Sensitive New Age Spy (16 page)

The bank was built around a three-storey atrium with massive stone columns, marble facings, and wrought-iron and polished-oak railings running around the walkways on the upper levels. There was a pulpit on the mezzanine and underneath it a string quartet was setting up on a small stage. Several women were lining up chairs in neat rows in front of the pulpit.

The Reverend Priday was waiting for me, and having the Sauer wasn’t much joy since I realised I was heavily outgunned. Half a dozen goons were standing with the Reverend, as was my old pal Lothar.

Lothar owned the Double-D-Luxe Motel, a decrepit fleapit down a dismal back alley in Kings Cross. He rented rooms and girls by the hour, sold pills by the handful, and did a nice little sideline in sidearms. Lothar was so sleazy that the local junkies, pimps, dealers and brothel owners regularly complained to the Kings Cross Chamber of Commerce that he was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood.

I hadn’t seen Lothar since last March, when I’d needed to get a gun and some money in a hurry. He’d handed over a geriatric Beretta and fifty bucks, but only after demanding my watch as collateral. Fifteen minutes later, the bastard tried to sell me out to the highest bidder. A week later, I picked up my watch and gave him back his gun and his money,
along with a knuckle sandwich for interest.

Lothar smiled nervously, all bad teeth, sallow skin and what looked like a pathetic attempt to grow a moustache. Always scrawny, he’d lost weight since I’d last seen him and right now he’d make a medical school skeleton look positively obese.

‘Hello, Mr Murdoch,’ he said. ‘How are you keeping? Good?’

‘Excuse me for not shaking hands, Lothar,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have any disinfectant wipes on me.’

‘Gentlemen,’ the Reverend said, ‘this is a house of peace and goodwill.’ He turned to me. ‘My friends are simply gathered together here in preparation for our evening service.’

I looked down at the two bulging sports bags on the floor at Lothar’s feet. ‘I’m a big fan of peace and goodwill, Reverend, but I’ve got a feeling if I unzip one of those bags I’m not going to find any hymn books. My money would be on something that delivers a nine-millimetre sermon at five hundred rounds a minute.’

‘Six hundred,’ Lothar said defensively, and then slammed his mouth shut with a snap that echoed around the marble-clad walls.

‘
Si vis Pacem, Para bellum
, Inspector Murdoch,’ Priday said.

Lothar looked confused.

‘It means, those who desire peace should prepare for war,’ I explained. ‘You could put it on your business card, Lothar.’

‘Perhaps we need to go someplace where we can speak privately,’ the Reverend said, and ushered me across to a set of stairs leading to the first-floor walkway that surrounded the former banking chamber. Well-heeled worshippers of the Lord’s Bounty were starting to arrive and the string quartet was tuning up.

‘No electric guitars, Reverend? Or choirs of blond, blue-eyed maidens who’ve pledged to save their virginity for the marriage bed?’

He smiled. ‘We leave that to the more populist evangelicals.’

Priday’s office was on the mezzanine, just behind the pulpit which jutted out over the stage and dominated the cavernous hall. The pulpit reminded me of Father Mapple’s in the Whaleman’s Chapel in
Moby Dick
. While Mapple climbed up to his pulpit via a rope ladder, I was sure that if he wanted to the Reverend Priday could pop down to the vaults in the cellar and build himself a stairway out of gold ingots. And there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that his congregation would bloody love it.

The Reverend must have been an old romantic, since there was a framed photograph of his wife on his desk. Sure, Louise was naked, and it was what some of my less-than-couth work colleagues might have called a beaver shot, but you have to admire the sentiment. It made me a touch uncomfortable knowing I’d seen both the Reverend’s wife and his daughter as naked as the Lord had made them,
but I decided if there was a prize for God’s handiwork it would have to go to Cristobel.

Priday took a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the impressively stocked bar. Glenfarclas again, but this time it was the 25-year-old stuff.

‘Can I offer you a drink, Inspector Murdoch?’

‘Thanks, but I’m getting a bit choosey about who I drink with,’ I said. The Glenfarclas was seriously tempting, but right now I figured I needed my wits about me.

As the Reverend poured himself a very stiff drink his hand shook slightly. Something was definitely putting the wind up him, judging by the firepower he was acquiring from Lothar.

