The January Zone

by Peter Corris

  ‘Oh, sure. He’ll be all right. Did you know, Billy, that Australia is the land of free enterprise. And Mr January is one of the rulers of Australia. And do you know what that means?’

  ‘You tell me, man.’

  ‘It means that he’s an enterprising person and enterprising persons get everything free!’

  Trudi’s eyebrows shot up and she half-rose from her chair. ‘Cliff, I…’

  ‘Billy, would you mind briefing Mr January on what we’ve turned up so far? I’m going to drop in on Martin, then I’m going back to the hotel.’

  Spinoza tossed me the keys. I caught them. ‘Sure, Cliff. Take the car.’

  ‘Wait for me downstairs, Cliff,’ Trudi said. ‘I’m coming too.’

  I went out and opened the door to Martin’s room. He was sleeping on his back. With his head bandaged and taped and without his glasses, he looked like a child. No flowers. I closed the door and went down to ‘R’.

  Trudi strode from the elevators carrying her folders and handbag. She had a light jacket on over her dress that concealed the blood smears and the dirt. She gripped my arm and we went out to the Mercedes. She leaned across and kissed me hard on the mouth.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she said.

  ‘His ego’s got two people dead and put a few in hospital. Maybe he’s a great man.’

  ‘You’re getting things out of perspective. Let’s go back to the hotel. We can talk.’

  I started the car and drove out of the car park.

  ‘Hey!’ Trudi yelled.

  The oldest mistake in the book—wrong side of the street. I reversed and turned to go the way I should. The Mercedes was a dream to drive and concentrating on finding the way back to the hotel relaxed me. I’d been told that Washington was a planned city and something of the plan became clear to me as I followed my nose and the overhead signs. The other drivers were polite. Trudi was quiet. I wanted a drink and I thought about Helen. Helen and a drink would have been best but I’d have happily settled for just Helen.

  I got the car tucked away in a space that said ‘Reserved for the Manager’ under the hotel and we rode up to our floor, with Trudi holding my arm and still very quiet.

  ‘My room,’ she said and I nodded and went with her. As soon as she was inside she shook her jacket off onto the floor, kicked off her shoes and wrapped her arms around me. She pulled my head down and we kissed. I could taste brandy on her breath but she was warm and soothing to hold.

  ‘I want to make love,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you said we’d talk.’

  She pressed hard against me. ‘We can talk later.’

  ‘I don’t think I can do it, Trude.’

  She pressed closer. ‘Guilt or anger?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘All right. You don’t have to do it. Do something for me. Come on.’

  We went into the bedroom and she pulled off her dress and pantyhose. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck; her breasts were small and high and her body still had a faint tan from the last summer. I slipped my shoes off, took off my jacket and started to unbutton my shirt.

  ‘Forget about that,’ she said. ‘Come over here. This is for me.’

  She jerked the bedclothes away, stretched out on the sheet and I bent over her. She opened her legs and directed one of my hands there and the other one to her nipple.

  ‘Do this,’ she said, ‘rub me and suck and bite.’

  I did it and she groaned and moved and thrust against my hand. ‘Don’t stop!’

  I did what she wanted; she pushed my head fiercely across from one breast to the other and I found the rhythm she liked and held it and she thrashed under me. I was excited, erect and pulsing but I wanted above all to please her, to do everything right for her. I kept on and she came in a long, shuddering spasm.

  ‘Oh, still. Be still.’

  She collapsed and I got properly onto the bed and held her. After a while she reached down and pulled the sheet up over us. ‘How d’you feel now?’ she said.

  ‘I want you.’ I was still hot and hard.

  ‘Better we don’t,’ she murmured. ‘This way you’ll remember…something different…’

  ‘I’ll think of the Queen.’

  She smiled and curled herself up; I moulded her into a shape I could enclose with my arms and legs. I felt her twitch and then relax and settle into a loose, gentle sleep. I went with her, all the way, down to the warmth, out of the light, into the comforting dark.

