by Jon Cleary
He put down the phone, motioned for Jason to go ahead of him back to the kitchen. He sat down at the table, put the gun back in front of his plate, picked up his fork and began to eat the spaghetti.
“Well?” said George Rockne.
“Another half-hour. Our banker’s car was involved in an accident.”
“Another omen, Igor. Give up.”
Dostoyevsky shook his head. “That’s why they failed in Moscow, George. They gave up.”
V
There had been controlled bedlam in and around the Rockne house for the past hour. There were four police cars out in the street; another four were on call at Randwick police station a kilometre up the road. There were four TV vans and half a dozen other media vehicles in the side street off Coogee Bay Road; they had been marshalled there by three motorcycle cops, who were also holding back the small crowd that had gathered. Drinkers from the hotel down on the promenade had come up the road, bringing their beers with them; this promised to be more entertaining than watching Home and Away or some other soap opera on television.
Chief Superintendent Greg Random arrived to take charge; with him was a thickset man with close-cropped hair and a face that could have been used as a bulldozer. “This is Mr. Salkov, from the Soviet consulate. He’s representing the embassy in Canberra.”
“Would you excuse us, Mr. Salkov?” said Malone and led Random aside. “What’s going on? Why’s he here?”
“Because of that five million. Fred Falkender—” Falkender was the Assistant Commissioner, Crime “—he read the running sheets and he decided that the Russians down in Canberra had to be told about the money. After all, it belongs to them—or anyway, Moscow—and not to Mr. Jones and his mates. They want it back.”
“Jesus, Greg! Don’t you see how that complicates things? What sort of leverage have we got now to make Jones release Claire and the Rockne boy? He’s demanding the five million. Are Mr. Salkov and his mates going to hand it over for us?”
“I don’t know, Scobie. I think you’d better go home, be with Lisa and your other kids.”
Malone was torn; but: “No, I can’t. I couldn’t sit still there, I’d be back in ten minutes, probably with Lisa. I’ve talked to her since I got here, she and Maureen and Tom are okay. The grandparents are with them.” He looked around him, at the dozen or more police officers standing around with that stiff impatience of men and women who know they can do nothing till their quarry makes the next move. “I’m feeling bloody murderous, Greg. If that bastard harms Claire . . .”
“Quit thinking like that. How’s Mrs. Rockne?”
“Fragile. It’s going to be bloody cruel, but if I can get to her right after this is over—assuming we get the kids back safely—” He stopped, his mind going black at what he had just said. Then he went on. “If I can get to her, I think she’ll tell us everything we want to know about the murders.”
“Do you like irony?”
“I don’t know that I like it, but I put up with it. If I couldn’t I might as well give up police work.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Rockne appreciates it? A murder suspect and the cop who’s after her, both waiting for their kidnapped kids to come home safe and sound. How’s her friend, Mrs. Bodalle?”
“In command of their side of the fence. But I think she’s a bit like Olive, worried.”
“About the kids?”
“I hope so. I don’t think she’s entirely heartless . . . I haven’t seen you for a couple of days and I didn’t put it on the running sheets. Olive and Mrs. Bodalle are lesbians. They’re lovers.”
They were standing in the garden beside the pool fence and apart from the uniformed police. There was still some light in the sky, the last of what had been a bright red sunset; dust drifting east from the drought-stricken bush had turned on an Outback sunset for the urban voters. Random’s sallow face had turned bronze and the lines in it were black, like tribal markings. His expression didn’t alter at Malone’s news.
“So you think Mrs. Bodalle really did have something to do with the murder?”
“Both murders. I think she might’ve done in Kelpie Dunne and his missus on her own.”
“You have imagination, mate.” The light suddenly lost its colour; his hair turned grey again. “I’m glad there’s only one like you. Who’s this?”
Russ Clements came round the corner of the house with the managing director of the Shahriver Credit International Bank. Palady looked less than comfortable. It was not just the strand of hair falling down over his forehead and the unloosened tie, but the look of mental pain on the face that had become so practised at being a mask. The sight of so many police seemed to have unnerved him. He could only have felt worse if an avalanche of auditors had fallen on his bank.
