The Ultimate Aphrodisiac Read online

  ‘Leave it with us, sir,’ said the Secretary for Defense. ‘The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be back from Europe day after tomorrow. And we’ll have Operation Jaws organised and ready to rock ’n’ roll before you know it.’

  ‘Operation Jaws?’ queried the President.

  ‘Yessir,’ replied the Director of the DEA, folding up the map. ‘We feel the name gives a definite veracity to the exercise.’

  The President looked at Abelard Sisaric for a moment. ‘By golly! It sure does,’ he agreed. ‘And anybody’ll tell you, ol’ CC don’t goddamn veracitate unless he goddamn has to. Hooee! You boys sure are cooking with gas on this one.’

  ‘In the meantime, sir,’ said the Secretary of State, ‘your Press Secretary will start arranging the various media hook-ups. And we’ll ensure she gets the right information about everything.’

  At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the President’s Press Secretary, Arlene Tandiero poked an attractive face topped with a tousle of short dark hair into the room. She caught the President’s eye, pointed to her watch, then quietly closed the door behind her again.

  The President looked at his own watch. ‘Well, gentlemen, I gotta go to some shindig at the Japanese embassy. Any questions before I leave?’ There was a general shaking of heads as the members of the inner Cabinet picked up their briefcases. ‘All righty.’ The President got to his feet. ‘Then I suggest we roll our blankets and talk some more on this further down the trail.’

  The meeting broke up and the President went upstairs to get ready for the soiree at the Japanese consulate. The other men congenially farewelled each other and went their various ways also. Fifteen minutes later the Director of the DEA and the Director of the CIA were in a black limousine, motoring out of Washington along New York Avenue with a secret service escort. They were heading upstate to the Director of the DEA’s beach house in Delaware Bay to discuss the evening’s meeting and other matters over a couple of days’ fishing. The two men were seated comfortably in the back, ties undone, sipping Gentleman Jack bourbon from silver hip flasks.

  ‘Well, Abelard,’ said Cutler Holdstock, the warm glow from the bourbon easing through his body, ‘if Operation Jaws doesn’t get ol’ CC back as flavour of the month, I sure’s hell don’t know what will.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied the Director of the CIA. ‘Good ol’ Looney Clooney. Our boy in the White House.’ He took another sip of bourbon and laughed. ‘Christ! I sure would love to have called this thing Operation Looney Tunes. That would have given it veracity.’

  ‘Veracity. Christ! We all know that bonehead Lee Britt tried to plant the cocaine on the island.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Director Holdstock. ‘I wonder why he’s got such a bug up his ass about this Milne guy?’

  ‘I don’t know. But now we gotta go in and save his sorry butt, put Milne in gaol and screw the country while we’re at it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said the Director of the CIA. He turned to the Director of the DEA. ‘But ain’t it nice to have the power to do it.’

  ‘Ain’t it, indeed,’ nodded the Director of the DEA.

  Cutler Holdstock clinked his flask against Abelard Sisaric’s. ‘To power.’

  Director Sisaric clinked back. ‘The ultimate aphrodisiac.’

  In Sydney, Australia, surf journalist Brian Bradshaw was seated outside the Lamrock Cafe in Campbell Parade, Bondi, wearing his favourite jeans, a blue Pacific Dreams T-shirt and a blue cotton bomber jacket. Beneath the table, a black carry-bag sat on the footpath between his feet. A brisk westerly was blowing across the beach, smoothing the sand and lacing the ocean with white horses. High above the ocean pods of lumpy grey clouds were pushing steadily across the sky towards the horizon. Autumn had ended abruptly at Bondi and the skimpy tops, muscle shirts and bikinis were all packed away. Now it was more denim shirts, 501s, hipsters and vests. Even a sprinkling of designer-label leather jackets and corduroy caps were beginning to appear during the daytime amongst the latte and bruschetta crowd that frequented the coffee shops and restaurants around the beachfront.

