Redback

by Lindy Cameron

  The last thing they both thought, in their own way, as the dual blasts flung them back across the tarmac and into unconsciousness, was ‘shit, those planes must have been loaded up with something really mean’.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Melbourne, Australia

  Thursday 4 pm

  Jana Rossi picked up her eco-friendly shopping bag. It bulged at odd angles, knocking against her legs. Squashed at the bottom was her overnight gear and on top were the groceries she had hurriedly bought on the way home. She stepped out of the lift onto the eleventh floor. It was hard to believe she was home, that she was even alive. It had been two days since her rescue from Laui Island, and all of eight days after she was supposed to have walked this hallway to her apartment. It was just as well she didn’t have a cat anymore or its weight would have been as reduced as her luggage. She’d left Melbourne with a large suitcase, a cabin bag, a satchel full of conference paperwork and a laptop. All she was returning with were emergency supplies of underwear that she’d bought at the hotel in Wellington.

  Jana didn’t even have a passport anymore. Her legal re-entry into Australia had been facilitated by her contact in the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, Mick Fleming. That he had done the same for all the Aussie delegates only proved that sometimes the wheels of government, and DFAT in particular, worked for its citizens stranded on foreign soil. Mick had even promised to fast-track a new passport so she could leave the country again on Saturday as planned.

  The Dock 5 building manager had met her in the foyer with her mail, and a new door key - the original was buried in the sands of Laui along with her passport. She let herself into the corner apartment with more relief than she’d ever felt about coming home.

  Home? Now that was a strange notion. Jana had spent a grand total of maybe nine weeks here in the 15 months since she’d inherited the place from her father. Still, right now, all she wanted to do was shut herself in, surrounded by familiar things, and sleep and read for a week.

  Oh yeah, dream on. She had to be in Thailand in two days.

  As much as Jana would rather be travelling than not, there was a part of her gypsy soul that did like the occasional breather between trips. It was the only time she got to lie around and do nothing. She dumped her bag on the kitchen bench, smiling at the irony of that simple desire: technically she’d been doing nothing at all on Laui for the last nine days. Choosing to hide away with a few good books and movies was, however, a far cry from being held hostage in idleness on a small island in a tiny bure surrounded by itchy-triggermen and the Pacific Ocean.

  With only 36 hours to get her act together, there was no time at all for lolling around. She fired up the espresso machine, turned on the desktop computer in her office to check her emails, and threw back the lounge room curtains. The city skyline took her breath away, as it did every time she came home to it. The north windows overlooked a plummeting panorama of Victoria Harbour and the Docklands precinct, while the sliding glass doors to her outdoor deck on the west side, took in the Bolte Bridge, the Yarra River and Moonee Ponds Creek. The north-west cityscape spread out below her and far away like a living Persian carpet of woven brick, steel and concrete.

  A tantalising aroma drew her back to kitchen where her coffee had espressed itself into a large cup. Detouring by her computer was a mistake. She backed away from a scary 634 lurking emails and took the small pile of snail mail, and her coffee out to her balcony table instead.

  Oh, how nice. The first envelope contained her official end-of-contract notification letter from the Economic and Tourism Council.

  ‘Bloody charming,’ she said aloud. ‘Posted while I was a hostage in the middle of the bloody Pacific Ocean!’

  Returning to the kitchen for more coffee, she unfolded The Age while she waited. The usual insanity of Middle East car bombs and suicide bombers, US school shootings, and home-grown domestic murder, mayhem and political stoushes, was relegated to mentions in the ‘what’s inside’. The front page was all pictorial coverage of yesterday’s terrorist attacks in Texas; and a photo of the mangled train in Europe. Jana couldn’t believe that the ‘Laui hostage crisis’ had already been overtaken by not one but three tragedies far worse than the nightmare she and her colleagues had been through.

  What the hell is wrong with the world?

  So far the death toll for the Luxembourg train was 166, with upwards of 90 injured. Seventy-five people had been killed and more than 125 wounded in the bomb blast in Dallas; and seven soldiers and two civilians had died in the terrorist attack on the Fort Hood military base in the US. Add the seven rebels and three US Marines killed on Laui Island to the week’s tally and one might be forgiven for thinking that something strange was going on in the world.

