The Delta Chain

by Ian Edward

  Collosimo squirmed as Hunter glared at him. ‘Tony, you’re in on this?’

  ‘It’s nothing like you’re imagining,’ Collosimo replied. ‘We conduct occasional, random surveillance on what our staff do, where they go, whom they meet, just to keep abreast of anything out-of-the-ordinary. And to date, all’s been fine.’

  Still fuming, Hunter turned to Westmeyer. ‘What the hell, William, this is no way to run a scientific research venture, this is how the C.I. fucking A. go about things…’

  ‘Don’t overreact, I don’t want you getting upset any further. This isn’t about you, it isn’t personal. We simply need to find out how and why this massive leak occurred. Let me remind everyone, this will be reported overseas, focusing unwanted attention on us and our work here, not to mention sending alarm signals to investors. And the last thing any of us wants is Logan Asquith on the scene, breathing down our necks.’

  Hunter’s right forefinger stabbed the air, again in the direction of Donnelly. ‘I don’t like his attitude.’

  ‘I know you two rub each other the wrong way. But, Stephen, Jackson’s looking out for all our interests-’

  ‘I don’t need you to speak for me, William.’ It was uncharacteristic for Donnelly’s tone to be icy with his employer. They were an unlikely duo, Hunter thought, recalling that Kate Kovacs had made that observation during the brief period she and Hunter dated.

  ‘Perhaps we should all retreat to our corners, simmer down and reconvene later,’ Collosimo suggested.

  ‘We’ll meet here again at eight sharp tomorrow morning,’ Westmeyer ordered, ‘Jackson, Tony, I want you both to come equipped with suggestions on how we contain the situation and expose our mole, if I may borrow such a term.’ There was no laughter. ‘Stephen, I’d like you to think about whether there’s any way, intentional or otherwise, one of the lab teams could have compromised access to our data.’

  Westmeyer was the first to stride out of the boardroom, or the ‘war room’ as it was sometimes called. His anger had subsided but in its place was a deep concern: there would be no way of keeping this from Logan Asquith. He didn’t want Asquith interfering with him again. He was determined to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Brian Markham had arranged to meet again with Adam, later that afternoon, in Markham’s office.

  ‘I’ve given a lot of thought to the issue of that boat’s ownership,’ Markham said. ‘No doubt you’ve done the same?’

  ‘I have. But tell me your thoughts.’

  ‘In light of Westmeyer’s ownership of the boat I thought back over your investigation, of that reporter jumping on the bandwagon, and how the mayor called you and Kirby in, obsessing about any news stories.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘The mayor was instrumental in persuading Westmeyer to choose our town for his institute and has been buddies with him ever since. If Westmeyer’s boat was somehow involved with that drowning, what if Bingham knew? Could he have been the one your anonymous caller overheard talking with Westmeyer?’

  ‘I had the same thought,’ said Adam.

  A knowing smile crossed Markham’s tired features. ‘I wondered whether my little theory was simply outlandish. You’re not reacting as though it is.’

  ‘If there’s a connection between Westmeyer and the drowning, then there’s no potential link that’s too far fetched. And there’s possibly something else linking Bingham with all this.’

  ‘Now you really have my attention.’

  Adam told Markham about Kate’s intention to obtain copies of the council approved plans for the Institute, the same plans Rhonda Lagan had found suspicious. ‘I don’t know that there’s anything weird about the plans, haven’t seen them, but Bingham would’ve overseen their approval.’

  ‘True,’ said Markham. ‘In fact, I know that he rushed them through. He saw it as a major coup for the town, getting Westmeyer to choose us for the Institute site.’ He leaned forward intensely. ‘We need to see those design plans.’

  ‘Kate had already organised to get a copy of those plans.’

  ‘When is she back from Sydney?’

