Joe got his legs moving again. He was surprised they agreed to cooperate. One foot in front of the other, that’s all I ask, he assured them. Twenty or so agonising steps later, Joe pulled up beside Suryei. He was gratified to see that her chest was also heaving. She was out of breath too. He had been starting to think this girl was some kind of goddam superwoman.

Suryei said, ‘Look,’ gesturing with a slight nod of her head. Joe turned and saw, away in the distance, the massive, perfectly conical shape of a volcano. Like something from a prehistoric landscape. It was blue-grey with a fluffy white bib of cloud around the summit. Ridge lines rolled away from the base of the volcano like ripples in beach sand. He realised that they had spent several exhausting hours climbing one of those ripples and he suddenly felt small and insignificant.

The view made him forget his legs, his lungs, his stomach, and the fact that a bullet could whistle out of the bush at any minute and take the view, and everything else, away from him. And from Suryei.

‘Come on,’ said Suryei softly, breaking the spell. She turned away from the volcano and renewed the climb up the ridge’s spine.

Parliament House, Canberra, 0436 Zulu, Thursday, 30 April

The President’s National Security Advisor’s face was etched with concern. He had nothing further to add to the bleak news and the videoconference was at an end. The picture on the television monitor flickered briefly before fading to a silent, implacable grey.

Prime Minister Blight swallowed dryly, his Adams apple moving painfully in his throat. ‘Christ all-bloody-mighty…’ he said, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper, exhaled on the breath he’d been holding. His eyes were round and large. He’d just been told the single most horrifying thing of his entire life.

Herschel Zubinski, the US ambassador to Australia, stood. ‘Yes, as the National Security Advisor has just said, these are our gravest suspicions. But while our intelligence sources have not fully confirmed much of this information, privately Washington just doesn’t know what else it can all mean. If the worst comes to the worst, you know the American people do not tolerate state-sponsored terrorism.’ He walked to the Prime Minister and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Bill… gentlemen…’ The short dark man with the heavy New York accent bowed slightly to the room and left.

Griffin and Niven exchanged an anxious glance. The Commander in Chief’s fears had been proved right, but this was one occasion Niven wished he’d been wrong.

Phil Sharpe, the Foreign Minister, was strident. ‘Where’s the proof?’ he said. ‘The hard, concrete evidence. As the Americans have said, these are suspicions only. We don’t know for sure that the Indonesians shot the plane down. It’s just some analyst’s assessment on the other side of the world — circumstantial bollocks.’

Every time Sharpe opened his mouth to speak, Niven felt uneasy. No, it was more basic than that. The CDF just plain didn’t like the man. He was a true politician, always working the angles for what appeared to be personal advantage. And Niven found him an odd choice for the portfolio of Foreign Minister, where an open mind was essential. Blight and Sharpe had been unionists together and were obviously friends. But what, other than a shared history, did Blight see in him? The dislike between Niven and Sharpe was mutual and Niven had to exercise considerable control to stop his feelings bubbling to the surface.

The reality was that the US, using the world’s most sophisticated listening network, had intercepted enough ‘circumstantial bollocks’ that no jury would have trouble convicting the suspect. The US uncertainty boiled down to the fact that the crashed plane hadn’t been found, so experts were unable to physically confirm missile damage. But everyone knew the remains of the plane would turn up, and soon. In a sense, finding the plane was almost a mere formality. And then a thought formed in his brain that found its way out of his mouth before he’d had time to stop it. ‘We’ll have to go in and get that proof then, won’t we?’ he said.

Sharpe was stunned. ‘What, invade Indonesia? That’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?’ he scoffed, looking for support.

Niven knew instantly that he’d been hasty, but he pursued the thought anyway. The situation required cool calculation, not testosterone. Certainly, the remains of the aircraft were on foreign soil and the evidence was therefore Indonesia’s to manipulate if it chose to, but the consequences of going in uninvited to relieve them of that evidence was unthinkable. At best it would be a suicide mission and at worst touch off a deadly broader conflict.

‘Sorry, Spike, I’m not with you. What are you suggesting exactly?’ asked Blight, agreeing with Sharpe but finding a more diplomatic way of expressing his doubts.