Sensitive New Age Spy (18 page)

‘Get on that bike, Lieutenant Kingston,’ he yelled, gesturing with his pistol. You don’t often hear a New Jersey accent in this neck of the woods.

‘You’re in a lot of trouble, Chief O’Reilly,’ Clare said. ‘Murder, mutiny, desertion, and theft of government property. Do you really want to add kidnapping a superior officer to that list?’

One more charge wasn’t going to make too much of a difference to a list like that – Clare was letting me know that this O’Reilly character was one of the choirboys.

‘If you need a hostage,’ I said, ‘why don’t you leave the lieutenant alone and take me?’

‘And why don’t you shut your trap, mate?’ the bloke with the MAC 10 said. ‘Before I shut it for you.’ He pulled back on the cocking knob. ‘Now you get on that bike, lady, or I’m gonna shoot your friend here full of holes.’

O’Reilly shouted, ‘Don’t hit the lieutenant, for Christ’s sake.’

Clare was suddenly moving forward, edging towards O’Reilly, making conciliatory noises. ‘Okay, Chief, I’m getting on the bike, why don’t we all calm down a little.’

I heard a clicking sound behind me and turned to see the kid from the café walking towards us, still taking pictures with his phone.

‘Get back inside, you little fuckwit,’ I yelled, and when the bloke with the MAC 10 glanced in his direction I took my chance. The flying tackle knocked him backwards into Clare as she swung the helmet at O’Reilly’s head, and we all went down in a messy scrum on top of the green bike. There was a confused mêlée of fists, feet and elbows, and someone was trying to gouge my eyes when we heard a pistol shot.

The bloke from the red Yamaha had the kid round the neck, holding a gun to his temple. ‘On my bike, lady,’ the gunman yelled. ‘Now! Or the next shot doesn’t go in the air.’

Clare looked at me and I nodded. I was sitting on my backside on the roadway with a MAC 10 pointed at me. We really didn’t have any choice. She scooped up the helmet from where it had fallen, pulled it on and straddled the red bike.

The rider shoved the kid away after smashing his mobile on the ground. He stuffed the pistol inside his leathers before grabbing Clare’s hands, pulling them round his waist and slipping a pair of handcuffs onto her wrists. She was stuck
on that Yamaha until they chose to let her off, or someone turned up with a hefty set of bolt-cutters. The rider gunned the engine and the bike roared off towards Campbell Parade.

O’Reilly pulled the heavy green Yamaha back onto its wheels, straddled it and started the engine.

‘Do it now,’ he yelled to the bloke with the submachine gun, who levelled the muzzle at my chest in a way I really didn’t care for.

Suddenly a black-clad figure was flying through the air sideways, both feet connecting with the gunman’s elbow, knocking him off balance just as he pulled the trigger. Half a magazine from the MAC 10 blasted the newly installed Soggy Togs sign into a shower of plexiglass shards and then I was trampled by a screaming mob of mums and kids and student surfers.

When the tidal wave of customers cleared, the green Yamaha was roaring off towards the Parade, the gunman hanging onto O’Reilly for dear life and cursing a broken arm, his MAC 10 abandoned in the gutter.

Julie was lying in the middle of the road. She sat up slowly, reached across the bitumen for the submachine gun and pulled the magazine out, making sure the chamber was clear. Julie has a disturbing proficiency with weapons.

When she stood up I saw a huge tear in the back of her steamer, revealing a bloody graze on her left bum cheek. ‘Son of a bitch,’ she said softly. ‘This is a brand new wetsuit.’

‘I probably should have a look at that,’ I said. ‘I’m sure
there’s some out-of-date mercurochrome in my medicine chest.’

Julie smiled at me. It was one of her ‘not in a million years’ smiles.

‘Don’t be like that, Jules. I’ve got a St John’s Ambulance First Aid Certificate and everything.’

‘And you might need it,’ Julie said, looking at my groin.

I glanced down. A dark red stain was spreading up the front of my trousers and I was aware of a sticky wetness between my legs. I felt my heart stop.

‘Jesus, Jules, I must have got shot in the fracas!’

‘I think you’ll find the “s” is silent, Alby,’ she said. ‘And I reckon that’s apple, ginger and beetroot juice you’re sitting in, and your fracas are just fine.’

