Sensitive New Age Spy

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  ‘What I can tell you,’ she continued, ‘is that there’ve been a heap of crewcut, ramrod-straight Yanks in civvies visiting the Minister’s office over the last few weeks. They spend a lot of time forcing themselves not to salute each other when they pass in the corridors. And young Carter Lonergan has dropped by a few times. He was in there this morning in fact, and didn’t look like a happy camper, I hear.’

  Now, that was interesting. There was no way on earth Lonergan would have been able to visit the Minister’s office without bumping into Pergo at least once. So they must have had a relationship going back before their little chat on the tanker and all that ‘pleased to meet you, Mr Lonergan’ bullshit in the D.E.D. office.

  Heavy US military traffic in and out of the Minister’s office wasn’t all that unusual, but why in civvies?

  ‘What do you know about Operation Chester?’ Gudrun said.

  ‘Never heard of it. What is it?’

  ‘Buggered if I know. I heard a whisper a while back, then nothing. Now, every time I mention it to anyone in Defence, they clam up tight as a drum. But if it doesn’t mean anything to you it looks like you’ve wasted a trip.’

  I smiled and pulled the small package from my pocket. ‘If you’re hinting around for your present…’

  Gudrun ripped the paper off the box, opened it and slipped the heavy, polished-silver bracelet onto her wrist. ‘You have incredible taste, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, giving me another of those big kisses.

  ‘I do try.’

  ‘No, I meant in having Julie buy your presents for you. Excellent move.’

  ‘I probably would have chosen something Dutch and Delftware-ish and more traditional.’

  Gudrun gave me a warning look. ‘If you’re heading in the direction of a comment about a ceramic statuette featuring someone putting their finger in a dyke, I’d be very careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Goods, I know better than to punch above my weight. And I’ve got another present for you – you didn’t hear it from me, but keep an eye on Gwenda the Blenda.’

  Gwenda had earned her nickname from a jibe in one of Gudrun’s articles. She’d suggested that if the ‘Minister for Cock-ups’ thought there were votes in putting kittens in blenders then you wouldn’t want to be standing between her, a kitchen-appliance store and the local pet shop.

  ‘I thought old Gwen was permanently out to pasture after that last debacle?’ Gudrun said.

  ‘It seems that, like the proverbial phoenix, the Honorable Ms Felton is rising from the ashes.’

  ‘God, Alby, what have they given her to fuck up now?’

  ‘That would be me. Hall-Smith has just made her the new head of D.E.D.’

  ‘Jesus, mate, not even you deserve that.’

  There was a sudden ruckus from the direction of the restaurant.

  ‘We should head back inside,’ Gudrun suggested. ‘Sounds like the food’s started hitting the tables. Mum put together a special sausage platter when I said you were coming. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.’

  Marta’s smoked-sausage platter was something to behold. If we were to get snowed in over dinner with no means of escape for a week, I’d think I was in heaven. Like a lot of her generation in Europe, Marta had endured terrible food shortages in the last years of the war. Now she believed in serving plates heaped with food and expecting said plates to be handed back licked clean. Sometimes this was a bit of a challenge, but Marta Arkell was someone who didn’t like to be disappointed.

  She had gone all out with her sausage platter, and being well brought up, I tried to do it justice. This might have been possible if the platter had been limited to snags, but along with an assortment of a dozen different sausages, ranging from Bierwurst to Schinkenwurst and Knackwurst and beyond, there was a smoked pork chop, a mountain of German potato salad, winekraut, red cabbage, dill pickles and dark rye bread. Thank God Gudrun, Amy and Morris were nice enough to help me out when Marta wasn’t looking.

  Around eleven, I decided to call it a night. Since I’d probably had one beer too many and my rental car had a flat, I took Gudrun up on her offer of a ride back to the hotel on the pillion seat of the Indian. By the time we hit the Hyatt’s driveway, my face was frozen, my testicles were numb, and I was stone cold sober. You could tell by the expression on the doorman’s face that a spectacular six-foot redhead in white leathers straddling a vintage Indian wasn’t something he saw every day.

