Terror Stash (21 page)

“The caves at Yallingup are a tourist attraction,” Steve said. “They’re mapped and they’ve strung lighting down there. Plus the access is easy; you walk in standing upright. But they’re not the only caves around here, not even close. The whole peninsula is riddled with them. Caving groups hire local guides to take them to some of the more accessible ones, but that’s a relative term. Dedicated cavers are not in the slightest bit claustrophobic. They can’t afford to be. Most of the caves around here are full of squeezes and chutes and there are some very long drops, too. Plus you get to do it all in the dark.”

Caden put a plate down in front of each of them and sat down at the table himself. He and Montana were looking at each other again.

“The caves you get to from where these boulders are,” Montana said, picking up her fork. “They’re big?”

“We used to go in every weekend and evict all the high school kids making out there. A big section of the main cave collapsed about a year ago, but there’s a couple of squeezes through it and you’re into the system beyond. We haven’t worried about it since the collapse. Beyond the main cave hasn’t been mapped because a big pool cuts off access to further in.”

He took a scoop of the noodles and meat on his plate and ate. His mouth was bombarded with delicious spice tastes that would take a month to deconstruct and he wasn’t sober enough to do it. “This is great!” he exclaimed, surprised into it. “Where did you learn to cook this? I’ve only ever tasted a green curry like this in Singapore.” Like many West Australians, he’d spent a lot of time touring around parts of Southeast Asia. It was cheaper to fly there than to get across the country to Sydney or Melbourne.

“That’s where I learned how to cook it,” Caden said. “In Singapore.”

Montana seemed as surprised as Steve at his answer. But she turned back to Steve. “These caves, the pool. Is the pool navigable? I mean, could you cross it if you had a raft, or a canoe?”

“Sure. There’s head room.”

She looked at Caden. “It would keep them contained, even if they went stir crazy.”

It was like they were having a separate conversation, one Steve couldn’t hear except for these odd comments. He grimaced. “You maybe want to tell me what you’re not saying aloud?”

Montana smiled. “I’m sorry, Steve. We were talking about this on the way down to Margaret River. We were proposing theories.”

“One of them being that Ghenghis Bob is holed up in the caves?”

She nodded. “We hadn’t thought of the caves. We just plain didn’t know about them. The best theory we could come up with was that Bob was hiding out in the area, keeping a low profile while those that would most like to see him dead continue to think he
is
dead. The only hole in the theory was where he would hide out. Where would he hide five of his colleagues right in plain sight of every surfer and tourist in the area. It’d have to be somewhere where their lack of English and their bad manners wouldn’t give them away. A cave, or a series of caves, makes that more than possible.”

“Even better,” Steve told them, “There’s a local rumor that the cave system under those boulders goes all the way to the cliffs on the coast. At high tide you can enter them through a slit, if your boat’s navigator has nerves of steel. If you were going to land in this country unofficially, that’s the place to do it. The coastline around here is rarely patrolled.”

Both Caden and Montana were staring at him again, their eyes wide, as if he’d said something utterly outrageous.

Montana put her knife and fork down slowly, then glanced at Caden again, in that silent, communing way. “Occam’s Razor,” she said.

“What?” Steve shook his head, wondering if he’d misheard her.

Caden propped his chin on his fist, his meal forgotten. His eyes were narrowed as he thought. “Not just a few. Dozens. Even hundreds. Come and go as you please.”

“Bob is a front.”

“And the investment manager.” Caden growled deep in his throat. “They could bring the stuff in with them, straight off their own fields. Jesus wept....”

Steve banged his can on the table. “Hey, people! I’m here! Care to educate the unenlightened?”

Montana blew her breath through pursed lips, then turned to him. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “We were just talking.”

“Is that what it was? Let me tell you, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy and I didn’t understand anything after you said something about a razor. I know you were using English. I actually recognized some of the words. But you two keep skipping all the words in between that would make it make sense to someone sitting at the table with you.”

Caden grinned. “Saves time.”

