‘Because it strengthens the surface grasping part of a person. He’s preaching self-development. It’s nothing to do with transformation.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
On the way to the car, they encountered a commotion of minders and groupies ushering Raul and Hunt into a limousine. He tried to hurry past but Hunt spotted him, looked away quickly. He looked away too, knowing it could be fatal to stare.
He sensed rather than knew that someone had detached from the group and heard steps behind them in the car park. He looked back once, saw a youngish man with staring eyes. He decided not to handle it there, with an uninvolved woman beside him.
As they drove to her St Leonards apartment, he spotted the tail, an ageing Volvo with a side-light out — a cardinal sin for night work. The guy was either incompetent or stuck with an ad hoc. Either way, Cain thought, he could wait.
She invited him up to show him the view. At least that was her excuse. The place was a security block and even if the man could locate the apartment, it had a fire-rated door with steel frame, keycard access and chain. No, the bugger could cool his heels and, later, he’d be tired, bored, sloppy.
Her balcony, one of dozens in the cliff-like building, had a nightscape of the CBD above glittering railway tracks. Like most well-paid Aussies with insecure jobs she’d reassured herself by buying concrete.
She responded to his casual touches. ‘Would you like to stay?’
There was something about the way her lips peeled back as if threatening to reveal the whole skull that he found oddly kissable. So he kissed her several times. She relaxed in his arms, looking blissful, then led him to the bed.
She wanted to paw him but he had the holster to dispose of. When she went to the bathroom, he undressed, shoving it under the bed, and got beneath the covers feeling vaguely disgusted with himself. He’d brought condoms — standard EXIT practice when sleeping with those not checked.
She came back naked. Her body, outlined by the moon, mimicked its terrain — night-bleached prominences and deep craters. Her thin shoulders revealed clavicles like tie-rods. Her breasts were little more than nipples. Muscles lay beneath the skin of her long arms and flanks like cords. She felt like a wrapped skeleton as she snuggled beside him — a warm, bony opportunity, teeth sheathed now, eyes a little wary.
He took her slowly, gently, first exploring her in the semi-darkness — feeling the contours under his hands as if she were a form of Braille. He kissed her many times, sliding his tongue around her teeth, then mouthed down the washboard of her ribs. He’d never had a woman so thin.
The delicate cleft between her legs soon responded to his fingers. She began to tremble then twisted as he worked her closer to her need.
For the first time in months the warmth of a woman enclosed him. He cradled her tenderly, grateful. She came quickly, whimpering and shuddering.
Then he turned her on her side and entered her from behind, caressing the ridges of her backbone, fondling her chest. He turned her again and held her arms pinned above her head as the frustration of months left him in a second. They chatted for a while and he thought of the man below in his car. Then she clamped long legs and arms about him like a spider cocooning a moth. He made love to her more roughly and they ended on the floor.
He asked her to set her alarm for four, saying he had an early location survey. ‘Sparrow-fart start and I’ve got to go home first. Sheet-metal shoot.’ She’d know there were half-hour windows for car shoots, dusk and dawn.
He slept and was woken by the alarm. She barely stirred as he dressed.
He kissed her. ‘I’ll ring you.’
‘Please.’
She’d let him into the basement car park with her door card. The mesh shutter was only half up when he gunned the BMW out. If his tail was contemplating homicide, it would have been a difficult shot. Pros used a souped car with driver and an automatic weapon with suppressor. An iced Vovo with one occupant? Amateur hour. Still, it was healthy to be careful.
He headed toward his unit in Killara. There was little traffic so early apart from interstate trucks, but he made sure the car behind didn’t lose him. The guy was brazenly following.
He stopped at Lindfield beside the supermarket, loosened the SIG-Sauer in the holster under his arm. It was a beautiful limited-issue weapon, not yet generally released — highly accurate and with a double-action trigger for immediate first shot potential. He hadn’t fired it in anger but it was sweet on the pistol range.
Far under the seat, secured by plastic clips, was his ugly PSM. Unlike the finely made Swiss pistol, the CIS weapon was obsolete. But it had a bottlenecked 5.45mm cartridge able to penetrate fifty-five layers of Kevlar. He decided against taking it. This tyro was no Jack Flak.
