'There most definitely is,' Bob said as he grabbed his beer. 'Renegade stuff, Macca doesn't involve you.'

Macca sat, saluting the others with his gla.s.s.

'So what are you doing in town, Bob?' he asked when he'd taken a swig. 'There's nothing going down at Maralinga. What's the big story?'

'No big story, I'm not here on business. Or rather I am, but it's personal business.' He paused a second or so for dramatic effect. 'My three-year-old mare's racing in the Autumn Stakes at Cheltenham this weekend.'

'Really?' Macca was most surprised. Bob Swindon was well-known as a track aficionado and punter, but not as a racehorse owner. 'I'm impressed,' he said.

Bob's smile was one of pure pleasure. It had been his intention to impress. He was thrilled with his new acquisition, which was indeed his life's dream.

'She's only half my mare actually,' he admitted, 'the other half's my brother's. We bought her last year and raced her as a two year old. She's trained and stabled here, costs a mint, and she'll be my retirement plan or my ruination, I'm not sure which.'

'What's she called?' Elizabeth asked.

'Speed of Light.'

'Ambitious,' Macca said with the wry lift of an eyebrow.

Bob took the comment as a compliment. 'Yeah, good name, isn't it? The punters'll like it. She did very well as a filly, so we're hoping. This is her first adult meet and she's up against a strong field. I doubt she'll place. She may even come in last, but that doesn't bother me, it's b.l.o.o.d.y good training.' He downed a healthy swig of his beer. 'Horses are like people in my opinion. Mix a horse with the wrong company and it'll pick up bad habits. Pit it against the best and it might well come out a winner.

'Which reminds me, Liz,' he said, taking a business card from his pocket and jotting a phone number on the back, 'give me a ring I'm here for a week. I'll be most interested to hear how you go.' He handed her the card. 'Hope you score a win.'

Elizabeth smiled. 'I'll score a win, Bob. And I bet I'll score it without the use of feminine wiles.'

He took her literally Bob could never resist a bet. 'Want to make it five quid?'

'If you like.'

'You're on,' he said.

They raised their gla.s.ses and clinked while Macca looked from one to the other in complete mystification.

What an exciting woman she was, Bob thought. G.o.d, how he wished he was twenty years younger. But then if he was twenty years younger, he'd be so busy trying to get her into bed he probably wouldn't appreciate what she had to offer beyond the obvious. Jesus, life was an irony.

Elizabeth did score a win. And she did so without resorting to the use of feminine wiles. Not as a matter of principle she'd heeded Bob's advice and had been quite prepared to do so but there'd been no need. Honesty and intelligence had quickly registered with Hedley Marston.

Bob Swindon's reasoning had been closer to the truth than he'd realised. Hedley Marston had recently completed a detailed ma.n.u.script of his findings for publication in a scientific journal, but he had been continuously thwarted by the cabal of scientists, bureaucrats and politicians bent on keeping the details of the nuclear tests and their aftermath a well-hidden secret. With little or no idea of when his ma.n.u.script would finally see the light of day, or indeed how much of the truth would appear in its ultimate publication, Marston was keen to go on record with someone he could trust. And for some strange reason he chose to trust Elizabeth Hoffmann.

'I have received a telephone call as you're no doubt aware, Miss Hoffmann. You come highly recommended by Bob Swindon. I take it you know him well?'

Marston was studying her astutely through horn-rimmed spectacles, a pleasant-faced man in his fifties with a bald domed head and rather large ears. Elizabeth realised she was being tested.

'I don't know Bob at all well,' she said. 'We met only several days ago, last Friday to be precise.'

'Then why would he sing your praises?'

'I believe he senses that I can be trusted. I work the same way Bob does, Mr Marston. My word is my bond and I never betray a confidence.'

His lips curved into a smile. It was a delicate mouth, she noticed, well-shaped, almost feminine amongst features that were otherwise ordinary.

'Bob always was a good judge of character,' he said. 'Sit down, Miss Hoffmann.'

'Thank you, sir.' She'd obviously pa.s.sed the test.

Hedley Marston talked for an hour, not only about his findings but about the way in which he'd been silenced, and Elizabeth found much of what he had to say shocking.

In his monitoring of the background radiation over Adelaide, the twenty-four-hour sample he'd taken the day after the airdrop test had shown levels hundreds of times above normal, he told her, but the safety committee had maintained his readings were exaggerated and had accused him of being an alarmist.

His examination of the iodine content in the thyroids of dead animals following each of the tests had proved that vast tracts of Australia had been subjected to radioactive fallout. Members of the safety committee had contradicted his results and threatened to discredit him amongst the scientific community.