  Well, stranger than usual. Jana headed back to her balcony. Or in stranger than usual places.

  The last three items of mail were from This Week, The World; the Helix Foundation; and Barnum & Murch Inc. The first one Jana knew, the second she’d most certainly heard of, and the third was a mystery. She started with the unknown.

  Barnum & Murch, it seemed, were executive headhunters. Someone had let it be known that Dr Jana Rossi might be looking for gainful employment because B & M Inc allegedly had a client interested in talking to her.

  ‘When?’ Jana asked, as there was oddly no date on the letterhead. She couldn’t read the postmark on the envelope either. Next she opened the missive from TW,TW so she could laugh at what they might have to offer in terms of a job package.

  Damn. That, as they say, would’ve been a nice little earner.

  It was such a pity she’d now rather kill Alan Wagner than work with him.

  The Helix Foundation, Jana knew, was one of the country’s largest philanthropic organisations. It had been founded by Ruth Jardine partly on the fortune she’d inherited from her father, the cosmetic and pharmaceutical billionaire Franklin Jardine. After marrying the also-wealthy Jacob Rankin, of Rankin Aeronautics, Ms Jardine and her consort had diversified into so many fields that Rankin Jardine Inc. was almost its own economy. The company owned real estate, engineering and construction firms, medical research facilities, private hospitals, and an electrical superstore chain. The country airline, AusAir, had been one of Jacob’s legacies, before his untimely death in the Philippines a decade ago. He bequeathed 50 per cent of its continuing profits to the 45 employees who’d built the service with him.

  The Helix Foundation had been Ruth Jardine’s official memorial to her husband. They had always given generously to the arts in Australia, and a multitude of charities at home and abroad. But Helix was specifically established to generate its own income by investing in a network of national and overseas projects that then shared the wealth. Within five years the recyclable fortune of Helix was also in the billions.

  Jana couldn’t grasp money with any more than three zeroes, but she figured if a company’s seed money was several million to begin with, then making it grow was just a matter of watering it.

  Every Australian knew about Ruth Jardine and Helix, and Jana often saw evidence of the Foundation’s incredible work in many of the places she visited with her job, ex-job. Helix had donated, funded, or invested in irrigation projects in East Africa, small business programs in China and SouthEast Asia, and women’s farming and retail collectives in India, Thailand and Vietnam.

  And now, it seemed, Helix wanted to invest in her. The letter was supposedly written by Ms Jardine herself. Having heard that Dr Rossi was leaving the AET Council, she was offering an interview for a possible position with her Foundation. The interview was to be with Ms Jardine herself in Sydney before - oh bugger, yesterday - she left for a business retreat elsewhere

  Jana stood, stretched and leant on the balcony. The Helix Foundation was based in Sydney. Jana had absolutely no desire to live there. She certainly wouldn’t give up this view for anything. She wondered whether there was a possibility that the job - if it was even still going - might not mean a move anywhere.
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  On the off-chance that being held hostage on a Pacific Island for over a week and only narrowly escaping with her life, might be a good enough reason for not getting back to Ms Jardine any sooner, she decided to call the number on the letter.

  Patong Beach, Phuket, Thailand

  Thursday 12 noon

  Kaisha had the door of the blue taxi open before it came to a stop on the seafront Thaweewong Road. Scott clambered out more slowly and handed 500 baht to the lunatic who’d given them a 45-minute dodgem ride from Phuket International Airport.

  The Kaji restaurant advertising ‘a Japanese experience’ was right in front of them; behind them was beautiful Patong Beach, long since recovered from the devastation of the Boxing Day tsunami.

  This was the third of Hiroshi Kaga’s four restaurants they had visited since arriving in Thailand the morning before. Unlike yesterday however, when she had burst into the Bangkok establishment, Kaisha was now loitering nervously on the pavement.

  ‘What? You’re not going to rush in there like a…’

  ‘Don’t you call me a fool,’ Kaisha glared at him. ‘I only do stupid things once.’

  ‘That’s a very good rule to live by,’ Scott said. ‘Shall we?’

