Chapter 4: The Wu Man

Helen and Bob's fears are seemingly ephemeral but are really based on a solid understanding of how the world actually works, not how people think it works. About two years after Imogen, three men came into town from separate directions, all acting as if they didn't know each other but dressed and skin colouration (glaringly white) almost identical. They were blatantly a hit team and under orders to act just how they were, that is, blatantly bloody obviously.

Helen and Bob have a local self-help organisation that they had created about twenty years before. It was known, not believed, that if anyone needed help, if they are over their head with whatever was ailing them, all you had to do was ask one of our contacts. It really was who they knew not what they knew, and this service was spread via word of mouth. It could be said that in a small community everyone knows everyone else and there are no real secrets about what was going wrong in one's private life. Each person they helped, them not expecting any reward outside maybe a simple thank you, were both their contact for others in need and a firewall from the greedy. They looked into their problem(s), and remember this is a simple community made of simple people, not Godfather kotowing ghetto types needing the mafia, and if it was doable, Bob and Helen fixed it.

Around here, greedy landlords and avaricious money lenders are few and far between, there was mostly no money and little practical use for the stuff when simply surviving is foremost in one's mind. Not every problem requires the influx of money, in fact, sometimes money is the opposite to what is required, but more on that probably later.

That side-track is the other benefit of confidentially helping those in need and not rubbing their collective noses in it; a local intelligence network, second-to-none. Bob knew all three were on the way into town as they went through towns two hundred klicks away as each man asked for directions. The locality is not much more than a blank spot on the map and most of even the larger maps don't have the space needed to name it. A normal atlas left our area as an empty piece of green colouring. The island didn't rate a mention in the government geographical surveys outside being a hazardous reef.

By description Bob knew their leader, and by inference, who their contractor was. He was also a little suspicious of the little too simple. The most secretive way into this little 'town' is by water. With a smoke screen of the bleeding bloody obvious right in front of him, Bob called in a favour of a series of friends from the local water safety committee members down the coast, retired imported locals, in most cases, who voluntarily kept an eye out on our local waters for boat safety, search and rescue etc. Since this country has no coast guard, they independently look after themselves. Bob told them what to look for, and the timing of when to expect it. All they required was a polite thank you afterwards, as even a trivialising thanks, which is lately becoming the norm, would not be appreciated, as these are mature men with honour.

Each white man, that's as good a name for them as any, was passed a note, unsigned, to be at the café at a designated time next morning. They immediately knew their job was complete, or as far as their part of it was concerned, and fate has been already decreed whether they went to the assigned appointment given, or not, next morning, they were dead ... or not.

Next morning the trio's leader was holding an old army giggle hat between his hands in the door of the café, scrunching it up as if it was physically possible to damage the thing. His head was bowed a little and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. His two compatriots were standing behind him, side by side, in the sun off the veranda. Bob thought he had done a good job on building that veranda, sturdy whilst protective, and they weren't using it to its full advantage. Helen called them in. New tourists in town usually laugh at the first site of Helen, where these men showed due respect as he/she so outclassed their abilities, he/she may as well be from a different planet, like Superman.

He told them the facts as Bob and Helen saw them and they agreed to the assessment. Retirement is not usually an option given to those with their professional skills. Helen gave them that unexpected option; Helen offered to help finance that option and Bob gave them a deserted residence to wait out the coming conflagration, whatever it is or even if it occurs at all.

Something to deliberate on -- people in this trade are rarely motivated by money, understanding that you are unlikely to survive to an age where you can relax back and spend the money means that you are either earning it for somebody else to spend, or have other reasons, motivations, for placing yourself in this kind of risk. It is always a possibility that your loved ones are being held hostage, you may have a short life expectancy due to illness; one can do this, if, thing for hours but most of those are extraordinarily unlikely. Often the simplest explanation is that they enjoy killing people, which is an odd attitude and not one that Bob or his sibling actually held.

These men had basically been placed in exactly the same position as Bob, Helen and Darling Emmeline were; if they refused the hit, they would have died where they stood, because they already knew of the mission. If they accepted it, by the very nature of their strict instructions, they were expected to die as bait for the actual killer, they didn't so much have to but it was expected by all involved that they would. In this case the true assassin would be a man known as The Fisherman – who was the very person Bob was expecting. The Fisherman simply wanted to earn enough to finance his lifestyle, independently of them who are calling the tune, Bob would have said calling the shots, but that is not quite relevant in his case.