He left the car and hurried into a lane. There were large-wheeled garbage bins for cover. The back entrances of shops one side. A blank wall on the other.
The car came around the corner, pulled up just beyond the lane. The driver got out, walked to the entrance of the lane, hands wide of his body. He’d grown breasts, wore jeans.
It was Hunt, looking drawn and tired.
She said, ‘I’m alone.’
He holstered the SIG. ‘Come here.’
She walked out of the street-light’s glare. He wondered how long she’d been waiting. She must have swapped with the man, sent him back in her car and stayed with the Volvo to be sure that he’d keep her in sight.
He said, ‘You trying to kill us?’
‘Don’t start. It’s enough for one day.’
‘So what the hell’s this?’
‘I need to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Then why are you in Sydney? Now?’
‘Sydney, KL, Tokyo. Who cares where I am? I did training here — like the place. Where am I supposed to be? Back in Karachi?’
‘But you were there last night.’
‘I was chatting up a bird. It was her idea to go. Nothing to do with you.’
‘God.’ She slumped on the kerb, arms around her knees. ‘All I need.’
He crouched in front of her. ‘Who was the drop-kick in the car?’
‘One of the faithful.’ A toneless comment.
‘Why didn’t you send one of ours?’
‘Couldn’t at the time. And I trust him. He won’t ask questions.’
‘Are you daft?’ Christ, he thought, she’s lost it. ‘You’re a Grade One, remember? CONSISTENCY IS THE HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT? TRAINING LEADS TO COURAGE? Get with it.’
‘Yes,’ she spat. ‘I’m not you — the great Grade Four. I’m just a Grade One with a bloody Grade Three job.’
‘The ice-maiden in meltdown mode? Getting punchy?’
‘I’m just so — tired.’
Cold-faced bitch, he thought. Did you think it was going to be easy? Then he remembered the words of a Sufi. Words echoed later by Tolstoy, curiously enough, perhaps because sublime ideas were limited. The sage, asked by a disciple ‘Who is dearest to you in the world?’ had replied, ‘He who sits in my presence.’
It reminded him what a shit he was. He sat beside her, said quietly, ‘Grade One’s tough. We’ve all felt this, you know. And Ron’s given you a biggie. You’re discovering you’re human. We’re not gods.’
‘You’re supposed to be.’
‘Give me a break. Look, you’ve managed so far. You’re going to make it.’
She covered her face with her hands. Her shirt wasn’t fully buttoned and he was staring into paradise regained. At least one part of her didn’t need support.
He waited, hard experience telling him how she felt — no family but EXIT, years of punishing study, the terrors of a complex assignment. Despite the endless training, pressure had crippled many people.
‘Heard from Ronnie?’
‘No, fuck her. She got me into this mess.’
‘She always knows what she’s doing. If she trusted you with this, you can hack it.’
‘Don’t try
to patch me up, Cain. I’m stuffed.’
There wasn’t much he could do for her and her crisis was draining him too. ‘Stuffed or not, you’ve got to go on. What’s the deal on Murchison?’
The hands came down. ‘Who?’ Hard eyes staring at him.
‘Murchison. A Grade Three surgeon. He was there tonight. Are you running him?’
She scowled, brain in overload, trying to take it in.
God, she didn’t know! He could hear Rhonda’s voice again, telling him to stay out of politics. Odd when he’d spent years undermining a dictatorship.
She breathed out, straightened. ‘I don’t know anything about him.’
‘Then watch it. He’s a big guy. Lurching walk. Wavy hair now. Beard. Around forty. If you spot someone like that, steer clear.’
A nod.
‘And next time you contact Ron, tell her about tonight. Tell her I saw Murchison there. Are you reading me?’
A nod.
‘And tell your guy you lost me in traffic. And have a cover-line for tonight.’
‘I have. I’m not dumb, Cain.’
‘You were close to it last night, young lady.’
‘Jesus,’ she snapped, ‘you sound like my big brother.’
