Connor was stunned. ‘Why did he do that?’
Ling shrugged. ‘Said he was impressed with my stealth and fighting spirit. Being streetwise, he thought I had the makings of a bodyguard.’ Ling laughed. ‘Anyway, the colonel arranged a passport and a visa for me and I ended up at Buddyguard HQ. The rest is history.’
She looked at Connor and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘I do sometimes wonder, though, whether he let me pick his pocket.’
Recalling his own recruitment, the corner of Connor’s mouth curled into a smile. ‘Sounds like the colonel’s tactics to me.’
Connor looked at his watch. ‘Time to do our final security sweep.’
‘Yep, better check the princesses are safely tucked up in bed!’ quipped Ling, hauling herself out of the recliner.
Connor switched on his torch, the bright beam shining off the smooth wooden deck. They headed aft along the port side of the yacht. All the crew members were in their quarters, apart from one of the deckhands, Scott, who was on official watch duty on the bridge. There was no real need for an additional security check, yet since Brad had said the more eyeballs the better, Connor thought it couldn’t do any harm.
With the girls having gone to their cabins and Mr Sterling and his fiancée tucked away in their personal suite, all was quiet on board. Only the lapping of the sea against the hull and the distant beat of music from the beach intruded on the tropical night’s peace. Connor could see the bonfire burning on the shore, its glow reflected in the rippling waters of the bay.
As the two of them reached the stern and headed back up the starboard side, Connor wondered if they’d overreacted to Chloe’s ‘disappearance’. It wasn’t as if she’d been gone long, nor had she gone far. In hindsight, they could have spent a bit more time looking before jumping to the wrong conclusion. It was certainly a sign of their inexperience as buddyguards, but Brad had been kind in his appraisal. He considered they’d made the right decision, saying it was better to act on a potential threat and be wrong than ignore it and find out to their cost the threat was real.
‘Look! The crew’s left the gangway down again,’ said Ling, pointing to the steel steps leading up from the waterline. ‘I thought Brad warned them about that.’
She pressed the button to retract the gangway. As they waited for it to whirr quietly back into its recess, Connor’s torch caught a gleam on the deck. He looked closer. It was a damp footprint. Fresh.
He widened the arc of his beam and more footprints appeared, leading away into the darkness.
‘One of the crew?’ suggested Ling.
‘Swimming at this time of night?’ said Connor, shaking his head dubiously.
They followed the trail to the first flight of external steps. Silently ascending to the upper deck, Connor felt a growing disquiet at the thought of an intruder on board. Brad had informed them about a spate of thefts that had occurred on yachts docked at Victoria Harbour and the surrounding bays, but those boats hadn’t generally been occupied at the time.
Peering round the final step, they saw no one on the upper deck at first. Then Ling spotted a shadowy figure spying through a window into the VIP guest room.
‘I think we should get Brad,’ whispered Connor.
‘Too late for that,’ replied Ling as the intruder opened the door leading to the suite. Chloe was standing on the other side. The intruder grabbed her. She squealed.
‘Quiet!’ he hissed, his hand over her mouth.
Without waiting a second longer, Ling leapt up and ran full pelt at the intruder.
‘Let her go!’ she cried, kicking at the attacker’s knee from behind.
His balance broken, he toppled backwards. Ling seized his hair in one hand and his chin in the other, then twisted his head and pushed down. But, rather than guiding the intruder to the deck, she launched him over the rail.
Where the head goes, the body follows, Connor recalled their combat instructor saying when he’d first taught them the ‘head-twist’ technique.
Screaming, the intruder somersaulted through the air and splashed into the sea.
‘What did you do that for?’ Chloe cried, her jaw dropping open in shock and horror.
Ling stared in bafflement at her Principal. ‘He was attacking you.’
‘He was my guest! That was Matt you just threw overboard.’
‘Oh!’ said Ling, putting a hand to her mouth. Connor couldn’t quite tell if it was to hide her embarrassment at the mistake, or her amusement.
