The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  ‘He must know I’m here by now.’ Angie fidgets with her wedding band, turning it one way and then the other.

  Waylon shrugs. ‘Makes sense he kept his head down in the city. Nobody outside this rabble is supposed to know he’s in charge.’

  The bus is packed. The initial buzz at having her on board has calmed and conversations have dropped to a hum. Cool air blasts down from the vents and does nothing to calm her. Waylon is sideways in his seat, his back to the aisle and one knee tucked against his chest.

  The Agitator convoy is two hours from Brisbane, heading west out of Warwick. Four buses, two Kombis, eight sedans. All covered in spray-painted slogans and stickers: anti-nuclear, anti-GMO, anti-government. There’s no attempt at subterfuge. Whatever they’re doing, they’re happy for the feds and anyone else to know exactly where they are and where they’re headed.

  The convoy was waiting on the service road a block south of the Hyperdome. Angie’s plan had been to scope out the crowd, find Xavier and see if he gave himself away when he saw her. But as soon as the Agitators boarding the nearest bus spotted her, they herded her on board, hungry to know why she was back. It meant she and Waylon had to trot out their cover story sooner than they’d planned. It also meant she’d lost the element of surprise.

  Angie pulls out a bottle from the seat pocket and takes a long drink. The water is tepid, tastes like hot plastic. She’d thought coming back would feel different. Better. Maybe it’s because none of the faces are familiar. In the two years she’s been gone, her old crew has either moved on or been pushed out. She didn’t keep in contact with them—her doing, not theirs—so she has no idea when and how it happened. But her status with the Agitators hasn’t changed. This crew—younger, harder and angrier than hers—sees her re-emergence as validation of their cause. It took less than two minutes to understand why: they think she’s stayed away because of the threat of jail, and she’s come back because Jules is old enough to fend for herself if Angie gets locked up. They think she’s that callous.

  Maybe she’s made the wrong decision getting on this bus. Jules was seriously pissed off at her when she left. In any other situation, Angie would be happy to see her daughter fire up, but not like this, not when they’re so far apart. Why can’t Jules understand Angie’s doing this for her? It’s the only thing she can do.

  She’s trying not to think of Jules too often because it brings an unfamiliar clutch of panic. She has to believe her daughter will be safe with Ryan. The kid clearly has protective instincts, and Khan is breathing down Voss’s neck to keep Q18 accountable for her safety.

  Voss.

  Angie can’t get a read on him: too many years in the military have perfected that stony façade. But she knew him before the wall existed and he knows it. It’s been two decades since she’s thought about that night in the watch-house, and now she can’t shake it. Undercover or not, he surprised her. It was his lips and hands she measured everyone else against until Mike came along and made her forget.

  But there’s no point trying to reconcile the man Voss was with the soldier he’s become; the soldier is the one she has to deal with.

  Gum trees flash by outside the bus, branches swaying. They clear the forest a kilometre later and the bus is buffeted by winds gusting across the plain. There’s chatter on the two-way radio up front. The driver, a freckled woman with short blue hair and shoulders as wide as the Major’s, has a curt conversation over the air that Angie can’t pick up.

  The bus starts to brake and Waylon straightens to see out the back window.

  ‘They’re all slowing,’ he says. ‘Okay, we’re pulling over.’

  Angie nods. ‘Good. Let’s get this over with.’

  Waylon shakes his head at her eagerness. ‘Be cool, Angie.’ He leans down as if to tie his bootlaces, and adjusts the knives strapped beneath his cargo pants.

  The bus veers onto gravel with a hiss of brakes. A puff of dust rises up from the roadside and is whipped away in the wind. Waylon is watching something behind them. ‘Here he comes,’ he says quietly. Angie leans away from the window, refusing to let Xavier catch her looking. The door opens and Xavier appears at the top of the steps. The bus falls silent.

  He’s younger than Angie expected, but stocky like his photo. His hair is tied in the usual topknot but his beard is trimmed to his jaw. He’s wearing a muscle T-shirt with a peace sign, showing off black and grey tatts on both shoulders. His eyes rake over the passengers until he locks on Angie. Everything in her tightens. Here we go.

