Terror Australis

By Jeffrey Sheppard

Merv Shultz is a PI who was on a tricky job to rescue 10 year old Calem, from his Muslim father in Kuala Lumpur and to return him to his mother, Rhonda. Things go pear shaped when Rhonda and he are discovered and they have to flee the city quickly and return to Australia because their lives are in danger. From there things unfold rapidly in an intriguing fashion as Merv puts himself in harm's way on a number of occasions.

Back in Brisbane Merv realised that Calem wasn’t actually living in Malaysia, but on a small property outside of a small regional town called Warwick. Merv suspects that all is not what it seems on the cattle farm.

Intermingled with the suspense of attempting to rescue Calem is Merv’s on/off love life with his former girlfriend Janice, which complicates his life. Toss in his relationship and violent past with Sergeant Martin McKenna of the Queensland Police, and the action packed story of ruthless and violent terrorism unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Sheppard
• Release date: Jan 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215975213

Jeffrey Sheppard

In my early career I worked at Queensland Newspapers, the publisher of the Courier Mail, Brisbane's daily newspaper. Then I travelled a bit and ended up in Vienna, Austria, where I was lucky enough to get a job in the publication section of the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation, or UNIDO for short.Later on when I returned home I was employed by another daily newspaper, the Queensland Times in Ipswich, a major regional town outside of Brisbane. I followed that with a stint at Queensland Country Life, a weekly newspaper, that services the farmers and pastoralist of the huge state of Queensland.However I wanted to be my own boss, so I bought a small printing business here in Brisbane and ran that, along with my wife, Helen, for around 12 years. Sold it and retired to do what I do now, play some golf, travel, exercise and write.Writing came late to me, it's a passion and a hobby all rolled into one. Yet it can be time consuming, even though I'm retired sometimes my passion does feel like work. But . . . like lots of amateurs on Smashwords when someone, like yourself, downloads one of my books it gives me a thrill. So thanks for taking the time to read my musings.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Early morning and the Sun’s rays were diluted by pollution haze, but they already packed a punch. Some might say it was bloody hot, he’d have to agree, but Brisbane got hot too, certainly not like here in the tropics. At least in Brisbane it didn’t get this hot until after 9 am. Merv’s self-debate over he took a stroll through the hotel’s tropical gardens. Not naturally a gardener he did however enjoy the beauty of plants, flowers, and the expert arrangement of them. Here the tropical gardens in Kuala Lumpur rivalled those in Singapore. Gardens and smelling the roses was his new year’s resolution. Recalled that he was totally inebriated on New Year’s Eve, 2022, when he promised his then girlfriend, Angela, he’d turn over a new leaf, enjoy the little things in life and of course smell the roses. She was always onto him, said he took life too seriously and worked too hard. Tick one for Angela. But she never offered a solution to his working too hard problem, despite being pretty well healed herself thanks to her former doctor husband who over their married life was a great provider for her and her two children. Sadly, for Angela that providing stopped abruptly when he announced he didn’t love her anymore and was leaving. Overcome with emotion she begged him to stay, promised to be a better wife. Conceded their sex life wasn’t up to scratch, said she’d try harder on that front. Told him she’d please him like she used to when they first married.

Her pleading fell on deaf ears, she asked the question she was scared to ask, It’s your secretary, isn’t it? I always knew she was a slut.

Her husband’s name was Alister, and he ran a successful medical practice in New Farm, Alister looked at his wife of 26 years, understood the heartache this was causing her. Nevertheless, this wasn’t a life for him, he’d wasted too much time on finding himself to back down now. He cleared his throat, Angela darling, no it’s not Felicity, and she’s not a slut, well at least not that I’m aware of. Braced himself, Look it’s a little awkward.

Impatient, very emotional and above all angry she screamed, For fuck’s sake just spit it out, tell me who she is, and I’ll murder the bitch, problem solved, then you and I can get on with our lives.

Alister hated confrontation, hated what he was about to enunciate, nevertheless in a strong voice that even surprised him, answered, It’s Brian honey. Sorry.

