In Darkness Visible Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE TWENTIETH MAN

  ‘Jones’ debut novel uses his experience as a journalist to reprise a series of events in the early 1970s … the action of the novel is deftly strung together [and] the research is palpable on the page.’

  The Australian

  ‘The Twentieth Man is a political thriller in the Robert Harris mould … Jones cleverly weaves fact and fiction—and has great fun painting “real” characters like the wilful Lionel Murphy.’

  Jennifer Byrne, The Australian Women’s Weekly

  ‘An engaging political thriller … Anna [Rosen’s] key role serves to remind us of the importance of investigative journalism in a democracy.’

  Spectrum, The Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Mixing bombs in Melbourne, Balkan politics and a slice of seventies sexism.’

  The Guardian

  ‘Alongside the hefty doses of political and bureaucratic intrigue, there [are] romantic complications, family tensions and a nearly pitch perfect feel of time and place … Extremely readable, fascinating and very cleverly done, The Twentieth Man is unfortunately a bit of a rarity in Australian fiction—an historical political thriller covering our recent past.’

  AustCrimeFiction.org

  ‘The Twentieth Man is an incredibly assured debut novel and Jones has delivered a pacey and original historical thriller. While historical detectives seem to be everywhere, historical political thrillers are not a genre we have seen much of in Australia. And this one shines a light on a fascinating period of Australian history, contemporaneous with Watergate, in an engaging and interesting way.’

  PS News

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in 2019

  Copyright © Tony Jones 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76029 501 1

  eISBN 978 1 76087 273 1

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork

  Cover images: Melanie Hobson/Adobe Stock

  For my three sons

  ‘Now conscience wakes despair that slumbered; wakes the bitter memory of what he was, what is and what must be …’

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  CONTENTS

  THE PRISONER

  1 ROVINJ, CROATIA

  2 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  3 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  4 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  5 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  6 THE HAGUE

  7 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON, THE HAGUE

  8 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  THE LOVERS

  9 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  10

  11

  12

  THE LETTER

  13 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  14

  15

  THE WARLORD

  16 VUKOVAR, CROATIA

  17 VUKOVAR, CROATIA

  18 ZAGREB, CROATIA

  THE MEETING

  19 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  20 VUKOVAR, CROATIA

  21 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON, THE HAGUE

  THE DEMO

  22 THE TRIBE, SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  23

  24 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON, THE HAGUE

  THE GIRL WITH GREEN EYES

  25 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  26 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON, THE HAGUE

  27 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  28 ZAGREB, CROATIA

  29 THE HAGUE

  30 MOSTAR, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  31 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON HOSPITAL, THE HAGUE

  32 LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA

  LAST RITES

  33 SCHEVENINGEN PRISON, THE HAGUE

  34 BOSNIA

  35 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  36 SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

  POSTSCRIPT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  ROVINJ, CROATIA

  AUGUST 2005

  TRAILED BY A LONG shadow—his spindly, striving familiar—Marin Katich walked across the gleaming limestone towards the boat harbour. A woman sitting at an outdoor café glanced up as he passed, shading her eyes against the balled sun, so low now that the yellow umbrella above her had become redundant.

  Marin was moving fast and she saw he was carrying some kind of long pole. He didn’t stop when he reached the water’s edge but leapt straight across a wide gap onto the bow of a moored speedboat. He was a big man, yet he kept his balance easily as the boat dipped beneath him. He took three quick steps around the narrow gunwale, jumped into the cockpit and swung the pole out over the stern. She noticed there was a hook on the end of it with which he grappled the bowline of the nearest boat, dragging it close enough to step aboard. He scampered across the second boat from bow to stern, and hooked up the next nearest one.

  The woman grabbed her mobile and keyed in a number, watching as he repeated the odd sequence, bounding from boat to boat in an unconscious display of agility.

  ‘He is coming,’ she whispered, then swapped the phone for a Campari spritz. She drank a little, dabbed her plum-coloured lips with a napkin, popped a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully.

  Marin’s destination was a wooden-hulled vessel at the back of the tethered fleet. He climbed across the varnished mahogany deck and unclipped the boat’s vinyl cover, raising one edge to let the pooled rainwater run off. He folded the cover, stowed it away and stripped off his T-shirt, folding and stowing that too before crawling onto the bow to mop the damp deck.

  The woman watched the boatman’s ritual from a distance. His fastidiousness would otherwise have bored her, but she was transfixed by the disfiguring striations that furrowed his belly and chest. She took a series of shots with a telephoto lens, focusing on the telltale wounds. Then, to remain in character as an inquisitive tourist, she turned the camera up to the church of St Euphemia, whose spire rose high above the medieval houses that packed the steep hillside above the harbour. Through the scope she saw the statue of the martyred Euphemia atop the spire—or rather it was the idealised image of her, made whole again in the kingdom of heaven after she was torn apart in the arena by a bear. Now St Euphemia revolved gently on a spindle, the highest point in the town, a holy weathervane for fishermen and sailors to judge the wind.

