After all, the plane had no wheels. It had to land on water.
But for the last hour, they had been flying inland, and only the position of the sun gave him any sense of his direction. He looked out the window, past the blur of the propeller. The landscape was flat and rocky, covered in scrub. A brilliant blue river snaked down like a great crack in the surface of the world. Wherever this was, it was huge and empty. There was no sign of any roads. No houses. Nothing.
He tried to make out more of the pilot’s features, but the man’s eyes were fixed on the controls as if he were making a deliberate effort to ignore his passenger. He pulled on the joystick, and Alex leaned to one side as the plane dipped. Now he saw a canopy of green . . . a band of rain forest. Yu had spoken of the Australian jungle.
Was this what he had meant?
The plane dipped down. Alex had been in rain forests before and recognized the extraordinary chaos of leaves and vines, a thousand different shades and sizes, each one of them endlessly fighting for a place in the sun.
Surely there would be nowhere for them to land here? But then they flew over the edge of the canopy, and Alex saw a clearing and a river that swelled suddenly into a lake with a cluster of buildings around the edge and a jetty reaching out to welcome them.
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“We’re landing,” the pilot said—for no obvious reason. It was the first time he had spoken throughout the flight.
Alex felt his stomach shrink and his ears popped as they circled and began their descent. The sound of the engines rose as they neared the surface of the water. They touched down, sending spray in two directions. An os- prey, frightened by the sudden arrival, leapt out of the undergrowth in a panic of beating wings. The pilot brought the plane around and they headed smoothly toward the jetty.
Two men had come out. They were both muscular, black, unsmiling, dressed in dirty jeans and string vests.
They were Aboriginal. One of them was carrying a rifle, slung over his bare shoulder. The pilot cut the engines and opened the door. He had unhooked a paddle from the side of the cockpit and used it to steer the plane the last few yards. The two men helped tie it to the jetty. One of them opened the door and released Alex from his seat.
Nobody spoke. That was perhaps more unnerving than anything else.
Alex took a look around him. The compound was clean and well ordered, with lawns that had recently been mown and neat flower beds. All the buildings were made of wood, painted white, with low roofs stretching out over long verandas. There were four houses, square and com-pact with open shutters and fans turning behind. Each of
them had a balcony on the second floor with views down to the lake. One of the buildings was an office and administration center connected to a metal radio tower with two satellite dishes. There was a water tower and an electrical generator with a fence running around it, topped with razor wire.
The last building was the hospital itself, long and narrow with a row of windows covered in mosquito net and a red cross painted on the front door. This was where Alex would be sent when the time came . . . not once but again and again until there was nothing left of him. The thought made him shiver despite the damp heat of the afternoon, and he turned his head away.
At first sight, there didn’t seem to be too much security—but then Alex noticed a second fence, this one on the edge of the compound and about ten yards high.
It was painted green to blend in with the forest beyond.
There were no boats moored to the jetty and no sign of any boathouse, so an escape downriver would be impossible too—unless he swam. And at the end of the day, what would be the point of breaking out of here? He had seen from the plane. He was in the middle of the outback with nowhere to go.
The two Aboriginals had each clamped hold of one of his arms, and now they led him toward the administrative building. As they reached the door, a young woman appeared, dressed as a nurse. She was short, plump, and
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blond. She had put on bright red lipstick, which seemed strangely at odds with her starched white uniform. One of her stockings had runs.
“You must be Alex,” she said. “I’m Nurse Hicks. But you can call me Charleen.”
Alex had never heard such a broad Australian accent.
And what the woman was saying was simply crazy. She was welcoming him as if he might actually be glad to be here.
“Come right in,” she continued. Then she noticed the handcuffs. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed in a voice full of indignation. “You know we don’t need those here, Jacko. Will you please remove them?” One of the men produced a key and freed Alex’s hands and feet. The nurse tut-tutted at them, then opened the door and led Alex down a corridor that was clean and simple, with rush matting and whitewashed walls. Fans were turning overhead, and there was music playing somewhere . . . a Mozart opera.
“The doc will see you now,” the nurse said brightly, as if he had booked an appointment weeks ago.
There was another door at the far end, and they went through. Alex found himself in a sparsely furnished room—little more than a desk and two chairs. There was a screen to one side, a small fridge, and a cart with some bottles, a stethoscope, and a pair of scalpels. The window was open, with a view of the jetty from where they had just come.
A man was sitting behind the desk, dressed not in a white coat but a turquoise open-neck shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans. He was in his forties, with thick blond hair and a craggy, weather-beaten face. He didn’t look like a doctor. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and his hands were grubby. There was a glass of beer on
