The Procurers
Biddy and Justin Series
Book Three
Pamela M. Arnold
Strategic Book Publishing and Rights Co.
E-book Edition © 2014
Print Edition © 2014 Pamela M. Arnold – ISBN: 978-1-62857-579-8
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the publisher.
Strategic Book Publishing and Rights Co.
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Houston, TX 77065
www.sbpra.com
ISBN: 978-1-63135-155-6
Dedication
For Pat and Des.
Other Titles in the Biddy and
Justin Series by Pamela M. Arnold
Book 1: Murder in Tusmore Park
Book 2: Pacific Incident 9-11-13
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank the following people:
Emeritus Professor Sydney Hamberger
Libby Ryan
Chris Nagel
Susan Mc Dermott
Paul Becque
Dr. James Muecke, MBBS (Hons), FRANZCO
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 1
Helping her onto the padded white leather operating bed, the nurse lowered the backrest until Rukan lay flat, staring at the ceiling. The young eye surgeon placed a hand on her left shoulder.
“As you know Rukan the terrorist bullet has been removed from your brain, but bleeding is affecting your right eye, so we are going to give you an injection directly into the eye to control it.”
Rukan took a deep breath; surely she had already been through enough. After months in a coma, she was learning to gradually and painfully reuse her aching muscles, and now an injection in her eye!
She folded her hands across her stomach, gazing at the ceiling, trying to relax.
The nurse applied drops into her right eye and, as some ran down her cheek, pressed a tissue into her hand. After a few moments the nurse repeated the drops, followed by a smeary substance, and told her to close her eyes.
Working from behind her head, at the end of the waist-high operating couch, the surgeon said, “Eyes wide open.” Dousing her eye socket with stinging Betadin, he skilfully clipped her eyelid back with what Rukan imagined was a butterfly clip (she visualised European grandmothers creating waves in straight hair). Whatever he used, it was most uncomfortable.
“Just relax,” the nurse said.
She has to be joking! Rukan thought as she took another deep breath and counted down from eight to one.
The surgeon said, “Look up and to the left please.” Then he placed gauze over her face with one eye hole open. The nurse moved closer, placing her hand over Rukan’s, no doubt to prevent her from leaping off the couch as the surgeon lowered what seemed to be a huge yellow syringe from above and the needle pierced her eye.
It seemed to take ages for the hypodermic to empty. Rukan had managed to stay absolutely still.
It wasn’t so painful after all, nowhere near as bad as some of her experiences while being raised in the Taliban camp.
ASIO had been taking good care of her, but she needed to get well, make the effort to rehabilitate herself, recover the use of her muscles, and get back to a new life, finding Scott.
The rider halted outside high white timber gates, both open in seeming welcome, except they were situated over a cattle grid, a series of spaced bars set in the drive to prevent livestock from straying through, which unfortunately also deterred a horse.
Spotting a latched side gate the rider dismounted and led her thoroughbred through, carefully closing and relatching the gate before remounting in one agile movement, gathering the reins and slipping her booted feet back into the stirrups.
A long, tree-lined driveway enticed them from a rhythmic trot into a gentle collected canter toward a sprawling two-storey Australian farmhouse. Four chimneys emphasised the size of the substantial stone structure.
Attracted by the sound of hoof beats, the grey-haired farmer’s wife emerged from a neat chook pen at the back and side of the house. She waved to the rider with her left hand, a billycan of eggs in the right.
“Good morning, an elegant animal you have there.” And a beautiful rider as well, she thought to herself, just a little older than my Emily would be by now.
“Thank you.” The young visitor patted her mount on his glossy neck. “He is. I named him Soufflé, and it certainly is a good morning; weather in Australia seems wonderful.”
Pushing her riding hat to hang down her back by the throat strap, the young woman touched the riding crop to her head in greeting.
“Mrs. Walton?”
“Yes, I am. I certainly envy you, Soufflé, and your youth. I have virtually given up riding now.”
“That’s a shame, especially with such a peaceful, beautiful property to ride like this one.” The girl gestured with her crop again, taking in the expansive pastures, the immaculate farmhouse, trees both European and Australian, and in the distance a semicircle of misty blue hills.
As the visitor turned her head, surveying the landscape, Mrs. Walton noticed a wide grey strip contrasting with the long, shiny black hair.
“I met Scott on the Pacific Cruise. He invited me to visit and I hoped to surprise him.”
“That’s wonderful to hear, because he hasn’t mentioned a word about the cruise. He seems to have lost interest in returning to test cricket, and just throws himself into the farm work. He’s doing the property rounds right now. I believe there was some sort of fracas at the end of the cruise. I read that all the traffic on the Sydney Harbour Bridge was stopped when the Pacific Queen passed under it, causing traffic chaos. It seemed something was hushed up by the authorities. Perhaps you might be able to tell us what actually happened?” Mrs. Walton glanced at her watch.
