Maralinga (40 page)

She persevered. ‘But if by any chance a soldier
did
know something, and if he threatened to speak out, what would happen to him?'

‘The question's superfluous. He wouldn't be told anything to start with, and if he somehow found out, he wouldn't talk anyway. There is such a thing as the Official Secrets Act, you know.'

Elizabeth's flutter of excitement faded. She was surely following the wrong path. Danny would never have broken his oath of silence. She was aware too that she might be pushing the boundaries with Marston. His response had been peremptory and she sensed a certain arrogance in him now. He was not interested in discussion. He'd wanted his story recorded, their time together was up, and any further interrogation was unwelcome. She doggedly pursued the subject nonetheless. Whether the path she was following was right or wrong, her question demanded resolution.

‘Yes, sir, I'm aware of the Official Secrets Act. But you refer to ruthless men in high places, Mr Marston – men who would destroy your career rather than allow you to speak out. So, as a matter of interest – hypothetically speaking – if a soldier
did
discover data such as yours, and if he threatened to talk, would his life be in danger?'

Marston seemed to find her question amusing.

‘What are you asking? Do you mean, would they
kill
him?'

‘Yes, sir, that's exactly what I'm asking.'

‘My dear Miss Hoffmann,' he smiled whimsically and his reply was good-natured, albeit just a little condescending, ‘A soldier on the range would hardly
be considered a threat. If they were going to kill anyone, they would start with me.'

‘Of course, sir.' Well, that answers that, she thought. She returned his smile as she stood. ‘I'm rather barking up the wrong tree, aren't I?'

‘Yes, you are rather.'

 

As soon as she was back at
The Advertiser
, Elizabeth rang Bob Swindon and they arranged to meet in the lounge of the Criterion at the end of the work day.

When she arrived, he was already seated with a half-finished beer.

‘That'll probably be a bit flat,' he said, gesturing to the shandy that sat on the table waiting for her. ‘I got here five minutes early and wanted to beat the queue. How'd you go?'

‘You owe me five pounds,' she said as she sat.

‘Good girl.' He fished his wallet from his pocket. ‘Any feminine wiles called for?'

‘Not a one.'

‘Probably not surprising,' he said, slapping a five-pound note on the table. ‘They're a dry old lot, those boffins.'

‘What a ridiculously sweeping generalisation, and how on earth would you know anyway?' Elizabeth countered.

‘Quite correct, I wouldn't,' he replied unperturbed. ‘But I take it I was right about Marston? He wanted to go on record?'

‘Oh, yes, you were right there. He definitely wanted to go on record. Breakthrough material, I have to say …'

‘Really?' There was a feeling of expectancy as he waited for her to go on.

‘None of which I can tell you, Bob, as you would well know. I gave my word.'

‘Yes,' he said hastily, ‘yes, of course you did.'

‘I promise you'll have the whole story as soon as I get the go-ahead from Marston,' she said. ‘Although God only knows when that will be. In the meantime –'

‘I know, Liz, I know,' he interrupted. ‘I wouldn't expect anything more of you and I respect your silence.'

‘Rubbish. You were dying for me to spill the beans just then.'

He shrugged. ‘A bit of wishful thinking – you can't blame a bloke for that. So where do you go to from here? You can't publish any of his information, I presume.'

‘No, but it gives me some ammunition, and possibly a bit of room to manoeuvre. As a new reporter fresh on the scene, I might be able to ask a couple of seemingly innocent questions. You know, rattle them enough that they have to come up with an answer.' She took a sip of her shandy and frowned as she put down the glass. ‘But then how do I go about it? I have to wait until the powers that be graciously deign to grant us a press conference.'

‘Why don't you twist their arm?' She looked at him blankly. ‘Have a word with your chief. There hasn't been a general press conference for months. I'm sure if
The Advertiser
requested an update, Maralinga's PR department wouldn't be able to refuse. The state's daily newspaper has a responsibility to its readership, after all.'

‘What an excellent idea.' She scooped up the five-pound note. ‘I'll buy you a beer on the strength of it.'

‘But you haven't drunk your shandy.'

‘You were right, it's flat. Don't go away,' she said, ‘we need to talk,' and she headed off to the lounge's service bar in the corner.

Elizabeth realised that, in some ways, she was back to square one. Despite her brief flurry of excitement, her meeting with Marston had not offered a solution to the mystery of Daniel's death. The mystery of Maralinga, however, was becoming more tantalising by the minute, and she was convinced that the two were linked. Hedley Marston had been an independently contracted biochemist, principally responsible for the collection of data on radioactive fallout. If he had proved through his animal thyroid examinations that such widespread and long-term danger existed, then what other shocking facts were being covered up at Maralinga?

