Defender: Intrepid 1

by Chris Allen

  “Alex Morgan,” he said, checking his watch.

  “Did you still want to head down for a drink and talk over things for tomorrow? I have news.” It was Sutherland. “Or are you busy?”

  “No, not busy. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be down.” Morgan hung up, and looked vacantly back across to Ari. “I have to go.”

  “Why are you being so bloody awful?” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “I thought this is what you were thinking, too. How on earth could it work?”

  “I’m not being awful. I just need to get us through this. You want to keep things professional, I get it. I’m more than willing to do the same.”

  *

  Downstairs Morgan met Sutherland and they walked down Elizabeth Street, Sutherland hobbling, to a pub called the Crown. The two pulled up a high table and Morgan bought the beers.

  “You OK, bud?” Sutherland asked, noting Morgan’s gloomy expression.

  “I’m fine,” Morgan replied. “What’s the latest?”

  “Cornell had a call from Lundt, which I have the audio from,” Sutherland began. He didn’t believe Morgan but thought it best to press on. “Cornell’s pretty rattled by the prospect of actually having to meet Lundt face to face. He let slip the RV and timings. It’s happening tomorrow afternoon across the road from our hotel at Hyde Park.”

  “No doubt why Johnson got Arena to book in there.”

  “You got it. Cornell’s shaky now that things are coming to a head. He’s got a sleepless night ahead. Cops will keep him under wraps. Bastard wouldn’t last five minutes if he was really in this business.”

  “Any idea if Lundt is in Sydney yet?”

  “Nope,” replied Sutherland, annoyed. “But it’s only a matter of hours before he is.”

  “Nothing in his life became him like leaving it,” said Morgan.

  “But you’ll extract no atonement from Victor Lundt,” replied Sutherland.

  “What support can we expect from the locals if things ramp up without notice?”

  “We’ve got pretty much the whole counter-terrorism crew in our corner, including a chopper on standby if we need one. The Australian Federal Police have agreed to stay at arm’s length. They’ll get involved at the frontiers if any of these bastards try to skip the country.”

  “We best get a meal into us and turn in, I have a feeling the next couple of days are going to be busy.”

  CHAPTER 55

  While Hyde Park was playing host to a scorching Wednesday afternoon, an army of storm clouds advanced across Sydney. Its mighty battalions, marching to the flash and roar of cumulonimbus artillery, claimed a bloodless victory over the sunshine in minutes, cloaking the harbor city in a menacing veil of gray.

  The heatwave had broken.

  Sitting amid the oaks, poplars and kaffir plum trees at the southern end of the park, Alex Morgan braced for the onslaught. Great timing, he thought, disconsolately gazing up at the sky as the canopy of trees above ebbed and flowed in petty skirmishes with the advancing winds. Oddly enough, the miserable weather matched his mood.

  Leaving the pub last night he’d asked Sutherland to check in on Ari and make sure she was OK before everything got going this morning. After seeing her, Sutherland let Morgan know she was pretty upset about something, yet she’d assured him she would be OK.

  “What the hell did you say to her, bud?” Sutherland asked. “She looked like she’d been crying all night.”

  Morgan didn’t know what to make of Ari. He found her mercurial manner toward him infuriating and he’d reacted the only way he knew how, by shutting down. That, it seemed, had been wrong. Christ! As if he didn’t have enough on his mind. He had to focus. He had to get them through today, there was too much at stake. He would speak to her when it was all over; they could sort it all out once and for all. But as he began the process of mentally shifting back to the task at hand, he couldn’t help but feel an oppressive sense of guilt at how much he had apparently upset her. What an asshole he’d been.

  Morgan had found an empty bench from where he could keep a clear eye on the area and approaches surrounding the Anzac War Memorial, which was where they expected the rendezvous would occur. He’d been there for half an hour.

