distant. Targets were arranged on the wall that sloped back slightly so that ricochets and deflections would be directed away from the shooters. There were six shooting stalls, all equipped with benches holding earmuffs, ammunition and semiautomatic rifles.
It had taken a while to identify Gary Pearson. The trainees wore their hats pulled down and seemed to delight in keeping their combat camouflage paint on, but I had him now and watched him closely. He appeared to be one of the keenest and most accomplished of the trainees- smartly turned out at all times, an early finisher in the marches, first or second man across the stream, beating a couple of the NCOs who’d had a head start. Now he was selected as one of the first batch of shooters.
St James took me aside. ‘In case you’re wondering, Hardy, DTS is registered as a gun club. In any case, this is private property.’
‘Really? I meant to ask. How many acres?’
‘About a hundred and fifty hectares.’
One for him.
A volley of shots sounded.
‘I hope you’re not a pacifist.’
‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have the courage.’
One for me, maybe.
The shooting continued and there are few more boring things to watch and listen to-motor racing, perhaps. The targets were human silhouettes of various shapes, sizes and colours. After a while the bullets had shredded them into unrecognisable tatters. One of the dark NCOs, still known to me only as number three, announced that Pearson had scored more direct and well-placed hits than any of the others. He clapped the young man on the back and had to reach up to do it, being ten centimetres shorter.
‘Who’s that NCO?’ I asked St James, who’d watched the shooting with his head tilted back in his Viking pose.
‘Why?’
‘He stands out-one of your best.’
‘True. Sirdar Assad. He should be. He fought in places you’ve heard of and places you haven’t heard of
‘He’s a mercenary?’
St James ignored the question. ‘Promising lad, that Pearson,’ he said.
‘What do you imagine all this fits them for especially?’
‘The future.’
I took an appraising look at the trainees being instructed in the maintenance of their weapons. ‘Kids look like suburban types to me-office workers, keyboard jockeys. How will this kind of training help?’
St James appeared to be pleased to get the question. He adjusted his beret. ‘Do you think this country’s safe, Hardy?’
‘Safe enough.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I reckon it’s safe from all but a handful of religious maniacs who’ll go out of fashion as soon as the US elects an intelligent president and the media stops beating the terrorism drum.’
He spun on his heel. ‘There are none so blind that cannot see.’
I thought, but didn’t say, a misquote, and cliche is the last resort of the obsessive. It wasn’t much but I was beginning to get a closer focus on what St James and DTS were all about, beyond what was in the literature.
To my surprise, St James invited me to give a talk to the trainees that night on the subject of journalism as a profession. ‘You seemed to have some definite views on the matter and its relation to the present crisis when we talked earlier,’ he said. ‘We want these lads to have active minds as well as bodies, so I’d be glad if you’d give them the benefit of your experience and be willing to field whatever questions they might throw at you.’
I couldn’t refuse and I muddled through it on the basis of whatever I’d picked up from the few journalist friends I had. Two adjoining rooms in the house with the connecting doors drawn apart served as the lecture theatre. Fires were burning in both rooms and the trainees seemed happy to be there, whatever the subject, instead of in their huts. In years past I’d given talks on the private enquiry business to TAPE students doing the PEA qualifying course, and this wasn’t so different, until Gary Pearson got to his feet in question time.
‘What would you say, Mr Hardy, to the idea that journalists are liars who write whatever their bosses tell them to write no matter what the facts are?’
‘I’d say that’s bullshit.’
‘We don’t permit bad language here, Hardy,’ St James said.
‘That’s bullshit, too.’
Two of the NCOs, Assad and another, moved in efficiently. Assad blocked me off from the audience while the other one pinioned my arms and eased me out through a side door. I heard St James raise his voice slightly above the murmuring as he brought the trainees to order.
Standing in the corridor, we were joined by the man who’d met me on the verandah on day one-same beret, same jacket, same pants and boots but a different mood. ‘Go through to your room,’ he said. ‘Leader will speak to you when he’s ready.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I said.
I’d blown it but I didn’t much care. I assumed the trainees were paying through the nose for their bivouac and the privilege of being insulted by their instructors. Looked to me as if St James had some kind of frustrated obsession about the military life and the decadence of society that he was turning into money. Let him. Gary Pearson was a big adult with certain skills and rather uncongenial ideas. I couldn’t see him coming to any physical harm, and if he chose to embrace St James’s view of the world, that was his lookout. I felt I’d fulfilled my commission for Clay Harrison and I didn’t want to hang around this overgrown schoolboy atmosphere any longer. I started packing.
St James walked in without knocking.
‘Bad manners,’ I said. ‘Tsk, tsk.’
‘You’re a disgrace. I’m going to contact your editor and withdraw permission for you to write about us.’
‘Your privilege. I was never much good at writing comedy anyway.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Packing. I’m leaving.’
‘You are not. The perimeter is patrolled and protected. You will remain here until you are given permission to leave.’
‘And when will that be, dear Leader?’
If he got the reference he didn’t react. ‘0800,’ he said.
‘Eight am, that’s fine. Goodnight.’
He was adept at heel-turning; he did it again and left.
I’d eaten, the room was warm, there was an ensuite and I had the scotch and a good biography of Paul Scott. No reason not to stay the night. I had the level in the bottle challenged and I was still reading a bit after one am when there was a faint knock on the door. I opened it to find Gary Pearson standing in the darkened passage in his socks, carrying his boots.
‘I have to talk to you,’ he whispered.
‘I thought the house was off limits at night for you guys.’
‘It is. They’d throw me out of the course if they knew. Let me in, Mr Hardy, please.’
I let him in and quietly closed the door behind him. Stealth, whispering and politeness were all very well, but was this one of St James’s little gambits? I pointed to a chair. ‘Want a drink, Pearson?’
‘Sure, thanks. In case you hadn’t noticed, the camp is dry.’
I poured some scotch over ice and added water. ‘I noticed. I could’ve used something to wash down those stews and pastas. So that’s another rule you’re breaking.’
He took the drink in his meaty fist. ‘Thanks. Yeah. Sorry I got up your nose tonight. I had to find out where you were coming from.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah, you think this is all a lot of crap.’