“His car was in an accident,” said Clements. “Someone shunted him from the back.”
Malone introduced Palady to Random. “You know what this is all about, Mr. Palady?”
The banker was trying to put himself together again. He smoothed down his hair, tightened his tie. “Yes, Sergeant Clements explained. But it is not going to be easy—there are certain rules—”
“Stuff the rules! Break them!” Malone’s voice was soft but fierce; he saw Random give him a warning look and he simmered down. “Getting my daughter and the boy back is what’s important, not bloody rules.”
“There’s something else, Mr. Palady,” said Random. “That gentleman over there is from the Soviet consulate. The money in your bank doesn’t belong to Mr. Jones or the Rockne family. It was stolen twice, by Jones and then by Mr. Rockne. It belongs to the government in Moscow.”
Palady looked even more pained. “Will they release the money as ransom?”
“I don’t know,” said Malone, and didn’t look at Random. “I’m not going to even ask Mr. Salkov, not at this stage. Come inside, Mr. Palady. We’ll talk this over with Mrs. Rockne.”
As they went into the house Clements said, “Grace Ditcham is outside, she grabbed me as I came in. She said to remind you, you owe her.”
“I know. But she’ll have to wait.”
“The other vultures were yelling, when are we gunna throw ’em something?”
“Stuff ’em, they’ll have to wait, too. If word gets out what Jones is demanding, where the money actually came from, Christ knows what he’d do. We don’t want him knowing that that bloke from the consulate is here demanding the money.”
There were police in the kitchen, one of them manning the emergency phone that the Telecom men had run in from the nearest link in order to keep the Rockne line free for the call from the kidnapper. Malone led the way into the living room where the three Carss women sat with Angela Bodalle.
“Mrs. Carss,” he said, “would you mind taking Shelley into her bedroom? We have some business we have to discuss.”
“Yes, I do mind!” Mrs. Carss was all belligerence; if the Russian were here, she’d have shown him how the Cold War was won. “Our place is here beside my daughter, Shelley’s mother—”
Malone waited for Olive to back him up, but she sat silent. Then he said, “Mrs. Carss, go into the other room—please. I don’t want to have to call on one of our men to escort you in there—”
“Come on, Gran.” Shelley stood up, pulled on her grandmother’s arm. “I don’t like you, Mr. Malone. You’re a real pain in the bum.”
“I know, Shelley. I’m also Claire’s father.”
She stared at him; then her eyes glistened and she nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. Come on, Gran.”
The old woman and the young girl went out. Malone shut the living-room door, introduced Random and Palady and explained why the latter had been delayed. Then the four men sat down facing Olive and Angela, who sat hand in hand on a couch.
“Olive, there’s a complication. There’s a man from the Soviet consulate outside demanding the money in the bank—he says it belongs to the Soviet government and it does. But we’re keeping him out of this for the moment—” He looked at Random.
“Yes,” said Angela and squeezed Olive’s hand. “We understand.”
“Right,” said Malone. “Forget the rules, Mr. Palady. Jones has been in touch with you, is that right?”
“This morning, early. He came to see me at my home—I don’t know how he learned where I live—”
“What do you have to do?” Now that Random had committed himself, he was once again his calm, decisive self. Malone was glad to have him here in the room.
“He gave me an account number in our branch in Bangkok—”
“Bangkok?” said Clements. “You’re all over, it seems. That branch isn’t mentioned on your letterheads.”
“You have a very good memory, Sergeant. We have quite a few branches that are not listed . . . Mr. Jones—is that his real name?”
“It’s Dostoyevsky,” said Malone.
Palady looked at him, smiled as if sharing a joke he didn’t quite understand; then saw it wasn’t a joke. “Really? Well. Well, he said I was to transfer the five and a quarter million, in round figures—” he added with a banker’s precision; or what used to be a banker’s precision, thought Malone, before bankers started their juggling acts “—as soon as Mrs. Rockne gave me the word. Of course, that was before the other Russian appeared on the scene—”
“Forget the other Russian, we told you!” Malone looked at Olive. “Give him the word, Olive. Now!”
