Tropic of Death (21 page)

‘I’m not trying to trick you.’

‘Well, if you’re talking out of school, I don’t know why. You’ll have to explain.’

‘Fair enough.’ Luker moved closer. ‘Put frankly, there’s more going on here than I can get a handle on. You, however, have obviously made connections I haven’t. This comes as no surprise given the recommendations about you.’

‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask. What recommendations?’

‘I did some positive vetting - comes with the territory. You’ll be pleased to hear your senior officers rate you very highly.’

‘Does that include Superintendent Nash?’

‘Nash was the one discordant note. But, oddly enough, that goes in your favour. His perspective is bureaucratic. Mine is not. Besides, your fan base goes all the way up to the chief commissioner herself.’

‘And you spoke to Jack Loftus?’

‘Of course. But your best reference comes from a man I know personally, Detective Inspector Jim Proctor.’

‘Let me guess. You belong to the same club.’

‘Correct. He told me you’d spot it.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘That you’re too good to be a squad detective,’ answered Luker.

‘He thinks you’re a natural for intelligence work, given your profiling skills and personality.’

‘My personality?’

‘Yes. He came up with a list that ticked the right boxes - lack of fear, fast reflexes, lateral thinking. On top of that your social instincts are sharp. You distrust authority and can operate below the radar.’

‘That’s because I did some impromptu work for him.’

‘There’s another quality he mentioned which explains why you’re on a collision course with Whitley Sands. According to Proctor, you’re motivated by a driven quest for justice. The seeds were sown in your childhood.’

‘He might be right,’ Rita acknowledged, ‘or he might be spouting Freudian psychobabble.’

‘I’ve read your personnel file. More than once you’ve put justice before compliance with the rules.’

‘And that’s a flaw?’

‘Only if it becomes irrational.’

Was that a warning? Rita couldn’t tell, so she asked, ‘Are you talking reason as conformity?’

‘No. But sometimes it’s rational to appear to conform.’ Luker flicked ash dismissively. ‘Anyway, it’s rare for Proctor to pay such a tribute to anyone. Perhaps that goes some way to explaining why I’m talking to you now.’

‘Perhaps.’

Luker grunted and sipped from his plastic cup.

Rita wasn’t prepared to trust him. His friendly approach was welcome and his attempt to distance himself from the internal workings of the base was plausible, yet he was clearly implicated in its covert activities. That meant he probably had direct access to whatever lay behind three murders. One way or another, he was in on it, so she had no intention of sharing her confidences, her insights or the information she’d put together. As for Proctor, her professional respect for him was tempered with the knowledge that he belonged to a sophisticated old boys’ network, and while his intellect and objectivity set him above many of his colleagues, his emotional detachment could at times be insensitive, even unscrupulous. The same could apply to Luker.

However, despite her misgivings, she was warming to him, and the prospect of entering some kind of mutual agreement would have advantages. Not the least would be a measure of protection from the excesses of the base security force. That threat was pushing her into unorthodox tactics and alliances. On the same day as instigating a secret deal with a criminal hacker she was on the verge of making a private pact with a federal spook. It seemed ironic, if not foolish, but she refused to surrender whatever it was that could be interpreted as a ‘driven quest for justice’. If she did, she might as well quit now. It would be like surrendering her soul.

‘So. What are your instincts telling you?’ asked Luker. ‘Can we agree on some unofficial contact?’

‘Only if it’s two-way,’ answered Rita. ‘But before I agree to anything, I need some disclosure from you, Mr Luker.’

He put down his half-empty cup cautiously. ‘What sort of disclosure?’

‘Tell me about yourself. Not the agency work - I mean your personal background. My guess is it’s not military.’

‘Good God, no.’ Luker laughed with something like relief.

‘That’s another reason I’m the odd man out. But hazard a guess.

What profession do you think I’m grounded in? I’d be interested to hear.’

‘I don’t know enough about you.’

‘Think of me as an interview subject. Someone who’s walked in off the street.’

‘You make it sound like a party piece.’