Bob's phone vibrated in his pocket and his screen read, 'Off B H, ETA yours, four hours, app 12 knots, 1': it's not really code; Off Bungun Heads, estimated time of arrival at your place four hours travelling at twelve knots, a goodly speed through hidden reefs, and visually, there is one on the boat.

He showed Helen and excused himself to head back to the island; Helen will watch our angel and the person who really needed protecting, Junior, as Bob had promised his mother, while he sort out their difficulties. He had already sealed up all possible entrances to his island home except one, the roof, and sealed any possibility of escaping from there if it was entered.

Bob already knew The Fisherman had some knowledge of his island home, as the purser on the minesweeper, (yeah, Bob had an education on naval vessels while they were up here; so not minelayer. A layer is aggressively used in a war zone, a sweeper is almost an officially designated enemy target), messaged me. He and his shipmates had been interviewed, by one man who they were told was ASIO; but ASIO with an odd Anglo Asian accent? Not likely. Bob did mention that he had a good intelligence network, didn't he? The favours often received were wide ranging in their impact.

The layout of Bob's place was simple enough, but remembering that the big blackfella and he dug the living quarters out by hand, with jackhammers and mining explosives, gave them many opportunities to place well thought out bolt-holes and dead ends. The island's main entrance did not become visible again until months after the Navy ship left, and other than referring to the fact of its existence - none of them knew where it was. At that time, it was under a metre or two of water, being a base for a fairly nice right hand break for the surfers, if you wanted to risk the sea stingers that are locally endemic during the hotter months. Defence is not necessarily weaponry but it is also misinformation.

This man en route there that Bob knew of, was very intelligent, obviously smarter than he was, though in his mind, most people were. He was physically adept at many to most forms of offensive/defensive skills as anyone Bob had heard of and as strong, physically and psychologically as any professional assassin who existed on this planet. He also didn't take chances, of any kind, as it was his aim to survive his profession. Bob had no idea how this contact was going to pan out as he reminds him so much of himself they were like caricatures of each other.

The slightly raised rock headland to the south of the beach, which created the right hand break, is now almost smothered by tidal deposited sands, and it is the best place for Bob to sit, waiting, and just relax and watch the sea terns and deep water gulls. There was absolutely nowhere else for the expected visitor to moor the boat, not without some major attempt to stop it drifting off, a dragging kellick or a sea anchor would be most effective Bob thinks, where Bob himself normally just powered his current boat straight onto the sand. The sea bottom under and opposite the beach is basalt based and reasonably shallow, out to almost a kilometre, and covered with fine talc like sand, where it drops dramatically out until it reaches the distant coral reefs.

Where the minesweeper once moored was now shallow water out to this vessel, and that was a reasonably shallow draught vessel. The landward side of the island has now completely gone back to its normal depth, of near on most of a half a mile to a mile, sheer, straight down. It was once explained to Bob that the prehistoric, probably pre dinosaur, volcano was original part of the mainland, which blew out that side in an explosion which must have been monumentally spectacular for thousands of klicks around. What was remaining, the current island after much erosion, was simply a small vent off one side of the original. One could call it then a largish explosion.

Bob had moored the current high-powered launch inside the cave, which hides it completely, and you'd need your head read entering it without first a hundred attempts, and of course the loss of a hundred boats. They would have told him that Bob had lost his own boat entering into the cave during the cyclone; therefore he certainly wasn't going to attempt it. Bob watched as his hunter lowered a jet ski off his stern and rode it into the beach that wasn't there when the island was last sighted, so he will have a little doubt cast whether he was on the right little rock.

The Fisherman went directly to the little shanty house made of driftwood and sheets of corrugated iron and plasterboard, which accrued as natural detritus all the previous cyclones each puffed out in their turn. He wasn't being excessively cautious as this was the time when Bob would normally go to the mainland to pick up Tilly and Bob's boat is off site; all in all, he is not making a complete dick out of himself like an Asian Inspector Clouseau.

