by L. A. Larkin
‘Me? Why would he be interested in me?’ she asked.
‘Why not? You’re a very attractive woman, if you don’t mind me saying so, and I’ve noticed him watching you. Takes a lot to distract Al from his job. I’ve never met a more dedicated corporate man. It cost him his marriage, of course.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, he was always being promoted, which meant moving from country to country, and Cecile couldn’t hack it. She filed for divorce.’
‘So the rumours aren’t true? Someone told me he’d had an affair.’
‘Ah, you’ve heard. All I’ll say to you is he always gets what he wants and I would hate to see you hurt, like my poor Sue.’
‘Sue? Did they have an affair?’
‘Oh, my dear. The poor girl fell head over heels for him. From what I can tell, it was one night of passion and then he dropped her like a hot potato. Behaved as if it never happened.’ Chris tried to lean forward but his big belly prevented him. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be saying anything. This is just between us, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m very fond of Sue. When my wife left me, she was a great friend, helped me through it, although God knows why she’d waste time on a fat old fart like me. Anyway, she did and I hate to see her hurt. It makes me angry. Very.’ Chris nodded as he said ‘very’. ‘And you know what? Damn it. I don’t want to see it happen to you.’
‘Chris, you are a sweetheart and I will be careful. I promise. But I’m surprised he has time for affairs. Isn’t he supposed to be super dedicated?’
‘Dedicated! My word he is. I think “obsessed” would be more like it. He’d do anything for the company. Just don’t get in his way, that’s all I’ll say. Oh, excuse me, two more Cascades, please,’ he called to a passing barman. Chris was now on his third beer.
‘What do you mean, “don’t get in his way”?’
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t go into this,’ said Chris, wiping a dribble of beer from his chin, ‘but a year ago I resigned from Gene-Asis to join a company called Human Synthetics. They’re pioneering the manufacture of synthetic body organs for transplants. Lungs, liver and heart, that sort of thing. They’re not in any way competitive with Gene-Asis, so I imagined there would be no problem. I did know it was an awkward time to resign, as we were in the middle of some highly sensitive genetics developments, but I had signed all the obligatory confidentiality contracts, so their secrets were safe with me.
‘Anyway, Al offered me all sorts of incentives to stay with Gene-Asis, including a huge pay rise and a holiday house in Port Douglas. But I had personal reasons for wanting to leave, so I stuck with my decision to join Human Synthetics. To this day, I don’t know what strings Al pulled, but my job offer was suddenly withdrawn, and no other company would touch me. I was a leper in the industry. When Al offered me my job back, I had no choice.’
‘But what makes you think Al put the bad word on you?’
‘I know he was behind it. I have friends in head office. Apparently, Al went ballistic, saying that Project New Dawn would be jeopardised if I were allowed to leave. He demanded that my departure be stopped.’
‘So, what’s Project what’s-his-name?’ She deliberately stumbled over her words.
‘Can’t tell you, my dear, but you’ll know soon enough.’
‘Shit! Chris. What you know must be pretty damn important for them to go to all that trouble.’
‘What I know … yes … what I know is that I’ve sold my soul to … a corporation … yes, indeed … anyway, we’ll make a move after these beers, shall we? Now, tell me about you.’
Serena tried to manoeuvre the conversation back to this last comment but he steered clear of it. He determinedly focused on her, and her time in England, until they arrived at the entrance to the Taj Mahal restaurant. It was up a short flight of steps and Serena was worried that Chris might go into cardiac arrest. By the time they got to the top, his little legs were about to buckle and he was sweating profusely.
‘Ah welcome, Mr Mann. We are very pleased to see you again. Let me show you to your table,’ said the Indian maître d’.
Chris sat down on a red velvet chair, large sweat patches staining the underarms of his pale blue shirt. The restaurant was very small and decked out like an Aladdin’s cave, rich in exotic fabrics and copper lanterns, except for the starched white tablecloths, which looked out of place amidst so many colours. On the walls hung pictures of bejewelled gods and goddesses, and stone statues rested on every shelf and in every crevice. The heady aroma of incense and spices filled the air.