“Scott’s last working stop is that dam, down there.” She gestured. “He has to fix the pump, and he’ll be along in about thirty minutes. Come on in and we’ll have a cuppa.”
Rukan dismounted, slipping the reins over her arm and following Scott’s mother to a small yard by the chook pen, not far from the back door of the old stone building.
“I’ll just ease Soufflés girth a little.” With a shy smile she continued, “I named him after Scott’s favourite food.”
She slid the stirrup irons up the leathers, tucking them neatly under the saddle, undid the girth a few holes. Then using one of the pieces of string blowing from a sturdy wooden cross bar, she deftly tied the reins, checking that her mount could reach the water trough. Soufflé nudged her pocket, and she smiled at Mrs. Walton as she fished out an apple and slipped it to the horse.
“Remind you of Pick?”
Scott’s mother beamed. She suddenly felt a huge rush of happiness.
“Call me Dottie, my dear, and come on in. How come you are on horseback way out here?”
“Scott had told me so much about the farm and that you all enjoyed riding, so I thought it would be fun to rock up this way. When I booked at the Linger Longer Motel they assured me that I could park my horse float and access an old stable at the back of the premises. We arrived last night.”
Having paused in the doorway, Dottie turned to lead the way. “We’ll go in the back way through the mud room.”
Rukan gazed about as they climbed three wide steps and entered the small room, obviously an essential one for a working property. Various sizes of gum boots were lined along a low shelf; a brass boot pull shaped like an insect protruded underneath for riding boots. The next shelf had an assortment of saddle soap and leather cleaning products. There were three wall-mounted saddletrees, two holding heavy stock saddles; the other appeared to be a quality black leather German dressage saddle, a glimpse of the soft leather sheen below a matching cover. Saddlecloths were draped over a rail.
“We actually do have a proper tack room in the barn, but this is handy when in a hurry.” Mrs. Walton was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Rukan breathed in before following her.
“I love the smell of leather, Mrs. Walton—I mean Dottie. I’m Rukan Kahnaum,” she said, holding out her hand as she moved to follow. “I hope I am not intruding, but I think Scott will be pleased to see me.”
“Goodness. Why have you waited so long? The ship arrived back in September last year, and it’s now nearly April.” Looking back over her shoulder, Dottie was filling the kettle as she spoke.
“May I help you with the tea, Dottie?” Rukan asked, gazing around. “I love this French ambience. I thought this decor style had only become popular in the last few years, but yours has a wonderful lived in comfortable feeling.”
“Innes and I honeymooned in Paris forty years ago, and apart from Innes, I fell madly in love with all things French.” Dottie placed an oval tray, set with blue and white china and homemade Anzac biscuits, on the coffee table. “I’ll just let the tea draw,” she said, lifting the teapot lid and giving it a stir. “Sit down, child.”
Dottie shooed her to a pair of deep-buttoned chairs with comfortably worn upholstery, set in the large bay window at the end of the kitchen. Peering through the paned windows, Rukan could see the distant dam below, framed by the gnarled branches of an ancient walnut tree.
“Do you get many walnuts?” Rukan indicated the tree.
“Not so many now; it’s an elderly tree, but we love the gnarly branches and our peacocks use the lower ones to teach their babies to fly. It’s fascinating to watch. The parent bird literally lines up the little ones along the branch then kicks them off, one after the other.”
“Milk?” At Rukan’s nod, she said, “Now, while I pour, tell me about the trip. I can’t understand why Scott hasn’t mentioned you at all.”
“Probably because he saw me shot on the ship and probably thought I had died.” Dottie nearly dropped the teapot. Speechless, she gaped at Rukan.
“In actual fact he is unaware that he saved my life. Before contacting Scott I wanted to be sure that I had fully recovered, as I was shot in the back of the head. Fortunately, due to Scott’s intervention, my attacker was only able to fire the one shot, which was not fatal, but it did knock me unconscious, and the combination of profuse bleeding and ASIO removing me by chopper probably caused onlookers to think I had been killed. Surgeons were able to remove the bullet, although I was in a coma for three months. Having no relatives and for a while being a suspect in the jihad it was very awkward. ASIO refused to give out information until they were sure about me, and then I requested privacy until I was assured of complete recovery.”
“No wonder Scott was so reticent about the trip. He didn’t mention a . . . a jihad,” Dottie murmured, gazing at Rukan in astonishment.