  Surrounded by courts, churches, schools, hospitals, hotels and high-rise office blocks, Hyde Park was once a haven for horse racing, prize fighting and cricket, and a rallying point for post-war victory celebrations, political assemblies, protests and festivals alike. A refuge for those seeking reprieve from their employ and home. As Morgan watched, office workers taking a break on the park’s carpet of downy grass as well as the usual swarm of tourists were all bringing their rest or play to an end. A final kick of a football, a picnic blanket wrapped up, a book reluctantly closed; there was an affable urgency everywhere, thanks to the storm. To his left, a gaggle of young school children out on an excursion squealed in protest as tired teachers insisted it was time to go, shepherding them toward a waiting bus.

  Morgan’s bench was to the west of two divisions of poplar trees that marched north from the memorial along the flanks of the Lake of Reflection. The poplars offered Morgan a concealed position with a view across to the area of the man-made lake Cornell had hurriedly scratched onto a tourist map in his room and left for the police to find. Come on, you bastards, he thought, crawl out from under your rocks and let’s see you. As if on cue, there came an ominous roar of thunder in the distance and the slightest hint of rain on his cheek.

  “You there, Dave?” Morgan asked, speaking into a mike pinned discreetly to the inside of his shirt; in his ear, a skin-tone earpiece was as good as invisible.

  “Hear you loud and clear, bud,” came the familiar Texan drawl. With his knee strapped post-surgery and armed with binoculars, laptop, phones and radios, Dave Sutherland had stayed put in his suite at the Regency as liaison to local police and the link to Intrepid’s covert ops headquarters in London. “Feeling lonesome?”

  “Bored, more like,” Morgan replied. “Anyone spot anything yet? If this weather comes in too soon, our friends may abort and all I’ll have to show for it will be a wet ass.”

  “Sit tight,” Sutherland responded. “If anything comes in you’ll be the first to know.”

  The whole thing was a gamble. They were following Cornell based on Johnson’s ploy to send Ari after him. Where Cornell would lead them, nobody really knew. Still, the mere possibility of Lundt turning up made it all worthwhile.

  Morgan checked his watch – almost 2.40pm. The police had reported Cornell’s departure from the Novotel around half past one. He had left the Darling Harbour hotel alone on foot and headed off across the bridge to Cockle Bay, meandering through the working city’s streets, all the way up to the Archibald Fountain, at the other end of Hyde Park. According to the police surveillance teams, Cornell had been instructed to take a predetermined route, complete with tortuous flourishes designed to throw off any pursuer. It was an old tactic. Clearly, somebody else was shadowing Cornell to see if he, in turn, was being followed. Fortunately, the cops had picked up on the ploy and had sufficient officers on the ground to throw down their own counter-surveillance smokescreen.

  While all this was going on, Morgan had taken up his current position. When he first saw Cornell, it appeared that he would settle at the opposite end of the park. But, after an excruciating few minutes, Cornell was on the move, walking along the avenue of Moreton Bay fig trees linking the park. He strode purposefully across Park Street at the traffic lights, heading to the point he had marked on the map.

  “Here we go,” said Morgan. “I have visual on Cornell.”

  As Morgan watched, Cornell walked to a point at the far corner of the Lake of Reflection, stopped and sat down alone on a bench. “He’s in position on a bench at the northwest corner of the lake. In a straight line up from the obelisk at the Elizabeth and Bathurst Street intersection.”

  “Roger that, Alex,” came Sutherland’s reply.

  Now they were all there: Morgan
, Cornell and four invisible police officers, all waiting for the storm to hit, and waiting, hopefully, for Lundt to appear. The police had all but disappeared into the background, where they would watch and report on anybody fitting Lundt’s description, and anything or anyone else looking vaguely connected to the play.

  As Morgan shifted his gaze across the park, his attention was distracted by a young boy, Chinese and only about seven years old, immersed in a wild contest with the elements. A brightly colored kite, swooping and peaking high above the treetops was battling not to be torn from the boy’s line; the blackened, angry sky taunted him to let go with every gust. With detached amusement, Morgan could see that the kid still had a lot of fight left yet, and was unlikely to give in. But he was about to do battle on another front: his parents were closing in fast, struggling with cameras, hats and bags, and unimpressed that the boy had ignored their remonstrations. Good luck, mate!

