by Robert Sims
‘Check it out. We’re in a building staffed with American engineers, on a military reserve where twelve thousand GIs are deployed. And all this next to a town full of English-speaking white folk with the US Navy in port.’
‘Most of the GIs will be gone soon. The joint exercise is drawing to a close.’
‘Whatever. It feels less foreign than southern California.’
Luker gave a grunt of amusement.
‘Nevertheless,’ Molloy continued, ‘we’re guests of a foreign government. It’s an important factor. A certain sensitivity is called for.’
‘If the job requires it, I can be as sensitive as a fucking nun.’
Molloy gave him a look of disapproval, with a quick glance at Luker. ‘Well, I just want it on the record, so to speak. And that’s why Mr Luker’s here. We have no hesitation in sharing intelligence with our Australian allies.’
‘And it’s much appreciated,’ put in Luker.
‘Now we’re all buddies, can we get on with the briefing?’ asked Demchak.
‘I don’t like your tone,’ Molloy told him.
The man shrugged. ‘You don’t have to.’ His face was expressionless, his eyes unblinking. ‘Let’s get something straight.
And you might as well hear this too, Luker. I take orders and I act on them. No sweat. No comebacks. No sleepless nights over consequences. Here’s something else for the record though. I’ve got more than one boss and answer to more than one department.
But I always hunt alone.’
There followed a brief, diplomatic silence during which Luker automatically fingered the cigarette pack in his jacket pocket.
The friction between Molloy and his deputy was illuminating.
It confirmed Luker’s suspicion that the pair were operating under joint but distinct directives. This was nothing new in the Byzantine politics of intelligence agencies. It came with the web of duplicity they were all busy weaving. One of the reasons Luker had risen so high in the trade was that his political antennae were attuned to the nuances of double standards, oily deceit and bare-faced lies. Luker was, after all, a graduate of that ultimate school of mendacity: the media.
Whenever he attended a briefing such as this, he was reminded of an observation made by the late Malcolm Muggeridge, whose career, like his own, spanned both espionage and journalism.
According to Muggeridge, while journalists were compulsive liars, spies were even worse - they were habitual fantasists.
Molloy stuck his chin out defensively. ‘We’ll take what you say on board,’ he said to Demchak. ‘I have to concur there’s little room to finesse our methods when the survival of western values is at stake.’
Luker felt an inward shudder at the words, not because he agreed, but because he saw in Rhett Molloy - a high-ranking agent with a background in military intelligence - the sort of righteous delusion that had launched a millennial crusade and propelled the alliance into Iraq. Equally worrying, his kind of thinking found itself at home in sections of the CIA and US Command.
That made him one of a breed who professed to know where the course of history was going wrong and how to fix it. He had a certainty born of the religious right and a cowboy mentality towards international politics.
Demchak was a different beast. Luker saw him as a disciplined psychopath, whose skills had been honed and utilised in the field of black ops. The little that Luker knew about his background had come in a whispered aside from Molloy. He’d described Demchak as a product of domestic violence and Detroit slums, now bulldozed. Luker knew that he’d carried out missions in the Gulf, the Middle East and the Hindu Kush badlands straddling the Afghan-Pakistan border.
‘Right,’ declared Molloy. ‘Checklist.’
‘The list is growing,’ said Luker.
‘Bullet points, then.’ Molloy let his impatience show. ‘Hostiles.’
‘Gone to ground. No further sightings of our four terror suspects.’
‘And there won’t be,’ Demchak commented. ‘Until they bomb us. They know we’re watching.’
Luker nodded. ‘Which implies they’re well informed.’
‘Yes,’ Molloy agreed. ‘We have to assume they’re being primed for an attack. Which brings us to the Fixer. He may or may not be in our neighbourhood. No new intel.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Other external threats. The Rheingold disk.’
‘Still no sign of it,’ Luker responded.
‘Goddamn it,’ muttered Molloy. ‘We’ve got to contain this thing.
