crawled out the door and vanished into the night. “You stupid bastard, Sid!”

“No no.” He grinned and rubbed his arm. “I was lying. The Japs are right next door, and the Yanks right next to them!”

“You beauty,” I told him.

“Yeah, well I started off being really sneaky, a bit like a weasel I reckon....”

“We don’t want your boring life story, Sidney.” Sarah rolled over and managed to get onto her hands and knees. “Come on, don’t stuff around all night.”

“Miko, we’re going,” I said.

“Don’t forget Piggy,” said Sid, “the sound gear’s in his gut.”

Deep down I suppose I’d always known that Mathews was going to turn up and wreck our exclusive. It was doubly annoying, because he had some editorial control over the finished product and we had absolutely zilch. Who knew what tack Konu would take now that we’d cut his umbilical cord? And as for Piggott, he was just as likely to kick the whole shebang into the rubbish bin and do one of his simpering interviews with Lulu the exotic Turkish Belly Dancer.

I said all that to Hanada because he was the only one who would listen.

“You are angry, Mike san?”

“Well, not angry. Thems the breaks. But disappointed.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, we’ve still got the SPASO interviews, which UpFront won’t have. They”ll only have boring old Greenpeace.”

“Sumimasen?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We were awaiting developments. The Japanese contingent were still in the main building singing their silly songs, and the debauched Yanks were still there too, knocking back the booze and trying to bully the rest of the delegates into letting them dump nuclear waste in Antarctica. It was probably quite a good idea because a radiation leak wouldn’t even be noticed. What could it do...kill the trees?

The cabin we were under was also a wash-out, because it was the New Zealand pozzy and, as hosts, they’d have to be the last ones at the bar. In that case, I asked Sid, how come he knew this was the Kiwi cabin?

“Because it’s written on the front door.”

“Oh.”

Sarah rolled over in a cloud of dust. “So which one did you send Mathews too?”

He chortled in triumph. “The Froggies! Heh heh heh.”

“You stupid fart! He speaks fluent French!”

Sid suddenly thought he could hear voices above and I thought maybe I could, too. Hanada clawed at my arm and waved a microphone at me. “Yeah, give it a burl.” I meant put it to the above floorboards and see what we could pick up on the earphones, but he suddenly crawled off into the dark distance and I was left talking to the gnome again. I followed.

Hanada had found the gaping hole left by the shoddy plumber when he’d strung the water pipes. I pulled him down and stuck my head up. The hot water cylinder was resting on raised beams above a loose sheet of hardboard. I suppose the scheme was to minimise maintenance efforts when the result of the shoddy plumbing became evident. I heaved at the hardboard and it slipped askew, then fell down on Hanada’s little face. “Sorry about that,” I said. There was enough room for a very small person to squeeze into the cupboard and get into the building proper.

“Up you go, mate,” I said, and pushed his shoulders through. He squealed. “I cannot. I am big.”

“No you’re not, you’re small.”

“I am in pain.”

I tugged him down because he was making too much noise. They’d never take over the world if a little setback like that would stop them.

The others had crowded around and were whispering advice. Sid suggested sawing a hole through the floorboards under a bed. I said we didn’t know where the bed was and it would make too much noise. “We don’t have a saw anyway,” he said. Miko offered to try. “It is all right, Sidney, I do not need pushing.”

I waited for Hanada to feed out extra cable. The idiot hadn’t brought any! I pointed to his earphones and mimed the laying of the transatlantic cable. He gazed at me stupidly. I pretended to talk into a microphone and have it snatched away suddenly because I was moving one way, which I indicated by a nodding head, and the microphone was attached to a fixed cable.

“How many syllables?” asked Sid.

Sarah snorted quietly. “You dense bugger, it’s a radio mike!”

Miko dropped back down through the hole. We gave her silent applause and she smiled shyly. Sid patted cobwebs off her back and Sarah swatted his hand away. Hanada had the earphones on and suddenly gave a thumbs-up sign. I waggled my fingers, could I have a listen please?

Miko put the earphones on and I wiggled my fingers at her. She opened her eyes wide and gave them to Sarah. What about me? I muscled Sid aside and dragged my body up to hers. She pushed me back. A frown appeared on her brow and she pursed her lips. Were they talking dirty?

“Come on,” I whispered, “give me a go.”

“It’s Monica!”

“Gimme gimmee.” The selfish woman finally passed them over and I clamped them on. Monica? It was Gretel. It was Gretel and Monica. It was Gretel and Monica and Terry. It was Gretel and Monica and Terry and Turnball!

I must have registered my amazement because Sid grabbed me by the collar and shook me savagely.

“Who is it? Give me a shot, aw come on, Mike, I’m the sound techo on this job...you miserly bastard!”

Miko must have put the microphone under a mat or a carpet because the sound was a bit muffled and every now and again a vibration would wipe out the words. Some fat sod was doing a war dance at the moment.

“Did you get the full list...?”

“...hurry up, Terry....”

“...I can’t get the bugger opened....”

“Keep it quiet...!”

“I can’t get the safe opened!”

“Shush!”

Something heavy crashed onto the floor and nearly split my eardrums. Sid grabbed the earphones while I was wincing and I let him. Why not? I had to think this through.

Sarah smiled sheepishly. “Someone’s been playing silly buggers.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re not in there to salute the New Zealand flag are they Michael?”

“No.”

“That’s where Daddy’s staying, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Darling Monica...the two-faced bitch.”

I was going to come up with a theory but I couldn’t think of one. Sid suddenly chortled. “Hey, get this: Turnball reckons that if you hold a battery torch long enough you get....”

“Give me that!” Sarah snatched it off him and he gave me a hurt look. “Rubbish,” she said. Then, “bloody typical.” She seemed to think that she was part of their conversation. She put the earphones down and looked around. “Sid and Hanada san should be out there ready to shoot...wake up, Sid!”

“C’mon Hondoodoo.” Sid grabbed the gnome and wrenched open its fibreglass belly. We watched as he dipped his hand in like an abortionist and pulled out PrimeLine’s somewhat ancient microphone and sound recorder. Hanada looked at it with technological horror. Sarah pointed at the door and we watched them scuttle out.

“And you, Mike.”

“Me?”

“Go and hold his hand. Hurry up.”

“But I’ve just had a thought...”