  Near the boy, Morgan saw an older man standing at the lake’s edge. He was wearing a battered baseball cap, pulled down tight over dark brows, talking into a phone, a pipe bouncing between his teeth as he spoke. Gray hair was just visible and his free hand was thrust into the pocket of a lightweight windproof jacket. Morgan thought he was well prepared for the unexpected weather and seemingly unperturbed by its proximity. The man withdrew the hand from his pocket and absently pulled the pipe from his teeth. He, too, was looking on cheerfully, laughing as the kid fought against the conflicting forces of nature and disobedience.

  The kid’s parents reached him. Game over. Despite admiring the kid’s tenacity, Morgan was glad they were leaving, for, although this part of the operation was essentially surveillance, there was always a chance of something going wrong.

  The family bustled away and the old guy went back to minding his own business.

  Morgan resumed his scan beyond the far end of the lake. He scanned from right to left first, then from left to right, a tactic he’d been trained to use to counter his Western brain’s default setting to read from left to right: the right-to-left search forced the brain to address its observations in a more precise manner.

  No sign of anything untoward.

  He restudied the immediate surrounds. Cornell had moved off the bench and was now pacing up and down beside the lake, agitated, 20 feet from the old man with the pipe. A smattering of people still hung around.

  Morgan’s radio earpiece crackled to life. It was the police team leader, Stojakovic, call-sign “Five”. “Heads up. Coming in from the north. African. Solidly built. Short hair cut. Dark, short-sleeved shirt. There’s another at ten, and another at 20 feet behind him, following up. Both younger than the lead guy. They look like Malfajirians – can’t be sure, but they look interested in our show.”

  “Copy that, Five,” answered Morgan. Damn it! he thought. Not Lundt.

  Morgan looked back across to Cornell. Something wasn’t right. Then he saw Cornell looking in the general direction of the old man. Cornell was agitated. Looking around, squirming like a restless child, not sure if he should put his hand up and ask to be excused.

  The penny dropped.

  CHAPTER 56

  Victor Lundt moved toward Cornell with the self-assuredness that comes when real experience confronts a real pretender. Like some indeterminable mutating contagion, Lundt dropped one host for another; the old man guise discarded and the real persona resumed. He sidled furtively along until he reached the very edge of the Lake of Reflection, three feet from Cornell.

  Looking on, Morgan instantly recalled his confrontation with Lundt in the ruins of Cullentown. He now recognized his profile and build, his arrogant manner, sauntering toward the unsuspecting civil servant. This, he saw, was to be a show of strength – some Neolithic chest-beating to show off who had the biggest stones.

  Alex Morgan pulled the collar of his black jacket up around his face. While there was more than enough distance between him and Lundt, there was no point in tempting fate. Anyway, it was doubtful Lundt even knew Morgan was still alive. That was Morgan’s trump card.

  “This is One. Heads up everybody.” His pulse racing and venom surging through his veins, Morgan calmly whispered his observations into the miniature radio microphone on his collar. “Old man standing next to Cornell. Baseball cap, gray short hair – the gray’s fake – dark blue spray jacket, jeans and brown boots. This is our guy. Victor Lundt. Wanted by Interpol. Usually armed. Very dangerous. Acknowledge.”

  Immediately and in predetermined order, the members of the police team returned their acknowledgment. Morgan listened to the reassuring crackle of each response.

  “Two, seen.”

  “Three, seen.”

  “Four, seen.”

  The three officers in the park had each pinpointed Lundt, and would now track his every move and every inch of the area surrounding him.

  “Great. Stay put. Let’s see what he’s up to. Five, can you update me on those Malfajirians?”

  Morgan dared not take his eyes off Lundt, in case the man’s appearance turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking.

  Again, the earpiece crackled: “This is Five.” It was Stojakovic. “They’re 20 feet from the end of the lake, but they’ve just slowed right down. Looks like they’re sussing something out. I’ll pull back a bit.”

  *

  Lundt was sizing up his surrounds, looking for danger.

  He felt suddenly exposed, and was instantly on guard. He didn’t trust Johnson, not that he trusted anybody, but with all that had happened, he wouldn’t put it past Johnson to be planning a hit to take him out.

  Lundt’s dichromatic, gun-barrel eyes fixed on Cornell.