Chris ordered ten of his favourite dishes from the menu, and while drinking a bottle of Rosemount Riesling, they munched their way through several poppadoms and pickles, until their dishes arrived.
‘I’m sorry to hear your wife left you, Chris. Do you have any kids?’
‘Yes, was married … left me when my reputation was trashed by you-know-who … took the kids, of course … like to see a photo?’
He opened his wallet and two blonde-haired, brown-eyed faces beamed up at her.
‘They’re gorgeous. How old are they?’
‘They’re ten and seven now. This was taken a few years back,’ he said, replacing the photo in his wallet.
‘Do you get to see them much?’
‘Only every other weekend. Hardly at all, really … I never want to give them back. And it’s hard for them too.’ Pouring himself another glass of wine, Chris then took a large mouthful of lamb vindaloo, the front of his shirt stained with the occasional splattering of greasy sauce.
‘You’re single, aren’t you?’
‘Very single.’
‘A word of advice: when you find the right one, hang onto them. Nothing is more important … nothing.’ The poppadoms jumped as Chris’ hand hit the table. The waiter shot them a concerned look.
‘I let my wretched career consume my life. And, believe me, it’s not worth it. No wonder she left me. God, I’ve done things for this job I would never do again, and what do I have for all my hard work? Nothing, except a fat gut and high cholesterol.’
His face was puce as he sucked down his wine.
Serena replied, ‘Yes, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my time to further my career. And I hated myself for it. I don’t want to play that game anymore and I certainly wouldn’t further my career by hurting anyone.’
He slouched forward and looked blearily into her eyes.
‘You’re in the wrong company then, my dear, and I’d leave now if I were you.’ His speech was very slurred. He poured himself the last of the wine.
‘Gene-Asis aren’t the caring-sharing company they seem to be, then?’
With a thump, Chris leaned into the back of his chair.
‘Too much, too much … I’ve said too much. Wine gone to my head … best to go home … waiter, can I have the bill, please?’
‘Please, Chris. You can’t leave me worried like this. What’s going on?’
‘No, no. Just forget all this. I’m just a drunken has-been.’
The bill paid, Chris swayed slightly as he got up, steadying himself for a moment by leaning on the table. Putting his weight against the wall at the top of the stairs, he clung onto the handrail with both hands as he descended the stairs. Slowly, he fumbled his way down each step. With only one step to go, he slipped on a shiny, bald patch of carpet, fell onto his bottom, and sat there motionless like a sack of potatoes. Serena ran down the last steps.
‘Chris, Chris, are you all right?’
He sat there with his legs splayed out in front of him, his back propped up by the stairs and his stomach rising like a beach ball from his half-open shirt, where two buttons had burst off. With his head hung, he emitted strange sobbing noises as if he were gulping for air.
‘I’ll call an ambulance?’
‘No, no.’
Leaning closer, she saw his red cheeks were wet with tears.
‘That poor man,’ he sobbed.
‘Chris? What man? Tony Ma
ncini?’
‘God forgive me. I should have done something to stop it.’
‘What man, Chris?’
He looked at her through his bloodshot, watery eyes. Silently, he placed his pudgy finger over her lips.
‘Ssshhhh. Not another word.’
The maître d’ and a waiter came bolting down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Mann, what has happened? Let me help you up. Oh dear, oh dear.’
They hauled him to his feet and placed him in a taxi. Chris refused to say anything more. He just hung his head. Stunned, she watched the taxi disappear into the traffic.
What man, Chris? And what happened to him? What have you done?
Was he referring to Mancini, or McPherson, or even Munroe? One thing was for sure: Bukowski was not a man to be crossed. And he was watching her.
Chapter 30
The taxi pulled up outside the block of units in Coogee. Having drunk too much to drive home, Serena had left her car in the car park overnight. As the taxi sped off, she stood under a streetlight searching for her key: a small square plastic card, which she would place over the sensor at the main entrance. The summery smell of frangipani filled the air, coming from a tree in the front yard. At her feet, the pavement was strewn with many yellow and white flowers wilting on the still-warm concrete.
