"Yeah. That's what I thought."

"He went to prison for smuggling Indonesians into Australia. Maybe there was a payback involved. What else was he involved with?"

What else? What wasn't he involved with? "There was his stock market business," I said. "That was his main interest. But I never worked out what they did."

The pastor walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, then rejoined me in the living room. "The Prophetic Edge," he said. "That was the name of the company. He told me they developed stock market software. Stuff that tells you which stocks to buy. Not my cup of tea. But he said he gave the company away to some employees after he went to jail."

"Who'd be out for revenge if he gave the company away?"

"He was involved with one scam after another. He told me about them all when he was in prison. Women. Smuggling. You name it. Thankfully he'd kept clear of dealing in drugs. But I do know that he had well and truly repented. Johnny, he was a new man."

I shrugged my shoulders again. I was as much in the dark.

Pastor Thomas looked tired. His eyes moved around the room. There wasn't much for him to see. More than two decades in the jungle had taught me the simple life. Stay ready to move on at any time. The room was virtually bare: a desk with an old computer, a television set in one corner, a couple of posters on the walls. Unlike Melissa, I had no need for ornaments.

"The press is onto it," said the pastor. "You know how I heard about the death? The body's still warm and I get a call from Rohan someone-or-other, a reporter at The Age. This is right up their sordid little alley. A devout new Christian, regular church attender, lovely wife, dead in a brothel. Could be a gang murder." He raised his rangy arms high in the air, as if he were Moses - or Charlton Heston - about to be handed the Ten Commandments. "Johnny, what was he doing there?"

I wished I could say something constructive.

"Johnny, I want you to find out what happened. Papers like The Age are always trying to dig up muck on the church. Make it look like every pastor's about to run off with the choir mistress. Or the choirboys. I know it's the nature of the world we live in today that the church gets attacked all the time. So just keep all this low-key. But at least let's have some answers ready when the press attacks us."

He paused and looked me in the eyes. "You're a..." He spread his arms like an albatross about to take off, and with bony fore and middle fingers painted imaginary quotation marks around the next words: "private detective."

I nodded, and ignored the implied insult.

The pastor continued: "I want you to find out what really happened. We have to stop the papers from publishing anything bad. We owe it to our congregation. We'll lose half our members if there's a scandal. I know that Grant has been paying you a salary. I reckon the church can cough up a bit to support you until you sort out your future."

"I don't need the church helping me," I said quickly. "I can easily find work."

Actually, I wasn't sure at all. Virtually all my assignments had come to me through Grant. They had pretty much dried up after he went to prison, but he had continued to support me. "Anyway, I don't see that we should care what the papers print. The police will find out what happened, in their own time."

Pastor Thomas fixed his gaze on me, and immediately I knew I had let him down. Before I could say anything more he was in sermon mode: "Johnny, I reckon you used to be a firebrand. You were a freedom fighter. Then you come to Australia and what happens? You seem to spend all your time playing on the internet and looking for your father."

That hurt. "Everyone needs a father."

"I know that. But you have spent I don't know how many hours and days and weeks and months looking without the slightest bit of evidence that he is alive, or that he is Australian..."

"My mother always said he was an Australian," I interrupted.

"There is no evidence that if he's alive he's in Australia," the pastor corrected himself. "I know you would dearly love to find him. That's why I've done all I can to help. God willing you will find him. But hours a day on the internet and at public libraries looking through genealogies and newspapers and phone books all over the shop won't do it. I know all about your murdered mother and your murdered wife, but other people have deaths in the family too. Melissa for a start. After a period of grieving they get on with their lives."

I pondered over the pastor's words. Deep down I knew he was right. "I guess I do owe it to Mel," I conceded.

It was at that moment that the telephone rang. It was on a low table, right next to the pastor. I answered.

"Johnny Ravine?" said a man I didn't recognize.

"Yes."

"Johnny Ravine, listen me good," said the heavily accented voice. "You go away. You know?"

"What?" I blurted out. "What is this?"

"Go away," continued the voice. "Or big killing. First Mr Grant Stonelea. And you next, Little Australian. You know? You next."

"Who is that?" I shouted. But he had already hung up.

Pastor Thomas was eyeing me. And suddenly I knew that I had no choice.

"Yes, I'll help you," I said quietly. "I'll find out what happened."

Yes, I would find out what happened. Possibly my very life depended on it.

It all had to do with revenge.

Prophets and Loss is available for download at the Amazon Kindle store.

Read on for an excerpt from Military Orders.

Prologue.

Yellow Sea, North Korea As the tiny speedboat edged nearer towards the shore, the man known as Brother Half Angel again felt that powerful surge of inner peace telling him he was not alone.

