'If it's the right question, what's the answer?'
Cummings laughed and the movement brought on another spell of coughing and forced him to lean against a wall again. 'He… he's by way of being a member of the Australian intelligence service, oxymoron though that is, and he's known about me and Patrick Malloy and you and your friend Casey for days and days and days. And I know about him, so I thought to invite him along to a little meeting.
Not a ceilidh, mind, Hardy, but you'll want to be there for certain.'
We followed Cummings in his black ute away from the farm.
'I hope you've got that gun with you,' Sheila said. 'I haven't, it was a temporary measure.' As I expected, Cummings turned in at the caravan park. I drove past.
'What're you doing?'
'Taking you back to the motel.'
'You do and I'll never fucking speak to you again.'
'Sheila, he's a killer.'
'Maybe he was, but not now. You saw and heard him. The man's on his last legs. He wants to talk. I'm involved in this, Cliff. I want to see it through.'
She had a point. I slowed down. 'I don't like the sound of the intelligence people being involved. A minute ago you were wishing I had a gun.'
'I was dramatising. It's one of my faults. How can it hurt to have a security guy there? Look, I meant what I said, Cliff. I like you a lot. I think we could be good together, but I'm buggered if I'll be sidelined. Turn around… please.'
I did. It wasn't late and the boom gate hadn't come down. The place was fairly well lit and I remembered the layout well enough to navigate back to cabins 31 and 33. The black ute was there, parked next to 33 with Casey's SUV by 31. The porch light was on at 33 and Cummings stood at the door wrapped in a blanket. His breath steamed in the cold air. We drew up behind the SUV and got out, Sheila carrying one bottle and me two.
'We were waiting for the grog. Lose your way, did you?'
His grin showed that he knew exactly what had happened. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. 'Jack?' I called.
'Careful, you'll wake the neighbours,' Cummings said.
Casey appeared behind Cummings. He looked strained and white as he puffed nervously on a cigar. A movement behind him suggested there was someone else inside.
'Better get in here, Cliff. Tell Sheila to wait in the car.'
'Dunno about that, Jack. She'd be likely to ram your vehicle and then have a go at the cabin. That'd wake the neighbours.'
'That's right,' Sheila said. 'Fuck you, Jack.'
'All in together then,' Cummings said. 'It'll be a little cramped, but who looks for a lot of room at a good party, eh?'
Cummings and Casey eased back inside and Sheila and I went up two steps to the porch and through the door. The cabin was bigger inside than it looked from outside. There was a kitchenette and doors to what I assumed to be a bathroom and sleeping area. A table stood in the middle of the room, and there was space for four chairs around it and two armchairs in the corners. An oil heater was keeping the place warm.
Jack Casey sat at the table. Cummings eased himself into one of the armchairs. The other was occupied by a pale man with thinning ginger hair. He wore a suit and tie and stood as we entered to offer the chair to Sheila, smoothing down his tie as he did so. Sheila shook her head. We deposited the bottles on the table where they joined a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker red. Casey had an empty glass in front of him and the other man had a glass at his feet.
'This is Martin Milton-Smith,' Cummings said. 'He's by way of being with ASIS, isn't that right, Martin?'
Milton-Smith subsided back into his chair and reached for his glass. 'Something like that.'
'Something like that,' Cummings repeated.
'We've met,' I said. 'You visited Pat in hospital.'
'That's right.'
'I didn't like the look of you then anymore than I do now. I should've asked Pat who you were, but that was back when I thought I knew who he was.'
Cummings moved the scotch bottle an inch. 'I don't like to mix my drinks and I fancy a drop of that good wine we had tonight. Would you care to fetch a couple of glasses, Hardy?'
He was at it again, running the show. I pulled out a chair for Sheila and then opened both the other doors, switched on the lights and looked inside. Both empty.
I sat and said, 'I think Jack could get the glasses. Probably knows where they are, same layout as his cabin.'
'Good point,' Cummings said.
Still without speaking, Casey got up and brought three tumblers from the kitchenette.
'I'm for the red,' Cummings said. 'Sheila? Hardy?'
I poured him a glass of red and one for myself. Sheila waved a refusal.
'Okay, Seamus,' I said. 'You've had your fun. Now let's hear what this is all about.'
'I think I should step in here,' Milton-Smith said, 'just to bring you up to date as it were. We've had a watching brief on Professor Casey for some time, ever since his research started to touch on matters of national security. He has been very careful but apparently he was carried away by information brought to him by you, Mr Hardy. We've been able to monitor his emails and telephone calls.'
'I hope you're proud of yourselves,' I said.
'It's not a matter for pride, simply of doing what has to be done. Anyway, we tracked you and Professor Casey here which led us to Mr Cummings, in whom we have a special interest.'
'And that's a black lie,' Cummings said. 'I've been doing more tracking than being tracked. I invited you here, remember.'
'I think we know why,' Milton-Smith murmured.
'I don't. What's all this 'we' business?' I said. 'You make it sound as if you've got spooks hiding behind every rubbish bin.'
'Not quite, but certain assets are in place.'
'That sort of language makes you a laughing-stock,' Sheila said.
'I don't think you'll be laughing by the time we finish here, Ms Fitzsimmons. Mr Cummings…?'
Cummings took a big swallow of the red, cleared his throat and drew in a deep breath. 'Most people don't know what a shite hole Angola was all through the seventies and eighties. They'd no sooner got their independence from Portugal when they started fighting each other under different names- MPLA, FLNA, UNITA-it was like something out of The Life of Brian, except that it wasn't funny. They reckon forty thousand people were killed and about a million were made homeless in the first couple of weeks.
'Then the Soviets and the Cubans hopped in with tanks and planes and the slaughter went on and on. Those bloody Africans hate each other worse than they hate us, and they hate us like poison. The different sides started to enlist mercenaries-a few of them got themselves topped in '76, but they were just the ones the media picked up. Hostages were being taken every other day and murdered and mercenaries, a lot of them undocumented in the sort of language Martin likes, just fuckin' disappeared. This went on well into the eighties when the world's attention had switched elsewhere. Some of those militia leaders who felt they'd missed out on the goodies or had axes to grind were getting dollops of money from here and there and still recruiting.'
'Ratbag people like the Olympic Corps,' I said.
Cummings showed more emotion than he had so far. 'I know where you got that, from Paddy Malloy. All fuckin' wrong. It was an elite group. The best.'
Couldn't buck that sincerity. 'Okay,' I said.
'You can't imagine what it was like fighting in that country. Just existing's hard enough. The border with the Congo was like a sieve, anyone could get across and the Congo River, in case you don't know, has these heavily wooded islands in it you can hide in, retreat to, attack river traffic from. Angola's all fuckin' mountains when it isn't swamp and jungle. Insects to eat you alive, elephant grass to slice you to bits. Malaria… anyway, we were fighting for this splinter group from the MPLA faction that pretty well had everyone else against it. Did well, too, scored
