Dead and Kicking

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  Playford leaned back on the metal balustrade, one hand on the railing while the other kept the Colt pointed at the middle of my chest.

  ‘You’re an irritating bastard,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what brought you to my dinner at the Manchu Palace and I don’t know what brought you here this morning, but I’ll be glad to be rid of you.’

  At least while Peng was talking he wasn’t shooting.

  ‘What are you, Murdoch, ninety kilos?’

  ‘Give or take a roast dinner or two.’

  Peng indicated the pond with a tilt of his head. ‘No more than sixty seconds to get you down to the bone, I would estimate. They didn’t get breakfast this morning so they’re a bit peckish. You’ll be the appetiser and then Detlef can be the main course.’

  ‘And Leroy for dessert?’ I suggested.

  ‘Leroy has been disloyal to me,’ Playford said. ‘His actions put my plans in jeopardy, so, yes, the barrana will be having a three-course breakfast this morning.’

  When I took a slow step forward, Peng lifted the pistol and shook his head. ‘You’re going in, Murdoch. I would prefer it if you were alive when you hit the water, but I’m willing to be flexible on that point.’

  I took a step back, and then I saw it. A small red dot was hovering in the middle of Peng’s chest. It moved slowly across and travelled down his arm before coming to rest on his left hand, which was gripping the metal railing.

  ‘I hate to be irritating, Playford,’ I said, ‘but it’s been rich and real.’

  Playford stared at me quizzically, then his left hand and the guardrail exploded. The impact of the bullet spun Peng around, the Colt flew from his grasp and suddenly he was falling as the shattered rail gave way under his weight.

  Playford Peng screamed once as he hit the water, but then the barrana were on him and their lunging, twisting bodies pushed him under. The pond boiled and bubbled and Playford surfaced for a moment, his arms flailing wildly. Then he was under again and the frothing water turned red. An arm came up momentarily, the fingers already stripped down to the bone, and then it was gone.

  Peng really knew his fish. It was all over in less than a minute, and then the swirling pond settled back into stillness.

  Something made me look down and I stopped breathing. Right in the middle of my chest was that damned red dot. I knew the rifle was perfectly zeroed to its laser sight from the way the sniper had hit Peng’s hand, so it was unlikely they were going to miss.

  The dot started to move. It tracked slowly down my chest and across my stomach, paused for one heart-stopping moment on my crotch, then moved out along the walkway. I followed it with my eyes as it tracked down one of the gantry legs and across the compound to where I’d left the forklift parked beside the pond. The dot travelled upwards and came to rest on the metal drum sitting on the forks. There was a bang and a thin stream of liquid poured out of the punctured drum and into the pond.

  Nothing happened for a couple of minutes and I wondered if maybe the drum had been mislabelled. Then the water began to surge and pulse again as the drifting cyanide reached the oxygenation pumps and was sprayed across the surface of the pond. Barrana began to leap from the water, spinning and twisting, but now their sleek silver bodies were stiff and awkward. Gills flared bright red and mouths with rows of razor-sharp teeth were locked open in one final rictus.

  As the wild flurry of activity slowly ebbed away I heard a trail bike start up somewhere behind the outbuildings, the noise of its exhaust dying away in the distance. Now it was just me, Fong and Fischer and a pond full of dead fish.

  The barrana were starting to float to the surface, limp now, their once shiny bodies turning a dull grey. There were hundreds of them, and in the tropical heat they’d soon begin to rot, making the truckload of kangaroo carcasses smell like a rose garden by comparison.

  I walked back across the gantry and down the steps to dry land. In the shed Fischer and Fong were still securely bound, just as I’d left them.

  ‘Jesus, thank God it’s you,’ Fischer said. ‘I heard the shooting and thought I was next.’

  ‘You would’ve been, Detlef,’ I said. ‘You were meant to be the main course on this morning’s menu for the barrana. And you, Mr Fong, were dessert.’

  Both men turned white.

