Tropic of Death (23 page)

At least she hadn’t been arrested. Apart from the encounter with Audrey, her security breach appeared to have gone undetected. On the other hand this could be a false positive. Audrey herself could be instrumental in all that was happening, her confrontation with Freddy pointing to a proactive role in striking at troublemakers outside the base. Each possibility upped the odds stacked against Rita, fuelling the tension headache tightening behind her temples.

If nothing else, she was determined to skip tomorrow’s session of the review, even if she had to chuck a sickie. There was too much she had to get to grips with.

High on the list was Audrey’s involvement. Rita needed to find out more. Her last exchange with Paul before she’d left his control room rang again in her ears. She’d asked him about the woman and the importance of her role in the Panopticon Project.

‘As system controller she’s pivotal,’ he’d answered. ‘That’s why they refer to the Zillman Hub. The technology’s her brainchild.’

Rita then asked, ‘Where does she work?’

Paul had replied, ‘Audrey virtually lives on level seven.’

‘It’s worse than I thought,’ muttered Bryce as they got back into the police car.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Jarrett, settling behind the wheel. ‘I need some beers after that.’

‘From now on,’ said Bryce, ‘we’ll be policing in the middle of a pitched battle.’

‘A battle between invisible forces,’ added Rita, ‘until we see the blood in the gutter.’

Jarrett flicked the ignition. ‘A minimum of six beers should do it.’

They drove through the checkpoint and out of the base.

‘And another thing,’ continued Bryce, ‘we’ll have to keep looking over our shoulders - both shoulders: one for terrorists, the other for federal backstabbers. This town is getting ugly.’

‘I’m hitting the sailing club tonight,’ was Jarrett’s solution.

‘Want to join me, Van Hassel?’

‘Thanks but I’ve got a raging headache. All I’ll be drinking is liquid Nurofen.’

‘I’ll bet you’re wishing you stayed put in Melbourne,’ suggested Bryce.

‘And miss your tourist delights?’

‘A tour of a dungeon in Whitley Sands is about as delightful as being buried alive,’ he retorted. ‘The same fate has just been handed to your profiling role, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I had,’ said Rita. ‘Maddox made it perfectly clear what he expects now that I’m
in his loop.
‘

‘And it’s worth remembering a loop can be a noose.’

Jarrett parked at the police station.

Rita got out, went to her car and drove to the Whitsunday Hotel.

Once she was in her room, she kicked off her shoes, stripped and stood under the shower for a long time, just letting the water surge over her face and body, trying to decompress. It helped a bit. After towelling herself dry, she pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, threw the balcony doors open and swallowed some painkillers.

Then she flopped on the bed.

The solitude was some relief but not enough after what felt like a long day of brain-bashing. It reminded her she was effectively on her own, with no one at hand to rely on. After ordering a light meal from room service, she picked up her mobile, deciding she needed to hear a reassuring voice. Not Byron - he would only get worried and she’d end up reassuring
him
. Not Erin, either - she’d quiz her about the case. Instead she phoned her best friend and weekday flatmate, Lola Iglesias. Lola, with her Latin American flamboyance, would cheer her up.

‘Rita!’ her friend answered with a shriek. ‘Your timing’s unbelievable! Escaping to the tropics when it’s sub-zero down here. Minus fucking one!’

Rita was already smiling. ‘There’s cold weather up here too.’

‘It’s got to be warmer than Melbourne. We’ve got snow in the suburbs! I’m freezing my tits off !’

‘Then you’d better warn shipping,’ laughed Rita. ‘
Icebergs from
South America
.’

‘Ha!
Sailors beware!
Just as well I’m heading north like you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got an assignment in the Whitsundays. Celebrity wedding on Hamilton Island. The magazine’s bought the exclusive rights.

I’ll be there on Saturday. And guess what? My admirer’s doing the official shoot.’

‘So who’s getting hitched?’

‘Cara Grayle, the model. She’s marrying Vic Barrano, the nightclub millionaire.’

‘Don’t you mean gangster?’

‘Yes, well, the magazine’s not going to mention that. It’s part of the deal. A glossy photo spread with no hint of anything unsavoury.