‘Well, you know, we can’t just let anyone on board,’ said Ling in her own defence. ‘It’s a security risk.’
Chloe threw up her hands in despair. ‘You are a nightmare!’ she cried, before slamming the door in Ling’s face.
Ruth McArthur lit her second cigarette of the night. Exhaling a puff of acrid smoke, she watched it rise up to the grime-stained ceiling of the pedestrian underpass running beneath Manning Road on Sydney’s University Campus. The fluorescent strip lights, naked and harsh, cast a sickly glow on to the colourful scene surrounding her. The walls, ceiling, and even the floor were infected with a profusion of graffiti and tags, as if the tunnel itself was bleeding paint. Cutting through the smog of her cigarette, the lingering fumes from aerosol cans filled Ruth’s nostrils and made her slightly nauseous.
Yet as editor-in-chief of Sterling’s flagship paper, Australian Daily, she’d experienced her fair share of war zones, drug dens and slums. So this particular location didn’t spook her at all. Not that this meant she was naive. She kept a firm grip on her car keys in one hand, a tip she’d learnt from self-defence lessons. The protruding metal points made an effective improvised weapon if the situation demanded it.
The tunnel was deserted, the silence almost echoing in on itself. In these late hours of night, the only life passing through would be the occasional tagger or graffiti artist wanting to make their mark.
Ruth glanced at her watch, beginning to wonder if her contact from the Government Department of Resources and Energy would show. Acquiring information on the Harry Gibb case had been like getting blood from a stone. No one seemed to want to pursue any other line of enquiry than death by natural causes. Case closed. But her inside contact claimed to have proof otherwise.
Stamping out her cigarette, Ruth reached into her bag for her phone. Her contact might have left a message. She thumbed in her password, but there were no missed calls and her inbox was empty. One of the strip lights flickered and buzzed overhead, dimming the passageway momentarily. She glanced up and had to stifle a scream in her throat. Where there had been just shadow now stood a man in a grey suit. Having not heard or seen his approach, it was as if the man had materialized straight out of the graffiti, leaching all colour in the process.
‘Ruth McArthur?’ the man said, his voice dry and somehow soulless.
‘Yes,’ she said, unclenching the keys in her fist. This must be her contact. ‘And you are … James?’
The man was older than Ruth expected, yet at the same time strangely ageless. Like a well-preserved corpse, she thought, before shuddering away the unsettling image in her mind.
‘So you want to know about Harry Gibb?’ he said.
Ruth nodded.
The man glanced up and down the tunnel. ‘You’re not an undercover cop or federal agent, are you?’
‘No, of course not.’ Ruth produced her press ID.
He studied her photo and credentials. ‘Press passes can easily be faked.’
Ruth appreciated the reason for her contact’s wariness. The fallout from Harry Gibb’s corrupt dealings was catastrophic for the current government. Many in power had been glad of the politician’s death and were hoping the scandal would be buried along with him. But Ruth had caught the scent of a bigger story, a far wider and more sinister conspiracy, and she wanted to know the truth. She sensed this might be the journalistic scoop of her career.
‘Well, how about I tell you what I think happened? Then you can just confirm or deny it,’ she suggested.
&
nbsp; The man neither nodded nor shook his head, so she continued, ‘My theory is that Harry Gibb was murdered. Or to put it more accurately, assassinated.’
There was a barely perceptible twitch of his eyebrow. ‘You have proof of this?’
‘No, nothing concrete,’ admitted Ruth. ‘I was hoping you could provide that.’
‘How did you come to this conclusion about Harry when the cops didn’t?’
‘I’m a journalist. I always look deeper than the police. I get the sense that something’s missing in this case. For example, there was alcohol in Harry’s bloodstream. Not unusual. He was a known alcoholic. But there was no bottle found at the scene. When I spoke with his secretary, she told me that he kept a silver hip flask in his desk. That was gone.’
The man nodded. ‘It’s true, Harry did have a hip flask. What else have you discovered?’
