A fluoro-jacketed port official in a dented hard hat ushered them into a white car whose interior was as cold as a fridge and drove them through rows of stacked containers. Nash was relieved to see his insulated white container in the shade of a huge canopy, as per instructions. A mobile crane was standing by.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Douglas, as the crane edged forwards. ‘Open it up.’

The official stabbed his clipboard with a chubby finger. ‘Inspection was done a week ago. You please sign here.’

Douglas shook his head. ‘We’re not signing anything until we look inside.’

The official indicated the impressive fence on the perimeter. ‘You see that razor wire? It’s the tallest in PNG.’

‘It’s not out there I’m worried about,’ said Douglas flatly.

Fortunately, everything was as Nash had left it in Perth: twelve steel scuba tanks stacked along the left-hand side and a compressor to fill them. He and the cameraman he was yet to meet would be using rebreathers. Packed in rubber-coated racks were colour-coded gas tanks of helium, nitrogen and oxygen. Two underwater scooters took up the rear wall, beside a great mound of plastic storage boxes containing everything from a defibrillator to writing slates. An emergency decompression chamber completed the inventory.

Nash signed the chit. The container was then loaded onto a battered-looking truck, under the watchful eye of Douglas. In sweaty fatigues, he looked like a reproving drill instructor.

Nash smiled. ‘Still winning friends, Frank?’

‘Mate, if it’s not bolted down, you’ll never see it again – it’s a bloody national disgrace.’

At the main gate, they transferred to Douglas’s ancient red Land Rover, and followed the truck out of the cargo terminal into the city.

Moresby hadn’t changed. The overwhelming impression was one of neglectful decay. Litter lay in drifts. Bus stop seats had all their planks removed. A modern children’s playground lay smashed in vandalised ruins. Men wearing shorts and singlets and carrying plastic bags seemed to wander aimlessly. There were few women about, and none were unattended. Shabby unarmed security guards in faded fluoro vests could be seen on every street corner, yet what they were guarding was unclear. Businesses and residences hid behind ubiquitous razor wire. After dark, Moresby got uglier. Endemic poverty, corruption and unemployment fed a culture of gangland – raskol – violence. Locals carried machetes for self-defence, while the homes of expats resembled maximum security prisons. Moresby was routinely ranked first on the list of the world’s worst cities. Little wonder that refugees dumped here by the Australian government had declined the invitation of citizenship.