Sensitive New Age Spy

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes before he turned away from me and said calmly, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know any Chapman Pergo, Inspector Murdoch.’

  The Reverend was obviously shit scared of Pergo, and the only way I was going to get anywhere with him was to make him even more scared of me. I lunged at him, spun him around and pushed him hard up against the wall with my arm across his throat. His glass, still holding about a hundred bucks worth of single-malt, shattered on the polished wood floor.

  ‘Listen, you sanctimonious prick, I know you and Pergo are up to your eyeballs in this and you’re going to tell me all about it right now!’

  His eyes bulged and beads of sweat glistened on his face. I kept my arm across his throat until he gasped for breath, and then I pressed harder just to let him know I was serious. ‘Do we understand each other?’

  Priday nodded furiously and I released the pressure and backed away. He rubbed his throat as he caught his breath, then straightened his collar and tried to compose himself.

  I poured another glass of whisky and handed it to him. ‘Let’s try that again. Is Chapman Pergo also a member of your flock?’

  He took the glass with both hands. ‘No, alas, Mr Pergo is not a believer, Inspector Murdoch.’

  ‘So what’s your connection with him?’

  Priday sank into the leather Chesterfield. ‘Mr Pergo and I met when the Defence Minister decided a bit of high-profile church-going might improve his chances for a run at the top job, should the PM ever decide to abdicate.’

  That sounded about right. Every so often there was a rush of prime-ministerial wanna-bes sitting piously in church pews on Sunday mornings, trying to out-God each other for the Christian vote. Most career politicians would be right into burning non-believers at the stake at half-time at the AFL grand final if they thought it would swing them some extra votes from the evangelicals.

  ‘Mr Pergo accompanied the Minister and we found we had similar interests.’

  The only similar interest these two were likely to have was self-interest. ‘Go on.’

  Priday took a large swig of whisky. ‘Some months back, during a casual discussion on the price of gold, I mentioned to Mr Pergo that after the Viet Cong’s Tet offensive in Vietnam in ’68 there was a crisis in confidence and the world stockmarkets panicked. The price of gold went so high that trading was temporarily suspended on the London bullion exchange. It was a disaster for many investors, but for those with the foresight and the resources to have stocks of gold on hand it was —’

  ‘A goldmine?’ I suggested.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And that piqued his interest?’

  ‘Mr Pergo revealed that a special delivery was to be made by an American warship, and that if details of that delivery became public it would most certainly create instability in the region.’

  He was talking like this was just another business opportunity which a man would be a fool to pass up.

  ‘So you and Pergo got into bed together and you were going to leak Max’s happy snaps of the delivery of the nukes to the media and make a killing on the gold market?’

  Priday was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘That was the plan, yes.’

  ‘And how’s it working out so far?’

  The Reverend finished off his drink in one gulp and stared at the floor.

  ‘Okay. Let me lay it out for you,’ I said. ‘Four innocent people are dead and two nuclear warheads have gone missing.’

  ‘The warheads are missing?’ Priday’s shock was genuine.

  ‘You don’t want to believe everything you see on TV, Reverend. That wasn’t an accidental explosion on the Altoona. It was two nukes being hijacked by your friends in the ship’s choir.’

  ‘But what would the members of a choir want with two warheads?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea, but I’ve a feeling your partner-in-crime Mr Pergo could tell us, and I reckon it involves a larger return on his investment than you were offering. And unless I miss my guess, suddenly Pergo isn’t taking your phone calls.’

  I could tell by the look on his face that I hadn’t missed my guess, and that Pergo had screwed the Reverend over.

  ‘Who else knew that Max would be in the carpark at that time?’ I asked.

  ‘Pergo gave him the date and time of the handover. And he suggested the vantage point.’

  Son of a bitch! No wonder Priday was so tooled up. He must have been wondering if he was also now surplus to requirements, and in line to meet the same fate as Max.

  ‘So what was the tanker business all about?’

