Treasure

By Drew Lindsay

Put this mix together..... An ancient schooner laden with stolen gold and opium, wrecked against a treacherous part of the Australian coast. A wreck diver vanishes while searching for the undersea treasure. Corrupt government officials and police crawling over each other to get their hands on the treasure. Hired killers prepared to murder anyone who gets in the way of them finding the treasure. Ex detective Ben Hood is sent to protect the stunning daughter of the missing diver and the diver’s wife. The lure of treasure often brings out the worst in normally good people. It unleashes suffering and death by the hands of normally evil people. Ben is once again pushed to the limits of his fighting skills together with personal and emotional endurance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Lindsay
• Release date: Apr 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301637546

Drew Lindsay

Drew Lindsay is a dynamic Australian Novelist and Writer. He has travelled extensively throughout Australia and the world. His background includes working as a Policeman and detective, then managing his own private investigation business as well as working in Fraud Investigation Management positions within the insurance industry.Drew is a PADI Divemaster and holds a private pilot's license. He has a great love of entertaining others with his vivid imagination. His novels allow the reader to escape into worlds of romance, excitement, humour and fast paced adventure. Drew lives in northern New South Wales with his wife.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Karen Robinson had been concerned for some time, that something was wrong. Initially, she passed off her slightly worrying thoughts as mere figments of her rather vivid imagination. On the rare occasion that she worked back until dark in the Port Macquarie Sports and Dive Centre, she would sense that she was being watched as she walked a short distance to the nearby car park, and unlocked her Honda Prelude. She would stand dead still for a moment, listening. Then she would quickly look back in the direction of the sports and dive shop. People were always moving about. This seaside town rarely went quiet, even late at night, especially in the summer season. Karen would feel a chill creep over her, notwithstanding the Australian summer heat. She strongly suspected that someone was watching her intently, either from the darkness of a doorway or the shadows of the old maritime museum near the Hastings River, or perhaps that person on a distant park bench on the edge of the Kooloonbung Creek.

Eventually, Karen would open the car door and slide gratefully behind the steering wheel, slamming the door and locking it immediately. She would watch for headlights following her as she turned onto Park Street, and drove north from the township to the rapidly growing suburb of Settlement Point. There were always headlights behind her. This was a moderately busy road at any time of the day and even at night, as new suburbs had been constructed along its length, on re-claimed land, over what had formally been rather useless swamps.

Her home was one of the few remaining fibro cottages built on the edge of the Hastings River less than 100 metres from the ferry, which dragged passengers and vehicles across the river via two huge steel cables, to the North Shore. Suburban enterprise was flourishing there. A bridge across the river near this point may be required in due course, although the Port Macquarie Council had other more (allegedly) demanding issues to contend with, especially in the recent past, including the sacking of the entire Council for a range of issues, including corruption, financial mismanagement and general incompetency.

Karen’s little cottage was built on timber poles, as this area was prone to severe flooding when the Hastings River took in huge quantities of water from the north, especially from Queensland in the Monsoon season. The usually sturdy river banks would overflow with a deluge of swirling, muddy torrents. Eventually all the local people put their homes up on poles, stilts or concrete blocks. It was cheaper than continually replacing carpets and furniture. Karen usually parked her car underneath the house, unless there was a flood. On those rare occasions, she would stay at a hotel in the town. Police would have blocked the road to her home anyway.

There was no flood on this particular evening when once again, Karen was required to stay behind well after trading hours had concluded. Stephen Rancher, the Sports and Dive shop owner, had left work at 2 pm, as was his habit on Friday’s. He met with his mates at the Bowling Club. By the time he would be deposited home late that night, he would be totally plastered. Karen closed the shop at 5 pm and then laboured over the weekly accounts; attempting to reconcile error after error, until she realised that darkness had descended outside. Then, as had recently been the case, she started to worry once again.