“The authorities were eventually convinced that I had done my best to save the ship and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, damage to the Opera House, and many lives, so all my medical expenses were paid by the grateful shipping line, who are still leaning over backward to help me.” Rukan took a sip of her tea. “Scott had described your lifestyle on the farm and that you all rode. It seemed such an exciting pastime to me, so different from anything I ever experienced, to be partners with an intelligent animal, so when the doctors and therapists were deciding what would be the best exercise and treatments for my rehabilitation I asked about riding lessons. They agreed that riding would be ideal therapy to restore my balance, muscle tone, and confidence, so I boarded at a Spanish-style riding school in the Adelaide Hills in South Australia and had riding lessons every day, plus learned about equestrian care and management of horses. It has been one of the happiest times of my life.”
Dottie said wistfully, “I’ve heard about that school; it has a good reputation and must have been fun. Was it only dressage movements or did it include cross country?”
“Everything. Eventually I was allowed to ride a retired top dressage horse, which would only respond if my commands were subtle and correct. I was there for two months; in the end I was managing movements like canter pirouette and the passage.”
“Sounds like heaven to me.” Dottie looked at her watch and peered through the window toward the dam. “Scott should be at the dam in a few minutes, why don’t you ride Soufflé down and surprise him? He’ll be working on the pump.” As Dottie led the way out, Soufflé whinnied at Rukan’s approach.
“He has certainly bonded with you, Rukan.”
Rukan smoothed her horse gently behind the ears.
“Good boy,” she whispered as she deftly tightened the girth, slid the stirrup irons down the leathers, and gathered the reins.
“Just follow the track up the hill, which circles around and down to the dam, and you’ll find him. Does Soufflé like to jump?” Dottie’s eyes twinkled. “There are three very enticing logs on the way.”
Rukan nodded. “Thank you. We can’t wait.” Mounting in one smooth action, she wheeled her horse and trotted off.
A hand shading her eyes, Dottie stood watching the pair move into a canter as they approached the jumps, the rider adjusting her mounts stride. They took all three in beautiful rhythm. Dottie wiped a tear. The jumps had been placed exactly to her requirements.
Scott swore to himself as he heard the hoof beats; someone always interrupted him at the worst possible moment. He made sure he had a tight grip on the water pipe before glancing up, just in time to see the rider take the jumps with wonderful timing. He grinned and hoped his mum was watching. A damn good equestrian, whoever it was. He went back to concentrating on the pesky pressure pump. He heard the horse approach and halt behind him, breathing heavily.
“Be with you in a sec. I just can’t let go of this valve,” he said.
“That’s okay; we can’t let your mum’s chooks go without water.”
A spurt of water gushed straight into Scott’s eyes; at a peal of laughter, he was up in a flash, spinning around, pump forgotten. Dashing the water from his eyes, he barely paused, spreading his arms wide.
Chapter 2
Entering Justin’s sunny breakfast room, Biddy glanced at the snail mail. One particular envelope stood out from the bin material. Hand addressed to herself and her defacto husband, Justin Fuller, it was posted to Justin’s duplex on Stirling Street in Tusmore, South Australia. Seating herself in one of the pair of comfortable wing chairs, Biddy took a sip of coffee before slitting the envelope. She actually gasped as she realised who it was from.
“Justin, are you about?” Jumping up, she peered out into the back courtyard, tapping on the paned window and beckoning. Justin slid open the door and stood aside as Puffer, his elderly Japanese Chin, waving his white silky tail importantly, pushed in ahead.
“What’s up, Bid?” Justin said, following his dog into the sunny breakfast room.
“Rukan. She’s alive!”
“She can’t be.”
“It’s a letter from her.”
“But we saw her, shot in the head by the terrorist and then being carted off by an ASIO helicopter, way back in September, and there has been absolutely no word from the authorities.”
“This letter is from her. It took her months to recover from a coma caused by the bullet. She has now caught up with Scott. ASIO kept very quiet as they were concerned about terrorist reprisals due to Rukan frustrating their jihad plans.” Biddy’s eyes filled with tears. Justin put his arm around her.
“Don’t cry, darling, it’s wonderful news.” Biddy buried her face in his comforting shoulder, her voice muffled.
“I’ll say it is. They want us to go up to meet Scott’s parents and stay with them at their Bordertown farm for a few days, and we are to bring all our cruise photos with us.”
Dottie Walton had been fussing around the house all Sunday morning; she wanted everything to be perfect for the visitors. Rukan had told her so much about the couple; she felt a little apprehensive, especially about meeting Biddy, a world-renowned fashion designer. Although Rukan explained that Biddy was retired and very modest and low-key about her achievements, Rukan’s enthusiastic description still made Biddy sound like an alarming paragon of virtue.
After breakfast Rukan and Scott had gone out for an early morning ride and Dottie was becoming anxious that they wouldn’t return in time to help welcome the guests due to arrive just before lunch.
