Maralinga (48 page)

Within only minutes the baby was lifted, squirming, from the dead woman's womb. It was a girl, and she wanted to live. She opened her mouth, her tiny lungs filled with air, her angry little brown face twisted and she cried out her existence to the world.

When they'd cut the cord and cleaned her up, they took a reading of the baby's levels with the radiac survey meter, Trafford running the external probe over the tiny naked body and Clifton listening through the headphones. All eyes, including Melvyn Crowley's, were keenly trained on the Geiger counter's dial and indicator. But to the utter astonishment of all three men, there was no reading.

‘There's no evidence of ionising radiation in this baby,' Cliff Bradshaw announced.

‘My God,' Trafford said, amazed, ‘she's clean.'

‘Impossible,' Melvyn Crowley snapped.

‘Have a listen yourself.' Clifton handed him the headphones.

Melvyn jammed them on his head and once again Trafford ran the probe over the baby. Once again they
all studied the dial, and once again the Geiger counter showed no reading.

‘I don't believe it,' Melvyn said, snatching off the headphones. ‘It's not possible.'

‘How do you know?' Clifton queried. ‘The womb's a very protective place. It seems eminently possible to me.' As there was no blanket in sight, he started wrapping the child in a clean towel. ‘And you must admit, Dr Crowley, stranger things have happened in medical science.'

‘But the thyroid would show radioactive levels, I'm sure …' Melvyn was desperate, everything was going wrong. ‘And there's bound to be traces of strontium-90 in the bones …'

‘We'll run a urinalysis at the hospital,' Clifton said, ‘but it's my guess we'll find no evidence of strontium-90. As for the rest …' He looked at the Geiger counter and shrugged. ‘The RSM 2 says she's clean and it's a pretty reliable machine. You can hardly cut her up to prove the thing wrong, can you?'

He smiled as if the comment was an attempt at black humour, but it wasn't. He hadn't altogether believed Trafford when he'd said that Crowley would happily murder the child for experimental purposes. He believed him now. Melvyn Crowley belonged to another world.

‘Anyway, enough chat,' he said, picking up the baby. She wriggled in his arms, her perfect little hands escaping the confines of the towel, her tiny fingers clutching the air. ‘Time to get this one to the hospital.'

‘You do realise that if you take it to the hospital, word will quickly circulate, don't you? I mean
about …
this
.' Melvyn gestured to the bloodied table and the corpse of the girl.

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' Clifton replied. He was beginning to see no reason why he should even pretend civility to a man like Crowley.

‘As Trafford well knows,' Melvyn said with a damning look at his assistant, ‘a similar irradiation incident occurred last year and troops were threatened with court martial if the news became public.'

Clifton cast a querying look at his friend.

‘It's true,' Trafford said. He'd naturally made no mention to Clifton of the Aboriginal deaths. Cliff was in the army, after all – why place him in such a threatening position?

‘We must be discreet then, mustn't we,' Clifton said. ‘The fewer of us who know, the fewer of us there will be who will have to live with that threat. And the sooner the child can be placed safely in the care of Aboriginal welfare authorities, the better for all of us, wouldn't you say?'

Melvyn was stumped and Trafford wanted to cheer.

‘What a tragedy,' Clifton said as he looked at the body on the table. He'd been so focused upon the child it was the first time he'd addressed the situation of the young mother. ‘How sad. She's not much more than a child herself.'

The baby started to cry, as if demanding he redirect his attention to the living, and he gave her the tip of his little finger to suck on.

‘Drive me to the hospital, Trafford,' he said. ‘The miracle baby of Maralinga wants to be fed.'

They left Melvyn Crowley to fume. And fume he did.

Melvyn cursed Trafford for his betrayal. He'd have the young ingrate transferred immediately, he decided, although the sure knowledge that Trafford would welcome transferral was irksome. If only he could have the little bastard dismissed, he thought, or dishonoured or disbarred or at least in some way discredited. But with Trafford's good chum Cliff on the scene as a witness that would be an impossibility.