“Shush!” She pressed the headphones hard to her ears as I scrambled out. A thrill of excitement ran through me...I knew what was happening! I’d cracked the conundrum! SPASO were stealing a copy of the secret agenda!

For some reason I emerged carrying the gnome. I could feel a tension in the air, that same buzz I felt whenever we moved in for the kill. This was no time for sentiment, so I dropped Piggy into a patch of shadow and cautiously poked my head around the cabin corner. Sid and Hanada moved up close behind me. I waved them back.

I could see torches crossing towards us from the main block, and a crowd of chortling halfwits approaching our row of cabins. The party was over; all the booze had been finished; all the negotiations negotiated. A fat American fell down and started giggling. Monica’s little grey father shook hands with a very tall woman and she thumped him on the back. Joe, our American shadow, leaned over and hauled his compatriot upright. Sid tried to poke the microphone around the corner but I slapped his boney wrist. Two Asian men stumbled over to help Joe and ended up sitting down on the ground giggling along with the fat bloke.

The light was marginal and there was some risk of discovery, but I ushered Hanada and Sid across to the shelter of the next cabin and watched them film the decadent behaviour. Something rustled behind me and I turned, expecting to see Miko or Sarah.

“Sarah...Miko?” I took a tentative step forward, feeling foolish, and was just about to turn back when a shadow uncoiled and sprang at me. “It’s me! It’s Mike...!” Something whipped by my face and I raised a hand, then immediately dropped it as a fist punched at my ribs. I pushed out vaguely then staggered as a male shoulder charged into me. I backpedalled hard into the cabin wall and my teeth snapped together. Anger screamed through me...I didn’t care who the fuck it was. “You bastard...!” I swung my elbow and jolted him hard in the face, then followed up with an inaccurate boot in the balls. He came at me again and I reached for his throat, prepared to twist his neck apart like a chicken, to tear his head off with my bare hands...when another bloke leapt up and smacked me across the skull with Piggy the gnome.

Miko cradled my head while Sarah sloshed whiskey onto her hankie and wiped away blood.

“They’re the ones who photographed me,” I croaked.

“What?”

“Two Japanese guys. Wearing All Black Rugby jerseys.” Sarah eyed me warily. “Don’t be ridiculous, there are no Japanese All Blacks.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s just a bump. Where’s Sid and Hanada?”

Miko dropped my head. “I do not see them, Sarah.”

“Well don’t just lie there, Mike, get up and start looking.”

“But who are the Jap guys? Why did they attack me? Where did they come from?”

“Shush, you’re getting hysterical.” She hauled me upright and I gingerly felt my torn scalp. She poked it with her fat finger.

“Ouch!”

“Idiot, they’re from the fizzboat. Konu’s mates.”

“Of course! I mean I knew that.”

“Well if you knew that...tell me why they stole that bloody gnome of Sid’s?”

“What? They’ve taken Piggy? The bastards!”

“Shut up and get moving.”

There was more activity now, which of course made the chance of discovery much higher. Sid and Hanada scampered back and Sid suggested we lay low until dawn. Everywhere I looked I could see people stumbling off to their cabins, or engaged in conversation in little groups. Security guards shifted restlessly and flashed their torches around in the hope of showing their supervisors that they were alert and on the job.

We waited until a cloud obscured the small moon, then followed Sid as he led the way back across the lawn and through the flower patch. It was looking pretty battered by now. Fifty metres into the bush we found a small clearing and settled down to wait. I took a quick count. Seven of us. Seven?

“What are you two doing here?” I said.

Bob snickered. “Same as you, mate.”

“This is our pozzy,” said Sid. “Clear off!”

Mathews put his arm around Sarah and she shrugged him off. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “We’re all in this together. If any one of us gets seen they’ll tear this place apart.”

He was right of course, which made it all the more galling. I had a shocking headache from my head wound and needed to get a bit of comfort. I turned to Miko. I could rest my weary head on her lap and she’d stroke my hair with her delicate little fingers. Except she was already curled up asleep.

The bush was heavy and damp. The sea-fog seemed to have finally permeated this far and it was getting colder. I crawled over to Sarah. Bob said something to Mathews and laughed. Sarah flashed him a look and then turned to me. He’d be making jokes about her fatness and saying something to the effect that Mike was going over there to snuggle up and get warm. Cruel, perceptive bastard. Any number of invitations she’d given me over the years and I’d turned them all down because it hadn’t suited me. But now it did...I stopped. Is that what she’d had to put up with all those lonely teenage years when smart sods like me earned cheap applause with a string of hippopotamus jokes? It was too dark to see her eyes, but I knew she knew, and I knew she’d seen me approach Miko first. Why can’t we just go through life making the most efficient use of resources without having to consider the human element?

I lay my head on her large breast and tried not to bleed. The others were quiet, even Sid, and I willed myself to get some sleep. It never works. I asked Sarah about Monica and the others. What had they talked about? They were stealing the secret agenda right? Had she worked out why? What were we going to do now? I was cold and miserable and my head throbbed like a jungle drum. Or was that just her large heart thudding away?

Thumpety thump. I drifted in and out of sleep as she told me that Monica had probably been working all along with her father, as was really quite obvious now that she thought about it; and that should warn you not to take we New Zealanders too lightly. Monica and her cronies would be able to leak the secret agenda and Daddy and the Government couldn’t be blamed.

I mumbled that that was an extremely feeble argument because everyone knows that governments are brilliant at leaking what they want to leak and are always able to find stupid scapegoats to take the blame. Maybe it didn’t come out quite as lucidly as that because she didn’t listen, just kept on with her newly-patriotic spiel.

Yep, she said, the Kiwis had worked hard to get this conference located in New Zealand because it gave them a strong voice, where historically they’ve been ignored despite the fact that Kiwis have led the world in just about every area of social development. Votes for women; the forty hour week; universal suffrage; accident compensation; the anti-nuclear stance; free milk for schools....

I’d rallied enough to dispute the forty hour week because I was sure we Aussies had come up with that great scheme and anyway, what about Turnball? Who’d want an idiot like that on their team?

Everyone likes to keep a pet monkey, Mike, as you should know. Surely it’s obvious that the New Zealanders, as hosts, couldn’t put themselves under suspicion of leaking an important document, especially a document which is not supposed to exist.

