Gone Tropical (25 page)

“Mr. Salim,” the first agent said, lifting the man’s I.D. up, and dropping it onto the table.

“We have your information, got a profile on you.” He hesitated for a beat or two. “Other than this recent offense, your record is perfect. You come clean with us, and we can cut you a deal.”

The man’s eyes widened, looking like they’d pop out of their sockets any minute. His lips moved as if in silent prayer. He was of the Muslim faith. Jake was sure he was indeed praying.

The second agent leaned across the table. “May we call you Hadi?”

The man nodded and swallowed hard a few times, his Adams apple bobbed up and down and the veins in his neck were distended and the tendons tight.

“So, Hadi, give us the name of the man you’re working for. Tell us what his operation is, what you know of his security, and your sentence is reduced.”

Hadi said nothing.

“Want a cigarette?” the first agent asked.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

The officer undid one side of the cuff and linked one of Hadi’s arms to the chair arm freeing only the right hand. He gave him the cigarette, lit it for him, and then sat.

“We’ve been in touch with Interpol,” the second agent said. “We can extradite you to Indonesia, or you can be tried here.”

“Here,” Hadi said quickly. “I am Australian.” He straightened in his chair, took a drag on the cigarette and coughed.

The first agent smiled. “Yeah, it’s a bit rough in your mother country. Firing squad for drug offenses…last time I saw the stats, you had sixty foreign drug traffickers in the prison in Jakarta, all awaiting their turn. They don’t take drug issues lightly over there.”

The second agent sat back in his chair. “So what ya’ smuggling?” he asked finally. “We know you’re involved with narkoba. What is it? Ecstacy, shabu-shabu, putaw?”

Hadi stared at the table top.

Jake looked at Sarge. “What’s putaw?”

“Low grade heroine. Heroine and opium are on the increase over there. Some is smuggled through what they call the Golden Crescent.”

“Which is?”

“Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran. Some traffickers are from Africa, some from Australia, a lot of the stuff gets shunted through Bali. But most is from the Crescent. Many traffickers learn the language and marry Indonesian women, as a cover. Hang on.” He nodded toward the window.

The man had turned back to the agents.

Jake nodded at Sarge. Hadi was weakening, he could tell by the posturing, he was squirming in his chair, crossing, uncrossing his legs, puffing quickly at the cigarette. The federal agents had everything under control, but Jake knew it might take several of these sessions before they finally broke him.

There was loyalty to whatever the man’s main drive was. Not Firth, or Braxton, or whatever operation they had going on there, that was second-tier. Jake was sure this involved something bigger to Hadi. He seemed torn. His eyes moved from one agent to the next. If faith was involved, if some radical sect was involved, if this was part of a terrorist movement, the man would die before giving information.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jake said. He picked up the report. “We know who’s involved. You’ve got clearance to arrest Firth for other reasons. Let’s go get him.”

“Yeah. Braxton is these blokes’ problem,” Sarge said. “Firth is ours.”

They walked down the long hall, their steps widening as they neared the front doors.

“I’ll have them patch through a call at the front desk. We’ll double-check how many are still on the island,” Sarge said.

“Good idea.”

“I’ll make it look like a call to see if everyone is safe out there.”

“Excellent. Boat or copter?”

“I checked. Seas are a bit rough, but they’re okay right now. Don’t get seasick, do ya’?”

Jake shook his head. “I think boat is the best choice.”

“Yeah, we’ll be over and back within a couple of hours. One of my mates has an eighteen foot tinny. It’ll draw less interest than a coast guard boat.”

“A tinny?”

“Aluminum speed boat.”

“Good. We’ll look like we’re on a fishing trip,” Jake said then pursed his lips. “Think we’re rushing it?”

“Nah. We’ll go check it out. See what we can uncover. If we find it’s a huge operation, we turn it over to these blokes in Cairns and they’ll get back-up from Brisbane. If the opportunity is there to nab our boy, we take it.”

“Let’s go then.”

****

Amy turned the jeep into the top end of the unpaved road leading back to Bungumby. There was no sign of the blue jeep. She couldn’t be far behind him, could she? He’d had his lights on. How come she saw no taillights?

He must be speeding, but why would he do that, on this road, under these conditions?

