by Robert Sims
Then she walked quietly from the bathroom along a carpeted passageway towards the front of the house. It led into a hall with a sideboard, a mirror, an old-fashioned umbrella stand and open doorways right and left. The tang of electrical burning in the air grew stronger, along with a much nastier smell. It came from the door on the right. Rita stepped quietly through it.
Steinberg was lying on the floor, his body contorted in a motionless convulsion. Rita breathed out slowly and reached for the light switch. She flicked it. Nothing happened. Lights fused.
That explained the smells - both of them. Burnt circuits and burnt flesh. She got out her torch and shone it on the body. It was beside the open door to an inner room - a computer den.
She moved closer and squatted down. The features were those of the man she’d spoken with just a few hours ago but now they bore the warped rictus of a face in shock. The skin on his hand was scorched and blistered. She raised the torch beam till it rested on a security keypad. Its metal buttons were buckled and blackened. So that’s how it had happened. Just as he’d punched in his personal access code the door of his computer den clicked open and a lethal surge of electricity shot through his body.
It looked like a freak accident. None of the wiring was exposed. There were no marks she could see in the torchlight to indicate the keypad had been rigged to electrocute him. But as her hand rested on the polished floor she felt something on her fingertips, a light powdering of fresh sawdust. That made it professional. And it changed the whole complexion of the case she’d been seconded to investigate. Rita had wanted evidence to justify Steinberg’s paranoia about the research base and its military authorities. Now she had more than she needed but at the cost of his life. She hung her head as a pang of remorse shook her.
It was also all the more urgent that she get hold of the disk with Steinberg’s report on it. She stood up with a sigh, stepped over his body and went into the computer room. The terminal on his desk was dead with the disk drive left open and empty. As she directed the torchlight around the interior the beam fell on rows of disks, a bookcase, a TV stand and an antique dresser, its shelves filled with DVDs, mostly recordings of opera. Steinberg must have played them in the background while working at his keyboard.
Framed university qualifications, including his doctorate, were hung around the room, along with posters for Tosca, La Traviata and Parsifal. Everything appeared to be neat and systematic. But where to start?
Rita went through the carefully labelled disks that filled a rack on one of the walls. Hundreds of them. They all referred to technical and scientific topics. If Steinberg’s report was among them she had no way of knowing. Next she checked the desk drawers and dresser cabinets, again without luck. She didn’t expect him to have left a copy of it lying around the house, but she searched it anyway. She found nothing of interest - just the tidy, comfortable home of someone who liked classical music, European literature and solitude. She sat wearily on the sofa in his sitting room and sighed. Whatever revelation Steinberg had worked on, he’d taken it with him. There wasn’t much more she could do here.
She had just pulled out her mobile to call the police emergency line when the front door burst open, shattered off its hinges, figures lunging towards her. Armed men in camouflage clothing were shouting, ‘Get down on the floor! Flat on the floor! Now!’
Red points from laser sights flashed across her eyes and danced on her chest.
She didn’t hesitate.
She did as she was told but shouted back at them, ‘I’m a police officer!’
She was told to shut up.
As Rita lay face down on the floorboards her arms were wrenched behind her back and her legs were kicked apart.
‘Okay,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Cuff her.’
Rita loathed them even before they manhandled her into the back of an army truck and strip-searched her. She’d encountered their type before on a hostile environments course: thick-necked regimental bullies with buzz-saw haircuts who delighted in intimidating women. Making sexual threats was part of their nature, reinforced by group psychology. She knew enough not to show an emotional reaction to the mistreatment. That would only encourage them.
She also guessed they were some of the ‘fascist thugs’ Steinberg had referred to. If so there was an added danger. It was possible they were operating outside the law, and for all she knew they were directly involved in his murder. She had no way of knowing what agenda they were following.
But she refused to let them unnerve her. Though she stood there naked, she was plainly unimpressed with their aggression.
‘Just let me know when you’re finished,’ she said.
They told her to get dressed then handcuffed her again.
‘There’s no need for this,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve got my ID.’
‘We don’t know it’s genuine,’ came the answer.
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Security protocols. We’re on alert for a terrorist cell.’
‘And I’m a suspect?’
‘You could have fake ID.’
‘It’s not. Call Whitley police station.’
‘Forget it. Either way you’ll have a lot of explaining to do back at base. In the meantime, shut up.’
There was no point arguing and she had no choice but to comply. Their directive was clearly to treat her as a potential hostile until ordered otherwise. As well as barking commands, restraining and searching her, they’d seized her shoulder bag, mobile phone and car keys. Her personal details had been scanned on a battlefield laptop and relayed ahead to whoever would conduct the interrogation. While her predicament seemed bizarre, it was also entirely consistent with the oppressive use of force that Steinberg had warned her about.