Montana laid her hand flat on the table, reaching towards him. It was a placating gesture. “It wasn’t meant to exclude you. I wasn’t aware we were even doing it.”

He blew out his breath. “Ah...I’m the one should be apologizing. It’s just that you two make me feel stupid.”

She smiled a little. “Actually, you’re the one that’s made me feel stupid. I won’t presume to speak for Rawn on that. But neither of us thought of caves until you mentioned it and we should have, because it’s totally obvious in hindsight.”

“So what the hell has a razor got to do with it?”

“Occam’s Razor is a scientific principle,” Caden answered. “If you have several theories to explain something you’ve observed, the simplest theory tends to be the correct one.”

“In this case, the reason we’ve not seen Bob and his friends until now is because they’ve been hiding from us. Until you mentioned the caves, we kept discounting the theory because we couldn’t understand how they could stay hidden in a town of this size. The caves answer every objection. They’re hidden, secure, and have access to the sea. Which means that, again, simplest theory—there’s more of them in those caves. Probably a lot more.”

“More like Bob?”

Montana nodded. “Ever since terrorism became the world’s political currency, any country that has been a victim of terrorism and that country’s allies have been turning the world upside down, looking for those responsible. Want to know how many they’ve found?”

Steve could feel his jaw dropping. “Don’t tell me....”

“Virtually none of them. It’s not because they’re being cradled in the bosom of their country, either. Western intelligence, when they work together, is good. They know they’re not there. They just up and disappear as soon as the going gets too hot.”

“That’s not counting the ones that have died during an operation, or have been captured during an operation,” Caden added. “That’s a different matter. The fact is that once these guys make it home, they disappear and
no one
has ever been able to find them once they’re gone.”

“We think they’ve been looking in the wrong place,” Montana added.

“Here?” Steve sat up. “
Here
? That’s so ridiculous, it’s…it’s retarded.”

“No, it’s not.” Caden jerked his chin towards Montana. “I reacted the same way when Montana proposed it, but it’s just a matter of getting used to the novelty. It seems far-fetched but that’s exactly why it’s such a good idea. Who in their right minds would go looking for wanted terrorists down here at the toe of Western Australia, amongst the most relaxed population in the world?”

“Occam’s Razor,” Montana said softly. “It has the beauty of being simple. So simple it’s discounted. Just like you’re discounting it now.”

Steve shook his head. “No proof,” he pointed out and his voice came out strangled. “No evidence. I’m a cop. I believe what I can see and you’re not showing me anything.” He gulped a mouthful of lukewarm beer. He’d been gripping the can too tightly and warmed it. “Besides, if you are right, then what do I care? They haven’t broken any laws in my country and that’s all I’m paid to do. Uphold the laws here.”

Caden leaned forward. “Confiscated any smack recently? Test it for origins and brace yourself. It will have come from somewhere in the Middle East, rather than the usual Asian heroin you’re used to seeing.”

Steve could feel his heart wheezing. “What’s that got to do with anything at all?”

“So you
have
tested some lately.” Caden smiled with sleek satisfaction. “That’s how they’re paying for their groceries, Constable. They probably bring it in with each new boatload of bad guys. They’re not crossing any controlled borders to get here. They could sling a backpack full of it over their shoulder and just walk on in. Break it down in the caves, cut it, process it and Bob passes out the goods to the handful of local dealers he’s recruited over the last year, to sell it down the line. Easy money.”

“Rabbit,” Steve said, feeling sick.

“Rabbit,” Caden agreed.

In the silence that fell, Steve could hear the frogs on the nearby sheep trough and behind them, the constant roll and thunder of the sea, smashing itself against the cliffs.

His town. His people.

“I get the feeling you’re starting to believe us,” Caden said softly.

Steve shook his head. “All you’ve done is convince me that I have a stake in checking this out. We have to get inside the caves.”

“Difficult to do without one of those local guides you were talking about,” Caden said.

“No problem at all,” Steve said with grim satisfaction. “You’re looking at one. Drink up, ladies and gentlemen. We have work to do.”

