‘Station four, secure,’ he said into his head-mounted mike, and awaited orders.
‘All stations secure,’ confirmed the leader. ‘All retire.’
Asif turned his back on his handiwork and walked into the darkness, lit only by a line of blinking orange lights in the distance. He was aware of the roof suddenly vanishing and felt the lightest of breezes on his skin, which was beaded with the moisture of concentration.
Other lights converged, as his colleagues headed for the blinking lights and Asif recognised the bouncing gait of Ah Cheng despite the fact that all he could see of his friend was the blue-white light from his helmet.
‘Hurry up, Asif,’ came the leader’s voice through his headphones.
‘He loves his work so much he wants to feel it,’ laughed Ah Cheng.
Asif arrived last at the steel barrier where the lights were blinking and retired behind the baffles with the others. The leader, Kendrick, the only full Australian citizen in the Bang Gang, opened his hand Pod and initiated the fire sequence.
Green turned to yellow.
‘Heads down,’ called Kendrick.
Yellow turned to orange.
Ah Cheng nudged Asif,‘Why don’t you stand closer? I swear you love your work so much, you’d like to be in an explosion yourself.’
‘Become a suicide bomber,’ suggested Karadzian. ‘There’s always work for them.’
‘Quiet,’ snapped Kendrick, as orange turned red and began to flash.
They felt it first beneath their feet – a quivering, then a strong shudder. Then the roar erupted and lit up the mountainside as four explosions tore into its guts. The mountain seemed to crash like a wave, and yet was still standing when the dust settled. Most of it.
Ah Cheng was punching the air and whooping – almost as happy as if his beloved Feng had just scored the winner for the Pilgrims. Asif smiled, liking the Chinese very much and wishing he could express joy as freely.
Joy, of course, was a rare and precious thing in Asif’s experience – almost unknown until he met Tanya. Just thinking of her brought a smile to his face, which turned wistful as he lingered behind the baffle when the others went to investigate the results of the blast. Karadzian had left his ordnance esky open and, in a few seconds, Asif had taken a strip of Manga and slipped it inside the false panel in his thermos. They were each accountable for their Mangalite issue, but in all likelihood it would never be missed. Asif took great care to pilfer evenly from his colleagues so that no one person might come under scrutiny. He now had seven strips of Manga – easily enough for the job, but there was no harm in getting more, and it was simple enough to steal.
‘Asif,’ called Cheng, ‘… come and see!’
Industrial powered lights clunked on to bathe the site in a white glare. Reddish/brown haematite with shiny veins of magnetite lay in an acre of rubble given up by the mountain. The amount of shiny magnetite among the darker rubble showed this was a particularly pure seam.
In the semi-darkness he kicked a heavy lump and stooped to pick it up. In the light of his head lamp the rock was dark and shiny, and very heavy – magnetite so pure it looked like steel. In his mind’s eye, Asif was already reshaping it – paring and polishing to waken the life that lingered within.
Tanya, of course, had taught him. She was a painter and sculptor, one of the many Australians who lived in Ord City by choice. She loved the anarchy, she said, and had inspired Asif’s creative side. A side of himself he’d never known existed – not that there’d been any time for it scraping a living in flood-prone Bangladesh.
‘What are you going to make of it?’ asked Cheng.
‘It’s a child,’ said Asif. ‘A small child with its arm protecting its eyes.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work,’ laughed Cheng. ‘Will you have time to finish it?’
• • •
Back in the mess after the shift, Asif sipped an orange juice as the others drank beer.
Habal Tong, of course, had no proscriptions against alcohol, but Asif’s birth religion was Islam and he remained devout to all of its rules and precepts. He had only once drunk wine, sharing a glass with Tanya on their first anniversary, and had been racked with guilt for weeks afterward.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but be a little jealous of the camaraderie of his workmates which he could tell was partly fuelled by alcohol. Ah Cheng, in particular, was an exuberant drinker and gambler and, as ever, Asif found himself speculating as to why he should be a member of his Tong with Razzaq. Cheng didn’t fit at all the usual profile, but Razzaq said that was the reason he tolerated the man. ‘Cheng is beyond suspicion,’ he had said. ‘That makes him valuable. We will have an important job one day for Cheng.’
‘What are you looking so grumpy about?’ demanded Cheng, wrenching Asif from his reverie.
‘Nothing,’ said Asif, feeling strangely guilty.
‘He wants a beer,’ said Karadzian. ‘Hey, when you get your citizenship, Asif … you should go to Sydney and do a pub crawl.’
‘Pub crawl,’ snorted Kendrick. ‘Knowing Asif, he’s part of some deep terror cell … biding his time. He’ll only go to Sydney to blow up the bridge.’
The others laughed, led by Ah Cheng, and Asif smirked. Kendrick had made the same joke many times so it didn’t bother him, but the mention of Sydney reminded him of Tanya, and he felt a wave of sadness wash over him.
Then Asif felt his phone buzz and pulled it out, knowing it would be a message from her. Uncanny how she would contact him when he most needed her. He peered at the screen of his phone, which simply said: I love you.
Tears sprang from his eyes and the love was so strong it caught his breath, but he glanced up guiltily to see Cheng staring at him. Cheng’s stare instantly turned to a grin and Asif put his phone away, more confused than ever.
Friday: Eight Days Before the First Wave
Chapter 8
Pushing Shit Uphill
Conan could have called Ronny Kwai – The Keeper, as he was known – but decided that simply turning up at his office might yield more interesting results.
Unfortunately, however, Ronny didn’t seem to have an office. He was a freelance football journalist who wrote obsessively about the A-League, and about the Ord City Pilgrims in particular. And that’s where Conan tracked him down – at training at Rinehart Stadium.
Conan walked into the 60,000 seat arena – weirdly empty despite the frenzy of activity on the pitch – and saw a knot of people sitting in the front of the stand. Ronny was holding court with a bunch of other journalists and officials as the team were put through their paces. Only one of the players had FENG 9 on his back, causing Conan to wince at the memory of a whole crowd of such shirts which had landed him in his present predicament.
Conan knew Ronny Kwai from the pictures on his website and sat within earshot for a while as he talked, sometimes in Cantonese, sometimes in English, about the team and their prospects. Conan had little interest in the conversation – preferring cricket on the rare occasion he took an interest in sport. And even cricket had gone to the pack after the Americans had suddenly become so passionate about Twenty 20. Test cricket was dead.
It was a stinking hot day and, despite his indifference to the game, Conan was impressed with the players’ intensity as he sat listening absently to the journos and considering his position. He hadn’t bothered telling anyone about being chased, not least as he no longer trusted even his fellow police after finding the flat emptied. Also, he had finally read the email from Kenny Cook which told him, as he’d expected, to wrap up the investigation and get back to Sydney.
And