It wasn’t long after Angela told Merv the reason for her matrimonial disintegration that she dropped another bombshell. She’d met someone else online, he was 10 years younger than herself. A toy boy. Apparently, the news that her doctor husband left her for a bloke didn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. Angela’s marriage split was helped no end because Alister was very generous with the property settlement. Equally with their own breakup Merv wasn’t overcome with heartache either, knew it was already withering on the vine, the woman was high maintenance, not overly enthusiastic in bed, and he thought it better to be single again than unhappy with Angela. The toy boy was welcome to her. He looked up into the polluted atmosphere, laughed to no one as he recalled Angela’s unusual spousal tale. Time for breakfast. Back inside the air-conditioned hotel foyer and the cold air hit him, his pores opened and emitted what is an everyday occurrence to any human. Sweat. Merv felt uncomfortable but congratulated himself on wearing a white shirt that didn’t show his sweat ladened underarms, but he felt unclean, pined for a cooling shower. It was a toss-up, yet in the end decided not to bother going upstairs and clean up, just walked the 30 metres to the men’s toilet that was lavish and freshened up there. Used the supplied aftershave, spray deodorant and had a pommie shower with them. Inspected himself in the mirror, underarms respectable, in fact the whole package looked respectable, but the line about self-recommendation sprang to mind.

He wandered towards the breakfast area, and it was all systems go. People were coming and going, kids running riot with parents oblivious to the chaos cause by their beloved children, happy to abrogate their responsibility to kitchen staff and some unlucky hotel clients caught in the kid’s cluster fuck. Despite the mayhem Merv felt right at home, ignored everything, it was his sixth breakfast here and there weren’t any more surprised to discover. Or so he thought.

He kicked off with boring fruit and yoghurt. Sat down as far away from families as best he could. Halfway through his breaky his peace was disturbed as he looked up and a Muslim family sat down at the next table. Father, mother and two teenagers, all seemed respectable enough, and he hoped the two teenage boys weren’t too rowdy. He’d find out soon enough, but now it was time to visit the omelette bar. Joined the small queue, stopped in his tracks as he realised the normal Asian omelette maker wasn’t at his station. Understood that even omelette makers needed a day off, and hoped the new bloke was up to the task. After five well-crafted omelettes made by Omar, according to Merv, he was the omelette guru. Ready to bleat and complain if the new bloke wasn’t up to the job. But decided to cut him some slack if he didn’t reach Omar’s omelette making heights. After all, the new one was probably a locum.

The tall, very dark, Indian chef behind the bar asked the predictable question, What do you want in your omelette sir? It was delivered in a perfectly Indian/English accent.

Merv looked at the preprepared food, wanted something different this morning, yet there were simply too many ingredients to choose from, it was a daunting decision. Omar usually suggested something unique to him, as he recalled Janice, his old girlfriend, used to knock up a great ham, cheese, and tomato omelette in a jiffy–in his former life. Smiled at the Indian, Good question, hmmm why don’t you express yourself just like your colleague Omar did yesterday and the day before that. So, you choose for me please. I’ll eat anything.

The Indian omelette maker rolled his eyes, he’d been down that track too many times, with some disasters along the way. Sir maybe what I like and what you like are dynamically opposites. So that puts me at a disadvantage. And I like my job here, consequently any complaints can be problematic. Hope you understand?

‘Dynamically opposites, problematic,’ this bloke’s not from the slums in Mumbai, he was starting to enjoy this unexpected banter, but a queue of hungry guests was forming behind him.

The omelette maker looked past Merv, sighed, and finally came to the rescue, Do you like a lot of heat?

Merv liked spice, but not before five in the arvo, and confessed, No, not this early in the morning.

Won’t be a moment sir, I’ll do the best I can to satisfy you.

Then his hands went to work, two eggs were on the wok, then in the blink of an eye he’d pick some of the preprepared items, a pinch of this, a pinch of that, too many for Merv to count. Another sleight of hand and the ingredients were on top of the open omelette, but it wasn’t finished yet, he picked up some granulated stuff Merv didn’t recognise, like fairy dust he waved it over his half-finished omelette. Spoke to the person behind him, took his order, and was halfway preparing that one too. Flipped Merv’s over, and with a couple of shakes of the pan had his omelette on his plate. Impressive, but showmanship will only take you so far. It was all in the taste.

