‘Hey, that’s fantastic, Belle,’ said Wilkes, putting his beer down to give her a bear hug and a kiss to go with it. He knew she was the best and this was recognition that everyone else thought so too.
‘Yeah,’ said Saunders, raising his glass for yet another toast. ‘We want Annabelle in Sydney to read the morning news, following on from the cartoons. It’s a big move up. And we also want you, Tom. Annabelle’s told me what you do — hey, just in general terms, mate, no secrets because then you’d have to kill me, right?’ he said mock seriously.
Don’t tempt me, thought Wilkes.
‘And the network needs a defence expert — a consultant. In Sydney, of course. God knows there’s enough going on around the world these days. That’s something we should have had — full time — a long time ago.’
It was a strange moment for Tom. He heard what the producer was saying, but all he could focus on was the man’s shirt. People stopped wearing them back in the eighties, didn’t they? Weren’t they called power shirts? And the tan looked fake. Tom Wilkes didn’t like being ambushed. It made him want to fight back. But against who? And how? And what did Annabelle expect? That they’d just up and leave Townsville? And what about the army? He couldn’t exactly give two weeks’ notice. Hadn’t they talked about this? Wilkes tried to recall the conversation. If he remembered correctly, they’d decided he wasn’t leaving the army. ‘Um…I don’t know what to say, Steve.’
‘That’s okay, Tom. No need to thank me. We’d do anything to get Annabelle down to Sydney.’
I bet you would, mate.
‘You okay, Tom?’ asked Annabelle. Tom was smiling, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. Saunders had turned away to order another round of drinks, and had struck up a conversation with the bar girl.
‘Look, Belle, I’m proud of you, you know that. But this, now…well…shouldn’t we talk a bit more about it without Donald Trump here to moderate?’
‘But this would be good for us.’
‘Look, it’s great for you, but can you honestly see me hanging around the TV station in Sydney?’
Annabelle took a long sip of her drink, her cheeks flushed red with anger.
‘Jesus, don’t pout. We need to talk about this.’
‘How about tomorrow?’
Bloody hell, thought Tom, he’d just been ambushed again. ‘Belle…I’m going away tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ she said, nodding her head slowly. ‘Care to tell me where? Oh, I forgot, you can’t tell me.’ The words dripped with sarcasm.
‘Belle, that’s not exactly —’
‘If you’re going to tell me it’s not fair, don’t bother,’ said Annabelle. ‘I want a husband who’s going to be there when I come home at night. I read the headlines, I don’t want a husband who makes them.’
‘So what are you saying here…?’
Steve turned back and felt the tension between Annabelle and Wilkes. He’d seen it coming. A raucous laugh caught his attention. It was the producer he’d been introduced to earlier, having some fun with a few other people he’d recognised from the station — a cute cadet journalist amongst them. He made his way over. ‘Hey, Barry…Barry Weaver, isn’t it? Loved that Papua New Guinea piece, mate…’
‘Belle? Speak to me, please.’ Wilkes was uncomfortable with the brooding silence.
‘Look, every time you go away, I don’t sleep.’
‘You never told me that before.’
‘We weren’t getting married before. And when footage comes in from some crisis somewhere or other, I live in fear that I’m going to see you as I read the bloody news, getting shot, right in front of my eyes.’
‘Look, that’s not going to happen.’
‘It’s already happened. In Papua New Guinea. I saw the out-takes. It was you right there in the background. After the battle with the highlanders…’
That bastard… Wilkes concentrated his anger in a glance at Weaver. The producer looked up and toasted him, smiling.
‘So what? You expect me just to pack everything in and move to Sydney?’
‘Do you expect me not to go to Sydney?’
Both Tom and Annabelle could see they were getting nowhere. Annabelle drank the rest of her drink, and felt it warm her stomach. ‘Are you going to stay with me tonight?’
‘No,’ said Tom, wishing he could have said something different. ‘I leave at four in the morning. Have to stay on post.’
‘Fine, then.’
‘Look, Annabelle —’
‘Just go. You have to anyway.’
Tom didn’t know what to do. He had to get back to post, pack his gear and get a final briefing, but he didn’t want to leave the woman he loved when she was feeling so awful about the future. He wanted to shout that he had an important job to do, that the job he did helped keep the world in which she lived safe, but it wasn’t the time or the place for anger or a lecture. The fact was, at that moment Tom knew he would not leave the regiment to work as a TV consultant no matter how good the pay was. It was not his style. Quite what that foretold for their relationship he wasn’t sure, but the twist in his gut told him that the prognosis wasn’t good. ‘Goodbye, Belle,’ he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘See you when I get back.’
‘When will that be?’ she said, eyes watering, her face full of disappointment. ‘Oh, I forgot, you can’t tell me that either.’
Flores, Indonesia
Duat stood at the edge of the beach and listened to the hum of activity in the camp behind him, the warm waters of the Java Sea gently breaking on the sand of crushed shells. He dug his toes into it and wiggled them, something he used to do as a child. Of course Kadar Al-Jahani had to go to the West Bank and capitalise on the demonstration in Jakarta, he told himself, the bombing would have been a largely pointless exercise otherwise — but it would be a dangerous trip. As agreed, they had not claimed responsibility for the attack. The time for Babu Islam to announce its existence and its intentions to the world would come. But that time was some way off yet. There was still too much to do to risk a response from the west. And yet, despite the silence and as a direct result of Kadar’s demonstration, into the new camp had wandered a steady stream of willing recruits. These people knew little or nothing about Babu Islam but still they came, for the bombing had been a beacon for the faithful to take up the fight.
The first of the arrivals caused a great deal of concern. Any one of the new recruits could be a spy. The solution had been a costly and time-consuming one, but necessary. A panel of trusted men was created to handle the influx. The arrivals were questioned and background checks performed. The newcomers were thoroughly searched, of course, and quarantined for a time until the background checks were completed. So far, no spies had been identified but the core of a bureaucracy had been created, perhaps the beginnings of a workable security infrastructure that could be imposed once Babu Islam assumed power.
More than likely there were other groups like Babu Islam also enjoying an influx of new blood; Jamaah Islamiah and the Islamic Youth Movement — the GPI — and others benefiting from the blow they’d dealt the Great Evil, the United States of America. The resources required to process the arrival of so many new enthusiastic hands had been considerable, but the influx had been welcome.
Working parties had been hard at their labours for a good hour before dawn. The runway was already partially hacked out of the jungle and mangroves, and all the major buildings were up. Indeed, the bombing had profoundly affected the atmosphere at the camp. There was a sense of elation underpinned by a renewed purpose. Duat had noticed small shrines dedicated to Dedy and his heroism, incense burning before blurred snapshots of the man. It was not strictly the Muslim way, but the movement had attracted followers from the four corners of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago, and with them had come a melange of local superstitions and idiosyncrasies. In time, a deeper understanding of the Qur’an would purge Babu Islam of these impurities but at the moment, Duat had decided to tolerate them — there were other priorities.