by Jon Cleary
Dostoyevsky looked at the gun he had placed again in front of his plate. The plate was now empty of spaghetti and Claire, as if wanting something to do, stood up and reached for it. The Russian grabbed her wrist and she winced and gasped.
“Let her go!” George Rockne half rose out of his chair, looked for a moment as if he would hurl himself at Dostoyevsky.
The Russian and the young girl stared at each other; then Claire said, “I was only going to take away your plate—”
He glared at her a moment longer, then he let go her wrist. “I’m sorry. I thought—” He picked up the gun, but didn’t put it away in his pocket. “Sit down, George. I’m not going to hurt any of you.”
George sank back. “You’re hopeless and helpless, Igor. Both. And you know it.”
Dostoyevsky pushed the plate towards Claire, who went to the sink with it and began to rinse it, watched with smiling approval by Sugar. Jason watched this with detached bemusement; he would never understand women, they were a foreign species. He realized now he hadn’t a clue how Jill really thought or what she thought of him; as for his mother and Angela, that was territory where he was completely lost. As he looked at Claire, she glanced at him over her shoulder and he saw how afraid she really was. She had been scared stiff when the bloody Russian had grabbed her wrist; and he couldn’t blame her, Dostoyevsky for a moment had looked as if he might kill her. He turned to the Russian and said, “Let me phone my mother, sir. I’ll tell her I agree to transferring the money, wherever it has to go. I know my sister will agree, too. Then Mum can sign for us minors.”
“There you are, Igor. You’ve got your five million or whatever it is.”
“Yes?”
“Yes what?”
“You were going to say something else, George.”
George Rockne paused a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I was gunna say you’ve got your money, that should satisfy your mates. That only leaves you, Igor. How do you manage your transfer?”
“I don’t think you should of brought that up, sweetheart.” Sugar had begun collecting the rest of the plates, was piling them up on the draining board while Claire continued to rinse them.
“Love, Igor and me, we once believed in the same thing. I can’t not point out some things to him. He’s forgotten the money now, haven’t you, mate? It’s self-preservation now, isn’t it? It usually is, in the end. Take my advice, Igor. Cut your losses—I know what I’m talking about, that’s the story of my life. Go now, Igor, walk out a here and disappear. Change your name, call yourself Gogol or Pushkin or something. I’ll see that Jason’s offer is honoured, the money’ll be transferred to wherever you’ve named. But leave the kids and me and my wife alone and walk outa here and, like I said, disappear. There’s still time, Igor. Go somewhere and write your memoirs. Everyone else does when the dream folds up.”
“You’re very free with advice, George.”
“That’s all I have left, mate.” He saw Sugar turn away from the sink, look hard at him, and he grinned. “Except you, love. And I’m never gunna give you away.”
Jesus, thought Jason, now I know what love really is! He couldn’t believe oldies could feel that way about each other. But there it was, right before his eyes. Something welled up inside him and he wanted to reach out to both of them. Instead he turned his gaze on the Russian.
Dostoyevsky sat very still, one hand on the table still clutching the gun. Jason, watching him closely, would have been shocked, but not surprised, if he had lifted the gun to his head and fired it. The thick eyebrows were drawn down over the sombre eyes, the thick lips were turned inwards so that the wide mouth was just a slit. Jason would not have attempted to guess what was going on behind the stern face; the Russian might have been reviewing his whole life. Jason was too young even to guess at what went on in your mind when your life suddenly seemed to be over. When Dostoyevsky had put the gun to his head while they had stood by the phone, his mind had gone utterly blank.
Then Dostoyevsky got slowly to his feet. Claire, at the sink, had turned off the tap; she and Sugar stood waiting. Jason and his grandfather sat still, looking up at the tall man. No one said anything, as if they all knew that any word from them might make the Russian change his mind.
“Goodbye, George.” He put out his hand and Rockne shook it; then he nodded at Sugar and Claire and Jason. “Goodbye. Just make sure the money is sent where it is supposed to go. I’m trusting you, George. The dream isn’t dead, we can still do what they set out to do all those years ago.”
