Blood on the Reef

By Tony Kolbe

A Pacific island paradise shields an international crime ring. Can Tate stop Poletov before it's too late?

 

Ross Tate, an experienced but harrowed investigator for the Australian Federal Police, is sent to the Manea Islands to covertly probe a Russian-backed casino.

Tate, newly returned to field duty, has a mysterious history with the island. With help from Tereapi, an ex-boxer and bar owner, and Jackie Squires, an emergency nurse, Tate faces enemies both old and new. Up against 'Dicky' Champion—a cunning rival from his past—and the ruthless Alexsei Poletov, Tate must prove he still has what it takes and bring down this criminal syndicate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Kolbe
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201056278

Tony Kolbe

Over 40 years, Tony Kolbe has lived, worked, and travelled in the Pacific islands. Blood on the Reef draws on his experiences. As a public health professional, Tony has admired Pacific islanders' resilience in the face of natural disasters and the challenges of cultural and environmental change. Tony lives in country New South Wales and enjoys travel, racquetball, and reading Australian fiction.

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Blood_on_the_Reef_Cover.jpg

Blood on the Reef

© Anthony Kolbe, 2021

Cover Design and Layout by Book Whispers

bookwhispers.com.au

Cover face illustration by Junko Azukawa

junkoazukawa.com

Print ISBN: 978-0-6451400-0-2

eBook ISBN: 978-0-6451400-2-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

To the people of the Pacific islands.

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank Andrew Nette for his guidance and encouragement through my long learning process as I wrote this book. Thanks to Writers Victoria for the work they do in encouraging and supporting writers.

My thanks go to readers of early drafts and their comments and encouragement: Lee Kolbe, Peter Kolbe, Sue Godden, Adam Craig, David Hamilton, Andreas and Patricia Demmke, Shui-Cheong Lee, Kate Beck, Ron Smythe, Ian Thomson. Thank you to Simon Bewg for a suggested anecdote.

Special thank you to Junko Azukawa for the cover illustration.

I also acknowledge and thank the staff of Book Whispers for their work and advice regarding publication.

Prologue

Manea Islands, South Pacific, February 1987

Tama’s life changed the day Cyclone Jodi devastated the island. The cyclone started as a tropical depression to the west of the island chain and strengthened as it zigzagged eastward. Upgraded to a category four, the second-highest rating, the cyclone seemed to take on a direct and menacing path towards the small, mountainous island in the Pacific. The most severe winds are close to a cyclone’s eye, an area of calm weather around which the storm swirls. Jodi’s eye was predicted to pass directly over the island.

The grey-haired men of the village recounted stories about previous cyclones. They described the ferocious winds, the storm surges, and the destruction. Pointing to the massive lumps of coral limestone scattered along the coastal strip, they told how these had been hurled from the lagoon by the monstrous waves. Tama sat listening, wide-eyed. While he was accustomed to the frequent tropical island storms, he struggled to comprehend the apparent power and fury of a cyclone. But the old men were fearful. Even at his young age, Tama knew their stories were not for entertainment. The village elders were sharing knowledge, imparting wisdom. The sweltering, dry season was a warning, they said.

For days, Tama and his father had been busy preparing. Despite the urgency of the work, Tama’s father was patient and encouraging. The boy grew in confidence as he worked. They nailed plywood boards over the windows of the three-room wooden house. Extra screws were inserted into the iron roofing sheets and metal strips attached between the roof trusses and wall studs. His father looked at the strengthened structure and gave a satisfied nod as he put his arm across the boy’s shoulder.

