‘Ah, my junior has arrived,’ quipped Downing.

The lawyer was looking much less buttoned down than before, having discarded his suit for a pair of cream-coloured moleskin pants and a white cotton shirt that was more poolside bar than Old Bailey. More guests arrived as Shah introduced her to Downing’s companion.

‘Miss Julianne, this is Mr Pappas.’

‘Nick Pappas,’ the man added, as he held out his hand.

Jules returned his strong grip. Years of boat work, and more recently of hauling herself and bags of loot and weapons through some of the worst places in the world, had given her a stronger grip than many men. Nick Pappas, however, was possessed of giant bear paws, one of which could probably enfold both of her hands and crush them to bone splinters. She could feel a lot of restrained power idling at low throttle within his massive frame, but Pappas appeared to be one of those big men who had spent his life learning to be gentle.

‘Nick knows about our complications, ‘ said Shah. ‘In the past he has helped me out with similar problems. Business problems, not personal. But similar.’

Julianne thought she understood what he meant. She wondered about the people standing around out here, talking amiably, laughing and drinking Shah’s excellent wine and grazing on the food his wife and maybe his daughters had prepared. Were they all somehow connected to his business?

‘So how do you two know each other, if that’s not a little awkward?’ she asked.

Both men grinned. ‘Timor,’ they answered in unison, before Shah deferred to the Australian.

‘I was in the army, in those days,’ Pappas began.

‘SAS,’ prompted Shah.

Pappas gave him a look that said he was quite capable of doing his own bragging to the pretty girl, thank you very much. He continued. ‘We ran into each other outside a militia shithole called Los Palos. Gurkhas had long-range patrols encircling the place, as did we. The Indonesian battalion based there was raised locally. Timorese traitors. Not a good look for them once the Indons pulled out. Or for the pro-Jakarta gangs that were always hanging around like scabby dogs. We had the devil’s own job stopping them from killing every peasant within twenty miles. Still . . .’ – he dropped one meaty hand on the shoulder of his old comrade – ‘we did good. I looked up my little mate here as soon as I knew he was in Darwin. He tried to offer me a job, the cheeky bugger!’

The two ex-soldiers shared some private joke at that.

‘So you’re a security contractor, too, Nick?’ Jules asked.

‘No, not really. I do risk management now. A lot of assessment for the mining companies, the big migration agents, some work for the government along with some risk mitigation. Removing the sources of risk,’ he added, pausing to let her understand the import of the euphemism. ‘From what I hear, you could do with some help.’