Elizabeth scribbled down his revelations in shorthand, offering no comment and making no interjection.

The controlled experimentation he'd conducted in farming areas had shown that most of the exposure to livestock came from contaminated food, which posed a far longer-term risk than contaminated air. Not long after he'd presented these particular reports, it had been decided he was overworked and he'd been taken off the program. 'Health problems' had been cited.

He told her how his reports had been altered or discredited, and how his attempts to publish his findings had been thwarted at every turn. The power of the nuclear cabal was limitless.

Finally, he brought up the subject of the minor nuclear tests. These were still in their relatively early stages, he said, the Kittens, the Tims, the Rats, and the soon to be included Vixens, but the experiments were numerous and were run virtually unchecked. Furthermore, they were planned to continue for years.

'I'm no nuclear physicist,' he said, 'but the irresponsible use of uranium and beryllium and, above all, plutonium is courting disaster on all levels. The scientists at Maralinga are having a field day. They have a desert to play in and limitless materials to play with. It's like giving children boxes of matches.'

Marston paused before making his final announcement. 'The minor tests are bound to result in huge amounts of radioactive contamination. In my opinion, they'll pose an even greater ongoing risk than the atomic bomb detonations.'

He'd come to an abrupt halt, and Elizabeth, who'd remained silent throughout, looked up from her notepad at a loss for words.

'How can they get away with it?' she said finally.

'The world's a frightened place. The threat of communism and the race for nuclear power gives them the perfect excuse, or so they believe.'

'But to deny the public access to such information, to discredit your findings, to alter your reports, to prohibit you from publishing ...'

'You don't understand, Miss Hoffmann.' The eyes behind the horn-rimmed gla.s.ses had hardened, signalling a dire warning. 'We are dealing with ruthless liars in high places.'

She was silent for a moment, wondering if she should leave. The interview seemed over.

'What will you do?' she asked.

'I will continue to monitor the situation and take readings, despite no longer being an official part of the program, and one day, when it's safe to publish my findings, I shall do so. For the moment I must remain silent. If I don't, they will ruin me.'

Ruthless liars in high places, Elizabeth thought. How ruthless? If they would destroy the career of a prominent scientist in order to silence him, would they murder a soldier who threatened to expose the truth?

'But surely the collusion between politicians and scientists can't guarantee total security, Mr Marston,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady she felt on the brink of discovery. 'What of the soldiers on the range? They're working in the thick of things. They must have some idea of what's going on.'

'They have no idea at all.' He dismissed the notion without giving it a thought. 'The troops are kept in complete ignorance; they don't know a thing.'

She persevered. 'But if by any chance a soldier did know something, and if he threatened to speak out, what would happen to him?'

'The question's superfluous. He wouldn't be told anything to start with, and if he somehow found out, he wouldn't talk anyway. There is such a thing as the Official Secrets Act, you know.'

Elizabeth's flutter of excitement faded. She was surely following the wrong path. Danny would never have broken his oath of silence. She was aware too that she might be pushing the boundaries with Marston. His response had been peremptory and she sensed a certain arrogance in him now. He was not interested in discussion. He'd wanted his story recorded, their time together was up, and any further interrogation was unwelcome. She doggedly pursued the subject nonetheless. Whether the path she was following was right or wrong, her question demanded resolution.

'Yes, sir, I'm aware of the Official Secrets Act. But you refer to ruthless men in high places, Mr Marston men who would destroy your career rather than allow you to speak out. So, as a matter of interest hypothetically speaking if a soldier did discover data such as yours, and if he threatened to talk, would his life be in danger?'

Marston seemed to find her question amusing.

'What are you asking? Do you mean, would they kill him?'

'Yes, sir, that's exactly what I'm asking.'

'My dear Miss Hoffmann,' he smiled whimsically and his reply was good-natured, albeit just a little condescending, 'A soldier on the range would hardly be considered a threat. If they were going to kill anyone, they would start with me.'

'Of course, sir.' Well, that answers that, she thought. She returned his smile as she stood. 'I'm rather barking up the wrong tree, aren't I?'

'Yes, you are rather.'

As soon as she was back at The Advertiser, Elizabeth rang Bob Swindon and they arranged to meet in the lounge of the Criterion at the end of the work day.

When she arrived, he was already seated with a half-finished beer.

'That'll probably be a bit flat,' he said, gesturing to the shandy that sat on the table waiting for her. 'I got here five minutes early and wanted to beat the queue. How'd you go?'

'You owe me five pounds,' she said as she sat.

'Good girl.' He fished his wallet from his pocket. 'Any feminine wiles called for?'

'Not a one.'