  Fuck it! Lundt thought. He would take it easy to start, to avoid any confrontation that would draw attention. He wanted it nice and simple, so, if he had to, he could act before anybody realized he’d done it. But the first sign of trouble and he’d take Cornell out, right here in the middle of fucking Sydney; give the Aussie coppers something to shit themselves about.

  Lundt gave the silenced 9mm Walther P99 an imperceptible but reassuring squeeze within the pocket of his jacket. Then he turned completely around in a sweeping motion, taking in the immediate vicinity, ensuring his safety precautions were in place – his backup crew – one, two and, he looked around, yes, three, just as he’d arranged. Satisfied, he turned to Cornell.

  “How’s it going?” Lundt asked hospitably.

  “Well, thank you,” replied Cornell nervously, his teeth clenched around a cigarette that danced as he spoke. “We finally meet.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Lundt couldn’t believe he was having to play along with the charade. Did this wannabe chav who had stumbled into a very tough game actually believe they had business to attend to? Lundt scanned his surrounds in every direction. Once he was satisfied that everything was kosher, he’d lure Cornell away to a conveniently discreet spot where he’d do away with him and the girl. Although killing her was going to be a real waste.

  “I’m not sure how this is supposed to work,” said Cornell furtively. He was fidgeting, patting his pockets. “All this cloak and dagger stuff, as it were.” He extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and tapped one out.

  “You’ve already got one going, you daft twat,” said Lundt.

  “Sorry?”

  Lundt nodded toward the half-smoked cigarette already in Cornell’s mouth. Trouble had arrived; he could taste it.

  “Did you come here alone?” Lundt demanded urgently, through clenched teeth.

  “Of course,” Cornell lied. His eyes darted about the park, bravado gone.

  Lundt caught Cornell’s pained expression and read that he was looking for backup. A phone buzzed within the folds of Lundt’s jacket. Fuck! Rummaging, he angrily pulled the phone out from its burrow, his senses alert, predatory eyes scrutinising the immediate territory for the threat. His other hand closed tightly around the concealed P99.

  *

  What the hell’s going on?

  Morga
n had made a positive visual ID of Lundt, and knew the police were now taking high-resolution photographs of Lundt, Cornell and the Malfajirians approaching from the north. Digital images would already be on their way through to Interpol.

  The principal characters had gathered and the first scene was underway. It was important to stick to the plan. It was, after all, still technically a surveillance operation, designed to draw Lundt out into the open before arresting him elsewhere – somewhere safely out of the way of the public. Too late, however, Morgan saw everything change.

  Lundt was looking around like an animal who knew the cage door was about to be clanged shut.

  “OK, everybody.” It was Stojakovic, tailing the Malfajirian group. “My guy is definitely in on this. He’s approaching Lundt. Jesus! Guns! The Malfajirians are tooled up …”

  Without further warning, the peace disintegrated.

  CHAPTER 57

  Alex Morgan caught sight of a man sprinting toward Lundt from Museum Station. He had a phone jammed against his ear, yelling into it while frantically waving his free arm above his head as he ran. The scene developed in excruciatingly slow motion. Morgan heard the distinct crackle of his earpiece filled by the shrill cry of one of the police officers on the other side of the park.

  “All call-signs, this is Two. We’ve been spotted. I repeat, we’ve been spotted. We’re blown!”

  The first shots came from the north.

  The unmistakable crack of low-velocity ammunition shattered the serenity of Wednesday afternoon. Against the first drops of rain peppering the silvery surface of the artificial lake, the gunfire was a downpour. Sightseers sprinted from the park, the din of their fear underscoring the swell of gunfire. Women and men screamed, desperate to be clear of the crossfire.

  At the very moment that the first shot was fired, Morgan saw a young woman petrified with fear, her pretty face full of terror, not knowing what was happening, or what to do. Morgan ran to her, ignoring everything else. In seconds, he was there. He leapt, grabbed her firmly about the waist, and in one fluid motion took her to the ground, covering her with his body behind a bench and the scrap of cover that it offered. “Stay down, darlin’. Don’t move!” he said. Then he was up again and moving.