by Martin Roth
Briony led me down more corridors and then with her keys unlocked another door. We were in a large meeting room. A sleek grey desk with a wavy frontboard stood by a pair of windows that overlooked a group of stores in the shopping complex behind La Rue.
“Clove cigarettes,” I said at once, sniffing the air.
“That strange tobacco?”
“An Indonesian specialty.”
Stretched out from the desk was a long mahogany table, and nestled into the table were about a dozen black leather-backed chairs. Against one wall was a long sofa, also upholstered in black leather.
There were bookshelves, a couple of miniature potted palm trees and a vase of artificial carnations perched high on its own dedicated stand. It all looked modern and businesslike, but terribly impersonal, much like the entire La Rue operation. I could see several ashtrays with cigarette butts, but otherwise nothing indicated that a meeting recently took place in this room. Any documents had been tidied away.
“You have parties in here, too?” I asked. I was starting to calm down after the intensity of the room with the two-way mirror.
“No, those are in special rooms. Like the one you just saw.”
“So you don’t know where all the documents might be?”
“I don’t know if there are any documents. But these men seem to come and go, like this is a kind of a base for them. So let’s start with the desk. And hope they’re not so valuable that they’re kept in the safe.”
“A safe? The only time I broke into a safe I did it with a large bag full of explosives.”
That had been in East Timor, many years earlier. A group of us raided a district government office in order to steal secret details of the Indonesian government’s civil administration plans for our land. We knew exactly where they were kept, in a small safe in the office of one of the local officials. We had with us a fellow who had worked with a British gold mining company in Kalimantan and claimed to know all about how to use explosives. Well, he did, it’s just that he used too much. Way too much. We blew up the safe, most of its contents and part of the office.
“Do you think one of your keys will work?” I asked.
Briony was looking through some folders that were on the desk. “I doubt it. They wouldn’t keep those at reception.”
I opened a three-drawer filing cabinet and flicked through the papers. They were mainly accounts, all with lots of zeroes on them. Running a licensed brothel was clearly a big and profitable business. So why weren’t the vocational training colleges offering courses in how to start your own?
A shelf above the filing cabinet contained more folders. I pulled these down. As I did so Briony opened the desk cupboard.
And immediately an alarm sounded. It was a piercing electronic beep, like a car alarm, though in the confines of the office it seemed more like the blaring sirens of a couple of fire engines.
“Oh no,” cried Briony. “No one told me about alarms.”
“Come on,” I shouted. We ran back into the corridor.
“The rooms on this side have windows onto the street,” said Briony. She pulled out her keys and opened a door. We ran into a room with a spa bath in one corner and a double bed against the wall.
“The windows are all up high,” said Briony. She stood on the bed and stretched up to slide open the window. Out from the corridor came shouting and the noise of men running.
“You go first,” I said. “I’ll help you up.” I stood on the bed, and began swaying. “Oh no, it’s a water bed.” I put my arms around her torso and lifted. As I did so I stumbled across the bed, and my weak ankle gave way. We both fell.
The door flew open and one of the young men from my previous encounter ran in. He reached into his pocket, but before he could pull out a weapon I was off the bed and had an elbow in his face. I pushed him to the ground and with all my weight fell on him, my right knee in his stomach.
“Come on,” I called to Briony. We raced together – Briony sprinting, myself loping - down the corridor, out through the reception room and then into the street. More shouts came from inside La Rue.
We fled the building. A light was on in the publishing house. I scampered inside, followed by Briony.
We were in a packing room. Piles of books and boxes, and rolls of tape and brown paper littered the tables and floor. The room opened into a warehouse the size of a six-car garage, stacked high with boxes of books.
A man sat a desk, working at a computer. He seemed to be in his sixties, a kindly professorial man with a moustache and wavy brown hair. He looked as if he should be smoking a pipe and lecturing eager young students on the themes and imagery of Patrick White.
“Hey,” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
Hiding places abounded. We could probably stay concealed until the men from La Rue gave up their search.
“I’m calling the police,” shouted the man.
“We have to hide,” I cried.
“Just let us stay a few minutes,” said Briony. “There’s people next door, at La Rue, trying to get us.”
“The police can sort it out,” said the man.
“No,” I shouted. “Don’t touch the telephone.” I grabbed the nearest heavy object, a cast iron Sellotape holder, and raised it threateningly above my head.
The man looked at us with a mixture of fear and doubt. “Get out of my office,” he said firmly.
An elegant blonde woman with freckles walked in, clad in a tan Burberry coat and carrying an executive satchel, apparently on her way home. She stopped, and looked at us with alarm. We clearly didn’t look like potential authors.
“Quick, call the police,” shouted the man.
“No,” I cried again.
The woman ran from the building screaming. That was all it took. Within less than a minute the man from La Rue was in the room, gun drawn. A companion quickly followed.
I hurled the Sellotape holder at them. It smashed into the wall, leaving a jagged crack. I picked up a pair of scissors. But what could I do? A gun was trained on us.
“They’ve got us,” said Briony.
I looked around. Escape was impossible. I raised my arms in the air. With great efficiency the men rushed us out of the building, bundled us into the back of a large white van and sped away. We heard a police car siren in the distance.
And suddenly it became clear. Briony had led me into a trap. Once more she had set me up.