“Yes,” said Olive, her voice dry and small. “Transfer the money, Mr. Palady. At once.”
Palady twisted his hands together; he looked nothing like the man Malone had accosted at their first meeting. Indeed, he looked as if he would have preferred to be back in Kuwait. In the chaos there bankers had had to make no decisions that kept them within the law. “The account is frozen. I did it on police instructions, there is a court order—”
“If we’re going to be so legalistic,” said Angela, “there is another point. The money doesn’t belong to Mrs. Rockne—forgetting the Russian claim to it, for the moment. It was left by Mr. Rockne to Jason and his sister. They are both minors.”
“Holy Jesus!” Malone wanted to lash out at something, anything; but he had the distinct feeling that he was standing in a vacuum.
Clements said, “If that’s the case, then Mrs. Rockne is their legal guardian. Can’t she agree for the children?”
“No,” said Angela. “Only after the children themselves have agreed.”
“Let’s cut out the bullshit—excuse me, ladies.” Random was working towards a cold temper; Malone had seen it in action and knew it could be as devastating as any wild fury. “What we are doing is illegal, anyway—the money belongs to the Moscow government. Now, we either ask Salkov outside to sign over the money or we go ahead and bullshit to Dostoyevsky that the money has been transferred.”
Palady shook his head. “It won’t work, sir. He knows the phone number of our Bangkok branch. All he has to do is call them and ask if the money has arrived.”
“All we have to do,” said Malone, “is call Bangkok and tell them what they have to say.”
Then the phone on a nearby table rang. Clements reached for it, but said nothing, just held it out to Olive. She stood up; for a moment it looked as if her legs might fold beneath her; then she took the phone and looked at Malone. He nodded, then whispered, “Keep him talking.”
Olive cleared her throat: “Mr. Jones? . . . Yes—” She glanced at Palady, but Malone leaned forward and vigorously shook his head. “Yes, I’ve called his home, but—but he’s not there. He—he’s been in an accident . . . Mr. Jones, it’s the truth!” Her voice cracked, a spasm of terrible fear passed over her face. “All right, half an hour—I’ll hear from you in half an hour. No, I’ll give you the money . . . But please, Mr. Jones—please don’t hurt my son. And Claire.” She put down the phone, stood leaning with both hands on the small table. “He’ll call back in half an hour. He said he had a gun to Jason’s head.”
“And Claire?” said Malone.
“He didn’t mention her.” Then she looked at Angela, ignoring the men. “He’ll kill them, I know it! What have we got ourselves into?”
It was a cry of anguish, of surrender, but Malone couldn’t take advantage of it. The murders of Will Rockne and Kelpie Dunne and his wife had, for the moment, become unimportant.
Then Clements, who had gone out to the kitchen, came back to the living-room door. “They got a trace! He’s out at Cabramatta—the number is—” He gave the number.
Olive said, “That’s my father-in-law’s number!”
VI
Dostoyevsky looked at his watch: the half-hour was up. He pushed back his chair. “I must make another phone call.”
“I think what Pa says is right, Mr. Dostoyevsky,” said Jason. “I think you should give up, let me and Claire go.”
He was scared stiff, he couldn’t believe he was speaking so calmly. He saw his grandfather and Sugar stare at him as if they didn’t believe what he was saying; Claire blinked, looked sort of stupid. But the Russian believed what he was saying: “Why is that, Jason? You’ve been very quiet up till now—as young people should be. I was brought up in a very strict household,” he explained to George Rockne. “You’ve kept your mouth shut, but now you think you know more than your grandfather, is that it?”
“Yes, I think I do—sir.” He added the sir as if he were speaking to one of the masters at school. If the bastard had been brought up in a very strict household, give him the respect he thought he deserved; it cost nothing. “My mother can’t authorize the transfer of the money.”