  Gudrun killed the engine and the silence was deafening. I climbed awkwardly off the bike, removed my helmet and gave it to her, along with a quick goodnight kiss. She hooked the helmet over the handlebars.

  I took a business card from my pocket. ‘My new mobile number is on the back. Call me if anything interesting comes up.’

  She slipped the card into her jacket pocket, then studied the bracelet on her wrist. ‘Thanks again for this,’ she said. And after a pause, ‘Julie still straight, then?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Pity,’ she said. ‘She still playing hard to get?’

  I stared at her. ‘What?’

  Gudrun grinned and slowly shook her head. She kicked the Indian’s engine into life. ‘Jesus, Alby,’ she yelled over the roar, ‘sometimes you can be so fucking thick.’

  The doorman let me open the front door all by myself while he watched Gudrun ride away.

  THIRTEEN

  The Canberra Park Hyatt was built around the original, 1920s, heritage-listed art deco Hotel Canberra, and they actually did a good job of it – the place oozes style and elegance. The only jarring note is the fact that the doorman and bellboys wear cloth caps, green waistcoats and plus-fours with long socks. They look like they should be out on an Irish golf course somewhere, caddying for leprechauns.

  In Canberra, I like to stay at the Hyatt, but only when the government is picking up the tab. In Melbourne my favourite hotels are the Adelphi and the Como. The Como made a name for itself in the 1980s with huge rooms, excellent service, and cute little rubber duckies in the bathtubs. Tonight, however, the Canberra Hyatt had gone one better. When I let myself into my room just after eleven, my bathtub had a naked girl in it.

  After Gudrun took off, I passed on the idea of a nice glass of port and a Monte Christo in the cigar bar, hung a left at the concierge’s desk and headed down the corridor to my suite to warm up. The Scullin suite was elegant and welcoming, and around twice the size of my Bondi apartment. There was no sign of a mint on my pillow in the bedroom, but in the living room Tierney Sutton was on the stereo, gently toying with the Patsy Cline hit ‘Crazy’, and somebody in the bathroom was singing along. I poured myself a glass of Glenfiddich and wandered in to see if my visitor wanted a drink.

  The grey marble bathroom had a black marble vanity and a very large bath set atop a row of marble steps. Flickering candles lined the steps and continued around the bath, which was big enough to accommodate two. Right now, though, it had only one occupant. In my tub, with her hair pinned up and immersed in a sea of bubbles, was the lovely Cristobel Priday.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Priday,’ I said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘No thank you, I never touch alcohol.’

  ‘Worried you might wind up naked in a strange man’s bathtub?’

  ‘But you’re not a stranger, Mr Murdoch.’

  I took a solid swallow of the whisky.

  Cristobel reached for a washcloth and the bubbles covering her chest parted in the most alarming manner. She smiled up at me and gently used the flat of her hand to coax some bubbles back over her right breast.

  ‘I was wondering if perhaps you might like to join me in the tub, Mr Murdoch? The bubble bath is excellent.’

  ‘It’s a tempting offer, Ms Priday, and I could do with warming up, but I’m more of a morning-shower kind of bloke.’

  I finished off the whisky. Those damned bubbles were diverging again and now the firm pink nipple on her left breast was poking out of the foam. I was having a lot of trouble taking my e
yes off it. Remembering to breathe was also proving a bit of a challenge.

  ‘Perhaps I could frame my invitation in slightly different terms, then, Mr Murdoch.’ She grasped the edge of the tub firmly and slowly stood up. She was very, very naked. Miss Cristobel Priday was about as naked as a girl could get. And she was very good at it too. Clumps of soap bubbles clung to her firm, full breasts with their upthrust nipples. More bubbles slid down her flat stomach, over her shaven pubic area and down her long, smooth thighs. She reached up with her left hand and casually flicked the bubbles off her right breast.