Over the three weeks since Rukan had arrived and at Dottie’s insistence stayed, Scott had gradually been showing her the more than three-thousand-hectare property. Scott’s father, Innes, had inherited the property from his father, after whom Scott was named. His grandfather had planted hundreds of trees, many of which survived bush fire, drought, and torrential rain. Rukan loved the contrast between the mature European Plane trees and the Australian gums. She learned that the red and white cattle grazing about were Poll Herefords. They had dismounted on a hilly spot just above a small creek, and Rukan was left to water the horses while Scott went to check on a fence.
Scott had been gone awhile so Rukan called, “Sco-ott, the horses are fixed, shall I tether them?” No answer, no sound.
Rukan walked between the two mounts, peering at the dense scrub. No sign, not even a fence. The ground was becoming quite stony so she decided to tie the horses to a small gum sapling. She climbed to the top of a rise; still no sign of Scott in any direction. A kookaburra gave a warning chuckle. Rukan glanced at her watch; he must have been gone at least half an hour. He couldn’t have just disappeared.
Then she heard the old Aussie bush call, “Coo-ee.” It was very close, but still no sign of him.
Scott appeared, his deep laugh echoing around the bush. “Fooled you.”
“You certainly did, where’ve you been?” Taking her hand, Scott said, “Shut your eyes and come with me.”
Rukan could feel grass and stones under her riding boots, and the back of her hand brushed against rock and undergrowth tugging at her jodhpurs. Scott turned her around, pulled her close, then gently kissed her lips. “Now you can look.” Rukan stayed in his arms and gazed up over his shoulder.
“Wow, a cave.”
“My hideaway.”
Rukan looked about. The cave was quite dark and appeared to be fairly deep, with a lofty earth roof, becoming quite dim farther in where it began to narrow and slope down. As Scott shone his torch, Rukan clutched his arm, pointing up apprehensively at rows of upside down little faces hanging from bits of old overhead tree roots, their eyes glowing red, catching the torch light.
“What are they?”
“Just some bats. They’ve been here for generations; they won’t bother us unless we disturb them. In fact, the bat dung was quite lucrative, sold as manure around 1913. They can be alarming if stirred up and sense danger. I think they have poor daytime sight and use some sort of radar for direction. One of my mates played silly buggers and waved a long stick near them. They went berserk, screeching and flying into his hair, scratching his face and arms, and tangling into his clothes. I don’t think they really meant to attack him; they were just woken and alarmed, as they sleep during the day.”
His hideaway was furnished with a small table, a kerosene lamp, some candles, a lumpy-looking divan bed, and a couple of well-used cane chairs. Rukan inspected what appeared to be an open storage cupboard made from wooden fruit packing cases. The cupboard housed a plastic water container with a tap, a few enamel mugs, a blackened billycan, a tin of tea leaves, jars of coffee and sugar, odd bits of cutlery including a few spoons, and a tin of powdered milk.
The next shelf housed tins of Heinz baked beans, spaghetti with pull-top lids, and miscellaneous plates, and a really large bowl hung from a nail. A value-size pack of Sanatorium Weet-Bix was sealed in a clear plastic container.
“It’s the best equipped cave I’ve seen. Not that I’ve seen many. What’s the big bowl for?”
“Damper. I found the cave years ago and when I was a kid. Mum let me camp here with mates. I still use it occasionally when I’ve been out all day. In fact I came here a lot these past months to think about you. I thought I had lost you forever.”
Scott threw his arms around her, hugging her tight. Rukan returned his hug then stepped back. “Pity, I’d love to try the bed, but we’re running short of time, darling. We can’t keep your mother waiting.”
As they left the cave Scott pointed. “With that spring-fed creek, if you had enough food stored you could stay here indefinitely, and with the height of the cave roof, if it rains heavily you can even bring a horse in to shelter.” Rukan was entranced.
“What a wonderful childhood you’ve had. You could have been Robinson Crusoe or a gold miner or a pirate or . . . Batman. Can we spend a night or two up here?”
“If you want to, darling, but I think I’ll bring up a decent bed; this one is due for the dump. I brought all these bits and pieces up on horseback. As you can see the terrain is pretty rough, although I think our new Land Rover could cope nowadays.”
“How come I couldn’t find you or the cave entrance?”
“That’s part of the fun; you really can’t see the opening unless you know what you’re looking for. It’s the way granite rocks have fallen across the entrance, and the overhanging bushes have grown a thick screen over it. I only found it because I was shooting rabbits and I was concerned, as I knew I had only wounded one and wanted to put it out of its misery. I could hear it squealing but couldn’t see it because it had wriggled through the undergrowth into this cave. It was probably originally excavated as an exploratory gold mine.” Rukan eyed the narrow opening.