They put Rita in the back of a jeep. The rain had blown over leaving the air clear but damp. No one spoke to her as a small convoy of military vehicles, with her Falcon being driven at the rear, followed the road back towards the town, the headlights sweeping along a tangle of mangroves at the edge of swamps now engulfed in blackness. The silence suited her. It gave her time to think out a plausible version of events.
She’d guessed where they were heading long before they arrived at the entrance to the research base. The gates opened, the barriers lifted and they drove through the grounds to the back of the main complex then through another set of gates into a security compound. Still handcuffed, she was escorted into a low concrete building with all the charm of a prison block and along a corridor to a bare interrogation room. Only then were the cuffs removed.
She was told to sit down and wait. There was a table with chairs on either side of it, video cameras high up in the corners of the room, and a two-way mirror on the end wall. Rita pulled out a chair, sat down and found herself agreeing with another of Steinberg’s observations. As a state security facility, the Stasi would have approved.
They made her wait for half an hour. At one stage she got up and tried the door. It was locked. She paced around the room for a while then sat down again, sure she was being watched. At last the door was flung open by a man in a short-sleeved army shirt. He was in his forties with streaked blond hair, thin, sharp features and a slight limp. There was scar tissue on the side of his face from what could have been a shrapnel wound. His manner was brisk and combative as he slapped a file on the table, leant on the back of the chair opposite and stood over her.
‘Okay, your police background checks out,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to Bryce who says you’ve been seconded here to profile the murders.
Which is all well and good. But answer one question. What the fuck were you doing in Steinberg’s place?’
Rita pushed back her chair. ‘You know who I am,’ she replied.
‘So who are you?’
‘Security director of Whitley Sands, Captain Roy Maddox. And I don’t tolerate backchat.’
‘But you tolerate thuggish behaviour by your squad,’ she retorted.
‘They follow protocols.’
/> ‘We’ll see about that when I file a report on them.’
‘There’ll be no report,’ he snapped. ‘And I’m yet to be convinced I should even release you.’
‘You’ve got no grounds to hold me.’
‘Don’t be naive.’ Maddox pulled out the chair and sat down, facing her squarely. ‘All this falls under the umbrella of national security - the base, staff quarters, Steinberg’s home, anything deemed relevant. Even Steinberg’s death remains classified until we decide otherwise. So answer the question.’
‘I could have explained back at the house if I’d been allowed to.’
‘Explain it now.’
‘Fine. But it has nothing to do with national security or even police business. It was a social call. I was looking up a friend on behalf of my partner.’
‘Some social call. You break into a man’s house and we find you there with his dead body. You didn’t even phone it in.’
‘That’s what I was trying to do when your men came busting in like storm-troopers.’
‘It doesn’t explain why you broke in.’
‘I was hoping to meet him in town and he’d promised to call me back by five,’ answered Rita. ‘When he failed to call and didn’t answer his phone I drove to his house. His car was there, but no lights were on, the place was silent, I got no response to my knocking and there was a smell of electrical burning. I sensed something was wrong. I got in through an open window.’
‘This partner of yours,’ said Maddox, taking out a gold pen and opening the file. ‘Name?’
‘Byron Huxley,’ she sighed.
‘What’s his connection to Steinberg?’ asked Maddox, writing in the file.
‘Byron’s a professor in computer science at Monash University.
Dr Steinberg was his friend and colleague there for a number of years. They’ve kept in touch. They have views in common.’
‘God save us from the chattering classes,’ said Maddox, putting down his pen. ‘Now, I know you examined the body and searched the house,’ he added, watching her closely. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
Maddox thumped the table with his fist. ‘Answer the damn question! Right now you’re about one lippy comment away from getting on my shit list.’
‘I’d assumed I was already on it,’ she replied, then leant forward in what could have been a conciliatory gesture. ‘Look, Captain Maddox, put yourself in my position. I was planning to meet someone. He didn’t get back to me. I called at his house.
There was something wrong. I got inside and found him dead.
From that point on I acted professionally - not as an uninvited guest but as a police detective. Of course I examined the body and checked through the house. For all I knew it was a crime scene. But before I called it in I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious.’
‘And was there?’ Maddox asked, a little too promptly.
Rita realised the question was a trap. If she answered the wrong way she would set herself up as a target, so she had no hesitation in lying to his face. ‘There was no sign that any intruder had been inside. Nothing appeared to be out of place. So what I was about to report, when your men raided the place, was that Dr Steinberg was the victim of a freak accident.’
Maddox’s eyes scanned her silently before he sat back.
‘A freak and tragic accident is what it looks like at this stage,’
he said flatly. ‘Although your presence has added a confusing dimension.’
‘As a matter of interest,’ asked Rita, ‘why did your men hit the place when they did?’
‘You triggered the raid,’ he answered. ‘You have no idea the level of surveillance we have to maintain in this area.’
