Blood Is a Stranger (19 page)

‘You didn't need to tidy up for the occasion,' she said, eyeing his filthy appearance.

She took him by the hand and led him to Perdonny, who was tucked away in the corner behind a mountain of half-eaten dishes.

‘You had us worried,' Perdonny said. He pulled out a chair.

‘I had me worried,' Cardinal said and then related the harrowing last hour.

Rhonda offered him tea and food. He declined for the moment.

‘The man needs whisky,' Perdonny said.

‘The man needs scrubbing.' Rhonda laughed.

Perdonny snapped his fingers and waiters ran to him. When the drink arrived, Cardinal poured himself a double, consumed it and then eyed the food. As the alcohol calmed him, he began to pick at some chicken.

‘We have some good news,' Rhonda said, trying to humour him. ‘Robert has been able to get a file on the Kampuchean.'

Cardinal remembered he had one of the sketches with him. He pulled out the crumpled page and smoothed it on the table. Perdonny made room for photos he pulled from a pocket.

‘Where did you get these?' Cardinal asked.

Perdonny explained how he had planted a contact inside the Khmer Rouge camp at the old Embassy
building.

‘I think they are the same bloke,' Rhonda said. Cardinal told them about the man in Utun's limousine.

Perdonny poured them both more whisky.

‘You say you have a file on him?' Cardinal prompted.

‘As yet, very thin,' Perdonny said. ‘No one has much on these Kampucheans.'

‘ “These” Kampucheans?'

‘He's a Khmer Rouge,' Perdonny said, leaning forward. ‘One of their key people.'

‘Name?'

‘He is only known as Chan, although that may not be his Kampuchean name. He was one of Pol Pot's right-hand men. In 1975 Chan was in charge of liquidating about one million of his own people, maybe more. They were the so-called professional classes, which included anyone who was basically literate. Chan is about sixty-five. He was trained in France in the early 1950s first as a scientist, then later in languages. We believe he studied at the Sorbonne. He got involved with Pol Pot in Paris where they were part of a small clique.'

Cardinal downed his fresh whisky.

‘China and the US have been supporting the Kampucheans against the Soviet Union, and the Vietnamese,' Perdonny said. ‘The Kampucheans include a loose alliance of Prince Sihanouk's forces and the Khmer Rouge.'

Cardinal began to fill his plate with food. His hunger for information quickened his appetite.

‘So you are telling me the US has a link with the Khmer Rouge?' he said, with a glance at Rhonda. ‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘That's because you're an ail-American boy, Mom, apple pie and the flag,' Rhonda said. ‘We did see Blundell meet this guy last night.'

‘I prefer pecan pie,' Cardinal replied, keeping his cool, ‘but how could we get mixed up with people like that?'

‘Your country is so determined to fight communists it
will use the worst elements of the ideology to do it,' Perdonny said.

Cardinal didn't like the remark. He began to eat.

‘Tell me more about your interview with Van der Holland,' he said to Rhonda.

‘She's not Utun's biggest fan,' Rhonda said. ‘Tien implied that Utun's pressure on their business operations killed her husband.'

‘Then Hartina may be here against her will?'

‘Could be.'

‘I've got to speak with her.'

‘It's impossible,' Rhonda said, looking at Perdonny for support. ‘Her home is heavily guarded.'

‘But you got in,' Cardinal said. ‘She is the only one who really knows what happened at Lucas Heights. Hartina could tell me if this guy Chan was involved with Harry's death.'

‘There's a chance I could arrange something,' Perdonny said. ‘Each year Tien goes to the Soviet Union's October Celebration at the Embassy. Perhaps if Hartina was to receive a special invitation, you could meet her there.'

‘How would I get there?' Cardinal asked.

Perdonny worked up a smile. ‘I could arrange that.'

Perdonny organised one of his men to drive them to the edge of Chinatown where a taxi was waiting.

‘How well do you know Robert?' Cardinal asked Rhonda. The taxi took them on a cautious route through the city which bore the scars of the night's battles. Overturned cars were smouldering. Fire fighters and police were everywhere, and the streets emptied of civilians as they drove closer to the city centre.

‘I trust him,' she said.

‘I can see that,' Cardinal said, ‘but can I?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘As journalist and spy, you too can be mutually
beneficial.'

‘Perdonny is no spy!'

‘Pardon me. Intelligence officer then?'

‘You didn't like what he said about the Americans.'

‘True,' Cardinal said ‘but that's not what I mean.'

‘You can trust Robert.'

Cardinal lit a cigar.

‘Apart from Canberra, who else does he spy for?'

‘I don't know.'

‘C'mon Rhonda! You must have some idea.'

‘I've never asked.'

‘I think he probably works for the Russians.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘For one thing, he is anti-American.' Rhonda protested.

‘So how come he says he can arrange for Tien to be at a Soviet Embassy Revolution party, let alone me – an American?' Cardinal said.

‘Does it matter?'

‘It may to me.'

‘Why?'

‘It depends on what I do here.' The whisky had tired him. ‘Still, if he can get me to see Hartina, that will be a start.'

‘And if you do, and she confirms that Chan was responsible for your son's murder, what then? What will you do?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You can hardly go to your own Embassy.'

‘Well I sure as hell won't be going to the Russians for help!' he snapped.