  ‘Untie me, for God’s sake, Murdoch,’ Fischer pleaded.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to hit the road – but don’t worry, I’ll send in the cavalry. Why don’t you use the time to think about how you got yourself into this little mess, Detlef? And if you’re planning on having sons and sending them to Fairbrothers, tell them to be nice to the Asian boys – really nice.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘It’s Murdoch,’ I said when Gwenda answered her phone.

  ‘Alby?’ she said. ‘Is everything okay?’

  Alby? Gwenda had never, ever called me Alby. And she seemed concerned for my wellbeing. It was both touching and extremely disturbing.

  ‘Ambassador Crockett has retired from public life effective immediately and is returning to the US. What did you say to him?’

  That was the reason. A quick chat in an anteroom bringing down an ambassador meant I knew something she didn’t, and in a power-crazed town like Canberra that wasn’t a good thing.

  ‘The Ambassador and I just chatted about old times.’

  ‘But you’re okay?’

  The tone of concern in her voice sounded almost genuine. I was toying with asking her to stop by my apartment and water my plants, just to see how far it went.

  ‘I’m in Darwin. Can you get someone to make an anonymous call to the local cops? Tell them that a couple of people are tied up at the Fischer Aquaculture place outside of Gaffneys Creek. And tell them to stay well clear of the pond until they can get a HAZMAT crew to seal it off. It’s full of cyanide and dead killer fish.’

  ‘Cyanide? And killer fish?’

  ‘And you’d better make sure the clean-up team is discreet because they are going to find some very odd bones on the bottom of the pond.’

  Gwenda was silent on the other end of the phone. Maybe she was trying to figure out an easy way to tell the government it needed to spend several million bucks to clean up a cyanide-polluted pond in the Top End. Still, a couple of million bucks was small change compared to what it would have cost if Playford Peng’s carnivorous fish had made it out into the nation’s waterways.

  Peng’s Lexus had all the luxury extras but the keys were in the ignition of the Montreal. Fischer wasn’t in any position to object so I fired her up, did a wheelie out of the car park and headed for the highway.

  I actually felt a bit sorry for the barrana, considering the rather unpleasant last meal they’d had. Then I remembered my neighbour, Mrs T. She and I had a bit of a ritual going when I got back from an assignment. If the weather was good, we’d get fish and chips from Bondi Surf Seafoods and eat them under the Norfolk pines on the grassy hillside running down to the beach, while Dougal annoyed the seagulls. Mrs T loved her fish and chips, so how was I going to explain to her that it would be a very long time before I could look a piece of deep-sea perch in the eye again?

  I’d been on the highway just long enough to get into top gear when I saw her. Jeans, leather jacket, helmet and a rectangular case slung over one shoulder. She was standing next to a Yamaha trail bike with a shredded rear tyre, talking on a mobile phone. The bike had shiny chrome handlebars and I wondered if that was what I’d seen glinting in my rear-view mirror on the drive out from Darwin. As I rolled to a stop she snapped the phone shut.

  ‘Miss Hoang,’ I said, ‘this is an unexpected surprise. Having a problem with your bike?’

  She smiled. ‘How very fortunate you came along, Mr Murdoch. A baby kangaroo jumped out in front of me and I applied the brakes a little too hard.’

  ‘Wallaby probably,’ I said. ‘You okay?’

  She twisted her body to show me the abrasions on the shoulder and arm of her jacket. ‘I just slid down the road a little. Nothing serious.’


  ‘Been hunting?’ I said, indicating the case.

  ‘Fishing, Mr Murdoch.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

  My money was on Nhu’s case holding something other than a rod, a reel and some lures. Probably something chambered for .308 Winchester ammo, judging from the impact with Playford’s left hand. Steyr’s nifty little Scout Tactical Elite sniper rifle would fit the bill neatly.

  ‘Chuck your … fishing gear in the back, Miss Hoang, and I’ll give you a lift into Darwin.’

  She nodded. ‘I would be most grateful.’

  With the case safely in the boot and Nhu in the passenger seat, I fired up the Montreal’s V8 and pointed the nose north.