“It must be a bit of a tight squeeze to get a horse through.”
“A well-schooled, trusting horse can manage it. I only did it once when it was teeming rain. Normally I put the horses just nearby in the bush in a kind of circle, which is an ideal natural corral if you use a rope across the opening as a gate. I’ll show you when we come back, but it’s quite a distance to the homestead so we’d better get going. As you said, Biddy and Justin will be arriving soon and Dottie will be after me if we’re not there to welcome them.”
“Okay. Soufflé and I will race you.”
“You’re on, but keep strictly to the track we came on as there is an escarpment and some precipitous cliff faces you can blunder over. It’s very dangerous for vehicles and literally a steep challenge for a horse.”
“That must be it, Jus.” The hand-carved wooden sign reading Audaughter hung on the cross piece over the high white-painted timber sides framing the open double gateway. Justin halted and surveyed the gateway. “Audaughter?” he queried.
“Audaughter, yes, an unusual name. I think it’s Irish meaning is something like ‘good pasture,’” Biddy replied, as Justin made a right turn into the property, the car tyres bumping over the cattle grid.
Lined with plane trees, a scoria drive wound toward the distant farmhouse, and a smoke curl hung above one of the four substantial chimneys. Biddy gazed about; she loved the grey-and-white-dappled tree trunks, with brown and white gums dotted here and there in the distance. The land seemed remarkably flat, with fat red and white cattle grazing peacefully and lying under the shade of the gums. However, there seemed to be some low hills and light sandy outcrops rising in the distance well beyond the house.
Justin parked to the side of the drive, which circled in front of the impressive homestead, a double-storey stone dwelling with upper balconies creating verandas below. Four wide-tessellated tile steps led to the veranda and heavy-panelled front door, which was flung open by Rukan, who rushed out and down the steps to meet them, arms wide, followed by Scott, who was holding his mother’s arm. Scott’s father, Innes, followed, extending his hand to Justin.
“At last we get to meet a paragon and partner, according to Rukan.”
“Paragon? We are fresh out of those,” Justin said, accepting Innes’s warm handshake.
“Oh, it’s just that Rukan has been singing Biddy’s praises,” Dottie said, arms open to welcome Biddy. “Come on in and have a cuppa. Scott will bring up your luggage later.”
With Dottie holding her elbow, Biddy was ushered up steps and through a wide doorway embellished with a coloured leadlight surround, into a spacious tiled hall. Scott followed carrying their two overnight bags.
An impressive staircase with heavy carved timber balustrade faced them. Coloured light streamed in from leadlight windows of a wide landing, midway up the stairs.
“Hang your jacket on the stair newel, Justin, Scott will take it up with the bags. You two must be dying for a wine or a cup of tea,” Dottie said, herding them into the sitting room.
Biddy was delighted to see how much at home Rukan seemed and how well she and Dottie got on. The large sitting room, carpeted in pale beige, was furnished in a mish-mash of antique chairs, with a comfortable leather settee before the large open fireplace. Crackling logs were supported by tall brass fire dogs.
Innes was facing a small polished cedar dresser with a mirror back, which obviously acted as a drinks cabinet. He had assembled glasses and was fiddling with some bottles. Biddy noticed he was slightly bald, his remaining dark hair frosted with white. He turned toward his guests and said, “I think the occasion calls for a celebratory drink or two; it seems as though you are Rukan’s Australian family.”
“Well we are in a way; we all kind of adopted each other on board ship. We are Rukan’s Clayton parents, and Inspector Brien Schultz, whom you are still to meet, is her honouree Dutch uncle. We all gave Scott permission to marry Rukan.”
Dottie clapped her hands, and said excitedly, “The sooner the better.” Scott, standing with his back to the fireplace and his arm around Rukan, shrugged and smiled down at her.
“Looks as though our goose is cooked, darling.” Rukan shook her head.
“Goose? I thought we were roasting lamb?”
They all laughed, and, smiling, Dottie said, “Now let us fill your glasses, and you have a breather. It’s a long drive from Adelaide. Then you can freshen up before we have a long, leisurely lunch.”
“It took us about three hours, plus a coffee stop. I guess as it’s called Bordertown we are almost in Victoria?” Justin queried.
“Not quite. We are about twenty kilometres to the west of the Victorian border,” Scott’s father replied, offering a tray of drinks to his guests. Justin was pleased to have a beer, Biddy and Dottie a white wine each, and Rukan an orange juice.
“Sure you won’t have a Riesling, Rukan, now that you know it’s not against any religious principles?” Scott asked gently.
“I keep forgetting, Scott, old habits die hard. It’s been forbidden to me for so long.”
Dottie shook her head disapprovingly at her son and said, “Don’t you go introducing my girl to bad habits, Scott, she’s better off without alcohol.”