Ruth didn’t usually give so much away during an interview with a contact, but she needed to win his trust. ‘Well, his PC’s hard drive was secure-wiped to a zero state. The accepted truth was that Harry did this to cover his tracks. But a malware virus, linked to his computer, infiltrated the rest of the office network. The IT technician said he’d seen nothing like it. The virus was highly advanced, targeting specific keywords and files and leaving holes throughout their system, despite multiple firewalls and anti-virus software. In his opinion, it smacked of governmental espionage. Then there’s the missing physical file from the archives.’
The man took a step closer. ‘You know about the missing file?’
Ruth nodded. She was definitely on to something. ‘It took me some while to discover it. The CCTV on that day had malfunctioned. Yet a digital record showed that Harry had accessed the archive room ten minutes prior to his death. A folder entitled MINING RIGHTS, GOLDFIELDS, WA, was logged in the filing system but wasn’t there when I looked. However, I did find this at the bottom of the cabinet.’
Ruth produced a slip of crumpled paper from her bag.
‘It lists investment amounts and sources, although I’m not sure how useful it is, since a number of the companies don’t actually exist –’
‘Have you made a copy of that?’ interrupted her contact.
‘No …’ began Ruth, frowning. ‘Look, it should be me asking you the questions. I was led to believe you had evidence relating to Harry’s murder.’
A flicker of a smile registered on her contact’s lean face, almost too fast and certainly too cold to pass off as a real smile. ‘That I do. You’re right on all counts. Harry was assassinated.’
Ruth’s eyes lit up. She had her story. ‘By whom?’
‘One of his investors.’
‘Which one? As I said, most of the ones listed here were shell companies. Unless you mean –’ she held up the piece of paper and smiled slyly – ‘the organization behind them?’
The man’s eyes became glacial. ‘What information do you have on this organization?’
Ruth suddenly felt uneasy in his presence. She tightened her grip on her car keys.
‘Tell me,’ said the man, seizing her arm and preventing Ruth from using her ‘weapon’.
‘Let me go!’ demanded Ruth.
‘No, not until you tell me.’
The man’s fingers dug deep into her flesh, finding a nerve point and sending a spasm of pain through her.
‘Not much,’ Ruth admitted through teeth clenched in agony. ‘There were only ghost trails from the false companies. I know it goes by the name of Equilibrium and has interests in everything from oil to water to mining. But as to what purpose I can’t quite fathom. The company isn’t registered on any stock exchange.’
‘Who else have you told?’ He tightened his grip on her arm.
‘No one. I’ve only just discovered it for myself.’
He released her arm, the pain instantly subsiding. ‘Good. Equilibrium is a dangerous organization to know.’
Ruth rubbed her arm. Her contact was clearly paranoid as well as unpredictable. ‘Listen, if you’re worried for your own safety, then I know people who can help protect you.’
The man laughed, hollow and cruel. ‘No one is safe from Equilibrium.’
‘Well then, if you’ve proof they’re connected to Harry’s murder, perhaps we can draw out this organization. Expose them.’
The man gave a long considered sigh. ‘Ruth, you certainly deserve your reputation for investigative journalism.’
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fountain pen.
‘I have someone you should talk to. Who can explain everything,’ he said, slowly removing the top of the pen. ‘Do you have a notepad? I’ll write his contact number down for you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ruth scrabbled inside her handbag. She now wanted to end this meeting as quickly as possible.
Only as she was retrieving her notepad, did she notice the peculiar shape of the pen. The tip itself was a long sharp needle, far too thin for writing. In the split second that she registered this oddity, the point sank into the soft flesh of her neck. A liquid fire coursed through her veins, the agonizing shock smothering all attempts to cry out. The lurid graffiti of the tunnel swirled rapidly into blackness and she slumped to the floor, followed by the soft jangle of keys.
‘The fault lay with a distorted gasket in the fuel system,’ explained Amir, his face bright on the screen of Connor’s laptop.