  Ten minutes later, I spotted the black Lexus in the rear-view mirror, closing fast. It had to be Leroy Fong, since I figured Fischer wouldn’t be in a hurry to see me again.

  I suddenly remembered that I’d left Fong’s Colt on the bench in the workshop. What jogged my memory was a bullet from a .357 magnum shattering the rear window of the Montreal. That was going to be one very expensive piece of glass to replace.

  I floored the accelerator pedal and the power of the Alfa’s race-tuned V8 threw us both back in our seats. We surged ahead for a moment and then the Lexus was closing again and another slug from the .357 slammed into the boot. I started swerving in an attempt to spoil Fong’s aim.

  ‘Glove compartment,’ I said, ‘under that shelf.’

  Nhu found the latch and it popped it open. ‘How very sweet,’ she said, taking out the little Walther.

  She pulled the magazine and checked the clip. Another bang as a third slug ricocheted off the rear of the Montreal, and I heard Nhu slam the magazine back in and work the slide on the Walther. A .22 against a .357 was no contest, but in this case it would come down to the skill of the operator.

  ‘Please slow down a little and hold as steady as you can,’ she instructed. ‘I don’t have time for a sighting shot and we need to minimise deflection.’

  Deflection is the art of firing at a moving object, putting the bullet slightly ahead of the target so they both arrive at the same spot at the same time. If Fong was travelling at around the same speed as us, deflection would be reduced to almost nil and Nhu’s chances of doing some damage would be improved. Of course, it would also improve Fong’s chances of doing the same thing and he had a lot more muscle going with that .357.

  I stopped swerving and moved over to the right-hand lane. In the side mirror I could see the Lexus starting to close up on my left, the driver’s window down. Given I was in a left-hand drive vehicle, Fong and I would soon be only a metre apart. Way too close for comfort.

  Nhu had twisted around in her seat and was braced with her back against the dash. Fong was almost level now, his right hand on top of the steering wheel and his left holding the Colt across his chest. It was easier for him to steer the car with his damaged right arm, but even with the Colt in his left hand, at this range he couldn’t miss.

  ‘Steady, please,’ Nhu said quietly, and then she had the Walther up in a firm two-handed grip and it was BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! right in my face. It sounded like she’d emptied the whole ten-round magazine, and tiny brass shell casings were flying around the inside of the car.

  A startled Fong jerked his right hand away from the wheel like he’d been stung, and the Lexus spun off the roadway, tumbling end-over-end into a deep gully in a shower of dust and gravel. Seconds later there was an explosion followed by a giant fireball.

  Nhu settled back in her seat and released the Walther’s empty magazine. She took a silk handkerchief from her pocket and methodically wiped the pistol and the empty magazine clean before slipping the weapon back in the glove compartment. The latch on the glove compartment got a quick wipe, too. She carefully folded the handkerchief and put it back in her pocket, then looked at the empty strip of bitumen stretching ahead of us to the horizon.

  ‘That makes three,’ I said.

  ‘Three, Mr Murdoch?’ she asked.

  ‘Saigon, Hong Kong and now here. That’s three times you’ve come to my rescue. Or is it four?’

  Nhu gave me a look I couldn’t quite read and then turned her eyes back to the highway.

  I felt something in my hair and when I reached up I found a still-warm empty .22 shell casing. I tossed it out the window.

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘It seems poetic somehow that Playford’s sleeping with the fishes,’ I said.

  Nhu looked across at me. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Old Peng’s son, Playford, he’s sleeping with the fishes – he’s dead.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘There’s been a lot of it going around. You know Old Peng?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘I’m surprised Crockett didn’t try to have Old Peng killed. He was a very dangerous loose end.’

  ‘Old Peng having a stroke was a lucky break for Crockett,’ she said.

  ‘Bit of a lucky break for Old Peng, too. Or maybe a stroke of genius.’

