by Angus McLean
Moore left that alone. Politics weren’t his game and held little interest for him. He knew what he believed and had realised a long time ago that no politician would ever have the guts to implement the sort of policy he favoured.
‘What about Nat?’ he asked. ‘Was she political at all?’
Jules snorted. ‘With her old man?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. In fact, she hated politics.’
Moore sat back and tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘So why didn’t you go to Turkey with her?’
Jules was silent for a bit, as if considering his response. ‘We agreed she would go on her own,’ he said.
‘Agreed?’ Moore said. ‘Or you didn’t want to go?’
Jules said nothing, just shifted his gaze away and chewed his lip.
‘Why didn’t you want to go, Jules?’ Moore kept his body language relaxed, but his tone was softly insistent. ‘Maybe if you’d been there she wouldn’t be missing.’
Jules’ eyes flashed as he turned back. ‘Don’t you think I know that? Fuck!’ He stood abruptly and stalked to the kitchen. ‘I know that, okay! It wasn’t me…she didn’t want me to go. Okay?’
Moore nodded his acceptance of that, satisfied that he was now getting somewhere. ‘Why not? Why go to a place like that on your own, especially a blonde white girl?’
‘I know.’ Jules took a breath and ran his hand through his hair again. ‘I said all that to her, but she was dead set on it. Said it was something she had to do herself.’
Moore mulled that over for a moment. ‘What exactly was she going to do, then? Was it something other than just a sightseeing trip?’
‘I dunno, man.’ Jules shook his head ruefully. ‘I really don’t know.’
Moore stood now, sliding his hands into his pockets and keeping his demeanour calm. ‘Things were okay between you then? Even with her keeping secrets from you?’
Jules was silent again, his head down with his hair falling over his face, and Moore waited. He thought he saw a tremor run through the younger man’s shoulders then heard a choked sniff.
Moore grimaced. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a crying angst-ridden artist. He waited some more.
Jules raised his head, swept the hair from his face and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Moore grimaced to himself again.
‘We broke up, okay?’ Jules turned wet eyes to him, his lip still quivering. ‘Happy now? We broke up and she buggered off to “find herself,” okay?’
Moore said nothing. God, it wasn’t like he’d been shot.
‘I take it that it was her call then? No indication it was coming?’
Jules looked away, sniffing some more. ‘Not a clue,’ he choked.
It looked like the dam had broken. Moore figured he’d reached the end of the road for today. He tucked the laptop and charger under his arm, and made for the back door. Jules was still in the kitchen, leaning his hip against the bench and crying softly.
Moore paused, feeling like he should say something to console him. Nothing came to him, so he nodded instead and left.
He didn’t have much to say to a crying man.
Chapter Eight
Ari Khanna was an IT specialist whose main duties involved keeping the High Commission’s systems running as they should.
He was also a highly skilled digital forensic expert and Moore regularly used him when his own limited knowledge ran short. He found the slightly built, bespectacled young man hunched over his desk examining the disassembled pieces of a cell phone. Ari looked up sharply when a Twix bar landed beside him. He was addicted to three things – gadgets, sugar and Asian porn. Moore went with chocolate today.
‘To what do I owe the honour?’ Ari asked, sitting back and eyeing the chocolate warily.
His nose twitched and he pushed his glasses up onto the bridge.
‘What’re you up to?’ Moore asked, slipping the laptop and charger onto the desk surface beside the Twix.
Ari glanced at the Nokia in front of him then back at Moore.
‘I’m trying to sort out a phone,’ he said, ‘what the shit does it look like?’
Moore had learned long ago that the normally mild-mannered Ari swore when he was under pressure, but usually got his expletives wrong. He suppressed a smile and shrugged nonchalantly. Not everybody could be a world class swearer.
‘Pretty much like that,’ he said. He gestured at the laptop. ‘Reckon you could crack into that for me, check for emails or downloads or whatever it is you do?’
Ari didn’t even look at the HP.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Does a bear fuck in the forest?’
Moore fought to keep a straight face.
‘Probably,’ he said. ‘How soon could you have a look?’
Ari sighed and waved at the disassembled phone. Moore realised now that it was broken, rather than pulled apart. Pieces of the handset were scuffed and cracked.
‘Today?’ Ari said. ‘This can wait. It’s personal, anyway. Besides, your buddy McGregor’s a wanker.’
‘McGregor?’ Moore cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’re you doing for him? That’s not his phone.’
Like everyone, McGregor had the latest iPhone from the company.
Ari slid the HP and charger onto his lap and checked it for damage.
‘No.’ He shifted it onto the worktop at right angles to his desk, alongside a tablet and another laptop. He glanced around conspiratorially and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s his wife’s.’ Another look around and Moore felt his pulse quicken. ‘He reckons she’s having it off with someone on the side.’
Moore’s gut dropped to his boots.
‘Really?’ he managed. ‘How come?’
Ari shrugged.
‘Dunno. He just brought this to me and asked me to check it out. Must be her booty phone.’ He grinned and pushed his glasses up his nose again. ‘I’m presuming he broke it when he found it. He was pretty wound up when he brought it to me.’