I’ll talk to Maddox again.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Stonefish?’
‘No progress,’ said Luker. ‘We still don’t know where he is, or exactly who he is. ID checks have drawn a blank.’
‘Same here,’ drawled Demchak. ‘I put the squeeze on Edge Freddy till his pips popped. He doesn’t know where his pal’s hiding.’
‘Hmm.’ Molloy’s frown deepened. ‘Protesters?’
‘Nothing imminent,’ said Luker. ‘They’re still reorganising.
Rachel Macarthur’s death was a setback.’
‘Good. Surveillance upgrade. I can report Panopticon is up and running on a regular basis. I’ve been driving it myself. It’s the sort of reinforcement we need right now.’ Molloy seemed satisfied. ‘Internal threats?’
‘Maddox has his eye on Paul Giles, the project coordinator.’
Luker stroked his chin. ‘No specific activity. But he’s disgruntled at the way he’s been treated since being detained in the nightclub.’
‘He’s a limey scumbag,’ put in Demchak.
‘You know him?’ asked Luker.
‘Yeah, from the bar in the Diamond. Can’t hold his liquor.
Consorts with hookers. Told me America’s the new Roman Empire.’
‘Well, he’s threatening to lodge a grievance.’
‘Like I said: scumbag.’
‘It goes without saying any new internal risk must be nipped in the bud,’ said Molloy. ‘What about the woman profiler?’
‘I’ve spoken to Van Hassel,’ said Luker. ‘I’m confident the tactic we’ve adopted has neutralised any potential risk.’
‘She’s no loose cannon, then?’
‘No.’ Luker couldn’t help smiling. ‘Just highly charged.’
Molloy gave a peremptory nod. ‘All right then. I think that brings us up to speed. Just one last thing. We mustn’t forget we’re all in this together. We face a common enemy in a war against a new form of evil. And I don’t use that word lightly.’ He was leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped, an anxious smile on his suntanned face. ‘That’s why I’d like the two of you now, if you’d do me the honour, to pray with me for the guidance we need at a time when our beliefs and our resolve are being tested.’
Luker felt embarrassed. Of all the things Molloy had come up with, this was the most awkward.
‘I’m sorry, Rhett,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet. ‘And I mean no disrespect. But you see, I can’t. I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, actually, I’m a humanist.’
Molloy looked at him with something like pity, before turning to Demchak.
‘Kurt? I don’t see you as a humanist.’
‘And you’d be damn right.’
‘So will you pray with me?’
‘You’re outta luck, Molloy.’ Demchak pushed back his chair and stood up, loosening his shoulders. ‘I don’t do that sort of praying.’
32
Billy Bowers looked wind-blown and irritable as he hunched behind his desk, paying scant attention to Freddy’s complaint about the American brute who’d crushed his balls. ‘His fist was like a fucking vice!’ Freddy winced at the memory.
‘And he’s big and ugly, with a Neanderthal skull.’
‘For fuck’s sake, tell me something I can make sense of !’
snapped Billy.
Freddy looked at him resentfully and realised yet again how much he disliked the man. ‘Called himself Kurt,’ he added.
‘Ah, now I know who you’re talking about.’ Billy stretched out his limbs and slumped back in his chair. ‘He drinks in the bar downstairs. So he’s also after Stonefish, huh?’
‘What about my balls? He’s threatening to tear them off !’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Billy. ‘Your balls are safe while you know nothing about the whereabouts of that bastard Stonefish.
When you do find out, you tell me straightaway, and I’ll protect you and your balls. Got it?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘No problem. Part of our business arrangement.’ Billy dumped his feet on the desk and glanced around casually at the boxing exhibits decorating his office. ‘We had a shit day out on the reef.
Weather was lousy and not one pissing marlin in sight. I won’t see that movie producer again.’
‘You after some Hollywood action?’ asked Freddy.
‘Don’t waste your brain cells trying to keep up,’ growled Billy. ‘Stick to what you’re good at. Hacking and jacking around.
