‘That must have been a hell of a messy demolition job just for the odd skinny-dipper,’ Faith said. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to roof in the pool?’
Albris shook his head. ‘Explosive demolition,’ he said. ‘We blew it up on a Monday morning and the site was cleared by Thursday.’
‘I think I saw it on the news,’ Martin said. ‘The whole building just sort of fell in on itself. Must have been a heck of a big bang.’
‘Not really,’ Albris said. ‘The trick with explosives is not how big a charge you use, but exactly where you place it.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Faith said, smiling at Martin.
Tamila silently appeared bearing a dulang, a carved Balinese wooden stand used for temple offerings to the gods. It was stacked high with tropical fruit.
‘The mangosteens are particularly good at the moment,’ Albris suggested. ‘Just press two on any phone for the kitchen. It’s staffed twenty-four hours. Please feel free to order anything.’
‘Anything?’ Faith asked.
‘Anything,’ Albris responded.
‘How about a crème brûlée and a pot of coffee?’
Albris smiled. ‘Of course. Our chef uses a hint of ginger in his crème brûlée, which is quite intriguing. Today’s coffee is a double-A Yauco Selecto.’
‘Puerto Rican, and a damned fine coffee, I believe,’ Faith said. ‘I’m very impressed, Albris.’
Albris nodded. ‘We do try, madam,’ he said. ‘Rather than a brewed pot, which won’t really do justice to the beans, might I suggest an espresso, or perhaps a macchiato.’
‘A long macchiato is possible?’
‘Anything is possible, madam,’ Albris said evenly.
‘You don’t agree with the long macchiato concept, Albris?’
‘I am something of a traditionalist,’ he replied. ‘I find the long macchiato to be something of a Melbourne affectation. But madam may of course order anything she wishes.’
Faith shook her head. ‘Nothing right now, thank you,’ she said. ‘I was just checking. I’m going to save myself for dinner, which I have a feeling will be superb.’
‘An excellent decision,’ Albris said. ‘If you would like to relax, Tamila and I will return at four to arrange your dinner clothes. Tamila will make any necessary adjustments.’
Faith called after Albris as he walked to the door. ‘That’s rather a beautiful suit,’ she said. ‘Armani?’
‘Exactly right, madam.’
‘You’ve got a bit of a limp there, Albris,’ said Martin.
‘A sporting injury, sir. Nothing serious.’
‘Football?’ inquired Martin.
Albris’s face wrinkled in a thin smile. ‘Something very like that, sir,’ he replied.
twenty-two
Faith and Martin had fallen asleep in separate rooms. There was an unspoken agreement that this would be the way to play it. Martin woke to the sound of Faith doing laps in the pool, but he didn’t look out. He had a lot on his mind. It puzzled him that he hadn’t been caught yet, and was it only a week ago that he’d thought about ending it all? Now here he was about to dine with Australia’s richest man. The dinner-table conversation should be interesting: ‘So tell me a little about yourself, Martin.’
‘Well, the first fifty years of my life were pretty ordinary, but the last few days …’ His reply would be one to remember if he actually told the truth.
There was a discreet knock on the door and Albris entered, wheeling a clothes rack. Ten minutes later, he left with a pair of dress trousers pinned for Tamila to take up. Martin had a dinner jacket, new shoes chosen from a selection of sizes, a shirt, cummerbund and bow tie. While Albris was kneeling to fit the shoes, his jacket had gaped open and Martin saw the pistol in a holster strapped under his arm.
‘Len pretty strict about the dinner at six thing then, Albris?’ he asked.
Albris looked up quizzically. Martin pointed at the pistol. Albris adjusted the front of his jacket. ‘A man like Mr Barton attracts the attention of a wide variety of people,’ he said, ‘not all of whom wish him well. I need to be prepared for any eventuality.’
‘You use that thing a lot then?’ Martin asked.
‘No, sir. Generally just the once is enough. If you aim very carefully.’ He smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes.
Albris took his leave and Martin showered and shaved in a bathroom almost as big as his house in Burrinjuruk. When he came out his complete dinner suit was laid out on the bed. A beautifully wrapped hibiscus sat on the side table. At five-fifty Martin had everything under control, except for the bow tie. There was a gentle knock on the connecting door and he went to open it.
