Grk Undercover (27 page)

The newsreader explained what was happening. An audacious criminal gang had taken three thousand people hostage inside the Sydney Opera House. The police had already established the identity of the gang’s leader.

“His name is Red Jelly,” said the newsreader. The screen showed a picture of an enormously fat man with bright red skin. “He’s one of most famous criminals in Australia, known to be responsible for at least eighty-seven separate robberies, and suspected of hundreds more. With him, he has a gang of at least twenty armed men. And a dog.”

The picture changed once more. Now the screen showed a photograph taken by one of the hostages inside the Opera House. There was Red Jelly. And there, standing beside him like a loyal pet with its master, was a small white dog.

Tim picked up the phone. “Shane?”

“You’ve seen him?”

“It’s amazing,” said Tim. “How did Grk get in there?”

“No one knows, mate. But you’d better call the police. They’ll want to know who he is.”

Tim raced upstairs to find his mother.

“Mum,” he called. “Mum!”

“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Malt was still staring at her laptop, adjusting some figures in a spreadsheet.

“I know where Grk is.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Malt, keying figures into the spreadsheet and hardly listening to her son. “Where is he? Still in Sydenham?”

“He was never in Sydenham,” said Tim. “He was in Sydney.”

“Oh, yes. And where is he now? The moon?”

“On TV. Will you come and watch?”

“Watch what?” said Mrs. Malt.

“I just told you. Grk’s on TV.”

“Oh, Tim. Stop fooling around. Have you finished your homework?”

“Please, Mum. Come and watch. It will only take two seconds.”

Mrs. Malt sighed and shook her head. “You don’t seem to understand, Tim, how difficult it is to be a working mother. I’m trying to juggle seven different jobs at once. You want one thing. My boss wants another. Then there’s Max and Natascha. And your father too. I wish I did have two seconds to spare, because I might be able to think of myself for a moment. As it is, every single second of my day seems to be taken up by someone else.”

“Mum. Please. You’ve got to see this.”

The tone of Tim’s voice made Mrs. Malt realize that he was serious. She paused for a moment, wondering what to do, then nodded. “I’ll come and have a look,” she said. “But I hope you’re not messing around, Tim. Because I’m really not in the mood for jokes.”

“Don’t worry,” said Tim. “Nor am I.”

“It’s the latest model, sir,” said Special Agent Anthony Pecorino. In his right hand, he was holding a small black disc, not much bigger than a coin and not much thicker either. “It has a battery inside which will last about a month. It sends out a signal to a satellite in orbit above the planet. The signal bounces back to us, telling us its exact location.”

“That tiny thing,” said Chief Inspector Somerville, pointing at the disc. “It can do all that?”

“And more,” said Special Agent Pecorino. “It provides a wealth of information. But, most important, wherever it goes, we can follow it. You just have to let me hide it inside the chopper and these guys will never be able to escape from us.”

Chief Inspector Somerville shook his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not, sir?”

“I don’t want to endanger the lives of the hostages.”

Special Agent Pecorino smiled and shook his head. He was used to people who didn’t understand the wonderful possibilities of his trackers. “Don’t worry, sir. You won’t be endangering anyone at all. Look at the size of this thing! When I’ve hidden this inside the chopper, Red Jelly will never find it. Not in a million years.”

“But what if he did?”

“He won’t, sir. I can guarantee it. I’ve hidden these little lovelies everywhere and anywhere, and they’ve never been found. I’ve put them in cars and bikes. I’ve put them in suitcases and handbags. Once, I even put one in a shoe, a lady’s shoe, and she never suspected a thing. I’ve followed suspects from one end of Australia to the other. And I can promise you, sir, no one has ever found their tracker. No one even realized they were being followed. Look at this beauty, sir.” Special Agent Pecorino held out the tracker in the palm of his hand. “It’s so small, it’s practically invisible.”

The door swung open, interrupting the conversation. A policewoman stepped into the room. “Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?”

“Can’t you see we’re busy?” said Chief Inspector Somerville, waving her away. “Come back later.”

“It’s about Red Jelly.”