Melvyn didn't know which of the two he despised most, Trafford or Clifton Bradshaw. How dare they snatch such an opportunity from him! Indeed, how dare they deprive the scientific world of his findings! There was so much fresh knowledge he might have contributed for the benefit of mankind. He glanced at the corpse. At least he still had her. That was some comfort. But he could have had so very much more.

Two days later, when he heard the baby had been flown to Adelaide, Melvyn was even more livid. He had presumed she would be taken to the mission at Yalata where he would be able to keep an eye on her condition, which would hopefully decline. But Etta's child, ‘the miracle baby of Maralinga' as she was now referred to by the few who knew of her existence, had been swallowed up by the system. She would be given a home with a family keen to adopt, and would be forever beyond the clutches of Melvyn Crowley.

 

Nick had been angered and frustrated when he'd discovered Harold Dartleigh had disappeared to Sydney.

‘What do you mean
no-one knows where he is
?' he'd demanded of Ned Hanson. ‘Surely he informed you of where he's staying. You must be able to contact him somehow.'

‘I'm afraid not, Colonel. He has no wish to be contacted. He was quite definite about that.' Ned Hanson's weary sigh had been audible. He found the vagaries of his superior frustrating too. ‘Lord Dartleigh's gone on holiday and doesn't wish to be disturbed. He'll be back two days before the final test.'

Bloody indulgence, Nick had thought as he'd stormed out of Ned's poky little office, which adjoined Harold's. Why the hell did the British government bother paying Dartleigh? The man was a waste of taxpayers' money!

He'd immediately telephoned Elizabeth with the news.

‘Our friend's gone away on holiday for ten days,' he'd said. ‘He's in Sydney, but no-one knows where.'

‘Oh, dear.'

‘Exactly. So he won't be available for next week's meeting. In fact, he won't be available full stop.'

‘Right.' He'd sounded so fed up that Elizabeth had decided not to offer any further comment on the subject. ‘You're coming into town yourself though, aren't you?' she'd asked hopefully.

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, I am glad. I'll look forward to seeing you then, shall I?' She always took her cue from Nick and never gave away a thing on the phone.

‘The meeting's at three o'clock. I'm not sure how long it'll last,' he'd said meaningfully, ‘so I've decided to stay in town for the night. I'll give you a ring when
it's over and maybe we could meet for a drink when you've finished work, what do you say?'

‘I say that sounds like an excellent idea.'

Now, five days later, they sat on the beach looking out at the ocean. It was late in the afternoon, daylight was fading and the bank of clouds low on the horizon promised a pretty sunset. They'd caught a taxi from the city. These days, during his brief visits, Nick didn't bother with hire cars. Taxis were easier, and he no longer needed the excuse of a car to hand in order to drive her home.

They'd broken their normal pattern of making love as their first priority. Nick, feeling in some way that he'd let her down, had suggested they go for a walk on the beach. ‘There's a lot to talk about,' he'd said.

They'd changed into casual clothes and walked barefoot, their shoes in their hands, beside the water's edge. They'd walked, and they'd talked. He'd been keen to make up for the disappointment of Harold Dartleigh's non-appearance.

‘Shall I try and entice Gideon Melbray to town?' he asked. ‘I'm not quite sure how I'd go about it, I have no official connection with Gideon, but I'm happy to give it a try.'

‘No, Nick.' Her reply was adamant. ‘You might arouse suspicion, and I don't want you to become directly involved. Your career could be threatened.'

‘Oh, don't worry, I'll come up with something plausible. It's just a case of finding the right angle.'

‘Anyway, I don't see a great deal of value in Gideon Melbray.'

She'd surprised him. ‘Why not? Isn't he your other key person of interest?'

‘He wouldn't tell me anything I don't already know. Besides, Gideon's only the messenger. I need to get to the man at the top.'

‘But making contact with Dartleigh is –'

‘And that man might not even be Harold Dartleigh.'

Their walk came to a halt. He was confused. ‘What exactly are you getting at?'

‘I'm absolutely convinced that MI6 is behind all this, Nick.'