  ‘That’s just it. Kate left Sydney two days ago and I haven’t been able to contact her. I don’t know where she is, but I’m beginning to think…’ his eyes met Markham’s, and the coroner saw the growing alarm there, ‘…that she’s up to something.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘Some digging on Westmeyer and Bingham for one thing. I’ve already filled O’Malley in on the anonymous call, the boat’s ownership and the diary entry about the design plans. It’s a task force matter now. O’Malley’s people are compiling a profile on Westmeyer. I’d say we need to organise one on our mayor as well.’

  Harold Letterfield scanned his appointments diary. The four ‘o’clock appointment, which he’d absently agreed to at an earlier time, was a puzzling one. An American freelance journalist, Hank Mendelsohn, and an American woman, Jean Farrow, were visiting from Florida. Letterfield’s secretary led them into the office and they settled in the visitor’s chairs as introductions were made.

  ‘So how long have you been in Australia?’ Letterfield asked.

  ‘Arrived in Brisbane yesterday and in Settler’s Gorge just a few hours ago,’ Hank said, ‘so if we’re glaring at you with glazed expressions it’s just the jet lag.’

  Letterfield smiled. ‘I understand.’

  ‘We’re tired and I’m sure you’re a busy man so I’ll come straight to the point.’ Hank removed a series of enlarged photographs from an envelope under his arm and placed them on Letterfield’s desk. ‘The boat pictured here, matches the descriptions you’ve been given of a crocodile poachers’ boat on the Adelaide River.’

  Letterfield studied the photographs. ‘Where did you get these, Mr. Mendelsohn?’ He was intrigued but remained cautious.

  ‘Please, the name’s Hank. These photos were taken by Jean’s late son, Kevin Farrow. He was flying over the Florida Everglades, investigating similar sightings to the ones you’ve had here. I’m afraid Kevin was killed by these hunters in the same fashion your ranger, Greg Kovacs, died. There’s no doubt in my mind this is the same gang. They were operating in the Everglades around two years ago. Media coverage and the intensive search for them, seems to have forced them underground. I believe they laid low for a while, then regrouped and restarted their operation here. I might add this region would suit them much better – it’s more remote, and heavily populated by the reptiles they’re after.’

  Letterfield was astounded. ‘Good God…Florida?’ The photographs remained gripped in his fingers as though he was too mesmerised to let go. ‘You’ve clearly put in a great deal of time and effort on this, Hank. What do you make of it?’

  ‘There’s a huge market for croc skins on the international black market. A gang like this is not totally unusual. But these certainly aren’t your garden-variety reptile hunters. They have a state-of-the-art river craft, with sophisticated gear, not just for avoiding detection, but also for tracking the reptiles.

  ‘What’s more, these men or at least the man leading them seems to be a sadistic psychopath. Seems to me that he enjoys hunting and killing people as much as he does the crocs. I’m here because, along with Jean, I want these killers caught. I saw this as a starting point. Your Federal police need to become involved and to work in tandem with our F.B.I.’

  ‘Have you spoken with either of those bodies yet?’

  ‘No. First, I wanted to establish with your Wildlife Authority that you support our belief these cases are linked. One of your trackers is an eyewitness to the boat-’

  ‘Yes. Walter Coolawirra.’

  ‘If he can verify the boat he saw is the same one in our photos, then we have the evidence we need for the police.’

  ‘You certainly don’t beat about the bush, Hank.’ Letterfield buzzed through to his secretary. ‘Eileen, could you get in touch with Walter. I know he’s on leave, but explain it’s urgent.’ The Wildlife Preservation boss then turned his a
ttention to Jean. ‘I’m very sorry to learn of your loss, Mrs. Farrow. I hope your visit here will be the beginning of the end for these murderers.’

  Jean nodded, appreciating the compassion in his voice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Nothing could have prepared Daniel for the sights that greeted him when he stepped from the bus at the Brisbane terminal. He had, of course, seen photographs of the teeming masses crowded into the narrow streets with the steel and glass skyscrapers towering overhead. But standing in the midst of it, pushed along by the flow of a moving column of people, he felt his panic rise. His heart thumped as he somehow manoeuvred to the side of the street. He caught his breath while watching the passing parade.