'Probably not surprising,' he said, slapping a five-pound note on the table. 'They're a dry old lot, those boffins.'

'What a ridiculously sweeping generalisation, and how on earth would you know anyway?' Elizabeth countered.

'Quite correct, I wouldn't,' he replied unperturbed. 'But I take it I was right about Marston? He wanted to go on record?'

'Oh, yes, you were right there. He definitely wanted to go on record. Breakthrough material, I have to say ...'

'Really?' There was a feeling of expectancy as he waited for her to go on.

'None of which I can tell you, Bob, as you would well know. I gave my word.'

'Yes,' he said hastily, 'yes, of course you did.'

'I promise you'll have the whole story as soon as I get the go-ahead from Marston,' she said. 'Although G.o.d only knows when that will be. In the meantime '

'I know, Liz, I know,' he interrupted. 'I wouldn't expect anything more of you and I respect your silence.'

'Rubbish. You were dying for me to spill the beans just then.'

He shrugged. 'A bit of wishful thinking you can't blame a bloke for that. So where do you go to from here? You can't publish any of his information, I presume.'

'No, but it gives me some ammunition, and possibly a bit of room to manoeuvre. As a new reporter fresh on the scene, I might be able to ask a couple of seemingly innocent questions. You know, rattle them enough that they have to come up with an answer.' She took a sip of her shandy and frowned as she put down the gla.s.s. 'But then how do I go about it? I have to wait until the powers that be graciously deign to grant us a press conference.'

'Why don't you twist their arm?' She looked at him blankly. 'Have a word with your chief. There hasn't been a general press conference for months. I'm sure if The Advertiser requested an update, Maralinga's PR department wouldn't be able to refuse. The state's daily newspaper has a responsibility to its readership, after all.'

'What an excellent idea.' She scooped up the five-pound note. 'I'll buy you a beer on the strength of it.'

'But you haven't drunk your shandy.'

'You were right, it's flat. Don't go away,' she said, 'we need to talk,' and she headed off to the lounge's service bar in the corner.

Elizabeth realised that, in some ways, she was back to square one. Despite her brief flurry of excitement, her meeting with Marston had not offered a solution to the mystery of Daniel's death. The mystery of Maralinga, however, was becoming more tantalising by the minute, and she was convinced that the two were linked. Hedley Marston had been an independently contracted biochemist, princ.i.p.ally responsible for the collection of data on radioactive fallout. If he had proved through his animal thyroid examinations that such widespread and long-term danger existed, then what other shocking facts were being covered up at Maralinga?

The words of Daniel's letter were ever-present in her mind. Pete Mitch.e.l.l had said men had been threatened with court martial if they spoke of what they'd seen. But what had they seen? Marston himself had dismissed the troops as any threat to security on the grounds of the Official Secrets Act. What could those soldiers have witnessed that was so shocking they would need to be reminded of their oath of silence?

She returned to the table with the drinks. 'Tell me what to expect at this press conference, Bob,' she said, leaning forward on her elbows, eager for information. 'Who'll be chairing, who'll be speaking and how many?'

'My guess is there'll be only one speaker, and it won't really be a conference as such, more of a press statement with questions to follow. They won't consider the request for an update warrants anything more.'

'Pity. Good about the questions though. Who'll be delivering the statement?'

'Their liaison officer, an Australian army colonel by the name of Nick Stratton. He's the link between the Aussies and the Poms and the scientists and the bureaucrats, and as such he's virtually the voice of Maralinga.'

'Really? What a handy man to know,' she said thoughtfully.

'Yes, but not an altogether easy one.' Bob thought it necessary to offer a word of advice. 'He's a tough cookie, Liz. Not a bad bloke, but you wouldn't want to cross him. And be warned, he doesn't like smart-a.r.s.es.'

'Then I'd better behave myself, hadn't I?'

Elizabeth very much looked forward to meeting Colonel Nick Stratton.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

During the days that followed the press conference, Nick Stratton thought about Elizabeth Hoffmann a great deal. He couldn't remember when he'd last been so strongly attracted to a woman. Possibly never, he thought, and then warned himself not to be foolish. Such a woman would hardly be an easy conquest and as he had no wish to become involved, he should really keep well away. But what the h.e.l.l, he decided, why not test the water? If he sensed he stood a chance with her s.e.xually then he'd pursue her further. If not, a simple dinner out was harmless.

He rang her as soon as he arrived. 'I'm in town,' he said, which wasn't exactly true; he was telephoning from the airport. 'Is dinner still on for tonight?'

'Of course, I look forward to it.'

'Do you have a favourite restaurant?'

'Not a one. I don't dine out much.'