Her heart rate sped up, thinking of the man hitting the water in the creek at high speed. She took the slight rise in the road, saw the yellow sign warning of a bump ahead, saw the sign for the creek and pulled up. The vehicle was nowhere in sight.

Damn. That was a waste of time.

He must have made it across and was already headed to Bungumby.
Nothing for it but to reverse all the damn way back to the highway. With a darn crick in her neck and sweat trickling down her chest from looking behind her as she reversed, she saw red taillights deep in the forest.

How odd, how would the vehicle have gotten in there? She pulled up, switched off the headlights, and the engine, and walked to where tracks of a vehicle were clear in the damp earth. A huge branch of a tree hung low and a fallen tree trunk blocked the rough track into the forest.

Amy walked over and lifted the end of the tree trunk. It was light enough, maybe for a man to move sideways. She didn’t like blocking the road with her jeep but she had to investigate. She dropped the log back into place and stepped into the forest over the trunk. Several tracks could be seen in the mud. The evidence of flattened brush and broken branches showed a vehicle had been through here several times recently. Maybe even several vehicles had passed through here.

While part of her wanted to follow, trace those tracks, she knew it would be stupid. She was deep enough into the forest as it was. She heard sounds of animals moving, an occasional snap of a twig, and the twitter of birds. Something fluttered past her face and she drew in a breath. Her heart pounded again and she smiled and got control. It was just a butterfly, a beautiful dark blue butterfly.

Amy glanced around. She’d learned from her experience with the creepy man. She didn’t stand a chance against men with guns. She shuddered. Was this a camp? Had the creepy man not been working alone? She tried to get her bearings, what would be beyond the creek, on the right side of the road into Bungumby and adjacent to the highway? She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture the layout of the resort. The lagoon would be this way, and the waterfall. This creek probably flowed into the natural spring that fed the falls.

Could the man have been Firth? All she’d seen was gray hair. He had gray hair. Amy’s heart pounded again. Okay, she needed Jake.

Brian could pick up Diana, and she could stay in Cairns with him. She’d go back to Bungumby and call Jake or Sarge. She hurried through the underbrush toward the unsealed road, twigs snapping, and wet leaves hitting her in the face. She didn’t care. She was almost positive it was Firth. It had to be him.

Now she had a real plan. They’d do this together. They’d capture Firth together, and it would be enough that she’d uncovered his whereabouts. There was nothing left to prove to her father. Respect isn’t given by another, or even earned, it’s something central to your core. She respected herself. She climbed over the fallen tree trunk and ran to the car.

“Amy,” a male voice said.

She turned, faltered. Firth stepped around from behind her jeep. One hand was behind his back as he strode toward her, and he had an odd smile on his face. She tried to speak but her mouth went dry. He was almost beside her. Every nerve ending said “run” but she froze.

Then he shoved her against the side of the jeep and raised a tree branch. A tremendous cracking sound coursed through her ears, and pain and blackness enveloped her, and she slid deep into a huge black cavern.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sarge cut the engine on the boat, and they floated into a small cove on the north shore of Braxton Island—a coral atoll east of Cairns—a mere forty miles from the mainland. In front of them, Jake noticed the virgin white sands showed no sign of human habitation.

Seaweed scattered over the edge of the beach, and there were many fallen palm fronds. It was a good sign. Nobody had been this way in a long time. The seas were rough and not turquoise as he’d imagined they’d be, probably the result of the cyclone. The water was almost muddy from the force of the waves crashing and kicking up the sand.

Their little boat dipped and almost flipped him out. He slipped the AFP backpack onto his shoulders. The boat eased into a tiny inlet with heavy overgrowth of vegetation along its edges. The sand and salt stung his legs when he jumped out into two or three feet of water, and he battled to pull the boat ashore. Nothing but the last cyclone had disturbed this beach. That pleased him. What awaited them on the other side of the island was anyone’s guess.

“Jake,” Sarge said softly. “Hang on a bit. We need to hide this thing. Think we can push it up onto the beach?”

Jake rubbed his chest, sure there was a fractured rib, but he hadn’t had time to strap it. It could be a torn intercostal muscle; those things hurt like a son of a bitch. He’d had one once before.

