Nash had assumed they would embark from Jayapura, the capital of Indonesian Papua, for it was much closer to the mouth of the Sepik. But with seven eighths of the river in PNG, a dual-national approach had been organised with the Papua New Guinea Defence Force (PNGDF). How Shangri-La Productions had been able to organise this so quickly was another mystery.

Douglas’s air conditioner was just moving hot air, so Nash wound down his window to let the breeze dry the sweat on his face. The container truck turned north on the Napa Napa road, and Douglas explained the ship was moored at the dockyards to keep a low profile.

‘Is this all really necessary, Frank?’

‘Oh, it’s necessary. You wouldn’t believe the bullshit around here, Robbie. I bought a load of bulk diesel, and when this officious prick saw an Indo address on the docket . . . Well, it was like I’d done a deal with the Devil. Ratbag even rang the ministry. I mean, sure, the Indos get a little heavy-handed at times, but they do a way better job of running things over there.’

‘Down the barrel of a gun?’ Nash laughed derisively. ‘Come off it, Frank.’

Douglas swerved to avoid a massive pothole. ‘Don’t be so bloody politically correct. You know what it’s like here.’

Nash knew all right. Papua was ethnically Melanesian and clearly distinct from Asia; quolls and tree kangaroos roamed its forests, not tigers and monkeys. Whatever the socio-economic problems plaguing PNG, he was sure heavy-handed colonialism in Papua was not the solution. The origins of the province were mired in controversy, too. After the Dutch vacated in 1969, the Indonesians had seized the western half of the island and rigged a referendum to shut up the UN and swindle more than ninety-nine per cent of the indigenous population out of a vote. Despised and persecuted, they were becoming a minority, dispossessed of territory for resources, with just minimal resistance from the Free Papua movement known as Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM). Of course, it was pointless arguing this with Frank Douglas, whose old-school politics were as unshakeable as his belief that Vietnam had been a just war.

The dramatic sound of Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ abruptly filled the car and Douglas snatched up his mobile.

‘Hello? Yep. I’ve got him. And the gear. Yep, uh huh, uh huh . . . What?’ He braked violently and Nash held on to the handgrip as they slithered and swayed back down to walking pace. Taking his hand off the wheel, Douglas savagely changed gear, oblivious to the horns of the irate drivers behind. ‘So, what am I supposed to do now – peel potatoes? Yeah, well, how do you think I feel? Uh-huh. Well, I’d expect nothing less, Sura. Yep. Understood. See you in a week.’

He slammed the phone back into the centre console and swore loudly.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Sura’s got herself another pilot, fuck you very much.’

‘What?’