“Sure,” said George Rockne, but his voice was as dead as the dream. “Take care of yourself, Igor.”
Dostoyevsky turned abruptly, went out of the kitchen and down the narrow hallway. They heard him open the front door, waited for the security door to slam behind him. But there was nothing. Jason, nearest to the kitchen doorway, moved into the hallway. Dostoyevsky stood outlined against the street-light shining through the open front doorway, one of the metal butterflies seemingly perched on his shoulder like a carrion bird.
“Something the matter, sir?”
Dostoyevsky closed the door. “Yes. The street is full of police.”
VII
The street was indeed full of police.
The State Protection Group had been on stand-by within minutes of the first phone call from Dostoyevsky. Within five minutes of the tracing of the kidnapper’s second call, the group was on its way to Cabramatta. So were Malone and Clements in their own unmarked car; Random followed with his driver and Olive and Angela Bodalle. A call had been put ahead to the local area police to warn them what was coming. Trailing the police cars as they sped south-west were the media vehicles, some of their occupants still unsure what story they were actually following. Palady and Salkov, unwanted spectators, indeed forgotten in the rush to depart, were left behind.
The peak hour was over, but there was still a lot of traffic on the roads. Malone tried to contain his impatience as, several times, they were hindered; but he said nothing, knowing that Clements, behind the wheel, was doing his best. They made the trip in a continuous wail of urgency, Clements keeping the siren going all the way.
When they pulled into the street where the Rocknes lived, the local police were already there, cordoning it off and moving neighbours out of their houses and down to the far end of the street. As Malone and Clements got out of their car, Random’s car drew in behind it. The Chief Superintendent got out, said something to the women in the back seat, then came towards Malone.
“Okay, Scobie. I’ll run this. You get in my car with the women.”
“Greg—”
“That’s an order, Scobie. In my car. I don’t want any interference.” Malone hesitated, looked as if he were going to argue; and Random said, “Come on, mate, you know you’ll only be in the way. You’re not thinking straight. Just stay out of it. We’ll get Claire out of there, her and the boy. Go and sit with the women. Here come the cavalry.”
The Protection Group’s two wagons had arrived, its men, in their body armour and with their weapons at the ready, piling out and deploying themselves along the garden fences on the Rocknes’ side of the street. Malone, seeing the firepower, was suddenly sick at the thought that there might be a siege. He hoped the Russian had no thoughts of turning this quiet suburban street into a small Stalingrad.
“Go on,” said Random, more gently this time. “Get into my car. You come with me, Russ—I want to talk to the SPG commander. We don’t want this to get out of hand. I’ll talk to Dostoyevsky on the phone from one of the neighbours’ houses.”
Malone looked towards the Rockne house, neat and peaceful, spotlighted by the street-light outside its front gate, a target waiting to be blasted. Then he turned quickly and went along to Random’s car. He slid into the front seat, said to the driver, “Could you leave us alone for a while?”
The driver nodded, got out, and Angela Bodalle, in the back seat, leaned forward. “Who’s going to negotiate with Mr. Jones? Why not you?”
“My
boss thinks I’m too involved.” He was sitting sideways in the front seat, not looking at the two women but at the house down the street. “He’ll handle it. You all right, Olive?”
“Just. God, how did it come to this?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Angela press Olive’s hand warningly. That started him: “It came to this, Olive, because Will got greedy and it’s gone on from there. If you and Angela hadn’t had him killed, he might’ve given back that money before our kids had to be kidnapped.”
He turned then and faced them. Both women stared at him: Olive was afraid, but Angela’s look was one of hatred. “You’re not going to let up on her, are you, not even at a time like this!”
“I’m not accusing just her, Mrs. Bodalle. I’m accusing you. Did you kill Kelpie Dunne and his wife, too?”