Thanks, I’ll let you know if I like it.

A simple shrug of the shoulders from the omelette maker, but he did wave him goodbye. Seated at his table with the Muslim family forgotten, he carved off the first piece of the omelette, gently tasted the first mouth full and his taste buds did a double somersault with joy. What the omelette maker concocted in two- and a-bit minutes was by far the best he’d ever tasted. Suddenly Omar was a distant memory. The meal was finished far too quickly, and Merv joined the small queue at the omelette station again, convinced the omelette maker just got lucky, pulled it out of his arse so to speak. God in heaven the second one had a completely different taste, and was even better, as his first mouthful slid down his throat–the man was a genius.

Slowly he consumed every morsal, one fork full at a time, but was distracted by his Muslim neighbours. He hadn’t really noticed the wife, she was dressed in a fully blown, black burka, with meshed slits for eyes. Very pious.

In front of her was her breakfast, a small bowl of fruit and nuts. Interesting. How was his lady going to feed herself in public? He searched his mind and couldn’t remember how Muslim women achieved this feat with what was basically a bag over their heads. Problem solved, the young lady, and that was only an assumption based on her children’s ages, slid what looked like a large nose frame under her burka, positioned it on her nose, where it stayed. This little device made a gap between said burka and her mouth. Hence the food could now travel under the burka and up to her waiting gob. Ingenious, but he thought it wouldn’t be a big seller back home. Surreptitiously watched her consume her breakfast with a degree of difficulty. The hotel was missing out on a small business opportunity, with the omelette maker and now this Muslim lady, convinced they could charge admission for today’s entertainment.

With breakfast done and dusted Merv was about to make tracks back to his hotel room in what any normal person would describe as opulent. He had a queen size bed all to himself and no time to remedy that situation. A little sitting room had a large LED TV screen, and it looked down from the wall, like some kind of big brother. The bathroom had a double shower, again useless to him and a bidet, say no more. He pondered, what was the hotel telling him about himself, being alone was shit, certainly he understood and lamented that fact. Well, he wasn’t paying for the room, the hotel, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were on his employer, Peter Nolan’s tab. Maybe he could remedy his loneliness and organise a bit of horizontal activity while he was here in KL. But running a surveillance operation for 12 hours a day single handed was taxing, especially in the city’s heat and humidity. Normally if you observe a building for a long enough period, you get rewarded with a sighting or two of the individual you’re seeking. Frustratingly that wasn’t the case here. Along with his travel companion, as in Peter Nolan’s client, Rhonda Grant, they’d been here in one of his favourite Asian cites for six days. Rhonda was attractive, early fortyish, vibrant red hair, a little overweight, with a cute face and a well-proportioned figure thrown in, and most men would take a second glimpse as she walked past them. Yet she was out of bounds, Rhonda was his meal ticket to a nice big pay cheque back in Brisbane, once he’d rescued or abducted her son, Calem. That point of view depended on which side of the fence you were positioned. He liked Rhonda too, smart, circumspect, wary with a worldly outlook on life. Besides with all the local talent just begging for some extra Ringgits, why compromise his job.

He stood up with only a fleeting memory for the pious Muslim woman who made eating her breakfast somewhat of sideshow in its complexity, yet that was selling the omelette maker short too, he deserved a place in his short-term memory also. Relished the fact that there was always tomorrow where he could observe the omelette maker’s movements and breakfast on his creations. Simply understated elegance in their grace, dexterity, and precision. He turned and walked right into the fetching Rhonda, smiled, said hello, and waited for her to acknowledge his presence on this earth. And waited. Soon enough his patience was rewarded with a brief hello, and Sorry I’m late, I slept in. And why didn’t you wake me earlier?

All valid questions. He pondered which one to deflect first and decided to go on the attack. Morning Rhonda, did you sleep well? Didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t really want an answer, after all, the evidence was in front of him, an attractive lady, obviously showered, groomed, dressed appropriated, important, especially in a Muslim country, coherent, vertical, and warm. Nothing further to add.