The house was built in the shadow of the foothills, which afforded some protection from the wind. And the home was far enough inland and high enough to escape the storm surge. The family would take shelter in the back room of the house. Tama and his father brought in drinking water and fruit from the garden. At the same time, the boy’s mother gathered woven mats, canned food, their torch, radio, and spare batteries. Arriving as scheduled, bursts of squally winds and rain showers heralded the cyclone’s onset. Over the next couple of hours, the wind picked up, and teeming rain hammered the iron roof. As the howling storm intensified, gusts pounded the small house. Tama’s parents were reassuring, but the boy could read the anxiety on their faces. The noise was deafening, louder than when he and his father stood by the chain-link fence at the end of the airport. Tama had felt safe in his father’s embrace as the blast of hot fumes buffeted them and the jet thundered away down the runway. But the cyclone’s sound did not subside like the jet’s as it turned away after take-off. Instead, the storm grew louder, angrier. It was a shrieking, roaring onslaught. When Tama tried to speak, he could not hear his own voice. His father’s strong arms enveloped the boy and his mother as it grew dark.

Rain forced its way through the smallest of gaps around windows and joins in the wall while wind blasts shook the house. Flying debris crashed into the sides of the house. A branch smashed a hole through the front room wall and remained stuck there, surrounded by the jagged, splintered timber.

After a few hours, the wind dropped, and his father gently eased Tama’s grip from his wiry arm. A sudden quiet descended, and light filtered in through tiny spaces around the covered windows. Tama’s father explained that they were in the storm’s eye. The winds would start again, but from the other direction, and they had only a short time. The boy’s mother worked inside the house, mopping up water and pushing rags into the gaps in the broken wall. The boy and his father gathered tools and went outside. Tama stared, stunned, at the scene in front of him. In the eerie calm, the sun was shining through a patchy high cloud. Tama noticed it was brighter than usual. The trees, which usually shaded the village, had been completely stripped of leaves. An age-old banyan tree had toppled, narrowly missing the village school. The massive shallow base stuck straight upwards, revealing a dark ring of earth and roots. The colossal spread of the tree lay on the ground, having crushed anything in its way. All around, roofing iron, timber, branches, coconut fronds, and shredded plants lay in a tangled disarray. Dumbfounded, the boy looked at coconut trees with trunks that had twisted, screwed around, as if giant hands had held each end and wrung the trees out. With the strong fibres broken, the trees flopped about in the mild wind gusts.

Tama’s father checked the house, pleased to find that their home had withstood the onslaught without too much damage. They went to help others who were shoring up their damaged houses. A sudden squall signalled the return of the storm, and Tama and his parents retreated to the house’s back room. Within minutes, the storm had regained its ferocity, the deafening roar tormenting the family. The small house shook under the renewed assault, and with one severe blast, the front door was flung open. It flapped to and fro before slamming back against the wall of the house, trapped there by the wind. His father jumped up and ran to the door to close it. Tama went to help him.

As his father struggled with the door, Tama looked out into the maelstrom. He watched as the school’s iron roof peeled upwards and then over on itself before lifting and flashing away, without a sound above the storm’s constant din. Tama saw a human figure, a woman from the village with a small child clutched to her chest, crouched over, staggering towards the house. He pointed, and for a moment, Tama and his father watched, transfixed. Suddenly, the wind snatched her away, and she was flung, helpless, before thudding into a tree and dropping to the ground. His father pushed Tama inside, closed the door, and dashed into the storm.

Through a thin gap in the plywood, Tama watched his father lurch and struggle against the wind. Dropping to the ground, his father crawled on his hands and knees to where the woman lay unmoving; her body twisted unnaturally. He checked on her before he picked up the child and scrambled back to the house. Flinging open the door, his father passed the child to Tama before he turned to grasp the door pinned back against the wall. A piece of broken roof truss, with twisted, protruding nails and a shred of torn roofing iron still attached, hurtled through the air and struck him. Tama’s father dropped to the ground, dead.

