by Jen Cole
“You’ll distract them with your long legs in this,” Tayla had said, holding up the skirt. “They’ll forget all their hard questions.”
The girls had laughed, but Jo now felt she stood out a mile. Covering up was essential. She turned to a basin, wincing at the blister forming on one heel, and rinsed her mouth. She gulped some of the cool water and then pulled open the door a crack, peeking out. This floor was devoted to Women’s Fashions and although it was July, with the cold weather at its worst, winter sales had already begun.
Though no one was loitering in navy track pants and a hoodie, Jo couldn’t get her legs to move. The decision was made for her when a woman, obviously in a hurry, pushed in and swept past Jo to the cubicles. Exposed in the doorway, Jo darted out to the hanging garments and grabbed a trench coat, scarf and beret, before retiring with her booty to a change room. With the long coat buttoned, the grey wool scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face, and her hair pushed up under the black beret, the former Jo was hidden. Now she was just one of the shoppers lured into the city by the sales.
The instant disguise boosted her confidence and she headed to the counter in the center of the store. A young assistant, wearing an oversized badge that announced, Hi I’m Cheryl, stood waiting. Cheryl’s smile wavered when Jo began removing items and dropping them onto the counter. It disappeared completely when Jo pounced on the beret as soon as she’d scanned it, and returned it to her head, twisting her hair up underneath. Cheryl removed the electronic tag from the scarf and rang up the price. She’d barely released it before Jo snatched this back too. Lips now thinned, the salesgirl scanned the coat.
“I don’t suppose you want this bagged?” she asked.
“No thanks.” Jo pulled it from her hands and slipped it on. “It’s cold this morning.”
Cheryl took Jo’s credit card. “The store’s quite warm.”
“I don’t feel it,” said Jo, already sweating under her disguise.
As she signed the chit for an amount she tried not to think about, a nasty thought occurred. Can’t people’s movements be traced by their credit card transactions? If the Hunter’s hired a detective agency to locate me, they’ll know where I am every time I use it. Not only that, she realized, my transaction history will reveal all my disguise attempts and escape plans. I need cash.
Jo headed for the escalators and then remembered she hadn’t changed her bag. She hesitated, hating the idea of wasting any more time. In sudden inspiration she took off her coat, slipped the bag on like a sash, and buttoned the coat over the top. It didn’t feel too bad, and now she could walk with hands in her pockets, which would change her look even more.
By the time Jo had scurried down between customers on the escalator and across to the exit doors, she was light-headed from the heat, but as she staggered outside the rush of cold air brought back her senses.
A businessman veered to avoid her and she put out a hand.
“Excuse me, do you know where I could find a Bendigo Bank?”
Jo could never say that name without feeling a rush of pride for the resourcefulness of farming communities. After the betrayal of the big banks who had pulled out of country regions pronouncing there was no money to be made, Bendigo farmers had proved them wrong by setting up a Community Bank, which had been so successful it now had branches all over Australia.
The businessman pointed down the boulevard. “Go to Queen Street and turn left. There’s a Bendigo Bank on the corner of Collins.”
“Thank you so much.”
Jo heard a faint, “You’re welcome,” as she hurried in the direction he’d indicated. But at Queen Street her heart sank. This wide street would be taking her back the way she’d come.
You’ll be fine, she told herself firmly. The coat and beret have totally changed your look. Except, she realized with a jolt, for being alone. Wouldn’t her pursuers be homing in on females walking by themselves? Jo looked around. Pedestrian traffic was thin. A group of students ahead might provide some cover. If not, this wide street would be a trap.
~~~~
CHAPTER 4
In a Queensland motel room BEAM agent, Richard Sayers, was emptying drawers, having completed his assignment.
Setting up another farming community to resist the H Group had taken nearly a month – longer than usual. He’d had difficulty finding the right person to lead the northern mango growers, and he hoped the man he’d chosen would work out. So far his leader had needed a lot of handholding.