  •

  Marin never once glanced up at the luckless saint. He finished his preparations, drew his T-shirt back over his broad, ravaged torso and straightened his sunglasses. The engines roared reassuringly at the touch of the starter and he gunned the boat fast into a long arc to pick up his passengers at the end of the breakwater known as Veliki Mol.

  As he tied up at the jetty, Marin picked out the two Englishmen waiting for him. They were tanned and fit and wore matching shorts and sunglasses. His immediate thought was that they were homosexuals, but that didn’t bother him. He had fought alongside such men and
they had proven to be as tough as any under his command.

  ‘Mr Maric?’ the taller one asked.

  ‘Tomo,’ said Marin, reaching out to shake his hand.

  ‘I’m Greg, this is Derek.’

  ‘Climb aboard.’

  The men dropped nimbly into the cockpit behind him. Marin turned to them as they settled into their seats.

  ‘If you want a swim now, to cool down, we can go first to the town beach. It’s very close, just beyond the breakwater.’

  Derek nodded. ‘Let’s do—’

  Greg interrupted. ‘Will we still have time to get to the islands?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Marin. ‘They’re ten minutes away. We’ll go around Katarina.’ He gestured to the cypress-covered island just offshore that was framed by the outer points of the harbour. A small wooden ferry was plying its way towards it. ‘Then we go south a ways to Zlatni. There are many islands in the national park. Good places for swimming and snorkelling and to watch the sunset.’

  ‘Your English is very good, Tomo,’ said Greg. ‘Is that an Australian accent?’

  Marin paused, scrutinising the man from behind his dark glasses. Then he turned to start the engine.

  ‘You want to swim now or wait?’

  ‘Let’s have a look at this town beach, shall we?’ said Derek.

  •

  Marin tied on to a buoy, fished out masks and snorkels for his passengers, and watched them dive in and stroke powerfully towards the town beach. In truth, it was not so much a beach as a natural inlet set against the backdrop of a great limestone wall, part of the fortifications built centuries ago by the Venetians, who colonised the port and called it Rovigno. Their engineers were men who understood how to make an organic connection between sea and land.

  High on the upper reaches of the structure, dozens of white tablecloths had been hung out to dry in the sun. Tall, indented stone archways punctuated the length of the wall just above the water, creating perches for somnolent sunbathers. A topless woman with bleached white hair and leathery skin slid from hers down into the water, barely creating a ripple as she pushed slowly through the shallows.

  The human rookery created bright swatches of colour on the rocky outcrops at either end of the cove. The water was turquoise in patches and darker over the submerged rocks. A small child ringed with a plastic float climbed down the stainless-steel ladder embedded in the rock. From a large, round boulder, silhouetted teenagers threw themselves screaming into the depths, ignoring the angry cries from two old women breaststroking side by side, their heads held high to preserve Tito-era perms.

  Presently Derek, limber as a seal, hauled himself back into the boat, and pulled off his goggles.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said, wiping water from his face and throwing himself onto the vinyl seat to laze in the sun. ‘Clear as glass and hundreds of fish down there.’

  Greg came over the stern rail and stood, spare and toned, dripping onto the deck as he towelled his hair dry. He edged his way into the front cockpit, standing a little too close to Marin as he dried the rest of him.

  ‘So where are you from, Tomo?’ he asked.

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘Lucky man,’ said Derek, opening his eyes. ‘Were you born in Rovinj?’

  Marin shook his head. ‘I just washed up here one day.’

  ‘So where were you born, then?’ the taller one persisted.

  ‘What’s this, Greg,’ said Marin. ‘Twenty questions?’

  ‘Just making conversation. Me, for instance, I was born in East Anglia.’

  Marin gave him a blank look.

  ‘Have you heard of Essex?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And I’m from Sussex,’ Derek chipped in.

  Marin looked at each of them before responding.

  ‘So you do have sex in common.’

  ‘Funny man,’ said Greg.

  Marin hauled up the buoy and untethered the boat. He started the engine.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he said, but he wasn’t really asking. He’d had enough of these inquisitive bastards. He opened the throttle, the bow kicked high and the big engine churned up a neat white wedge in its wake. Greg braced himself next to Marin and raised his voice.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we have in common, Tomo. We both served with the paras in Belfast. We have that in common.’

  Beyond Katarina Island now, Marin had the boat slapping the light swell at top speed.

  ‘I’m not Irish,’ he replied, keeping his eyes to the front. ‘That’s not my problem.’

  Greg leant in closer. ‘But there’s a problem?’ he said.

  Marin was puzzled by the man’s belligerence, but decided to play a dead bat. ‘It’s not my fight,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not Catholic?’