“Surely you can see that, Mike?”

“Eh?”

“So they’d have to lay blame onto a foreign party, perhaps a media crew...now who could that be?”

“Eh?” My head was really hurting.

“Who do the Kiwis love to hate? Who do they play their hearts out against in rugby and cricket and league and every other feeble male-orientated sport known to mankind? Well?”

That was easy. “Australia.”

“Now go to sleep.”

I awoke with a numb foot and a terrible feeling of suffocation. Sarah had somehow wrapped her body about me and Sid was sleeping on my foot. I whimpered.

“Oh you’re awake. It’s about time.”

Sarah heaved herself into a sitting position and smoothed down her shirt. “I hope you haven’t been taking advantage.”

“Me?” I booted Sid off my dead foot and he rolled into Hanada.

Miko sat up with a squeak. Treacherous Bob was already on his feet doing stretching exercises. I touched my tender head and tried to loosen a patch of dried blood. I felt awful. Mathews was grinning at me, the bastard, looking as if he’d spent the night in a feather bed. He slowly uncoiled and ran a comb through his hair.

Static electricity crackled all over his head and there was an explosion at Swordfish Lodge.

21

I sprang to my feet and immediately toppled with a dead leg. All I could do was roar with frustration as Mathews and Treacherous Bob sprinted off.

“Don’t fuck around, Mike!” screamed Sarah, and hauled me up by my collar. Sid grabbed the camera in one hand, Hanada in the other, then thundered after the Upfront crew.

I hobbled along behind Miko and Sarah, almost blind in the darkness, being whipped in the face by bent branches and stumbling over roots and rocks. My head was bleeding again and I felt dizzy, but made a valiant attempt to catch the straggling Sarah as she bounded through the last remaining flowers and galloped across the grass.

A column of flame consumed one of the cabins and people were milling around with hoses and buckets and walkie talkies. A chopper swooped down over the hill and spotlighted the proceedings. I ran around in a circle because my foot was still a dead weight. Which cabin? I could see Hanada crouching low with the camera on his shoulder, and there was Bob, similarly crouched, but scurrying rapidly after Mathews. The bastards were getting all the good stuff!

I struggled to my feet and screamed to Hanada to get closer! Hit him, someone! Where was Sarah? Where was Sid? My foot was beginning to work again. Miko popped up in front of me and raised a supplicating hand. Typical, a twisted ankle no doubt. I hurdled her and somersaulted down a slight bank into a low stone wall. Mathews was flitting from cabin to cabin, chattering away into his microphone for all he was worth. Come on you weak bastards! Don’t let UpFront beat us!

Treacherous Bob weaved and jigged through a patch of light and I saw Sid hurl himself forward in a magnificent rugby tackle. I staggered to my feet and waved an arm in triumph, but Mathews was galloping behind and snatched Bob’s camera before it hit the dirt, executed a perfect breakfall, then was back up on his feet. Bob and Sid were rolling around savagely and Sarah, puffing like a train, tripped over them and hit the ground with a terrible thud. There was only me left!

Hanada was hiding wimpishly behind a cabin and every now and again poking the camera out to get some footage. I thundered across, careless of concealment. “Hanada! Move! Move!” I propelled him past two cabins until we were only twenty metres from the flames. To our left a body of torches stabbed into the shadows and I pulled him down.

The flames were dying. A thick hose pumped out water and maybe there wasn’t much left to burn. Which cabin was it? Was anyone still inside being burned to a crisp and thereby becoming newsworthy? Delegates, flunkeys and security guards stood around in classless confusion. Shouldn”t they be out looking for terrorists? Did I have to do everything myself?

Sarah crept past us and I whistled softly. She peered around belligerently and I waved my hanky to attract her attention. She panted up. “It’s the Jap hut. Keep the camera rolling. If they try and stop us yell blue murder...freedom of the press...all that shit.”

“Geezes, Sarah...”

She almost blushed. “Sorry, Mike...suck the bloody egg.”

“You’re bleeding.”

She had a bad scratch on her arm and I used my hanky as a bandage. It only just fitted.

Of course it wouldn’t be terrorists, we couldn’t be that lucky. No doubt some drunken delegate had left the gas stove on and then lit a cigarette. I crawled back around the edge of the cabin to see the delegates being ushered back into the main block. In minutes the only people out here would be security guards or suspects. Like us. I stood up and gestured the others to follow. Hanada had drifted into open ground and was filming the delegates as they jostled their way into the building. Idiot. If he was seen now they might confiscate the camera.

I pulled him back into cover. He was smiling in that inane way cameramen have when they do their job for once. I did a quick headcount to see if we were all here. No Miko, no Sid. Bugger. I led the way back around the cabins to the grassy area and we paused in the very last bit of shadow.

“Stay exactly where you are!” The amplified voice boomed out and my bowels contracted. A litle bleat escaped me.

“Last warning; we are prepared to fire!”

“Stop moving!” I hissed. Who was twitching?

My foot had developed epilepsy. I couldn’t see any security guards, so how could they see us? Sarah touched me on the shoulder. “I don’t think it’s us,” she mouthed.

“Who is it then?” I mouthed back.

She rolled her eyes in an ‘I dunno’ gesture.

I thought. Just about every nook and cranny was filled with one or other of us; UpFront, SPASO, PrimeLine, a couple of bodgey All Blacks, and Miko was across there somewhere, by the stone wall. Last seen, Bob and Sid were wrestling in the dirt more or less where those torches were now. Then a gun fired and we ran like hell.

I came to a halt by running into a tree and sat down heavily. Sarah and Hanada staggered up and lay around heaving and gasping. I’d missed our earlier trail, and we were pretty well lost. I stood up to sight on a star but there were no stars. The whole sky was fat with cloud and the fog had roiled back into the bush. I could see the steam rising from our bodies. More blood rolled down my face.

“You bleed, Mike san,” said Hanada.

“Yeah.” I stood with macho legs akimbo like John Wayne and patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, folks.” I’ve often noticed that the first guy in with the praise is considered to be the natural leader. Sarah hadn’t observed that behavioural manifestation.

“Right, I’ll take Hanada back to the boat. Mike, you go and rescue the others.”

“Hey?”

“Well hurry up! We’re going to be sailing out of here at dawn.”

“Who’s going to sail it? Anyway, it would be stealing.”