I looked over my shoulder. Some of the slugs from the MAC 10 had punched holes in the side of the Goodie delivery van, and a crimson river of fruit and vegetable juice was running down the roadway.

As I got to my feet I could hear police sirens in the distance and I knew the situation had the potential to get really awkward.

And just when you think things can’t get any worse, they usually do. Alex was standing in the middle of the road, a plate with a Big Bloke’s Burger in either hand. You could see the crisp green iceberg lettuce and the juicy red tomato slices and the glistening brown of the chargrilled meat patty in the toasted bun. There was a heaped serving of golden-brown
shoestring fries on each plate. They looked bloody fantastic.

Alex stared at his shattered sign, the empty café, and the two burgers he was holding. Then he looked at me. ‘Alby,’ he said slowly, ‘you are fucking barred for life.’

And he didn’t even offer me a chip.

Peter Sturdee turned up within minutes of the arrival of the first cop car. The front passenger seat of his van was loaded with plastic shopping bags, and the back was chock-full of baby seats and baby capsules, which were chock full of babies.

‘I was heading home from Coles at Bondi Junction when I heard a ‘Shots fired, Bondi Beach’ radio call on the scanner,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t help myself. How did I know you’d have to be involved, Alby?’

‘You’ve got a scanner in the Tarago?’

‘Tragic, isn’t it? Anyway, what the hell went down here, mate?’

‘They’ve taken Clare.’

‘Lieutenant Kingston? Who’s taken her?’

‘It was one of the choirboys off the
Altoona
, O’Reilly. Clare recognised him. And some local goons.’

‘Is she hurt?’

‘No. They made a point of keeping her in one piece. They had other plans for me.’

‘Why would they want Clare?’

‘Buggered if I know. But they weren’t about to let anyone stop them. Any chance you can keep my name out of this, Pete? If upstairs gets wind that I’m involved, I’ll be in Helsinki before breakfast tomorrow.’

‘I’ll give it a shot but I can’t promise anything. I’m not exactly flavour of the week at the moment. What were you doing with the lieutenant, anyway? Business or pleasure?’

‘A bit of both. She was confined to the ship, then suddenly got shore leave late yesterday, so we took the opportunity to compare notes.’

‘I thought you were off the case?’

‘Yeah, I am. But you know how it is, sometimes these things get personal.’

Sturdee nodded, then walked across to a detective with a clipboard and shook his hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a tubby walloper scarfing down my burger and chips while questioning Alex.

After a few minutes of serious conversation, Peter shook the detective’s hand again and walked back. ‘That’s sorted. You were never here. You and Jules had better scarper before the TV cameras turn up.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Watch your back, Alby. Clare suddenly gets shore leave and then this happens. Whoever these guys are, they’re serious, and they’ve obviously got friends in high places.’

He was right about that. But just how high up did it go?

Mrs T disinfected and dressed the graze on Julie’s bum and then brewed her a medicinal pot of Darjeeling, before heading off to finish watching
Oprah
. Julie swallowed a couple of aspirin with her tea.

‘What would those guys want with Clare, Alby?’

‘I don’t know. But I shouldn’t have let my guard down. They must have followed her here and then waited for the right moment to grab her. And I didn’t see it coming. Damn. Peter was right, it’s no accident she suddenly got shore leave – she was set up.’

My mobile rang. ‘Goods,’ I said. ‘Got something for me?’

Gudrun got straight to the point. ‘A tuna boat pulled a body out of the drink about 10ks off Eden late yesterday afternoon. Skipper said the bloke looked like he’d been in the water a couple of days and he’d copped a bullet through the chest.’

‘Nasty,’ I said.

‘Tell me about it. Funny thing is, one of our stringers down there said that within thirty minutes of them radioing it in, Eden was swarming with military choppers and men in suits. He emailed me some images and one of those men in suits was your good friend Pergo. Thought that might interest you.’

‘It sure does, Goods. Anything else?’

‘That’s it for now. I’ll keep my ears open.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Alby, be careful with this one. It could get ugly.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But it already has.’

I booted up the Mac in the office and opened the folder containing my pix of the hijacked Seahawk hovering over the tanker.

‘What was that about?’ Julie called out.

Twenty frames of the chopper popped up on the screen and I dragged them into PhotoShop. ‘Just a sec,’ I said.