  ‘Angela De Marchi.’

  He smiles and the hairs on the back of Angie’s neck stand up.

  ‘This is perfect.’

  27

  The breeze is cool when the back of the Herc opens at Edinburgh. Outside, the dusk sky is bruised purple and lights are coming on around the base. Ryan is first out of his seat, pulling their luggage from storage at the front of the plane. He’s back in South Australia—home—and yet he feels out of place because he’s on a military base without the rest of Q18.

  He hands Julianne her bag, digs around in his own and swaps his heavy jacket for a hoodie. She’s ditched the headset and unclipped her belt but hasn’t made it out of the seat. She let go of his hand twenty minutes ago and he can still feel the softness of her skin against his. He doesn’t know if it was the contact or the conversation that distracted her; either way, it worked. It would have been easier if he could have let her listen to all the tracks he was describing, but maybe he and Tommy can play a few for her instead. He thinks about the drum kit waiting in the shed at home, runs through the songs he wants to practise.

  Julianne is massaging the backs of her thighs to get the circulation moving and Ryan resists the urge to offer her a hand. He also stops short of helping her up. It’s only going to set her off again if he treats her like she’s helpless, especially now he’s seen that she’s not.

  A sedan with darkened windows pulls up at the end of the ramp. The driver climbs out and signals to them to get in. He’s in civvies, but his greying hair is crew cut and his movements precise.

  ‘After you,’ Ryan says.

  Jules hoists her bag over one shoulder. There’s no smile but her mood has definitely improved.

  They clear the base and drive towards the city. The driver doesn’t give them his name or use theirs. It’s Monday and the heaviest traffic is heading in the opposite direction, but they don’t take the bypass so there’s no avoiding the gridlock at Gepps Cross. Ryan’s been here a hundred times: the crossroads that for him have always marked the start of the city. He’s never lived in Adelaide but he knows its grids and main roads thanks to countless weekend trips to watch or play footy, or to hang out at the cricket—first with his old man and later with his mates. And then there were the months he spent training at Footy Park before draft camp…

  There it is, the sting of regret he thought he’d outrun. It’s stronger now he’s back, burns almost like it did a year ago. He’s not aware he’s tapping until Jules nudges his elbow from the back seat.

  Fifteen minutes later they’re far enough off a major road for Ryan to have lost his bearings. The streets are narrower and the blocks alternate between corrugated iron industrial sheds and tiny houses. They pull up in front of a house that looks exactly like the ones either side: low-set brick with a stone and wrought-iron fence. The only difference is the heavy-duty roller shutters on all the windows. Ryan cracks the car window to get a better feel for the place. Stale brine taints the breeze and muted sounds come from the neighbours: a surround-sound shoot-out on one side; dramatic classical music on the other.

  The driver hands Ryan a bunch of keys with a car remote, a bottle opener and a miniature plastic Darth Vader.

  ‘There’s transport in the garage and food in the kitchen. The code to get you in the house is your army ID. Entry is a one-time-only deal. You can keep moving or stay the night but be gone by sun-up. Clean up after yourselves and don’t touch anything in the spare room.’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell Voss the car needs to make its way back to me by the end of the month.’

  Ryan collects their bags and has barely closed the boot when the sedan pulls away. The tail-lights disappear around the corner and the street falls still. The TV gun battle is over and the night soundtrack fades to distant traffic and the symphony seeping through the bricks next door.

  It’s a single-car garage with an antique roller door. It takes Ryan three goes before he finds the right key on the bunch. Jules fidgets beside him, repositioning the bag on her shoulder and rubbing her arms against the cold. The door finally gives and a tiny white hatchback stares at them. It’s a four-cylinder hybrid. Seriously? Ryan does a lap and kicks the tyres. At least it’s not self-drive. And once he’s on the A1, he’ll still be at the farm gate in less than three hours, even in this shitbox.

  He’s not ready.

  ‘How about we stay tonight?’