“Rubbish, we chartered it. Konu’s mate can do it, he’s a fisherman. Or Sid.”

“Sid? No way!”

“You’re quite welcome to swim home. Go on, hop to it!”

She sounded just like my mother so of course I obeyed. Back along the newly-broken track, tripping over every root of every tree and banging my head about six more times. I probably had concussion. That’s probably why I was trembling so much. And of course it was cold.

The clouds had gone. A small moon and ten thousand stars bathed the lodge in pale light. The burnt cabin was out of my line of sight, but there was a faint glow still. Or was that torchlight? Torches were everywhere. I tried to remember how many shots I’d heard. Three? Five? The only armed guards had been the ones at the main block, but perhaps the others had now been issued with guns. They weren’t to know that I was only an innocent bystander and maybe they had orders to shoot on sight.

Sid and Bob. Mathews. Miko. Had any of them got the chop? I crawled along the bushline until I was opposite the slight slope which led down to the stone wall. I remembered hurdling Miko around about there. A torch beam moved back and forth more or less where she’d been lying. It halted, then moved on. I crawled forward on my belly and undulated over little bumps and hollows like a snake. Sarah had said there were no snakes in New Zealand, so I reasoned the guards wouldn’t be used to that sort of movement.

I found her lying curled up right next to the wall. She squeaked. “Mike, oh Mike, I was so frightened.” I stopped hissing.

“Are you okay? How’s the ankle?”

“My ankle? It is okay. I was too frightened to run.”

“Oh.”

“You are very brave.”

Was I? Perhaps I was. “The others have gone back to the boat. Except for Sid. Did you see anything?”

“I heard the shooting and I hid my head.”

“Smart thinking.”

I wondered if she knew anything about my attackers. There had been at least four of them and they’d all been monsters. I’d fought an honourable draw.

“You know that the gnome has been stolen?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Six of Mitsui’s mates stole it.” She put her hand to her mouth. It had been a shock to me too, you couldn’t help but grow attached to the little fibreglass fellow.

“And the Japanese cabin was bombed,” I continued.

“That is shocking!”

“Yeah, but we managed to get some footage.”

There was never going to be a better time to get to the bottom of all this.

“Miko, tell me the truth: Is your Trade Delegation sponsored by your government?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not ‘of course’. You’re not working for the Japanese Government are you?”

“No, I work for PrimeLine.”

“Rubbish. You work for Konu and he works for the Kawa fishy business division. Are they funding the Nihon International scheme?”

“I do not know, Mike.”

“Yes you do, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Konu’s buddies on the fizzboat are the same mob you had dinner with on the Peace ship. It’s all private funding isn’t it? They want to wreck these talks because international pressure is forcing your government to kowtow on the fish exploitation...”

“Yes, that is...”

“Hang on.” They never let you finish the clever bit.

“So they try and delay the whole shebang...”

“Yes, that is...”

“And they know that it takes years to get all the bigwigs together, and so they’re safe for another whatever.” What else? “Yeah, and forty billion dollars a year in income is protected.”

Sarah had said that the Fishing unions were mostly run by Yakuza gangsters, who probably owned Kawa Communications. No doubt they’d put heaps of pressure on their delegate, further compromising the poor bastard by blowing up his cabin with a bomb. It all fitted perfectly! What a story!

I turned to her to apply the thumbscrews, but she was nodding enthusiastically. “I think that is correct, Mike.”

“And even it isn’t,” I said, “it’s still a damn good story!”

I told her to stay where she was while I searched for Sid. Then we both lay flat as a helicoptor swooped over the hill and hovered above us. We clutched each other and rolled right up to the stone wall. There was an enormous down draught as the machine settled and I looked up to see it disgorge a half dozen uniformed soldiers. Brutal looking bastards, this lot, not sloppy security guards hired from rent-a-yob. These guys would de-bone you just for fun. I’d seen types like them all over the world, men with craggy jaws and stone eyes; men with cruel lips and sharpened teeth. They were probably tough enough to play rugby league.

They fanned out around one of the cabins and two of their number entered. All the lights were on. I crawled a bit closer. Five minutes; six. The door suddenly opened and three civilians came out and took deep breaths. One of them bent over the balcony rail and vomited. What the hell was going on in there?

A horrible thought struck me. It couldn’t be Sid in there surely? What if they’d caught the poor sod and were interrogating him? Whizzkid reporter in Bhagdad. What had those Secret Police specialised in? Electric shocks to the genitals; bamboo under the fingernails; the dental drill into unanaesthetised teeth. They could be skinning Sid alive with flensing knives!

But maybe it wasn’t Sid. I’d be a fool to assume it. I’d be risking my own neck for nothing. They wouldn’t really hurt him. What could I do anyway? If I stayed here and heard him screaming...If I heard him screaming would I burst through the door and at least have a go at the murdering bastards? I was so fucking weak. I couldn’t punch a bloke in the head or execute a flying spin kick or even smack someone with an iron bar. I wasn’t trained for that. They’d slap me aside like a moth...and then I’d get the treatment...I couldn’t take a drill in the tooth. I felt myself shudder at the very thought. Sid would understand I had a responsibility to the team to get the story out, to let the public see just how devious their masters can be. Sid would understand; he knew the score.

Two of the civilians went back inside, but the third sat on the step and hung his head. Remorse is a total cop-out, mate. That makes you even more guilty. Those who stay and do nothing. Those who watch and do nothing.

There might be a life hereafter or you may come back as a goat. Either way, when you lose a friend, you lose them forever. Eternity. I didn’t even like the sound of the word. I might have another ten thousand mornings when I’d wake up and have to say to myself, well, I won’t meet you again, Sid. We had a good trot, sorry about that bit at the end.

I dropped down low as a group of security guards made their way to the main block. They were chatting away like kids on a school outing. They all shut up as they passed the granite-faced soldiers by the cabin, until finally one of them made a feeble joke to show how brave he was and how he didn’t give a fuck for the so-called professionals.

There was no way I could do anything now. I slithered back around another cabin and rose to my feet. One last look to torment myself. The delegates were filing out and being escorted back to their cabins. So it had been decided there was nothing to fear. Which meant they’d caught someone to blame it on and they were torturing him until he talked. Sid, you poor bastard.

I suddenly recoiled as a torch was thrust in my face.

