Carter shook hands with him. "How are you feeling, Mr. Duvall? I understand you were wounded in the latest attack."
"No, sir. It was in town… one of our civilian workers," Duvall said. It seemed as if he were at his wit's end.
"One of the subcontractors," Owen put in.
"That little s.o.b.," Duvall began, but he became silent at a glance from Owen.
"We have a room set up for you," the station manager said, leading Carter around the truck and over to a second jeep. The Chinese man who had taken Carter's luggage was already gone. Several other Orientals, all dressed in white shorts, white long-sleeved shirts, and straw hats, had begun to unload the aircraft.
Carter looked back. Odets and Torrence stood in the cargo hatch, and the pilot waved. "See you next month," he shouted.
Carter waved back. "Only one plane a month?" he asked Owen.
" 'Fraid so, Mr. Carter. But even at that, I wouldn't be too optimistic about my chances of being on it. This is a tougher problem than you might think."
"There've been other investigators out here?"
"Investigators, committees, platoons, submarines. The entire gamut. But I'll tell you all about it later. I imagine you'll want to freshen up first, and I'll have the cook rustle you up something to eat."
"Sounds good," Carter said. As he climbed into the jeep with Owen and Duvall, he glanced again back at the plane. Several of the Orientals who were unloading the cargo were looking back. It struck Carter as odd, but then so did Owen and Duvall strike him as odd.
Carter was shown to a room on the second floor of a long wooden building that apparently served as a combination VIP quarters and administrative center. It was across a narrow road from one of the receiving equipment units and just next door to the dining hall. It was small but pleasantly furnished, and most importantly, it was air conditioned. He had his own private bathroom.
His suitcases had already been brought up, and most of his clothing had been unpacked and was hanging in the small closet.
Carter got undressed, took a quick, cool shower, and then got dressed in a pair of lightweight slacks, a military-cut shirt-jacket, and soft slip-on boots. He lit a cigarette as he strapped on Wilhelmina, his Luger, at his belt beneath his shirt, and made sure Hugo, his razor-sharp stiletto, was secure in its chamois sheath at his left ankle. He normally carried it on his forearm, but his shirt was short-sleeved. He also carried a very small gas bomb attached high on his inner thigh, much like a third testicle.
For a time he stared out the window at the activity down in the compound. Duvall had been the one who had been wounded in town by one of the Chinese from the station. From what Carter understood, there was not much love lost between the civilian employees — most of them Oriental — and the station engineers and technicians. But as far as he knew, Duvall's was the first incident stemming from that animosity.
From everything he had been briefed on, there was no connection between what had happened to Duvall and the attacks on the camp. And yet now that he was here, he had to wonder…
Someone knocked at his door, and he turned around as a young Chinese man came in and smiled. "It is time, Mr. Carter. Mr. Owen say your dinner is ready across the way at the club."
"Where is that?" Carter asked, looking closely at the man. It was hard to tell his age or his specific nationality. Taiwanese, possibly, he thought.
"Behind the dining hall, venerable sir."
"Thanks," Carter said, smiling. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, then left the room.
After being in the air conditioning, even for just a short time, the temperature and humidity outside were nearly unbearable. He was sweating heavily by the time he made it across to the dining hall. A young man in white coveralls directed him around back to the club. Inside, Owen, Duvall, and a third, thin, sullen-looking man with a military crewcut were waiting for him at a large round table.
Owen waved him over. "You look a little less frazzled than before," he said pleasantly.
Carter sat down, and Owen introduced him to the thin man who, Carter noticed, wore a.357 magnum revolver strapped to his hip.
"Richard Fenster, chief of station security."
Carter nodded, but the man made no move to shake hands. Carter decided he didn't like him. He seemed shifty; his eyes refused to remain on one object for more than an instant.
An Oriental came from behind the bar and laid out several plates of sliced corned beef, thickly sliced rye bread, and all the trimmings, plus a round of cold beers.
"How long have you been out here, Mr. Fenster?" Carter asked, making himself a sandwich.
"Too long. And I don't mind telling you that I resent interference."
"What interference is that?" Carter asked, looking up.
"I've been doing my job out here. I could use more men, not some hot shot investigator from Washington."
"Yes?" Carter said, smiling. He was certain now that he did not like this man.
"We're being counterproductive here…"Owen started, but Duvall leaned forward.
"I just want to know how and when you're going to do something about what is happening here." He looked toward the door. "For Christ's sake, we're sitting ducks out here."
"Who attacked the base this time around?" Carter asked the station manager.
"Natives from Natu Faui, we're assuming."
"You're assuming that they were natives, or about their origin?" Carter asked.
"They were natives, all right. But we're assuming they came from Natu Faui."
"That's the island our Navy has cleaned out a few times already?"
Fenster smiled faintly. "Invasions, they called them, although that would hardly have been my choice of words. More like shore missions, and not very extensive at that. A couple of the patrols were sent inland, and interpreters spoke with the native government."
"And?" Carter prompted after a moment or two of silence.
Fenster shrugged. "Our people were assured each time that the attacks, if they had been mounted from Natu Faui, were the work of a few youngsters who had gotten drunk on whiskey."
"I see," Carter said. "Where do they get their whiskey?"
Fenster curled his lip. "The French… we believe."
"Our problems are not isolated to native attacks," Owen interjected.
Carter turned to him.
"There have been plenty of other incidents in the past. Including the attack on Handley in town by his section aide."
"A Chinese man?"
"Yun Lo." Duvall spat out the name.
"Is the man in custody?"
Owen shook his head. "We can't find him. The French have their people out looking for him, of course, since it happened in town. But neither their people nor Fenster's have come up with a clue."
"Nor will we ever," the security chief said. "Yun Lo has disappeared into the bush like the others. He's living back up there in the hills with his wife and mother and father and grandparents and probably a dozen kids and as many mistresses. They've got it made here. They own these islands."
" 'Others'?" Carter asked.
Owen sighed deeply. "We have had a problem with our help out here. They steal things, then disappear. But until the attack on Handley, we felt they were no serious threat to us."
"You don't believe they have anything to do with your ongoing problem?"
"Not with the attacks on the base," Owen said. "They may be a pain in the ass, but they aren't… weren't dangerous."
"Where are they recruited?"
"Here on the island. There's a fairly extensive population of Orientals."
"I thought the Japanese…" Carter started, but Owen cut him off.