  ‘Stroke of genius, Mr Murdoch? I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘I think you understand very well, Miss Hoang. Old Peng is obviously a wily old bugger. When he heard that Crockett was angling for a vice-presidential nomination, he must have figured there were loose ends Crockett would need tidied up and he was one of them. Bastard could get himself an Academy Award nomination for his performance in that wheelchair.’

  ‘Old Peng said you were no fool, Mr Murdoch. When did you figure out he had faked his stroke?’

  ‘When he gave me the negative in the casino. He was showing all the classic symptoms of a stroke involving the left side of the brain, you know, difficulty with speech and communication, paralysis of the right side of the body. Problem was, he signalled his nurse to stop next to me by raising his right index finger.’

  ‘You are an expert on strokes, Mr Murdoch?’

  ‘My old man had one,’ I said. ‘So exactly how did you get involved with Old Peng?’

  ‘I went to Macau to investigate money laundering through the casinos. Out of respect for Old Peng, as the senior member of the family, I requested permission to interview him. Playford had no objections since he believed the stroke had totally destroyed his father’s cognitive functions. I didn’t expect to find out anything of use – it was purely a courtesy.’

  ‘That’s when you realised he was faking?’

  ‘Yes. My grandmother had a stroke. I nursed her for many months after it happened, so I also know the signs, and I called him on it. He liked that and suggested I might possess talents that would be useful to him. He was in the difficult position of having embarrassing information on a rich and dangerous man who was aiming for high government office, and he also had a vicious and amoral son who was becoming increasingly impatient to take over the Peng empire. His position was perilous and he decided drastic and immediate action was needed.’

  In Old Peng’s world, you first had to figure out who you needed to kill to get power and then who you needed to kill to keep it. It was a full-time job, the kind that kept a bloke awake 24/7, because as soon as you closed your eyes there were people waiting to put a bullet between them.

  ‘But you’re a police officer, Miss Hoang.’

  ‘I am also a realist, Mr Murdoch. After the reunification of my country, the traitors in the south – those who had served in the armed forces or who had helped the Americans – were punished for their crimes. Some very harshly and some with long periods in re-education camps.’

  ‘Very harshly’ was putting it nicely.

  ‘The extended families of the traitors also suffered,’ she continued, ‘with many restrictions and with greatly reduced educational and economic opportunities in the new Vietnam. Because of Uncle’s involvement, our family was denied many things. Even though I was born long after the war, it was not easy for me to reach the position I now occupy. The financial rewards are not great, and as a woman my chances for further promotion are
limited. I felt this was an opportunity to explore other options. And Old Peng is a very generous man.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘When he told me about the photographic negative of Ambassador Crockett he possessed, I suggested you might be the person to use it to best effect since you had no love for the Ambassador.’

  She had that right.

  ‘I contacted Uncle, who said he thought you were in Hong Kong, so I arranged to bump into you.’

  ‘The text message from Jezebel?’

  ‘Yes. But when you came off the Star Ferry I saw that you were being tailed by some very unsavoury characters, so I called in reinforcements from Old Peng’s team.’

  ‘And the invitation to dinner with Playford was arranged by Old Peng, so he could bump into me and give me the negative.’

  ‘When you mentioned the WorldPix exhibition, and that Crockett would be in attendance, it seemed the perfect opportunity and it became a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Is that why you took the photograph with my Leica and then lifted the memory card?’

  She nodded. ‘The photograph was necessary to identify you. Old Peng insisted on putting the negative directly into your hands.’

  ‘Not a very trusting bugger, is he? And here was me thinking you were worried about your naked arse turning up all over the internet.’

  ‘That was definitely another reason to take the card.’

  I’d been so busy showing Nhu what a smart bastard I was that I didn’t see where she got the gun from. It was a compact little Beretta Tomcat, a semi-automatic with a seven-round magazine. Judging from where she had the muzzle pointed, it looked like all seven rounds might be coming my way.

  Miss Hoang was a world-class competition shooter. She’d taken out Playford at long range, hit Leroy Fong firing from a moving vehicle with a dinky .22, and now, sitting just a couple of feet from me, there was no way she was going to miss. This really wasn’t working out to be one of my better mornings.