Down the street the SPG men were moving closer to the Rockne house, shadows running through shadows. Random was with them, then suddenly he left them and ran up into a house where the front door was wide open. Clements stayed with the SPG men, curling his bulk into a big ball as he huddled down behind a garden fence. The purple Fairlane was parked on the opposite side of the road and one of the Andrews Sisters impersonators was yelling as he was held back by two uniformed officers, “Don’t let him shoot at you behind my car! I’ll sue you bastards if it’s damaged!” Two other young officers came out of the house into which Random had disappeared, almost carrying an elderly woman who was complaining in a loud voice that she was going to miss tonight’s episode of her favourite soap opera; she wasn’t interested in the opera going on in her street. At the end of the street, beyond the police barricades and the TV vans and cars, a crowd had gathered. Most of the faces were Asians, blank at this distance of excitement or curiosity, and Malone had a bizarre image of watching an old Saigon newsreel.
He had looked away from Angela as he put the question of the Dunnes’ killing to her, his eye caught by Random’s running up into the house two doors from the Rocknes’. Now he turned back to her in time to catch the stiffening of her neck, the raising of her chin. He had seen enough body language over the years to be a fluent interpreter of it. He knew now that he had nailed her against the wall. But:
“You have no evidence at all, Mr. Malone, to support either of those charges.” Her smile was ugly, like that of a comedian who knew her jokes were awful but who had to keep trying. “Prove what you’re saying.”
“You’ll back me up, won’t you, Olive?” He said it with confidence, if false; he wasn’t going to plead with her. “She killed her own husband, too, did you know that?”
At that Angela leaned forward. There was spittle at the corners of her mouth, she was at the extreme limits of her control. “When this is over, Malone, I’ll have you! You’ll be finished, you hear? Finished!”
Malone had drawn back, but he hadn’t faltered in his stare. He had gone beyond the bounds of what he could have said in a taped official interview; but here in the car there was no recorder, no witness, no lawyer other than the accused. He stared Angela down; she eased herself back in the seat. He turned his head towards Olive, who seemed bone-rigid with shock.
“You could be next, Olive.” He made no attempt to dampen the malice in his voice. These two women had helped towards putting his daughter in danger; it was stretching the connection, but he was in no frame of mind to be fair. “She’s your lover, but that doesn’t make you safe from her. She spent ten months in a psychiatric clinic when she was young, did she ever tell you that? How did she get you to agree to killing Will? Was she the one who hired Kelpie Dunne to do it?”
Olive said dully, “I don’t care, Scobie. I love her. But all I want right now is for Jason to come out of that house safely.”
It was a slap in the face for him. He turned round, wondering at himself: how could he have forgotten Claire? The policeman in him had run amok, taken over from the father. His shame and anguish blinded him for a moment; he stared down the street, seeing nothing. Then his gaze cleared, he saw Random hurrying towards them. He got out of the car, disgracefully glad that he had been alone in it with the two women; he would have hated Clements to have heard him. He went towards Random with hands outstretched, like a man seeking forgiveness rather than news.
“He wants to see you and Mrs. Rockne.” Random was showing no agitation; one could imagine his calm approach to the kidnapper. “He wants to make a deal.”
“What sort of deal?”
“He wouldn’t say, he said it had to be with you and Mrs. Rockne. You want to go in there?”
“Of course!”
“Okay, give me your gun. Come on!” Random held out his hand demandingly as Malone hesitated. “He insisted on that and so do I. I’m not going to have you doing your block in there.”
Malone handed over his gun. “Put two fellers on to Mrs. Bodalle—I’m going to charge her when this is over. I’ll get Olive.”
He went back to the two women who had got out of the police car. Olive was holding on to the door, her legs still weak; but Angela was all arrogance, defiance in every line of her body. Malone ignored her, spoke directly to Olive: “The Russian wants to see you and me. Are you game?”
She nodded. Angela put out a hand, either to restrain her or to comfort her: it didn’t matter, because Olive just stepped away from her, saying nothing, and followed Malone across the road and down towards the Rockne house.