The trip home was uneventful. She parked her car underneath the fibro house and quickly climbed the timber stairs and unlocked the door. A car drove slowly past and stopped about 50 metres away. Karen rushed into the house and dead-locked the door. She moved swiftly to the curtained windows in the lounge room at the front of the house. The car was gone. She considered that the vehicle had reversed into a dirt road just south of her home. The tide was swiftly flowing towards the sea, swirling and gurgling against the rocks in the river bank. The southerly buster which had been predicted, had changed its mind, as it often did, and headed east. Karen went to her bedroom. She kept a spear gun there. She didn’t have a shooters license or a normal gun. It was virtually impossible to own a firearm of any kind in Port Macquarie or almost anywhere in Australia, under present government legislation. All the criminals had guns. They didn’t care about government legislation. Normal, law abiding people, didn’t have guns, unless they went to the trouble of enrolling in a shooting club and installing a gun safe which often cost more than the weapon itself. Those who may have owned a firearm in the past, even eventually illegally because of the changing of the law, were finally constrained under threats of prosecution by the police, issued via the media, if they didn’t hand their weapon into a police station under a variety of amnesties which had been declared, including buy back schemes which usually left the former gun owner well out of pocket. Karen had a spear gun which used heavy rubbers to propel the spear. It was better than nothing, and at this stage the government hadn’t declared them illegal to own without having to jump through a dozen hoops. Karen was a proficient skin and SCUBA diver and regularly used her spear gun in the ocean off the rugged Port Macquarie coastline, to supplement her supermarket purchases with a large sea bream or even a small shark.

She didn’t pull the propulsion rubbers back to engage the spear, but just having the gun in her hand gave her some degree of reassurance. The occasional car drove past. A person sat on the edge of the river with a large fishing rod about a hundred metres downstream. It was probably a male but Karen couldn’t tell. People fished along this part of the river bank all the time, even at night. She closed the bedroom curtains, walked to the kitchen and switched on the lights. She used to live with a guy who loved to cook. They had split over a year ago and she was now back to cooking her own meals. She leaned the spear gun against a wall and kicked off her shoes. She felt that perhaps she was just being silly about suspicions of someone following her. Why would anyone want to follow her? She had been told she was attractive in an unsensational kind of way. She had just turned 30 and her body was well shaped and in excellent physical condition due to her regular diving and long walks. She felt there were far more attractive women in Port Macquarie. No one hated her. She rarely socialised. She visited the public library a few times a week in her lunch break, to research maritime history and shipwrecks in the Port Macquarie area. It was her passion to actually find one of the many wrecks which had come to grief in the huge seas which occasionally pounded the rugged Port Macquarie coastline. Most of the wrecks had never been located, particularly the older timber vessels, which were usually broken up by the waves and scattered across the ocean bed.

Karen took out a small frozen fillet of shark and left it on the sink to defrost. She sat at the heavy timber kitchen table, switched on her laptop computer. There was one email from her mother in Tasmania. She would read that later. She had expected a reply from the NSW Heritage Office in relation to her research on the missing schooner, Ocean Rose, allegedly wrecked in a violent storm which hurled the vessel against Bird Rock, a large rocky outcrop about a kilometre off shore from Oxley Beach at Port Macquarie in 1918. She had patiently waited for 2 months without one word back from the NSW Heritage Office. She would send them a follow up email.

Karen unbuttoned her short sleeved work shirt, rose from the table, and strolled into the bedroom. She flicked on the light and pulled off her shirt. A much lighter top and shorts were perfect for hot summer nights. It was then she noticed that the top drawer of her pine timber chest of drawers was not fully closed. It remained open by half a centimetre. Karen was fanatical about closing drawers, cupboards and doors. She slowly approached the slightly open drawer, a vice like sensation gripping her throat. Her bras and panties were stored there, together with her passport and a few rather personal letters from her former boyfriend. She gently pulled the top drawer fully open. Her bras had been moved. She usually kept them in perfect order, the cups of one, accurately positioned within the cups of another. This method of storage allowed the cups to hold their shape and not be crushed. Her breasts were slightly larger now so the smaller and older bras were at the back of the drawer; with the larger bras towards the front. They weren’t accurately aligned, as she had always kept them. Her panties were not stacked neatly as was her custom. The passport was in its usual place, but the letters had been moved. Someone had been in her house that day. She slammed the top drawer closed and opened the next one, grabbing any T shirt and running to switch off the light.