Rhonda sensed a frustration in Cardinal's mood, which she guessed might spill into desperation. She had not seen that side of him.

‘Would you want to see Chan dead?' she pushed.

‘Sure, I would.'

‘Would you do it yourself?'

‘Hey, what is this?' Cardinal said angrily. ‘You getting a great story?'

‘No!'

He had touched a sensitive issue. She was thinking ahead to a scoop. His insight disturbed her, for his elusive charm was somehow having an effect on her. There would be a conflict of interests if she got too close. She had his trust, and that was vital if he was going to co-operate in any news story.

The driver began to pull over.

‘Hey!' Cardinal said, ‘we want the . . .' He could see a police vehicle and a jeep with soldiers in it close behind them. ‘Shit!'

Two policemen yelled abuse at the driver, who bowed his head in apology.

‘The curfew,' Rhonda whispered to Cardinal. ‘I think they're angry because of that.'

‘Bastards,' Cardinal mumbled and got out of the taxi before she could restrain him.

‘Anyone speak English,' Cardinal said.

‘Me do,' one of the soldiers said, as three policemen approached Cardinal.

‘Near enough,' Rhonda said, with a nervous giggle.

‘Okay,' Cardinal said to the soldier, ‘tell these guys, I hired this man. It was my fault he came through here at this hour. I was very late. Got it. My fault.'

The soldier explained. An argument began between the police and the soldiers.

‘Please,' Cardinal said, addressing the soldier, ‘can't you take us to our hotel? We want to get off the streets.'

The soldier waved him back into the taxi. He spoke curtly to the police and then motioned the taxi on. The soldiers' jeep followed them on the couple of kilometres to Rhonda's hotel.

‘Don't come in,' she said. ‘They'll be monitoring my movements.'

Cardinal leaned towards her. ‘Sorry we argued. It's just that I'm not prepared to trust any of these Intelligence people.' He caught her by surprise by kissing her full on
the mouth. She was embarrassed, and she began to get out.

‘I did that for the audience,' he said. ‘Better they think we've had a good night out.'

‘Yes, but with a tongue kiss?' Rhonda quipped. She gave him a whimsical smile and moved off to the front entrance. She turned to watch Cardinal's taxi and its escort of soldiers and police crawl off along Jalan Thamrin. Rhonda pushed through the revolving door and headed for the lift. She was conscious of movement either side of her.

‘Ms Mills?' a voice said from behind. She turned to see a thick-jowelled Javanese in dark glasses. Moments later she was surrounded by other men.

‘Yes?' she said, feeling alarmed.

The man stepped forward and held up an ID that she did not recognise. She assumed they were police.

‘We would like a word, please.'

‘Who are you?' Rhonda said, standing her ground.

She spoke loudly and looked around at the reception desk. One clerk had his head buried in a register. Other staff seemed to have made themselves scarce.

‘Police.'

Rhonda made a move towards the clerk and called for his help. Two of the men grabbed her by the arms and dragged her to the lift. The clerk watched but made no move to help.

The distant roar of engines shattered the stillness of the night. A Hercules transporter, winging low over Arnhem Land, aimed for the airstrip at Richardson's Ginga mine. The hastily assembled runway lights were on full for the landing. A minute after touching down it nosed up to the building known as the vault. The hatch was lowered. Fork-lift trucks began hoisting steel drums into the plane.

Burra's son Silas could see the activity from a vantage
point high on the escarpment where he and four others had made camp. Burra had asked them to keep watch through the night because of unprecedented moves at the mine in the twenty-four hours since the trucking convoy had been turned away from the Aboriginal reserve.

Bididgee people had spotted the arrival of light planes and the coming and going of Richardson's executive jet. Burra suspected that Richardson might try to get the yellowcake out by truck and roadtrain again, and he had kept fifty of his people on shift around the clock at Cahill's Crossing to block any such move. An airlift had seemed unlikely because the runway had only been built for light planes. But just in case Richardson had become desperate, Burra had sent the observers.

They watched in awe as forty black uniformed figures filed down a ramp from the front of the cabin and formed a circle around the Hercules. They stood motionless with rifles resting on their hips as an equal number of Richardson's mine staff filled the plane with the drums, which Silas and the other Aborigines knew contained the precious golden uranium ore.

Silas told his companions to keep watch while he made a fifteen kilometre dash by jeep to the Bididgee township to alert his father.

Burra collected his rifle and jumped into his ute.

‘Get Topfish, Blina, and Murra Murra,' he ordered his son. ‘Head for the mine! Tell them to take rifles!'

‘I want to come with you,' Silas said. Burra was alerted by the sound of a car coming uncertainly down the road. It was Tom Beena's XJ6 Jaguar. It wobbled to a halt at Topfists's shack about a hundred metres from them.

‘Get in!' Burra said and drove up to the Jaguar. Beena was helping Topfist out. They were both drunk.

‘We've been celebratin',' Beena said as he shouldered the other man to his front door and dumped him on the doorstep. He began banging on the door.

Burra leapt out of the ute. He was furious. He pulled
the bigger man around to face him. ‘Been at the club?'

Beena staggered towards his car to pull a second Aborigine out, another of his drinking companions. ‘You should have seen the crowd tonight.'

Burra stopped him from dragging the second black to the door. ‘You did this deliberately! You knew about the bloody airlift!'