So far the whole operation had been a complete success. All was proceeding exactly to plan. The girl had done well. In just a few hours they would be back home at Prayer Mountain, north of Seoul, tucking into an early-morning snack of rice and kimchi. Surely they were all being watched over.

Yet over several decades of clandestine missions, Brother Half Angel had learned never to let down his guard. Inner peace or not, watched over or not, he was taking nothing for granted.

It was his plan that Sister Sunhee be sent to bring out the pastor. A couple of the governing elders were opposed.

"It's not a woman's job," they said.

Or, "She should be at home making kimchi for her husband. If she had a husband, that is."

Or simply, "She's too beautiful."

He had been obliged to point out that she probably possessed greater fighting ability, a sharper intellect and more headstrong courage than any man in the church. Her success would be a success for them all.

Just a couple of hours earlier he and the skipper, his trusted comrade Brother Kang, had set off in their mother vessel. This was a small, antiquated wooden fishing boat, designed for just a couple of people, but fitted with a Volvo Penta sports diesel engine for high-speed acceleration. And it was disguised with North Korean markings.

In calm night seas they sped up the Yellow Sea undetected. A crescent moon, a sliver in the clear sky, provided just enough visibility. They moored a couple of miles off the coastline and then Brother Half Angel transferred to the speedboat.

He had set off towards the shore, and, at exactly the designated time, had spotted the brisk flashes of light that confirmed the girl and the pastor were waiting. And then, just as he came nearer the seacoast, a cloud had providentially passed across the moon, blotting the dim light and making it even less likely that they might be spotted.

But now came the most perilous phase of the operation.

He maneuvered the boat into the bay. He had been here just twenty-four hours earlier, to drop off Sister Sunhee. Now he was picking her up again, together with the pastor, the object of this rescue mission.

A light wind was blowing, but without the chill he had experienced the night before. He brought the boat as far into land as he dared without running aground, and as he did so he thought he could perceive in the darkness some movement, out in front of him on the beach. Yes, it was almost certainly a couple walking slowly across the sand. The pastor was an old man. He would not be running.

If they had been spotted, then, about now, they could expect helicopters, spotlights and a heavily armed militia. So he breathed a small prayer of thanks for the stillness, while remaining vigilant. This operation was still far from complete.

He waited. Soon the couple were at the seashore. They waded into the water, and then clambered aboard. Brother Half Angel handed them life preservers. He turned the boat and began slicing through the water, back to the mother vessel.

He glanced at the man. He could discern little in the darkness, although it was clear that Pastor Jeon, like so many of those they helped flee North Korea, was skinny and under-nourished. He looked like some kind of third-world refugee, which in a way he was.

Yet Brother Half Angel also knew that this man was an heroic saint of the church. For years Pastor Jeon had been traveling clandestinely through North Korea, encouraging the tiny and secret house church movement. He supplied Bibles, he led prayer and worship, he brought encouragement from fellow believers around the world.

Several times he had even made the hazardous crossing across the border into China to rendezvous with Brother Half Angel and other members of his church. They had urged him to seek sanctuary in the South, but each time he insisted on returning to the privations of the North.

My work is there, he always told them.

But now he had been fatally compromised.

Just two days earlier the church learned that the North Korean authorities were on his trail. Clearly, someone in his circle had betrayed him. He had to be brought out.

In normal circumstances he could flee using their established escape channels, making his way north to the Chinese frontier, taking advantage of the church's network of helpers. But it was clear that the network had broken down. Somehow the North Koreans had infiltrated it. Pastor Jeon would never make it to the border.

Brother Half Angel knew that, once in the hands of the efficient North Korean guards, their torture would break him. No one could resist. It wasn't just the physical torture. They would round up a few secret Christians and their children, and would torture the infants - babies even - before their parents and before Pastor Jeon. No halfway normal human could withstand that. And Pastor Jeon knew more about the underground church in North Korea than anyone. He knew too many secrets. He could never be allowed to fall into the hands of the North Korean authorities.

As they neared the mother boat the moon reappeared, providing a faint glimmer of light to help them climb abroad. Brother Kang secured the speedboat to the back, and they set off, heading south.

Brother Half Angel ushered the pair down into the cramped cabin. "No problems?"

"Couldn't be better," said Sunhee. "Pastor Jeon was waiting at the house. I just had to bring him to the right spot on the beach and wait for you."

"A couple of anxious moments when we spotted the citizens' patrols," said the pastor. His voice was harsh and shaky. "But I'm used to them. It's easy to hide from them."

"It was all the waiting," said Sunhee. "That was the only problem."

Brother Half Angel looked at the pastor. "Just one hour," he said. "Then you'll be in the South. A free man."

It was at that instant that a round of gunfire rang out, and then another. They were being pursued.

Brother Half Angel peeked out. As best as he could tell in the dim moonlight, it was just one patrol vessel that was after them.