“Well well well, I thought it was you. The intrepid fucking reporter.” He shone the torch on his own face, but I’d already recognized Joe’s American voice.

“Been watching you for five minutes, Mike. Now what are you up to?”

My throat had constricted with fright but immense willpower forced it open. “I was just passing by.”

“Aw yeah? And Sidney?”

“Who?”

“Me, you dozy berk!” Sid skipped over and grinned into my face.

“I thought you were dead! Or being tortured!”

“Come off it! I went and saw me old mate, Joe. The bastards were shooting out there!”

“You were lucky, buddy, that silly bastard was shooting at shadows.” Joe shook his head in sorrow.

“So what am I going to do with you guys?”

I thought an amazing number of thoughts and felt a flare of anger at Sid. I’d been tormenting myself needlessly and had found out something about myself that I hadn’t cared for. “Have you got a gun, Joe?”

“Come off it, buddy, I’m just a PR man.”

“Well goodbye then.”

“Hang on! Not so fast! You can’t fuck off just like that.”

“Why not? We haven’t broken any law.”

“Aw yeah? And what about the explosion? None of your doing?”

Sid snorted. “You know it’s not.”

Joe suddenly grinned. “Of course I do, you fuckwits. Have you never heard of infra-red? We been watching you suckers all fucking night!”

“You what?” I felt suddenly abused. “What do you mean?”

“Ah geezes, buddy, you guys are way out of your league, I warned you off. Look, just go home.”

Sid looked at me. “Well we will,” I said.

“Do that.”

“Yeah, get back on that old shitheap and sail way.”

“How did you know we were on that?” As if I couldn’t guess.

He snickered. “Your buddies from SPASO. They kept us informed. We had a bit of a laugh.”

“Who’s we?”

“Does it matter?”

“So the Kiwis have got you Yanks in their pockets. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Balls.”

“What did they do? Tell you they’d boot you out of your Deep Freeze base at Christchurch?”

“Ha fucking ha, what a laugh.”

“I hope you haven’t wet yourself,” said Sid.

Joe chuckled. “Who gives a shit what you think? I told you before, you guys were just fucking pawns. You don’t think we’d let you play hide and go seek all night if we hadn’t wanted you to?”

“Rubbish. What caused the explosion?”

“It’s under control. You don’t need to know that.”

I suddenly felt a bit nauseous. It was either the bang on the head or the humiliation of confirming that Monica and her buddies had set us up. We were the stupid scapegoats who were going to take the rap for leaking the secret agenda.

Sarah had picked it of course. Monica had been working with Daddy all along. As soon as the Kiwis realized that their ridiculously idealistic objectives weren’t going to be met, they faked up a bomb and moved the whole Conference. Then Daddy tells Monica that he has some secret info in his cabin, his unlocked cabin, fourth from the end on the right, and it would be very embarrassing if it was leaked to the media. Goodness me, what a terrible prospect, the public and the conservation groups would rise as one and demand that the original objectives be met. And then Monica says, hey, I’ve got an even better idea; let’s drag this PrimeLine mob along and then we can stick all the blame for the leak on them. I snorted. A coincidence that we’d met at Russell wharf? Hah!

We stood silently as a bunch of delegates pushed by. One or two of them glanced curiously at us but nothing was said. How could people be so devious? How could the New Zealanders do this to their trans-Tasman cousins? The bastards, it wouldn’t matter what we said; just being here was enough to make us look guilty.

“So what’s your story going to be?” asked Joe. The cabin lights were switched on and I could see the hunger in his eyes.

“You don’t need to know, Joe.”

“You’re wrong, buddy, think again.”

“It was a fucking loony with a Mickey Mouse bomb,” said Sid.

“Right on. Mind you, it wasn’t all that Mickey Mouse, it still killed someone, and they’re operating on the other poor fucker.”

It would be the Japanese delegate of course. Butterflies over Mount Fuji; the soul takes wing. Sid and I didn’t comment. What was there to say?

Joe nodded at our silence. “And it wasn’t Mickey Mouse either. It was a fibreglass gnome.”

“What?” we said.

“Yeah, the head was blown right off. One of those bloody garden gnomes stuffed with jelly or plastic. Simple bloody things. Shove in a detonator and set the time clock and wham! up she goes.”

“Fuck me dead,” said Sid.

“And me. How big would a bomb like that have to be?” So that’s what Konu and Mitsui were after...and Sid had thwarted them by sneaking it back. I’d actually slept with an explosive gnome!

“Half a pound. Quarter of a kilo. Big as your fist.” He looked warily at me. “Why? You guys know something about it?”

“Just wondered.”

“Whoever it was got it wrong. It exploded while he was placing it. We got a body bag full of raw meat back there.”

I gasped. Sid had fiddled with the time clock!

“Fuck me even deader,” said Sid.

Joe nodded. “The guy probably wanted to set it for early morning. I mean, geezes, would you think to check a garden gnome, Mike?”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Like I said before, you guys are well out of your league. If I was you I’d get on the crap heap and sail home to mom.”

“Taking the Hidden Agenda with us I suppose.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, buddy.”

We took a few steps, then Sid made the mistake of sniggering triumphantly. Joe stiffened.

“You guys don’t know anything else, do you?”

I looked over my shoulder. “Nothing at all, Joe. Isn’t that what you told us? We don’t know nothing.”

“Yeah.”

“We’d tell you otherwise, wouldn’t we Sid?”

He was ten metres ahead of me, scenting freedom and the bush. “We sure would, Joe old buddy.” He suddenly grinned. “Hey, have a nice day.”

We had a story to follow up.

22

Miko was watching the chopper pilot urinate onto a tree. She bleated when she saw us and the pilot turned around. “Just carry on, mate,” said Sid. I took Miko’s arm and we strolled across the grass and re-entered the bush. Everybody seemed to know who we were and nobody seemed to care.

We found the main trail and trotted along quietly. Sid stopped to negotiate a fallen tree trunk. “Geeze, we could get an award for all this, you know.”

“Maybe. If the bastards will screen it.” I meant PrimeLine and the network, but it had not been unknown for the Broadcast Association to flex its censorial muscle.