His mouth moved but no sound came out. Faith was wearing a long, black, tightly fitted evening dress with a cropped, three-quarter-sleeved jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek French roll. Martin tried to find the words.
‘Why, thank you, Martin,’ Faith smiled. ‘I’ll take your gasping for air like a stunned mullet as a compliment.’ She put down an elegant beaded clutch purse and deftly tied his bow tie.
‘You look absolutely fantastic!’ Martin finally managed to stammer out. He remembered the hibiscus and pinned it to her jacket. They looked at themselves in the full-length mirror.
‘You know, we scrub up okay for an ex-librarian with one tit and a bank-robbing fugitive,’ Faith said.
‘We sure do, don’t we?’ Martin put his arm around her waist and looked in amazement at the couple he saw in the mirror. Was that really him?
Faith glanced at her watch. ‘Almost six,’ she said, breaking away to fetch her purse.
‘We’d better hustle then,’ Martin said, turning to admire his profile. Nothing like a beautifully cut tux to make a man feel debonair. ‘Apparently there are extreme penalties for latecomers.’
‘How extreme?’ she laughed.
‘Albris is packing heat,’ he said, turning to check his other profile.
‘Packing heat, Martin? A touch film noir-ish, don’t you think?’
‘He definitely had a piece, a shooter, a gat, a rod, a roscoe, a heater,’ he went on mischievously.
‘Are you sure you’re new to all this, Martin?’
‘Too many late nights watching Humphrey Bogart reruns, schweetie,’ Martin drawled in his best Bogie impersonation.
‘You’d know how to whistle then,’ she purred in a soft American accent. ‘Just put your lips together … and blow.’
Martin grinned. She’d be a hell of a poker player, he decided. She’d just seen his Bogart and raised him a Bacall.
*
‘My first job was trainee manager on a Pommy rubber plantation in Malaya just before the war. I was only seventeen, but even then I thought every damn thing they did was wrong, except for dressing for dinner. I liked that idea.’
Len sipped on a very old single malt. He was freshly shaved, well groomed, and wearing a beautifully tailored dinner suit. They were relaxing on overstuffed lounges on an upstairs terrace facing the ocean. When Martin had indicated he would have whatever the older man was drinking, Len nodded approvingly.
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘It’s a thirty-year-old Glenfarclas. Close to four hundred bucks a bottle and worth every cent.’
Martin tried to guess the value of the smoky golden liquid in his glass and made a special effort not to spill any.
Faith sipped on the best Manhattan she’d had in a long time. ‘It’s very kind of you to lend us the clothes. They certainly add to the occasion.’
Len grunted. ‘Not a loan. Keep ’em if they fit. Even as we speak, the wife’s in Paris scorching the plastic. She gets a range of sizes knocked up. Doesn’t like grotty changing rooms much, I guess.’
‘I’m pretty sure where she shops the changing rooms would have parquetry flooring, Persian rugs, chandeliers and Louis Quatorze chairs,’ Faith suggested.
Len shrugged. ‘I humour her. It’s only money, and I’ve got a ton of it.’ He raised his glass to Faith. ‘Worth i
t to see a frock like that worn the way it should be.’
Martin raised his glass as well. ‘I’ll go along with that,’ he said.
Albris announced dinner and led them to a table set up at the other end of the terrace. There was a waiter to serve each of them. The first course, a gateau of smoked salmon with cucumber coulis served with an unwooded chardonnay, was superb.
‘Nobody’s a bloody vegetarian, I hope,’ Len said when the main course of filet mignon was announced. ‘Too many bloody vegetarians in this country. Just had to close my abattoir at Burrinjuruk this month because it wasn’t making money,’ he added.
Faith snuck a look at Martin. His face was impassive.
‘How do you two want your steak?’ Len asked. ‘Rare, very rare, or blue?’ He finished the last of his wine and the waiter replaced his glass with a new one. ‘I took this Hungarian cook up to the Kimberley in the ’50s,’ he went on. ‘All the bushies on my stations liked their meat burnt to a cinder. Used to be that way myself. This bloke would tell ’em they had a choice of a bloody steak or a bloody nose. Meant it too. Tough bastards those reffos.’
