by Mark Dawson
All thoughts of a careful surveillance were abandoned.
Milton would be cautious, but he didn’t have the luxury of time.
* * *
MATILDA OPENED AND CLOSED her fist, stretching out the fingers and trying to ease the stinging in her knuckles. She had punched the man in the face, a straight right jab that had landed full on the mouth. It was a strong punch, given extra impetus by fear and anger and the indignity of being hauled off the street by these two strangers. The man had stumbled backwards, his hand reaching to try to staunch the blood that had bubbled up from the spot where his teeth had bitten down on his tongue. He had tripped over the edge of a rug and fallen into a table, overturning it so that the glass top was dislodged to smash into bits against the parquet floor. He was still on the floor, brushing fragments of glass from his clothes. Matilda would have taken the opportunity to try to get out of the house, but the other one, the man who had taken her from the street, had drawn his pistol and was pointing it steadily at her head.
“You silly bitch,” the other man said, struggling back to his feet.
Matilda didn’t answer. Her fist still stung, but she would have hit him again if it wasn’t for the gun.
They had brought her out of the car and into the house through a side door. It looked like a typical suburban property, perhaps a little more expensive than average thanks to its size, its proximity to Adelaide and the beautiful vista that it offered of the foothills and the city beyond. Matilda had been ready to run, but the man kept close to her, his left hand around her arm, and the gun, in his right, pushed discreetly into her ribs.
The door had opened into the kitchen. They had taken her through it and into a room at the rear of the house. The windows looked down onto the view and the city in the distance, but the driver had closed the blinds. Matilda had noticed the front door to the house when they had approached in the car, but she assumed that it was locked. She had looked for another way out, but she had been unable to find one. She would have to get back to the door through which they had entered.
The driver spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor. “You know the reason I don’t take that gun, shove it in your dirty little mouth and pull the trigger?”
Matilda clenched her jaw, her teeth pressing down hard, and said nothing.
“The only reason I’ve put up with your fucking attitude is because you’re going to help us find your friend. But if you do that again, so help me God, you’re going to wish you hadn’t.”
Matilda had studied both of them during the drive from Adelaide. The driver was effeminate. He was plain looking, built solidly, and wearing sensible clothes that had seemingly been chosen with the heat in mind. The other man was similarly average and could have been an accountant or a lawyer. They were both blandly anonymous. They spoke with the easy, abbreviated style of a couple who have known each other for long enough to be able to dispense with unnecessary communication. They wore rings, and she guessed that they were married, or at least pretended to be.
The second man raised his left hand in a placating gesture. He kept the gun in his right aimed squarely at her. He had been more even-tempered than the driver during the ride. They were both professional and comfortable with what they were doing, but he exuded a strange mixture of calmness and menace. It was a cool confidence that reminded her of Milton.
“Calm down,” he said.
“You saw what she did.”
“I did,” he acknowledged. “She’s frightened. This is not a pleasant thing to have happen to you. It’s fine. Doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”
The two of them spoke with broad Australian accents. The others, the ones who had taken her and Milton, spoke without one. Matilda didn’t know what that all meant. She thought of what Milton had said, about how it was the Mossad that was behind this. These two were working with the others, surely? Local agents?
“Come on, Matilda. Let’s be reasonable. What do you say?” He indicated the gun. “Can I put this away?”
“What is this? You’re the good cop and he’s the bad cop? You can both go fuck yourselves.”
The careful, thoughtful part of her mind told her to be pliant. Respectful, even. That, surely, was the best course of action, given the circumstances. But the angry, fuming part, the part that was furious with what had happened to her since she went into town with Milton, well, that part was loudest, and it drowned everything else out.
The man, if he was annoyed with her reaction, did not show it. “You’re going to be staying here with us for a while,” he said. “Might be a few hours, might be a few days. You can make the time shorter by helping us.”
“Put her in the basement,” the driver said. “Let her think about it for a bit. We can ask her later.”
“Relax,” the man chided gently. “I’m going to be as civil about this as I can. I don’t see why we can’t have a conversation about this now. Right, Matilda? We can have a conversation now, can’t we?”
She kept her jaw clenched shut.
“My name is Paul,” he said. He pointed to the driver. “And this is David.”
“Those are your real names, are they?”
He smiled. “No, but they’ll do for now. We know this has got nothing to do with you. You’re just unlucky, getting caught up in something you don’t deserve to get caught up in. That sound about right, Matilda?”
She clenched her fists again.
“The man you were with—John Milton. Where is he?”
She said nothing.
“Was he on the train with you?”
She said nothing.
“Is he in Adelaide?”
She said nothing.
Paul smiled at her, trying to get her to relax. “If you tell us where he is, we can stop all this right now. Once we have him again, there’s no more need for you to be involved. You can just walk away. Go back to your brother and forget all about this. What do you say?”