  21

  We travelled from the hospital to the Senate hearing in a fleet of cars under a tight security screen organised by Billy Spinoza. Our bags were packed and on their way to the airport. Trudi went into the chamber with January, Gary Wilcox and Bolton, while I waited outside with the other men who had steel in their backbones and ice water in their veins. In fact, we lounged around; the brave ones smoked, some jogged on the spot, others, like me, leaned against walls and sweated.

  The sweat wasn’t from fear; the whole operation had a smooth invincibility to it that convinced me from the first move. But it was a hot day in Washington, perhaps the last of the year locals told me. We all wore jackets to prevent our shoulder holsters from frightening the populace. It was more than a little absurd—a whole gaggle of men, every one above six feet and no one under 150 pounds, all standing around and sweating with several pounds of ironmongery under their arms.

  It was boring enough to force me to take a look at the TV monitor when January came on to do his thing.

  He was terrific.

  With his head bandage smaller, his hair brushed and a better colour to his skin, he looked less like T.E. Lawrence and more like a slightly damaged Robert Redford. He spoke quietly, sketching the history of the Pacific and its associations for all the nations with a nuclear capacity—America, Britain, France, the Soviet Union.

  One of the gun-toters outside said, ‘What about Israel?’ It got a laugh outside but the audience in the large, wood-panelled room where January was speaking was hanging on his words. He went on to talk about the violence that was bred by violence and he managed by word and gesture to indicate his own martyrdom.

  ‘In the Pacific,’ he said. ‘We have a chance to demonstrate cooperation and harmony between people with the widest possible cultural differences—from the subsistence agriculturalists of New Guinea to the most sophisticated citizens of the United States. We can create a zone where no guns are fired, no bombs are dropped and not one nuclear device threatens the existence of the people, or the plants, or the lowest, most microscopic, form of life.’

  Wilcox and Bolton passed him documents which he accepted with a boyish grin and glanced at without interrupting the flow of his remarks. He raised his right hand, the burnt one, occasionally as if to ward off a bad thought.

  A mid-west Senator got the call from the Chairman and fixed January with a hard, blue-eyes gaze. He was an outdoors-looking type, with a mane of greying hair and a well-preserved figure.

  ‘Mr January,’ he said. ‘The Soviet Union is already acting belligerently in your so-called zone of peace. It is building stepping stones across the Pacific, stepping stones for the waging of war.’

  Trudi handed January a note. He nodded and delicately touched his burnt hand to his bandaged head. ‘I believe that Senator Anderson knows all about stepping stones,’ he said quietly. ‘He is a fly-caster of note. Isn’t that so, Senator?’

  The Senator inclined his head gravely.

  ‘You and the Soviets have something in common. The Russians are in the Pacific to catch fish, nothing more.’

  There were smiles around the long table and in the several rows of guests, reporters and others flanking the participants in the hearing. Billy Spinoza, standing beside me, smiled too.

  ‘What he doesn’t know is that that fucking Anderson would just as soon dam up a river as fish in it.’

  ‘January wouldn’t care,’ I said. ‘He’s talking about the world tomorrow but he’s thinking about himself today.’

  �
�Too true.’

  January never got flustered; he wasn’t glib, he hesitated a few times and appeared to be searching for the right words, but they always came. Some of his final answers were touched with passion—he projected a vision of the Pacific area as a laboratory where the study of man in conflict had been carried out by brilliant American, Russian, British and French anthropologists for decades and where the study of man in harmony could begin. He got a standing ovation and a series of awkward, and incredibly sincere-looking, left-handed handshakes.

  A couple of the attendants stood to attention when January marched out. His jacket was open which, in that company, was like having a flower behind his ear. He acknowledged all the plaudits gracefully and as Spinoza and some of his trusted lieutenants along with yours truly hustled the party towards the cars, January made it look as if all the anxiety was on our side and for our benefit, not his.

  I sat next to Spinoza in front while January shared the back seat with a Chinese he called Joe.

  ‘Who’s with Trudi?’ I said.

  ‘Three of the best.’

  ‘Does that leave any for Gary and Bolton?’