  He pushed open the door to a truly elegant slice of Japan, albeit identical to the two slices they’d visited in Bangkok. If they didn’t find Hiro’s brother here, they’d have to head north again to catch him at his ‘number one’ restaurant. Why the man didn’t carry a cell phone was a mystery. His Bangkok restaurant manager had said he was paying surprise visits to his other businesses, so couldn’t be contacted through them.

  In Hiroshi’s Patong Beach Kaji, four of the tables were occupied by 13 westerners in various degrees of dress, from girls and guys in T-shirts and sarongs, to a man wearing plaid shorts, knee socks and sandals.

  Two Thai waiters hovered with intent while a Japanese man sat at the back watching.

  ‘That’s him. That’s Hiro’s brother,’ Kaisha said making her way to the rear.

  ‘Are you sure this time? Because that guy you threw yourself at yesterday is probably still in traction.’

  ‘Oh ha, Mr Scott Dreher, very funny.’

  Hiroyuki Kaga’s brother stood to greet them. He was smiling at Kaisha as if he knew her. Obviously, he had received a warning call from Bangkok.

  ‘Hiroshi?’ Kaisha said.

  ‘Hai,’ the man bowed.

  Scott watched as the late Hiro Kaga’s brother, in a most un-Japanese manner, held out his arms to a completely strange woman - in every sense of the word - and hugged her warmly. When he stepped back he had tears in his eyes. They spoke for several moments in Japanese before Hiroshi motioned them both to sit down with him, whereon Kaisha decided it was time to introduce Scott.

  ‘Kaisha tells me that my brother asked you to bring her to me, Mr Dreher. I thank you.’

  ‘Please, call me Scott. To be precise, Kaisha had a very strange message to pass to me from your brother, part of which was to bring her to you,’ Scott said. ‘It was my honour.’

  ‘I heard of my brother’s tragedy on the CNN.’

  Scott frowned. ‘His wife, or your family didn’t inform you?’

  ‘Ah. No. Sadly I am kazoku ni tsuiho sareta hito - outcast from all my kin, except Hiro. We are twins, were twins, identical.’

  Scott raised an eyebrow at Kaisha then gestured questioningly at their tall, slender and handsome host. ‘Jetlag was it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That made you leap on that poor little guy yesterday.’

  Kaisha tipped her head towards Hiroshi. ‘Scott thinks he’s a comedian, always making jokes in the tense and difficult moments.’

  Hiroshi said something to her, again in Japanese, and then returned to English. ‘My brother, I think not, would commit sepuku.’

  ‘And not according to Kaisha either,’ Scott said.

  Hiroshi called his waiter, ordered some ‘sake, tempura, sashimi, temaki and yakitori,’ and then turned back to his guests. ‘Please tell me what happened - in English Kaisha, so we can all understand.’

  Understanding is not what we’ll get out of this. Scott leant back in his chair as Kaisha began.

  A mini feast was brought to the table while Kaisha gave her account. Scott enjoyed the fresh raw tuna and squid, but the seaweed wrapping of the temaki made the rice taste like a beach. Twenty minutes later, after Scott explained why he’d been in Tokyo, Hiroshi sat back and shook his head.

  ‘None of this makes sense,’ he said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Scott agreed.

  ‘This message Hiro gave you for Scott, what was it Kaisha?’

  Kaisha closed her eyes and repeated what her lover had told her a lifetime ago in Tokyo. ‘The game has been altered. Check source. Take Kaisha to Hiroshi. Convince Harry Carter, dead stalks, he will explain everything. Make Scott understand the danger, and also the deception in their next actions.’

  Kaisha swallowed. ‘And then he said, “it has started”. But I don’t know if that part was for Scott or not, because he soon died in my arms.’

  Hiroshi’s reaction was unreadable. The understandably awkward silence was finally broken by Scott, who said, ‘I believe he was saying arigato, not ‘Harry Carter’. Kaisha thinks he was talking about deceased birds, but beyond that we’re clueless.’

  Hiroshi Kaga’s expression then became odd indeed until Scott realised that, despite the tense and difficult moment, the man was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Not Harry Carter - or arigato,’ he managed to say. ‘Ari Carver.’ Scott looked around his memory then shook his head. ‘Don’t know him either.’