  She was spectacular, no doubt about that, but I’ve got some scruples. Well, actually I don’t, but I’ve got a couple of rules I try to live by. One is not to drink supermarket scotch with names like Clan McBudget and the other is not to get into bed with girls under twenty – both will leave you with nothing but regrets.

  Cristobel’s pert pink nipples were puckering, either from the cold or from her mad desire for my body. I had a fair idea which it was: I had no illusions that I was the man of her dreams, so what the hell was she doing here?

  ‘Like I said, it’s a tempting offer, Ms Priday, and very Christian of you, I’m sure, but why don’t you dry off and get some clothes on while I rustle us up something from room service.’

  She stepped out of the tub, still naked, and turned around to get a towel. The back view was just as spectacular as the front.

  ‘Something warm would be nice, Mr Murdoch,’ she purred.

  Oh, God.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll order us up some cocoa.’

  Cristobel came out of the bathroom wearing jeans and a big fluffy jumper. There was something about her that made me think she was relieved I hadn’t taken up her offer. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was back to being wholesome, and I was kind of glad about that. Jesus, I thought, I must be getting bloody old.

  I was about to ask how she’d managed to get into my room when her face lit up with that amazing smile at the sight of the cocoa and the plate of biscotti. I skipped the question. The Lord and beautiful nineteen-year-old girls both work in mysterious ways.

  She made herself comfortable in a large armchair, feet tucked up snugly underneath that spectacular bottom.

  I handed her a mug of cocoa. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I saw you earlier this evening outside the hotel.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘the paint-hurling incident in the driveway. Is that why you’re in Canberra? Helping to redecorate the Japanese ambassador?’

  ‘It was an opportunity we couldn’t miss, Mr Murdoch, but we’re actually here to lobby the federal government on the whale sanctuary in Antarctica.’

  ‘And “we” would be you and Artemesia Gaarg?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Gaarg is totally committed to the wellbeing of the world’s sea creatures, in particular the whales. Whales are truly amazing creatures, Mr Murdoch. They communicate with each other over hundreds of miles of ocean, singing their beautiful songs. It’s how they keep track of their families and friends, and let other whales know where to find food.’

  ‘Sort of like their own sonar Good Food Guide for krill?’

  ‘Exactly. Did you know, Mr Murdoch, that different whale species converse in different dialects, depending on where they’re from? The blue whales from the American Pacific north-west and blue whales in the western Pacific Ocean sound different to each other, and both sound different to those living off Antarctica, and different again to the blue whales living near Chile.’

  ‘You mean, like street gangs with their own hoods, and homeboys and jive talk?’

  Cristobel smiled politely, making me feel about four years old. ‘But seriously, Mr Murdoch, the whale sanctuary is vital and urgent and our government must get behind it. The whale is one of God’s most magnificent creatures, and right now it has so few friends.’

  After my meeting with the Defence Minister and Pergo, I was beginning to understand how the poor bloody whales must be feeling.

  ‘But enough about me and the whales, Mr Murdoch. What brings you to Canberra?’

  ‘Police business, Ms Priday.’

  ‘Please call me Cristobel. And it’s all right, I know you aren’t really a police officer, Mister Murdoch.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I admit it, I’m actually a photographer.’

  ‘I know you’re a spy, Mr Murdoch, and I don’t think you should be ashamed to admit it.’

  Shit. How did Miss Born Again know that? And what else did she know?

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a spy, Mr Murdoch. It’s an honourable profession. As the Bible tells us, “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, Send men that they may spy out the land of Caanen which I give to the children of Israel; of every tribe of their fathers shall you send a man, every one a prince among them.”’

  Jesus, not only was I a spy, but I was a prince with it.

  ‘The Book of Numbers, Mr Murdoch,’ she continued. ‘Chapter thirteen, verses one and two.’

  ‘What gave you the idea I’m a spy?’

  ‘I overheard a phone call. It was an accident – I don’t usually eavesdrop.’ Then she flushed bright red.