‘That’s a lot of muscle you’ve got standing around downstairs,’ I said. ‘You worried someone might do a runner with the collection plate?’

Priday smiled. ‘You’re a little behind the times, Inspector. We provide a direct-debit system for our parishioners to donate to the church.’

‘Of course you do. So it must be all that gold bullion stacked up next to the cases of sacramental Grange in the cellar that you’re worried about?’

Priday’s smile froze for a brief moment, then he recovered. ‘I’ve found both the Grange and the gold to be excellent long-term investments for the church, Inspector Murdoch.’

Bugger me, I’d only been joking about the Grange.

‘But yes, we do have some security concerns in that
area,’ the Reverend continued. ‘And Lothar, as a recent member of my flock, is assisting us with resources.’

I figured the church must have one hell of a community outreach program to turn up a bottom-feeder like Lothar. Or maybe they’d met when the Reverend was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure – Lothar had done more than a few stretches himself.

‘Surely you’re not here to scrutinise the investment strategy of the church, Inspector Murdoch? There’s nothing illegal about buying gold.’

‘It’s the timing of your gold acquisition that interests me, Reverend. It’s almost as if you’re expecting a sudden downturn in the stockmarket – one might even say banking on it.’

The Reverend finished his whisky and poured another. His hand was shaking again and the neck of the bottle rattled against the lip of his glass. I decided to ramp up the pressure.

‘Is Chapman Pergo also a member of your flock?’ I asked.

I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes before he turned away from me and said calmly, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know any Chapman Pergo, Inspector Murdoch.’

The Reverend was obviously shit scared of Pergo, and the only way I was going to get anywhere with him was to make him even more scared of me. I lunged at him, spun him around and pushed him hard up against the wall with my arm across his throat. His glass, still holding about
a hundred bucks worth of single-malt, shattered on the polished wood floor.

‘Listen, you sanctimonious prick, I know you and Pergo are up to your eyeballs in this and you’re going to tell me all about it right now!’

His eyes bulged and beads of sweat glistened on his face. I kept my arm across his throat until he gasped for breath, and then I pressed harder just to let him know I was serious. ‘Do we understand each other?’

Priday nodded furiously and I released the pressure and backed away. He rubbed his throat as he caught his breath, then straightened his collar and tried to compose himself.

I poured another glass of whisky and handed it to him. ‘Let’s try that again. Is Chapman Pergo also a member of your flock?’

He took the glass with both hands. ‘No, alas, Mr Pergo is not a believer, Inspector Murdoch.’

‘So what’s your connection with him?’

Priday sank into the leather Chesterfield. ‘Mr Pergo and I met when the Defence Minister decided a bit of high-profile church-going might improve his chances for a run at the top job, should the PM ever decide to abdicate.’

That sounded about right. Every so often there was a rush of prime-ministerial wanna-bes sitting piously in church pews on Sunday mornings, trying to out-God each other for the Christian vote. Most career politicians would be right into burning non-believers at the stake at half-time at the
AFL grand final if they thought it would swing them some extra votes from the evangelicals.

‘Mr Pergo accompanied the Minister and we found we had similar interests.’

The only similar interest these two were likely to have was self-interest. ‘Go on.’

Priday took a large swig of whisky. ‘Some months back, during a casual discussion on the price of gold, I mentioned to Mr Pergo that after the Viet Cong’s Tet offensive in Vietnam in ’68 there was a crisis in confidence and the world stockmarkets panicked. The price of gold went so high that trading was temporarily suspended on the London bullion exchange. It was a disaster for many investors, but for those with the foresight and the resources to have stocks of gold on hand it was —’

‘A goldmine?’ I suggested.

‘Exactly.’

‘And that piqued his interest?’

‘Mr Pergo revealed that a special delivery was to be made by an American warship, and that if details of that delivery became public it would most certainly create instability in the region.’

He was talking like this was just another business opportunity which a man would be a fool to pass up.

‘So you and Pergo got into bed together and you were going to leak Max’s happy snaps of the delivery of the nukes to the media and make a killing on the gold market?’

Priday was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘That was the plan, yes.’

‘And how’s it working out so far?’

The Reverend finished off his drink in one gulp and stared at the floor.

