Stop Looking

by A C Praat

  Dr. Astrid Lyon.

  Astrid – the woman who had been talking to Mishra on Wednesday? She must be Mishra’s contact. A slim face, mousy-blond hair pulled up into a topknot, pale blue eyes that were wistful, even sad. She was a contrast to the beaming photos of her colleagues. Brett filed Astrid’s office number and her email address in his head. When the staff loop was complete Brett read the flyers on the corkboard opposite the reception window. Exam timetables, enrolments for next year …

  Dr. Mishra McKenzie, Fireside Chat, eSocSci,

  Tuesday 14 November, 11.00 am.

  Details of how to register for the virtual event followed. Brett was tempted to rip it off the corkboard, but the kids were still lounging on the chairs, blocking his access. The boy had closed his eyes, but his boot jiggled against his knee and the girl was picking her nails. Move, he sent them silently. It didn’t work. Something more proactive.

  Brett leaped over the back of the empty seat between the boy and corkboard, then stretched and dropped his arm along the back of the boy’s chair.

  The boy bolted upright. ‘Hey, man.’

  Brett stared at him through his sunglasses, but didn’t move.

  ‘Perv!’ The girl clambered to her feet. She cast a quick glance at the office window – still unattended. ‘Come on, Johnny.’

  Brett smiled and stood up as they stomped off. He snatched the flyer from the wall and turned his attention to reception. The sliding glass windows were locked. A slit, wide enough to stuff his letter through, formed where the two windows intersected. What were the chances of somebody pinching the letter if he wedged it in there? The clock on the wall inside the receptionist’s office showed 12.27pm. Three minutes until the receptionist returned. Down the hall, the entrance to the building was clear. It seemed Fridays weren’t a busy day for the department. On the other side of the wall, muffled footsteps were tracking toward the door into the receptionist’s office. Then a key scraped into a lock. Brett jammed the letter through the slit in the windows and strode toward the entrance of the building. Hopefully Mishra would receive the warning and give up her search.

  How likely was that?

  The wind caught his cap as he exited the building and he crammed it down on his head, not liking the answer.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Brett was sharing the elevator to his serviced apartment, located just down the road from the university, with a bloke who seemed familiar. Usually Brett was good at faces but he couldn’t place this one. Maybe it was the man’s bearing: hands locked behind his back, the stare, dead front and center, an ‘at ease’ stance, but edged with the suppressed energy of a tiger ready to spring. He came up to Brett’s chin – about average height – and his hair was closely cropped. When Brett stepped out of the elevator on the third floor the man followed suit. The hairs on the back of Brett’s neck raised in warning as Brett approached his door and applied his swipe card to the scanner. Nothing happened. He swiped again. No answering click.

  The man was leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, his arms folded, watching. Brett cursed. The reception desk downstairs wasn’t attended all the time, but there was a number to ring.

  ‘We’ve been upgraded.’ The man’s voice was flat with an accent Brett couldn’t place, not without listening to him further.

  Brett glanced up. The man was staring at him.

  Dickhead. Ignoring him, Brett tried the swipe card one last time.

  ‘Like I said.’

  Brett strode to the elevator and hit the down button, surveilling the man from the corner of his eye.

  The man strolled to within an arm’s length of where Brett waited. ‘Hebden sent me.’

  Hebden? Brett turned and peered down at him. Pale-blue eyes stared back out of an even paler face. Brett thought of the translucent sea creatures he’d seen in a documentary about life in the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, and suppressed a shudder. What was Hebden up to?

  ‘Sauers,’ he said, but didn’t offer his hand.

  ‘I haven’t heard –’

  ‘Check.’

  Brett pulled out his phone. There was one new text message. ‘An assistant for the entomology project.’

  Hebden didn’t trust Brett to finish the job? Fuck it. Once again, he was hanging with his arse in the breeze, Hebden thrusting the message home: he wasn’t good enough.

  Or maybe Hebden thought he was too good; too concerned about the political consequences of the mission. Either way, he’d have to rethink his options.