  ‘Pergo told me it was a government operation to distract attention from the docks during delivery of the weapons.’

  ‘And you believed that?’

  ‘Given the transaction that was taking place, I was ready to believe anything.’ He stood up. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Inspector Murdoch. I had no knowledge of any of this, and absolutely nothing to do with that young man’s death. Max was just going to take photographs of the handover, that was all. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.’

  ‘Nobody ever is,’ I said. ‘And the thing that really pisses me off, Reverend, is that even though your greedy little scheme has gone pear-shaped, you still stand to benefit. If word of this gets out, the effect on the stockmarket will be disastrous and your profits astronomical.’

  It was as if he took comfort from this, and that smug self-confidence was back. ‘Perhaps I may benefit financially whatever the outcome of this situation, but that is in the hands of the Lord.’

  ‘And the Stock Exchange.’

  ‘Religion and the stockmarket have a lot in common, Inspector. Both are very much faith-based.’

  He was right on that point but I wasn’t willing to leave this situation in the Lord’s hands.

  ‘I ran into Cristobel in Canberra a couple of days ago,’ I said. ‘Was that your doing?’

  ‘Was what my doing? I understand she was there with Miss Gaarg to lobby for the whale sanctuary.’

  ‘So you didn’t send her to see me?’

  ‘Why would I do that? Cristobel has absolutely nothing to do with any of this, Inspector Murdoch. My daughter is driven by only the purest motives.’

  I wanted to believe that, but there had to be an ulterior motive in her coming to my room. If Priday hadn’t sent her, who had? And he seemed to be still genuinely buying my cop routine, so who had Cristobel overheard saying I was a spy?

  ‘Is she here this afternoon?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she’s spending the weekend whale-watching in Tasmania with Artemesia. My daughter has quite a passion for Miss Gaarg’s cause.’

  Downstairs, the string quartet launched into ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

  ‘And now if you’ll excuse me,’ Priday said, ‘I’m afraid it’s show time.’

  I followed him out to the pulpit. There were about a hundred and fifty people in the banking chamber, a late-twenties crowd, mostly men in expensive suits with a smattering of women dressed for success. No doubt about it, Priday was aiming right for Sydney’s money jugular.

  ‘Nice turnout for a Thursday afternoon,’ I said.

  ‘We don’t believe in numbers in the First Church of the Lord’s Bounty, Inspector Murdoch,’ Priday said, ‘we believe in net worth.’

  I got to the main door just as the hymn finished. A few latecomers were scurrying in, so I moved to one side. The Reverend Priday stepped up to the microphone and raised his arms skyward.

  ‘Welcome, fellow shareholders in the Almighty’s bounty,’ he said, and his amplified voice echoed around the stone walls. ‘It’s a fine Thursday afternoon, the Stock Exchange is closed for the day, and the All Ordinaries is up forty-nine points. Praise the Lord!’

  The congregation seemed to like that. With one voice they shouted out, ‘Praise the Lord,’ in response.

  As I grabbed the brass handle of the main door, Priday called from the pulpit, ‘Go with God, Inspector.’

  ‘Buy low, sell high,’ I shoute
d back, and there was an approving murmur from the crowd. Priday’s congregation seemed to like that too.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Anyone for fish and chips?’

  I’d just finished filling Julie in on my encounter with the Reverend Priday and his avaricious flock when Mrs T popped her head round the door. I needed to eat and her suggestion made as much sense as anything else right now, so I grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge and some glasses, and announced I was taking the whole gang out for dinner.

  We lined up at Bondi Surf Seafood and I let them order whatever they wanted, except for the deep-fried Mars Bars, of course. Twenty minutes later, we were sitting on the grassy slope that runs down to the beach. I opened the wine while Julie and Mrs T unwrapped the food and Dougal set about annoying the crap out of the hovering seagulls.