She had to say something. They knew that she must know something about Milton, and it seemed more sensible to give them something rather than put them into a position where they had to force it out of her.
“We had an argument,” she said.
“About?”
“What do you think? About him dragging me into this.” She waved her arm around, encompassing both of them. It wasn’t difficult for her to be credible. Her anger was authentic and she meant every word.
“And where is he now?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Your best guess.”
“Broken Hill.”
“He didn’t get on the train?”
“I told him I didn’t want him to. So he didn’t.”
Paul gave her answer some thought. “Are you sure about that? If we’re going to be friends, we need you to be truthful.”
“We’re not going to be friends,” she said.
“Last chance.”
“That’s how it was.”
“All right. Is there anything else you think we should know?
She shook her head. “That’s it.”
“Fine. It’ll do for now.”
He inclined his head to his partner and gave a nod.
There was a small leather pouch on the sideboard. David collected it, unzipped it and reached inside. He took out a moulded plastic case that looked as if it might house an expensive pen. He opened it and withdrew a syringe and an ampoule containing clear fluid. He gave it to Paul, who turned to Matilda.
“Your arm, please.”
“What?”
“Give me your arm. I’m afraid we’re going to have to sedate you.”
“No,” she said, her pep draining away. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“It’s better this way. Please, Matilda. Don’t make it more difficult than it has to be.”
She knew, even before she acted, that what she was going to do was reckless and would probably get her killed. It was a combination of things: the gun that had been pointed at her
head, being hauled across the outback, Milton’s lies. She knew she should play along, but the anger overwhelmed her good sense.
She feigned compliance, letting her shoulders slump so that her arms fell to her sides.
Paul stepped up to her.
She threw herself at him, her nails reaching for his eyes and gouging down his face. He staggered back as she drew back her fist and struck him in the nose, then wrapped her arms around him. The surprise bought her a moment’s advantage, but it was quickly lost. He was strong, shrugging her off and then shoving her away with his forearm. Space opened up between them, enough for him to bring his right hand up to whip it across her forehead. The impact was sudden, the pain an intense flash that sent starbursts across her vision. She blacked out for a fraction of a second and, when she came around, she found that she was on her knees.
Paul was standing over her. She had scored three weals down his cheek, each of them brimming with blood. If it was painful, he didn’t show it. “You’re full of it,” he said. “Normally, I’d say that was a good thing, but you might want to reconsider it today. Playing ball with us will be much better for you.”
Matilda backed away until she felt her back against the wall. Paul and David approached. Paul left the gun on a table and raised his arms, his hands open, ready to grab her. She shuffled to the side, but space was limited and there was nowhere to go. He lunged at her, both hands fastening around her biceps, and twisted her around so that he could wrap her in a bear hug. Although she bucked and jerked and scraped the heel of her boot down his shin, Paul did not release his hold. David anchored her arm and rolled up her sleeve. Matilda gave a feral shriek as she tried to fight her way free, but it was no good. Instead, she hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and sprayed it into David’s face.
He wiped it away. “She’s nuts,” he said, the expression on his face saying that he couldn’t believe just how crazy she was.
They held her arm steady between them. Matilda strained, but, as the needle scraped across her skin, she realised that it was pointless and that she would do more damage to herself if she struggled. She relaxed. She felt a sharp sting as the needle slid into a vein. The barrel depressed and a sensation of icy cold passed up her arm. She felt an uncomfortable throb in her arm before a wooziness took hold. Her strength faded away and she felt her head dip, her chin resting against her sternum as Paul lowered her carefully to the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MILTON SPRINTED up the drive and hid behind the red Mazda. The engine was ticking as it cooled. The wing, baking in the sun, was warm to the touch. He shuffled along the car until he reached the hood, and glanced around the chassis. There was a door in the side of the house. That must have been the door through which they had entered. He could use it, assuming that it wasn’t locked, but he preferred a different way in. He glanced ahead. There was a window adjacent to the door, but the blinds were down and he couldn’t see inside. There was a fence with a gate and then, he assumed, the back garden.
He waited a moment, checked that the side door was still closed, and, satisfied that it was, he stayed low and left cover. He hurried forward, pressing himself down beneath the line of the window and reaching out to try the handle of the gate. The latch opened. He pressed the gate aside with his fingertips, saw the large garden beyond, and slipped inside.
He heard another impact.
This one was nearer and clearer. Two impacts. The first was a fleshy thwack as something was struck. The second was the sound of someone falling to the floor.
Milton felt his heart beat faster, his breath accelerate. Adrenaline pulsed and he felt the familiar twitch of impending violence. He paused, reasserting a sense of calm, assessing his surroundings again.
The garden.
A pool, covered.
A hot tub next to it, also covered.
A brick barbeque with a bag of charcoal on the ground next to it.
