I pulled up the hood and walked back along the road, squinting through the rain. The gates were open, but there was no activity. It was about three hours too early for the high-rollers to show up; probably the hired muscle and the croupiers and the girls hadn’t even arrived yet. The whole scene was tree-framed, shrub-bordered and hedged. I slunk along under overhanging branches from the neighbour’s garden to a point just a few feet from the Nash gate. A quick duck and dive and I was through the gate and under cover again. I worked my way through ti-tree and other foliage until I’d reached the point where the boat ramp branched off. I could see the house now- a two-storeyed, twenty-five-room splendido with too many pillars and steps. The big rooms had balconies, the smaller ones had window boxes.
The rain stopped and I wiped my face with a piece of cloth I found in the pocket of the slicker. When I stuffed the rag back I felt the hard metal of the gun, which was still in my jacket. I debated whether to transfer it to the slicker, but decided against; my policy is to make a gun as unavailable as possible. The fact that I’m still alive and haven’t been shot more than a couple of times convinces me it’s a good procedure.
I stayed close to the brick fence that separated Nash from his or her neighbour. I began to smell the sea before I’d got past the house. The ramp was bricked for some of the way, then made of tarred planks in the best nautical fashion. It was ten metres wide, sloping easily down to a jetty on the left and straight into the water on the right. As well as a lane for boat trailers, there were metal rails for moving heavier craft on wagons and a space for vehicles to back and turn in. A cluster of lights mounted high up over the ramp showed a number of small yachts tied up, and the long wide shape of the houseboat moored directly at the end of the jetty. It had a bulky superstructure, which housed what they probably called state-rooms. All very nice, Cyn would have loved it. Very civilised. But the lights were making the ramp and jetty look like the pitch at a night cricket match. No place for an interloper. Away to the right was a large, open-fronted boatshed wrapped in shadow. I kept clear of the intersecting circles of light and picked my way past a barbecue pit and some garden furniture to the shed.
It rained some more while I waited. The tin roof of the shed amplified the sound but, true to the general standard of the place, didn’t leak. I didn’t explore the inner recesses of the shed more than I needed to. Boat gear is boat gear-oars, ropes, sails, tins of paint and glue. When the rain stopped, other water noise took over-the slap of the sea against the piles of the jetty and the sides of the boats. There was also the creaking of timbers and a thrumming and slapping of the wind against ropes and furled sails. Another sound, which I couldn’t identify at first, underlay all the others. It wasn’t close enough to be disconcerting, but it was puzzling. A growling, scratching, rattling sound. I poked my head out of the shed and tried to see beyond the pools of light. Eventually I located the noise and its source-somewhere on the other side of the boat ramp two dogs were chained up. Poor security; tying up the dogs when you were expecting strangers as guests was the right thing to do, but it had been done way too early.
The action started around midnight. Three cars came down the ramp, turned and unloaded their passengers. I saw white shirts, fur coats and heard the click of high heels. A motor launch cruised up to the dock and there was more movement and sound-motors chugged, feet scraped on wood and metal. A few guys in redjackets appeared from nowhere and got busy. They turned on more lights over the jetty and on the houseboat itself. It was hard to judge the actual size of it from where I was, but it was big, long, wide and high. The redcoats started escorting people to the gangplank with elaborate courtesy. More arrivals by land and sea. I could hear music coming from the houseboat now and see people in clusters on the deck. The wind blew the rain clouds away, leaving a clear, starry sky beneath which the fun people got ready to play.
I counted forty-one people arriving but I might have missed a few when my attention wandered. The redcoats tied up and cast off for the launches, supported the tentative, valet-parked some cars and generally kept things moving. One of them did less work than the others. His main job seemed to be OK-ing a member of each party. After forty minutes he rubbed his hands together and went on board, leaving the other two to stand on the jetty, smoke cigarettes, stamp their feet against the cold and repel all borders. There was no way to get aboard legitimately. Maybe I should have arrived in one of Ray’s boats wearing a tux and with a woman on my arm. But I didn’t have a tux or a woman.
Say what you like, army training can be useful. I fell back on it now instinctively. In a situation like this, training said: attack head-on, or approach with stealth, or create a diversion. On the whole I prefer stealth, but not if it means getting wet on a cold winter night. Failing stealth, diversion is best, partly because it presents an intellectual challenge, but mostly because it cuts down the chances of getting shot through the head.
There are all sorts of handy things lying about in boatsheds. Rooting around in the semi-dark, I found a rescue kit, which included a flare pistol, plenty of motor spirit, a battery-powered loud hailer, several spearguns-almost too many diversionary items. But I didn’t want to start any fires or impale any redcoats. I just wanted to see a man, no need for World War III. On the other hand, I’d been assaulted and had my name taken in vain in a court of law. And I was present at a highly illegal gaming operation; everyone around here was breaking the law. I looked the scene over again-yachts, houseboat, jetty, able-bodied guards, motor cars parked along the upper reaches of the ramp-and the solution hit me.
I gathered up a long length of nylon cord and a couple of pulleys attached to screw clamps and left the boathouse, bent low and keeping to the shadows. I worked my way back to the ramp and along it behind the cars. There were seven of them: Volvos, BMWs, Saabs and the like. The first six were parked pretty close together, but a red Porsche was a bit further up the slope, as if it deserved a better view and a space of its own. Some of the cars were locked, but others had the keys hanging in the lock of the driver’s door so the redcoats could unpark them quickly and not keep the ladies and gentlemen waiting in the cold. The Porsche was open. I prised a brick out of the edge of the ramp, tied the end of the cord firmly around it and set it carefully under the nearside front wheel of the Porsche. When I opened the car and put the gearshift in neutral. I felt it roll an inch and come to rest on the two inches of brick that chocked the wheel.
I retreated towards the boatshed, paying out the nylon line. At two points, I rigged up pulleys and passed the line through them. Tricky work with stiff, cold fingers and hard, unyielding nylon. The line was barely long enough; I had to crouch near the front of the shed, almost in one of the circles of light, and hope the guards didn’t see me. I was sweating when I took up my position, and one leg was cramping from creeping and scuttling along. The guards were leaning against the jetty rail with their hands in their pockets. They didn’t seem to be talking but they weren’t super-alert. Bored, almost certainly, and probably tired.
I took a deep breath, surveyed the ground I’d have to cover to get to the jetty, and jerked the line. Nothing happened. I swore and pulled it again, putting some weight into the tug. I almost lost balance as the line slackened in my hands. I got ready to run. There was a moment’s quiet and then a grinding crash as the freewheeling Porsche slammed into the back of the next car. That must have been one of the locked ones, with its alarm set. A bonus. The alarm started to whoop and the guards shouted and ran towards the noise. I let them pass me and sprinted for the jetty. Any second now people would come out onto the houseboat’s deck to see what the fuss was. But the natural place for them to look first was up, not down along the jetty. I broke the world record for running on planks, took the gangplank in two strides and flattened myself against a wall of superstructure on the harbour side. I stood in the darkness waiting for the confusion on the deck to reach a useful pitch. Clark Island was eight hundred metres away across the water. For no good reason I remembered the story Robert Hughes told about the place in The Fatal Shore. Lieutenant Clark used the island to grow vegetables, but the convicts rowed out and stole them. Sydney hasn’t changed.