‘Well, that makes me rest easier at night!’ replied Ling, who sat on the bed with Connor for the morning’s video briefing with Alpha team. ‘I’ve literally no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘A gasket is a mechanical seal which prevents leakage while under compression –’
‘Thanks, Amir, but such detail isn’t required,’ Charley cut in, appearing on the screen beside him. ‘The important point is that the Seychelles coastguard discovered the cause of the jet-ski explosion.’
‘We saw the pictures,’ said Richie, his grinning face butting in front of Amir’s. ‘That jet ski was totalled! Luckily it wasn’t one of the sisters riding it. That could have been disastrous –’
‘Hang on, I was on it!’ exclaimed Ling, her expression indignant.
‘Yeah, I know, but you’re tough enough,’ replied Richie.
He was suddenly yanked out of the frame and Jason’s bulk appeared. ‘Ignore that Irish idiot. How are you doing, Ling?’
‘Fine,’ she replied, clearly pleased to see him. ‘To be honest, my Principal’s more of a pain than the burn.’
Jason laughed. ‘I’m afraid that goes with the territory of being a buddyguard. On my last assignment, I could have throttled my Principal!’
‘Sorry to break up the happy reunion,’ said Charley, ‘but we need to focus on this jet-ski situation.’
Jason nodded. ‘Stay cool, Ling,’ he said, giving her the wink before slipping out of view.
‘Joking aside, Ling, you were extremely lucky to have survived the explosion,’ continued Charley. ‘Without your protective clothing, you could have been seriously injured or even killed.’
Ling nonchalantly lay back on one of the pillows. ‘All part of the job, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Charley firmly, shifting in her wheelchair. ‘Or at least with the right security in place, it shouldn’t be.’
Connor sensed Charley’s own experience in that statement, but this wasn’t the time or place to delve into her past. ‘So the explosion was just an accident?’ he asked.
Charley pensively bit her lower lip. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Brad’s report, however, stated that the Orchid’s engineer had checked the other jet ski and discovered a similar issue with its fuel-filler inlet. It too could have very easily exploded.’
Connor and Ling exchanged uneasy glances. Connor turned back to the laptop’s webcam. ‘Are you suggesting sabotage?’
‘We can’t rule that possibility out. It may just be a manufacturing defect. It does happen. But on both jet skis? That’s why we must assume this was an attempt on the lives of
the Sterling family, designed to look like an accident.’
‘So, who might have done it?’ asked Ling.
‘Your guess is as good as ours at this time. The last person known to have touched the jet skis was the engineer, but Brad has questioned him and vouches for his integrity. That’s to be seen …’ Charley looked off-screen. ‘Hang on, Colonel Black’s just come in.’
Charley and Amir moved aside so the colonel could sit in front of the webcam. His jaw was set and his grey eyes hard as flint.
‘I’ve just been speaking with Mr Sterling. Ling, you’re being pulled off Operation Gemini with immediate effect.’
‘Why am I taking the flak for something she did wrong?’ said Ling, shoving her clothes into her bag with such force the seams threatened to split.
Connor stood by her cabin door, arms crossed, as Ling vented her fury on her packing.
‘I mean, I was just trying to protect her. And what thanks do I get? None. I might as well walk the plank.’
‘You made Matt do that,’ Connor remarked.
Pausing a moment, Ling smirked. ‘Yeah, I suppose I did. Well, he shouldn’t have been on board anyway.’ She resumed her fierce packing. ‘Now the colonel won’t trust me on another operation for months!’
‘The colonel’s not stupid. He knows the score. Don’t forget, I was thrown off my first operation.’
Ling glanced up and gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘I forgot about that, hotshot. Maybe I’ll get to save the day too. Know any terrorists or presidents’ daughters in the Seychelles?’
Connor gently shook his head. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t matter.’
‘Not to you maybe, but I have to go back to Alpha team with my tail between my legs.’
Brad stuck his head into the cabin. ‘The tender’s ready.’
‘Good,’ said Ling as she grabbed the last of her stuff. ‘I can’t wait to get off this stinking ship.’
‘Hey! Lightning Ling,’ said Brad, clamping a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you were doing a stellar job.’
Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) Page 15