Karen rang the police. A female officer answered.

‘Someone has broken into my place,’ she said, her voice quivering.

‘What’s your name and address love?’

‘Karen Robinson. I live at the end of Park Street at Settlement Point.’

‘Street number?’

‘I’m not sure of the street number. I have a post office box for mail.’

‘I need a street number.’

‘I think it might be 8. I’m up near the ferry.’

‘What’s missing?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Karen.

‘Have you had a look around to determine what has been stolen?’

‘Someone went through my underwear drawer.’

‘Did they take any of your underwear?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘How did they break into your home?’

‘I don’t know.’ Karen now felt quite foolish.

‘I won’t be sending police to your home Karen. Can I suggest you take a good look around and if you can find anything missing, just pop in and report it tomorrow or whenever.’

‘But I always lock up my house when I leave for work each morning. Whoever came here had to break in somehow.’

‘Then I suggest you re-check your door and window locks. You might have left a window open or something.’

‘I’m at Settlement Point,’ said Karen, her voice rising slightly in pitch. ‘My house is on poles three metres off the ground.’

‘Just come in and report any loss of property tomorrow darling,’ said the constable in a patronising tone. ‘Then you can go ahead and lodge your insurance claim if that is what you intend to do.’

Karen slammed down the bedside phone. She went from room to room, checking the windows and locks. She checked the huge deadlock on the front door leading to a small deck and thence the stairway to the ground. Nothing was forced. Every window remained securely locked. She walked slowly back to the kitchen and slumped into the chair, propping her elbows on the table top and resting her chin in the palms of her hands. She considered that perhaps she was suffering from depression or some other dreadful kind of mental illness. She had taken the breakup with her former boyfriend quite hard. She had been regularly fighting with her employer, usually over her meticulous attention to detail and his determination to be totally opposite. Maybe she should visit Doctor McLaren. He was old but he always offered good advice.

A middle aged man with a bald head and grey stubble growing on his face, sucked the last arid smoke from his hand-rolled cigarette, and flicked the smouldering remains from his black Volvo, into the Hastings River. He glanced back at Karen’s house in his rear view mirror, and smiled. He knew he shouldn’t have gone inside her house. It was too soon; but she intrigued him. Ultimately he would have to kill her but not until he had obtained the information his employers required. She obviously had a connection with the missing SCUBA diver, David Morrison. She was attempting to research the lost wreck of the Ocean Rose, as was Morrison before he vanished. Whether this man was dead or alive, Karen Robinson obviously knew something vital in relation to his sudden and mysterious disappearance. It was clear that Morrison’s wife was going to be tougher to reach but that wasn’t of any great concern. She had a daughter living with her in their luxurious, waterfront Port Macquarie home. The two storied house bristled with CCTV cameras and passive infrared movement activated flood lights. The bald man would eventually get Clare Morrison alone and they would discuss her husband’s disappearance. Things however, had to be done in their proper order. Clare Morrison was more likely to be an accomplice, if in fact her husband was still alive. She had already received a huge insurance payment in relation to his alleged death, but the body had never been found. Karen Robinson was just a sticky beak with a head for sunken wrecks. Once he knew what she knew about Morrison’s shipwreck research and diving activities off the Port Macquarie coast, he would kill and dispose of her. She would be an easy mark. Her body would never be found. Dealing with Clare Morrison was a totally different matter and he would have to handle that situation carefully. He was trained to be very patient and almost totally invisible. He did however, enjoy going through Karen’s underwear drawer and very private, perhaps even rather lewd letters. The bald man knew all about the dangers of working hard with no play. One had to play, even just a little.

****

CHAPTER TWO

Ex New South Wales Australian Police Detective Sergeant Ben Hood had been basically forced to ‘retire’ from the police force for shooting a couple of criminals who were intent on killing him, or some other innocent persons. Was he bitter about this seeming injustice inflicted upon him by the bureaucratic powers? Hell yes! Was there anything effectively he could do about the situation? Not a bloody thing. Someone once said that there is nothing more ex than an ex policeman. Ben had subsequently found this not to be the case, unless you had a police bureaucratic target painted on your forehead. Then you were fair game because of those you had betrayed in your scramble to the top of the heap.