Biddy reached into her capacious handbag, pulled out an e-book, and proffered it to Dottie.
“As you requested, Dottie, I’ve brought you some of the photos from the Pacific Cruise.” Dottie took the slim box and looked at it in bewilderment. She ran her fingers all around the edges.
“How do I open it? Scott, you can show me?” Dottie seated herself on the settee and patted the seat next to her. “I’m looking forward to these. Scott hasn’t said a word about the cruise.”
Biddy stood, replacing her empty wine glass on the tray. “If you’ll excuse me, I will just pop upstairs to freshen up before lunch while Scott shows you the photos. Coming, Justin?”
“Yes, I’ll show you your room,” Rukan said, looping her arms through those of both her Clayton parents.
Lunch was served at an oval table, and Biddy admired the dull sheen of what seemed like generations of polish on the inlaid top. Six large placemats were set with what appeared to be sterling silver cutlery. Apparently Innes was carving the lamb in the kitchen, while Dottie dished the entrées and handed them through a servery to Rukan, who waited table, obviously enjoying her role as part of the family.
Scott poured the wine as his parents joined the table, and Rukan accepted her first glass of Riesling. After they were all seated, Rukan raised her glass and shyly said, “May I make a toast to you all? I cannot possibly find the words to tell you all how thankful I am to have met and become part of a real family again. It is certainly an experience worth waiting for. To our family. Thank you.”
They all clapped and raised their glasses. Innes stood, bowed to Rukan, and said, “We in turn cannot tell you, Rukan, how much we all welcome you.”
More cheers and raised glasses. Dottie said firmly, “I second everything, but the roast is carved and waiting and if you don’t get on with your entrée, the roast will spoil.”
Biddy hastily placed her napkin on her lap and, after Dottie had raised her fork, tucked into her own smoked salmon with avocado and crème fraiche. She said, “This is delicious, Dottie, it has to be Tasmanian salmon. How did you manage to get it down here?”
“That’s my secret; we can achieve all sorts out in the sticks, and Rukan picked and made the mint sauce.” Biddy was pleased to see how proud Dottie was of her new daughter-in-law and appeared delighted that her guest had recognised the special effort they had made for their guests.
“Biddy, that girl Jenny Grainger in the photos looks familiar. What do you know about her?” Dottie asked.
Biddy hesitated; she didn’t want to cast a shadow over the happy luncheon party.
“Oh, she was one our fellow passengers. She came from Geelong; I guess that’s not too far from here in Victoria,” she said. Then, turning to Scott, asked, “May I have the butter?”
Chapter 3
A fortnight later, it was two thirty in the afternoon and Rukan and Soufflé were just returning from a leisurely check of the property.
Rukan felt quite chuffed that Scott had left her in charge of the property, completely on her own for two days while he was on business in Melbourne. Dottie and Innes had left on a long overdue overseas trip, so she, Soufflé, and the farm animals were all alone.
Rukan planned on having a late sandwich lunch, a cuppa, and a good read. She was impressed by the Walton’s library, which housed some of her favourite relaxation, crime stories and thrillers, including some Dick Francis and the Australian author, Matthew Reilly.
She had just dismounted when she heard a distant engine roar. She quickly nudged Soufflé to the water trough and ducked into the small mud room for the small pair of binoculars Scott kept in his saddle bag for spotting distant fallen cattle.
Peering down the drive, she saw a group of motor bikes advancing. Obviously bikers, but they would have no business with the Waltons. ASIO’S warnings came back to her. The jihad group had sworn revenge for Rukan’s part in thwarting their long-term plans to annihilate the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
If they were jihadists, the group could destroy the Waltons’ lovely home if she hid inside. She swiftly locked the back door, grabbed Soufflé’s reins, and swung back into the saddle. Hopefully the intruders would think no one was home, although it would only take a few seconds before the riders rounded the bend to the house. They shouldn’t have been able to hear her hoof beats, so she decided to chance that the house would shield her from their view until she reached the hills where she could possibly hide or lose them if they gave chase.
Seeming to sense the urgency, her mount willing took off in a flat gallop up the open track toward the hills until they reached the first tree cover. Rukan heard a shout and, pulling over into the sparse cover, she looked back. One of the four riders was pointing after her, and the group swung in unison to follow.
No doubt about their mission now. Rukan knew they could catch her even in open country, as many were used to riding in rough terrain in Afghanistan and they would be armed. She had to protect Soufflé, but to do so she had to risk both their lives. She broke cover and galloped across the open paddocks. She hated the idea of jumping wire fences, but she really had no choice. If the riders were experienced they could also jump wire on their bikes or either have to stop to cut them or go a good distance to find a gate.
