The Samurai Inheritance (41 page)

‘So you know what this is all about?’

‘Of course, Mr Saintclair.’ The bearded islander nodded gravely. ‘Magda informed me of your interest in my ancestor’s remains the day you walked into her museum. You seem shocked? But why should you be? How could she betray someone she had only just met? We had been friends for years. Why should she not inform me of an event that might be of great importance to myself and my clan?’

He glanced down at the deathly white figure on the stretcher, but Doug Stewart, if he was conscious at all, was locked away in a world of pain all of his own.

‘I also have what you might call a singular interest in the activities of your friends Mr Devlin and Mr Stewart. I’m a Bougainvillean and a patriot, Mr Saintclair. Of course, many of my people are also patriots and we do not always agree on the future direction of this country, particularly in regard to the island’s mineral resources.’ There was a long pause as they negotiated the stretcher across a steep gully. Beyond it, the trail, if it could be dignified by the name, wound its way up the side of a steep hill and Jamie wondered if his strength would hold out. Michael hardly seemed to notice his burden as he continued. ‘But many of us agree passionately on one thing. Whatever the future of Bougainville is we will never again allow it to be exploited by outside influences. It does not matter whether those influences are commercial or political or whether they are from Papua New Guinea, Australia, China, or Japan, which has shown a recent and unlikely altruistic interest in upgrading our infrastructure. A few years ago we became aware of an insidious undermining of that principle. Influential people became rich overnight and began to use their power to convince others that perhaps our stance was not in the best interests of Bougainville. Landowners who had been against any reopening of the mine suddenly changed their minds. Politicians who had spent a lifetime fighting the original mine owners became relaxed about cooperating with a potential new one. The old ways had died with the opening of Panguna, they said. We must embrace a new future.’

‘Keith Devlin’s future.’

‘Exactly. And who wouldn’t be seduced by Mr Devlin’s vision for Bougainville? A South Seas utopia where everyone lives in a fine house that has access to running water and electricity; where every child is cared for by the most advanced health system in the world and has the opportunity to attend the best schools in the region; where every man has a job if he wants one; and every menial task is done by a Redskin. And all that paid for by a mine run on the latest scientific and environmental principles and creating minimal pollution.’

‘It all sounds very fine. I might come and live here myself.’

They were interrupted by a hacking cough from the man on the stretcher. Jamie looked down at Doug Stewart, fearing the worst. But the Australian was conscious – and he was laughing.

‘Put me down for a minute,’ the wounded man croaked hoarsely. ‘All this bucking about is gonna kill me.’

‘Can’t do that, Doug old son,’ Jamie insisted. ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’

Stewart shook his head. ‘I’ve got some stuff to say and this might be my last chance to say it.’

Jamie exchanged a glance with Michael, who shrugged. He’d been about to call a rest in any case. They laid the stretcher gently in the grass and Stewart closed his eyes. Magda brought him water, but Michael only allowed her to wet his lips with it, while Jamie checked his wounds. It was almost a minute before he began speaking.

‘Never trust Devlin. Panguna’s not the only mine.’ The words came in short bursts, punctuated by gasps as the pain swept through him, and every one required enormous effort. It was as if Doug Stewart had decided to dictate his last will and testament and he wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Seven other licences already. Opportunities all over the island.’ He paused to gather his strength, and there was more. Devlin planned to turn the BRA into his private army. He’d buy every politician and landowner on the island if that’s what it took. Canberra was fixed, so was Port Moresby. By the time anyone noticed it would be too late. The result would be Keith Devlin’s personal fiefdom, with the islanders as his serfs. By the end Stewart’s voice had faded so much Jamie, Magda and Michael had to bend over him to make out the words. Eventually, with a last garbled whisper, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

They stared at each other till Magda broke the silence. ‘Is he …?’

Michael reached out to touch the Australian’s neck. ‘No, there’s still a faint pulse, but he can’t last much longer.’

‘How far to the radio?’ Jamie demanded.

‘Another half-hour. It is at my grandfather’s longhouse. But there are farms on the way where we can get help.’

‘Then let’s get going.’

They picked up the stretcher and set off up the trail.

Magda kept pace beside Jamie. ‘Did you hear what he said at the end?’ she asked. ‘Something about the head.’