‘Near as you’ll get.’ He stood up, sad for them all.
She rose, wearing the strange frown that didn’t score her face.
He gripped her shoulders. ‘You’re beautiful, clever, great and doing a fantastic job. I saw you doing it tonight. You’re also an appalling stroppy bitch and we all think you’re marvellous. And it’s not forever, you know. Not far to go . . .’
She screwed up her eyes.
Poor Ronnie, he thought. She’d been a sitting duck for this one. Someone dispassionate, gorgeous, brilliant — even conveniently bent.
He gave her a Ronnie-strength bear hug, turned her to face the mouth of the lane then pushed her gently like a wind-up toy.
She reached the corner, turned, eyes bright. He looked at her amazed. Her tears were as unexpected as the thunder of a glacier cracking. Pressure couldn’t force them from her. But kindness had.
‘Thank you. Brother.’
He heard her get back in the car and leaned against a bin, exhausted.
He’d been free of women and EXIT for three months. Now this.
He’d had a night.
ENCOUNTER AT 3000m
SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND, NOVEMBER 1990
The ridge was near the summit and there was little room to move. They’d rerigged the hang-glider for the sixth time that day and its pilot was ready for another charge into space.
The cameraman looked up from the Arri’s eyepiece to assess the sky. Clouds were closing in but an approaching hole promised sun. ‘Should get five.’
The assistant checked the mag. ‘Two hundred feet.’
They were shooting at twenty-four frames. A foot equalled sixteen frames. Meant they had around two minutes twelve seconds left. It was enough to see the glider against the peaks before it spiralled to the slopes far below.
‘Okay,’ Cain said. ‘We’ll roll till we run out.’
He checked the launch slope and lugged a camera case further out of shot. In the thin air and knee-deep snow, the effort left him out of breath. He left the crew fussing with the miniature camera clamped to an upright of the glider’s trapeze and plodded to the top of the spine.
The chopper was perched on a knoll just down from the ridge, framed against the snowscape of peaks. It was a Hughes 500 turbo hired from the Queenstown base and hadn’t stopped chugging all day. Up here, they didn’t shut down. He pressed the lever on the walkie-talkie. ‘We’re going again in five.’
The pilot opened the egg-shaped cabin’s door and gave a visual thumbs up.
The script was simple. Video: a hang-glider, painted with an aftershave insignia, soaring against snowy mountain peaks. Then super pack shot and slogan. Audio: a rock track.
There were no peaks this majestic in Australia and they couldn’t afford a European shoot. So they shot spots like this in New Zealand. The local production company swore there’d be snow on the Aspirings in November. They were right. It looked like Nepal.
Cain turned back, checked the clouds. They’d got great stuff in the can this morning but now they seemed about to be weathered.
The DOP and assistant were back behind the Arri and the sun was almost in the break. The glider pilot held the nose up, touched his helmet, ready.
‘Standing by,’ the DOP called.
The spine was flooded with crystalline light.
‘Okay for exposure.’
‘Turn over.’
‘Rolling.’
No ‘speed’ call. They weren’t recording sound.
‘And . . . action.’
The madman ran down the slope, avoided ankle-snapping holes and launched himself into space.
They kept rolling until they ran out while he soared against the peaks. Then he was too low, too distant.
The DOP straightened. ‘Good stuff there.’
The assistant fussed with the camera. ‘Gate clear. Mag change.’
Cain pressed the tit and told the chopper, ‘He’s down. Go get him.’
They heard the machine wind up and soon it was slapping overhead. It kissed them with its shadow and did a near vertical down the face. It would take twenty minutes to pack the glider, lash it to a skid and bring it up from the valley floor. While they waited Cain asked the DOP what he’d got, wishing he had a video split.
The slapping sound again. They turned, surprised. The chopper was behind them — hovering high.
Cain grabbed the handset. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘It’s not ours,’ the DOP said.
The thing dropped out of sight to settle on the mound behind the spine.
‘Rich skiers,’ the DOP said. ‘Got more money than sense. They hire these four-blade turboshaft jobs to drop them off up here.’