  In his late twenties, with neat fair hair, a smooth face and a friendly white smile beneath a pair of sharp blue eyes, Brian often looked younger than he was and liked to keep fit by riding a mountain bike or surfing a nine-foot mal, custom-made to suit his lean one hundred and eighty centimetre frame. A non-smoker and a moderate drinker, Brian’s social life was fairly average; mainly going to the movies or enjoying a joke and a few cool ones with a small circle of friends from down the beach. He smoked a little pot at home or if he was going to check out a band. But as far as drugs went, that was it. Brian wasn’t the least bit interested in shoving money up his nose or dropping ecstasy in some disco and bouncing around all night listening to techno music.

  He shared a large house near the Seven Ways at Bondi with his sister Tracey, who was an accomplished artist. Tracey was a year older than Brian and for the last two months had been living on a farm in Tasmania with another artist painting landscapes. Their mother Renee was a talented fashion designer and when she was young was one of the prettiest girls on Bondi Beach. Even now she was still extremely attractive and two years previously had married a wealthy doctor and moved to Noosa. This was her third marriage. Her first husband was a young panel beater named Allan — Brian and Tracey’s father. He was killed during the Vietnam War. She later married a successful builder who unfortunately drowned in a fishing accident at Ulladulla on the New South Wales south coast. Renee kept her relationships on a fairly casual basis after that, until she met the likeable doctor. Now with the tragedy of her first two marriages behind her, she was very happy living in the sun at Noosa and Brian and Tracey were quite happy living in the house at Bondi.

  Although Brian himself had never been married, he had been deeply involved in two relationships; except one girl wanted to move into the house at Seven Ways, the other wanted Brian to move out of the house and into a poky home-unit with her. When Brian said he’d have to give this some thought, both girls dumped him. Then just to rile him, they jumped straight into bed with someone else, making sure they were blokes Brian knew and that he found out. Although he did his best not to show any outward signs, this hurt the easy-going surf journalist, because he knew he’d been honest and kind-hearted to both girls. However, their spiteful actions didn’t make Brian bitter or stop him from taking other girls out. But in the final analysis, Brian figured he was better off staying on his own for a while, concentrating on his career and trying to lead a reasonably healthy lifestyle without giving up on too many of life’s little luxuries. And to Brian, one of life’s little luxuries was the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs at the Lamrock with a flat white and the morning paper.

  It was eight-thirty Monday morning and, due to the coolness in the air, Bondi was slower than usual coming to life. Traffic was light, passers-by were few and, apart from a couple of other people, Brian had the footpath tables to himself. The dark-haired waitress came to take his plate away and Brian ordered another coffee. When it arrived, he put the newspaper back in his bag and took out the latest copy of Time magazine plus a large envelope that had arrived in the mail five days earlier. He placed them both on the table, then opened the envelope and went through the contents again. There was another envelope inside containing a letter, a photo and two American one-hundred-dollar bills. Enclosed separately in a red plastic folder was a return ticket, business class, with Pacific Airlines to Konipeau via Brisbane and accommodation for one night at the North Park Hotel in Konipeau. Brian put the airline tickets to one side and opened the letter. In gold print at the top of the page it said REPUBLIC OF LAN LAROI. Underneath was the nation’s flag: a gold palm tree on a green background, surrounded by four white hexagons. Brian took a sip of coffee and read the letter one more time.

  Dear Brian

  The last time I saw you, you and your sister were just babies, so you wouldn’t remember meeting me. But I grew up with your parents i
n Bondi and we all hung around the beach together riding surfboards and soaking up the sun. I also served with your father in Vietnam. I used to write to your mother, possibly she has spoken of me. I hope so. Renee is a fine woman.

  I have followed your career for some time. You write well and your photography is first class. Therefore, I would like to offer a man of your talents something I’m sure you would appreciate. I am the President of a small island in Micronesia, 500 kilometres east of Konipeau called the Republic of Lan Laroi. On most maps it’s not even listed. I would like you to visit our island. It is absolutely beautiful. But there is much more to Lan Laroi than its beauty. Bring plenty of film and I will show you something you have never seen before in your life. You could get the story of your career. Then depending on yourself, Brian, I can show you something you will find almost impossible to believe.

  You can stay as long as you like, it will cost you absolutely nothing, and as my special guest, you will be treated accordingly.

