The Jagged Edge

by AJ Frazer

  Dominic didn’t wait for a response; he left Julian staring open-mouthed as he closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fairoaks Airfield was quiet when they arrived. The sun was shining, though a bitter northerly wind kept the temperature cool. When Dominic climbed out of the car, he went to the driver’s side window of the Merc where Alex lowered the glass. “I want you to stay at the estate for the next week and keep an eye on things. Can you do that? Jacs will be staying there too.”

  “Yeah, of course, chief. No problem. Anything I should be aware of? Looks like some interesting renovations you’ve been doin’ there.”

  “Ah, no. Just ensure no one else comes onto the property and that Jacs stays safe.”

  He saw Jacqueline standing by the plane. She wore a light-tan Burberry trench coat over black pants and a white shirt. Despite her brown hair being pulled back in a ponytail, wisps of it were being lashed against her face by the wind.

  “Morning, Dom!” she called. “All the arrangements are made as discussed. Now, care to explain what the hell is going on?”

  “Not now, Jacs, please. Can you do me a favor and stay at the estate for the next few days—just until I’m back? It would mean a great deal to me. Alex will be there too, but I’d prefer to have you there in case I need anything while I’m away.”

  Jacqueline grimaced—against the wind as much as the request. “Sure, of course. I’ll pick up a few things from home and head right over.”

  “Alex will take you now. Later today Julian McBeth will be sending a security van over to the estate with rather a lot of money. Can you please ensure it is deposited in the safe?” He handed her a white envelope. “Here’s the combination and key. Burn the combination when you’re done.”

  “What the hell is—?”

  “Not now, Jacs! Go—please.”

  She nodded her resignation and started for the car. “All right, but let me know when you’ve landed! OK?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Dominic felt like a complete shit for not telling her or Alex about Biblical. But he had to draw a line somewhere, or else the news could easily spiral out to the public and create panic before anything had even happened.

  He looked over at the plane. Dax was loading bags into the cabin. The pilots were doing their pre-flight check in the cockpit. However, he had an awkward obstacle to overcome before he could reach the safety of the cabin. Blocking his path were Hale and two menacing looking goons in black suits. The goons looked clichéd, almost comical with their shaved heads, pumped-up muscles, and thousand-yard stares.

  He walked up to Hale. “So, where’s this memory stick?”

  “Here.” She threw the small USB to Dominic who caught it in one hand.

  “And I plug it in to any computer?”

  “That’s right.” Hale sank her hands back into the pockets of her long black overcoat.

  “Fine. Then what?”

  “Then nothing. See what you can do to stop Sagen, though I highly doubt you’ll have much luck. And then I suggest you get the hell out of there.”

  Dominic felt like a springbok eying a lurking jackal. “You know, you’re a hard person to trust, Ms. Hale.”

  She shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

  “So, if I plug this in, will a drone be unloading a missile at me thirty seconds later?”

  Hale let out a loud, short laugh. “Oh, Dominic, if only it were that easy. Don’t worry, if we wanted to blow you and Sagen up, we wouldn’t wait for you to pop a bloody USB stick into a computer.”

  Begrudgingly, he could see her point. “Fine then.”

  Hale turned to leave, the goons falling in behind obediently.

  “Dom! You gonna give me a hand, or just stand there holding your pecker?” called Dax.

  “Coming!” replied Dominic above the wind and the sound of the plane’s idling engines.

  Ten minutes later they were airborne, climbing to their cruising altitude far above the English Channel.

  Dominic spent most of the flight failing to find a single argument that might talk a man like Sagen out of doing anything, let alone walking away from the crowning achievement of his life’s mission. He looked over to Dax. The big Kiwi was stretched out and snoring faintly. Like all experienced mountain guides, Dax could sleep anywhere anytime regardless of how high the stakes were. Dominic was too tired to start a conversation with the aircrew and he figured the pilots were rotating their sleeps too. Resigned to staring out the window, he requested a large whisky and settled into his thoughts, again mulling over his options and desperately seeking the words that might cause Sagen to stop and reconsider. Nothing was coming to him, nothing remotely convincing enough to prompt reflection, let alone a change of heart. Two drinks later, sleep found him, fitful and fleeting but enough to reset the clock and give his mind a chance at coherent thought. Sixteen hours after take-off, one of the crew woke them both.