‘I don’t mean to. Humour me.’

Rita realised what he was doing. By bouncing the request back at her he was setting her a test. It also showed how adept he was at manoeuvring a conversation. A dialogue with Luker was like a game of psychological chess and for now she had no choice but to play.

‘Okay, if you insist.’ She shifted in her seat for a more studied look at him. ‘The characteristics you display point in a certain direction.’

‘Which characteristics?’

‘Outgoing, observant, with a habit of extracting information in a subtle, disarming way.’

He sucked on his cigarette a little more pensively. ‘You see me as manipulative.’

‘With a light-handed touch,’ she demurred. ‘So, if I was making a post-interview assessment, I’d describe the subject as articulate, accomplished and intelligent. He also possesses a supreme degree of social competence and a track record in achieving objectives through persuasion rather than aggression.’

‘I didn’t ask you to profile me.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you did. And, no offence, but the profile fits a group I’ve dealt with before - men with polished communication skills and a low threshold of boredom. One trait makes them good at their job, the other propels them into binges of self-indulgence leading to hangovers and broken relationships. I’m talking about men in the media. If I had to guess, that’s where I’d place you.’

Luker bent forward and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘You’re good,’ he said. ‘Very good. And you’re right, of course.

By profession, I’m a journalist.’

‘Print, broadcast?’

‘Newspapers, with a few stints in radio.’

Rita relaxed, satisfied it was her turn to go on the offensive.

‘Where?’

‘I cut my teeth in Melbourne before making a name for myself in Sydney.’ Luker gave a weary smile. ‘Then it was over to Europe as a foreign correspondent. London, Paris. Serious reportage.

Serious drinking.’

‘Am I allowed to ask where you were recruited?’

‘Spain. I said yes in a weak moment after a heavy weekend touring the bars of Seville. So your bullet-point analysis was accurate.’ Luker gave her another appraising look. ‘My cover functioned successfully in a series of newspaper bureaux.

Throughout the nineties I combined journalism and the spy game. I’ve got to admit it was a dual role I largely enjoyed. I look back on it with nostalgia since my promotion to a senior post in Canberra. That was at the turn of the millennium, and you’d be right in thinking it cramped my style. Rubbing shoulders with strait-laced public servants and uptight military bores is a bit like Sartre’s vision of hell.’

That made Rita laugh. ‘Are you married?’

‘Not anymore. Cairo finished that off.’

Luker was interrupted by his mobile bleeping. He read the text and said, ‘Damn. I’ve got to go.’ He stood up, brushing flakes of ash from his sleeve. ‘I assume we’ve got an agreement to meet privately.’

‘Where, when?’

‘The where is easy enough. We’re in the same hotel. The Whitsunday is my home away from home, each time I get bounced back up here by Canberra. The when is notional. At some time of mutual convenience. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘In the meantime, Van Hassel, I’ll see you back in the Situation Room.’

He beamed at her in a way that had more than one meaning, then walked out, straightening his tie.

Rita sat back and blew out a sigh. Her chat with Luker had taken her into alien territory. Perhaps it was the no-man’s land that Steinberg had warned her about. But one thing she was sure of. Wherever she was heading, she was leaving routine police work a long way behind.

with her investigation was merely an excuse to reel her in. The base command wanted to observe her closely, find out what she knew, maybe catch her out. The words of Maddox and Luker seemed to back that up. Both suspected she’d uncovered part of the truth. And the truth was dangerous. She tried not to think of the consequences.

As she waited for an elevator, she realised she was being drawn into a web of deception. Some of it was her own doing but that was her way of coping with the layers of subterfuge attached to Whitley Sands. She looked across the circular interior and saw the building itself as emblematic. The glass-tiered atrium resembled a mirror maze with multifaceted reflections distorting the angles.

Perspectives were curved. Things were not as they seemed. The structure conveyed a looking-glass reality. The parallel seemed apt. Like Alice, Rita was having trouble spotting what was false and what wasn’t.