  ‘Bolton’s staying,’ January said. ‘He’s going to monitor press comment and come back when Martin’s fit to travel. Gary’s got some business to do. He’ll be on a later flight today.’

  Spinoza negotiated the stately driveways around the Senate building. ‘We’ll look after them. The heat’ll be off them when Mr January leaves.’

  ‘In triumph,’ I said. ‘How’s the head, Peter?’

  ‘Fine, Cliff, thank you.’

  I half-turned to look at him. Success became Peter January; it gave him an abashed, modest look that he wore easily along with his brimming self-confidence. Except that I seemed to detect a flaw in the armour. We rode down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House with the big, concrete barriers arranged around it like idols or totem poles. January bit his lip as he looked out at the seat of power. Maybe I was wrong in thinking he was worried; maybe he was planning security arrangements for the Prime Minister’s Lodge.

  I shook hands with Spinoza before we boarded the plane. He’d overseen the departure of the Messiah of the Pacific with an awesome skill. We’d passed through all the stages as smoothly as if we were catching a taxi across a town.

  ‘Thanks, Billy. You’ve done a great job. Is there anyone I can tell that to? Do you some good?’

  ‘Sure, Cliff. You tell it to Mike Borg. He’s travelling with you.’

  I was surprised and spun around to see Borg standing beside Trudi as January gave a last audience to the fourth estate.

  ‘Just a precaution. You tell Mike and he’ll tell some desk man and maybe I’ll get a desk myself some time.’

  ‘You want a desk?’

  ‘Sure. We’ve been on our feet too long. I’m ready to sit down and sign things.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Maybe not. Anyway, I’d like to take a trip to your country. Put in a good word with Mike and I might make it.’

  ‘You’ll be welcome at my place if you do. Take care, Billy.’

  ‘You too.’

  He turned away and I watched January field a few balls. Don Carver was in the clutch of reporters but he didn’t speak. January shook hands warmly with Creighton Kirby for the benefit of the cameramen and then we were heading for the plane.

  I fell into stride with Borg. ‘Can they spare you?’ I said. ‘I gather from Billy that you’re the foreman.’

  ‘I am. But everyone seems to think that January’s suddenly got top priority. They’ll manage without me for a bit. Anyway, trip home’ll be very nice.’

  ‘Where’s home?’ I said.

  ‘Broken Hill. I won’t get anywhere near it, but a day in Sydney’ll be okay.’

  ‘You expect any trouble?’

  He shrugged. ‘What else is there?’

  I read until Flashy reached the guns and the Cossacks, and then I played poker for a while with Mike Borg. I lost a fair swag of the American money I hadn’t had any chance to spend. January drank steadily all the way across the USA. I surrendered the last pot to Borg and took a seat next to Trudi.

  ‘What’s wrong with the Chosen One?’

  It was almost the first remark I’d addressed to her since our time together back at the hotel. We were close in spirit and mood, glad to be going home, but probably divided on the question of the worth of Peter January. ‘He’s tired. He took more of a knock when that microphone blew up than he’s let on.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be drinking. He should put brown paper in his socks for the jet lag or something.’

  ‘I think you’re too hard on him.’

  ‘Maybe. I didn’t hear anything really solid back there. A lot of words. D’you want a drink?’

  ‘No. I’ll have one when we leave LA. I’ll have several.’

  ‘Peter’ll be on his ear by then.’

  ‘He’ll stop. He knows when to stop. He’s going to have big problems at home. They say the local press went to town over this. It’ll be a madhouse when we get in, but he’ll be fine by then. You’ll see.’

  I heard January order another Scotch. His jacket was off and his tie was loose.

  ‘He’s worried about Mrs Weiner, isn’t he? What did he hear from her?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  We changed planes in Los Angeles. Between the transit lounge and the outside world there were many layers of bullet-proof glass, concrete and plastic. All I saw of the famous desert city was a shimmering blue sky which may have been an effect of the tinted glass, and a few palm trees in pots. I saw a tabloid newspaper banner though, one that would have gladdened Martin’s slogan-loving heart. Six-inch letters, red on white—’The January Zone’.