The words of Daniel's letter were ever-present in her mind. Pete Mitchell had said men had been threatened with court martial if they spoke of what they'd seen. But what had they seen? Marston himself had dismissed the troops as any threat to security on the grounds of the Official Secrets Act. What could those soldiers have witnessed that was so shocking they would need to be reminded of their oath of silence?

She returned to the table with the drinks. ‘Tell me what to expect at this press conference, Bob,' she said, leaning forward on her elbows, eager for information. ‘Who'll be chairing, who'll be speaking and how many?'

‘My guess is there'll be only one speaker, and it won't really be a conference as such, more of a press statement with questions to follow. They won't
consider the request for an update warrants anything more.'

‘Pity. Good about the questions though. Who'll be delivering the statement?'

‘Their liaison officer, an Australian army colonel by the name of Nick Stratton. He's the link between the Aussies and the Poms and the scientists and the bureaucrats, and as such he's virtually the voice of Maralinga.'

‘Really? What a handy man to know,' she said thoughtfully.

‘Yes, but not an altogether easy one.' Bob thought it necessary to offer a word of advice. ‘He's a tough cookie, Liz. Not a bad bloke, but you wouldn't want to cross him. And be warned, he doesn't like smart-arses.'

‘Then I'd better behave myself, hadn't I?'

Elizabeth very much looked forward to meeting Colonel Nick Stratton.

During the days that followed the press conference, Nick Stratton thought about Elizabeth Hoffmann a great deal. He couldn't remember when he'd last been so strongly attracted to a woman. Possibly never, he thought, and then warned himself not to be foolish. Such a woman would hardly be an easy conquest and as he had no wish to become involved, he should really keep well away. But what the hell, he decided, why not test the water? If he sensed he stood a chance with her sexually then he'd pursue her further. If not, a simple dinner out was harmless.

He rang her as soon as he arrived. ‘I'm in town,' he said, which wasn't exactly true; he was telephoning from the airport. ‘Is dinner still on for tonight?'

‘Of course, I look forward to it.'

‘Do you have a favourite restaurant?'

‘Not a one. I don't dine out much.'

‘Nor do I,' he admitted. ‘I eat at the Grosvenor when I'm in Adelaide. How would that suit you? The dining room's pleasant and the food's always good.'

‘The Grosvenor it is then.'

‘Excellent. We'll make it about seven thirty. Where do I pick you up?'

‘You don't. I'll meet you in the foyer.'

 

Nick realised about halfway through the main course that his reasoning had been based upon self-delusion. A simple dinner out was not harmless at all. In fact, a simple dinner out had proved his fatal mistake.

Throughout the soup of the day – a pleasant prawn bisque – they'd stuck to small talk. He'd asked her how long she'd been in Australia, and she'd told him only two months. She'd arrived in the height of midsummer, she said.

‘I found it unbearable at first, particularly the heatwave that hit us last month, but I have a flat in Glenelg so I get the breeze off the water.'

‘Glenelg.' He stored it away as his first piece of information. ‘Good beach, Glenelg – do you swim a lot?'

‘I'm learning,' she said proudly. ‘I give myself a lesson every Saturday morning.'

‘Well, if you need a teacher, let me know. I'm an excellent swimmer.' The remark was not boastful, just a simple statement of fact.

‘Of course you are,' she said. ‘All Australians are. It makes me frightfully self-conscious. There I am drowning and a five year old swims past me like a fish – it's most demeaning.'

He laughed, enjoying her company. He found her delightful even in small talk, although he was waiting for her to broach the subject of Maralinga. He was quite sure she wouldn't be able to resist.

They briefly discussed wines. He'd ordered a shiraz to go with the main course, and she admitted to a fondness for a good red wine.

‘It's actually the only alcoholic drink I
do
enjoy,' she said. ‘I get by on shandies when I'm with the gang, but to me the beer spoils the lemonade.'

‘You do realise that in this country that remark is close to sacrilegious.'

‘Yes, it is in England too.'

‘You should pay a visit to the vineyards just outside Adelaide,' he suggested. ‘The Barossa Valley produces some of the best wines in Australia.'

‘So I'm told.'

The main courses arrived – duck for her, steak for him – and that was when the small talk came to a halt.