‘When was that?’ Moore’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he tried to play it casual. ‘I haven’t really seen him today.’
‘Just before.’ Ari’s eyes narrowed. ‘How come you’re so interested, anyways?’
Moore shrugged.
‘Like you said, he’s a wanker. Couldn’t blame his missus for stepping out.’
‘I know, yeah?’ Ari’s face lit up and he chuckled. ‘And she’s some hot arse, bro. I’d tap that I tell you!’
It all sounded wrong coming from Ari, who was neither street nor a lady killer of any sort, but Moore rolled with it. He laughed awkwardly and turned to go.
‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you know where to find me.’
‘You got it, brother,’ Ari called after him, watching him go.
Moore stopped to get a coffee from the machine before heading back to his office. It was late in the day and desks were beginning to empty out. He was deep in thought by the time he got back and closed his door. It wasn’t good that McGregor suspected something, not good at all. Moore had no doubt that Ari would find what he was looking for and then a shit ton of pain would come down on all of them.
Despite McGregor’s personality defects Moore didn’t wish him any actual harm. For the hundredth time in the last few months he gave himself a mental uppercut for being so stupid. It wasn’t the first time that thinking with his little head had got him in trouble, but he swore to himself it would be the last.
He was too old for this bullshit. There was a good chance that he would get the boot from the Service if it was proven he’d been screwing a colleague’s wife – or at least shifted sideways from his plum role in London.
He imagined himself sitting in a crappy office somewhere in South East Asia or Africa or, God forbid, Canberra. He shuddered at the thought. He had to figure a way to prevent that data reaching McGregor, and that left only two options; either intercepting it without Ari’s knowledge, or going direct to Ari himself.
He was weighing the two options up wh
en there was a tap at his door and it opened. The Beautiful People entered Moore’s office. Vince and Ngawai Masoe were married, both about Moore’s age, and they worked down the corridor. Both were Intelligence Officers using the covers of working for Immigration.
They had taken him under their wing when he first arrived in town, showing him around and having him over for dinner. He had given them their nickname, which he suspected they secretly liked despite their outward protestations and eye rolling.
Vince was a stocky half Samoan with broad shoulders and a big chest. His jet black hair was laced with silver and clipped short. At one time he had been a provincial rugby player on the fringes of the mighty Auckland team of the early nineties, before he nearly had his head taken off in a club game and dislocated his neck. He still played in a so-called social team, although his dreams of making the big time were now long gone.
His sporto image belied a sharp intellect and he was a skilled agent runner. In a former life he had been a police officer, where his talents with informants had been recognised on a joint op, resulting in him switching agencies.
His wife Nga was the longer serving of the two officers, and liked to remind Vince of the fact that he was her “junior.” She had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and wore dark-rimmed glasses. Her demure office attire failed to disguise her toned legs and womanly curves, but anyone who took an unhealthy interest had a second think coming.
Nga Masoe regularly boxed with her husband and was no stranger to sorting out issues herself. She had initially been recruited direct from university, but had shown her force of character by declining the offer until she had completed her full immersion Maori studies.
Once inside the Service she had gone on to specialise in languages, and was now fluent in three further tongues.
‘What time’re you knocking off bruv?’ Vince asked. ‘We’re going for a trot if you’re keen.’
A trot to Vince was more like a ten k run followed by a pint at the nearest Wetherspoons. Tempting as it always was to see Nga in her active wear, Moore knew he had a fire to put out.
‘Better pass, bruv,’ he replied, using the mock English term they had picked up for each other. ‘Got a job on. Besides, you ran me ragged last time. I can’t keep up with you anymore, mate.’
‘Jeez, don’t tell him that,’ Nga said, pulling a face, ‘he’s got a big enough head already.’ She gave her husband a cheeky grin. ‘Looks like you’ll just have to raise a sweat with me, dear.’
Vince cocked an eyebrow. ‘Gimme half a chance, girl.’
Nga blushed and slapped his arm before backing out the door. ‘Whatever, Junior.’
Vince shrugged expressively as if he was hard done by and followed her, shooting Moore with a finger gun before closing the door behind them.
Moore stared at the door once they had gone, looking but not seeing. He envied them what they had. It seemed that a solid marriage these days was a rare beast.
His own had failed before the ink was barely dry on the certificate, and the only good thing to come out of it had been Danni. He’d come close since but never sealed the deal. There was always something else going on, some other priority pulling him in another direction. And now here he was, the wrong side of forty and banging the wife of a colleague, putting his career at risk in the process.
Moore wondered if he could sink any lower, and the thought seemed to darken his mood even further. He stood and turned to the window behind his desk, his hands in his pockets. The office wasn’t so large that he had to actually walk to it, more just step aside from the chair and turn. At least he had a view of sorts though. He wondered if the pleasure he took from having a view was just another sign that he was getting soft.
Below the High Commission, people and vehicles bustled about. Worker bees, tourists, shoppers, flotsam and jetsam bobbing busily on the tide of life in the big smoke.
Moore found the view therapeutic, helping his mind switch off and meander where it wanted, following random paths with seemingly no meaning at all, until eventually a destination was reached and whatever problem he had been mulling over had some kind of an answer. Sometimes right, sometimes wrong, but always a place to start unravelling the knot.