But he needed her, needed the job, and really needed Peter Nolan to be happy. With Nolan’s happiness came his cheque, and that he needed very much. But above all he needed to get her son Calem away from his father’s Islamic influence. So, before Rhonda could blink, he added, Let’s go over today’s strategy after you have breaky. He almost said the hated work roadmap, thought strategy was so much more precise and powerful. Proper English. Who the hell thought of roadmap anyway? Paused for a second and continued, Especially the stuff that aunty told you yesterday about Calem being back in Australia.

Her previous disappointed at sleeping in was all but forgotten, Merv you’re an absolute rock of Gibraltar, you are, I’d be a real mess here if it wasn’t for you. But what aunty told me about Calem not being here in KL was all a load of rubbish, I’m sure he’s still in Malaysia.

She displayed a tortured pose, barely a hand span from him, he could take her in his arms in a heartbeat, but in her case his heart was stone. Let’s say forty-five minutes give or take, in my room. Oh, and by the way, try the omelettes, there’s a new Indian bloke at the station, and they’re out of this world.

A quick nod and they parted company, no doubt cereal, maybe an omelette, but probably English breakfast for her, minus the bacon of course, a nice cold shower for himself.

He headed to his room. Jesus wept. How did he find himself in this awful situation? Kidnapping minors in Asia isn’t for the faint hearted. It was only three years ago that on behalf of another of Peter’s clients, he successfully abducted Jason Bateman, took him back to Australia, and in one piece. Got everyone back in one piece. And he vowed and declared never again. Yet here he was one year after Coronavirus almost destroyed the world, when overseas travel was once again on the agenda. Rhonda, and he where on an international flight to Kuala Lumpur, doing exactly what he told himself not to do. The reason was simple, Peter Nolan was a snake oil salesman, could sell coal to any gullible Novocastrian and of course the almighty dollar, or in his case 75,000 of the little darlings, if he was successful. On the way to the lift, had a little chuckle, three years ago it was $50,000. Inflation, yes that came into it, but what made him want more was this overwhelming fear of landing in a Malaysian gaol for an extended period of time. Not a fear to be sneezed at either, Malaysian gaols had a very infamous reputation–of toughness, killing of inmates, corruption, brutality, and sexual assaults just for starters. Places any normal Caucasian wouldn’t want on their bucket list.

He was rethinking his shower, he felt refresh from his pommie shower and once out in the city proper he’d feel like another one within a couple of hours. Out in the real world he was constantly amazed how workers in tropical climates got physical work done when the temperature was nudging thirty-five and the humidity refuses to go below eighty percent. Yet they’re out there, digging up roads, pouring concrete, stringing electrical wires, driving taxis, day in, day out, without a whimper. The shower won, it was refreshing, all cold of course, even that was a balmy twenty-eight degrees, yet it felt good to have the powerful water pressure spray on his back, shoulders, and unused private parts. He luxuriated in the constant pelting of the water droplets, held his arms against the shower wall and stretched out, thought he heard a scratching noise, but reminded himself it was KL after all, and even five-star hotels weren’t immune to the odd rodent wanting to take up residence in the walls or balcony.

Shower finished, with towel around his waist he grabbed another one, ruffled and dried his short brown hair with it. Looked into the large expanse of mirror and was confronted with a sight he’d thought he’d never seen in a dozen lifetimes. The mirror was speaking loudly to him with its reflection. It got his complete attention and an immediate adrenalin surge flowed through his body. Simply put, his life was in immediate danger because a tall, Arab looking man with an angry and determined expression on his face was staring back at him. Indeed, scary enough, but in his right hand was some kind of traditional Arabian killing, murdering, slaughtering knife, it was large, and possessed a blade almost 30 centimetres in length. Merv leapt sideways and found himself slumped against the toilet pedestal. His leap saved his life, as the large knife smashed into the mirror and shattered it, but most of the mirror glass remained in situ on the shower wall in its metal frame. Without thinking Merv grabbed the first potential weapon he saw, a toilet roll holder. Not the best weapon against a younger, larger, and better armed opponent, however the toilet roll holder had a weighty brass base and chromium shaft protruding up out of the base. Useful enough under the circumstances, and if he didn’t make it work, he’d be dead within a minute.