  That phone call had to involve Priday. But who was on the other end of the line that knew I was a spy? Was she on a mission for Daddy? Was that what she was doing here? Just how big a sleazebag was the good Reverend?

  I got the feeling Cristobel realised she’d said too much. She quickly finished her cocoa and stood up. ‘I should be off now, Mr Murdoch. I’ve disturbed you enough for one evening.’

  She had that right.

  ‘Can I have the concierge arrange for a taxi?’ I said as I walked her to the door.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m staying in the hotel, but thank you for your concern.’

  She smiled, raised up on her toes and gave me a kiss. Her lips were incredibly soft and I had visions of all my rules going out the window. It took a lot of willpower but I gently pushed her away. Jesus, if this ever got out amongst the press fraternity my reputation as a stud would be toast.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Priday,’ I said. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  She started down the hallway, then turned around. ‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Mr Murdoch, but I used your razor while I was in the bath.’

  I swallowed hard, wondering if my Merkur Solingen Vision 2000 had been places no man had been before. With Cristobel it was damned hard to say.

  ‘Goodnight, Ms Priday,’ I said firmly, and closed the door.

  I poured myself another whisky. I’d been in the national capital less than eight hours and already I had been threatened by a government minister, bumped from a high-level job, partied with a bunch of lesbians at a wine-and-sausage fest, ridden pillion on a vintage motorcycle behind a six-foot, red-headed Amazon, and been propositioned in my hotel bathroom by a beautiful naked, nineteen-year-old, whale-loving, committed Christian who’d borrowed my razor for a very personal depilatory procedure. And people will still try to tell you Canberra is a dull town.

  Just after midnight, I was thumbing through the hotel’s Gideon Bible and contemplating another whisky to try to get the vision of Cristobel’s amazing arse out of my head, when my new mobile rang. It was Julie.

  ‘Just checking in, nothing to report,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d still be up.’

  ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘I think I might be up for quite some time yet.’

  We kept the call brief. I asked Julie to sniff around for anything she could find on Operation Chester, then hung up and tried to get some sleep. But my mind was racing.

  The Canberra trip hadn’t exactly been a roaring success. I now had even more questions than answers, and I’d been demoted, which would limit my access to vital information. And they were certainly circling the wagons in Defence. Was it just because two nuclear warheads had been stolen from an American cruiser on a goodwill visit? Yes, it was embarrassing that it happened on our turf, but the responsibility for their safekeeping lay squarely in the
hands of the Americans, so we shouldn’t be getting the flak for that. There had to be something else making them so jumpy. And though it was great to see Gudrun, she had been a dead end as far as inside info went. Then of course there was Cristobel. That vision alone was enough to keep a bloke awake in the wee hours, but it was why she’d been trying to seduce me that really had me bothered.

  Around six I gave up on getting any sleep, took a shower and packed my bags. I was heading across the lobby when I spotted Cristobel and Artemesia Gaarg holding hands over coffee. I decided to say hello.

  Cristobel gave me her high-wattage smile and introduced me as ‘the nice Mr Murdoch’. God, that made me feel old.

  Even seated, Artemesia Gaarg was an imposing woman. She was elegant, solidly built, and her face had the slightly weathered look of a sailor. Her long white hair was pulled back in a single plait and she was wearing an ankle-length skirt and a loosely fitted blouse of raw silk. Around her neck was a string of tiny, multi-coloured carved animals.

  ‘Nice necklace,’ I said. I’d seen it somewhere before.

  She smiled. ‘It’s a fetish necklace, Mr Murdoch, made by Zuni Indians. The animals are carved from turquoise, coral and alabaster. Native Americans have always understood the link between ourselves and the animal world, the fact that we are all one upon this planet and all our destinies are linked.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. Artemesia might have come across as someone’s middle-aged hippie aunt if it weren’t for the unsettling gleam of the true believer in her eyes. ‘Well, ladies, have a good morning, and good luck with the whale sanctuary.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. I didn’t realise you were a supporter of the whales.’