Page 28 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“Yes, but picking apart that mess would take longer than three days.” She checked her watch. “Two and a half days. I’m gonna get a team to watch the jet. The wife too.” She’d already put the mistress under surveillance. “Where’s your money going?”
“Not the wife. New York or the mistress. But why is the jet in Perth?”
“I don’t think he’s with the mistress. She was out at some fancy club with a group of girlfriends until the early hours of yesterday, and if he flew in today, why not take his own plane?”
“So, the jet or New York?”
“I think so. We could charter another plane and take one each.”
“Divide and conquer, or spread ourselves thin?”
I wasn’t Emmy’s biggest fan, but she seemed competent in a professional capacity, and I’d grown to appreciate the benefits of teamwork.
She tapped away on her tablet. “Flight time from here to Perth is four hours, give or take.”
“Four hours in the wrong direction. If he’s in New York, we’re talking another twenty-four hours of travel. That’s cutting things mighty fine.”
“I don’t mind a gamble, but the odds are forty-forty-ten-ten. I don’t like those.”
“So we stay put until we get confirmation of his location?”
“We stay put.”
CHAPTER 10
Marc
“It’s called bubur ketan hitam,” Havana said as he set a bowl in front of each of them. “A traditional Indonesian porridge made from black glutinous rice, coconut milk, and palm sugar. I do apologise for the buckets—if it’s any consolation, the regular bathrooms here are somewhat primitive.”
Marc might have been an A-list actor, but his shit still stank like everyone else’s. “It really isn’t a consolation.”
“Can we at least wash our hands?” Serena asked.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Maybe a packet of wet wipes?”
Havana gasped. “Wet wipes? Those things are a scourge on society. Even the type that claims to be flushable sheds microfibres that don’t biodegrade.”
“Uh, right. Okay. I didn’t know that.”
“Misleading ads have a lot to answer for. We’ll find you some soap and water.”
“Thank you.”
They were someplace remote. As light began twinkling through the cracks in the wooden walls at sunrise, birdsong had drifted in too, and Marc thought he could hear waves in the distance. Every so often, a low hum sounded, probably a generator, but that was the only hint of civilisation.
“Any news on Malati?” he asked. “Has the government agreed not to build there?”
“We need you to make another video.”
“So they haven’t capitulated yet?”
Havana shifted from foot to foot, a little awkwardly it seemed. “We’re not sure.”
Huh? “How can you not be sure? Either they have or they haven’t.”
“We asked them to send a message when they were ready to negotiate, but we miscalculated the power of the internet.”