‘Tell me, Nick,' she said after the waiter had poured the shiraz and departed, ‘am I permitted to ask a few questions off the record?'

He pretended surprise. ‘A few questions about what? You surely can't mean Maralinga.'

‘Yes, I do,' she replied in all earnestness. ‘I wasn't here for the previous series like the other journalists – I have a lot of catching up to do.'

‘You can ask as many questions as you like,' he said pleasantly. ‘Just don't expect answers.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't presume to overstep the mark.'

‘Like hell you wouldn't.' He smiled as he picked up his glass. ‘Have a sip of your wine first. Tell me what you think of it.'

They sipped simultaneously, his eyes querying hers over the rims of their wine glasses.

‘Delicious,' she said, ‘I like it very much.' She did,
although it differed greatly from the French wines favoured by her father.

‘Penfolds. Right here in the Barossa Valley.' He put the glass down and started on his steak. ‘So ask away, I'm all ears.'

‘The Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee …'

She started out harmlessly enough, enquiring about the safety committee's purpose, its founding members and the way it worked. The information was openly available to the press, she was already cognisant with the basic facts, and Nick answered her questions freely. Then she changed tack.

‘What do you think of the committee's overall effectiveness?'

‘In what way?' His response was guarded.

‘Well, it seems a little biased, wouldn't you say? Two of the three founding members are British, and both have worked on previous British defence projects – would they really have Australia's best interests at heart?'

‘It's not my job to offer personal opinion,' he replied. She'd just voiced his personal opinion to perfection.

‘Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. The question slipped out. I'm really very sorry.' She returned her attention to the duck, which she'd barely touched.

‘The question didn't slip out at all, and you very well know it.' Things had just jumped to a different level, Nick thought. She was testing how far she could push him. He rather enjoyed her audacity. ‘You had every intention of asking me that, didn't you?'

Elizabeth was aware she was walking a fine line. She could maintain his interest through mindless chatter – he clearly found her attractive – but mindless chatter
would not gain her information about Maralinga. She needed to charm and intrigue equally.

‘Yes, I suppose I did,' she admitted. Honesty had always served before, she thought, a dose now surely wouldn't go astray. ‘I shouldn't have expected an answer though. That was hardly fair.' She put down her cutlery, the duck once again forgotten. ‘You see, Nick, I'm interested in the power of the committee.'

He continued to devour his steak without comment, but she knew she'd garnered his attention.

‘At the conference, you talked of the full cooperation and liaison between all parties, both British and Australian, and you said that this was “in accordance with the requirements laid out by the safety committee”. But I can't help wondering what sort of power the committee has to lay out requirements, and just what those requirements might be.'

He stopped eating and took a sip of his wine, waiting for her to go on.

‘Oh, please don't misunderstand,' she added hastily, ‘I'm not asking for your opinion. I'm just offering my own.'

‘And what is your opinion?'

‘I think the Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee is a sham,' she said boldly, defying him to differ.

Elizabeth was voicing Hedley Marston's views. According to Marston, AWTSC was an out and out sham. The committee had been set up by those in high places, he'd said, and its members continued to obey orders from above. Not only did the safety committee fail to protect Australia, it lied about its own findings and obfuscated the findings of others. At first, she'd wondered whether in his bitterness Marston might
not be distorting the facts, but she'd found his arguments too persuasive, too intelligent. If he was right, and she believed he was, did Nick Stratton know the level of deception being practised? Marston had said all soldiers were ignorant of the true facts, even high-ranking officers. Was Nick covering the truth, or was he being kept in ignorance?

As their eyes locked across the table, Elizabeth tried hard to read his reaction.

‘I see,' he said slowly, as if he were giving the matter a great deal of thought. ‘The safety committee's a sham – that's your confirmed opinion, is it?'

They were sizing each other up. She nodded. His normally stern face was sterner than ever, and she had a feeling she may have gone too far.

Nick was wondering how she came to hold such views. Who had she been talking to? He'd presumed she'd learnt of the test codenames from a soldier on leave – a man out to impress in order to get her into bed. But a soldier would have little knowledge of the safety committee and probably even less interest in it. She must have been talking to a scientist, he thought, and a jaded one at that. He was surprised that a scientist should so openly express an opinion, but then the scenario would probably have been the same, wouldn't it? The man would no doubt have been on the make, and men bent on conquest were known to behave foolishly.