The Arab had recovered from his thrust into the mirror and rushed towards his prey only to slip on the wet bathroom floor as he made another lunge towards Merv. He careened onto the floor and hit his head on the wall tiles. This gave Merv a little extra time he wasn’t expecting, quickly he jumped to his feet and with his new weapon commenced to bash the Arab’s head. He landed a couple of telling blows, before his attacker kicked his own legs out from under him, and he too slipped and fell onto the wet floor. The Arab was up first and was shaking and rubbing his head in an attempt to regain his senses. A split-second later Merv was on his feet too and the protagonists briefly eyeballed each other. With the toilet roll holder glued to his right hand he sized up his adversary. Merv wasn’t a big fan of knives, he’d done the police course in disarming attackers armed with knives, but that was a long time ago, basic training really. It soon became obvious the Arab was enthusiastic, in excellent physical condition, and a determined fighter. The odds of survival were against him. Curiously the Arab came at him again with a predictable amateurish, thrust to his chest. Merv didn’t have much trouble deflecting his lunge, as his survival instincts kicked in. He bashed the Arab’s right arm as hard as he could with his weapon and the Arab retreated a few paces. He came at him again, Merv now had his back up against the long vanity basin, as the Arab’s knife found some skin and cut his right arm. Even though it was only a flesh wound it hurt like hell and blood dripped onto the tiled floor. Another lunge, it was a rush job, perhaps his attacker thought he’d be an easy mark? Fortunately, that missed too, Merv dropped the toilet roll holder, gripped his attacker’s right arm with his left and they wrestled, but the Arab had lost traction as he slipped on the bloody and wet floor tiles. Yet still a huge threat as he now had his right arm around Merv’s neck but luckily couldn’t manoeuvre it to stab him as he was determined not to let go of his lethal right hand, even as he sustained some minor blade wounds to his shoulder and back. In the commotion something fell over on the vanity, close to Merv’s right hand. He could smell some fragrant oil fill the bathroom. Then he remembered what it was, an ornament incense infuser, a simple glass bottle containing the oil and a half a dozen, small, ornamental, wooden sticks around two millimetres in diameter and 200 millimetres in length–like meat skewers. In their normal life they were arranged and protruded out of the bottle to look ornate. Certainly, an item any traveller would ignore or never actually notice. Merv hugged his attacker close to him and quickly grabbed one of the thin wooden sticks with his free right hand. The Arab was still up close and personal, yelling and screaming in Arabic, so wasted no time in thrusting the little stick into his left eye. But it didn’t turn out at simple. The Arab understood what was happening as Merv first attempt landed between his eye and nose. That spurred the Arab into a frenzy of activity, he tried to stab, buck and twist, but failed on all accounts. Merv was too quick and used all the force he could muster on his second thrust, and it worked. Instantly the Arab dropped his knife, staggered back, and used both hands to pull out the offending wooden skewer from his damaged eye. Shrieks and yells aplenty, and Merv felt elated hearing the Arab’s screams. He was still running on adrenaline, in survival mode and sensed victory against this brute. Another skewer, another attempt, and the Arab’s other eye was the target. Not so successful, his right arm was wounded, but managed to inflict temporary pain on his attacker as the skewer found the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath, anger pulsated through his body, he badly wanted his attacker to pay a heavy price. Turned around and grabbed the small ornamental glass bottle that was lying on its side on the vanity and sprang at the Arab and smashed it into his face. The bottle shattered on impact and left some shards of glass sticking out of his face. The Arab’s vision was now severely compromised, and with the pain from Merv’s facial attack, stumbled around the bathroom like a drunken sailor, bumping into things, screaming out for Allah to help when he fell to the floor after tripping over the toilet pedestal. It was the opportunity Merv needed, he pounced and with his right knee firmly embedded on the Arab’s spine, forced him flat on the tiles, grabbed hold of his head and swiftly twisted it into a position it was never designed for. A couple of cracks and the Arab was resting eternally, ready to acquaint himself with the 72 virgins waiting for him in heaven. This battle was comprehensively over.