Too bad he wasn’t more like Bill Warrington, who preferred minimal direction and was a respected, natural leader among the Shepparton apple growers down in Victoria. Richard felt confident Bill would keep the Shepparton community strong and force the H Group to withdraw from that area. No one was perfect though, and Bill’s most infuriating flaw was his casual attitude towards protocols.
“I can’t be bothered with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” the apple farmer had said. “My priorities are Jo and my orchards, in that order.”
Richard had to agree Jo deserved top billing. He smiled, re-living his last visit a month ago. It had been mid-June and Jo had come striding to greet him through a tunnel of bare-limbed trees. She’d been helping her dad with the pruning and her cheeks were glowing. Even in dungarees she was a stunner, though there was always a little knife twist in knowing nothing could happen between them. The stumbling block wasn’t so much their six-year age difference, as the lie he was living. To Jo, he was a seller of farming equipment. In the spy business you could forget about starting normal relationships.
Six months ago BEAM had discovered the H Group was targeting Shepparton apple growers and they’d sent in Richard. As a travelling salesman, he’d gone from farm to farm with laptop and brochures, making a few sales for the farming equipment company that fronted for BEAM, while searching for the right person to lead an organized local resistance. Jo’s father had quickly become the obvious choice.
“I can’t afford new equipment right now,” Bill Warrington had told Richard. “Not after this latest squeeze from the supermarkets.” He’d then gone on to complain about the whole globalization trend, which he saw as putting ever-increasing power and resources into the hands of ever fewer people.
Over time the two men had built a rapport, and Richard had finally told Bill about the H Group and their plans for Shepparton. The apple farmer had been stunned, then angry, and finally cautious. He’d taken his time examining Richard’s evidence, but in the end had concluded his community was indeed under threat.
“The only way I can see of battling the H Group is to take a stand against the supermarket chains,” Bill had said. “I’m going to organize a meeting of the independent growers.”
“Do that,” Richard had agreed. “But remember to stay focused on the supermarkets. Don’t let anything slip about the H Group.”
The meeting had been hugely successful. Outraged at the latest low buy-price the supermarkets were trying to force on them, the growers agreed to unite in refusing to accept it. When the supermarkets found they couldn’t play one farmer off against another they’d be forced raise their offer.
The meeting had ended on a feeling of optimism, but Bill had suddenly become worried about Jo, concerned at what the H Group might do on finding their plans threatened.
Richard tried to reassure him. “The H Group uses economic means to break you. When communities hold a united front against the supermarkets, they invariably pull out. Behaving like gangsters would draw attention, and they don’t need to do that while there are still plenty of vulnerable communities they can move on to. The H Group’s modus operandi is quiet acquisition.”
“All very well,” Bill said. “But when they run out of easy targets, won’t they be tempted to try a little ‘overcoming’ of the resistance?”
Richard shook his head. “So far they’ve only resorted to violence when their secret was threatened. Then, it’s true they’ve acted quickly and ruthlessly. Anyone smart or perhaps unfortunate enou
gh to discover an H Group connection with farming communities, and start asking questions, rapidly meets with a fatal ‘accident’. That’s why it’s vital you give no hint of your knowledge of the H Group, but act as though the supermarket chains are your goal. As long as you take that approach you have nothing to worry about.”
Bill grunted. “Battling the supermarkets is our goal. If we win that fight, and you’re right about the H Group, they’ll move on. Your lot can follow them and good luck to you. But what if you’re wrong? If the H Group decides not to leave, I don’t want Jo around here. She wasn’t planning on further study, but her exam results were good. I think I’ll try and convince her to apply for an agricultural degree course.”
“Do what you have to, so we can move forward,” Richard had said. “The longer we wait, the harder it will be. An outsider has already made an offer on the Davies’ farm and I believe they’re considering it.”
“Is this outsider connected with the H Group?”
“That’s how they operate. He’s Jack Murray, a thirty-something inner-city teacher. Ostensibly an uncle left him an inheritance and he’s decided to leave the rat race and become a gentleman farmer.”