‘Let me get this right, Elizabeth,' he said. ‘You're offering your opinion, and you don't expect any form of comment from me. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, absolutely,' she assured him. ‘I mean, absolutely no. I don't expect any comment from you at all.'

‘What utter rubbish.'

Oh dear, Elizabeth thought, I
have
gone too far.

‘You're grilling me for information, aren't you?'

It was only then she realised that he was enjoying the game. Until that moment she hadn't even realised it was a game, but she could see quite clearly now he was right. Furthermore, it was a game she knew she could play.

‘Of course I'm grilling you.' Her smile was both challenging and seductive. ‘Do you think I'm likely to get anywhere?'

‘Well, you'll never know if you don't try, will you?'

He raised his glass and she returned the salute with her own. They were openly teasing each other. The ground rules had been set in place. The game had commenced in earnest.

As they toasted each other, Elizabeth was surprised by the relative ease with which she'd embraced the art of flirtation. Bob Swindon would be proud of her, she thought.

For Nick, the toast was the moment when he realised there was no turning back and that he would continue to pursue Elizabeth Hoffmann for as long as there was the remotest chance of her capitulation.

He looked critically at her plate as he put down his glass. ‘Are you going to eat that duck or not?' he asked.

‘Of course I am. I'm ravenous.' She attacked the duck lustily. ‘Delicious,' she said through a mouthful of thigh meat. ‘Absolutely delicious.'

It was like watching a healthy racehorse enjoying its oats, he thought.

The evening continued pleasantly. They relaxed in each other's company. She didn't push for further information and he didn't overstep the mark when they said goodnight. He shook the hand she proffered, wondering how long it would take before he could kiss her.

‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Nick,' she said as the taxi pulled up. She'd refused his offer to escort her home. ‘Don't be ridiculous,' she'd scoffed, ‘you'd only have to get another taxi back from Glenelg. What a terrible waste of money.'

‘I'll give you a ring next week, Elizabeth. We must repeat the experience.'

‘Yes, I'd like that.'

He stood on the kerb and waved as the taxi took off.

 

Further evenings out followed, and the odd lunch too – over the next several weeks, Nick found any number of excuses for regular trips to Adelaide.

The game between them became progressively more daring. She would bring up the topic of Maralinga and he would tantalise her with bits and pieces of information he considered harmless. Then she would push him just that little bit further, offering opinions, trying to draw him into conversation, sometimes even succeeding, and when he started to become testy she would back off and apologise for having gone too far. Nick knew he should ban such discussions, but he wasn't sure if he could maintain her interest without teasing her along, and so the game continued.

Nick Stratton found Elizabeth Hoffmann mercurial, maddening and very, very clever, all of which only added to her attraction. But he was making no inroads
in the sexual stakes. By mid-April he'd progressed no further than a kiss on the cheek. On the several occasions when he'd started to home in, she'd artfully avoided mouth-to-mouth contact, and the kiss on the cheek had now become standard practice, replacing the handshake upon greeting and departing. It was infuriating. He was being treated like a workmate. Furthermore, she always insisted on catching her own taxi home, thereby excluding him from any contact with her personal life. He dared not risk scaring her off by attempting to ravish her the way he wished – she was far too intriguing – but he'd reached a definite stalemate. It was time to take action, and the first step was to meet her on her home ground.

He arranged a weekend's leave and booked a hire car in advance. Then he telephoned her mid-week.

‘Do you want to visit the wineries on Saturday?' he asked. ‘I'll be in town and I'll have a car.'

‘Love to,' she said.

‘Right. I'll pick you up around ten. What's your address?'

Elizabeth hesitated. She liked Nick Stratton: she found him stimulating company, and he was certainly useful. She was aware that the material he shared with her was heavily censored, but it was nonetheless insightful and she was slowly but surely learning much about the basic structure of Maralinga. She'd avoided inviting him into her personal life, however, knowing full well he was bent on seduction.

Oh, well, she thought, too late now – she could hardly insist upon meeting him in town. She gave him her address, hoping that she wouldn't have to fight him off when he dropped her home.

He arrived on the dot of ten to discover her waiting outside the house in St Johns Row.

‘Good day for it,' he said as he jumped out and opened the passenger door for her. The day was indeed glorious: crisp, cloudless and sunny. ‘The Barossa's spectacular in autumn.'

The Barossa Valley, roughly an hour's drive northeast of Adelaide, was prime wine-producing country and exceptionally beautiful. They spent two hours driving through the lush, rolling foothills, visiting the wineries and walking beside the river. Then Nick called a halt for lunch.