Finding her key, she looked up and something caught her eye. It was the glare from a computer screen coming from the dark interior of a car. Parked well away from the streetlights, she could see only the silhouette of a man sitting in the driver’s seat, head bowed over some kind of laptop. He turned his head and looked at her, but she could not make out his features. He moved the computer from his lap, started the ignition and drove off.
Still feeling jittery from her conversation with Chris, this odd behaviour made her nervous and she quickly walked inside the Art Deco building. Racing inside, she called out, ‘Anyone home?’ John replied from the lounge, a great cheer erupting from the television, as if the lounge were filled with football fans. She wandered in to find him watching the cricket: Australia was playing England, and Australia was batting.
‘Who’s winning?’
‘Australia. But it’s close. How did it go with Chris?’ he asked, turning away from the television. Play had stopped.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I shouldn’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I really shouldn’t but … oh shit, just tell me. I couldn’t focus on the match at all tonight. I kept wondering what was happening to you. And you know how hard it is to distract me from my cricket.’
She filled him in on her evening with Chris. ‘It’s been a pretty full on day,’ she said, removing her strappy sandals and rubbing her sore toes.
‘Bukowski fancies you.’ His face was serious, and there was an angry edge to his voice. Serena frowned, taken aback.
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah. I’ve been thinking about your little trip with him tonight. And now you tell me Chris thinks the same thing. That ride wasn’t about you spying. I mean, why go for a walk?’
‘Maybe he’s just testing me. Or warning me. He made it pretty clear how he feels about traitors.’
‘Either way, this interest in you is a worry. I think you should get out of there.’
‘No way. If he does fancy me, I can use it. Get close. He might let something slip. And if he’s sussing me out, I just have to be very careful not to slip up. I can handle him.’
‘Seri, this guy’s predatory. He’s hunting you.’
‘I can handle it,’ she said, flicking her hand back as if she were swatting away the problem. ‘Now, what do you think about what Chris said?’
‘Disturbing. Bukowski sounds like a ruthless son of a bitch but I guess we already knew that. Any idea who the “poor man” is?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking at first it might be Tony Mancini. But the cops are sure it was an unassisted suicide. So then I thought of the two scientists: McPherson and Munroe. Maybe he had something to do with ruining Dr McPherson’s reputation?’
‘You said the other one, Munroe, went missing recently?’
‘Yes, still hasn’t been found.’
John stood up and paced the room.
‘You should try talking to Chris again. With a confession, you could go to the police.’
‘I can try, but he’s pretty cowed. He’s given up. It’s sad.’
‘Try, Seri. If you can get Chris to turn whistleblower, you can get out of there.’
Serena considered it. ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow but it’ll have to be away from the office.’ She paused, chewing a fingernail. ‘I could tell Chris that Bukowski asked me to spy on him. That could win him over to our side. And I’ll assure him I told Bukowski nothing.’
She glanced out the open window and saw the clear night sky. Should she tell John about the strange car outside? He was already overprotective. ‘One more thing. It’s weird. Tonight, when I came home, I saw someone with a laptop parked down the street. When I spotted them, they drove off.’
John went to the open window and leaned out. The cars parked outside were empty.
‘They could have been tapping into our computers and phone lines. It’s easily done.’
Serena felt her stomach plunge. ‘You think it could be Gene-Asis?’
He turned his back on the view and leaned on the window ledge.
‘Uh-huh. But their hacker would have to be better than me, and I doubt it. He wouldn’t get past my security and I fixed your phone so your calls can’t be tapped. So they won’t find anything.’
‘And, look, I’m probably just being paranoid,’ she said, trying to convince herself more than John.
He sat close to her.
‘Seri, please listen. Don’t go back there. They are probably onto you and, regardless, Bukowski’s interest in you is not good. I thought you wanted to slip under the radar. Well, you’re totally on his radar. That’s the wrong place to be.’
She shook her head. He half-smiled in resignation.
‘You leave me no choice then,’ he said.