  Late-afternoon light on Bondi Beach, a mild onshore breeze, chilled semillon, fresh Sydney rock oysters, lightly battered king prawns and Tasmanian scallops, potato cakes and a large serving of chips for Mrs T – if anything could take a man’s mind off a couple of missing nukes, a new boss who made Maggie Thatcher look like a sissy, and the fact that I hadn’t woken up in bed with a woman for at least six months, this should do it.

  I waved to the guys in the Astra and the talkative one waved back. Mrs T waved too.

  ‘They’ve been there all week, Alby,’ she said. ‘Friends of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Didn’t think so.’

  God, just how bad were these guys? Even Mrs T, an 85-year-old pensioner with mild cataracts, had made them.

  She fed Dougal half a potato cake. ‘Are you in trouble again, Alby?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle, Mrs T.’

  ‘All right, dear, but you’ll let me know if I can be of any help, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure will.’ I raised my glass. ‘With you two in my corner, I reckon I can take on anything.’

  Julie leaned across and clinked her wineglass against mine. ‘Here’s to fighting the good fight,’ she said.

  ‘It would be a lot easier without one hand tied behind my back.’

  ‘I’m sure you can take good care of yourself with just one hand, Alby,’ Julie said under her breath.

  Now that was just plain rude.

  Back at Luxor Mansions, Mrs T and Dougal had hit the sack, Julie was at her laptop, and I was considering my next move when the intercom sounded. The video display showed Lieutenant Kingston standing in the street. I buzzed her in.

  Julie stuffed her laptop into her bag. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get home and feed the cat.’

  ‘You don’t have a cat,’ I pointed out.

  She was already out the door. ‘You’re right. I must remember to get one next time I’m at the pet shop.’

  Clare was wearing a light summer dress. It was either a very short dress or she had really long legs, but either way I liked the effect. I asked her if she’d like a drink. She shook her head.

  Her shoulder bag hit the floor with the familiar clunk and she kicked off her sandals, staring at me with the same look that had made my hair stand up in the D.E.D. office. An energy force was suddenly crackling back and forth between us. I asked her if she was hungry and she nodded and pulled her dress off over her head. She didn’t have anything on underneath.

  Those legs were really long. Her breasts were even more spectacular than I’d imagined, and by golly, she was a natural blonde to boot. No tattoos of mermaids or tigers or hula girls that I could see, though. What the hell was the modern Navy coming to? I thought. And then I stopped thinking.

  Clare was asleep on her stomach. Through a gap in the blinds, a shaft of street light from out on the Parade cut across the bed and over her firm little butt. I glanced at my watch on the bedside table. Just after three. I could feel the scratches on my shoulders and I knew they were going to sting later in the shower. When I looked back at her she was smiling at me.

  ‘Been at sea a long time then, sailor?’ I said.

  ‘I hope I haven’t made you feel used.’

  I shook my head. ‘I like to do what I can for the girls in blue. I’m nothing if not patriotic.’

  ‘But I’m not in your Navy,’ she pointed out. ‘And I was wearing my khakis when we met.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m a big fan of the coalition of the willing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not really, but let’s just say this particular coalition has a lot going for it.’

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh. And I’m a sucker for women who laugh at my jokes.

  ‘I was a bit surprised to see you here,’ I said. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘I was confined to quarters for the duration, and then all of a sudden last night word came down from the top that I had eighteen hours’ shore leave. I don’t know what’s going on but I thought I’d make the most of it.’

  ‘You certainly did. I’m thinking of sending the top brass a thankyou note.’

  ‘Happy to do my bit for the ANZUS alliance,’ she laughed.

  ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a sailor suit, anyway?’

  ‘Military family. My dad served two tours in Vietnam, humping an M60 through Indian country, and my uncle Bob flew Navy F4s up in the wild blue yonder.’

  ‘The old Phantom was a pretty rugged plane.’

  ‘Not rugged enough. Uncle Bob’s was hit by a SAM on a mission over Haiphong. His wingman saw Bob and his Radar Intercept Officer eject, and two parachutes were spotted, but that’s the last that was ever heard of either of them.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘Apart from the Purple Heart he got when he fell off a bar stool and broke his ankle during a mortar attack, he came home pretty much unscathed.’