Merv looked down at the Arab, bloody hell, why didn’t he take his own advice and stay home in Brisbane? No, this wasn’t the time or place for that philosophical debate with himself. Importantly immediate action was needed. Squeezed his head with both hands, and immediately regretting that movement. In all this frenzied commotion he’d forgotten his injured right arm. Quickly he opened his vanity cupboard and took out his until now, unused first aid kit of goodies. How many times had he wondered why he ever brought the kit on his trips? Today he finally understood. Opened the kit which displayed enough medical stuff to perform open heart surgery. Ran the wound under hot water, applied antiseptic cream, and did something he’d never thought he’d ever do. With a sharp needle and thread managed to put a few stitches to close the wound. The wound needed more than a few, but the pain was immense, so-called time on three. Stood up and almost fainted, quickly sat down again and applied a cotton wool dressing and found some medical tape and bound it up tightly. Job done, but he was still in the shit up to his armpits. His panic subsided to a degree, so analysed his situation, knowledge is power, so searched the body for any clue of his assailant’s identity. Nothing, except keys to a car, model, and brand unknown. No help there, then he found two hotel room cards, obviously one was his, oh God, the other had to be Rhonda’s.

That shook him, it was back to panic stations, he fought it, his and Rhonda’s lives depended on him thinking clearly, concisely and acting swiftly. No doubt the Arab would be instructed to report back to his boss and tell him the good news that the two Australians weren’t going to be a problem anymore. Merv thought they had less than two hours before another assassin was sent to do the job properly. Looked down at the lifeless body, tried to think things through, why did Calem’s father act so violently? Surely murdering two Australians would draw attention to him, it seemed a very drastic step to take. Certainly, Rhonda would never be on his Christmas card list, but to murder his son’s mother, now that was simply a bridge too far.

He dragged the body and put it on his bed and covered it up, head to toe. Then he rang reception and told them he wasn’t to be disturbed for the rest of the day, because he was coming down with the flu. That would buy them a bit of time. Now it was Rhonda’s turn, he rang her mobile number, she was probably still down at breakfast. Too bad, she’d have to forgo her fried eggs, hash browns and grilled mushrooms.

Rhonda listen to me there’s been a development, well, not so much a development, more of a situation in my room and I need to talk to you urgently. Right now, actually.

"Merv I’m sitting out by the pool having my second coffee, I’ll order you one, come down and we’ll discuss this ‘development.’ And we can kill two birds and talk about what aunty told me yesterday in greater detail. So, see you in a few minutes."

Merv coughed, and coughed again, Rhonda, put your coffee cup down, stand up and make great haste to my room now. Now, got it, this is important. Life and death important. You must leave now.

His direct approach worked, there was a knock at the door in under two minutes, he opened it, looked over her shoulder, up and down the corridor, satisfied she hadn’t been followed, dragged her into his room and swiftly closed the door behind her.

Christ Merv, don’t scare me, Jesus what’s got into you this morning? It was delivered with a worried expression on her pretty face. And under normal circumstances he’d say she looked sexy and desirable. But sadly, his libido was off the chart, in the negative direction.

With possibly the sternest look that ever appeared on his face he walked over to the double bed and ripped off the covers. Looked at Rhonda and was ready to catch her if she fainted. She didn’t. Instead, she let out a loud shriek, he grabbed her, held her tightly until she was under a modicum of control. But her wide-eyed possum expression told it all, she was scared and confused.

He was trying to kill me, was all Merv could offer as he turned to look down at the dead Arab in his bed.

Rhonda walked around the room, looked at herself in the mirror, walked into the bathroom, could hear she was running the water in the basin, so waited. She came out with her face buried in a hand towel and was sobbing.

No time for niceties, it was cut to the chase time. Rhonda, he had another room card in his pocket besides mine, and . . . well I’m guessing it for room 474, your room. He was going to kill you after he finished me off.

Her fair complexion turned snow white, thankfully she composed herself quickly, swallowed, Well what do we do now, surely we can’t stay here in this hotel?

Normally his face was tanned all year round, he felt pale himself, checked his reflection in the mirror, it was indeed pale, but that was only half the story, his guts were awash with built up tension. His mental instincts, normally a strength, had almost deserted him, but fought the panic. No subtlety here, it was a no brainer. Rhonda, we must leave, as in go back to Australia, today, this afternoon as soon as we can get our collective arses on a jet back home. We’re buggered here, we’ve been compromised because your ex wants us dead. And I don’t know why? Do you?