Half the guests will be fashionistas and glitterati - reputations to protect. The other half will be mobsters and their molls, but who cares? All I have to do is write the captions without engaging my brain, which means I can get drunk on bubbly. French. Loads of it. Enough to swim in. More to the point, I’ll be in Queensland, so you can fly over and join me.’

‘Thanks, Lola. But somehow I doubt it.’

‘Oh, Rita! Don’t be a party pooper! It’s one of the hot events of the year and no one gets in without a pass and I’ve got spares.

It’ll be a hell of a night. Barrano’s spent a fortune on it.’

‘He’s still a hood.’

‘Yes, but you’ll be off-duty. Think about it when the weekend rolls round. You can do that, at least.’

‘Okay, but no promises. Now, tell me your other news.’

Most of Lola’s news centred on shopping, gossip and sex, and by the time they’d finished chatting, Rita’s spirits had brightened.

Lola’s voice, and the painkillers kicking in, had eased her headache.

She dragged over the road atlas and looked up the street where Paul Giles lived. Then she pulled a jacket over her T-shirt, put on her sneakers and headed back to her car. She wasn’t in the mood for another encounter with Paul but he had more to tell her and, whatever it was, she had to hear it.

Rhett Molloy was explaining how he felt a heavy burden of responsibility, representing the United States in his capacity as the international director of the Whitley Sands Defence Establishment.

He’d been assigned a primary role, he emphasised, to observe, assess and facilitate developments in the system being built with Australian research technology, American finance and engineering, and the best scientists recruited from the global alliance. If the Panopticon Project was successful it would provide a radical new device to be deployed in the hunt against terrorists. Because it promised so much, and its security was paramount, Molloy had a secondary role: to protect the project against any threat. He was making it clear to Luker that it was this duty that weighed so heavily on him.

Along with Molloy’s posting came a third-floor office at the base. It was housed in the administrative block constructed on top of the vast concrete chambers which honeycombed through seven underground levels. Molloy’s office had a smoked-glass bullet-proof window with a view across a belt of palms and gum trees to sand dunes along the perimeter fence and the blue of the Coral Sea beyond. It was a pleasant aspect, and one he appeared to contemplate as he shared some insights with Luker and the other man who sat across the desk from him, Molloy’s deputy, Kurt Demchak.

‘Though an onerous duty’s been placed on our shoulders,’ said Molloy, ‘and we can’t hesitate over what has to be done, we need to tread carefully. There are local imperatives to take into account to avoid repercussions. And I say this to you, Kurt, as a point of etiquette. You and I are a long way from US jurisdiction.’

‘You coulda fooled me,’ said Demchak.

Molloy switched his gaze from the window. ‘Meaning?’

‘Check it out. We’re in a building staffed with American engineers, on a military reserve where twelve thousand GIs are deployed. And all this next to a town full of English-speaking white folk with the US Navy in port.’

‘Most of the GIs will be gone soon. The joint exercise is drawing to a close.’

‘Whatever. It feels less foreign than southern California.’

Luker gave a grunt of amusement.

‘Nevertheless,’ Molloy continued, ‘we’re guests of a foreign government. It’s an important factor. A certain sensitivity is called for.’

‘If the job requires it, I can be as sensitive as a fucking nun.’

Molloy gave him a look of disapproval, with a quick glance at Luker. ‘Well, I just want it on the record, so to speak. And that’s why Mr Luker’s here. We have no hesitation in sharing intelligence with our Australian allies.’

‘And it’s much appreciated,’ put in Luker.

‘Now we’re all buddies, can we get on with the briefing?’ asked Demchak.

‘I don’t like your tone,’ Molloy told him.

The man shrugged. ‘You don’t have to.’ His face was expressionless, his eyes unblinking. ‘Let’s get something straight.

And you might as well hear this too, Luker. I take orders and I act on them. No sweat. No comebacks. No sleepless nights over consequences. Here’s something else for the record though. I’ve got more than one boss and answer to more than one department.

But I always hunt alone.’

There followed a brief, diplomatic silence during which Luker automatically fingered the cigarette pack in his jacket pocket.

The friction between Molloy and his deputy was illuminating.

It confirmed Luker’s suspicion that the pair were operating under joint but distinct directives. This was nothing new in the Byzantine politics of intelligence agencies. It came with the web of duplicity they were all busy weaving. One of the reasons Luker had risen so high in the trade was that his political antennae were attuned to the nuances of double standards, oily deceit and bare-faced lies. Luker was, after all, a graduate of that ultimate school of mendacity: the media.

