I hoped that this was the end of my journey, but I didn't dare presume.

The seminary where the priest was living was a large stone building rising impressively out of the flat surrounds. Father Peters was elderly, probably about 70, a small but sprightly Mickey Rooney.

He told me about his years as a missionary. Dutch New Guinea was by far the most inhospitable region to which he had ever been sent. The Asmats were barbaric, warlike; the various tribes were constantly fighting among themselves. Their belief system was such that tribes would kill and eat the brain of their enemy, believing that this gave them great power. They were nomadic, following the sago crop upon which they lived.

After we had finished our meal, the priest began to tell me the true story of what had happened to Michael Rockefeller nearly 20 years before.

Rockefeller and Wassing had been trading with the Asmat people of the village of Fos on the Eilanden River. He had landed upriver on the evening of November 18. Rockefeller had done a deal with the son of one of the tribal elders to buy a relic of great tribal significance, a sort of totem pole adorned with skulls.

The priest explained to me that the Asmats believed that spirits lived alongside the living, and that killing another person entailed an obligation to look after the spirit's physical remains - the skull. Trading this pole was a huge no-no. Selling it would get the spirits angry and bring doom to the tribe.

What Father Peters told me was that Rockefeller had taken this sacred skull pole in the middle of the night and was on his way with it to the catamaran when other warriors came upon him. Rockefeller was dragged out of his boat. The pole went overboard, the engine was flooded as Wassing tried to get away, and the guides ran off to save their own skins. This account meant that the other, official, story was a complete fabrication.

After his capture, Rockefeller was taken alive back to the village of Fos, where he was kept hidden while the tribe determined his fate. The size of the search was so great that people feared retribution if the white man was found in their custody. They felt the safest avenue was to kill him.

Father Peters didn't say whether the killers had also eaten Rockefeller. He did tell me, though, that he and his two fellow missionaries had not dared tell the authorities for fear of the genocidal retribution that would have followed. It was only on account of his concern for Mary Rockefeller that Father Peters had now consented to tell me what had happened. He still felt some guilt about the affair, believing that he should have been able to intervene to save Rockefeller's life.

I had a first-hand account from a reliable witness of the fate of Michael Rockefeller. I had done my job - or so I thought.

Gross thanked me for my efforts and assured me that the balance of my fee, now up around $70,000, would be sent immediately. He then came straight back at me. How would one go about locating Michael's remains? I told him the skull might still exist, but the rest of him may have been turned into knives and arrows. And anyway that part of the world was controlled by the Indonesians and they simply didn't let people in there.

"You can leave that part to me," said Gross. "Are you seriously contemplating bringing the skull of Michael Rockefeller out of there?" I asked. "It's crocodile infested, headhunter land."

"Not personally, no. But my client will pay generously for whoever will. Would you like the job?"

The I said something very, very stupid. I said: "Yes."

Monte travels to Jakarta, where Gross has arranged for $US50,000 in cash to be delivered to his hotel room. Carrying the money in a brown paper bag, Monte is instructed to deliver it to a general in the Indonesian army, who arranges for a boat and crew to take him into headhunter territory. Reluctantly, the general agrees that Monte can take his own bodyguard, ex-SS-man Dieter Stein.

In October 1979, as rain pelted down into the muddy brown water, I found myself waiting at Biak, a small island to the north of Irian Jaya, with my bodyguard, Dieter Stein.

I was expecting something like a small frigate to cruise elegantly into port. But what docked was a rusty looking patrol boat with the cabin space of a prawn trawler. I was alarmed. The personnel totalled around 25. About four were the boat's crew. The rest were commandos, cut-throat Indonesain soldiers. The captain was obviously the general's man and was more refined and courteous than the sergeant or the grunts.