The doors slid open on an empty lift. A man in a white lab coat went in ahead of her. She recognised him from the smoking room, the technician who’d been pacing up and down. He was standing with his back to her, blocking her way so she couldn’t reach the lift buttons.

‘Level one,’ she told him.

He pressed a button.

The doors closed and the elevator dropped rapidly through several levels.

‘Did you deliberately ignore me?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘I’m taking you down to level five.’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Rita as the lift stopped and the doors opened.

‘I’m helping your investigation,’ he replied, his manner abrupt, his expression tightly composed. He was English, in his early thirties, with pale blue eyes and a taut, boyish face. ‘You should come with me.’

‘I’m not stepping out of this lift.’

‘Why not?’

‘For a start, I don’t have clearance for this level.’

‘No one will report you.’

‘Why should I even consider it?’

‘You won’t be doing your job if you don’t.’ His body was lodged against the door, holding it open. ‘I’m talking about your duty as a police officer, Detective Sergeant Van Hassel.’

‘So who are you?’

‘My name’s Paul.’

‘Paul who?’

‘Paul Giles. Project coordinator.’

His name was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t recall why.

‘You work on the Panopticon Project?’ she asked.

‘That’s the one. Will you come with me?’

‘Sorry, Paul. You still haven’t given me a reason to run the risk of being detained by your security squad.’

‘I’m the one they’d arrest. I’m already a target.’

‘So why hijack me and make it worse?’

‘They know who killed Rachel Macarthur.’

The words jolted her.

Rita hesitated, but only for a moment. If he was offering to prove a direct link between murder and the base he’d got her attention. It was evidence she couldn’t ignore.

She stepped out of the lift.

‘Show me,’ she said.

Paul led the way along a subterranean corridor past sealed metal doors, Rita’s heels tapping the linoleum. The sound echoed down the passageway stretching into the distance. A couple of scruffy males with the distracted intensity of computer nerds emerged from a doorway and walked past without paying Rita any attention. They were too busy arguing over whether Zen was a form of nonlinear feedback. Rita took it as another looking-glass moment.

CCTV cameras and alarms were fixed to the walls, along with warning signs outlined in black and yellow diagonals:
Authorised
Personnel Only.
Overhead, a concrete ceiling was strung with a mass of exposed cables and piping. The decor was battleship grey, apparently the uniform colour of the underground facility, adding to its functional and vaguely depressing aspect. She could feel the weight of it bearing down on her.

‘How deep underground are we?’ she asked.

‘Nearly fifty metres,’ Paul answered.

‘What’s on this level?’

‘The engineering section - technical support, R&D labs. And, more importantly, my personal work space.’

‘What’s below us?’

‘Level six has acres of computer hardware and the master control room.’

‘And level seven?’

‘Our biggest secret. It’s what all the fuss is about. The project hub and control system.’

‘Do you have access?’

‘No. But I’ve been down there once as the technical director’s assistant. It’s all very space age. Very
Star Wars
.’

He led her through a side door and across a communal office space that was unoccupied and untidy. Reams of printout were draped over desks, stacks of magazines spilled from metal cabinets onto the floor and a random collection of pin-ups were stuck to the wall, dominated by a poster-sized print of
The Scream.
As they reached a large studio door with a red light glowing above it, Rita could hear the thumping bass of heavy metal coming from the other side.

‘We have to go via the smart room,’ said Paul. ‘Don’t let it freak you out.’

As he rolled open the door the full blast of the music swept over them. Rita recognised the track - Guns N’ Roses with the decibels cranked. Paul didn’t try to talk above the sound; it would have been pointless. He just jerked his thumb in the direction they were heading and she followed.

It was a strange place, a high-ceilinged cavity with tiers of computers, cables trailing across the floor and exposed metal beams overhead. Half a dozen young men and women sat face-to-face across a bank of terminals, swivelling and rocking to the music.

Rita could see why Maddox was instinctively suspicious of the research staff. Socially these civilians - with their spiky black hair and sloppy clothes, not to mention their undisciplined thinking