‘He can’t sit there,’ the grip said. ‘Our lot’ll be back in six minutes.’ The flat New Zealand ‘i’ made it sound like ‘sucks’. ‘I’ll tell him to sod off.’ He struggled up the slope.
Cain followed more slowly, breathing hard. When he reached the crest, he saw a man stumbling toward them from the chopper, leaving deep holes in the snow. The grip met him halfway. The man pointed up at Cain. The grip continued toward the chopper while the man kept coming.
The visitor wasn’t a skier. Apart from the parka, he seemed to be in ordinary clothes and was trying to wade through the drifts with his hands in his pockets. Then he fell and the hands flew forward to save him. He didn’t even have gloves. No ski pants either, or boots.
Cain unzipped his jacket a little so that he could reach for the SIG if he needed it. Cold air poured in on his chest.
At last the man came up to him — shivering, panting, blue.
Cain said, ‘What the hell are you up to? We’re trying to do a shoot here.’
The man gasped — knee-deep in snow. He wasn’t very dangerous. He’d been dumped 3000 metres up. No wonder he couldn’t breathe. ‘Cain?’
It wasn’t the name he was using. He assessed the sodden clothes, the parka, probably borrowed, the pained soft face — said nothing.
The panting man blurted, ‘Dragoons’ chorus. Patience. Auber. Laughing song.’ He had an American twang. It was all he could get out.
‘What about it?’
‘Need to talk.’ He fought to breathe.
‘You’ll have to do better.’
The man gasped, ‘Farewell my own. Only octet. Oh God, don’t keep me out here, please.’
‘Credentials?’
‘Company.’
‘Since when do we deal with the Company?’
‘You do now.’
‘Like hell.’
‘Please. My feet are ice blocks.’
‘And I’m in the middle of a shoot. And you’re on our landing spot. So get that crate off it.’
‘When you get back. Motel bar. Okay? I’ll wait.’
‘Okay. Now naff off.’
The man half fell back down the slope. Cain glanced at the clouds, cursed and waded back, trying to invent a plausible explanation for the crew.
They were weathered mid afternoon and it took three trips to ferry back the gear. On the last run, when they dropped out of blowing sleet, Queenstown was golden with late-afternoon sun. He watched the corn-coloured airfield coming closer and thought about the man.
Nine months into his exile things were going well. He’d graduated to medium-budget spots and established himself as worthy of a check-quote. Now this blast from the past. What the hell did the guy want?
In the motel room, he rechecked his shot list, showered, dressed comfortably and headed for the bar. He could use a stiff one and was determined the fellow would buy it.
The man was propped on a stool. He stood up and smiled. ‘Harry Frost.’
‘If you’d stayed up there much longer, you would have been Jack.’
‘Yeah. Pretty dumb of me. Didn’t think I’d be exposed so long. God was it cold!’
‘I’ve been in colder spots.’
‘Name your poison.’
Cain let him pay then walked to one of the tables by the window, knowing the crew would fly-blow the bar the moment they’d checked the gear.
He slumped into the booth, exhausted, sipped his drink and gazed out at the lake. The dying sun tinged the steep cliffs ochre, painting the beautiful scene with light.
‘Great place, this,’ the man said. ‘Good shoot?’
‘We’ll know after the air-to-air stuff tomorrow. So what’s up?’
‘Yes, well.’ The American smiled uncertainly. He wore half-frame spectacles now and looked professorial. ‘It’s about your new assignment. Rhonda said I could look at you.’
‘If you’re CIA, how come you’re in bed with Ron?’
‘It’s a side job.’
‘Our charter vetoes side jobs.’
‘It’s a delicate matter. Would you mind having dinner with me? She said I had to tell you it’s the job you could do chained to a rock.’
Cain smiled.
‘In the restaurant here at seven, then?’
‘Fine.’
The crew were filing in. He excused himself and joined them.
Dinner was pleasant, the local red acceptable, despite the country being better at whites, and the conversation parabolic. Frost talked about the end of the cold war, displaying a mordant sense of humour.
Exit Alpha Page 9