  It seemed strange to him but he could see it was second nature to these people. Just another day. He marvelled at the cars, filling every available piece of the street, yet moving at high speeds.

  He should have felt disgust in the middle of such great evil. He certainly should have felt fear given the crime rate in large cities and the too-busy-to-stop, don’t-care attitude of the human race. Perhaps it was because his senses were numbed, and because of his tiredness, but he felt neither of those emotions. He simply felt like an ant in a universe too large, too complex to comprehend. He felt insignificant.

  Presently, Daniel found his way to a quiet area of parks and thoroughfares. The bridge that spanned the Brisbane River stood in the distance. He’d always been a good observer and he scanned the strange urban landscape, taking it all in. He’d noticed the dishevelled elderly men in dirty clothes, who lay on and around the park benches in a certain area, asking for money from passers-by. None of these men had food but a few of them drank from bottles of alcohol.

  Late in the day, as a sinking sun ushered in the pale hues of twilight, Daniel followed the men. They wandered in a loosely formed group to an older-style brick building on the outskirts of the city centre.

  In his readings, Daniel had learned of the people who had no homes, no jobs, and whom society mostly shunned. He’d read of the community shelters where the homeless could obtain meals and lodgings. With no money or resources of his own, Daniel prayed he too could find refuge along with these other drifters.

  Early evening. A meal of sausages, mushy potato and peas. Daniel sat at one of the long wooden tables alongside men and women who ate wolfishly as though there was no tomorrow. Most were silent, some chatted among themselves. Muted sounds came from a weathered looking television in the corner of the room.

  There had been no television or radio at The Com. Fascinated, Daniel’s eyes never left the coloured picture on the screen as he ate his meal.

  A news broadcast was underway. Half way through the program the face of a young woman was shown, followed by pictures of two other young people. Daniel stopped munching and his fork fell from his grasp. He knew that first face. It was a girl he’d seen before but he didn’t recall her name.

  He jumped up from the table and moved quickly to the television set, squatting in front so he could hear the sound. The newsreader, an attractive brunette with serious eyes, continued : ‘…The official line is that a task force led by Superintendent Ron O’Malley will look into similarities between the three drowning cases. And, as coincidence would have it, the location where the most recent victim was found…’ the picture of the fair haired girl Daniel recognised appeared as an inset in the top left corner of the screen, ‘…is Northern Rocks, the coastal holiday centre just two hours drive north of Brisbane, the scene of our next story. An unusual piece of industrial sabotage is proving highly embarrassing to the one of the world’s top scientific researchers…’

  Daniel sat back on his haunches, adrenaline pumping through his body. If he was to find Elizabeth then the first step would be to find out about the girl who’d drowned in that coastal town.

  The next stop in his quest would be the place called Northern Rocks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  An hour after dawn. The rising sun brought the colours of the Marrakai wilderness to life. From a vantage point near the riverbank, Walter, more than half way up a massive tree, searched the distance with his binoculars.

  This time he found what he was looking for. A thin stain of smoke in the air, its aroma attracting a flock of birds. Beneath it, barely visible among the dense ferns, the stern of a boat.

  ‘We’ve found them,’ he called excitedly to Kate, who waited at the base of the tree.

  They hiked on, taking another two hours to get within striking distance of the boat. They might never have seen it, if it hadn’t been for Walter’s acute vision, hearing and sense of direction. Canvas sheets were hoisted like sails and painted in a mural that blended perfectly with the surrounds. ‘Camouflage,’ Walter pointed out to Kate, ‘impossible to see from a distance.’

  ‘Which explains how they vanished every time a search was mounted,’ Kate said. ‘Just as you suspected.’

  ‘Yes. They moor by river’s edge, hoist canvasses on all sides and blend in like a chameleon.’

  ‘But how can they react so quickly?’

  ‘Just a guess, but probably these fellas got long range video and sonar, giving them plenty warning.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s ideal for spotting boats and planes and 4WD’s, but how do they zero in on a couple of people on foot?’