“I doubt anyone will be around these parts in this storm, but we can’t risk losing our only way off the island,” Sarge said, hopping out onto the sand and scratching at his jaw. “We need to get it under cover. Up there in the forest.”

“Can we cover our tracks?”

“Tide will eventually.” Sarge picked up a stiff palm frond and swept at the sand back and forth over their footprints.

Not too bad. It was better than nothing. “So, what, we drag the boat the shortest distance, maybe to where the forest floor juts out a bit and hide it?”

“Yeah, you pull, I’ll push,” Sarge said and got behind the boat.

It was damn hard going and Jake was in a sweat. He swiped his brow, and thought how a swim would be good about now. There were deep tracks in the sand from the weight of the boat.

“Now we go back and sweep all of the freakin’ sand?” he asked glaring over at Sarge.

“Nah, I’ll do it,” Sarge said. “Fewer footprints to cover. You hide the boat with palm fronds, at least at this end, and tie it up securely to a sturdy tree. I’ll toss a few fronds around down there, cover the marks from the bottom of the boat. I’ll toss some seaweed, too. You do whatever you can. I’ll walk backwards, sweep behind me as I come back up the beach.”

Jake raised his brows. “Okay.” The island was covered with more vegetation than he’d imagined. On the other side was a large palatial main house set back almost to the edge of the dense landscape in a tiny cove. Several other smaller buildings were beside the house, and then six individual houses, on stilts, were set on the edge of the sand.

The photograph on the website showed manicured gardens surrounding the houses, with groupings of palm trees. There was a dock, a helipad, one road that ran only halfway around the island, and the rest was rain forest. There were security cameras, motion detector lights. He’d seen the layout of the island when it was faxed over to the police station by Coastal Watch.

The message from search and rescue had been that Col Braxton, one of his “employees,” and one helicopter pilot, were the only people on the island. All other personnel and all guests had been evacuated the night before. Braxton had stated they were in no danger and was not about to evacuate. He said he had a private copter ready to go if need be.

Jake eyed the dense foliage. No way were they going to be able to get to the compound, get back to the boat, then to Cairns and then back to Bungumby by noon. Maybe noon tomorrow. He felt for his knife. Good thing they’d left a request to send a copter over to Bungumby. Everyone was to be airlifted back to Cairns, except for the Thompsons.

He grimaced at the memory of the argument he’d had with Amy. He’d told Air Rescue there was an American citizen there, a young woman by the name of Amy Helm, or Amy Turner, who might resist leaving but she was to be told that in her situation, it was a mandatory evacuation. Sometimes you had to use a heavy hand.

He’d done the right thing by her. Even if she’d be pissed at being told what to do and never spoke to him again, at least she’d be alive. Knowing Amy, she’d be livid. Hell, she’d been angry enough this morning. But he’d make it up to her. Or at least he’d try. He had a hell of a lot of making up to do, and he silently prayed he’d get to live to do just that. If Col Braxton and Stuart Firth were staying here through a second cyclone, they sure as hell weren’t guarding a resort. There was something major going on. He’d ask Sarge for a gun.

****

Stuart cleaned up in the creek, and walked up the main path toward Bungumby Lodge.

The only glitch in his plan had been Amy. He hadn’t expected to run across her. Still, with his vehicle in the small clearing, he’d been able to get her into the back seat of her jeep and drive it down there behind his. He’d had to move fast and get her off the main road, which meant he was trapped. His jeep was in front of hers on the narrow track through the dense undergrowth of the forest floor.

He’d been so pissed off he’d tossed her keys into the forest. Not that she’d survive to drive anywhere. Hell, she’d probably bleed to death.

He’d never hurt anyone before, but for some reason had no conscience about it now. The events of the past week flashed before him. He doubted he’d go anywhere near the island again. And Col had definitely messed with him over the whole jeep thing. They were done. Col was heading fast toward a drug overdose anyway. Probably be dead within a year.

He had Meg. She was all he needed. Amy’s vehicle was well-hidden. The property on the highway side of the creek was open range and it belonged to the state, not Bungumby. Nobody ever went through there. No reason to. No roads, no nature trails. Person would have to be a real nature freak to venture deep into the forest and off the beaten path. Of course they had a path made by Col’s vehicles. But the entry was well hidden.