  ‘But I do,’ Hiroshi smiled. ‘He’s my business partner and my ah…’ He waved his hands before looking to Kaisha for the best translation, ‘My aijin.’

  ‘Really?’ was all Kaisha said for a moment, then shook her own head, as if to clear it, and said cheerily, ‘Hiroshi and this Ari Carver are poofters.’

  That made Hiroshi laugh even more; although Scott doubted it was the translation the man had been expecting.

  ‘Aijin - it means lover,’ Kaisha explained.

  ‘Ari is my boyfriend and partner,’ Hiroshi said. ‘Explains the family exile - yes?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Scott replied.

  ‘So please, please tell me about the dead storks,’ Kaisha said, which set Hiroshi off again.

  Finally he said, ‘My Ari is many things. This last nine years he is an economist. Before he was, like my brother, a computer programmer and game designer. He was with Hiro at Firebolt in the beginning years. Now he advises big companies about…’ Hiroshi waved his hand around again, ‘economics. He is in Kuala Lumpur giving a speech - a talk - at the Asian Debt Conference.’

  ‘Ari Carver, debt talks,’ Scott said. Thank God I didn’t just throw Kaisha on a plane. ‘How long will he be in Malaysia?’

  ‘Home Sunday,’ Hiroshi said. ‘If you wish to speak with him you can come with me tomorrow when I fly home. You are welcome to stay with us.’

  Peshawar, Pakistan

  Thursday 10 am

  Mudge sat staring moodily at Brody’s curry; or what was left of it. He picked up his own tin cup of coffee and discovered it was as empty as his plate. He waved to the waiter for some more.

  ‘Spud mate, you gonna eat that?’

  ‘Nope, be my guest, lard-arse,’ Brody said.

  ‘Nothing wrong with my bum, except boredom,’ Mudge said.

  Kennedy, who’d been off hunting and gathering cigarettes, soap and toilet paper, rejoined them at the outdoor table in Saddar Bazaar.

  ‘It’s about time you used the dunny the way the locals do, Bamm-Bamm,’ Mudge said. ‘A good splash of water’s way better for the environment too.’

  Brody’s laugh came out as a snort.

  ‘You laughing at me or him?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Both,’ Brody replied. ‘You for your pansy arse that still needs two-ply; and Mudge for using the word environment and dunny
in the same sentence. He has to flush three times, each time, to make sure he gets rid of what he eats.’

  ‘Well, I did just tell you my bum was bored,’ Mudge said. He scratched the beardy-growth on his chin. ‘Why the hell are those bloody you-know-whats not doing whatever it is they’re here for?’

  ‘You want them to do something?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Well yeah, something. You know, anything. Only so we can guess what they’re bloody up to, mate. I’m sick of sitting around here waiting while they sit in a hotel shooting up shit on a Playstation.’

  ‘Better that than shooting up innocent people or blowing up buildings,’ Brody said.

  ‘Yes, but aagh!’ Mudge growled. ‘Come on Spud, can’t we get a transfer back to Kandahar?’

  ‘When this gig is over, we’ll do just that.’

  ‘If I just went in and, kind of, just shot them,’ Kennedy offered, ‘this gig’d be over in flash.’

  ‘And we’d still have no idea what Jamal Zahkri was doing here, or what these two fuckers are up to and why it didn’t happen on Wednesday,’ Brody said, really sick of stating the obvious.

  ‘Well, I reckon your company buddies,’ Mudge said to Kennedy, ‘lip-read wrong what the bastards were talking about.’

  ‘Unless it’s next Wednesday, not yesterday,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Or the one after, or the next ad-fuckin-nauseous,’ Mudge said. ‘We’re gonna grow old here. And my boy’s gonna shrivel, because I haven’t had a woman for like a month, and there’s nothing on offer in these hi-lls, and…’

  ‘Shut up Mudge!’ It was the first time Brody and Kennedy had agreed on anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hotel Meurice, Paris

  Thursday 6 am

  US Secretary of Defense Nathan van Louden, his Chief of Staff Harry Corbin, and his must-have party of secret service agents, had checked into a whole floor of the Paris hotel an hour ago. The SecDef’s entourage also included two CIA and several State Department bodies, as well as the grieving parents of Justin West’s friends.