We came to the Bluff and waded into the water. The tide was higher now and the going harder. There was a gurgle behind me and I reached around and hauled Miko up. We took a breather on the bank and she tried to wring out her jacket. Sid took his off and wrapped it around her shoulders. They looked like grey ghosts in the fog and faint light of the coming dawn. I could see that Miko had been crying. Her face was dirty and streaked and she looked fragile and small.

“Not far to go,” I told her, “ten minutes maybe.”

She nodded. Sid shrugged. “And then what?”

“We get on board the Pelagius and devise a cunning plan.”

“And no-one will think to stop us?”

“Well.” I’d think of something, I always do.

Sarah and Hanada were waiting with the rowboat.

“About bloody time! What kept you?”

“Come off it!” I said. I helped Miko into the boat because she was shivering violently and she was so much wetter than the rest of us. Sid started to tell Sarah how he’d confronted Joe and made him spill the beans and to my surprise she actually listened. I had to do all the rowing of course, despite my crippling injuries. Between grunts of pain I told her about the bomb in the gnome and my cunning analysis of the fishy Kawa plot.

We passed through a patch of clear air and I caught a glimpse of the Ragamuffin lying still in the water. The big guy was up on deck lashing a small dinghy to the railing.

We docked against the stern of the Pelagius and clambered clumsily aboard. I thought I saw a huge fish swim under the rowboat, a fish as big as a man, but Sarah told me she wasn’t interested so stop fucking around and find some maps and things. There was a splash from up by the bow and I started to investigate. Sarah threw her shoe at me.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mike!”

“The big fish...”

“Fuck the big fish...get Konu and the other Jap up here pronto!”

I stomped down the stairs and found Konu cooking himself breakfast. “God she’s bossy,” I said.

“Hello Mike.”

“Hi. Where’s Mitsui? Is he asleep?”

“Mister Mitsui has just left. Can you see him?”

I looked through the window and saw our rowboat disappearing into the mist. Mitsui was hunched in the back and one of the Japanese guys who’d attacked me was rowing furiously. There was my big fish.

“Oh dear.”

Sarah roared like a lion. “You didn’t try to stop him then?”

Konu looked puzzled. “Mister Mitsui did not wish to stay. He was very eager to return.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I pointed out. “Who was it who saw the fish? Who was it who didn’t want to know? I said it was a big one...”

“Shut up, Mike. Bugger bugger bugger!”

We scrambled back on deck and peered over the rail. One of Mitsui’s minions had obviously survived the explosion and returned to rescue his boss. That added a whole new dimension to things; I wanted us to be the ones who handed Mitsui over to the authorities...we could be heroes! They couldn’t touch us then. We’d have the moral highground; we’d have exclusive footage; we’d have monster ratings; we’d have an international award! Mathews would be thoroughly shafted!

The fog still lay thick and heavy on the water, but a thin grey light was seeping into the bowl of the harbour. If Mitsui’s fizzboat escaped There’d be hell to pay. There was no way we could now justify a delay in turning them in. Unless we captured the bastard again! Surely it was worth an attempt? Bloody Mathews was breathing right down our necks.

Sid ambled up with a plate of rice and stood next to me.

“Hey,” he said, “I can hear a motor.”

The three of us leaned over and craned our ears into the fog. Surely it had to be the patrol launch punching its way towards us, towards us and Mitsui’s fizzboat.

“I don’t think it is,” said Sarah.

“It wasn’t that one I meant anyway,” said Sid. “Look, what d’ya reckon?”

We followed the line of his horrible gnarled finger and I thought I saw something dark burbling towards us. I leaned over as far as I could, black rubber. Four heads. Captain Cabbage’s stupid hat.

“Prepare to repel boarders!” cried Sid. He leapt up on the side and hurled his plate of rice at them. There was a curse and the motor speeded up, then a surprisingly solid bump as they rammed us. Sid charged as they boarded. It must have been the energy from the rice, because Sarah and I had only enough strength to lean back against the rail and watch him get swatted aside by the four SPASO members. He lay there moaning, and I’m sure I saw Turnball give him a sneaky kick when he thought no-one was looking.

Our Japanese contingent were huddled in the companionway hiding behind each other. Sarah stomped across and picked Sid up. Captain Terry turned and spittled at me. “What in the bloody hell was he trying to prove?”

I took a belligerent step forward. “You guys have got a lot of explaining to do!”

Monica stepped between us. “Come on, Terry, get moving! Just shut up, Mike!”

Gretel and Turnball immediately started their rope pulling act and Captain Terry leapt to the wheel. I grabbed Monica by the arm. “We can get them,” I told her. “They haven’t moved yet!”

Sarah was ushering Hanada and his camera to the bow and Miko trotted along beside them carrying the tripod. Konu was probably downstairs washing the dishes.

Monica pulled her arm free. “Don’t be silly, Mike, we have to get moving.”

“Of course we do. Over there...is that them?” I peered desperately into the lifting gloom and I was pretty sure I could see the fizzboat.

“We’re sailing out!”

“No we’re not!”

“We are! Thank your lucky stars you’re with us or you wouldn’t have a show!”

“Hey? I don’t have a lucky star. I don’t have a secret agenda either! Those guys blew up Piggy! They’re the ones we want, c”mon....” I turned to Cabbage Head. “C’mon Captain, turn the motor on and ram the bastards!”

Where was Sid? Hanada had set the camera up and Sarah was cursing at the sun because it was rising so slowly. It would be terrible if we rammed the fizzboat and it was too dark to film. Monica had moved next to Captain Terry and they were ignoring me. There was a rattling sound and the anchor started to rise. Turnball was heaving at the winch bar and had roped Gretel in to help. The mainsail billowed and flapped like a monstrous albino bat. Where was Sid?

I stuck my head down into the cabin and saw Konu and Sid eating noodles and sausages. “You lazy sods! Get up and give us a hand, we’re going to ram!”

I skittered back to the wheel and reached past Monica for the ignition button. Captain Terry smashed my arm down. “Leave that fucker alone or you’re off, mate.”

“We need speed! Full power ahead. Hit them before they pull their anchor up!”

Gretel sheeted in the mainsail and the boat was suddenly alive. Tendrils of mist swirled around the hundreds of ropes that hung down everywhere. I turned to Monica. “We’re going so slowly that we’ll just bounce off them and then they’ll put the boot down and race off. C’mon, we’ve got justice on our side!” Which was probably true, but mostly I wanted to avenge our humiliation.