  ‘But why the Navy?’ I asked.

  ‘Uncle Bob’s service smoothed my way into Annapolis and a degree in electrical engineering from MIT, then a Weapons Systems Engineering major at the Naval Academy ensured I’d get sea duty, which was what I really wanted.’

  She reached up and touched the scar on my left shoulder. ‘This looks recent, what happened?’

  ‘I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.’

  ‘You still doing that, Alby?’

  ‘Can’t seem to help myself.’

  ‘You know, I had another reason for coming here tonight.’

  The first reason was good enough for me, but her tone was serious so she had my full attention.

  ‘The Altoona is locked down tight, no one is talking to anyone about anything, and the decks are awash with CIA and NCIS heavies, and guys with IDs from departments I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘A couple of missing W80s would tend to bring out the problem-solvers,’ I said.

  ‘That’s the strange thing. I ran the weapons inventory when I got back on board so I could get the serial numbers for my report, and I got shut out of the system after about fifteen seconds. Two minutes later, an NCIS heavy turned up at my station and removed my computer. I tried to log on from another station when he’d left, but my ID code was suddenly invalid.’

  ‘Probably just someone displaying a healthy level of paranoia until they have a board of inquiry.’

  She shook her head. ‘If anyone should have a high level of paranoia it’d be me. The fifteen seconds I had on the system were enough to see that the Altoona is showing a full weapons inventory. Everything is accounted for.’

  I looked at her across the bed.

  ‘I was aiming at that Seahawk when it lifted off,’ she continued, ‘and I know I was doing my best to avoid pointing my M16 at two warheads. I could see them sitting on her cargo deck. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Nothing about this whole business makes a lot of sense. Who’d have put money on the ship’s choir being the bad guys?’

  ‘Not me, that’s for sure. But I went back through the Altoona’s personnel files and I discovered that most of our choirboys weren’t exactly, well, choirboys. The
y’d all been in some sort of trouble over the years, but when Chief Warrant Officer Brames formed the Altoona’s choir, all that suddenly stopped.’

  ‘What’s Brames’s story, then?’

  ‘He did a tour in Iraq in 2004, detached from the Navy, flying support for ground troops, and while he was off-duty he found his way into trouble on a regular basis. Apparently he was involved in some pretty shady stuff, and being transferred back to sea was the only thing that saved him from a court martial and serious jail time in Leavenworth. Then he suddenly found God in San Diego and cleaned up his act.’

  I knew Pergo had been in Iraq around that time. Iraq was a big country, but the bad boys do tend to find each other.

  Clare rolled over and sat up. She was bloody stunning.

  ‘You’re looking perplexed,’ she said.

  ‘Too many loose ends and too many players. I don’t like a situation I can’t get on top of.’

  ‘Well, we have that in common,’ she smiled. ‘And speaking of getting on top of things…’ And then she did.

  When I woke up, the streetlights had been replaced by another sunny Sydney morning. While the espresso machine was warming up, I checked my emails. There was one from Julie saying she’d be over mid-morning, and a couple from people who wanted to sell me some pills that would apparently do extraordinary things to my penis. Clare wandered out for coffee wearing one of my old T-shirts that had shrunk fairly dramatically in the drier, and instantly I knew that the pill sellers wouldn’t be getting any of my money.

  An hour or so later, we finally made it into the shower. While Clare was drying her hair, I made the grim discovery that the fridge offered extremely limited breakfast options. After the night I’d just had, some hearty food was essential, so twenty minutes later we were heading into my favourite beachside breakfast spot.

  Tucked away in a huddle of shops opposite the north end of the beach, Soggy Togs has panoramic views of the sweep of the beach, right across to the Icebergs, and more importantly, serves a great cup of coffee. When we arrived a Goodie juice delivery van was parked outside and Alex, the owner of the joint, was paying some blokes who’d just finished installing a big new illuminated sign above the café’s entrance.