  Sauers extended his arm, which in other circumstances would have seemed gracious, indicating Brett should go ahead of him back up the corridor. At the door beyond Brett’s apartment, Sauers swiped them in. ‘Second bedroom, middle door. Your gear is on the bed.’

  ‘What did you tell reception?’

  ‘That I was your boyfriend.’ A smile twitched Sauers’ lips, then was gone. ‘Your swipe card is on the bench.’

  Freakin’ wise guy. Brett picked up his swipe card and glanced around the kitchen – the same as his original apartment – chrome and black – which gave onto a small living room, also monochromatic – black leather furniture, grey carpet – all subdued in the afternoon light which was falling through the floor to ceiling windows. Very modern. New carpet smell lingered in the air. Three doors hemmed in the short hallway. On the right was the bathroom, ahead was his bedroom. The third door was open. On the queen size bed, a suitcase displayed its contents. A dull orange item caught Brett’s eye as he walked past.

  In the second bedroom, Brett found his bag, the briefcase and his laptop, all intact. He hadn’t had time to unpack after his flight this morning.

  Sauers appeared at the door. ‘We need food. You can update me while we walk.’

  Brett’s irritation ratcheted up to punch-this-guy-in-the-face level. Who was he, turning up and ordering Brett around? Brett wasn’t going to do anything else until he’d checked his secure mail. He set up his laptop and waited for it to connect while Sauers leaned in the doorway, watching him.

  There was a message from Hebden directing Brett to co-operate with Sauers. He’d been fully briefed and would be able to apply a fix to the bee problem. Brett rubbed his eyes. A fix? What did that mean exactly? Apart from his instructions, the message gave no background about Sauers at all. As usual, Hebden was keeping him on a short lead with minimal information.

  Brett glanced at Sauers. Their interactions so far suggested that Sauers and Hebden were cut from the same cloth, apart from the flicker of dry humor Sauers had exhibited earlier. Brett ground his back teeth and considered his bank account. If he quit now, how long would his savings last? Maybe he could become a private investigator – do away with all the hierarchy bullshit, choose his own cases. The thought lifted his spirits a little. You always had a choice.

  ‘Hebden thought it would be easier for me to trail the targets. An unknown face.’

  Sauers was more forthcoming than Hebden. That was good. And he was right. Of the two of them, Sauers was much less conspicuous, and he was an unknown to Philip and Mishra and her friends. Damn it.

  ‘Food?’ said Sauers. ‘There’s a market not too far.’

  Brett nodded.

  But with Sauers hanging around the options of whether, when or how to deploy the bees was gone, or at least narrowed considerably. He’d hoped to produce evidence that Mishra had given up her search within the next couple of days. Then he could focus on Philip himself, or give up the mission for lost. That would be the safest option.

  Sauers sauntered up the hallway and waited by the front door.

  Hebden was closing the net. Brett needed to decide if he would stay in the water.

  * * *

  They split a chicken and salad for dinner. Sauers was ex-military; now a security contractor. It turned out they’d both done a stint in Iraq, posted at different times. Sauers hadn’t talked about their current mission in the forty-five-minute trip to the market – which impressed Brett. It wasn’t
professional to talk about work where there was the chance of being overheard.

  Security consultancy was starting to sound quite appealing after the second beer. There was just the small matter of Brett’s hemophobia which had relegated him to the back office after his first live mission. The irony of having a blood and guts job while being allergic to the sight of blood wasn’t lost on Brett. It was his dirty little secret. Secret at least from Sauers, and he intended to keep it that way. During dinner Brett noticed Sauers’ gloves – similar to surgical gloves, but thinner, less rubbery looking. Sauers didn’t remove them when he ate. Brett wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  Time to turn the conversation to their mission. ‘Hebden says you can fix the bees.’

  Sauers did his half-smirk thing that Brett now recognised as wry amusement, and nodded.

  ‘I think Mishra – the girlfriend – is about ready to give up the search.’

  Sauers raised his eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s come to Wellington. All the intelligence to date suggests that if Templeton is still alive he’s in the Northland region.’

  ‘You think he’s dead?’

  Brett shrugged. ‘If he was still alive he would have contacted her by now.’