His mind turned from the McGregor problem back to the job at hand. He disliked politicians on principle, simply because the majority of them seemed to have bugger-all life experience outside university and the Beehive. No life experience that qualified them to make the heavy decisions they made.
The fact that Oldham’s daughter had gone off the radar would be no big deal if she wasn’t a minister’s kid. Had Oldham been a dairy farmer from the Waikato or a teacher from Timaru, nobody would give a shit. Problem was, he was a senior politician, and politicians pulled the strings of the civil service. Moore was just another puppet to him, a marionette made to dance by the puppet masters, the faceless drones in the background who made things happen.
‘Screw it,’ he muttered to himself, turning away from the window.
Brooding wasn’t getting the job done. He turned his mind to the day’s events, systematically working through what he had learned and who he had met. More than anything else, Moore focussed on the people. He had always believed that what was said was often less valuable than how it was put across. The unsaid word spoke volumes. He liked to dissect mannerisms and characteristics of the people he met.
Paul Oldham himself seemed genuine enough, for a career politician. He was obviously seriously worried about his daughter – probably as much for her as the potential embarrassment for his career, Moore thought cynically.
His assistant, Tristan, was a slimy little toad. A typical sycophant, a parasite feeding off the main man, buzzing round like a protector of some sort. He had the sort of arrogance that such people always carried, as if they themselves were someone because they were with somebody who was. Moore had taken an instant dislike to him, not helped by the snooty assistant’s jibe about the E-Type.
Jules was very much playing the part of the tortured artist, wracked by angst and shackled by the constraints of a society that neither understood nor appreciated his individuality, but he also seemed pretty genuine beneath the pretentiousness.
He was distracted by the buzz of an incoming text on his cell. It was his contact at MI5, wanting to meet. Jedi had been on the money. He crooked a grin to himself.
He was always happy to meet her.
Chapter Nine
It was 3pm by the time Moore stepped off Regent Street into Liberty.
He made his way through the department store to the café, where he found his contact already waiting at a table for two.
He smiled as he approached and she stood to give him a quick peck on the cheek before sitting again.
Sarah O’Loughlin looked like what she was; a mid-forties mother of two teenage boys, constantly harassed and running late, and always wearing last year’s outfits.
She was also a long serving Intelligence Officer with the Security Service, and was very good at it. She had been one of the first contacts Moore made when he took the London posting, and fortunately she remembered meeting him several years prior when he was on an attachment to Hereford. In her motherly way she had provided a steady guiding hand as he found his feet – as much as an officer from another service could, and probably a bit more besides.
Moore had nothing but admiration for her.
‘Good to see you, Locky,’ he said, draping his jacket over the back of his chair before sitting.
Sarah smiled. ‘You know you’re the one person who calls me that?’
‘You know you’re the one person I ever have high tea with?’ he returned with a grin.
She shrugged. ‘Being married for twenty years, it’s the only time I ever get taken out,’ she said, ‘so I’ll take what I can get, even if the firm’s paying for it.’
Moore didn’t bother checking the menu. ‘I take it you’ve already ordered for us?’
‘Of course.’ She glanced around the café,
which was about half full. ‘How’re things at Haymarket?’
‘Same old.’ Moore gave a shrug. ‘You know what it’s like. I had a refresher which was hard, good catch up though.’
‘Boys and their toys.’ Sarah smiled at him across the narrow table. Her eyes were hazel, but the right one had a tiny brown spot in it, some kind of an irregularity that he had never asked about. Her hair was short and tidy, dark brown with warm streaks to help camouflage the greys coming through.
‘Aside from that just the normal stuff you already know about,’ he said with a shrewd look, knowing full well that the Firm were very well informed about anything going on in their patch. Sarah flicked an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘I’m glad this job’s come up, at least it’ll get me out of the office for a while.’
‘Hmm.’ Sarah paused and waited while a waitress delivered their afternoon tea – a pot of English Breakfast and a 3-tier plate of food. Beautiful sweets, delicate sandwiches and perfect scones with strawberry jam and cream.
Moore waited until she had selected a red velvet cupcake with frosting, before helping himself to a ham sandwich. They ate in silence for a minute while the tea steeped. Moore had never heard of “steeping” before his first high tea with Sarah.
‘So,’ Sarah said, delicately slicing off a piece of cupcake. ‘How’s the love life?’
Moore pulled a face and chewed. ‘What love life?’ he said. ‘So much time, so few opportunities.’ He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘Why, are you putting yourself back on the market?’
‘Fat chance.’ She popped the piece of red velvet into her mouth. ‘I heard a whisper that someone’s wife is being fairly indiscreet.’
‘Really?’ Moore raised an enquiring eyebrow, wondering how the hell she had heard that. Haymarket was obviously leaking like a broken sieve. ‘Who’s that then?’
She studied him for a long moment across the table. ‘Mrs McGregor, I hear.’
Moore said nothing. He picked up the pot and began to pour her tea. ‘Wow. You do have good sources. Better than me I’m afraid, Locky.’