Speaking of which, who’s the foxy piece of tail you were chatting up today?’
‘When?’
‘In the club, arsehole. My staff aren’t just loyal, they’re observant.
So who is she? Your new fuck-buddy?’
‘No, Billy. She’s a cop.’
‘A cop! What sort of cop?’
‘A profiler. Her name’s Van Hassel.’
Suddenly Billy was sitting bolt upright. ‘Van Hassel came calling on my club?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s investigating Rachel’s murder. The local cops drafted her in.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing.’ Freddy didn’t hesitate, remembering his secret deal with Rita. ‘I don’t know anything, do I?’
‘Well, make damn sure you keep it that way.’ Billy ran a hand through his tousled hair. ‘That bitch is trouble. I should’ve turned her into dog food years ago.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘She tried to ruin me once, put me inside. I had to use up a lot of points to make the problem go away.’
For once Billy looked worried, something that Freddy found to be a pleasant change. Rita was going up in his estimation.
‘Well, she can’t touch you now,’ said Freddy.
‘Don’t you believe it. She’s the persistent type. I can’t risk her stirring anything up around here. I need to get rid of her, one way or another. Fuck it!’
Billy stalked over to his punching bag and started thumping it furiously. He was interrupted by his desk phone ringing. Still cursing, he leant over and hit the button.
‘Yeah, it’s Billy Bowers here.’ He whacked the punching bag again. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Nikki Dwyer,’ a woman’s voice came out of the speaker.
‘Reporter on the Whitley Times. I wonder if I can ask you about a couple of things.’
Billy stopped punching abruptly and softened his tone. ‘Of course, Nikki. Always happy to help the press.’
‘I’m doing a feature on local celebrities,’ she went on, ‘and naturally you’re prominent among them.’
‘We all do what we can for the greater good,’ said Billy.
‘Promote the town, boost its image.’
‘It’s your image in particular I’m concerned with,’ said the reporter.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been given some disturbing information.’
‘Who by?’
‘An anonymous source.’
‘Then you should treat it with the contempt it deserves.’ Billy’s voice was getting less friendly by the second. ‘I’ve got no time for gutter journalism.’
‘The thing is,’ said Nikki, ‘I’ve already followed it up and the information checks out. Are you prepared to deny it without hearing what it is?’
Billy tensed, his body arched over the desk, fists clenched, realising he’d been ambushed.
‘What have you been told?’ he demanded.
‘First, that you threatened environmental campaigner Rachel Macarthur.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘She was organising a protest against your rainforest development,’
Nikki went on. ‘And she confronted you at your club. A witness has contacted me.’
‘What witness?’
‘One of your associates, actually. I won’t reveal the name but I can assure you his account is reliable.’
‘Whatever you’ve been told, I was trying to talk sense into her.
Get her to drop her opposition to what’s going to be a five-star resort complex. Something that will put Whitley well and truly on the international tourist map.’
‘You said you’d kill her.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘Your exact quote was: “I’ll rip your head off.” Do you deny it?’
Freddy sat forward, his pulse quickening.
‘I didn’t mean it literally,’ said Billy, with a swift glance at Freddy. ‘It’s just a figure of speech!’
‘But that’s what literally happened to her. Were you being prophetic?’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse!’ Billy shouted at the phone. ‘And don’t try to publish any of this.’
‘Would you like to comment on the other bit of background I’ve looked into - your arrest in Melbourne for sexual violence?
And the real meaning of your nickname, “The Beast”?’
‘That’s enough!’ snarled Billy. ‘Now listen carefully, I’ll only say this once, and you can read into it any damn thing you like: back off, or you’ll regret it!’
He didn’t bother to hang up the receiver. Instead, he wrenched the phone from its mounting and hurled it against the wall.
Freddy said nothing as the phone scattered in pieces and Billy’s face flushed red with rage. He just watched him with a mixture of suspicion and hate.