Ben had recently divorced and had given his home and most of his worldly possessions to his ex wife. He now lived in a tiny flat in Mosman with a partial view of Sydney Harbour if you leaned out far enough over the left hand side of the balcony off the small lounge room. He did have a V8 Vantage Aston Martin Roadster. This late model monster went from 0 to 100 km/h in less than 5 seconds. 313 kw’s at max power. Gunmetal grey in colour if you can call gunmetal grey a colour. A very rich man had given the vehicle to Ben for saving his daughter’s life. (Flesh Traders)

Ben was a big man, 51 years old and over 6 feet tall. He was muscular and very fit notwithstanding his age, due to regular and often brutal workouts with his personal trainer and fighting mentor, Akira Misaki, and various opponents. He had spent many years learning the lifestyle and fighting ways of the Shinobi Ninjutsu. He was good at this ancient form of Japanese soldier fighting. Extremely good. Akira’s biggest concern was that Ben’s acquired fighting skills were not married with the spiritual component that often accompanied and enhanced such skills. Akira often described Ben as a very special fighting machine, with no rudder to guide his skills in the appropriate direction.

Rodney Reid was the Managing Director of a VIP Protection Company named predictably enough, ‘Security for Important People’. Ben had undertaken various assignments for Rodney since being asked to resign from the NSW Police Force. Rodney Reid’s home and office was set well back from the street in a leafy cul-de-sac in Castle Hill, an upper/middle class suburb northwest of Sydney. The house was of double storey construction and clad in brilliant white weather board. All the homes in this cul-de-sac were immaculately maintained together with extensive gardens. The only feature placing Rodney Reid’s home apart from the others was the security cameras mounted on high metal poles in various parts of his garden and on the house itself.

Ben and Rodney had formed a rather special relationship during their relatively short time together. Rodney considered Ben to be his most valuable field operative, notwithstanding the regularly disastrous although usually successful results to each and every assignment.

Rodney was an Australian guy in his mid 50’s. He had short grey hair and was slowly going bald. He was almost six feet tall and thanks to a recently imposed diet, was now quite trim rather than a touch overweight as was usual for him. He lived with, and was about to be married to Dr. Rose Hendricks. Rose had almost totally recovered from a gunshot wound and fairly major surgery. (Flesh Traders) This required her to be on a special diet and Rose figured that if she had to be on it, Rodney could be also. Rose and Rodney had met under rather unusual circumstances. She was the resident surgeon at a large Sydney hospital about 10 years ago when Rodney and his mates got drunk one night and somehow Rodney’s right foot got dragged under a large four wheel drive vehicle and crushed beyond repair. Rose later amputated it. Rodney used a single crutch under his right arm and occasionally an artificial foot. His disability had almost no effect on his mobility.

Ben’s most recent assignment had taken him initially to the rather remote city of Canberra, Australia’s capital city and the seat of Federal government. Set in south eastern NSW, this city and associated suburbs, had sprawled in every direction from its hub; Parliament House, into manicured bushland, rolling hills and even as far as mountains which were snow capped in winter. From Canberra, Ben had risked his life in the crocodile infested Daintree wilderness of Far Northern Queensland to save the kidnapped wife of a senior member of the Australian Parliament. (A Lost Lady)

Ben was emotionally drained when he returned to Sydney following this assignment. He made it clear to Rodney that he would be refusing any further offers of work until he had taken a break, sorted himself out and decided if he should continue with the VIP protection agency.

He launched himself back into an intensive training programme under the guidance of Akira Misaki, who insisted that he initially undertake a 10 kilometre run each day through the north shore suburbs of Sydney for 10 days, and then come in to discuss any further training and mentoring which Akira felt appropriate. Ben took the advice as brush off, and he pounded the Sydney suburb pavements in the summer heat, burning off anger and pain until he felt on occasions as if he was about to have a heart attack.

