by Peter Temple
I looked down the street towards the Lotus. Half a block beyond it, I could see the dark bulk of a four-wheel-drive parked outside the back doors of the old chutney factory.
Mr Pigtail the warehouse developer having a late inspection, gloating over the profits to come.
I was ten metres from the car, walking in the street, when two blocks down a car turned the corner, came towards me, turned right into St David Street.
Two men in the four-wheel-drive, slumped in the front seats, just the tops of their heads caught for an instant in the headlights of the car behind them.
Warehouse converters?
No. I knew who they were.
I stopped, froze.
Run for the Lotus?
A movement in the driver’s seat of the big vehicle. The driver sitting upright.
Get to the Lotus, unlock the door, get in, get it started.
It was an unfamiliar car. It would take me seconds to find the ignition.
No. Too late.
Run for it. Run back. Run for Carrigan’s Lane and Smith Street.
The four-wheel-drive started up, headlights came on.
Run.
I hadn’t gone five paces when I knew I’d never get to Carrigan’s Lane, never get to Smith Street.
Look back. The big vehicle pulling out from the kerb, squeal of fat tyres.
Run. Run for what? Never get my office door open in time, two locks to open.
Running, hearing the vehicle behind me, look back, headlights fifty-sixty metres away.
Running. Run for McCoy’s door, could be open.
Look back. Never get to McCoy’s door.
Head, shoulder and arm leaning out of the vehicle, out of the window behind the driver. Something in the hand.
Oh Jesus, I’m dead.
McCoy’s rubbish skip. Get behind the skip.
Flat sound, not loud, whine of lead off the tarmac in front of me.
Oh Christ.
The skip. Nearly there.
I could hear the engine roaring. Close.
I dived for the steel box, bounced on the cobblestones, landed on my elbow, my right hip, pain shooting through my whole body.
Huge bang next to my head. Bullet hit the skip.
Crawl, crawl behind the skip.
Behind it.
The sound of McCoy at work on his tree trunk. He wouldn’t hear anything above his own din.
The four-wheel-drive went into reverse. Back ten metres. Brake. See the brakelights red as blood.
Trying to get a clear shot at me. Legs not good enough.
Forward. Savage left turn. Brake. Reverse lights.
As the vehicle backed onto the pavement, I crawled around to the other side of the bin, the narrow side. Breathless, little involuntary fear noises in my throat.
Scream of the engine, right turn, forward, looking for me.
I tried to crawl back. My right leg seemed to be paralysed.
Crawl. Drag yourself.
Too late. Too late.
I looked up into the face of a man in the back seat of the four-wheel-drive. A fat face, bald head, mouth open. He looked like a white seal. A happy white seal with a pistol, silencer on the end.
He steadied both forearms on the windowsill, sighted down the barrel, not in a hurry. On my chest. Getting it right.
I felt nothing. Fear gone. Not even despair. Just a thought about my daughter. I didn’t write often enough. Didn’t tell her I loved her often enough.
To die in the rain, in the gutter, next to a rubbish skip. Not right.
Here it comes. I closed my eyes.
McCoy’s front door crashed open, bucket of light thrown over me. Roaring chainsaw noise.
McCoy. In the doorway. Plastic face shield pushed back on the huge head. Chainsaw in his right hand, running, roaring chainsaw, blade pointed at the ground.
The gunman raised his pistol instinctively, fired at McCoy without aiming. A chunk of wood came away from the doorpost centimetres from McCoy’s head.
‘FUUUCK!!!’
Bellow of McCoy outrage. All in one fluid movement, he brought his left arm over, picked up the roaring chainsaw in both hands, weightless. Raised it to head height.
Threw the running chainsaw.
Threw it like a dart.
Threw it at the man who had fired at him.
Across the space. The heavy cutting machine, carbide-steel cutting teeth on a chain, flying across the space.
Into the man’s face.
The man falling back. Going back with the running chainsaw.
The scream. One terrible piercing blood-red expulsion of sound.