  “Mate, that was the best long-haul flight I’ve ever done,” said Dax, groggily. “Slept like a baby.”

  “No you didn’t. Babies don’t snore like that.”

  Dax snorted. “Sorry, mate. My nose has a mind of its own.”

  “Yes, a belligerent one.”

  “You get any kip? Judging by your mood, I’m guessing not.”

  Dominic sighed. “Not much. Still trying to think of what to do about Sagen.”

  “Not a lot you can say to a bloke like that. From what you told me last night, he’s a complete mental case. Words don’t work on people like that. Actions are what they listen to.”

  Dominic considered this for a moment. “Unfortunately, I have little to offer in that sense.”

  “Well then, I’ve always found when someone’s acting like a goose, a light jab to the end of the nose works a treat.”

  “Is that why you snore so much? Too many jabs to the nose?”

  “How about I give you one now?”

  “Settle down, we’re landing,” replied Dominic, smiling.

  Dax eased back in the seat and laughed.

  Dominic turned to look out the window. They had been over the Indian Ocean for the last few hours. The dark-blue water had an inky depth that looked bottomless. Suddenly, the gold beaches and red earth of Western Australia appeared below and the plane began its descent. The engines’ changing pitch and tone, and the wind rushing off the air brakes all signaled that they were close to their destination.

  The pilot’s voice came over the cabin speakers. “We’re about to fly over the Western Australian Solar Array, so you’ll need to lower your shades or put on sunglasses. The reflective glare is blinding.”

  “That thing is massive,” said Dax. “Generates enough power for central and Western Australia.”

  Dominic retrieved his sunglasses from a storage compartment in his chair. Looking out he saw the gray-and-silver ribbon stretching as far as he could see. It was indeed massive. Perhaps, thought Dominic, the world could get off its carbon addiction for energy.

  A short while later, they landed at Halls Creek uneventfully—the best kind of landing.

  He had done some research on Halls Creek on the flight over. The town had experienced a brief flash of notoriety when a prospector called Charlie Hall had found a monstrous 870-gram gold nugget in the area. The find drew thousands of people to the town, but the gold rush was short-lived, and three months later Halls Creek was virtually empty. It survived as a trading center for cattle—survived but never thrived. The Jaru and Kija Aboriginal people had lived in the region for over forty thousand years. A long time in anyone’s book. For roughly 39,850 of those years, the people of this land were peaceful and content to live off the land. Then in the late eighteen hundreds Europeans settled and things changed. The settlers were often cruel and merciless toward the original inhabitants. The town now had its fair share of social problems, driven largely by poverty and alcohol.

  Once the plane had stopped, and the engines were powering down, the aircrew opened the main door. Brin
ging Hale up to speed with events had the benefit of smoothing the way for Dominic and Dax to land there while bypassing Australian Border Control.

  “Hope you practiced your Australian. Don’t Aussies hate you Kiwis?”

  “Hate’s a bit strong. They just don’t like the fact that we’re better than them at everything. Especially rugby.”

  “You lot are better than everyone at rugby.”

  “Good point.”

  Dominic scoffed as he hunched his neck to walk down the cabin and out of the door. The heat greeted him like a well-placed uppercut. The midday sun was high in the sky, baking the land and anything stupid enough to be outside.

  “Christ, I thought it was winter here,” he said.

  Dax stepped down onto the tarmac. “Winter doesn’t visit these parts. Just wet or dry. As an Aussie mate said, ‘So hot you have to feed the chooks ice blocks, so they don’t lay hard-boiled eggs.’”