Bill gave a laugh. “Sounds like the kind of fantasies city folk have.”
“It’s a good cover. He asked a local estate agent to go to Mitch Davies with an offer. It’s no coincidence the Davies’ are the weakest link in the community. BEAM will keep digging,” Richard promised. “We’ll find Jack Murray’s tie to the H Group. Unfortunately, our resources are negligible compared to theirs and worldwide experience has honed their strategies.”
Richard frowned at the memory of that conversation, wishing his assigned communities weren’t so widely spread. At the moment he was two thousand kilometers from Shepparton. Protocols were the only way to keep in touch but getting Bill to follow them wasn’t easy and Richard hadn’t wanted to put his community leader offside by nagging. Now he wished he’d insisted. Almost four weeks without a word from Bill was too long.
Richard opened his laptop and logged onto ‘Patti’s Blog’, scanning for comments by Suze, the online persona BEAM had set up for Bill. Patti’s was one of thousands of open weblogs whose owners were happy to let the world read and comment upon their postings, and BEAM used such blogs to communicate with its agents.
Patti’s most recent entry, dated yesterday, was another tirade against her mother who had grounded her last Saturday for some minor infraction. Richard skimmed through the archived history of comments. The last from Suze had been exactly a month ago, when she’d agreed with Patti that all little brothers should be shipped off to some faraway island.
As Suze, Bill could leave seemingly innocuous comments on Patti’s blog, which would be meaningful to Richard. Suze agreeing with something Patti had said, was code for ‘everything’s fine’. If Suze asked Patti a question, it meant Bill needed to talk and would be turning on the safe mobile phone Richard had given him at nine each night for an hour, until Richard called him. Finally if Suze disagreed with Patti, it meant a big problem had occurred and Richard needed to get down to Shepparton fast. So far Suze had never found cause to disagree with anything Patti had said.
Suze was supposed to write a weekly comment, but Bill often let an extra week or two slip by, complaining the Internet made his head ache. Richard knew the farmer found it distasteful pretending to be a young girl on Patti’s blog, but all the same, Suze had never before gone as long as a month without posting something.
Richard closed the laptop and finished packing his suitcase. It was high time he took a trip to Shepparton.
~~~~
CHAPTER 5
Jo leapt forward to gain camouflage among the students. They ignored her, engrossed in their own conversation, and she drifted alongside, trying to look part of the group. Meanwhile, she watched intently for the navy track pants and hoodie, and wondered how much money to withdraw. Ten thousand? She might have to hire cars or take planes, and she’d also need places to stay. That could get expensive and she didn’t want the Hunter tracking her through bank withdrawals. Twenty thousand then? It was all the money from her mother’s bequest, which had been slowly growing in term deposits over the last two years.
She’d planned to use the bequest to buy a car when she turned eighteen after her final exam, but then her father’s accident had occurred and she’d been caught up in the inquest and funeral arrangements. Instead of withdrawing the money, she’d allowed the term deposit to roll over and now the twenty thousand lay intact and waiting in the bank.
How bulky will 20,000 dollars in cash be, Jo thought. She did a quick calculation. If I got the highest denomination, hundred dollar bills, I’d have two hundred notes. Would they fit in a money belt? I’d need a big one, and if it makes me look bulkier, good – it’ll help disguise me. She glanced at her watch. Hell! Although the first hour had taken an eternity, the second had flown. It was nearly 10.15. In just forty-five minutes her coordinates would be sent to the Hunter.
Jo fought the urge to run, and stayed with the slow-moving students. Ahead, a rack of suitcases outside a doorway signaled a travel shop. Should she get a money belt now? No, the bank transaction could take a while. She’d do that first.
At Collins Street, Jo spotted the Bendigo Bank and broke off from the group to cross the road. The queue inside, though long, was feeding to a number of tellers and moving quickly. She used the waiting time to anticipate questions she might be asked, and to unbutton her coat and ferret in her bag for the kinds of identification they’d no doubt require. As she reached the front of the line a chime sounded and a number three lit up.