A window in the wall overhead, the room beyond hidden by a blind.
He pressed his back against the sun-warmed bricks and listened.
He could hear voices.
The words were muffled. Double glazing, perhaps. He couldn’t make out the sentence, but the reaction—a cry of alarm—was obvious.
He looked again. He was taking too long; he had to move more quickly than this. Almost the entire width of the house was taken up by a decked area, twenty feet of space that ended with a wooden balustrade and a drop down to the garden below. A huge set of sliding glass doors at the other end of the deck gave access to the house. He climbed up, poked his head around the doorjamb and looked inside. It was the kitchen. Modern and expensive, granite work surfaces, a large double range, expensive equipment. The doors, when opened, would create one enormous inside-outside space.
He tried the door.
A lucky break.
It was open.
He pushed the handle all the way down and carefully slid the door wide enough to slip inside. It was new and the runners were lubricated, easing back without a sound. Milton stepped inside. It was woozily hot, like a greenhouse. The air conditioning had been left off; he wondered how long the occupants of the house had been away. He could feel the sweat rolling down his forehead, salty in his eyes. He wiped it away and stayed low, passing an easy chair and a small kitchen table until he reached the shelter of a large island.
He looked up. He saw a knife block with an array of knives on the counter on the opposite side of the room.
He was about to move to it when he heard voices.
A man: “What do we do now?”
A second man: “We wait.”
“No—with her. What do we do with her?”
“She’s not going anywhere. We’ll put her in the basement.”
The voices came closer. He heard the sound of two sets of feet.
“This place is like an oven,” the first man said. “I can’t believe you left the air-con off.”
“There was a rush, remember?” This voice was a little effeminate.
“True.”
“Nothing for six years and then drop everything and get to the station.”
“You know how it is. Don’t ask questions, just do as you’re told.”
“I know.”
“At least they’ll be pleased. We got one of them.”
“But not the one they want. You believe what she said?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Look, there was just the two of us and we only just got there in time. I think, given the circumstances, they should be pleased.”
“It’s Bachman, though. You know what they say about him.”
“Half of that is just gossip. Legend.”
“That still leaves the other half. All I know is, he’s a bad man. And he’s got them running around like this, running his errands.”
“Must be true, then, right?”
“What must?”
“What they said. That he’s got operational data. That’s what he’s holding over Victor.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, he’s not someone I want to disappoint.”
“Fuck him,” the first man said. “We deliver the woman to them, and we’re done. Back to normality like none of this happened. How long can we keep her here with the kids?”
“Won’t be very long. I was thinking, until they pick her up, you could take them camping for the weekend. I’ll come when they’ve come to collect her.”
“I guess.”
“I’m thirsty. I need a beer. You want one?”
Milton looked up. There was a big American-style refrigerator adjacent to the end of the island. If the beers were in the fridge, whoever came to get them was going to see him. There was no way he would be able to leave the kitchen without being seen. There was only one possible outcome now: confrontation. He pressed himself tight up against the edge of the unit, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline as his body readied itself for action.
He heard the sound of someone approaching, the sound of shoes on the floor.
Milton held his breath as the man came into view from around the side of the island. It was the man who had taken Matilda. He was still talking, his head angled back in the direction from which he had approached, and, as he reached out for the handle of the big unit, Milton knew that he wouldn’t see him in time. He pressed up and out, closed the short distance between in a single stride, grabbed the man’s left shoulder with his left hand and took a fistful of his hair with his right. He powered the man’s forehead against the metal door. He felt the man’s legs go weak, and, as he dropped him to the floor, he looked up to see his colleague.
He was on the other side of the island, ten feet away. Slim, of slighter build than Milton and thirty pounds lighter. He was next to the block of knives, and, before Milton could get to him, his hand whiplashed to the side and yanked out a cleaver.
He raised it and came forward.
Milton stepped back, over the first man’s recumbent body, and saw a rack of saucepans suspended above the range. He reached up for one and took it down as the second man rushed him, swinging the cleaver in a wide right-handed swipe. Milton brought the saucepan up and blocked his swing, the impact ringing out. Milton noticed that the man’s stance was excellent, his weight evenly distributed between his feet so that he would have optimal balance. He had certainly seen some training in his time; he wouldn’t underestimate him.
The man switched the cleaver between his hands, trying to keep Milton guessing and off guard. He came forward, backing Milton away from the island, and swung the cleaver again. Milton blocked it a second time and, using the brief moment that the man needed to readdress himself, hopped forward, grabbed the man’s wrist, thrust his elbow into his gut, and, reaching his right hand between the man’s legs, lifted him up onto his shoulders and then crashed him down again, dropping him onto the table near the sliding door. The man slammed down onto it, the glass shattering and the sudden weight buckling the legs, the metal screeching and scraping against the tiles as the man bounced off it and landed on the floor.