  BOOK THREE

  22

  I assume Mike Borg made the arrangements from the cockpit. We arrived at Mascot in the late afternoon, just the time when the TV news crews would be screaming for footage. We saw them; the vans were parked outside the arrival gates; the technicians were running around the carpark and the reporters were probably hanging over the rail outside the customs hall. But our view was from inside the car that swept us away from the VIP room, where the immigration and customs formalities had been completed in double quick time.

  It was a beautiful spring day. Borg wound down the window and almost hurt himself expanding his chest to suck in the Australian air. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Just great.’

  January sat hunched in the corner of the back seat. He hadn’t changed his suit for the Sydney weather and he looked hot and uncomfortable. ‘I wish I could go to Bondi,’ he mumbled.

  Borg grinned. ‘My instructions, Minister, are to stay with you to your first port of call. I’d be happy to accompany you to Bondi Beach.’

  January managed a thin smile. ‘Thanks. No, I’ve got to go and see some of my bloody colleagues.’

  Trudi pulled a face. ‘Hogbin?’

  ‘And others. I’m not going to be popular.’

  ‘You’ll be the darling of the media,’ Trudi said. ‘The most successful Australian in America since Crocodile Dundee.’

  January flushed. He started to tense up the way he did before he delivered criticism and rebuke, but his shoulders slumped. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s all theatre. Did you pick up those messages at the airport, Trude? With any luck they’ll have cancelled the meeting.’

  Trudi handed him a couple of envelopes which were stamped with the dates and times they’d been received at the airport. He tapped them against the back of his bandaged hand. ‘D’you want to check these for letter bombs, Mr Borg?’

  Borg tried another breath of the air but we were getting closer to the city now and it was mostly petrol and industrial fumes. He coughed. ‘I already have,’ he said. ‘They’re clean.’

  January opened the envelopes. He crumpled one message, groaned when he read another and then fell silent. There was something in that silence that made me glance around. He was staring out the window and his
jaw was set like a bench clamp. We were in Redfern where Sydney’s past, present and future is laid out in the mixture of small, mean buildings and grand, pretentious structures and the shades of colour in the faces of the people on the street. But January wasn’t seeing any of it. Trudi looked at him in alarm; Borg was taking in the scene or maybe keeping an eye out for gunmen.

  ‘What hotel, Mr Borg?’ January said sharply.

  ‘Ah, Gazebo at the Cross.’

  ‘Let’s get there. I’m afraid the rest of us have business to attend to.’

  Borg looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m staying with you, sir. To liaise with the American end of things.’

  ‘I’m over-riding that. I’ll take the responsibility.’

  ‘Minister, I…’

  ‘Mr Borg,’ January said coldly. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done, but I have matters to attend to with my private and personal staff. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  We dropped Borg at the hotel. I walked him to the door and barely had time to mutter a denial that I knew anything about what bee was in January’s bonnet. I’d told him how highly I rated Billy Spinoza while we’d played cards and I reminded him of it.

  ‘Understood,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here the rest of the day if you need me.’

  January and Trudi stood in the sun on the footpath. ‘Trudi told the driver where to drop the luggage,’ January said. ‘I need a drink and I have to talk to you two.’

  I led the way to the Bourbon Brasserie. The girl who’d been on duty outside when I’d lunched with Tobin was at her post again, but she was smart enough to see that she had nothing to offer the three people with crumpled clothes, jet lag and grim faces.

  On the way to the bar we passed a man eating his breakfast—bacon and eggs. He was drinking what looked like a Scotch and soda. In the afternoon dimness the bar had a seedy look, as if the mirrors needed polishing or the people needed a shower. We sat in the darkest corner, 20 feet from two solitary drinkers on stools at the bar and about the same from the only other occupied table. January ordered Scotch for all of us without asking. When the drinks came he took out the airport message envelope, extracted another envelope and took from that a piece of paper. His hand shook as he passed it to me.