They passed the SPG men crouched behind fences and between parked cars; Malone saw Clements give him the thumbs-up sign, heard him say, “Take care, mate.” He pushed back the Rockne front gate, took Olive’s arm as they walked up the short path between the marigolds which, colourless in the street-lights, looked like white fists. He could feel the tension in her, her arm was like a vibrating iron rod.
“Let me do the talking, Olive. We give him the money like we agreed, okay?”
“Yes.” It came out of a dry throat.
The beakless, mirthless kookaburra stared with stony eyes at them; the butterflies were dead specimens against the security door. As they stepped up from the path, the front door was opened by Jason. He pushed open the security door and Olive fell up the last step and into his arms. Malone waited while they embraced, then he heard a voice back in the hallway say, “Come in, please. Shut the door behind them, Jason.”
There was no light on in the hallway; when the front door was shut behind them, Malone at first could see nothing. Then he made out the shape of a tall man against the light coming from the back of the house. Jason was still supporting his mother, his arm round her waist; Malone moved past them and down towards the kidnapper. “I’m Inspector Malone. Where is my daughter?”
“Here, Daddy!” Claire came round the Russian, flung herself at Malone. He wrapped his arms round her, felt the tears start in his eyes; love and relief choked him. Then he saw the gun in the Russian’s hand and he straightened up, holding Claire tightly against him.
“This way, Inspector. You too, Mrs. Rockne.”
He led the way into the kitchen, where George Rockne and Sugar stood, she clutching his thin arm. The blinds were down at the windows over the sink; Dostoyevsky gestured at them. “I don’t want your snipers trying to pick me off while we talk, Inspector. I know you have the house surrounded.”
“That’s why he decided to talk to you,” said George. “Listen to him. You too, Olive.”
“Put your hands against the refrigerator, Inspector.”
Malone released Claire, leaned against the refrigerator; right in front of his face were reminder notes in a neat hand: Defrost Monday: Call Electrician. The refrigerator’s motor started up and Malone started. “Keep your hands where they are,” said Dostoyevsky and proceeded to frisk him. Then he stepped back. “Very sensible. Inspector. No tricks, no hidden gun. Turn round and we’ll talk.”
“What have you got to say?” Malone face to face at last with the kidnapper, with the ex-KGB man, felt now that he could handle him. He was angry and frustrated when he had to deal with shadows.
“Not in front of the young people. Take them into the living room, Mrs. Rockne. Both Mrs. Rocknes,” Dostoyevsky said as Sugar remained by George’s side. “Don’t attempt anything foolish, ladies. Or you, Jason.” He lifted the gun, pointed it negligently at Malone and George Rockne. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“You hurt my hubby,” said Sugar, “and I promise you, you won’t leave this house alive. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Better listen to her, Igor,” said George; then he patted his wife’s arm. “Go on, love, take Olive and the youngsters inside. Inspector Malone and I’ll be okay.”
The two women and Jason and Claire went out of the kitchen, Claire looking back at her father as she went. “Be careful, Daddy. Give him everything he wants.”
When the three men were alone, Dostoyevsky motioned for them all to sit down at the table, which was now clear of the evening meal. “Has Mrs. Rockne agreed to transfer the money?”
“Yes,” said Malone. “She has seen Mr. Palady, from the Shahriver Bank. My boss, Chief Superintendent Random, said you wanted to make a deal?”
“I have been listening to my friend here—” He nodded at George, who sat at the end of the table picking at a loose thread in his T-shirt. “I am going to have difficulty in getting out of this country. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“You bring no charges against me for taking your daughter and Jason, and I’ll be a sworn witness to who killed Will Rockne.”
Malone held on to the sudden surge of excitement. “You saw the actual murder?”
“Yes.”
“Who did it?”
The Russian shook his head. “No, not till you make the deal.”
“And if we won’t agree to the deal?”
“Then I’ll shoot someone, then kill myself.” He tapped the gun on the table.
The thread snapped as George’s hand jerked. “Igor, kill yourself if you want to, but why kill someone else? Who? Me? Inspector Malone?”
