Read Online No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller by Roland Fishman - Free Book Online
Authors: Roland Fishman
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Samudra’s set up his training compound. I’ll try and contact the guy directly.”
“Who’s he?”
“Name’s Djoran. He grew up on the island and knows it like the back of his hand. You’d like him. He’s smart as a whippet with a ton of guts. He’s a Sufi, too, which is how he met Kemala, at some conference in Jakarta six years ago.”
Carter was familiar with Sufism. It was a mystical branch of Islam whose adherents strived to be close to God in every moment and every movement. A Sufi acquaintance in Jakarta had once said to him, “I possess nothing in the material world and nothing possesses me. Sufism is not the wearing of wool and shabby clothes, rather the excellence of conduct and moral character.” But why would a Sufi get involved in something like this?
He looked at his phone. The battery was now showing red.
“I’m about to cut out. So where exactly will I find Erina?”
“She’s operating out of the film’s production office, pretending to work for Screen Australia. Using the name Nicole Davey.”
“So where is it?”
“Sorry, mate. All I know is that it’s somewhere between Boggabilla and Moree.”
“Okay, I’ll hit the first pub I see in Boggabilla and gather some local intel.”
“Don’t get caught in a bloody shout with a bunch of bushies. Once they buy you one beer, they’ll expect you to be there until closing time.”
Carter almost smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Good luck.”
“You too. Give my best to the guys in the hospital. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead. Carter dropped it on the passenger seat and took a sip of lukewarm water. Knowing Jacko was on the case in Indonesia allowed him to focus exclusively on Boggabilla.
He glanced at his daypack and patted it like an old faithful dog, then concentrated on the black line of road shimmering into the distance.
3
At a little after 2 p.m. a sign flashed by. Boggabilla 10 kilometres.
A few minutes later the ute crunched to a halt on the gravel opposite a faded yellow cement-rendered building. A name was painted above its door: The Wobbly Boot .
Carter ran his eye over the old-fashioned pub, noting the peeling artwork – a brown laced-up workboot overflowing with frosted frothy beer.
A dozen cars were parked outside, mostly dusty utes with large roo bars and black tarps stretched over the back trays. There were also a couple of road bikes – a Harley-Davidson and a souped-up Yamaha 750.
He stepped out into the dry, burning heat and looked around. The air was still and he saw no sign of a living creature. He leaned back into the cabin and grabbed the daypack from the passenger seat. When working for the order, he made it a habit to carry it with him wherever he went.
After locking his car, he slung the pack over his shoulders, walked across the street and pushed through the pub’s door.
The chill of air conditioning welcomed him, along with the loud buzz of indecipherable chatter and the country twang of Hank Williams singing “Honky Tonkin’.”
He crossed a green sea of sticky shag-pile carpet and walked toward the counter. Twenty or so white males were gathered around the bar, dressed in shirts, jeans, moleskins and bush hats, all drinking schooners of frothy beer.
In the far corner three middle-aged Aboriginal men sat under a well-used dartboard, drinking longnecks. Two bikies sat at a table near the jukebox. They didn’t look at him directly, but he sensed they were checking him out.
He maneuvered his way to the bar and read the blackboard menu. Wobbly Boot Sportsman’s Special, Pie and Chips with Gravy.
A rake-thin woman in her late forties stood behind the bar, looking his way. She had fine mousy hair and the deeply lined, sallow skin of a pack-a-day-plus smoker.
“What’ll it be, love?” she asked, without a drop of warmth in her voice. “We’ve got cans of Fourex and Fourex on tap.”
“Any chance of getting a feed?”
“Kitchen closed at two.” She let out a hacking
“Who’s he?”
“Name’s Djoran. He grew up on the island and knows it like the back of his hand. You’d like him. He’s smart as a whippet with a ton of guts. He’s a Sufi, too, which is how he met Kemala, at some conference in Jakarta six years ago.”
Carter was familiar with Sufism. It was a mystical branch of Islam whose adherents strived to be close to God in every moment and every movement. A Sufi acquaintance in Jakarta had once said to him, “I possess nothing in the material world and nothing possesses me. Sufism is not the wearing of wool and shabby clothes, rather the excellence of conduct and moral character.” But why would a Sufi get involved in something like this?
He looked at his phone. The battery was now showing red.
“I’m about to cut out. So where exactly will I find Erina?”
“She’s operating out of the film’s production office, pretending to work for Screen Australia. Using the name Nicole Davey.”
“So where is it?”
“Sorry, mate. All I know is that it’s somewhere between Boggabilla and Moree.”
“Okay, I’ll hit the first pub I see in Boggabilla and gather some local intel.”
“Don’t get caught in a bloody shout with a bunch of bushies. Once they buy you one beer, they’ll expect you to be there until closing time.”
Carter almost smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Good luck.”
“You too. Give my best to the guys in the hospital. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead. Carter dropped it on the passenger seat and took a sip of lukewarm water. Knowing Jacko was on the case in Indonesia allowed him to focus exclusively on Boggabilla.
He glanced at his daypack and patted it like an old faithful dog, then concentrated on the black line of road shimmering into the distance.
3
At a little after 2 p.m. a sign flashed by. Boggabilla 10 kilometres.
A few minutes later the ute crunched to a halt on the gravel opposite a faded yellow cement-rendered building. A name was painted above its door: The Wobbly Boot .
Carter ran his eye over the old-fashioned pub, noting the peeling artwork – a brown laced-up workboot overflowing with frosted frothy beer.
A dozen cars were parked outside, mostly dusty utes with large roo bars and black tarps stretched over the back trays. There were also a couple of road bikes – a Harley-Davidson and a souped-up Yamaha 750.
He stepped out into the dry, burning heat and looked around. The air was still and he saw no sign of a living creature. He leaned back into the cabin and grabbed the daypack from the passenger seat. When working for the order, he made it a habit to carry it with him wherever he went.
After locking his car, he slung the pack over his shoulders, walked across the street and pushed through the pub’s door.
The chill of air conditioning welcomed him, along with the loud buzz of indecipherable chatter and the country twang of Hank Williams singing “Honky Tonkin’.”
He crossed a green sea of sticky shag-pile carpet and walked toward the counter. Twenty or so white males were gathered around the bar, dressed in shirts, jeans, moleskins and bush hats, all drinking schooners of frothy beer.
In the far corner three middle-aged Aboriginal men sat under a well-used dartboard, drinking longnecks. Two bikies sat at a table near the jukebox. They didn’t look at him directly, but he sensed they were checking him out.
He maneuvered his way to the bar and read the blackboard menu. Wobbly Boot Sportsman’s Special, Pie and Chips with Gravy.
A rake-thin woman in her late forties stood behind the bar, looking his way. She had fine mousy hair and the deeply lined, sallow skin of a pack-a-day-plus smoker.
“What’ll it be, love?” she asked, without a drop of warmth in her voice. “We’ve got cans of Fourex and Fourex on tap.”
“Any chance of getting a feed?”
“Kitchen closed at two.” She let out a hacking
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