by A C Praat
Besides, banking transactions were traceable; he wouldn’t risk that yet.
That applied to Mishra’s transactions as well.
Think, Philip.
Her visit to New Zealand was common knowledge. It was on the university website. If she had to book flights it wouldn’t necessarily raise suspicions. And they were after him, not her.
He tapped again. It will be near my entry point. They’d been scouring the beaches for him up here.
Would that do? God, he was rubbish at this.
DH, he signed.
Giving up any pretense of working, he stared at the phone, willing her to reply.
‘Damon?’ Wil was beckoning him from the other end of the row. Philip sighed and stashed his phone in his pocket.
‘Enough for today, yah?’
Philip picked up the chilly bin and the chairs and followed Wil to the truck. They didn’t usually stop this early.
‘One by one,’ Wil said.
Philip frowned.
‘We finish one task, then we move to another.’
What was he talking about?
‘Works with people too.’
Philip stowed their gear in the boot of the truck then ran around the side to jump into the driver’s seat. He wasn’t sure what Wil meant. Maybe it was a growling – he’d work harder tomorrow. Mishra would have replied by then and it would be easier to concentrate. This afternoon he’d create his map.
‘Do you have a printer, Wil?’
‘Yah,’ said Wil, ‘though you might have to give us a hand with that. Connectivity issues.’
Philip clenched the steering wheel in exasperation. ‘Of course.’
THIRTY-TWO
He/they/it had been watching her the whole time. Mishra shuddered in her coat, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea as she sat in Astrid’s office after the aborted fireside chat.
Astrid perched in the chair at her desk and watched Mishra over her own cup of tea. ‘Who was it?’
Mishra shook her head, then sipped her tea. ‘Somebody’s messing with me.’ She couldn’t tell Astrid; she was so close to finding Philip. Unless it had been Philip? Had he received her message and decided to warn her off? But how would he know about the fireside chat? She needed to check her phone.
‘I think people across the seven universities and then some are privy to that fact now.’
She shouldn’t have charged out of the room like that. It might have been written off as an odd comment if she’d kept her nerve, but now the voice and the message were solidly linked to her. ‘How do people find out about these events? How do they join in?’
‘It wouldn’t be hard. We have a wide membership. It would just take someone to send the invitation outside the university – to a colleague at home, perhaps, on their personal email. Anyone can download the software.’ Astrid uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. ‘Let me help you, Mishra. Stop looking for what?’
Mishra hid behind her cup. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s some freak who thinks I can get my hands on the code that was leaked. As if I’d want to have anything to do with that project again. Philip’s dead. Maybe because of it. I just don’t know.’
‘Someone’s stalking you?’
‘Could be.’ That was about as much she would admit to Astrid.
‘That letter?’
Mishra nodded. ‘Same message.’
‘I think you should come and stay with us while you’re here.’
‘My air b’n’b is booked. But thank you. It’s probably just some weirdo having a bit of fun. And if it isn’t, I don’t want your family dragged into it.’
‘Have you talked to the police?’
‘Honestly –’ Mishra put her cup down on Astrid’s desk ‘– I’ve had it up to here with police.’ She sliced her hand through the air above her head. ‘The leak, the investigation into Philip’s death – I just want it all to stop. That was the whole point of coming here.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mishra. No more public talks for a while, okay? Not unless we can screen people properly.’
Mishra nodded and stood up. ‘I’d like to get going, Astrid.’
‘Let me call you a cab.’
‘It’s just across the road – literally.’ Mishra said. ‘Tory Street. Runs along the back of the university, doesn’t it?’
Astrid nodded. ‘I’ll walk you then.’ She stood up. ‘Gregory returned your wheelie bag.’
Mishra turned her head to see where Astrid was pointing. Her wheelie bag was just inside the door. She’d forgotten about it in her rush to escape the conference.