Late the previous year a shipping container floated into the beach's calm waters, and it took many chains and pullies and much shovelling of sand to make it part of the island's useful environment. Bob thought at the time that the container itself, even if it was empty, would come in useful. Bob, sorta, never mentioned to anyone else about the shipment of Gyprock plasterboard, or of the false back wall containing enough heroin to keep most of the nations addicts going for years. The attached unloading address was Canada so they could owe him.

He of course discussed it with Helen, who concurred, as they needed the triads here like they needed the black plague. Now everywhere inside the domestic area inside the volcano is plaster lined, walls and ceiling. There wasn't a house locally without Gyprock lining on their interior 'house' walls and many don't even have true outer walls, this kind of acceptance of God's beneficence is common for all coastal communities; and it doesn't happen; ever. The local population had regrown to fifty or sixty odd, and the kind of personality who came there and remained, exterior walls was for pussies.

Sinking straight into deep water without making a ripple, Bob swam underneath until he emerged on the blind side of the boat and very cautiously climbed over the gunwale. He spent almost an hour just making it from that gunwale to the cabin, removing, or evading, numerous little, almost invisible, tell-tales, alarm switches and assorted trip wires, than there is currently ants on his little piece of Paradise. He knew he'd missed a million but all he had wanted to do was stop the engine from starting and sit in the ships lounge drinking, waiting, so they can have a civilised little chat over a beer, hopefully without killing each other.

Bob's recce said there were no explosives on board so if he did accidently hit something guarded with a timing delay to make a thief feel safe, he shouldn't blow them both to Kingdom Come, Amen. That may somewhat remove the element of surprise but these are the crosses one must bear. The man had had this vessel for a long time and the history Bob had heard, sometime before, The Fisherman treated her as well as Bob treated Tilly. Possibly better, as he won't send her to bed without her dinner if she disobeyed an order e.g. won't start.

Bob watched through the portal as his hunter pushed the ski off the beach and headed straight back to where Bob sat quietly waiting. He let him tie it to the gunnel and heard gurgitation as the ship lent towards his weight. Bob had noticed that the ship hadn't had its bilge pumped out recently so he may have had his mind on something a bit more captivating, a la Bob, just maybe. He knew the Fisherman had been playing on his mind, so the reciprocal probably applied.

The Fisherman walked carefully on deck in places Bob also carefully noted and then entered the cabin door and stopped as if his feet had become glued to the deck. Maxmillian Wu is of White Russian heritage, blonde haired blue eyed of Nordic extraction, maybe Finnish, about one sixty tall, slim build, he walked as Bob wished he could dance. His family had ended up in British Hong Kong during the Russian Revolution, and it will soon revert to China. Bob would like to be a fly upon their wall when the Family Wu were debating where to go, as he believes that they are more Chinese than the Chinese, but the Chinese are extremely racially prejudiced so they might well believe that they may not survive the reversion. They survived the Russian Communists so he can't see why they shouldn't survive the Chinese Communists; unless they won't leave as his family left their original homeland.

"You're naked," they were right he does speak with an odd English/Chinese accent. I grabbed a beer from his drink fridge beside me and tossed it to him. He flinched as one would Bob supposed but he caught it as if he was expecting it. Bob took a mouthful of his own, "of all the things I was expecting to happen, one of them was not meeting you on my old girl naked with one of my beers in your hand." He chuckled and threw the bottle straight back at him which Bob succinctly snatched mid-air before it left a permanent indentation in his forehead, and got another beer out and tossed it lightly back. There is nothing worse than opening a shaken up bottle of beer; well, maybe a can might be.

Bob broke the impasse, "Have you finished? If I wanted you dead, you would be dead right now. Don't make me regret my decision. Your bilges need flushing, don't do it near the island or the reefs. Have you noticed that every time you are promised that this will be the last hit, somehow most of the payment becomes hostage to you doing the next hit, and being successful, and by now they are so far behind in their payments that it will not be possible to catch up as it would most likely double their foreign debt. And most of that is owed to the Chinese, which must hit your funny bone.

"When you request the accrued monies owed they will sent the squads out for you, and if you keep on removing or eluding the attackers they will become even less amicable about paying your due. Have they begun threatening your family yet? If not, they will. With me they found it difficult to threaten my sister who was trained as a thief and an assassin in the middle of an organised crime clan; especially since, when she was seven, she, by herself, removed one assassination team during the post-Viet Nam initial series of attacks on me; seven years old."