‘He said: “It’s not about the head”.’ He changed his grip on the raw wooden pole to try to make it more comfortable. ‘There was more, but that’s all I could make out. I think he must have been rambling. It’s always been about the head. Keith Devlin is using the head to ensure the support of the tribal chief for this master plan of his.’

Now it was Michael’s turn to look mystified. ‘Which chief? My grandfather has been trying to have the head returned to Bougainville for fifty years, but he doesn’t have any political power and he won’t be bought.’

‘But what else does he have to gain?’ Magda was mystified.

Jamie thought back to his first meeting with Devlin. ‘Kristian Anugu is your grandfather?’ he asked Michael. ‘That would explain your interest.’

‘He never mentioned anything about the mine,’ the bearded man said. ‘Keith Devlin’s people offered to give him literally anything he desired in return for the briefcase. Kristian said the only compensation for such a treasure could be the lost head of his grandfather, and they went away disappointed. But Devlin didn’t give up. He sent you to find the head and Magda agreed to help you so that I’d know what was happening.’

Jamie felt Magda’s eyes on him and tried to ignore the fact that she’d used him from the word go. All right, he’d kept her in the dark about a few things himself, but whatever Michael said it felt like a betrayal. ‘So this is all about the documents that went missing during the negotiations?’

The black man shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard about any missing documents. The briefcase dates back to a cargo cult on the island that ended in the mix-Sixties. My grandfather always referred to it as the
yelopela
treasure, so it must have come from the Japanese occupation period. He never said how he came by it, or let anyone near.’

‘That’s crazy,’ Jamie said. ‘Why would Keith Devlin spend God knows how much to get his hands on a relic from the Second World War?’

‘Maybe you’ll find out when you hand over the head to the old man.’

The first settlements appeared on the hillside ahead. Traditional native houses, some of them on stilts, with pitched roofs thatched with palm leaves, and walls of woven grass, surrounded by gardens or groves of coconut, cocoa or banana trees.

‘We’ll find someone to help soon,’ Michael predicted. ‘Then I will take you to my grandfather’s longhouse.’

Jamie hoped he was right because his arm felt as if it was about to fall off. ‘You didn’t seem all that surprised by what poor old Doug here had to say about Devlin’s scheme?’

‘We know the licences to excavate more mines exist,’ the big man explained. ‘They’d be passed to him if he becomes the majority shareholder in Bougainville Copper, so it just depends on their legal status after twenty years. Likewise, it’s obvious that the island has more resources that can be exploited.’

‘I meant about creating a private army. Basically buying Bougainville off the shelf.’

‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’ The observation brought a wry half-smile from the islander. ‘When I was at school during the Crisis, I was treated as an enemy; the big black Boog boy from the rebel island that wouldn’t do what Australia told it. I learned to hate Australia and Australians.’

‘Yet you went back to university,’ Jamie pointed out.

‘My father said it was my duty and I am a dutiful son.’ Michael shrugged. ‘He was right to send me, because I learned that not all Australians supported the war against my people, and that many were ashamed of their role in it. I studied International Relations and one of my tutors very carefully steered me in a certain direction. Looking back, I should probably be angry at the position he placed me in, but I’m not.’ Doug Stewart’s breath began to rattle in his throat and both men looked down at him in concern. Michael rapped out an order and the two front men picked up the pace. Jamie gritted his teeth and tried to keep up as Michael continued, grunting with exertion between the words. ‘Around the time I graduated it became apparent to certain people that Keith Devlin was taking an interest in Bougainville. My tutor put them in touch with me, and it was suggested that the only way to fight the kind of power he wielded was with an equal power that I didn’t have. They convinced me that the best way I could serve my people was to accept the support of the country I had once hated.’

‘Would “Accept the support of” be a euphemism for “work for” or, to be more exact, “spy for”?’ Michael glanced across at him and Jamie could see the sweat coursing down the black face into his beard. The dark eyes smouldered and he knew he’d strayed into dangerous territory. Still, it explained the radio and the helicopter, and if they could only get there soon, Doug Stewart might still have good cause to be thankful for them.

They tensed at a shout from further up the trail, but relaxed when the scout reappeared with half a dozen male natives followed by a group of children. ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Michael smiled. ‘My bloody arm was about to fall off.’