  Dominic was only half-listening. He was too surprised by the greenery: lush trees, bushes, and thick, coarse grass on the side of the airstrip. As they were flying in, everything had looked barren and desert-like. On the ground it was a different story, at least here in the town. The sky was the dominant feature, though. The eternal blue dome was completely cloudless. With no mountains, or even hills from what he could see, the expanse of the sky was limitless. For someone used to being surrounded either by buildings, trees, inclement weather, or mountains, the vastness of the blue made him feel vaguely vulnerable. Tiny. Futile.

  “Over here!” he called to Dax, having spotted an overweight man waving from beneath a crude terminal. Calling it a terminal was a stretch; it was essentially a large shelter with no walls, just a sheet-metal roof and concrete floor. Dominic and Dax walked over to the high steel fence that separated the terminal from the airstrip.

  “Mr. Elliston?” called the man.

  “That’s me.” Dominic held out his hand.

  The man was wearing a light-blue short-sleeved shirt, tan shorts and worn-out sports sandals wrapped around his purple, swollen feet. He had a huge belly that stretched the buttons of his shirt to breaking point. He shook Dominic’s hand.

  “G’day fellas, I’m Terry.” His accent was harsh and his speech slow. “I’m from Halls Creek Council. I look after tourism and development around these parts.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Dominic.

  “Your assistant asked me to come down,” said Terry. “I’ve got everything as requested.”

  “You’ve got the car we asked for?” asked Dax.

  “Yep, a Land Cruiser rental arrived this morning from Broome. Some kid drove here overnight. Nearly seven hundred clicks.”

  “OK, great, let’s go then,” said Dax impatiently.

  “All right, I’ll take you to the hotel and you can check in,” drawled Terry.

  Dominic and Dax headed for the Toyota and Terry went to his ute. Dominic could already feel the back of his shirt sticking to his skin. The moment Dax started the engine, it was if Dominic’s whole body sighed as the first blasts of cool air from the air-conditioning circulated the car. Feeling more human, they followed Terry out of the airstrip and turned onto a wide street. The road was rough with potholes, and old rotting fibro houses were dotted along the road. Wild dogs scavenged among overgrown grass. The town had definitely seen better days.

  Dominic settled in for the drive, but after less than a minute, Terry had taken a right-hand turn into the driveway of the Kimberley Hotel.

  “We’re here,” said Dax incredulously.

  “We could have walked here quicker,” remarked Dominic.

  Dax pulled in behind Terry’s ute. An incongruously old cast iron streetlamp stood beside the path in the red clay. They got out and walked to the small office. Once they had checked in, Dominic and Dax went to their neighboring rooms to drop off their bags.

  Inside, Dominic looked around. The air conditioner strained against the ambient heat but did a good enough job of keeping the room bearable. There were red clay tiles on the floors—in case you hadn’t had enough of the ubiquitous red clay outside. The walls were horizontal pinewood slats to halfway up before cream-painted chipboard took over. Not his usual standard of accommodation, but hardly a concern in the circumstances. Lumping his bag on the single bed, he changed his shirt and went back out.

  They headed to the hotel’s sports bar, which was in a separate building on the grounds. It was essentially a tin box on the covered veranda just outside the main restaurant. Tucked into a corner, it had large shutter boards that hinged up when the bar was open. Rudimentary and utilitarian. Aesthetics were clearly not on the agenda.

  As they walked in, Dominic spotted the only other patrons—two big men sitting on stools nursing their beer glasses. They looked lifeless and miserable, brooding into their drinks. One of the men had his head hunched so low that from behind he looked decapitated. They both sat like stone statues. The harsh environment, poverty, minimal social support, and complete lack of hope were carved into their postures.

  Dominic and Dax went to the center of the bar and leaned up, waiting for service—which didn’t come. Finally, Dax went into the restaurant to find a barman. Dominic looked about, surveying the area. The heat on the veranda was still intense; the only saving grace was that the humidity was low.

  Dax came back and announced that someone was on their way. Shortly afterwards, a disinterested man with an overhanging belly ambled out of the restaurant. They ordered two pints of XXXX Gold.

