the smaller man is in charge.
‘A great deal of it,’ agrees the smaller man, speaking for the first time, ‘… but as long as they are unhappy about the right things, we should have confidence in our mission.’
The last of the pink fades from the sky in the west. It is black to the east.
The woman asks: ‘What about the enticement?’
‘It went perfectly, as expected,’ says the Man in Black.
‘But there may be security issues,’ she replies.
‘We have taken steps to mitigate the security issues,’ says the Man in Black. ‘It is too late for the mission to be stopped … I don’t see how we can fail at this late stage.’
‘I agree,’ says the smaller man, ‘… and I thank you both for your efforts. Future generations will never hear of this, but our secret history will recall your names and deeds for all eternity.’
All three pick up their cups again, and sip contentedly.
The wheels are set in motion.
Chapter 2
The Happy Land
of the Fat Sharks
‘Six minutes,’ said Ah Cheng, chewing his knuckle and dripping with sweat. He always stank of sweat and, in Asif’s opinion, the rose water he splashed over himself to hide the smell just made it worse.
‘Plus extra time,’ said Asif, then laughed as Ah Cheng winced at the reminder.
‘Be serious for once,’ growled Razzaq. ‘We’re not here for the football!’
He’d kept his voice low but he needn’t have bothered. Peril matches at Rinehart Stadium were always a sell-out and when 60,000 fans were all screaming their encouragement with the home team a goal down and six to play, Razzaq could have shouted at the top of his lungs.
Asif always sat between the two older men. They were older, but he’d been in Ord City, in the Temporary Citizenship Zone, the longest. Asif was part of the First Wave and in less than two weeks would be eligible to leave the TCZ and go anywhere in Australia, like any normal citizen.
‘You have the data?’ asked Razzaq, and Asif nodded, as the Melbourne Victory players repelled yet another Ord City attack with their tightly organised defence.
‘Asif!’
Razzaq was glaring and Asif, with an effort, turned away from the game and went to pass the data stick to Razzaq.
‘Keep it for now. But we need to talk about your mission … again. Explain the details of the plan … starting from the moment you are allowed to leave Ord City permanently.’
‘The Node is forty kilometres south at the Argyle substation,’ said Asif, ‘On the day of the mission, drive south along the Argyle Highway until …’
At that moment the Rinehart Stadium erupted with joy as their beloved Horace Hung Feng controlled the ball with his chest at the far post and drilled a shot into the roof of the net from an impossible angle. Ah Cheng leapt to his feet in unison with 60,000 other supporters and started singing the Feng Song.
Razzaq was furious.
‘Fuck Feng!’ he shouted. ‘Fuck the Pilgrims and fuck you Cheng … we have serious business!’
Ah Cheng nodded, chastened, and resumed his seat, while Razzaq fumed and the crowd returned to its standard level of excited buzz. The Melbourne Victory players kicked off again – two minutes left to play.
‘Continue,’ said Razzaq, and Asif took up from where he’d left off.
‘South along the Argyle Highway until the turnoff. There is no sign but it is exactly 14.9 kilometres past the turn off to Halls Creek.’
‘You have no authorisation to take that road,’ snapped Razzaq.
‘No,’ agreed Asif. ‘If I am questioned, I took the road by error … but the warning signs were in English. How was I to know it was a prohibited road?’
‘How far do you drive?’
‘Three point seven kilometres from the Highway there is an outcrop of low rocky ridges with several indentations big enough to conceal a car.’
‘From this point,’ said Razzaq, ‘there is no chance of escape if discovered. You must protect yourself.’
‘I will have an old Australian army Stehr pistol and four ammo clips.’
‘But if capture seems inevitable?’
Asif grinned, watching the game, and held an imaginary pistol against his head.
‘What do you have in your satchel?’ continued Razzaq, as the crowd started rising again. The Pilgrims were probing about the Victory box, the referee looked at his watch.
Asif tore his eyes away from the game and regarded Razzaq – an angry little man in a yellow tee shirt and white skull cap who worked in a stir-fry restaurant and always smelled of cooking oil. But he was head of the Tong and had to be taken seriously.
‘I have six sticks of … ’
The stadium exploded with sound and fury and Asif’s head whipped back to the action. The Pilgrims (known to most supporters as the Peril) were clustered in a tight celebratory knot by one of the corner flags and the crowd were on their feet dancing once again. Ah Cheng had raced to the front of their bay where the more active support were clutching at each other and writhing in an orgiastic outburst of adoration.
Razzaq’s face was twisted with contempt – eyeing Ah Cheng in disgust.
‘I’m glad it is you and not Cheng who carries the burden of our mission,’ he said. ‘If he was forced to choose between …’
‘Cheng is solid,’ insisted Asif, ‘and he sees the football as symbolic of our struggle.’
‘He does?’
‘Cheng says the Ord City Pilgrims have infiltrated the A-League and are successful. Ordinary Australians deeply resent the loss of face when we Asian invaders take points off them but deep down they know of our inherent superiority … especially in spiritual matters.’
Cheng had indeed said all of that, but he’d said it in the mock-fanatical voice he used for mimicking Razzaq, when Razzaq was not present.
Razzaq looked thoughtful.
‘I still say he is dangerously distracted by football. If we changed our objective from the Node to this stadium … do you seriously believe Ah Cheng could go through with it?’
Asif watched Ah Cheng dancing with the active support as the referee blew full time and felt a wave of affection for his Chinese friend. He knew absolutely that Ah Cheng would violently oppose any plan that jeopardised his beloved Pilgrims, but he said: ‘Ah Cheng is a member of the Tong and has fought our fight for many years. We should not doubt him.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Razzaq, ‘but we will watch him. Too much love of Peril is not good for a man.’
• • •
Asif loved the feel of his neighbourhood.
As he walked home after the game, assailed by the energy, sights and smells of District 11 (also known as K Town after the old Kununurra) he reflected upon his amazing fortune.
Asif had arrived in Australia from Bangladesh in 2022. His family had been forced out of their fishing village by rising sea levels – the floods had become increasingly regular until the water never left. Asif’s village was under two metres of water and the movement of vast numbers to higher ground had caused friction and put a lot of strain on the land that was left. Like so many other unmarried sons, Asif was given the task and the duty to get to Australia and commence a new life in a safe and lucky land where he might re-establish the family.
The