Jamie felt emotionally and physically drained as he handed over the stretcher to a grave-faced black man who offered him a drink of some kind of fruit juice. The newcomers forged ahead with the stretcher and he, Michael and Magda followed in their wake.

Michael took up where he’d left off. ‘If you stay long enough on Bougainville, Mr Saintclair, you’ll discover that on this island there are no easy answers. My people knew nothing but war and hunger, murder and rape for eleven years; twice the span of your World War. The BRA fought off the PNG defence force, who outnumbered and outgunned them, and when they’d done it, they fought each other. The scars of that conflict are too deep to heal as long as those who fought it are still alive. I reckon it’s up to the next generation to create the foundations of a new Bougainville, and if I have to sup with the devil to make that happen, it’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make. So here we are. I’ve been keeping an eye on Keith Devlin’s activities on the island, and my friends have been keeping me in touch with what’s been happening at their end. Unfortunately, there are certain people in Canberra who actively support Devlin, and others who, for their own reasons, don’t have any option but to protect him.’ He hesitated and Jamie felt himself the focus of the brown eyes. The art dealer turned to Magda and discovered she was studying him with a look of expectation as Michael found the words he was looking for. ‘The truth is that if we’re going to stop him, or bring him down, we need to have solid evidence.’

‘Look, Michael,’ Jamie tried to ignore the plea in Magda’s eyes, ‘I have every sympathy for you and your friends, but there are two people I care for down in Arawa who are depending on me to get them home. All I want is to make the exchange and deliver this mysterious briefcase to Devlin. Once we’re out of here I’ll do everything I can to stop him, but until then—’

‘Forget it, Jamie.’ Magda’s words were like a dismissal and Jamie felt himself redden. ‘Not everyone can be a hero.’

‘Don’t be too hard on him, hon.’ Michael shook his shaggy head. ‘Mr Saintclair got this far, and from what you tell me that took some doing. Who knows what might happen down the line?’

Jamie struggled to keep the anger out of his voice. ‘If you can keep Doug alive he may be the key to everything. He told me himself he knows where the bodies are buried.’

‘Maybe he won’t be so talkative if he stays alive.’ Michael snorted through his wide nostrils. ‘Right now he thinks he’s dying and maybe God’s whispering in his ear.’

‘True enough.’ Jamie looked to where the stretcher had reached the first houses. ‘But I think he’s more interested in having his revenge on Devlin than meeting his maker on first-name terms. How far to your grandfather’s longhouse?’

‘We’re nearly there.’

The stretcher bearers stopped outside one of the grass and banana-leaf houses that had an aerial running from the pitched roof to a nearby palm tree. Michael and Magda watched as Jamie went to where the men had laid Doug Stewart and spent a few minutes talking to him. In the meantime, the bearded man asked Magda to stay with the wounded Australian while his men called in the helicopter.

‘Are you ready?’ Michael asked.

Jamie took a deep breath and hitched up his rucksack. ‘I think so.’

‘Then come and meet my grandfather, Kristian Anugu.’

XLIV

Kristian Anugu sat comfortably on the stairs of his longhouse, eyes as old as time staring at a present of which only he was aware. His hair was a frizzy helmet of tight-linked white curls and his sparse, stubbled beard and bushy, caterpillar eyebrows matched it. The eyes were a deep walnut, buried deep beneath hooded lids in furrows on either side of a broad, negroid nose and they had a mystic quality, full of shadows and secrets and ancient knowledge. At first sight he gave an impression of fragility – of brittle bone and tough gristle held together by skin the texture of worn parchment – but that was before you noticed the arms, which, for all his antiquity were well-muscled, and the hands. They were thick-fingered and powerful; strangler’s hands, Jamie thought for no reason. His only clothing was a kilt of brown material that covered his skinny legs as far as the knees, and his dark flesh was pitted and lined with old scars, each recording some long-healed wound or injury or brush with disfiguring disease. A length of frayed string hung round his wrinkled neck attached to what looked like a crumpled piece of lead. The longhouse was about twice the size of any other house in the village. Through the open doorway Jamie could see colourful ornaments and the intricately carved hollow wooden logs that he remembered from Magda’s museum as traditional Bougainville drums.