  Jules drops her bag inside the garage. ‘We’re supposed to go to your place.’

  ‘We will, tomorrow. I’d rather arrive during the day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mum’ll crack the shits if we turn up in the middle of the night. If we get home in the morning, she’ll at least have the day to get the shed ready.’ He can’t tell Julianne that his old man is likely to be half-tanked already and will be fully loaded by the time they arrive. Not really the first impression he wants her—anyone—to have of his family.

  He finds the keypad by the door into the house, taps in his code.

  The house is sparsely furnished: a hard plastic setting in the kitchen—plus a dartboard and plaster scarred by wayward shots—a bedroom with bunk beds and a bathroom with a shower missing the screen.

  Ryan’s more interested in what’s in the next room along the hallway. He could smell the gun oil from the garage. The door’s not locked, so he opens it and flicks the light. His breath hitches.

  The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling lockers, shut tight and padlocked. Military chests are bolted to a rough concrete floor. Ryan moves closer and peers through the diamond-shaped ventilation holes. Holy shit. He works his way around the room. The lockers are stacked with assault rifles, handguns and grenades. RPGs. Nerve and smoke canisters and gas masks. That explains the window shutters.

  He thought these places were a myth: suburban caches of weapons, stockpiled around the country for use in the event military bases are attacked or compromised. The Major must have serious clout for Ryan and a civilian to be given access. It makes the Browning pistol he’s got tucked in his duffel bag seem like a toy.

  Ryan hooks his fingers through the grille and thinks about the rest of Q18. He should be with his unit. He shouldn’t get to go home when they don’t.

  ‘I hope you’re not hungry.’ Julianne’s voice comes from the direction of the kitchen. She didn’t follow him into the spare room, which is probably a good thing. He takes one last look around the room, turns off the light, and carefully closes the door.

  ‘This is all there is,’ Julianne tells him when he walks into the kitchen. On the bench are two tins of baked beans, a loaf of frozen bread and a super-size bag of Twisties.

  ‘Do we have a toaster?’

  There’s nothing on the laminated benchtops, not even a kettle or a microwave. Julianne opens two cupboards before she finds plates and a newish toaster. When she plugs it in he guesses they’re staying.

  ‘I’ll hunt around for bed linen,’ he says.

  It’s only when he’s made the lower bunk that a small, hot thrill flashes through him: he and Julianne are going to spend the night in the same room. He starts to fantasise how that might play out—and then wakes up to himself. Nothing’s going to happen in an army safe house or anywhere else.

  He gets the distinct impression he’s not her type: meaning that her type is someone who doesn’t have authority—albeit briefly—to maim and kill her.

  28

  The Major is at a picnic table in the dark.

  He’s near a boxy motel on the outskirts of Coonabarabran, sitting far enough from the neon Vacancy sign and the lights of the highway to be out of sight. The evening is cool and heavy with the promise of morning dew.

  On the other side of town, the Agitators are bedded down at a caravan park. He wonders if Angie’s sleeping in the bus or on the ground, or if Waylon’s used his ops cash and shouted her a cabin. Waylon’s a sharp lad, but he’s even softer than Walsh when it comes to mother figures.

  The Major stretches out his legs and settles into the moment. It’s good to be away from the city. Out here there’s nothing to breach the stillness…even on base it’s never like this. He can almost hear the whomph of chopper blades in the distance, feel the dry desert air. The smell here is different but for a heartbeat he’s back, his unit intact and his body whole. His fingers drift to his shoulder, to the rope of scar tissue running down the front of the joint, and his foot aches. Not the one he has now, the one he left over there.

  A white sedan slows on the highway and turns into the motel car park, grille and headlights caked with insects. It pulls up outside room six. Nadira Khan gets out first; scans the car park. The driver follows, a young New South Wales copper on full alert.

  Khan peers into the darkness where the Major said he’d be but he’s too deep in shadow to see. She hasn’t changed from her city clothes, which is a surprisingly rookie move: nothing says cop out here louder than a suit jacket. He lets her wait half a minute more to test her nerve. She stands her ground, refusing to blink first.