Chapter 1

Canberra, Australia, June 2006

On an early-winter morning, a man got out of a taxi in front of the grey concrete and glass blockhouse called the Myuna Complex that was the Australian Federal Police headquarters, off Northbourne Avenue. The sky was a stunning blue, the air icy and still. Workers, draped in coats and scarves, stepped warily over slippery, frost-encrusted clusters of fallen leaves as they made their way into the building. The man stood looking at the building, his breath coming in misty clouds, his cheeks rippling as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. At a noise, he turned quickly to see a lycra-clad cyclist, eyes red and nose streaming, his bike-shoes clacking on the concrete as he wheeled towards the chain-link bicycle shelter.

In the foyer, the man flipped open his AFP identification and placed it on the front desk counter. ‘Ross Tate to see Peter Reynolds,’ he said. It was his first time in the building. Usually, he got his assignments through the secure internal communication system or directly from Reynolds when his boss visited the federal police’s Brisbane office.

The officer checked the day’s appointment list, gave Ross a hard-faced look, and said, ‘The office of Commander Reynolds is on the second floor. Through security, turn right out of the lift and report to the secretary.’

Once Ross got into the elevator, he took a few deep breaths. Get through this and get back to work, he said to himself. The secretary showed Ross into the office, and Reynolds got up to meet him. The Commander had a solid, gym-toned build, and he offered Ross a firm handshake. His grey eyes gave Ross the once over before he motioned him to take a seat. Reynolds moved back behind his desk and sat, straight-backed, his eyes scanning a file.

A plainclothes officer, Reynolds wore his own uniform of sorts, a long-sleeved, crisp, white shirt, striped tie, dark trousers, shoes shined to a mirror finish. Two mobile phones and a slim leather case containing his AFP identification were attached to the belt of Reynolds’ trousers. In winter, the outfit was usually accompanied by a black leather bomber jacket with epaulettes and two patch pockets with studded flaps, always closed. Ross’s eyes found the jacket resting on a coat-hanger hooked to a stand in the corner. Anyone wanting a contrast between the two staff groupings of the AFP—the police officers and the civilians, the so-called non-policing professionals—need look no further than the two men. Under a grey, fine-wool pullover, which hugged his tapered swimmer’s frame, Ross wore an open-necked shirt. Khaki chinos and tan, lace-up shoes, the old leather creased and supple, completed the outfit. Like Reynolds, he was clean-shaven. He had a casual, left-sided part in his cropped, greying hair, rather than the officer-preferred buzz-cut.

As Reynolds studied the file, Ross slowed his breathing and tried to relax, glancing casually around the office. He hoped the gesture would appear fittingly untroubled. Ross took in the view through the corner windows, over the yellows, browns and reds of the autumnal trees to the grand Byzantine-style sandstone war memorial in the adjacent suburb of Campbell. The morning sun threw diagonal shadows across the office. Ross sensed Reynolds’ eyes come up and felt him watching.

Reynolds didn’t usually spend time on chit-chat. With minimal movement of his mouth, his voice emerged as a deep, muffled growl. Ross knew what he was getting at when Reynolds put down the file and said, ‘How are you, Ross?’

‘Getting better every day,’ Ross replied, intending to exude confidence. It was a blatant lie.

Reynolds, his expression blank, watched Ross for any tell, a change in his eyes, a squirm. Ross knew the tricks, and Reynolds knew that he knew.

‘Good to hear,’ Reynolds said without conviction, persisting, looking for any sign of relief, a giveaway. Seeing nothing, the corner of his mouth twitched.‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you on this. The assessment panel gave you the okay to return to field duty, but the decision was not unanimous. The hierarchy wanted you out, medical retirement, or maybe transfer to another department, a quiet desk somewhere.’

The commander stopped, waiting for any enthusiasm from Ross, who nodded, and because Reynolds expected it, said, ‘Thanks, Peter, I appreciate your confidence in me.’

Reynolds exercised his jaw a little, a shine reflecting from a meticulously shaved cheek, and ran his hand over his wire-brush hair. He was still watching the body language of the other man while betraying his own.