He wasn't sure how to respond. Since when had it been irrevocably decided that MI6 was ‘behind all this', he wondered. Hadn't they agreed that the theory had been based upon supposition? But Elizabeth wasn't seeking a response. She went on without drawing breath.

‘Given Harold Dartleigh's involvement, it's pretty obvious to me that MI6 is responsible for faking Danny's death to look like a suicide. Whatever they were covering I've no idea, but it's MI6 who needs to answer for what happened.'

Nick marvelled at the simplicity of her reasoning. For Elizabeth, everything seemed to have fallen neatly into place. She was so supremely sure of herself, he thought. But then she always was. Positivity was perhaps one of her greatest assets.

‘Harold Dartleigh might or might not have been acting on orders from above,' she briskly continued, ‘but either way he's answerable to the organisation that employs him. And that organisation is in turn answerable for the actions of its employees, wouldn't you agree?'

‘Answerable about what and to whom?' Was she really serious? She was talking about MI6.

‘In this case, answerable to me. Danny was my fiancé and I demand to know what happened.'

‘Oh, right.' She was about to charge off tilting at windmills, he thought, how very typical, and how very futile. ‘What course of action do you intend to take?' he asked for want of anything better to say.

‘I have a colleague in London with excellent connections. He'll most certainly know who I should contact within MI6. I'll start at the top, and if I can't make any inroads I'll threaten to go public. I'm sure if I rattle the sabre loud enough they'll be forced to take action, or at least to come up with some answers. Harold Dartleigh's head may roll – or the head of the person who gave him his instructions, who can tell? But I intend to get my answers.'

‘Ah.' He'd been so distracted by the futility of her plan that the practical aspect hadn't as yet occurred to him. It did now. ‘So you'll be heading back to London.'

‘Yes.'

‘When? How soon?'

‘I'm not sure yet. Certainly not for another month – I'd need to hand in my notice at the paper.'

‘I see.' There didn't really seem much more to be said. She'd plainly made up her mind. ‘Shall we go back to the flat?'

‘No. Not just yet.'

That was when they'd decided to sit on the sand and wait for the sunset.

They were silent now as they watched the golden orb of the sun slowly sink into the sea. Then, all of
a sudden, the last glimmer disappeared, leaving the clouds aglow with pinks and oranges that fanned out across the sky like a multicoloured roof to the world.

‘How beautiful,' Elizabeth said. ‘I'd never seen such beautiful sunsets until I came to Australia.'

‘Yes, it's certainly lovely.' God, I'll miss her, he thought. ‘The days are getting warmer,' he said, still gazing out at the ocean. ‘We must get in a few swimming lessons before you go.'

‘Yes, we must.'

She didn't want to leave him, but she would if she had to. She'd conduct her fight from London if necessary, although she hoped it wouldn't come to that. She still had one more plan up her sleeve. A plan she could not share with Nick.

That night, after they'd made love, the two of them lay awake for some time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Elizabeth was forming the approach she would take with her editor the following day. She must pitch her idea with care, but she was sure P. J. would agree. He was an adventurous man.

Nick's mind was in a far greater state of turmoil. During their talk on the beach, he'd dismissed Elizabeth's decision to confront MI6 as a waste of time – they would simply close ranks and she'd get nowhere, he'd thought. But now a dreadful possibility struck him. Was there the remotest chance that Daniel Gardiner might have been under investigation by MI6? It seemed most unlikely. But Dan had formed a close friendship with Pete Mitchell, a strangely complex man. Could Pete have converted
Dan to whatever cause had obsessed him? Perhaps Pete's death had not been the simple crime of passion it had been reported to be. In which case, perhaps young Dan's hadn't been so simple either. Much as he tried to dismiss such thoughts, Nick couldn't help but worry. His original premise about the possible cover-up of a botched death for security purposes was one thing, but the MI6 investigation of a British soldier working in a top-secret area like Maralinga was quite another. Could Elizabeth be on the verge of disturbing a hornets' nest?

The following morning, after a sleepless night, he wondered whether he should bring up the subject, although he didn't relish the prospect. He could well imagine her reaction. He decided to say nothing. There was no time for discussion anyway. He had to leave for the airport.