  Please find enclosed an open ticket to Konipeau and money for expenses. A Hertz rental car will be waiting for you when you arrive at Kahiap Airport. Our seaplane will pick you up in the harbour next to the airport at eight-thirty the following morning and fly you to Lan Laroi. Unfortunately you cannot contact me at the present time as our communications system is down due to a satellite problem. So I can only trust you will be in Konipeau when our plane arrives. I hope to see you soon, Brian.

  Yours sincerely

  Ronald T. Milne

  President of the Republic of Lan Laroi.

  PS This may sound like a strange request, but out of the money I have sent could you get me the two latest Lee Kernaghan CDs. I would appreciate it.

  Ron.

  Brian folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope, then had another look at the accompanying photo. It was a snapshot of his father and Ron Milne sitting at a table outside a bar in Saigon. They were both in uniform with their arms around each other and looked a little drunk. By their sides were two very pretty Vietnamese women. It was one of the few photos Brian had seen of his father in uniform. The only other ones were of his father in training or on leave with his mother when his sister was just a baby, his father having died in Vietnam before he was born. The only other photos he’d seen of Milne were of him down the beach with his father and mother and the rest of the gang with their surfboards and banana chairs, or standing on the promenade next to their old cars. When he asked who Milne was, his mother had said he was a friend of his father’s, they had served together in Vietnam and Milne was going to be a teacher when he got out of the army. When he did, he came round to pay his respects, then apart from getting a couple of letters, she never saw him again. Actually Renee hardly ever spoke about their father unless asked, and even then she never said a great deal. Brian and Tracey didn’t pursue the matter. Apart from a few old photos they never knew their father and imagined talking about him only brought back painful memories for their mother. She’d been a young war widow who had done an excellent job raising them under difficult circumstances and they loved and respected her for it. When she remarried, their stepfather had been a good man until his untimely death and it was awful for her having to go through it all again. It was awful for everyone.

  Brian put the photo to one side and opened his copy of Time magazine, turning to a small article and another photo of Ron Milne. He sipped some more coffee and re-read the article. It was one of those odd little stories that had just come to hand. Barely a few paragraphs and the magazine appeared to be a little flippant with its treatment. The article was headed ‘Nose Full Of Trouble For Washington and Paris’ and said Authorities on the minuscule island republic of Lan Laroi have arrested two American DEA agents and a member of the French secret service for possession of a trafficable amount of cocaine. If convicted, the three agents could face the death penalty. The President of Lan Laroi, Ronald Milne, informed the US consulate in Konipeau of the arrests. Washington’s reaction is unsure at this stage and news coming out of the almost unknown island republic in Micronesia is non-existent at the best of times. But it’s possible some kind of covert action could be mounted. This might be worth keeping an eye on.

  There was a colour photo of Milne leaving the US consulate in Konipeau wearing a white Hawaiian shirt. He was looking straight at the camera. With his neat blond hair, straight face and electric blue eyes, if you put a surfboard under Milne’s arm you’d think he was a professional surfer competing on the circuit. But that wasn’t the only thing that intrigued Brian. He placed the photo of his father and Milne taken in Saigon when they were in their twenties, next to the photo in Time magazine. Milne didn’t look much older. There were no lines on his forehead or bags under his eyes. No wrinkles or puffiness around his face. No jowling or gravity lines tugging at the corners of his mouth. His blond hair was thick and healthy and there was no sign of any excess body weight. If this was the same man who served with his father in Vietnam, he would have to be getting on for sixty. Yet Ron Milne barely looked thirty. And a very youthful thirty at that. Brian knew enough about photography to know it wasn’t the light or some tricky camera-angle. This was a candid photo and Milne wasn’t even smiling for the camera when it was taken. Whatever the food or the lifestyle was like on Lan Laroi, it hadn’t done Ron Milne any harm since he got out of the army.

  Brian replaced everything in the large envelope, put it back in his carry-bag, and mused over a few things while he slowly finished his coffee. He’d rung his sister in Tasmania and told her about the letter. Tracey thought the letter a little odd, turning up out of the blue like that, and remembered the photos of Milne taken down the beach with their parents. But if it was up to her, she would have jumped at the offer. Two weeks in a tropical paradise for nothing. It didn’t come much better than that. However, when Brian rang his mother in Noosa, it was a different story altogether. She was vehemently against the idea and the severity in his mother’s voice over the phone took Brian by surprise.