‘Do you want to leave anything in your office? It’s just along the corridor. I’m afraid you’re sharing it with another import. She’s arriving next week.’
Mishra shook her head.
Astrid grasped the handle of her wheelie bag and extended it to its limit. ‘Let’s go.’
Mishra realised she’d have to wait to check her phone until Astrid was satisfied she was safe. Picking up her shoulder bag, she followed Astrid along the corridor, past the staffroom, to the back entry of the building. Outside a light drizzle had started, adding another layer of grimness to the concrete walls of the building. The bright-red window frames and doors failed to alleviate the stern, institutional impression.
‘This way,’ Astrid said, lugging Mishra’s wheelie bag down a set of stairs and righting it again at the start of a sloping path edged by grass.
Tory Street was a garden of packed-in colonial-era weatherboard houses in which her apartment block stuck out like an overgrown weed – a modern three-story building made of cedar and metal and glass. Its one saving grace was the high-level security. A swipe card to enter the foyer after hours, and to use the lift any time, and the apartment itself had a separate key.
‘Nice,’ said Astrid, walking into the living room, her shoes clacking on the floorboards, her corduroy and scarf ensemble clashing with the spartan angles of the black leather lounge suite. ‘New and clean.’ She reached the window. ‘You’ll get the morning sun – and look, you’ve got a view toward Mt. Vic.’
Mishra dumped her bag on the miniature dining table – the whole place was set up for a single person, maybe a couple – and joined Astrid at the window. Mt. Vic was a treed hump in the distance beyond the rows of houses and commercial buildings that sprawled away from the apartment.
‘Promise you’ll ring if you … if anything troubles you?’
Mishra smiled at Astrid. ‘Of course. Truly, I feel better already. This place is like Fort Knox. And that incident was probably nothing.’
Astrid hugged her. ‘Then I’ll leave you. School pick-ups. Actually, they’re too big for that now, but I like to be home when they arrive.’
And finally Mishra was alone. She dropped onto a dining chair and opened her phone.
Frangipani, please send a safe postal address and I will send directions to you for us to meet this Saturday. It will be near my entry point. DH.
Flushed and smiling, Mishra tapped her reply.
c/o Psychology Department, Massey University,
Wellington.
He wanted to meet! Her smile extended all the way to the emoji she immediately sent to Ra. Details could wait until their call tonight. She danced around the living room then launched herself onto the bed in the single bedroom. It was soft and bouncy. She spun over to lie on her back. Finally, finally she’d found him. She kicked her feet, then skittered off the bed to retrieve her phone and re-read the message.
His entry point? Must be Northland. She needed to book flights. When? She navigated to the airline website. Today was Tuesday. If the letter was coming from Northland it might not arrive until later in the week. Best to book the latest flight on Friday just to be sure. She muttered under her breath while she waded through the booking procedure. Wait till she talked to Ra; a celebration was in order.
The information booklet on the dining table included pamphlets for several eateries in the area and also a map that showed a supe
rmarket just down the road. Mishra looked out the window. The drizzle had stopped and it would be light for hours yet. Too excited to stay in the apartment, she pulled on her coat and trotted down the stairs.
THIRTY-THREE
‘What’s happened?’ Astrid shut the door to her office on Wednesday morning and leaned against it, sending a curious look Mishra’s way. ‘You are glowing.’
Mishra folded her arms. Astrid was too perceptive by half. ‘Nothing, really. I slept well.’
Astrid narrowed her eyes, clearly unsatisfied with Mishra’s explanation.
Mishra’s mind scurried around the truest – the only – explanation for her sudden happiness, seeking out a plausible alternative. ‘And …’
‘And?’
‘My friend Ra has had a breakthrough on a project she’s working on up north.’
Astrid raised her eyebrows.
Mishra glanced out of the window, avoiding her gaze. ‘I don’t know. It feels like now I’m here I can really start to leave all that madness in Adelaide behind me.’