The vehicle shot forward, tyres howling, swung into Carrigan’s Lane, went over the kerb, right front fender hit the brick wall, back came around, grinding along the wall, fountain of red and white sparks. Down the lane, engine screaming in first gear.
Alive.
In the rain, in the gutter, next to a rubbish skip.
Alive.
McCoy and I looked at each other.
‘Shit,’ he said, rubbing his beard stubble. ‘Fucking Stihl chainsaw. Next to new. Four hundred bucks.’
I swallowed. Strange taste in the mouth. Like iodine. Who knows what iodine tastes like?
‘Maybe he’ll bring it back,’ I said and I looked at my right hand. It was twitching, little jerks. It was like looking at someone else’s hand. I got up, grasped my right hand with my left.
McCoy eyed me. ‘One of your old clients,’ he said. ‘Passing by, thought he’d say hello.’
I was limping away, feeling my arm. Over my shoulder, I said, ‘Some bloke bought one of your paintings. Seriously disturbed to do that, looking at it makes him much worse.’
47
In the Lotus, slick with sweat on a winter’s night, I took the long and illogical way back to Cam’s friend’s apartment. I was in Richmond, breathing almost normal, pulse slowing, when Eric the Geek, Wootton’s tall, stooped, unsocialised computer genius, came into my mind. He lived in Richmond, off Lennox Street. I’d given him a lift once, not a word out of him for the whole trip.
I parked beside the Richmond Oval and found his number in my notebook. He answered on the third ring. I didn’t identify myself.
‘That hard disk, find anything?’
Silence.
‘You there?’
‘Yup.’
‘Find anything?’
‘Yup.’
‘Much?’
‘Nope. Wiped. But.’
‘But?’
‘Didn’t clean it properly. Trawled a few bits and pieces.’
‘Got a transcript?’
‘Yup.’
I told him where to bring it. He arrived in five minutes, a man in an anorak, collar up, beanie topping a long head, driving an ancient Renault. Why do all old Renaults have one door a different colour?
Eric didn’t say anything, kept his long head slightly averted, pushed an envelope at me, retreated.
To his back heading for the car, I said, ‘Thank you, Eric, send me the bill.’
In the white penthouse, sitting in a Barcelona chair, the city lights lying at my feet, I drank my host’s Glenfiddich and read Simone’s report.
Jack, I followed up the reference to Secure International (that’s Major-General Gordon Ibell) in the European databases. I found a mention in a Swedish source of a company called Eagle Exprexxo they say is linked with Secure and was involved in transporting arms to Unita, the American-supported side in Angola led by Jonas Savimbi.
I tried Eagle Exprexxo and found a mention in the International Herald Tribune of a case still before the French courts involving hand-held missiles found in a semi after a freeway accident. The semi owner said he was hired by a company called Redan. Redan said it got the job from a freight agency. The agency said it understood the hirer to be Eagle Exprexxo of Tampa, Florida, but had nothing on paper.
In 1983, an American magazine also mentions Secure International and in rather vague terms talks about a s
ecret organisation of ex-CIA and American military people called The Connection.
The Connection.
Miles Crewe-Dixon’s friend in Sydney knew about The Connection. It was tied up with Arcaro Transport and Eagle Exprexxo. He told Miles to walk back very, very carefully. ‘Don’t fuck with these people,’ he said. ‘It’s the good old boys from Manila.’
Something was beginning to dawn, a thread of light, on the faraway horizon. I read on.
It says the group has been involved in arms-for-drugs deals and money-laundering and has strong links with the CIA and other intelligence services and with the Shah of Iran and President Marcos and Pakistani and Hong Kong druglords and money movers.
That’s it for the moment. There are some leads to follow from these mentions. I await your instructions.
I took a chance. Too late not to take chances. I punched Simone’s number on Cam’s mobile. A clean mobile. What did that mean?
Her voice.
‘Simone, Jack, the American magazine in your report. What’s it called?’
‘Mother Jones. Strange name.’
‘Who wrote the piece? Remember?’
‘Hold on.’
She was gone for a long time it seemed.