The teller at window three wore the bank’s tailored, maroon blouse with a starched yellow kerchief in the pocket. She flashed a professional smile, and Jo returned it with what she hoped was calm confidence.
“I have 20,000 dollars in a ninety-day term account that I’d like to withdraw.” Jo gave her name and the account number and the teller’s polished nails clicked at the keyboard.
“That account doesn’t mature for two months. There’ll be a penalty on the interest for early withdrawal.”
“Yes, that’s okay.”
The car she’d planned to buy was a fleeting regret. She was just glad the money was there to withdraw.
“Shall I transfer the sum to your cheque account?” asked the teller, moving the mouse as she scanned the screen in front of her.
Jo answered casually. “No, I’d like to take it in cash please.”
The woman’s head turned sharply. “That’s an unusual request.”
“My father died recently and I’ve been settling his estate. I’ve come to Melbourne to make a number of payments, and it’s easier to do them with cash.”
The teller looked skeptical. “I don’t know if we even have that much cash available for a single customer. I’ll have to check with the manager and I’ll also need three forms of identification.”
Jo handed over her new driver’s licence, along with her national healthcare and credit cards. The teller indicated the chairs provided for customers.
“Please take a seat. Shouldn’t be long.”
Sitting, Jo caught sight of the bank’s wall clock. Ten-thirty. Her heart jumped, but she steadied herself. Don’t panic, she thought. Use this time to plan. My coordinates will be sent at 11.00 a.m. so where’s the best place to be? The train station’s just down the road from here. No, if the Hunter’s using a detective agency, operatives could be lurking at the entrances with photos of me. Where then? Jo bit her lip... Back at the department store! With luck the Hunter would imagine she’d got so involved in shopping for survival gear, that she’d lost track of time. The store had four levels, covered two blocks and no doubt had a myriad of exits. To trap her there he’d need to send everyone he had, including any agents at the station. So if she went straight to the station after 11.00, she should arrive just as the Hunter’s assistants were surrounding the store. Jo shivered excitedly, and then sobered quickl
y.
I’m not safe yet, she thought. Say she made it to the station, what then? She’d need supplies. Unbidden, a name came to mind. Chadstone. It was where she’d gone on her last girls’ trip with her mother. That day, two years ago, had been an unexpected treat – an outing in Melbourne. A small part of it had involved visiting the specialist, who had rooms in the sprawling Chadstone shopping center, and who would do some tests to solve the mystery of Mum’s tiredness. The tests had not taken long, and afterwards they’d seen a movie, had lunch, and spent a carefree afternoon shopping. Three days later, Mum’s doctor revealed what those tests had found – a particularly virulent form of cancer. Just eight months after the diagnosis, a few days short of her sixteenth birthday, she’d held her father’s hand at the funeral.
Jo threw off the memory and glanced at her watch. What’s happened to that teller? Why is she taking so long? The numbers on the dial changed to 10:36, and she closed her eyes. Keep planning, she told herself but flashes from the weeks following her mother’s death were now filling her mind. Her father had been devastated and had relied heavily on Jo for emotional support. She’d been forced to drag herself out of her own grief and grow up quickly. It had been a natural progression to take over her mother’s role on the farm, learning to do the books and tackling the endless string of chores each day after school and on weekends. Between them, she and her father had kept the orchard afloat, but at the sacrifice of much of her social life. There were times, such as when she saw a group of girls at school giggling over some magazine, that she felt a hundred years old.
“Miss Warrington?” the teller had returned. “Our manager, Mr. Singh would like a word with you. Could you come this way?”
Jo sprang up and followed her into a side room where a dapper, serious man sat behind a desk. He half rose as she entered, and indicated the seat opposite. On the desk between them were her driver’s licence and health and credit cards, which he pushed towards her.