He felt very alone during these daily runs. An old German shepherd dog came out of a yard one morning and attempted to keep up with him. Ben would normally have warmed to this kind of animal, but he ignored it, stepping up the pace until the dog finally gave up on a rather steep hill. It stopped and watched Ben run out of sight. The dog turned and walked slowly back towards its home.

That same evening, Ben received a phone call from a woman he thought he had grown to love, although he had deliberately kept her at arm’s length. Her name was Samantha Cruz. As soon as he heard her husky voice, he felt a tiny bit weak in the knees, and that had nothing to do with the punishing run that day. She asked him how he was. All he could do was imagine their last evening together in Paris. (An Explosive Affair) He vividly saw her long dark blond hair swirling around her shoulders; her tall voluptuous body, flawless skin, slightly upturned nose, full lips and mesmerising green eyes.

‘I’ve been better,’ said Ben. ‘The last job was a piece of work.’

‘Ivy and Irene send their love.’

‘I think of them every day,’ said Ben.

‘And me?’

‘Of course.’

‘I think we had something,’ said Sam.

‘Yes, we did.’

‘But it never sort of went anywhere, did it?’

Ben remained silent.

‘That’s why I’m calling. I’ve met someone. Can you believe that? I’ve actually met someone and I think I’m in love.’

Ben sat back in his chair. ‘I hope it’s a man.’

‘Of course it is you idiot. You were responsible for making me take a fresh look at men. He’s a nice man Ben.’

‘Does he treat you well?’

‘He worships the ground I walk on.’

‘As he should,’ said Ben.

‘I thought it perhaps should have been us but he sort of swept me off my feet.’

‘I’m too old for you. We both knew that,’ said Ben.

‘Crap. I don’t care about age. Don’t you listen to any of the first Norah Jones songs?’

‘All the time, but I don’t think her older love experience ultimately ended in joy.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I don’t really, but we’re getting off the track. What’s the go with this guy?’ asked Ben.

‘He’s a lot like you, but couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. I’d have to save him if anyone picked on us.’

Ben laughed. ‘Then he’s not a lot like me.’

‘He’s loving and kind like you. He treats me with respect. He values my opinion, just like you.’

Ben was silent for a short time.

‘Are you still there?’ asked Sam.

‘Has Ivy met him?’

‘No. That might be a bit daunting for him just now.’

‘Irene?’

‘Yes. My wild sister has met him.’

‘Has she expressed any opinion?’ asked Ben.

‘Of course she has! You know Irene. She figures if this guy takes me off the shelf, she has a clear shot at you.’

‘That’s sick.’

‘Not according to her.’

‘Does she like him?’

‘That’s important for you to know, isn’t it Ben?’

‘Yes. If Irene is comfortable with him, then he’s got to be okay.’

‘She seems to like him. Why don’t you call her?’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Ben.

‘Dennis.’

‘Dennis who?’

‘Dennis Lester. You’re not going to check on him, are you?

‘Bloody oath I am.’

‘Will he know?’

‘No, only if I find something nasty.’

‘He’s a nice person Ben. I really like him.’

‘Then you have the time of your life with him my darling,’ said Ben. ‘I wish you happiness.’

‘I knew you would. Thank you.’

‘Now let Ivy meet him and if she approves, you’re onto a good thing.’

‘She might frighten him!’

‘Rubbish.’

‘I was scared to tell you. I didn’t know how you might react.’

‘You have a wonderful life ahead of you Sam. If Dennis Lester makes you happy, then I will be happy. I want what is best for you.’

‘You’re a sweetheart.’

‘So are you. I won’t forget you.’

‘I will never forget you either. The Cruz girls have a special bond with you.’

‘I know, and I like that,’ said Ben. ‘Now off you go and enjoy that very lucky man.’

‘Thanks Ben. Goodnight.’

Ben disconnected the call. He put his mobile phone on the table and sat deep in thought for a very long time.