‘Rare,’ said Faith.
‘Me too,’ said Martin.
The bottles of red in the kitchen that Len had mentioned turned out to be ’82 Grange. The wine was decanted and served by Albris, who also placed a jar of Keen’s English mustard in front of Len.
The old man smiled at Faith. ‘You can take the boy out of the bush …’ he said.
The steak, served with a mushroom and port sauce, and potatoes cooked with spinach, macadamia nuts and cream, was unlike anything Martin had ever tasted. Faith commented on the tenderness.
‘Comes from my feed lots in the Northern Territory,’ Len explained. ‘The best of it goes to the Japs. The very best of it comes to me. Exquisitely marbled and beautifully hung.’
‘Exactly the way I like it,’ Faith said, squeezing Martin’s thigh. He finished his glass of wine in one gulp.
Faith turned to Albris, who hovered nearby. ‘And the mushroom sauce?’ she asked.
‘Sautéed shallots with star anise and juniper berries reduced in red wine and port before adding a demi-glace,’ he informed her.
‘Fresh and dried mushrooms?’ she asked.
Albris nodded. ‘Porcini, shitake and morels.’
‘And trompette de la mort?’ she asked.
‘Among others,’ he agreed. ‘Well spotted. Madam has an excellent palate.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Albris,’ she said brightly, ‘I certainly know a mushroom from a toadstool.’
There was a much-needed pause after the main course. Martin asked Len about the range of his business interests.
‘Started off in construction, then diversified. These days it’s mainly beef, TV, newspapers and magazines,’ he said.
‘Well, Len,’ Faith smiled sweetly, ‘I guess you’re in the bullshit business whichever way you look at it.’
Len guffawed. ‘I like your style, girlie!’
Martin shot Faith a glance. She was still smiling but he saw the flicker of annoyance in her eyes.
Dessert was a quince tarte tatin with King Island cream, served with a botrytis semillon. Albris placed a tiny crème brûlée in front of Faith along with her coffee. It was excellent. She knew the touch of ginger was lifted from Tetsuya’s in Sydney, but it was a fine effort nonetheless.
They retired to chaises longues after the meal. Martin took a cigar from the humidor Albris presented. Len pulled out a packet of Tally-Ho papers and rolled a cigarette.
‘That was a superb meal,’ said Faith. ‘Could you convey our compliments to the chef, Albris.’
‘Certainly, madam. Mr Barton lured him away from the Sultan of Brunei. Quite a coup.’
Len belched. ‘Yep, your slopes make your best all-round chefs,’ he said. ‘Now, anyone for a palate-cleansing ale?’
Faith sat up in her seat. ‘Len,’ she said quietly, ‘I really don’t like that.’
‘You don’t like the fact that a bloke can cook better than a sheila?’ he asked.
Faith held his gaze. ‘You know exactly what I don’t like,’ she said.
Len tightened his lips and whistled. Albris appeared. ‘Bring us a couple of beers, chop chop,’ he ordered. ‘There you go, love,’ he said to Faith. ‘I’m an equal-opportunity abuser.’
Faith sipped her coffee. ‘Not good enough,’ she said. ‘That was just for show.’
‘Listen,’ Len said. ‘I’m old. I grew up in a different country, girlie. We were white, British and proud. That was until I actually worked with the Poms and found out what they were really like. Then the war came. I’d learned to fly Tiger Moths when I was a sprog in the bush, so I joined the RAAF and got sent to Europe to fly bombers. My younger brother went up to Singapore with the army. He arrived just in time to get surrendered to the Japs by the fuckin’ Poms. We think he was murdered on the Sandakan death march, but we’ll never be sure. Killed the old lady, never knowing how he died, or even if he had a decent burial. I sell the Japs my beef, but it doesn’t mean I have to like ’em. I built dams and hotels for Viets and Thais and Indos in the old days, but that’s because it was what I did. It’s just business. I like the fuckin’ Thais, they’re okay. In Thailand. Same with Afghans, Cambodians, whatever. I’m sure they’re just bloody great in their own countries. It’s when they show up on our doorstep that we get problems.’