  ‘I was,’ said Marin. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘So what is your fight, Tomo?’

  ‘Just keeping my head above water. That’s enough.’

  ‘Come on!’ said Greg, clearly annoyed. ‘No one escaped the shit here. Tough guy like you, you must’ve picked up a gun, right?’

  ‘What’s with all the questions?’

  ‘Just pegged you for a soldier, that’s all. Derek and me, we’ve seen plenty of shit. But what happened here—that’s something else. I’m just curious about it.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ said Marin. ‘There was no fighting in Rovinj.’

  ‘I’ve heard it’s full of veterans.’

  ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘They sent the wounded here to recuperate, didn’t they?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Were you one of them?’

  Marin turned sharply to his inquisitor and let the boat slew off course.

  ‘That’s enough fucking questions.’

  ‘Hey!’ Derek yelled from the back. ‘Up ahead! Watch out for those rocks!’

  Marin ignored him, his eyes fixed on Greg, who now saw the reef coming at them fast.

  ‘Fuck!’ Greg yelled, reaching for the wheel. Marin caught his hand and squeezed it hard until he saw him wince. With his other hand, Marin flipped the wheel and came about at a steep angle, missing the reef by a whisker.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Greg exclaimed when Marin finally let his hand go. ‘You could’ve killed us!’ Derek had leapt to his feet.

  Greg was spluttering with anger. Marin saw that he was the one most likely to retaliate, but dealing with two of them would be difficult. He turned and pushed Derek hard in the chest so that he fell back into the chair in the rear cockpit.

  ‘Stay there!’ he ordered him, yawing the boat again.

  Greg was now caught off balance, forced to grip the taffrail to avoid going overboard. There was fury in his face. He seemed ready to throw himself at Marin.

  ‘Sit down!’ Marin shouted. ‘Or I swear I’ll put you over the side.’

  ‘You maniac,’ Greg seethed. ‘I’ve killed men for less.’

  Marin laughed. ‘You don’t look too dangerous in your speedos, mate … Sit down, I said!’

  To Marin’s surprise, Greg did as he was told. ‘That was fucking crazy,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe I am crazy. Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘I was just talking soldier to soldier.’

  ‘You sounded more like a cop to me,’ said Marin.

  He put the boat into another fast turn until they were pointed back towards Rovinj.

  ‘The sunset cruise is over.’

  •

  The woman with the plum-coloured lips knocked three times on the hotel room door, then once more. It opened a crack.

  ‘Jasna,’ said a British voice.

  ‘I suppose I can come in,’ Jasna barked, pushing through the doorway. She shoved aside military gear piled around the sofa and picked up a sleek black submachine gun from the cushion.

  ‘Hey, careful with that,’ said Greg.

  Jasna gave the Englishman an imperious look and rolled her eyes. It was her view that Greg and hi
s partner, the ludicrously named Derek, had spooked the quarry. She flipped open the stock of the weapon, braced herself and sharply pulled the cocking lever back several times to make sure it was empty.

  ‘Now I know is safe,’ said Jasna, tossing the weapon to the other side of the couch. She sat then in the cleared space and sighed loudly as she rummaged through her voluminous handbag, piling item after item on the coffee table: the camera and its telephoto lens; a manila folder; a packet of nicotine gum; a plastic bag full of cigarettes; a Zippo lighter; and a small jar of Nescafé granules.

  The other members of the team, all men and dressed like summer tourists, watched this performance without surprise. Like her, half of them were Croatian, on loan for the operation and with orders from Zagreb to cooperate with these tight-arsed Brits. Such were the compromises their political masters were forced to make to prove themselves worthy of European citizenship.

  Captain Duncan held up a pot and waggled it.

  ‘Coffee, Jasna?’

  The officer was a tall, upright blond man with a neat moustache. He seemed to have stepped out of one of those BBC Jane Austen serials they liked to show on Croatian TV, poorly dubbed into her own language. She found it strange listening to the original.

  ‘No,’ she said, picking up the Nescafé jar. ‘Bring me just hot water in a cup. Croatian coffee is strong and I drink many cups, so I prefer this.’

  Duncan passed her a steaming mug.

  ‘Must be like a holiday for you,’ he said. ‘Coming to Rovinj.’

  She ignored him for a moment, heaping in coffee granules. ‘Actually, I don’t like it here at all,’ she said when she had finally gotten the drink to her taste. ‘I don’t like that they speak to me in Italian. I don’t want to hear them say “Hello” in Italian even before I speak. And all the signs are in Italian so I don’t understand it.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said one of the Croat soldiers, nodding fiercely. ‘Everything is in Italian here. They’re taking over.’

  ‘But surely you do understand,’ said Captain Duncan reasonably. ‘Everything’s written in Croatian, too.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Jasna. She plucked the gum from her mouth and wrapped it in an old supermarket receipt. ‘It wasn’t like this before the war.’