Reynolds had brought Ross into the AFP eight years earlier from the Queensland Department of Public Prosecutions. While there, Ross had acquired a reputation as a dogged and thorough financial crime investigator. His work had led to a string of successful prosecutions. Reynolds seconded Ross, avoiding the usual public recruitment process, for what the commander called special assignments, with the tempting moniker of a non-policing undercover investigator. With a focus on financial crime in the Pacific islands, Ross thought he had found his dream job.

‘This investigation, just a look-see and report, right?’ Reynolds said, his eyebrows raised, and the words loaded with meaning. Ross nodded, aiming to look on-the-ball.

On paper, Ross was a natural choice for the job. Since being with the AFP, he had been highly effective when covertly embedded in island government ministries, allowing him to operate, to a large extent, with freedom and obscurity. At least, that’s how it was before the trouble.

Reynolds went on. ‘Nothing definite to go on, but there’s suspicious activity. Enough to generate significant international interest—Interpol, the financial task force…’ He let it hang in the air for a while, for emphasis. Getting nothing back from the other man, Reynolds said, ‘It’s in the Manea Islands. Been there before, haven’t you?’

He watched as Ross’s eyes flicked up to meet his, a glimmer of something, excitement, angst maybe. Whatever it was, Reynolds had not seen it in Ross for some time.

‘When I was quite a bit younger,’ Ross said, a brief wry smile.

Reynolds outlined the assignment while Ross took some notes.

‘Any questions…thoughts?’ Seconds ticked by as Reynolds, lips puckered, studied Ross.

Ross shook his head. ‘I’m good to go.’

Wrapping up, Reynolds said, ‘We’ve worked up a cover for you. I think you’ll like it.’

Ross looked at him, expecting more, but instead, Reynolds moved on.‘The briefing material is ready. Pick it up from the secretary on the way out. And go to the travel people downstairs, organise the flights. Good luck. Keep me informed.’

As Ross left the office, he felt no pride or shame in the deceit. It was as if deception was part of him these days.

Chapter 2

As the Air New Zealand jet began the descent into the main island of the Maneas, Ross imagined the scene. He could picture the lush green of the mountainous interior, the crystal clear of the shallows over stretches of golden sand, the turquoise of the lagoon, and the deep blue of the surrounding ocean. But it was only in his mind’s eye. The flight schedule, designed to suit trans-Pacific passengers and airline departure times, had the plane arriving in the early hours of the morning. It was pitch black outside as the plane approached the airport on the island of Takutea.

Ross had travelled from Brisbane to Auckland to join this flight referred to by some as the KFC express. The reference was understandable as he watched the boarding passengers. Among them were the obvious tourists. Then there were the islanders, many of them burdened with containers of fried chicken and other food to share with their family and friends on the island. They may have been island residents, returning home after being with family in New Zealand, or islanders who lived overseas, visiting their homeland. It was impossible to tell since more lived outside their country than in it, leading to a procession of people in both directions.

Ross was returning to a place that held strong memories for him, where he had spent three formative years. There had been no carry-on fast-food when he made the trip as a naive Australian volunteer lawyer twenty-five years earlier.

The flight had gone well until he nodded off and the dream recurred. It wasn’t the full-on nightmare, just flashes, snapshots in his head, the swing of the blade, the blood on the grass, the dead eyes. He had woken with a jerk, his heart pounding, his hands pushing in mid-air, startling the man next to him. Ross used the techniques the psychologist had given him; slow deep breaths, easing the tension in his neck and shoulders, calming his mind.

Doubts about his readiness for this job resurfaced. His work associates called it a junket, an easy ride compared to the demanding and dangerous work in places like PNG and the Solomons. Not that they begrudged him the cushy job, he had earned it, they said. But Ross needed to show that he could cut it again. Either that or face medical retirement or what they called the Lego room, where burnt-out field operatives filled in time doing administration work.

