‘Selamat malam,’ he said, with dead eyes and hands in pockets.

Shaken, but still trying to stay friendly, Nash offered to help them unload. Boerman cut him dead.

‘We’re sensitive about our gear. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘It’s raining arseholes today,’ Douglas commented when they reached the opposite end of the ship. ‘That Goki gives me the creeps, too.’

Nash was churning in a way he hadn’t since Jonathan had come for his pound of flesh. It didn’t make any sense; if they didn’t value his services, why pay him so much to be here?

‘Frank, what just happened back there?’

‘He’s testing you out, trying to rattle your cage. Don’t take it too personally, Robbie.’

‘Frank, you know he meant Natalie.’

Douglas nodded slowly. ‘Blokes like that thrive on finding your weakness, so don’t give him anything.’

Nash wished Douglas’s old-school counsel provided more comfort. He was a professional diver, not a brawler, and cave diving required trust. How was he supposed to take on the Hoosenbeck with a fuckwit like that?

‘Hey, how about a nightcap?’ Douglas lit up a cigarette. ‘I’ve got some decent Scotch in the old kitbag. Let’s take the edge off.’

‘Thanks, Frank, but I’ll pass. Goodnight.’

Back against the rail, Nash stared long at the waning crescent moon. He could hear the leathery flapping of foraging fruit bats, thousands of insects shrilling unseen. The jungle was getting on with the unceasing business of survival, which amplified the sense he was out of his depth and didn’t belong. For a moment he flirted with the idea of telling Shangri-La where they could stick it in the morning. But then, getting his gear home would consume a sizeable chunk of the advance, which was the only thing letting his sister worry about herself for a change, Douglas wouldn’t get his fishing shack, and he would be right back where he started.

‘No way,’ Nash muttered.

Because if he was brutally honest with himself, Boerman’s crude jibe had found a weak spot. The Octopus was an aberration that needed to be excised. He needed to prove to himself that he still had what it took.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Saturday, June 2nd, 1945

We are on a huge river. I’m sure of this as there is no longer any ocean swell and mosquitoes have begun to appear, even in this airless hell. Hartmann thinks it must be New Guinea. We travel on the surface at night and sit on the bottom by day. Last night, we hit something heavy and I heard it grind along the hull. The temperature is so hot, we are all suffering. Hartmann is very sick again; he can’t seem to hold anything down.

Sunday, June 3rd, 1945