‘Do you know how many immigrants and refugees this country accepts every year?’ Faith asked him.
Len looked her in the eye. ‘Sure do, girlie. Too bloody many. I reckon I grew up in a better country than my grandkids will ever know. I don’t need to watch my TV stations or read my papers to know that crime in this country is out of control and whose bloody fault it is.’
Martin had been sitting back quietly, his eyes flicking between Len and Faith. Now he saw Faith’s face take on a cold calmness he hadn’t seen before.
‘Talk like that going unchallenged is part of the problem,’ she said. ‘I grew up in Parramatta on the same street as the jail. It was a bloody big sandstone prison that was built a long time before we had any kind of non-white immigration program. To hear people talk, you’d think there was no crime in this country before 1970. Jesus, this whole joint started out as a penal colony, and the land of milk and honey you seem so wistful for grew out of that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And one more thing. If you call me girlie again, Mr Barton,’ she said quietly, ‘I will kick you in the balls. Very hard.’
Martin coughed. ‘Three nine five, Faith,’ he said.
Faith acknowledged Martin with a nod, then turned back to Len. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Barton, Martin has just reminded me of my manners. We are, after all, your guests.’
‘I’m an old man,’ Len said, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow drag on his cigarette. ‘And I’m stinking rich, so I sometimes forget my own manners. But if I don’t like something, then I speak my mind. As do you, which is fair enough. There’s a lot of things happening in this country that I don’t like, so I say so.’
‘That’s all very well, but it was those Hungarian reffos and wops and Balts and Greeks and Lebbos and all manner of displaced persons from Europe who built this country after the war, and made you a very rich man in the process. Now that you’re set, you think it’s time to pull the ladder up and slam the doors shut and I’m all right, Jack.’
Len raised his glass. ‘Why don’t we just agree to disagree then?’ he said.
Faith raised her own. ‘The problem with that, Mr Barton, is that I’m a retired librarian with a single vote and you’re a billionaire with newspapers and a national television network.’
‘You’ve got me there,’ he laughed. ‘I have to admit, when you’re a billionaire you do have the prime minister’s ear.’
‘And when you’re a billionaire with newspapers and a television network,’ Faith said, ‘you probably also have the prime minister’s balls.’
Len smiled and exhaled, watching Faith t
hrough the cloud of smoke.
Martin stood up. ‘It was a lovely dinner,’ he said, ‘but I think we might want to make an early start in the morning.’ He put down his drink and shook hands with Len.
‘Yes,’ Faith said, doing likewise, ‘it was a unique evening.’
*
Albris was standing by the terrace doorway as they left. He walked over to the balcony railing where Len was leaning, looking out to sea.
‘Never liked the sea at night, Albris, not after the war. Coming back over the channel after an op was always the worst part for me. Hated it. That was a bloody stupid war, in Europe. White men killing white men. What for? Stupid.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Albris said.
‘Two tours with Bomber Command, Albris, fifty ops all up, and try as they might those fucking Krauts never managed to get me.’ Len looked around into the empty hallway. ‘I like her. Pity. Is it done?’
‘Everything as we discussed, sir.’
‘And the tracking device?’
‘Activated,’ Albris said. ‘We can stand down the watchers and just use the satellite information. It will place them accurately to within ten metres.’
‘Not too much longer then.’ Len flicked his cigarette over the balcony.
‘It won’t be the same,’ Albris said glumly. ‘Not at arm’s length like this.’
‘Safer this way. He’s too damn dangerous to fuck with close up. You should bloody well know that by now. This time it has to be hands off and clean.’
Albris was about to say something but changed his mind.
‘Someone bring the Ferrari back?’ Len asked.
‘It was driven to the dealer’s. They’ll keep it out of sight till the coast is clear.’
Len stretched. ‘Better let the little prick in Canberra know what’s happening, I suppose. They all wanna be kept in the loop, Albris. Silly buggers don’t realise the loop is a ring through their noses. Get him on the phone.’
Albris looked at his watch. ‘It’s well after midnight in Canberra, sir.’
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