  ‘They could have arranged to meet down here. He must know about her plans for the summer.’

  ‘Everything I’ve heard indicates Mishra – not just her, her friends too – haven’t a clue where he is. Or why he came as far as New Zealand to jump ship.’

  Sauers stood up and cleared his plate from the table. ‘What time tomorrow is her flight?’

  ‘Fourteen hundred hours.’

  ‘She is interested in philosophy?’ Sauers sounded casually curious.

  Brett shrugged. What kind of a question was that? ‘Possibly, yes, I’d say so. Why do you ask?’

  Sauers ignored his question. ‘Show me the bees.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  New Zealand seemed to specialize in airports that threatened to sling you into the sea. And the wind! The cabin had burst into spontaneous applause as they bumped onto the tarmac, and Mishra had been thrown forward into her seatbelt when the pilot stomped on the brakes to avoid sliding into the harbour at the far end of the runway.

  Astrid was waiting for Mishra at the gate, her blond hair caught in a ponytail and her lean frame swathed in corduroy and scarves. She beamed at Mishra and folded her into a bony embrace. ‘So glad you’re here! Sorry about the wind – looked a bit dodgy coming in.’

  Mishra half-listened to Astrid as they walked through the airport to the luggage carousel and half-admired the Lord of the Ring touches that still decorated the space. She’d loved those movies – the elven kingdoms at least. And there was Smaug winking at her as she waited for her luggage to arrive. If she’d been paying more attention she’d have seen him. ‘Oh!’

  The man she’d crashed into – not a man, a monk, with shaved head and billowing orange cassock – stooped to retrieve his books that had scattered over the floor next to the carousel. Other travelers were tripping and dancing over them.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Mishra bent to help him. Why didn’t she just look where she was going? But then, why didn’t he! ‘Sorry.’ She handed the monk his books.

  ‘No problem. Please, you take?’ He offered Mishra a book and smiled at her.

  Where was he from? His accent suggested English wasn’t his first language. His skin was pale and his eyes an unusual light blue.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘All right. Thank you.’ She shoved the book into her shoulder bag and blinked a smile at the monk, then stepped past him, swerving her wheelie bag through the other passengers to where Astrid was waiting for her well away from the crowd.

  They were sitting in Astrid’s old beamer in the covered carpark when Astrid mentioned a letter.

  ‘Came care of the department.’ She wrestled the letter out of her briefcase. ‘Here.’

  Mishra’s heart started an a-rhythmic patter, as if it had dislodged itself and was stuck in her throat. Her name and the departmental address were typed onto the front. There was no sender’s address, or postmark either. Should she open it here in front of Astrid? What if it was Philip? What would she do?

  Mishra smiled brightly. ‘Looks like admin – it can wait.’

  Astrid was watching her carefully.

  ‘Thanks for bringing it out for me.’

  ‘No problem. Thought we might stop for a bite to eat before we drive over to the Wairarapa. It’s just under two hours through the ranges – not a drive for the fainthearted.’

  ‘Sounds great!’ Nothing in this country was for the fainthearted. The memory of those bizarre insects swarming round her head on the beach made her shudder.

  They crawled out through the airport gates and Astrid chatted about her work. She had an invitation to speak at a conference in Copenhagen later in the year, which she was looking forward to, being of a mind to take a break from New Zealand altogether.

  At a roundabout they turned right and scooted along a narrow road on the inside of the harbour – the sea on one side, a bank of leafy hills on the other. Across the harbour a headland seamed with houses jutted into the water, and beyond that, downtown Wellington and the wharves were carved out of steep hills descending into the inner harbour. It felt wilder than Northland, harder and more vital, a perfect foil for Mishra’s buttoned-down anticipation. What was in the letter?

  Now they were driving through a scattering of old wooden barracks in various states of repair.

  ‘Being converted to art studios,’ Astrid said as they rounded a corner and stopped. The café sat behind a wooden fence, tucked beneath a bushy hill. Sculptures were dotted amongst picnic tables and Mishra could smell the smoky-sweet aroma of a barbecue.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Astrid asked as they perused the chalkboard.