‘There? Someone called Stuart Wardle.’
She spelled the name.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Stuart Wardle.
I sipped some Glenfiddich, swilled it around the cavities, looked at the lights, the electric world seen from above, thousands of pinpricks of light, minute smears of colour. Thoughts came unbidden. Dave shooting the man called Tony, my torch on Tony, making it easy, a man with smooth hair and a nice smile. Dave turning the gun on Gary and shooting him. Three times, loud noises, nothing much to see, a man stumbling backwards and sagging at the knees, his mouth opening.
Sitting in the Barcelona chair, high above the twinkling world.
A doomed person. People lay in wait for me. I wanted to keep Des Connors out of the poorhouse. Des Connors, stonemason, workmate of my father, father of Gary.
I saw the fat white seal face, mouth open, the small hotspot of flame in the muzzle as a gunman fired at McCoy.
Preposterous.
How could a backstreet Fitzroy no-practice solicitor become entangled with international dealers in arms and drugs? The viperous Brendan O’Grady seemed as nothing now, no more than the kindergarten bully.
Miss, Brendan’s hitting me.
Stuart Wardle. The man who had the question for Carlos Siebold. The man who vanished.
I opened the envelope from Eric the Geek. Two pages of fragments found on Stuart Wardle’s hard disk, most of them no more than a line or two, one longer. I went straight to the long one.
Someone saying:
…flying Marcos gold from Clark Air Base to Pine Gap. Eagle Ex was adding a heroin sweetener. All we had to do was collect the stuff, deliver the gold to one place, the smack to another. Some of the smack was in transit for the States. That’s what Leeton was for. That’s why we bought Leeton. Eagle wanted a complete loop. Today the business is really complicated. Not just a carrier. It’s a buyer and carrier and bulk distributor and money-launderer. It’s driven most of the little shits out of business, killed them if necessary.
Of course, he’s got the firewalls up now. Moved on. But he’s been in blood up to his navel, the bastard.
Leeton? What was Leeton? I’d heard the name recently. Miles Crewe-Dixon talking about TransQuik. The TransQuik buying spree after Klostermann Gardier bought half the company. Leeton Stevedoring, that was it.
I looked at the other fragments. None of them made any sense. Except one. It read: Connection. I didn’t know we were in bed with these Yank bastards until it
Who was the person speaking?
Someone being interviewed by Stuart.
Stuart had bought a video camera and a tripod.
Suddenly, the adrenaline let-down, the burst of cortisol dissipating. I felt drained of all strength, tired, hungry, a headache coming. The premises ran to one can of consomme, one can of tuna and six packets of wafer biscuits. I constructed a meal from these ingredients, ate it, showered, and went to bed, out with the light.
In the morning, waking with a start again, I caught a tram into the city and paid $880 for a dark suit and a silk tie at Henry Buck’s. It felt like a suit day, not a ballistic vest and black windcheater day. I drank coffee in McKillop Street while they hemmed the trousers. Then I caught a tram back to the apartment block and got the Lotus out of the basement.
As I turned into St Kilda Road, it occurred to me: had the men seen me arrive at my office the night before? I was sure there was no four-wheel-drive in the street when I parked.
How could they have been waiting for me, then?
Unless they were following me. Unless they’d somehow got onto my trail, perhaps followed me on my trip to see Miles Crewe-Dixon, followed me back to the office.
Eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror, I drove back through the city, up Swanston Street and, at the last second and without indicating, turned into the Tin Alley entrance to Melbourne University.
No vehicle followed me. The Lotus fitted neatly into an illegal parking spot. I waited for five minutes, watching Tin Alley: young people, the odd older person, no-one who looked remotely like someone sent to kill me. I got out and did a walking tour of the campus, passed through the old stone law school, thought about my father meeting my mother somewhere here, Drew and me as students, loitered often to look for someone behind me. Then I went back to Tin Alley, left the campus and crossed Royal Parade, went up to Degraves Street and worked my way around to the lane behind Lyall’s house, the lane that led to the garage.