Three hours later, Montana found herself following Steve’s back, with Caden trailing her, as they slid through the forest. It was one a.m. She had voiced her protest over venturing out so late but both Caden and Steve had shaken their heads. “It’s always dark in the caves anyway,” Steve pointed out.

Caden’s reason was the more chilling of the two. “No one can escape their circadian rhythms. They’ll be sleepy, if they’re not already asleep. Easier to sneak up on.”

Steve was taking them to another entrance to the system of caves Ghenghis Bob was using. “It’s an unpopular access,” Steve said, but didn’t explain further.

In the three hours before, Steve had prepped them all for the expedition with an alarming thoroughness. He had driven them to a community hall on the outskirts of Yallingup and used a key on his key ring to open a back room lined with cupboards and shelves holding equipment and gear. “Yallingup Potholers Association,” he declared.

He had handed them both black nylon overalls to put on over their clothes. “Waterproof,” he explained. “The biggest problem when you’re down there, besides lack of light, is the cold. You do anything to avoid getting damp or wet.” He also handed them both plastic safety helmets with lamps attached to the front and took a lot of time to fit the inside webbing properly around their heads. The last item was a cumbersome thick belt each. The belts had hooks and snaps and tabs galore. “No packs. We carry everything on our belts. And no metal. The last thing we want to do is clink.”

Caden submitted to the testing and fitting with silent interest. He seemed to intuitively understand most of what Steve was insisting upon, but the last comment made his brow rise. “That means no weapons,” he pointed out.

“Right. This is not a raid. We’re in, we look around, we come out again. If you’re right and there are a dozen of the world’s most wanted down there, three of us isn’t enough to take them on.” He shoved his leg into his own nylon suit. “Shit, I really hope you’re wrong. I hope we end up bumbling around down there listening to our own echoes and feeling totally stupid.”

“We won’t,” Caden said simply.

“Yeah, well, I can hope.”

“Hope all you want, but we play this like it’s for real,” Caden shot back. “Because these guys won’t give you time to adjust to their reality and they play for keeps.”

Steve looked up at Caden and grimaced. “I hear you.”

But when he looked down again, Caden slid his big folding pocket knife into a pocket on one leg and the small flat leather pouch that went everywhere with him into the other. He looked straight at Montana, daring her to say anything.

She kept her gaze steady and her mouth closed.

Now, as they walked through the forest, listening to the wind in the canopy high overhead, Steve spoke over his shoulder. “About ten minutes to the hole,” he said. “If you’re feeling chatty, get it out of your system now. Once we’re inside, we stay silent. Sound carries in there like you wouldn’t believe.”

The last thing Montana felt like was chatty. The spit in her mouth had dried up, despite constant sips at the plastic canteen on her hip. She still ached from the pummeling Caden had given her yesterday, disguised as a self-defense lesson.

“Why Nicollo?” Caden said, behind her.

She was startled. “You really want to talk about this now?”

“Indulge me.” His voice was a low rumble behind her.

She had no intention of answering. The words “It’s none of your business,” hovered behind her teeth.

“I can’t see it,” Caden went on. “If you’re going to have a hero, why not a
bona-fide
American hero, like Neil Armstrong? Or if you wanted a diplomat, what about Kissinger, or Lester Pierson? Hell, even Bismarck or Churchill?”

“It’s not like they ever had to struggle to have their value recognized,” she said, and realized that she’d been provoked into answering despite her reluctance.

“Because she was a woman?”

“Worse. She was a housewife. Despite pulling a country back from the brink of all-out revolution, she remained just a housewife. She never received any medals or formal recognition. She’s a legend in the diplomatic community for her insistence on doing the right thing, for
struggling against the ills of the world, by keeping up the good fight. But y
ou won’t find her in any books, anywhere.”

Caden said softly, “After all, she worked behind the scenes. No confrontation. Kinda like you, huh?”

The comparison stung. “Not even close,” she said firmly. “I
am
a diplomat—”

“You’re at a consulate, not an embassy.”

“I’m still an official member of the diplomatic corps—”