She shook her head and grabbed a hand towel for one last sob. He couldn’t blame her, having someone want to kill you isn’t something most normal person would never have to experience in their life. Sadly, it was an experience he’d had on a few occasions himself, it’s unnerving and impossible to accept.

He gazed at her for a time, understood her distress and said in a calm and measured tone which belied his current disposition, Okay here’s the plan, after I grab a few things in an overnight bag, we go back to your room, and you do the same. No suitcase, forget all your other stuff, just an overnight bag, passports, and your money. Then we hightail it out of KL in your car cross over into Singas, go to the airport and purchase the first available seats back to Oz. Brisbane, Sydney, Adelaide, Perth, I don’t give a rat’s hooter, but we’re on it. No debate, okay?

But, but what about Calem? Do we just leave him to his over zealot Father? Didn’t wait for an answer and powered on, For Chris sake’s he’ll be reading the Quran, and on his knees praying to Allah the rest of his life. I won’t allow that.

Understandable, and I promise you I’ll do my best to get Calem back to you, but our situation has changed, we’re in mortal danger here. We have to go now.

CHAPTER TWO

Merv was winging it, were there more attackers out there, just waiting for them to make a wrong decision, and move in for the kill? No, the Arab was expected to eliminate them with easy so logically he didn’t think that was the case. Not yet. But it wasn’t a game of poker they were playing, gambling with a couple of dollars here and there and the winner takes a few bucks that was in the pot. They were gambling with their lives. He had to act judiciously, as Rhonda drove out of the city heading south towards the Malaysian and Singapore border his brain went into overdrive. Certainly, they’d end up at Changi Airport, but they wouldn’t go the normal route, via Jopor Bahru, but take the much less used crossing of Tahjung Kurpang.

Outside the 23 degree airconditioned Honda Civic it was a normal stinking hot and humid March day in southern Malaysia. The sky had a liberal amount of white, woolly clouds, that couldn’t wait to morph into a thunderstorm later in the day, usually around 4 pm, and disrupt the local’s lives. At Merv’s instructions they sat right on the speed limit and hugged the left-hand lane, letting most other cars and overburdened trucks pass them at their leisure.

Rhonda has her Aussie passport in her correct name of Rhonda Grant, but also was carrying another one in the name of Brenda Wilson. He also had two, his own in the name of Mervyn Shultz and another that was as fake as a three-dollar bill, in the name of Jonathan Cartwright, and these were the ones they’d used to enter Malaysia. The fake ones were all his doing, expensive, and as it turned out a worthless expense, as Calem’s father didn’t seem to have much difficulty in locating them. However, a fake passport did have some advantages, he wasn’t going to step foot in Malaysia using his own passport. He had history in this part of the world, and using a false passport added a firewall around him. Having entered Malaysia as Jonathan Cartwright he was about to exit it as Mervyn Shultz. Brenda Wilson would instantly become Rhonda Grant on departure. Now this might take a small leap of faith from the Malaysian passport control officer, when their passports were inspected and found wanting, lacking entry stamps, but he’d help that leap of faith along with $100 US bill inserted in his passport. It was a gamble but in his experience these Malaysian country officials were born corrupt. Any hesitation and Merv would be happy to tell them there was a massive technical cock up and electronic failure with the KL airport’s passport readers when they entered Malaysia last week.

They also needed to take the renter back to Avis and fortunately Tahjung Kurpang had an office within walking distance to the bus station that serviced Singapore and Changi.

Rental car dropped off, they purchased two bus tickets to Changi and were on the bus for the 200-metre trip to immigration and passport control. Everyone on the bus had to exit and queue up for passport inspection. Merv was edgy as he fronted the officer with Rhonda in tow and slid his passports over the counter along with the green back inside his. He smiled and decided to mention the problems they had when entering the country last week. Added they needed to get to Changi to catch their flight back home and it was leaving in four hours. The immigration official was an old dodger, early sixties, fat, bald and sweating in the heat of his little oven like compartment. Smiled, and suggested another bill of similar value was required. Merv relaxed, with a couple of US $100 bills in his trouser pocket he took one out, slid it and Rhonda’s passport across the well-worn countertop and returned the officer’s smile. With sleight of hand that belied his age the official had all the money in his pocket, stamped their passports and slid them back to Merv like it was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was, but with their exit from Malaysia stamped in their passports it was onto the Changi connection. Merv wasn’t sure how Rhonda felt, but he breathed a large sigh of relief as the bus crossed into Singapore.