The following day, Ben climbed the old wooden stairs onto the shady verandah of Akira Misaki’s home in a western suburb of Sydney. Wind chimes continued to tinkle softly from the edge of the verandah, as they had since the first day Ben climbed those stairs.

Akira’s young Japanese companion, Bell, opened the door before he had crossed the verandah. ‘I saw you coming Ben. Akira is expecting you.’

Ben walked towards the stunningly beautiful and petite Japanese woman. They bowed to each other. Ben removed his shoes and placed them on the rack provided. Bell handed him a pair of slippers. ‘I love the incense you burn,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘You can’t buy it here,’ said Bell as she led him down the hallway. ‘I will get you some to take home. My Aunt in Japan, hand makes it.’

‘Don’t customs stop her bringing it into Australia?’

‘She posts it. No one has questioned us yet. It’s quite harmless and it soothes one’s soul.’

‘Then I really need some,’ said Ben.

Bell led him to the huge open sunroom and adjoining patio at the rear of the house. Akira sat in a rough hewn timber chair, trimming one of his recently potted frangipani plants which sat on a table before him. Ben stood opposite the thick set Korean man and bowed. Akira nodded. ‘Sit down.’ Ben sat at the table opposite him. ‘You age well Hachidan.’

The 66 year old karate master nodded. ‘You look like shit.’

‘I’ve been through a rough patch,’ said Ben. ‘That on top of all this bloody running has got me whipped.’

‘The running is good for you. It refreshes the soul.’

‘An ice cold beer refreshes the soul.’

Akira snipped a piece of dead leaf on the tree in front of him, reshaping it. ‘I sometimes wonder that you might be a lost soul Ben,’ he said.

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘Have you been practicing with the Baoding balls?’

‘No. I can’t get the hang of them.’

Akira looked into Ben’s face to determine if a joke had been thrown out. Ben was stone faced. ‘If you don’t practice with them for half an hour every day, you will never get the hang of them, as you put it. You must learn to put all that rubbish from the world out of your mind, and focus on what is pure and true. The balls will help you focus.’

Bell glided to Akira’s side with two cups and a pot of green tea. She placed them silently on the table, poured two cups and left without a word.

‘I sort of began a relationship with a federal cop in Canberra,’ said Ben.

‘I know.’

‘How could you know?’

‘The karate master who judged your gohon kumite fight down there, told me. He was very impressed with your style and speed. I heard what happened to her and I offer my deepest condolences to you Ben.’ (A Lost Lady)

Ben looked down. ‘I took down the female killer. She worked for the damn government would you believe?’

‘Did taking down the killer make you feel better about the situation?’

‘Bloody oath.’

‘How did you kill her?’

‘I burnt her to death. She was trapped in a crashed car with an accomplice and I dropped a petrol bomb in her lap.’

‘And may I ask about the quality of your sleep at the moment?’

Ben was silent for a moment. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Nightmares?’

‘I always have nightmares.’

‘Probably worse just now I would suspect by the look of your eyes.’

‘I didn’t come here for a lecture Aka.’

‘I don’t think these assignments you are undertaking, are doing you much good,’ said Akira, placing the scissors on the table in front of him.

‘You’ve got that right.’

‘I hear on the grape vine that your efforts benefit many people amazingly. I suspect however, the backlash from the violence, has you by the throat.’

Ben said nothing.

‘You are highly skilled in the rather controversial art of shinobi ninjutsu. The ninja, as they are also known, had relatively short life spans because of the highly dangerous nature of their work.’

‘I know their history,’ said Ben.

Akira continued as if Ben had not spoken. ‘They were assassins and spies. They weren’t held in very high regard by those who utilised their skills, especially what we might call normal Japanese people. Someone however, had to do the dirty work in the troubling times of Japanese political war and internal turmoil, and the shinobi did it extremely well. They also paid a high price for the lifestyle they chose.’ Akira tapped a finger against the side of his forehead. ‘Many couldn’t deal with the war inside their heads. Their ability to deceive and lie to get close to a target, then dispatch him quickly and quietly, made them feared and hated at the same time. They weren’t like normal people. They were just killing machines; shadows in the night. Ghosts.’ Akira tapped his