Sarah hooted and I looked up to see a line of gold ease its way above the hills. Just give us ten minutes and we’d be heroes. Sid was suddenly beside me with a noodle hanging from his teeth, and I told him he was in luck because he could redeem himself by performing a simple task. He looked suspiciously at me. “Like what?”

“Simps. Captain Cabbage Head is being a wimp...”

Monica snorted. I’d forgotten she was there. “Grow up, you two. We can sail out of the harbour but no-one else can. Haven’t you worked it out yet?”

“Of course I have.”

“They’re blocking the harbour mouth to all boats in or out. If we go now, they’ll turn a blind eye.”

“Aw yeah? Why’s that?” sneered Sid.

“Never you mind.”

“Because of Daddy,” I told him, “and because they’ve got the agenda notes.”

Turnball snicked in the anchor chain and approached us. Monica waved him back and because he was a pathetic creature he went and helped Gretel pull another rope.

I still couldn’t understand why we didn’t have the motor going; there was hardly any wind and what there was seemed to be blowing the wrong way. Captain Terry steered us around in a half circle, and just for a moment I thought he’d relented and we were heading for Mitsui’s fizzboat.

Monica grinned at my disappointment. “You should be happy with what you’ve got, Mike. We are.” She touched my arm and I shivered. Last time she’d done that we’d been standing in front of her mirror. “They won’t get away. They’ll be picked up as soon as it’s light.”

“I know that, of course,” I sniffed. Everyone knew that. Otherwise I would have dobbed them in to Joe, because I’m a responsible sort of bloke...but we’d be sailing out of the harbour when all that happened, while Mathews would be right amongst the thick of it getting all the good pikkies.

And if everyone in the whole world could work that out, so could Mitsui. I peered over at the fizzboat and heard the ominous rattle of an anchor chain being hauled up. Sid punched me. “The bastards are making a break for it!” Sarah shrieked something unintelligible and I could see Hanada balancing high on the rail to get a better camera position. I shrugged my shoulders at her and she waved her fist back at me. “Stop them! Get over there and stop them!”

Sid didn’t hesitate. He bounded across to Terry and threw him aside. Monica clawed at him as he spun the wheel and I saw Turnball out of the corner of my eye as he dashed across to help her. I stuck out a foot and he sprawled onto the deck. Boot my old buddy Sid would you...? I kicked him a short distance and was moving in for the kill when iron bars wrapped themselves around my neck and brought me to my knees. I could feel hot Dutch breath on my neck and the powerful thrust of Gretel’s muscular breasts into my back. Where do these vegetarians get all their strength?

I caught a glimpse of the main sail flapping madly overhead and a dark shadow swooped down at me. Then I was being dragged to my feet by Sarah and pushed towards the stern. My vision began to clear. Miko was holding the directional microphone in one hand and supporting Hanada’s precarious position with the other. Sarah pushed me further and I almost fell over the stern. I squeaked.

“Jump in, you idiot!”

“Hey...?”

“Jump, you stupid bugger!”

“But I’m on your side!” I croaked. Then Sid linked his arm in mine and Sarah booted us both over the rail.

I landed on a black, rubbery jellyfish. “Help,” I wheezed. Sid’s knee thumped into my head and I sobbed with the pain. I was bleeding yet again. Most of him was sprawled next to me, but his boney legs were thrashing in the water. I heaved weakly and he popped aboard. “Motor,” he gurgled. “Start the fucking motor!”

We were in the rubber dinghy of course, which was the exact plan I’d had in mind for Sid. Start the motor; rip across to the fizzboat; sabotage their propeller; quickly move out of camera shot; then watch in glee as the Pelagius rammed and boarded her. Sarah must have decided I was a more reliable saboteur.

We got the motor started but couldn’t see where to go. The fog was dissipating but was still above my head if I sat down. So I stood up. The sky was streaked with golden rays of sunlight, quite pretty really, and look at that white seagull. Marvellous. My head wasn’t hurting anymore. Sid was cursing at nothing in particular and was missing all this beauty. That old seagull would have a good view all right. Wouldn’t it be great to be a bird swooping and gliding over the harbour? Like looking down on a great pinball machine; where that bloke with the concussed head sticking up out of the fog would be the ball, and the boats would be the things that went ping! Bong! Patong!

I directed us away from the Pelagius, which didn’t seem to be going anywhere at the moment. I could see the sun glinting off the fizzboat’s stub mast and, sickeningly, I could see the superstructure of the Ragamuffin moving towards us.

I told Sid to turn to starboard, no, I meant the other way. There was a dieselly cough behind us, and a lot of yelling, which meant that someone had got the Pelagius’s motor working but it hadn’t been a co-operative exercise. The Ragamuffin loomed over us and I could see the tall guy craning his head forward as he steered. He hadn’t even seen us. The fizz-boat’s engine roared and it seemed to swing around to point in our direction. They must have pulled the anchor up and were now readying themselves for the dash to freedom.

I slumped down next to Sid and he idled the motor.

“We here, Mike?”

“Who knows? Don’t turn that thing off!” He had a twitchy hand. “I think we’re in the middle of a converging triangle. Say A, B, and C. That’s them. ‘A’ is Mathews, ‘B’ is Mitsui, and ‘C’ is our lot. No, let’s call us A and them B, C, and D. The seagull would see it best, but we of course can’t see it at all.”

“You okay, mate?”

“We’re in the shit.”

I scrounged through the seat locker and found a life jacket. Only one? What about Sid? And aren’t they supposed to have chocolate rations in these things? I was starving. I looked up to see Sid tying on the jacket and beaming with relief, the selfish swine. I rummaged further and found a flare gun and some flares. I found a bit of strong rope that we could wrap around Mitsui’s propeller. And then I looked up and found the fizzboat about two metres away.

We screamed and clutched each other. The fizzboat was crawling along at only a couple of knots, but it was still pretty terrifying when you were way down low on a bit of rubber about the size of an inflated condom and the other guy had the only lifejacket. A Japanese head plunged down at us through the fog and jerked back. All three of us screamed, and then they bumped us aside and left us wallowing in the chop. I grabbed the throttle and twisted it open. We both screamed again as we were flung back and nearly overboard by the massive acceleration. I twisted the throttle back, but too late, as we ran slap into their stern. We’d be chopped to pieces by their propeller!