“No? Why is that?” Dostoyevsky had sat down again at the kitchen table. Jason had risen when the Russian had gestured, with the gun, for him to follow him into the hallway. “Sit down, boy. Sit down, I said!”
Jason slid into a chair beside Claire. “My father taught me a bit about the law, sir. You see, the money is mine, mine and my sister’s. My father left a will that said we were to get it all, my mother was to get nothing.”
“Well!” Sugar let out a long hissing gasp. “That must of put the cat among the pigeons.”
Jason glanced at her, smiled weakly. “Mum didn’t like it—she blew her top—”
Dostoyevsky swore in Russian; then: “Damn your mother! Why didn’t she tell me that?”
“Give him the money, Jason,” said George Rockne.
“I can’t, Pa. Not just like that. Shelley and I are minors. I’m not sure what the legal thing is, but I think Shelley and I have to say okay and then Mum authorizes it. I dunno, but I think that’s the drill.”
“You’ll make a good lawyer, dear,” said Sugar.
“If I live,” he said and looked warily at Dostoyevsky.
George sat relaxed in his chair at the head of the table, tapping the table with the tines of a fork. “Somehow, Igor, I think you’re getting further and further up that well-known creek, without a paddle.”
“What?” The Russian’s cold, calm exterior was beginning to crack like ice under shifting pressures. “Don’t talk in fucking riddles, George!”
“Stop that!” Sugar’s voice was as harsh as Dostoyevsky’s. “There’s a young girl here. Watch your language in my house, you hear!”
He glared at her; then he composed his face again, gave a little nod to both Sugar and Claire. “I apologize.”
“Good,” said Sugar; she would have made a superior mother superior, except for the striptease past. “Forget you heard what you did, Claire.”
Claire managed a smile, patted Sugar’s hand. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Rockne.”
“Not in my house, dear.”
George Rockne had watched this exchange with wry amusement; his old lady was a wonder, but so was the Malone kid. The Party, maybe, could have done better with more women in it. “I don’t think you’re winning any friends in
this house, Igor. But then it was never the KGB’s job to win friends, was it, not unless you wanted to recruit them as agents?”
“He’s with the KGB?” said Jason. “This is getting bloody unbelievable!”
“Watch your language.” George grinned and winked at Sugar. He was the only one at the table who seemed unperturbed; Jason wondered if it was an act his grandfather was putting on. “Igor, think about it. If you get outa here, where are you gunna go? Once, when the heat was on me, before I met Sugar—” He smiled along the table at her; she reached out a hand, but he was too far away. “I once looked up all the countries that don’t have extradition treaties with Australia. There’s sixty-three of ’em, I think, from Afghanistan to Zaire. But I dunno if any of ’em would appeal to you. Vatican City, for example. You think a commo, a KGB bloke to boot, would be welcome there? Of course they took in Nazis, so maybe they’re not choosy. Togo or Bhutan? The trouble, Igor, would be getting there, they’re all thousands of bloody miles away. You think the authorities here would let you get far without someone along the way stopping you? This isn’t like hijacking a plane somewhere in the US and flying to Cuba. If the people here don’t catch up with you, your hard-line mates in Moscow are gunna be chasing you. Or Gorbachev and Yeltsin, they’ll be after you, too. Give up, Igor, and maybe Jason and Claire will put in a good word for you, say that you never tried to hurt them.”
“He put the gun to my head,” said Jason.
His grandfather looked at him: it was a schoolmaster’s look. “What sorta lawyer are you gunna be, Jay? This is a bargain plea. Isn’t your life and Claire’s worth a white lie? Or anyway, a greyish white one? Grow up, Jay.” For a moment the old communist surfaced: “That’s the way the system works, on lies and deals and bargain pleas.”
“Sweetheart,” said Sugar, “I don’t think you should be preaching propaganda, not to youngsters like Jay and Claire. Do you know what he’s talking about, dear?”
“I think so,” said Claire, like Jason, still unbelieving of half of what she had heard and experienced in the past two hours. “But we don’t get it in social studies at school.”
