Tour de Force

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The road to Kalbarri looked as though it hadn’t been improved since the turn of the century, and the Niva parked at the pump ahead of me was covered with dust the color of bad sunburn. I was sure it wasn’t Sergei—nothing would have persuaded him to drive a Russian car this far from a city, not even Ultra Secret—but I sat there and practiced pretending not to know him for a few seconds before opening the door. That was a mistake; I’d thought Perth was hot, but this was torture, and I almost wished I’d worn a skirt. At least they’d done something about the flies.

There was a youngish blond couple slumped in the snack bar when I went in to pay for the petrohol. The old woman behind the counter took my Visa card and stared—I almost expected her to bite it, to see if the gold was real—and then scuttled out the back to phone the bank; I guess she’d never seen a rich aborigine before. The blonds looked up, glanced through the window at my car, and the man asked, “Are you headed north?” He spoke English far better than any Australian I’d ever heard, with a very slight hint of an accent; Bavarian, if I’m any judge.

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