  “So what now?” asked Dax, sipping his beer.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure to be honest. Sagen’s instructions were simple, but vague. He said someone would meet me here in two days’ time, which was two days ago.”

  “Then what?”

  “I assume they’ll take us to him.”

  “Unless he wanted you well out of the way while he got on with the action. I mean, we’re about as far from Europe as you can get.”

  Dominic hadn’t considered that scenario. “Perhaps, but it’s a bit elaborate. He could have just stopped calling me and I’d be as out of the way as much as I am down here.”

  “This guy gives me a headache,” said Dax.

  An Australian voice from behind surprised them. “Good to see ya sampling the local brew.” They both turned to see Terry’s ballooning belly swaying over on his stick-thin legs.

  “It’s a Queensland beer, isn’t it?” said Dax.

  “It’s Strayan, you bloody Kiwi!” snapped Terry, his voice straining.

  “Calm down, Terry, no need to get all high-pitched on us,” said Dax.

  Terry’s face was going puce. Before he could retort Dominic stepped in. “So, Terry, I’m supposed to be met here by someone today, know anything about that?” asked Dominic.

  Terry huffed and shrugged. “Nope. All I know is you had to be brought here and looked after.”

  “Consider your job done. Thank you, Terry.”

  “I thought perhaps you’d like a tour of the town, I can show you about the region—some huge mineral deposits nearby—or I can show you some of the asteroid craters. They’re fair dinkum amazin’.”

  “I’m sure they are, but we’re not here for sightseeing. Thank you for your assistance,” insisted Dominic.

  “Right. Fine then. I’ll leave you to it. Need anythin’, just give me a hoy on the blower.” Terry handed Dominic a dirty, creased business card.

  Dominic nodded and accepted it. “Thank you, Terry.” He pocketed the card. Terry turned and left them. “Not exactly the archetypal Aussie alpha male, is he?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That evening they dined early in the adjoining restaurant, a large space filled with chairs, but very few people.

  “Quiet night in Halls Creek,” said Dax, having laid waste to his rib-eye steak and chips.

  “Did I ever tell you about the dinner I had in Tanzania with a local warlord?”

  Dax shook his head. “Must have been some interesting chit-chat over dinn
er.”

  “Indeed. Akida Bakari was his name—a diabolical human being but, my God, the man was magnetic. Western-educated, built like Adonis, plangent voice, and brilliant taste in wine.”

  “Akida Bakari—one heck of a name.”

  “One heck of a man, in many ways. So there I was, having dinner with Akida, and it’s the two of us sitting at a vast table with this incredible food and the most sensational wine—nothing like this vinegar.” Dominic held up his glass and swirled the sour red liquid they were serving as wine in the restaurant.

  “All tastes the same to me. Except that drop of yours the other night. That was lovely. Might have to get myself a bottle of that at duty-free.”

  Dominic looked at Dax dumbfounded. “Ah, yeah. Good idea. Anyway, after dinner, Akida’s asking me relentlessly about my work, about being a foreign correspondent and covering conflicts. And I’m telling him my view of the atrocities and the sickening greed that drives politicians and warlords to commit such acts—in retrospect, perhaps not the smartest line of conversation. But Akida is smiling and nodding. He seemed genuinely interested in my views on the state of his country. Then, out of the blue, he lays an antique revolver on the table between us.”

  “Did you shit yourself?” said Dax.

  “Just about. So Akida continues to tell me how a British general had given it to his great-great-grandfather in the Anglo–Zulu War of the eighteen seventies. He’s telling me what a symbol of respect and honor it was to the family. Then he picks it up and points it in my face. Draws the hammer back, and I’m watching the chamber cycle around, hearing the clicks as it rotates, and I’m frozen in place. I’m screaming on the inside to run, hide, duck, do bloody something. But I sit there frozen, staring down the barrel of this gun.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And then, this charming, sophisticated man smiles and pulls the trigger. Click! Loudest click I’ve ever heard; my ears were ringing from it. It’s not loaded. My lizard brain is going ballistic—no fight, just flight.