The chief inspector whirled round, suddenly alert. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve had a message from a woman in London,” said the policewoman in a low voice. “She says he’s got her dog.”

“Who has?”

“Red Jelly, sir.”

“I thought you said she lives in London.”

“She does, sir. The dog seems to have escaped.”

“She’s lost her dog in London and she thinks it’s now in Sydney?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s obviously crazy.”

“I think you should talk to her, sir.”

“I don’t have time to talk to crazy people.”

“I know, sir. But I don’t think she’s crazy. I think she’s telling the truth.”

The chief inspector sighed. “Very well. Get her on the line. But you’d better not be wasting my time.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll put you through right now.” The policewoman picked up the phone on the desk and dialed a London number.

Special Agent Pecorino held up the small black disc. “What about the tracker, sir?”

“What about it?”

“Well, sir, what do you want me to do? Shall I put it in the chopper?”

“Give me a minute to take this call,” said Chief Inspector Somerville. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”

Chief Inspector Sam Somerville had spent his entire career in the Australian police force. During that time, he had met a lot of crazy people.

Some of them were criminals. Others wanted to be criminals. They came into police stations all across the country and confessed to crimes that they hadn’t committed. “I’ve just murdered my sister,” they would say. An hour later, their sister would collect them from the station and take them home.

Over the years, Chief Inspector Sam Somerville had learned to recognize the crazy ones. He could hear the craziness in their voices and see the craziness in their eyes.

As soon as he spoke to Mrs. Malt, he knew that she wasn’t crazy.

She was saying some crazy things, yes, but she wasn’t crazy.

He talked to her for five minutes, writing a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then he asked her to stay by the phone for the next hour.

“I’m not sure if I can do that,” said Mrs. Malt. “You see, I’m very busy. I have a lot of things to do. I’ve got to cook supper and help my son with his homework and finish my own work and—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” interrupted Chief Inspector Somerville. “I don’t want to sound disrespectful in any way, but I have to say one thing, Mrs. Malt. The current situation is a lot more important than your son’s schoolwork or, to be honest, your own work either. Three thousand people are being held hostage inside Sydney Opera House. You might be able to help them. I don’t know if you can, but just in case, couldn’t you stay by the phone for the next hour?”

Mrs. Malt agreed that she could.

The chief inspector rang three of his best officers and ordered them to investigate the dog story. He told them that he wanted results within fifteen minutes. Then he called in a technician and asked to see several snippets from the Opera House news footage.

“Excuse me, sir?” Special Agent Pecorino held up the tracker. “Have you made a decision, sir?”

“Not now,” said the chief inspector.

“But, sir, if I’m going to put it in the chopper, I need to—”

“I said, not now.” The chief inspector waved him away. “We’ll talk about the tracker later. Right now, I need to think. Could you come back in a couple of hours?”

“Yes, sir.” Special Agent Pecorino sighed. No one seemed to appreciate all his hard work. His trackers were the best in the world. They were reliable, accurate and practically invisible. But, once again, he had been dismissed without a second thought. He dropped the small back disc into his jacket pocket and sloped out of the room.

As soon as Pecorino had gone, the chief inspector sat down at his computer. The technician had sent over the footage that he wanted. For the next few minutes, the chief inspector watched Red Jelly tossing chocolate-coated hazelnuts to a little white dog, then kneeling on the stage and tickling the dog’s belly.

A little white dog …

Over the years, Chief Inspector Somerville had read Red Jelly’s file many times. He almost knew it off by heart. So he knew all about the little dog.

Red Jelly had been a very unhappy child. His father had beaten him almost every day. His mother had neglected him. He had been unloved and perhaps even unwanted.

He was kicked out of one school, then another. Wherever he went, he learned to look after himself with his fists, settling arguments with violence rather than words. He quickly earned a reputation as a troublemaker. When schools started refusing to take him, he spent his time hanging out on the streets instead. That was where he learned how to be a criminal.

Throughout his lonely and miserable childhood, Red Jelly only ever had one friend.

A small dog named Bingo.

There wasn’t a picture of Bingo in the file, but there was a description of him.

The chief inspector stared at the dog on the screen.