  ‘Fritters, please.’ Mishra smiled at her. ‘I’m just going to pop to the bathroom.’

  Mishra shut the door on her cubicle and sat on top of the closed toilet, rustling through her bag. She tried to unstick the lip of the envelope from the back, but it tore into thin strips. Frustrated, she ripped it open along the top and peered inside.

  Stop looking.

  She started to tremble, glad she was already seated. What did it mean? Stop looking. Somebody knew where Philip was? They didn’t want him found? Tears sprang to her eyes. Or he didn’t want to see her?

  She read the message again.

  No, that wasn’t what it said. Where was he? Had Roberts already found him? Was he even now spiriting Philip back to Australia to face charges? She shook her head. No – his father couldn’t have found him so quickly. Though they’d agreed it could have been Roberts who alerted the police to the disappearance of the kayaker, and it also could have been him on the yacht. How he’d homed in on Northland so soon was a mystery.

  A tap on the door. ‘Mishra? Are you okay?’

  Mishra turned and flushed the toilet. ‘Yes. That landing unsettled my stomach. I’ll be out in a second.’ She rifled through her bag again for her new prepay phone and texted an emoji with a straight mouth to Ra. That signaled no movement on the Philip front. Not strictly true. She couldn’t think how to abbreviate the rest of the message in a hurry; that would have to wait for later.

  ‘My goodness, you do look pale,’ Astrid said as Mishra joined her at picnic table outside.

  The sun was out. Mishra shoved her seat into the shade of the umbrella and put on her sunglasses. Her Thai fish fritters gleamed at her from a wide white plate. She drew in a breath, fighting down the clutch of nausea.

  ‘Bad news?’ Astrid asked.

  Mishra stared at her. What could she say?

  ‘Sorry to pry,’ Astrid said. ‘That letter seemed to have upset you.’

  No point in lying to a fellow psychologist. ‘How could they have found me so fast?’

  ‘Your university out-of-office message says you are on sabbatical here.’

  She’d forgotten about
that. One mystery solved. ‘It’s about a friend who is –’ Mishra sliced her fishcake and shoved a forkful into her mouth, covering her lack of explanation.

  ‘Yes?’

  Mishra frowned as she swallowed. She didn’t remember Astrid being so nosy. ‘They’re fine. Just got themselves into a tricky situation.’

  ‘Is it Philip?’

  Mishra clattered her cutlery onto her plate. ‘Did you see the headlines?’

  Astrid dropped her gaze onto her chocolate cake. ‘Yes. And I couldn’t help noticing the “probably” slipped into the text. The military man – Hebden? He was reported as saying “probably took his own life” although he does later talk about the “tragedy”. Leaves room for interpretation.’

  Trust Astrid, a discourse analyst like herself, to pay attention to the detail. Well, she could wonder all she liked, Mishra wasn’t going to tell her. Coming here might have been a mistake if she was going to suffer this much scrutiny. ‘They pretty much told his mother and me he was dead. So no, the letter isn’t about Philip. It’s someone else.’

  ‘Oh.’ Astrid leaned back in her seat and gave her attention to the people lunching at the table next door. ‘I am sorry. I just thought – wouldn’t it be great if …’

  Mishra sent her an impotent death stare through her sunglasses. ‘If he were still alive? Yes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Astrid said again in a small voice.

  Mishra shrugged. If she was going to spend the next couple of months in Astrid’s company, she’d have to learn to like her. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Wait till you see this place in the Wairarapa – it’s fabulous! Bit out of the way, but it has its own olive grove and a view over the plains to the Tararuas. It even has its own wee turret and a few sheep to keep the grass down.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ Mishra said. ‘Who did you say it belonged to?’

  ‘A friend.’ Astrid laughed. ‘Okay, an ex-boyfriend. He won’t be bothering you. Lives the next block over – but he runs the orchard. You might see him poking round in the trees.’

  Mishra’s heart sank. An ex of Astrid’s who poked around in the trees? And sheep? And out of town? She hadn’t been planning on driving. She may as well have left all her city clothes at home. The backs of her heels were still sporting plasters from her searches for Philip. ‘Does it have Wi-Fi?’