He had come into the AFP with his confidence running high and, he conceded these days, an inflated opinion of his ability. Since joining the federal police, Ross had added new skills through, what he called, the AFP spy-school short-courses. None of the hard-edged stuff, no firearms or hand to hand fighting. He was strictly on the intelligence side. Ross had been through training on surveillance, criminal psychology, financing of terrorism, managing informants, forensic accounting, and even the basics of lip-reading.

He had been marked as an AFP top performer, but things had changed, and Ross felt like he was holding on by his fingertips. To make matters worse, he had been a bit free and easy with the truth while talking to the psychologist and had managed to get passed as fit for service. His shaky self-assurance had deserted him, and he was having a hard time pretending otherwise.

The plane pulled up in front of the terminal. Ross gathered his things and made his way to the exit door. As he walked down the stairs from the aircraft, he felt and smelled the warm, humid air. A tight-lipped smile formed on his face.Two men with guitars and two with ukuleles were performing in the immigration area. They were wearing tropical outfits and were adorned with flower lei made from frangipani and hibiscus. Despite the hour, the men played and sang, smiling and enjoying themselves, their voices blending in effortless harmony. Young women placed flower lei over the heads of arriving passengers. Some things had not changed.

***

The immigration officer watched Ross as he approached and placed his documents on the counter. The young officer indulged in his usual pastime, trying to guess the reason for the visit. Not a tourist, he thought, perhaps a businessman. But then the brown satchel, the casual clothes, and the man’s demeanour gave him a clue, consultant. He picked up the passport and the authorisation letter from the Manea Islands’ government.

‘Mister Tate, what is your reason for coming to the Manea Islands?’

‘I am working in an advisory role at the Crown Solicitor’s Office. The letter has the details,’ Ross replied in a level, baritone voice.

The immigration officer nodded. ‘Consultant?’ he asked, glancing up at Ross.

‘Yes, a consultant,’ Ross replied, as the officer suppressed a self-satisfied smile.

The passport photograph showed an even-featured, handsome-to-some sort of face. The officer thought of the advertisement in the glossy airline magazine. A similar-looking man was drinking coffee; the cup raised to his mouth, the shirt sleeve slipped down to showcase the ad’s subject, an expensive wristwatch.

The official looked at Ross and noticed some differences between the passport photo and the man who stood before him. The neatly trimmed hair was greyer, the cheeks drawn and perhaps thinner, covered with a day’s growth of salt and pepper stubble. Dark shadows underlined the man’s brown eyes. Even with those contrasts, the man may still have looked younger than his forty-nine years. Except, to the immigration officer who saw many tired travellers at this hour, Tate looked worn out.

‘Have you been to the Manea Islands before?’ the officer asked.

‘Yes, but it won’t be in that passport. I lived here for a while in the early eighties,’ Ross said, with a fleeting lopsided smile. The officer gave a polite smile in response. ‘I wasn’t born then.’

As Ross reached out to take the documents, the officer spotted the tremor, which intensified as Ross’s hand got closer. Their eyes met, and the immigration officer gave Ross a questioning look. He noticed Ross’s jaw tighten.With a quick eyebrow raise and movement of his head indicating Ross to go, the immigration officer said, ‘Thank you, Mister Tate, enjoy your stay.’

***

In the baggage claim area, the plane’s passengers stood in front of a dilapidated, stationary carousel. A set of double doors opened. Two men wearing hi-vis vests wheeled in a trolley loaded with suitcases and began offloading, forming an unmoving, snaking line on the conveyor. One of the men waved his arm at the waiting passengers, pointed at the carousel, and announced, ‘Not working.’

In an unruly tangle, people jostled forward, finding, and then struggling away with their bags, before negotiating customs and spilling into the arrivals area. Tourists milled around, hoping to match up with hotel drivers and tour operators who called out names and pointed towards waiting minibuses. Relatives greeted returning locals and family members with lei and flower crowns. The smell of frangipani, gardenias, and lush maire leaves filled the area.

Ross looked around and noticed a young Polynesian man holding a board with his