33
The Falcon’s headlights cut through the semi-darkness as the pale glow of a half-moon settled on the coastal ranges. Rita turned off the Bruce Highway onto Mountview Road and climbed past rocky outcrops towards a plateau bearing the US satellite tracking station. As she drove alongside the perimeter fence, the giant white spheres gleamed in the moonlight. They sat on the landscape like unnatural visitants. Beyond the US post the road across the upland wound towards mountain peaks shrouded in low cloud. Rita followed its course carefully across the dark spread of the land, rough and inhospitable.
Uneven ridges were lined with brushwood thickets and the humps of boulders. She’d psyched herself up for the encounter with Paul, but the remoteness was beginning to worry her.
As the scrubland fell behind, the car climbed a slope through an increasing density of gum trees. The steeper the incline, the damper the air became and the thicker the foliage. Rita got the wipers going. Soon the road was twisting around massive eucalyptus trunks and under the fronds of tree ferns, streams spilling through gullies along the verge, their banks a tangle of tropical vegetation.
She was now driving through the ancient rainforest and, despite the signs for campsites and picnic grounds, it had a feeling of untamed nature.
She found the T-junction that led to Paul’s house, and swung off to the right. The Ridgeway turned out to be a side road that followed the rim of the forest, with spectacular views over the ocean. The air was clear here. She switched off the wipers and took in the vista. Far below, the lights of the town and port clustered along the shoreline. Further out to sea the dark humps of the Whitsunday Islands were outlined in the moonlight.
Rita drove past a scenic lookout point with its eco-friendly cafe and, a kilometre down the road, a building site covering several hectares, ringed with a chain-link fence. A swathe of apartment blocks and landscaped swimming pools were under construction amid a muddy scar in the side of the mountain where bulldozers stood in silence, waiting to resume their excavations. She slowed down as she passed the padlocked gate. A hoarding advertised the future five-star resort - the Whi
tley Ridgeway - proprietor: William Bowers. This wasn’t just a holiday spot: it was a battlefield.
The most dangerous threat to the ecosystem of the rainforest was tourism, and the damage from this development was already plain to see. No wonder Rachel Macarthur had launched a campaign against Billy, thought Rita as she accelerated away. And to protect such an investment, he’d want to stop her dead.
There were a few other human incursions along the road, signs pointing to hiking trails, cabins partly hidden among the trees, but mostly The Ridgeway was fringed by the overhanging canopy of the forest, with its mass of vines and ferns. At last she reached a house set back in a clearing, number seventeen, and she pulled up at Paul’s front gate. The setting was isolated but compelling, with the primeval wilderness looming behind it and a panorama of coastal valleys stretching below. Beyond that the dark expanse of ocean swept to the horizon. While the location was enviable, the wrought-iron nameplate beside the gate struck her as a little obvious. The place was called Eden.
She got out of the car and shivered. It was cold up here.
The two-storey villa rose behind its high stone wall, secluded and imposing. Its Federation-style exterior was mostly intact - red brick walls, bay windows, heavy gables - though it had undergone renovations, both architectural and technological. The porch and balcony had been enclosed, with metal-framed portals, and a layer of solar panels adorned the terracotta roof tiles. Masts and dishes sprouted beside the chimney pots. Smoke was rising from one of the chimneys and the smell of burning eucalyptus wood hung in the air.
The path lamps were lit, awaiting Rita’s arrival, but the array of security devices was uninviting. She glanced up at the armoured camera casings and sprigs of razor wire as she pressed the buzzer beside the tubular steel gate. A moment later, it glided open. She walked through with senses alert. The gate closed automatically, sealing her in.
Something intuitive, a vague awareness of malevolent intent, warned her to tread carefully. Adrenalin pumping, she walked up the garden path. Either side of her, the flower beds were untended
- rhododendrons gone wild in a tangle of lantana, lopsided hibiscus bushes in need of pruning. A jacaranda tree had collapsed under its own weight and bindweed smothered a birdbath. She took it as a further sign that something was wrong. A once-attractive garden was withering from neglect.