Astrid launched herself off her door and dropped into her chair. ‘Okay. And the stalker?’
Mishra sat on the visitor’s seat and shrugged. ‘I choose not to be intimidated. Like I said, it’s probably some wowser getting off on the publicity.’
Astrid grinned at her. ‘That apartment must really be something.’
Mishra grinned back.
‘Which is good, because it will make up for your office here. Shall we?’ Astrid stood and waved her hand toward the door.
Mishra followed her down the corridor, past the toilets, past the turn-off to the back entrance to the Psychology Office, and through another set of doors, which revealed a further corridor. It was a warren. But nothing could dampen her mood today. Three more sleeps until Saturday.
‘Here we are.’ Astrid stooped to unlock the office, then stepped aside to let Mishra through. ‘I’m afraid it’s become a cemetery for old furniture. Office services have promised to come today to remove some. I’ve been on at them since you rang last week.’
Mishra dumped her bag next to an aged computer that sat atop one of three desks that cluttered the small room. Two bookcases, three filing cabinets and three wheelie chairs made it a close fit for even one person. Through the window, a straggly hydrangea with last season’s blooms clinging to its limbs in dead, brown clumps backed up to a concrete retaining wall.
Astrid sighed. ‘Probably should alert the gardeners too.’
‘It’s fine, Astrid.’
‘It isn’t. Not really. Have you eaten?’ Astrid took Mishra’s arm. ‘Let me show you the café. It’s at the bottom of Block 5, where we were yesterday. Decent food and a pleasant enough outdoor area. Cheap too.’
Mishra picked up her bag.
‘Oh no. My shout. I insist. Somebody’s got to make a show of hospitality in this place.’
They couldn’t barrel through the door two-abreast. Astrid dropped Mishra’s arm and smiled at her over her shoulder as she sailed through. ‘Just pull the door too. Usually does the trick. The locks can be a bit tricky.’
As they crossed the courtyard and entered the atrium of the building next door, Astrid was full of praise for the abandoned fireside chat. ‘Heaps of positive feedback. The issues are so important. Shame we had to manage so many people. Imagine a live panel at a conference. You, the predictive risk guy …’
Mishra was pleased Astrid was happy, but the nonstop patter was raising her suspicions. Was Astrid working up to something?
At a table outside the café, with cups of tea resting between them, Astrid finally fell silent.
Mishra smiled at her.
Astrid picked up a teaspoon and stirred her drink.
‘Astrid, you haven’t put anything in your tea.’
Astrid laughed. ‘Busted! – as my son would say.’ She put down the teaspoon. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
Anxiety flushed Mishra’s neck. Maybe Astrid wanted to reconvene the fireside chat.
‘Not a bad one,’ Astrid added hastily. ‘Could even be a great one.’
Mishra breathed in, then out slowly, reaching for calm. ‘I’m ready.’
‘You were just saying it’s good to be away from Adelaide, and I’ve been looking for a change, so I thought’ –Astrid paused and beamed at her– ‘what about a life-swap?’
She looked so excited and hopeful that Mishra laughed. ‘Astrid, what are you talking about?’
‘We’d have to get the universities to agree, of course, but I think we could convince them. You do my job, I do yours – and we swap houses – just for a year. It’s my last chance to shake things up before Stuart starts high school. It will be harder to move once they’re both settled and serious study kicks in.’
Living in Wellington would make seeing Philip so much easier if everything worked out the way she hoped this weekend. ‘Have you talked to anyone else about this?’
Astrid shook her head. ‘But there is a precedent. One of my colleagues is in England at the moment and we’ve had her counterpart in the department for the last semester. It’s great, Mishra – new people, new ideas. Good for the university too – international staff and all that without the hassle of recruitment and employment contracts.’
‘My house is small.’
‘Mine is hardly a palace.’
But if things didn’t work out with Philip would she want to be tied to Wellington for a year? And what about her post-grad students? ‘I’m not saying no, Astrid. I promise I’ll think about it, okay?’