Scott had pointed out the escarpment, so she decided to lure them across country and then coax them close enough to follow her over the edge.
By the varying sound of the engines, she knew the bikes were leaping rocky outcrops and gaining on her.
As the first fence was coming up, she steadied Soufflé. Pretend it’s solid, act as though it’s a normal, easy jump. He has good judgement and he can see. They were over, clear of the deadly wire. Rukan gave him a neck pat then urged him on until she was sure she had put enough distance between them in case the terrorist/bikies started taking pot shots at them. Pulling up for a well-deserved breather, she watched as the riders conferred at the fence.
One must have decided that he could jump it. He spun back around and took a run up; he almost made it until the back wheel caught, the impetus pulling the fence with it, dragging it flat. The rider appeared to be injured, but, callously ignoring him, the other three wheeled their bikes over the flattened fence and revved up again.
“One down and now we know they don’t have any wire cutters,” Rukan said to her horse, rubbing his neck as she gathered the reins, urging him to resume a canter.
There was at least one more fence to go so she was conserving his energy. She also needed to let the extremists think they were gaining on her as she approached the escarpment, which she remembered as a long, rough ridge with a steep, straight cliff face. In one section there was a ledge about two metres below, hopefully wide enough for a horse to drop onto. She doubted that an unsuspecting bikie would be able to manage the sheer drop and the soft, treacherous shale below.
She could hear the three bikes whining and bumping along after them. The next fence was coming up, so she settled Soufflé and took a deep breath, and again they sailed clear over the wire, still well in view of her pursuers. At a good distance ahead she pulled over again behind a group of thick gum tree trunks and peered back.
This time, one of the three bikers drew a gun and shot the wires where they emerged from the fence post. It took quite a few shots but must have worked, as they quickly dragged back the wires and were revving their engines.
It left her no choice; she and Soufflé would have to risk their lives and pray that the ledge was where she remembered it, and wide enough for her horse to drop onto.
They would be decoys, appearing to tire as they approached the hilltop; she barely dared to check at the edge to give her mount time to see what awaited them below.
On the approach Rukan had kept her legs on, but did give a little half halt on the outside rein to warn him of the coming drop. As usual Soufflé responded beautifully; with barely a pause he leapt out and down, landing on all fours.
Seconds later a motorbike hurtled over their heads, the rider parting company as they hit some scrub; another rider, propelled through the air by his engine, followed a similar fate.
With a screech of brakes, the fourth remaining rider managed to pull up, showering Rukan and her horse with dirt and pebbles. Knowing the rider was armed, Rukan urged Soufflé over the edge, still very steep but a mixture of stones and soft shale.
After the alarm of flying, crashing bikes, her mount took little urging to plunge downward, slipping and struggling to keep on his feet. To help him balance Rukan sat very still, giving him his head. They finished the slide with Soufflé sitting on his haunches for the last metre. With bullets whistling around them Rukan rolled off his gritty saddle, grabbed the reins, and dragged her trembling mount toward some scrub. Soufflé was limping but Rukan forced him to shelter.
They could hear one of her pursuers groaning, and there was a small fire crackling where a bike had caught fire. Peering up, Rukan saw the remaining biker setting off along the top of the escarpment, the engine growling in low gear as the rider sought a safe way down.
After all the noise and confusion the bush sounded uncannily quiet, until raucous crows started arrc-arrcing at each other. Rukan remembered the correct terminology for a group of crows was a “murder” of crows, appropriate in the circumstances. She decided she would have to take a chance that the two riders were incapacitated and make her way to Scott’s cave where it would be safe for Soufflé.
She reached for her mobile; in all the excitement she hadn’t had time to call or warn anyone. Low battery. One call would have to count. She tried Schultz. Not available; leave message. Trying to be calm, clear, and concise, Rukan left a message. Hopefully if he got the message soon, Schultz could mobilize the local police and contact Scott.
She heard a groan; the biker could wait. Soufflé was more important than a jihadist who was trying to kill them.
She had to get her horse to safety and check his wounds. It was getting on four o’clock, and it could be dark by five thirty, which would be to her advantage if only she could find the cave first. She tried ringing Scott. Out of range; low battery.
As Soufflé was still trembling a little, she tried to calm him with gentle words. Running her fingers over his front legs, she was pleased to find them scratched but sound. The skin on his haunches and back legs had rips and tears from the beating he had taken sliding down the sharp incline. She couldn’t find any deep cuts or obvious broken bones, but he favoured his inside hind when asked to move. Maybe he had pulled a muscle.
It was probably still quite a distance on foot to the cave, and Soufflé needed water, food, and a vet. They set off, Rukan urging her horse to limp after her, determined to lead him to safety.