The bus ride to Changi was unremarkable, and as they sat at the airport Merv was still on guard, constantly checked out the surrounds for possible assassins. Yet knew with the quick action they took, it would take a real concerted effort, or sheer luck, to conger up any real threat against them at this juncture. Despite his apprehension the rest of the day was a mere formality as they sat waiting in a nondescript airport coffee shop for their flight to Melbourne, the first one they could get to Oz. A white tea and a small slice of carrot cake was before him, he wasn’t hungry, but wanted answers. With imminent danger averted he relaxed properly and told Rhonda to do likewise, easier said than done as she once again agonised over her son’s predicament and her failure as a mother. Merv wanted to ask Rhonda about her visit to her former partner’s compound, but with the earlier overwhelming events at their hotel knew it was delicate. She was still distraught about Calem. His timing was shit but ploughed on regardless, it was debriefing time, whether Rhonda liked it or not. She’d have to power through her misery and disappointment, he needed answers, and she was the only link to why he was attacked and the whole operation was compromised. She ignored his questions, reached for a tissue in her handbag and wiped away copious amounts of tears. Hint taken, he pushed his chair back, sighed and closed his eyes.

•••••••••••

The Qantas flight was only half full, they didn’t sit together and Merv’s instructions on arrival at Tullamarine was for Rhonda to go to Qantas, he to Virgin and organise tickets to Brisbane, certainly an ultra-conservative measure, but worth taking. Relieved that he managed to organise their escape out of Malaysia, the pressure was off now and convinced no one would’ve followed them to Singapore and boarded the flight with them. But who knows what would happen in Australia? Whether Calem’s father had the wherewithal or even desire to pursue them back home was open to debate. Yet after their return to Australia, for the first couple of weeks told Rhonda to keep a low profile while Peter Nolan and he worked out a plan on how to rescue Calem. Having almost got himself killed earlier, Merv was impatient for answers, he wanted to find out what aunty told Rhonda yesterday. Christ was it only yesterday, it seemed ages ago.

She was sitting about five rows behind him in a window seat with the other seats unoccupied. He sidled over and sat down next to her so they could talk without anyone eavesdropping. After the tumultuous drive to Tahjung Kurpang and the stressful cross over to Singapore she seems more relaxed as the Boeing 787 pounded its way through the thin atmosphere, 12,000 metres above the ocean at a cruising speed around 900 kph. But as with most jet flights, all passengers felt was the odd turbulence and occasional buffeting of the aircraft.

He leaned over, his face was close to her, in a gentle whisper commenced, Yesterday. Let’s talk about that, shall we? From start to finish, meaning from the time you were greeted at the door, to the time you walked out onto the street. I want even the most mundane detail you can remember. It could be vital.

She ignored the question, turned, and stared at him as tears gently cascaded down her cheeks. Do you ever think I’ll get Calem back home safely to Australia? No bullshit, I want your best estimate, especially in light of what we’ve up against now with Calem’s father.

He winced, handed her a tissue which was accepted with grace, she blew her nose, sighed, and put her head back as far as she could into the head rest and stared at the cabin’s ceiling. No point in gilding the lily, it was a tough question for him to answer with any degree of certainty. Rhonda, I want to be positive for you, but with what went down earlier today I’d have to say about 50, 50. And sadly, it’s going to take a lot more work and expense if we’re ever to succeed.

She leaned forward in her seat and angrily exclaimed, Jesus Merv I couldn’t give a flying fuck about the cost. I’ll sell my house, car, everything I own to get my son back. Also, my parents would be happy to cough up too, so let’s not go down that track. Nolan will get paid if he or you ever deliver. Got it? I just want my son back. Sat back in her seat, with a deflated look on her face.

It was his turn to sigh, took a deep breath, ran his left hand through his brown hair and soldiered on. It wasn’t the time