‘Don’t try to stop me, John.’ She moved back, to place some distance between them.
‘No, you’ve got me all wrong. I can’t let you make a pig’s ear of this, so I guess I’ll have to help you.’
‘Really? That’s great.’ She hugged him.
‘I’m going to give you a device that’ll allow you to see everything Bukowski does on his computer. It’s something I’ve been developing in my own time. It’s not quite ready, but give me a few days.’
‘Can you do it in less?’ She grinned cheekily.
‘You’re unbelievable,’ he replied, shaking his head in mock exasperation. ‘Being a genius takes time,’ he joked. Serena poked him in the ribs. He began to laugh as she tickled him. He grabbed her wrists, holding them firmly enough to stop her, but not enough to hurt. She was laughing too. His eyes dropped to her lips and then did a circle around her face. He moved closer. The playfulness instantly switched to a totally different energy. No, not again, she thought, I can’t go there.
‘Like being kids again,’ she said, sabotaging the moment. He released her wrists.
‘Not quite,’ he said, looking away, and cleared his throat. ‘Okay, why don’t you show me McPherson’s letter and the Bible? I reckon I can work it out.’
‘All right, Mr Genius. There you are,’ she said, handing him the Bible. ‘He’s underlined five words.’
‘Not exactly. He’s underlined parts of five words. That’s got to mean something.’
She peered over his shoulder.
‘You’re right! It spells “Mutenda”. That’s got to be where they did the food trials,’ said Serena, docking her phone and accessing the Net. They both peered at the monitor. ‘I’ll bet you any money Mutenda is in Zimbabwe.’
She was right: Mutenda was a remote village in the Gweru District of the Midlands Province of Zimbabwe.
‘Bingo!’ she shrieked. ‘I must call Tracey and
let her know we’re in business.’
Chapter 31
The bus was crowded with morning commuters and she had to stand. The man next to Serena was reading a magazine and kept elbowing her whenever he turned the page. Her Tbyte beeped in her handbag, meaning that she had an email, but reading it would be tricky. She managed to get it out of her bag and, widening her stance to improve her balance, brought up Tracey’s email.
Mate,
Bloody fantastic work! You and John make a great team, and would make a great couple too, if you ask me!!
My flight’s booked, and I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I should be in Nyrwbsp the following day. I’ll keep you posted. Wish me luck! Love, Trace
When Serena had emailed the details of Mutenda village to Tracey last night, she’d written the name of the village in a code she knewTracey would understand, as they’d used it when emailing each other at work. At Rooneys, emails were randomly checked. So, to conceal the name of the person they were discussing, they created a childishly simple, yet effective, code. Looking at a keyboard, they used the letter of the alphabet to the left of the one they actually wanted to spell. If there was no letter to the left, they went up a line and used the first letter on the far right. So ‘m’ became ‘n’ and ‘u’ became ‘y’, and ‘Nyrwbsp’ was really ‘Mutenda’.
Getting off the bus, she walked through the multistorey car park to check her hire car was still there and in one piece. She spotted her black Golf wedged between a white utility and a blue Commodore. Approaching, Serena saw a piece of paper under the windscreen wiper on the driver’s side. She guessed it was either a marketing leaflet or a warning from the security guards not to leave her car overnight. Increasing her pace, she pulled out from under the wiper a folded piece of paper clearly torn from a spiral-bound A5 notebook. Someone had scribbled a handwritten note:
I can tell you what’s in the Gibson file. Call 0410 555 639.
She did a three sixty. Who knew about her abortive attempt to open the Gibson file, apart from Kylie and herself? Was he or she watching her now? A woman in a white top and beige three-quarter-length pants walked towards her with a small daypack on her back, but continued on. Cars crawled along, as if on a conveyor belt, the people inside peering through their windscreens in search of a parking space. One man seemed to be staring at her. He was in his thirties, with a crew cut, and wearing a baggy T-shirt. Clutching the note tightly, she leaned against the wing of her car as he drove towards her. He gave her a tiny nod and then wound down his passenger window.