Some of the excitement leached from Astrid’s face.
‘Next week. This time next week I’ll have an answer for you.’
Astrid nodded. ‘It was a long shot. I’m glad you’re even considering it.’
Mishra picked up her tea and gazed over the rim as she sipped. Beyond the courtyard a large structure with a steeply gabled roof caught the late morning sun. It reminded her of Ra.
Astrid had followed her gaze. ‘Our marae,’ she said. ‘When you’re done I’ll show you around the campus properly – see if I can convince you to cross the ditch a while longer.’
An hour later Astrid dropped Mishra outside her office with promises of dinner at her place that evening. The university was an odd mix of cringe-worthy and cool. She’d loved the new creative arts spaces. Maybe she could live here for a year, but ultimately that depended on her meeting with Philip.
The day had blossomed into a warmish twenty degrees – very warm for this time of year, Astrid had assured her. She’d drop off her coat and then swing by the departmental office to check if Philip’s instructions had arrived. That was unlikely, but she couldn’t kick the hopefulness; didn’t want to.
Pushing her key into the lock made the door swing open. She hadn’t turned the key. What the …? Had she not locked it this morning? Mishra’s lightness evaporated, and the demand – Stop looking – thundered through her head.
She glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty, but she could see Astrid walking away through the square of glass in the doorway that separated their two corridors. And the office was close enough for the receptionists to hear her call. Mishra pressed on the door but stayed put as it swung open, inch by inch, revealing the inside of the cluttered office.
‘Hello?’ a man’s voice called from beyond her line of sight.
Mishra jumped. Before she could run, a figure stepped into the doorway. He was a head taller than her, wearing a cap, owlish glasses, and a smile on his face above dark, casual clothes. You wouldn’t grin if you were about to hurt someone, would you?
Her mind scrambled for answers. ‘Office services?’ she asked.
The man glanced over his shoulder, then looked Mishra up and down with pale-blue eyes. ‘Too much furniture for so small a person.’
Mishra smiled back, but his assessment gave her the creeps. There was something familiar about him; like a childhood friend suddenly transformed to an adult after many years apart. The effect was disconcerting.
‘I’ll come back later.’ The man stepped past her, snapped opened the door into the corridor and turned left toward the departmental office.
The aroma in her office had changed subtly with his presence, a grassy aftershave mingling with the old carpet and musty-paper smells. She didn’t want to be here if he was coming back. Picking up her shoulder bag, she stepped back into the corridor and slammed the door, jiggling it to make sure it was locked. On the short walk to the Psychology Office her assessment of working in Wellington for a year tilted sharply toward the negative.
THIRTY-FOUR
Brett slouched in the passenger seat of the rental car he was sharing with Sauers as they waited outside the airport in Kerikeri on Friday night. Brett’s attention was split between the entrance and Sauers. Something was up. Ever since Tuesday, when Sauers had all but accused him of jeopardising the mission, he had been quieter. So quiet, that Brett had searched their apartment for bugs, scouring his own room thoroughly, when Sauers went to swap out the device in Mishra’s book. The apartment was clean.
Sauers still wouldn’t be drawn on the name of his organisation, or any detail about the mission or himself, beyond their shared experience in Iraq. You could write it off as professionalism, but it made Brett uneasy. He had snapped two clandestine photos of Sauers and sent them via his personal phone to his friend, Garth, in the military police. He and Garth had shared their basic training before Garth had decided to take the MP option. It was an unpopular move among the cadets, but Brett figured it couldn’t hurt to have someone on the inside of the corps policing the military. Garth could run the checks Brett didn’t have access to on mission.
Garth hadn’t got back to him yet.
Last night, Brett’s disquiet had become strong enough to contact his friend Tony to find out what the word was on base.
‘Rumor is that you’re on gardening leave,’ Tony said.