I scanned through the previews and clicked on one. The image showed the Seahawk tilting slightly as it dropped down towards the two men on top of the tanker, the gunman with the M16 clearly visible in the open doorway. In the shadows behind the gunman, I could make out a couple of cylindrical shapes on the cargo deck that had to be the W80s. There was something black draped over the weapons that looked like a tarp or a blanket. I clicked a couple of times to magnify the image and then lightened the picture.

No doubt about it – there was a black-clad body slumped on top of the nukes.

‘Come and have a look at this,’ I called out, but Julie was already looking over my shoulder. ‘Gudrun just told me they pulled a body out of the water near Eden. I think one of our choirboys might have copped a bullet during the heist and they’ve dumped him out at sea.’

‘Off Eden?’

‘About 10ks off the coast. At least that gives us a direction: they’ve headed south. What’s the range on a Seahawk?’

‘About 450 nautical miles, probably less with the load she was carrying.’

‘Some pretty isolated beaches down that way,’ I said. ‘They could land and offload the nukes into a truck or van without any trouble.’

‘They could also rendezvous with a ship out to sea and do a transfer there.’

Bugger, they could do pretty much anything and we’d never know. ‘But why south?’

‘No idea, but while you’re thinking about it, take a shower and get all that juice off. You’re starting to smell like a bowl of borscht.’

When I came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, I caught the distinctive aroma of lamb shanks coming from Mrs T’s. Julie was on her laptop in the living room,
Dougal snoozing at her feet.

‘Can you take sleeping beauty here away,’ Julie said. ‘Little monster keeps dropping the most disgusting farts.’

I took an uncooperative Dougal next door, had a quick taste of the simmering lamb shank broth, got scolded by Mrs T for adding pepper, and grabbed a hot oatmeal biscuit off a tray fresh from the oven.

‘I think I’m on to something interesting here,’ Julie said as I walked back in. ‘I did a little more digging on Artemesia Gaarg. Around six months ago, the Gaarg Foundation set up a series of medical clinics at Aboriginal settlements in Arnhem Land, made a large donation to the National Maritime Museum, gave a new air ambulance to the Royal Flying Doctor Service, and funded an extension for a nursing home in Edinburgh.’ She paused. ‘Spot the odd one out.’

‘Edinburgh?’

‘The new section of the nursing home, currently under construction, will be called the Morag Cullen Wing. The list of Sydney Ports harbour pilots has an Andrew William Cullen. I did some checking, and it seems he retired about ten years ago and went back to Scotland. He had a wife named Morag. I rang the nursing home in Edinburgh, but it’s about four in the morning there and I got a grumpy night nurse with a Scottish accent you could cut with a knife. I couldn’t get anything out of her, mostly because I couldn’t understand half of what she said.’

I picked up the cordless phone. ‘The call to the nursing
home was the last one you made?’ I said, and Julie nodded.

Mrs T was stirring the lamb shank broth when I walked into her kitchen. I handed her the phone.

‘I need a favour, Mrs T,’ I said. ‘Can you press redial and talk to whoever answers? Try to find out everything you can about a Morag Cullen and her husband.’

‘Who am I calling, dear?’ she said, putting down her ladle.

‘It’s a nursing home outside Edinburgh, and since it’s very early in the morning over there they might be a bit shirty, but it’s important we get all the information we can – without being too obvious.’

‘It could be an expensive call, dear.’

‘I’ll be getting reimbursed,’ I said.

‘You just make certain that you do, Alby.’

Mrs T worried about my finances a good deal. Perhaps she thought that if I were more financially stable Julie might find me a bit more interesting as a marriage prospect. I figured it would take a lot more than that.

‘It’s Morag Cullen I’m to find out about, is that right? With a wee bit of subtlety.’

‘On the money, Mrs T. Just press the redial button when you’re ready and see what you can find out.’

She looked at me, looked at the stockpot on the stove, picked up her pepper grinder and walked across to the recliner in the sunroom. Dougal trotted after her.

Back in my apartment, Julie was busy running down more
details on the Gaarg family. I got on my iMac in the office and searched the Worldpix image archive for any photographs that might broaden the picture we had of Artemesia.

With WorldPix being a massive financial success from day one, we’d directed some of our profits into buying up collections of historic and contemporary Australian photographs as they came onto the market. It was a way of preserving our unique visual history, but it was also invaluable for research. Good for both sides of our business.