  ‘Don’t even bother going near that place, Brian,’ she told him. ‘Forget you ever got that letter. Don’t even reply to it.’

  ‘If you say so, Mum,’ replied Brian quietly.

  ‘I’m your mother, Brian. And I’m telling you. All right?’

  ‘Okay, Mum,’ answered Brian. ‘You know best.’ He was about to say. ‘I love you, Mum.’ But she hung up before he got the chance.

  The phone conversation with his mother left Brian a little mystified. What did she have against him taking a trip to Lan Laroi? It wasn’t like a sex tour to Bangkok. Whatever the reason, Brian had already made up his mind. He was going. With bells on. A two weeks, all expenses paid trip to a beautiful island as a guest of the President. And what did that letter say: ‘I can show you something you will find almost impossible to believe.’ He had to go. This could turn out to be the story of his career. But it was more than that. There was something else in the letter besides words on paper. It was almost as if he could feel Milne’s presence every time he read it. As if there was a bond between himself, Milne and his father. It was hard to put into words. Whatever the reason, Brian had already sorted out his camera equipment, his passport and everything else he felt he’d need for the trip, including the two CDs Milne had requested. He rang his sister to tell her he was going and made arrangements for their cousin Richard and his wife to watch the house while he was away. As for his mother — what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He’d send her a letter before he left. Shit! He’d be back before she knew it anyway. All he had to do now was have a few farewell drinks with some friends and on Wednesday morning at seven o’clock he’d be flying to Brisbane on the first leg of his trip to Konipeau.

  On the picturesque little island of Lan Laroi it was pouring rain. It didn’t rain on Lan Laroi as often as on the other islands, but when it did, it came down in buckets, blocking out the sky and cutting visibility dramatically. Then it would clear, leaving behind dazzling blue skies, overflowing creeks and tumbling wa
terfalls. President Ronald T. Milne was in his office on the second floor of the Presidential building overlooking Key Harbour. The President’s office was spacious, with a double balcony, high ceilings and whitewashed walls hung with paintings of sharks, birds and tropical fish. In front of the balcony and facing the door, was the President’s polished teak desk; a flag stood on one side and a world globe on the other next to a filing cabinet. Opposite the President’s desk was a large coffee table inlaid with tiny sea shells, and a bamboo lounge suite stacked with blue cushions. Thriving indoor plants spread a refreshing green around the walls and coloured hemp rugs covered the floor. A mobile of exquisitely carved wooden dolphins hung from an exposed beam and turned gently in the breeze from two ceiling fans. Behind a partition as you entered on the right was another office, with all the latest communications technology linked to a satellite dish on the balcony. Earlier, the President’s daughter and secretary, Ebonee, had cleared the desk in her office and left the Presidential suite, closing the door behind her.

  Wearing a pair of faded blue board shorts and a white South Bondi Board Riders Club T-shirt, Ron Milne looked more like a surfie dole bludger than a President as he stared out from the balcony at the rain. It was that heavy, he could make out the jetty on the other side of Key Street, but the harbour and the lush, green mountains that ringed it in the distance were just a blur of tumbling grey. Finally he drew the blue floral curtains across the windows, sat down at his desk and smiled at the three stocky men seated on the bamboo lounge opposite him. They were the reason his daughter had to leave. These were the great chiefs of the island, and this was strictly men’s business.

  On the left, wearing a yellow hemp wrap-around denoting his tribe, was Chief Somohl of the Mwei tribe. In the middle, wearing a green wrap-around, was Chief Isosueri of the Kasaudra, and on the right, wearing blue, was Chief Namalek of the Opwuhi. Although they were dark-skinned with tribal tattooing on both shoulders, none of the men looked Polynesian. Each man had long black hair parted in the middle, held in place by a coloured headband, and a string of beads round his neck with a small shark on it, carved out of red stone. A tortoiseshell bracelet was clamped round one wrist, a gold Rolex sparkled on the other. On the coffee table in front of them was a pot of strong coffee, a jug of honey and a jug of thickened coconut milk. Chief Namalek made four mugs of coffee and placed one on the President’s desk. The President thanked him, took a sip and settled back in his chair.