‘Okay. Let me lay it out for you,’ I said. ‘Four innocent people are dead and two nuclear warheads have gone missing.’

‘The warheads are missing?’ Priday’s shock was genuine.

‘You don’t want to believe everything you see on TV, Reverend. That wasn’t an accidental explosion on the
Altoona
. It was two nukes being hijacked by your friends in the ship’s choir.’

‘But what would the members of a choir want with two warheads?’

‘I’ve got no idea, but I’ve a feeling your partner-in-crime Mr Pergo could tell us, and I reckon it involves a larger return on his investment than you were offering. And unless I miss my guess, suddenly Pergo isn’t taking your phone calls.’

I could tell by the look on his face that I hadn’t missed my guess, and that Pergo had screwed the Reverend over.

‘Who else knew that Max would be in the carpark at that time?’ I asked.

‘Pergo gave him the date and time of the handover. And he suggested the vantage point.’

Son of a bitch! No wonder Priday was so tooled up.
He must have been wondering if he was also now surplus to requirements, and in line to meet the same fate as Max.

‘So what was the tanker business all about?’

‘Pergo told me it was a government operation to distract attention from the docks during delivery of the weapons.’

‘And you believed that?’

‘Given the transaction that was taking place, I was ready to believe anything.’ He stood up. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Inspector Murdoch. I had no knowledge of any of this, and absolutely nothing to do with that young man’s death. Max was just going to take photographs of the handover, that was all. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.’

‘Nobody ever is,’ I said. ‘And the thing that really pisses me off, Reverend, is that even though your greedy little scheme has gone pear-shaped, you still stand to benefit. If word of this gets out, the effect on the stockmarket will be disastrous and your profits astronomical.’

It was as if he took comfort from this, and that smug self-confidence was back. ‘Perhaps I may benefit financially whatever the outcome of this situation, but that is in the hands of the Lord.’

‘And the Stock Exchange.’

‘Religion and the stockmarket have a lot in common, Inspector. Both are very much faith-based.’

He was right on that point but I wasn’t willing to leave this situation in the Lord’s hands.

‘I ran into Cristobel in Canberra a couple of days ago,’ I said. ‘Was that your doing?’

‘Was what my doing? I understand she was there with Miss Gaarg to lobby for the whale sanctuary.’

‘So you didn’t send her to see me?’

‘Why would I do that? Cristobel has absolutely nothing to do with any of this, Inspector Murdoch. My daughter is driven by only the purest motives.’

I wanted to believe that, but there had to be an ulterior motive in her coming to my room. If Priday hadn’t sent her, who had? And he seemed to be still genuinely buying my cop routine, so who had Cristobel overheard saying I was a spy?

‘Is she here this afternoon?’ I asked.

‘No, she’s spending the weekend whale-watching in Tasmania with Artemesia. My daughter has quite a passion for Miss Gaarg’s cause.’

Downstairs, the string quartet launched into ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

‘And now if you’ll excuse me,’ Priday said, ‘I’m afraid it’s show time.’

I followed him out to the pulpit. There were about a hundred and fifty people in the banking chamber, a late-twenties crowd, mostly men in expensive suits with a smattering of women dressed for success. No doubt about it, Priday was aiming right for Sydney’s money jugular.

‘Nice turnout for a Thursday afternoon,’ I said.

‘We don’t believe in numbers in the First Church of
the Lord’s Bounty, Inspector Murdoch,’ Priday said, ‘we believe in net worth.’

I got to the main door just as the hymn finished. A few latecomers were scurrying in, so I moved to one side. The Reverend Priday stepped up to the microphone and raised his arms skyward.

‘Welcome, fellow shareholders in the Almighty’s bounty,’ he said, and his amplified voice echoed around the stone walls. ‘It’s a fine Thursday afternoon, the Stock Exchange is closed for the day, and the All Ordinaries is up forty-nine points. Praise the Lord!’

The congregation seemed to like that. With one voice they shouted out, ‘Praise the Lord,’ in response.

As I grabbed the brass handle of the main door, Priday called from the pulpit, ‘Go with God, Inspector.’

‘Buy low, sell high,’ I shouted back, and there was an approving murmur from the crowd. Priday’s congregation seemed to like that too.