  ‘They must have lookouts. Or maybe they have other methods.’ There was an unnerving silence between them for a few moments. ‘As I said before, this no ordinary poaching gang. My rule stands,’ he reminded Kate, ‘one attempt with the homing device, then we’re gone.’

  ‘I know the rule,’ she replied in a half whisper, her eyes fixed on the boat.

  It was quiet until late in the afternoon. A long, tiring wait for Walter and Kate.

  Walter had brought them onto a bluff of thick, long ferns. They had a clear view of the boat’s stern. They both trained their binoculars on the boat and it was twilight when they witnessed the spectacle of a crocodile capture in progress. They could hear the squeals of a wild pig. It was strung by ropes to a tree branch, hanging over the river.

  ‘Seems we’re in for a show,’ said Walter.

  The boat was further along the river. There was still no sound or movement on board, nothing to alert the crocodile, which glided downstream toward the frantic pig. The moment the croc’s jaws closed around the leg of the pig, a net fell and enclosed the croc in its trap. ‘Canvas mesh,’ said Walter, ‘the same kind used to lift heavy objects out of the holds of ships.’ They watched as the metallic whirr of a hydraulic system dragged the netted pig to the boat, and then hauled it up and over the deck. Men, armed with rifles, appeared. A pellet was shot into the croc’s hide. ‘They keep them sedated for the trip back,’ Walter told Kate.

  The crocodile stopped moving and the canvas opened to deposit the reptile into a recessed pool, built into the deck and filled with river water. The pig was removed and another mesh of canvas netting was then fitted into place over the pool. ‘Neat,’ said Kate. The sun, sinking toward the horizon, cast long, deep shadows.

  ‘Now, while they’re distracted,’ Walter said urgently, ‘one chance.’

  Kate took aim with the specially designed mini-gun that would shoot the micro transmitter. The sudden urgency and the need for precision collided within Kate, creating a panic so palpable it was like an assault. Her hand shook.

  It was Walter’s calm, measured tones, his words of reassurance, that Kate would remember gratefully long after the moment. It was as though, just briefly, she was filled with an unnatural strength and focus.

  She fired.

  Through the telescopic lens Kate saw that she hit her mark – the metal rim that ran between the pool and the deck. If, as Walter suspected, this section was later separated from the rest of the boat, for transport, then the transmitter would still be part of that journey.

  ‘Let’s go. Quickly,’ said Walter.

  They moved stealthily through the thick ferns that dominated the bank, then away
from the river. Walter felt a strange tingle up and down his spine. There was no practical way he could ever explain or prove it but he knew, beyond doubt, they were being watched.

  Total dark didn’t come until early evening and they kept moving until then, Walter hoping their speed and the cover of the forest would hide them from any pursuers. Kate was exhausted but Walter insisted they use every moment of the fading light to keep moving. They set up a camp with just the ghostly pall of a crescent moon by which to see; Walter would not even allow the use of flashlights to betray their position.

  He insisted Kate sleep first while he kept watch – then allowed her to sleep right through.

  It was 4AM when he did wake her. Despite Kate’s protests at Walter taking the whole watch, he insisted they have a light breakfast and then head off just before first light. ‘It’s essential we do not allow the hunters, if they are following, to catch up.’ Kate marvelled at his ability, at this early hour and out here in the wilderness, to flash a cheesy grin. ‘Never forget the story of the tortoise and the hare, eh Kate?’

  He didn’t betray the full extent of his unease, or his sense that the hunters were definitely on their trail.

  Adam woke in a cold sweat. 4.45 AM. He sat up in bed, threw his legs over the side, and tried to remember what it was he’d been dreaming. He’d never been one to recall his dreams too well, and he could only grasp that he’d been dreaming of Kate and that something had been horribly wrong.

  Where was she?

  For the first time in his life, Adam found that the woman he was dating was invading his thoughts with increasing frequency, filling those thoughts with her beauty, her humour, and her intelligence.