Whenever he attended a briefing such as this, he was reminded of an observation made by the late Malcolm Muggeridge, whose career, like his own, spanned both espionage and journalism.

According to Muggeridge, while journalists were compulsive liars, spies were even worse - they were habitual fantasists.

Molloy stuck his chin out defensively. ‘We’ll take what you say on board,’ he said to Demchak. ‘I have to concur there’s little room to finesse our methods when the survival of western values is at stake.’

Luker felt an inward shudder at the words, not because he agreed, but because he saw in Rhett Molloy - a high-ranking agent with a background in military intelligence - the sort of righteous delusion that had launched a millennial crusade and propelled the alliance into Iraq. Equally worrying, his kind of thinking found itself at home in sections of the CIA and US Command.

That made him one of a breed who professed to know where the course of history was going wrong and how to fix it. He had a certainty born of the religious right and a cowboy mentality towards international politics.

Demchak was a different beast. Luker saw him as a disciplined psychopath, whose skills had been honed and utilised in the field of black ops. The little that Luker knew about his background had come in a whispered aside from Molloy. He’d described Demchak as a product of domestic violence and Detroit slums, now bulldozed. Luker knew that he’d carried out missions in the Gulf, the Middle East and the Hindu Kush badlands straddling the Afghan-Pakistan border.

‘Right,’ declared Molloy. ‘Checklist.’

‘The list is growing,’ said Luker.

‘Bullet points, then.’ Molloy let his impatience show. ‘Hostiles.’

‘Gone to ground. No further sightings of our four terror suspects.’

‘And there won’t be,’ Demchak commented. ‘Until they bomb us. They know we’re watching.’

Luker nodded. ‘Which implies they’re well informed.’

‘Yes,’ Molloy agreed. ‘We have to assume they’re being primed for an attack. Which brings us to the Fixer. He may or may not be in our neighbourhood. No new intel.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Other external threats. The
Rheingold
disk.’

‘Still no sign of it,’ Luker responded.

‘Goddamn it,’ muttered Molloy. ‘We’ve got to contain this thing.

I’ll talk to Maddox again.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Stonefish?’

‘No progress,’ said Luker. ‘We still don’t know where he is, or exactly who he is. ID checks have drawn a blank.’

‘Same here,’ drawled Demchak. ‘I put the squeeze on Edge Freddy till his pips popped. He doesn’t know where his pal’s hiding.’

‘Hmm.’ Molloy’s frown deepened. ‘Protesters?’

‘Nothing imminent,’ said Luker. ‘They’re still reorganising.

Rachel Macarthur’s death was a setback.’

‘Good. Surveillance upgrade. I can report Panopticon is up and running on a regular basis. I’ve been driving it myself. It’s the sort of reinforcement we need right now.’ Molloy seemed satisfied. ‘Internal threats?’

‘Maddox has his eye on Paul Giles, the project coordinator.’

Luker stroked his chin. ‘No specific activity. But he’s disgruntled at the way he’s been treated since being detained in the nightclub.’

‘He’s a limey scumbag,’ put in Demchak.

‘You know him?’ asked Luker.

‘Yeah, from the bar in the Diamond. Can’t hold his liquor.

Consorts with hookers. Told me America’s the new Roman Empire.’

‘Well, he’s threatening to lodge a grievance.’

‘Like I said: scumbag.’

‘It goes without saying any new internal risk must be nipped in the bud,’ said Molloy. ‘What about the woman profiler?’

‘I’ve spoken to Van Hassel,’ said Luker. ‘I’m confident the tactic we’ve adopted has neutralised any potential risk.’

‘She’s no loose cannon, then?’

‘No.’ Luker couldn’t help smiling. ‘Just highly charged.’

Molloy gave a peremptory nod. ‘All right then. I think that brings us up to speed. Just one last thing. We mustn’t forget we’re all in this together. We face a common enemy in a war against a new form of evil. And I don’t use that word lightly.’ He was leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped, an anxious smile on his suntanned face. ‘That’s why I’d like the two of you now, if you’d do me the honour, to pray with me for the guidance we need at a time when our beliefs and our resolve are being tested.’