‘Because of an alert for a terrorist cell?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘In one of your trucks after I was strip-searched and handcuffed as a terrorist suspect.’
Maddox picked up his pen again and tapped the file distractedly.
‘You might see your treatment as an overreaction,’ he said, ‘but under the circumstances, it’s not.’
‘What circumstances?’
He paused as if wrestling with how much to tell her, before relenting.
‘The information is not for public consumption, but the local authorities are about to be briefed, so you might as well hear it now. We have reason to believe a group of four men, suspected of being members of a militant cell, are plotting a terrorist act against the base. They vanished from where they were under observation in Sydney’s western suburbs. The latest intelligence points to them being in the vicinity of Whitley Sands. Because of the heightened alert, we’re informing the police, council and emergency services and asking for extra vigilance.’
‘What’s the link with Whitley?’
‘Don’t bother to ask, you don’t have the clearance,’ was his curt reply. ‘So let’s stick to what happened tonight. You might be telling the truth, but you’re not off the hook. You’re now subject to restrictions pertaining to the security and intelligence agencies, and your full cooperation is required.’
‘My cooperation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Time to get real, Van Hassel. In crude terms, I’ve already got you for unlawful entry, failing to report a death and obstructing a federal investigation. So you’ll do what you’re told.’
‘Or what? I’ll be prosecuted?’
‘We both know it won’t come to that. But I can put an end to your career with one phone call. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And if you want to leave here tonight, there’s a procedure to follow.’
‘What procedure?’
‘You’ll have your photo, prints and DNA taken, you’ll sign the witness report on Steinberg’s death that we’re drafting, along with official secrets forms and consent agreements undertaking never to disclose you were at his home. You’ll also be given a reference number for our files and any subsequent exigencies of the service.’
‘Exigencies?’ The word almost stuck in Rita’s throat. ‘That sounds like an excuse for dragooning me into things outside the law.’
‘I don’t care what it sounds like. In formal terms, you’ll be inducted as an associate officer of the Whitley Sands security force.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘You won’t leave here.’ Maddox put his pen away, collected the file and stood up. Before walking out he paused to add, ‘And you’d kiss your future goodbye.’
That final threat seemed to have more than one meaning. It hung in the air as he shut the door behind him.
Rita did as she was told, of course, complying with the ID require-ments, signing the declarations and filling in what amounted to a formal registration under the terms of the security and intelligence services. It was like sealing a diabolical pact, acknowledging surrender to an invisible and remorseless authority. The amount of documentation reminded her of a property transaction, which in a sense it was, something akin to mortgaging her professional independence. What the hell, she thought. I can live with it.
Once she’d been processed out, her bag and mobile phone were handed back to her and the blue Falcon was driven to the entrance of the security block. She was handed the keys and told to get in. As she slid behind the wheel she was given a final warning to keep her mouth shut and was then escorted by jeep out of the compound and off the base. When the barrier and gates closed behind her, and she was alone at last, she gunned the engine and roared off towards the town. She couldn’t get away fast enough.
Although the experience of the past few hours had been both chilling and humiliating, she took more than one positive from it.
She now knew first hand what sort of force Steinberg had been referring to, and she accepted he was justified in likening it to a corps of state-sanctioned hoods. There was also the deception she’d pulled on Maddox. As far as Rita could tell he was satisfied that she’d discovered nothing of consequen
ce. But that thin residue of sawdust had told her everything. Steinberg had been a witness to the truth and had paid with his life.
15
It was coming up to midnight as Rita sat cross-legged in front of the webcam, her laptop propped on the hotel bed, a Scotch over crushed ice within reach. It was her third and it was having the required effect. So was the chocolate. Four discarded wrappers from the mini-bar supply of confectionery lay on the bedside cabinet. Her mobile phone lay in pieces around her, dismantled in her check for bugs. The curtains were open on the night sky, now clear and bristling with stars, the television was playing quietly in the background, tuned to MTV, and from her open balcony door came the sound of waves surging against the foot of the bluff.
She was wearing the green satin pyjamas Byron had bought her, while his face filled the laptop screen and his reassuring voice, coming from the speaker, was helping to soothe away her residual stress.
‘So what do you think of the new webcam?’ he asked.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘Fine? It’s faster, with no blips and video-quality resolution.’
‘Okay, if you say so. All the better to see you with, my dear.
Though your movements are a bit jerky.’
‘It’s a webcam, not a TV camera,’ he laughed, but he seemed to notice her expression. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Just tired.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘The day was full-on.’ Rita gave him a weak smile. ‘I miss you.’
‘Look,’ frowned Huxley, ‘I hope they’re not going to keep you up there too long.’
‘The investigation’s already complicated.’
‘I could fly up in a couple of weeks. I could even claim it as an academic junket - call it research and drop in on old Steinberg.’
Rita didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to make contact with him,’
Huxley went on.
She just shook her head in answer.
