Nash didn’t begrudge the man one cent of the fee he had earned for signing him. Beyond endless stories of his colourful life, Douglas had little, and on his last visit, Nash had been shocked by his run-down apartment in Moresby. Although a Royal Australian Navy pension went a long way in Third World PNG, Douglas had a long list of failed business ventures, most notably a seaplane joy-flight operation written off by a cyclone where, naturally, he’d been uninsured.

They heard the distant whup whup whup of the chopper. Its final delivery was the Indonesian team, and Douglas lobbed his empty over the side before Nash could stop him.

‘Let’s welcome the rest of our happy campers.’

From the quarterdeck, one of Kaboro’s men directed a spotlight onto the pad. With beacons flashing red, green and white, the Jet Ranger touched down, turbine whining like a banshee. The front-seat passenger was clearly gigantic: all knees and elbows filling the cockpit. Sensibly, he waited for the rotor to stop before egressing, for, even bent double, he would have been decapitated.

The big man crossed the pad, lugging rigid film equipment cases in each hand. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his massive arms were covered in an eclectic array of tattoos. On his right bicep was a yin-yang symbol the size of a dinner plate. Below this, lines of Sanskrit trailed down to his wrist. On his left arm was a shield with a dagger, which appeared to be a regimental badge. He was about 30, with a heavyset face, softened slightly by shoulder-length blond hair and a short beard.

‘Jaap Boerman,’ he announced, towering over them.

Nash gave him a friendly smile. ‘G’day, Jaap, you must be the camera operator. Maybe we can share a beer once you’ve settled in? We’ve a ton of stuff to get through.’

Boerman pointedly ignored him.

‘Where’s Sura?’ he asked Douglas.

‘Captain’s quarters. Upstairs.’ Thinking Boerman had mistaken Nash for crew, Douglas attempted to introduce him.

‘I know who he is.’ With measured contempt, Boerman looked Nash up and down. ‘The legendary Robert Nash. I hear you’re quite the hero, except when it comes to the ladies, hey?’

The wide grin magnified the inference of cowardice, and Nash was struck by a loathing so visceral that he unconsciously balled his right fist. Only a sense that Boerman was eagerly waiting for a punch prevented him from throwing it.

‘I suggest you take that back,’ said Douglas tightly.

‘Or you’ll do what?’ Boerman sneered.

Further comment was interrupted by the dashing helicopter pilot.

‘Ricki Hartono.’ He gave them each a brisk handshake.

There was another man with him, who’d escaped notice in the back of the chopper. Mid-forties, stocky with a bullet-like head, he was dressed in a green T-shirt and camouflage pants and stank of clove cigarettes.

‘Goki is our producer,’ said Hartono. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’