A large bin was in the lane, waiting to be wheeled into the street. I looked at my new suit. What a terrible idea. Where do ideas like this come from?
I pushed the bin against the wall, got onto it with great difficulty, swung a leg over the wall.
Lyall was in the kitchen, looking at me through the window. Her head went to one side in a birdlike movement of inquiry. I completed the ascent, dropped awkwardly and painfully to the other side. She opened the back door, a barefooted person in jeans and a white school shirt, sleeves rolled up. She leaned against the jamb, arms folded.
‘An unorthodox method of entry,’ she said, the hint of a smile in the eyes not the mouth. ‘Not unwelcome but puzzling.’
I was trying to brush the marks off my pants, I said, ‘Variety. They say it’s important in a relationship. Variety and surprise. I read that. Also I’m trying not to be seen by certain parties.’
She came across the courtyard, came up to me, close, I could smell her, took me by the $880 lapels.
‘Dark suit, spotted tie, every inch the lawyer,’ she said, lips a handspan away, closing in. ‘And I know my inches. Not home for two nights. The stalker is out there.’
‘I was abroad,’ I said, hoarsely. ‘Learning how not to make a Molotov cocktail.’
‘Useful negative knowledge.’
I wanted to make love to her without a second’s delay.
The instinct for survival intervened. Dave had called upon that instinct, the night I sat in his car, in the wind-blown square, on the plump seat, the last leaves losing their hold on the trees.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘Stuart’s car. I need to look for something.’
She didn’t release my lapels immediately, kissed me on the lips. ‘Feel free,’ she said.
‘That comes later.’
I opened the driver’s door, put a hand under the front seat. The crumpled McDonald’s packet. I opened it. Wrapping of a McFeast, smears of something now fossilised. Plastic cup. A cash register slip.
A cash register slip with a date.
Stuart Wardle bought this wholesome meal at a McDonald’s in Morwell in Gippsland on July 8, 1995.
I closed the car door gently, fearful of disturbing the vehicle on its axle stands.
Not time for caution now. I ra
ng Simone on the mobile.
‘One last request,’ I said. ‘Brent Rupert. Can you see if you can find out what happened to him? Any mention on the local newspaper databases.’
‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ she said.
I went inside. Lyall was in the kitchen, at the stove, looking good from the back.
‘Hungry?’ she said. ‘I’m having an early lunch. Pasta with a tomato and anchovy sauce.’
Food. I was famished, instantly salivating.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
We ate lunch, drank a glass of red wine, talked and joked, weak sunlight on the floorboards. A feeling of unreality came over me. Was I the person at Painter’s bloody egg farm? Was I the person waiting to die beside the rubbish skip outside McCoy’s?’
While Lyall was making coffee, I rang Simone again from the sitting room.
‘Easy,’ she said. ‘The last story about Brent Rupert is his death in an explosion. It says he was a near-recluse believed to be suffering from a serious illness.’
Muscles in the back knew something. The musculature knew more than the addled brain.
‘When was this?’
‘Early hours of July 9, 1995. Gas cylinders under his house appear to have exploded.’
Stuart Wardle was eating a McFeast in Gippsland on July 8, 1995.
‘Where did he live?’
‘On the Gippsland lakes. Near Metung.’
I thanked her and went back to Stuart’s car to look at the mileage on the tripmeter: 667 km.
In the glove compartment was a VicRoads guide to country Victoria. Where would half of 667 km get you if you were travelling from Melbourne, passing through Morwell? I followed the Princes Highway with my finger, adding up distances.
Smart muscles. Intuitive muscles.
The mileage on Stuart’s tripmeter, the mileage for his last trip in the car, that mileage would take him to Metung and back.
Stuart had bought the video camera to interview Brent Rupert.
Seriously ill Brent Rupert.
Brent Rupert, partner of Steven Levesque and the Attorney-General, Mr McColl.
Of course, he’s got the firewalls up now. Moved on. But he’s been in blood up to his naval, the bastard.
That was Brent Rupert speaking on the transcript trawled from Stuart’s computer hard disk.