She could still hear the third motorbike. The rider would have had to follow the escarpment for some distance before he could find a safe track down to flat land and double back. She wondered if he would stop to care for his cohorts.
It was unlikely, knowing their burning desire for revenge and ruthless disregard for human life, which she had experienced as a child in the Taliban camp. He would come after Rukan.
She didn’t have time to cover their tracks all the way to the cave, but after some distance she tied Soufflé to a tree and, hurrying back, used a trick Scott had attributed to the Australian aborigines. With a handful of saplings, she bent, and walking backward, brushed out the hoof prints until she reached her horse, who with ears pricked forward in welcome gave a little nicker and poked his nose into her side.
“I know you are sore and thirsty but we have to find the cave, so come on, boy. Walk on.”
Rukan prayed she was heading in the right direction; she knew the creek was below the cave and thought she could see the tell-tale line of trees and bushes thriving more vigorously by the water. They had just come on the creek and Soufflé was having a good long drink when the angry bike growl threatened them.
Abruptly, pulling her horse with her, Rukan walked along the sandy creek bottom, trusting that the biker would assume they would be escaping over open ground.
Head down, breath heaving, Soufflé now resolutely continued to limp along after his mistress under the overhanging bush and tree branches.
Running downhill, the creek bed gradually became steeper, which worked in well with Rukan’s estimate of where the cave was sited. Creating a waterfall, a huge pile of tree trunks and debris completely blocked their passage, the noise of the water drowning all sound. The pair had to emerge very cautiously up the bank, having no idea where the predator was.
It was just as well they were forced out of the creek because Rukan realised they were nearer the cave than she had estimated. Limping uphill, they paused for a breather and heard the deadly bike engine. Rukan’s heart stopped. The terrorist was aiming at them. She tore at the reins and scrambled up the hill as a bullet whistled by.
As they struggled uphill, the biker assumed Rukan had panicked; he could see the horse was very lame so he took his time following.
Parking his bike, removing his helmet, and reloading his gun, he stopped for a drink. By the look of the horse they wouldn’t get far. He ground his teeth. He would take his time with this woman who had betrayed the Taliban’s long-term jihad; he would easily find her and enjoy making her pay, slowly.
Chapter 4
Schultz listened to Rukan’s message at five o’clock in the afternoon. He immediately alerted the local South Australian Bordertown Constabulary. He also notified the Victorian Police, as any escaping member of the former jihadist group would probably head for the border.
Rukan urged her horse to “walk on,” tugging him up the rise, the horse now really favouring his injured leg.
“Come on, boy, nearly there.” Trying to sound optimistic, Rukan urged him forward until she found the tree marking the cave entrance. Calming him as much as she could, she slackened the reins a little before asking her horse to follow through the narrow, bush-lined entry, then persuading him to make a difficult sharp turn into the actual cave opening.
At first Soufflé propped a little, as sharp bushes scraped his sides, but finding no rein resistance, he decided to trust his mistress and follow.
Rukan breathed a sigh of relief; a tug of war could have attracted the terrorist’s attention. Now she prayed the bats wouldn’t stir and send the nervous horse into an attempted bolt. Hundreds of eyes flew open, but Rukan had managed to turn Soufflé’s head away toward the side of the cave.
As she forced herself to stand quietly, she could feel her heart beating wildly as the extremist made rustling noises, moving outside, poking and pulling at the bushes.
With her Krav Maga defence training, Rukan knew she stood a good chance in a fair fight, but the terrorist had a gun, and would have no compunction at shooting her horse in this confined space, especially if the bats panicked him.
Aware of Rukan’s own training in terrorist camps and her Israeli self-defence Krav Maga capabilities, Schultz was not as alarmed as he would have normally been with a civilian involved.
Scott was mid-flight on his way home and as yet unaware of the intrusion to his parents’ property, and he would be the only one who would know where this cave was situated.
Schultz had warned the local police that the intruders were armed and to hold no illusions as to their vicious ruthlessness.
Schultz then contacted ASIO, who very conscious of Rukan’s past involvement, took immediate action, deploying a helicopter to the property.
The remaining terrorist must have sensed his quarry was nearby, as Rukan could still hear him poking about the bushes shielding the cave entrance. Soufflé nuzzled her arm and looked at her solemnly, giving a little ho-ho, as though he understood they were in danger.
“Sh-shush.” Rukan wiped her tears off his velvety muzzle, squeezing it to quiet him. Literally holding her own breath, she loosened the leather saddle girth and leaned against her horse, easing him gently alongside the cave wall, his hindquarters toward the bats in case they stirred into a frenzy.
It seemed so strange to be in this vast, peaceful Australian countryside, hiding in a cave from her own countrymen whom she had no doubt would kill her without compunction, so strong were their radicalised tribal and religious beliefs.