  ‘Over here.’

  Her eyes sharpen in his direction. She says something to the constable and the lad takes up sentry point at the back of the car. She crosses the car park and into shadows.

  ‘Good flight?’ He knows full well she came in on a supply plane.

  A shrug. ‘Where’s Private French?’

  ‘Sleeping. She’s first shift behind the wheel tomorrow.’

  A road train changes gears on the highway, building speed as it heads out of town.

  ‘Xavier’s made no attempt to release that footage since he saw Angela this morning,’ Khan says. ‘Or made any other threats.’

  The Major leans back, elbows resting on the table. ‘The blackmail is a bluff, probably always was. In which case we can assume Xavier’s not serious about exposing Julianne.’

  ‘Or he’s under instructions not to. There’s growing evidence to support a link between Xavier and the men who stormed Angela’s house last night.’

  The Major knows where this is headed but he’s not holding her hand to help her get there. ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Xavier made a phone call today. The number was routed through two satellites and a dummy exchange. Black ops style.’

  He ignores the bait.

  ‘Xavier’s a nobody—no known associates, no criminal record beyond that one arrest.’ Khan sits on the opposite end of the bench. ‘He doesn’t have the clout or the funds to hire a mercenary crew, which means someone else is calling the shots. And they are connected enough to use military-level communications to evade surveillance and tracking.’ She twists her shoulders to stretch out her back. ‘Major, we agreed to work together. That involves sharing information, and not only when it suits you. If you can’t do that, I’ll call in my own backup and run this as a full federal operation.’

  The Major scoffs. ‘Those men had army equipment and were army trained. It doesn’t mean they’re still army.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘No,’ he lies. He can sort this without the feds sticking their noses in.

  A car hurtles past on the highway into town, windows down and bass thumping. Khan watches it pass and settles back against the table. ‘Do you have ears on Xavier yet?’

  ‘Waylon’s working on it.’

  ‘Have you picked up anything from his feed?’

  ‘Nothing useful. Xavier made a show of meeting Angie and as far as I can tell she didn’t stab him.’

  The
agent clicks her tongue.

  ‘She’s got more self-control than you think, Khan.’

  ‘With someone who pushed her out of the Agitators and threatened her daughter? Major, you’re hilarious.’

  The car with the bass is coming back. It slows by the turn-off and swings into the motel car park, a dark purple coupe with spoilers and black rims. It passes under the vacancy sign and the front seats are momentarily lit up. The driver and passenger are focused on the constable. They’re wearing balaclavas.

  ‘Get down,’ the Major yells, a split second before a semiautomatic rifle barrel appears out of the passenger window and opens fire. The young copper ducks behind the white sedan, scrambling as bullets slam into the car and room six, breaking glass. The driver fires in their direction before the Major can get off a shot and he and Khan dive to the ground. The driver searches the darkness as he accelerates, trying to pinpoint their position. The semiautomatic keeps unloading into the motel.

  The coupe is between the Major and the building now and he has no idea if the constable’s been hit. He rolls over and fires three rounds, shattering the coupe’s rear window. Khan empties her clip into the car. She takes out the left rear tyre and the coupe fishtails through the car park.

  The room six door bursts open. French sprints after the shooters in singlet and silk boxer shorts, firing as the car slides back onto the highway, tyres howling. The passenger sticks his upper body out the window and fires another round, but the car’s all over the place and the shots spray wide. And then the coupe’s gone, disappearing up the highway in a trail of smoke and sparks.

  The whole attack lasted less than thirty seconds.

  ‘Constable!’ Khan runs to the bullet-riddled sedan and helps the young copper to his feet. The lad’s tyres are shot to shit: no chance of a pursuit. He’s lost his hat and his knees are dirty but otherwise he’s uninjured.

  ‘They weren’t locals.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Khan asks.

  ‘Our blokes wouldn’t know where to start to get their hands on that sort of weaponry, mostly sawn-off twenty-twos in this part of the world. I’ve never seen that rice rocket before and I’ve chased ’em all.’