Brother Kang gunned up the motors and they began moving at high speed. More gunfire raked across their boat.

Then, "We're on fire!"

Brother Half Angel seized an extinguisher from the front of the boat, but before he could even activate it he knew they were in trouble. Their engine was spluttering. Then more gunfire, and an explosion rocked the vessel.

"We're going down," shouted the skipper. "Into the speedboat."

He unclasped the smaller boat, then with a cry fell backwards into the sea.

Brother Half Angel scrambled out of the cabin and dived into the water. He dragged himself and the skipper into the tiny boat and started the motor. He then maneuvered to put their rapidly sinking fishing boat between himself and their attackers.

"Jump into the water," he screamed at the girl and the pastor. "Help him. Help him." He knew that numerous North Koreans can't swim.

The lady seemed unable to move, paralyzed with fear.

"Jump into the water. Now. You're wearing life preservers."

The woman didn't move. The bewildered old man seemed to be staring at her.

"Jump! Jump!"

Another hail of bullets took the pastor directly. He jerked and lurched, then crumpled into the sea.

Brother Half Angel moved the boat to retrieve the lifeless body.

But the lady seemed transfixed, unable to move as the boat sank under her. She screamed as she went into the water. Brother Half Angel grabbed her and helped her into the boat.

Then he accelerated and sped away.

Chapter 1.

Dharamsala, Northern India.

Dr Jeremiah Raphael Harel, Professor of Spiritual Art, braced as the minibus swerved to overtake a mother and child on a motor scooter then veered back across the road in the face of an oncoming lorry, the horn aggressively blaring like an enraged elephant. In the adjoining seat the hippie screamed in jubilation and high-fived her friend, in apparent celebration of once again cheating death. They had been doing this all the way from the airport at Kangra. In front of them, the driver, a short, dark man with oily hair, a twisted nose and fearsome mustache, continued his cellphone conversation.

They were speeding up Major District Road 44. In defiance of the vehicle's noisy air conditioning, Harel had shoved open one of the side windows to escape the musty cigarette smell that permeated the interior. He could feel the air outside cooling as they raced ever upwards. He stared blankly as they passed a huge brown cow with ponderous humps - almost like a camel's - ambling downhill. And once again he thought about how he did not want to be on this journey. He did not want to be going to Dharamsala. He most certainly did not want to be sitting next to the hippie.

"Where are you headed?" she suddenly asked. It was the first time she had even acknowledged his existence. He twisted in his seat to face her. She was a striking young blonde, no doubt about that, with a ring in one lip, tattoos of flowers and snakes on her upper back and an impressive collection of bracelets on both wrists. She and her companion, an equally attractive brunette with a hint of Asia in her bronzed skin and gently rounded oval face, were both scantily clad in colorful, low-cut blouses and skimpy denim pants. It was as if they were heading to a Malibu surf beach, rather than to one of India's holy sites.

"Dharamsala," he answered, then added archly, "I believe the bus only goes that far."

"Not so many people go there nowadays." She spoke with a broad mid-Western twang. "Not any more. Not since the Dalai Lama died."

The minibus jolted as the driver changed gears in order to navigate a hairpin bend, briefly forcing an end to his phone conversation. Below them the verdant northern Indian landscape stretched to a horizon of heavy clouds, carrying with them the suggestion of impending monsoonal rains. Up ahead, surely just minutes away now, was the former British garrison town of Dharamsala. This had become, since 1959, the home-in-exile of the Dalai Lama. With its Buddhist temples, worship centers, prayer halls and legions of crimson-robed monks, the place was popularly known as Little Lhasa. The Dalai Lama's peaceful death, two years earlier, had sparked grief around the world - such was the universal love for this seemingly gentle and radiant man - and a lengthy period of mourning in Dharamsala.

"I'm not interested in the Dalai Lama," said Harel. He gazed back out the window at the steep, twisting road and at an old, wiry man in a tank top inexplicably pushing an empty wheelbarrow uphill. He wanted to end the conversation. But the girl was persistent.

"So why are you coming to Dharamsala?"

He turned again to face her, and stared with disapproval at her tattoos. Having been raised in a Southern Baptist environment, where tattoos were generally regarded as somehow of the devil, Harel still felt disdain for their wearers, even though he now lived in anything-goes California and increasing numbers of his own students sported them. Sometimes it was all he could do to stop himself from marking down their essays for it. He reflected, not for the first time, that you can take the boy out of the Baptist Church but it's a lot more difficult to take the Baptist Church out of the boy.

He didn't want to answer the girl's query. He knew it would lead to innumerable other questions. He also felt that his lingering Christian conscience might prod him into asking this girl - almost certainly a spiritual seeker - why she was going to Dharamsala, before leading her towards a talk about her need for Jesus.