That dog wasn’t Bingo. He couldn’t be. It was impossible. Dogs don’t live very long. Bingo must be dead by now.

But, according to the description in the file, Bingo was pretty much a perfect match for the dog on the screen. Somehow, somewhere, Red Jelly had managed to find himself a second Bingo.

Precisely fifteen minutes after he had issued his orders, Chief Inspector Sam Somerville received phone calls from the three officers who had been researching the story of the dog. Each of them explained what he had discovered.

The first officer had spoken to Trevor Cuddle and confirmed that Grk had escaped from Cuddles Kennel on Sunday morning. He had also quizzed security guards in the airport, who agreed that a dog might possibly have managed to sneak into the luggage compartment of a plane.

The second officer told him that a stray dog had caused chaos at Kingsford Smith Airport on Monday afternoon. No one
knew the identity of the dog, but it appeared to have escaped from a British Airways flight, which had recently arrived from London.

The third officer had spoken to a pilot who was currently working for Botany Bay Air Taxis. His name was Shane and he knew all about Grk.

When Chief Inspector Somerville had spoken to his three officers, he rang London again. He talked to Mrs. Malt, describing what he had discovered and asking her to come to Sydney.

“How can I come to Sydney?” cried Mrs. Malt. “It’s on the other side of the world!”

“I know it’s a long way,” said Chief Inspector Somerville. “I’m sure you’re very busy and you have some very important things to do today. But we have an extraordinary situation here in Sydney. A very dangerous man is on the loose. Many innocent people are in danger. We have to save them. Now, there is a possibility that you might be able to help us. It’s a slim
possibility, I know. But, to me, that doesn’t matter. What I think is this: we must do whatever it takes to stop this criminal and save the lives of his hostages. Don’t you agree?”

Chief Inspector Somerville had said he would get seats for Tim and his mother organized on the next available flight. So while Mrs. Malt was hurriedly packing bags for them, Tim grabbed a spare leash and collar for Grk.

He wondered whether to take some dog biscuits or a tin of dog food, but decided not to bother. He’d be able to buy some in Australia. He was sure Australian dogs would eat pretty much the same food and biscuits as dogs anywhere else in the world.

His mum still hadn’t finished packing, so he went downstairs, picked up the phone and called Stanislavia.

After three rings, a female voice answered in Stanislavian.

Tim didn’t have a clue what the voice was saying. He couldn’t speak more than a few words in Stanislavian and he wasn’t even sure that he pronounced them correctly. So he spoke in English, saying, “Hello, this is Tim. Can I speak to Max or Natascha, please?”

“Hello, Tim. This is Irena, the cousin of Max and Natascha. How are you?”

“Very well, thanks,” said Tim. “How are you?”

“I am excellent, thank you.”

Tim knew Irena didn’t speak very good English, so he talked slowly and carefully, hoping she would understand him. “Irena, please will you give a message to Max and Natascha?”

“Yes, of course. What is your message?”

“I am going to Australia and I will not come back till I have found Grk. Do you understand?”

“I understand completely,” said Irena. “You go to Australia and you come back with Grk. But I must ask one question. Why Grk is in Australia?”

“It’s a long story,” said Tim.

Mr. Malt had come home from work as soon as he heard what had happened. He and Mrs. Malt discussed whether they should both go to Australia, but they decided that one of them should
stay at home. When all the bags were packed, Mr. Malt drove his wife and his son to Heathrow Airport.

He dropped them at Departures. He kissed Mrs. Malt and hugged Tim and told them both to look after themselves. Then he stood by the car, watching them walk across the road and through the sliding doors, waiting till he could no longer see them.

Inside the airport, Mrs. Malt led Tim to the Cathay Pacific information desk and said, “Hello, my name is Melanie Malt. I was told that someone would be waiting for me here.”

A tall man in a dark suit stepped forward. He had a little gray mustache, a confident smile and an Australian accent. “Hello, Mrs. Malt. And you must be Tim? Pleased to meet you both. My name is Charlie Cecconi. I work at the Australian High Commission here in London. Now, if you don’t mind, we’d better hurry along. The plane is twenty-five minutes late already. They’ve been holding it for you. This way, please.”