Sid was a cowardly ball in the bottom of the dinghy and I hit him with the flare gun because he was weighing us down. I didn’t want to drown in this rotten harbour! We must have become tangled in their stern because they started to push us off with a long boathook. I could see the twisted fury in Mitsui’s eyes and, more chillingly, the hard expressionless face of his offsider. The bastards wanted us to drown! I scrambled to my feet and aimed the flare gun. “I’ll shoot! Leave us alone!”

They froze. I could blow their heads off from this distance and I should, but there was no need because we’d already stopped them dead with our kamikaze attack. I took a quick look around and was cheered to hear Sarah’s triumphant cry as the Pelagius bore down on us.

Then Mitsui bellowed with anger. He snatched the boathook from his offsider and took an almighty swipe at me. I ducked behind Sid and laughed mockingly as it missed. Sid shrieked with pain. “Shoot the bastard, Mike!”

The Pelagius was twenty metres away and I could see Hanada up on his perch filming avidly. Miko was even higher in the rigging pointing the directional microphone right at me. Oh rare opportunity! I cleared my throat: “This is your last chance, you agents of Kawa Communications, Fish exploitation division; surrender to PrimeLine, the voice of the people....”

My finger slipped. I swear my finger slipped. In fact it was Sid’s fault because he tried to stand up and steal my limelight. The flare whooshed out of the barrel, went straight between the two Japanese, then flew spectacularly into the cabin. There was one of those horrible deathly pauses that occur when you know you’ve made a shocker and the very worst thing that can possibly happen is the thing that is going to happen. The fizzboat blew up.

I found myself being propelled across the harbour on a sinking rubber dinghy. The explosion had blown the fog right away, and there was a lovely blue sky up there. I waved weakly to the passing seagull and listened to the gentle sound of blood trickling out of me. By turning my heavy head, I could see the Pelagius drifting down the harbour with its main sail glowing in the brilliant sunshine. Or was that fire? Who cared.

I was sinking slowly. My feet were wet, my knees were wet. Soon I’d slide down into the depths and join the slaughtered bodies of those ancient mariners. Perhaps I would be reincarnated again, or maybe I already had been. Fate had driven me back to this desolate harbour, and was that not the good ship Boyd burning to the waterline and drifting down to Red Island?

I sighed. It hadn’t been much of a life. The good bits were always going to be around the next corner. The winning tattslotto ticket; the woman of my dreams; the elusive award. My hips were in the water now, and I started to slide off the deflated rubber. Why bother hanging on? I managed a weak chuckle, maybe Mathews would one day drink the bit of water I drowned in and it would choke him. I chuckled again.

“Yeah, Mathews,” I said. “I’ll get you yet.”

“Well in that case you’d better hang on to this,” he said, and a boathook snagged my shirt.

23

It had to be Sid because of my head bandage. Sarah had painted the helmet black, with yellow swastikas, and Sid looked positively menacing as he stomped toward the marquee in his jackboots. “I hope he doesn’t overdo it with that stupid monocle,” she said.

Piggott had registered mixed feelings about our brilliant story. Naturally we’d lost the Kawa sponsorship, and I didn’t think we’d be working in New Zealand again. Piggott wanted to know why we’d let UpFront get the story as well; how could we be so careless? I said that we hadn’t been careless, in fact we’d been heroes. Look at my head, that’s the head of a hero. He’d said no it wasn’t, it was the head of a careless idiot who’d lost a piece of very valuable sound equipment, not to mention two boats, one rubber dinghy and the whole Japanese market.

Two more neo-fascists arrived and went over to the marquee. Sid emerged and glared at them through his monocle. Rumour had it that they were coming from all over Australia for this rally. Pathetic.

There was no way this could be called the Greater Arena. I’d had it out with Piggott; in fact I told him I was prepared to quit. We’d got him the story and it was a beauty. All right, the Conference hadn’t been an unqualified success, but ‘many differences had been resolved’ and there was always next year’s conference in Copenhagen. The boating accident could have happened anywhere, and no-one would ever know the true story of Piggy...I mean Ronald the gnome’s explosive belly. There was no proof that Sid had altered the timing mechanism, in fact he might have saved lives. Things like that should be taken into account. Okay, Mathews had shot exclusive footage of his noble rescue efforts, but fair’s fair; it wouldn’t hurt to give us a pat on the back and a fatter wage cheque.

The Pelagius had grounded itself safely on the little island across from the Whangaroa hotel, right where the ancient Boyd had ended up. Sarah took the credit for that. Help had been raised by Sid, who had unerringly dog paddled his way to the pub wharf.

Mitsui and his mate were history; another accidental gas cylinder explosion. When would the boating public ever learn? Konu went back to Japan to accept his loss of face, accompanied by Hanada and Miko, who swore undying friendship, then no doubt forgot about us as soon as they boarded the plane.

The SPASO people had been a little upset about the damage to their crappy old boat, but cheered up when Sarah reminded them how much publicity Greenpeace had received over the sinking of the Rainbow Warrior. Sid told them that he’d seen a frogman swimming around underwater, or it may have been an amphibious alien, sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.

No-one had cared at all about my head. It still gave me a bit of pain, but a bigger pain by far was Fenola’s story about the top Rugby League player who’d tested positively for HIV. She had footage of just about every player in the League lining up outside the testing clinic.

Of course Piggott couldn’t leave that out, sorry folks, we’ll have to do a little cutting and pruning on your story. That was when I told him I was going to quit. He then offered to recommend me to a colleague of his who needed someone to compose questions for his new quiz show. Was I interested? I told him that I’d give him one more chance and so where was this interesting story about the big neo-fascist rally?

Sarah yawned. “You know, I think I might have a little snooze.”

“Go ahead.” Sid was showing a woman his Nazi dagger.

“I will then.” She eyed me suspiciously. “You won’t take advantage will you, Mike?”

I thought about the jellyfish principle. The jellyfish was just a glob of jelly that didn’t care where it went or what it did, but happily took advantage of the wind and the currents; and the only time it even knew it was alive was when it bumped into something more solid than itself. Obvious parallels wobbled into my brain. Except we didn’t even have the advantage of friendly winds or kindly currents to propel us; no favours were ever handed out to the players in our game.

“Me take advantage?” I said. “I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

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