by A C Praat
Surprise bolted Brett to his feet and he’d knocked his elbow on the towel rail. The shower was running in the apartment he shared with Sauers to cover the conversation; he was taking no chances. ‘What? Since when?’
‘Since not long after you left. Started quietly with suggestions about stress, but today misconduct came up.’
‘But – ’
‘I know mate. Heard it from Harris – he was probably shit-stirring.’
‘And where did he get it from? Fucking Hebden.’
‘Come on, Nielsen. Why would he? You’re his boy on the entomology project – his swan-song. The potential is huge.’
Brett shrugged. ‘He never liked me. And that project was screwed as soon as Philip and his mates leaked it to the media.’ The claim sounded like teenage petulance, even to his ears.
‘Hebden doesn’t like anyone. Chances are it’s just some bullshit Harris made up; he’s enjoying your job on the Middle East desk.’
Anger ground between Brett’s back teeth. Anger and a grudging admission that Tony was right. From the outside, it looked like Hebden had favored Brett by training him on their latest weapon. Why would Hebden ruin his reputation? But Tony didn’t know about Brett’s orders; didn’t know about Sauers. Brett had never been able to shake the feeling that Hebden was messing with him.
Could the rumors just be Harris angling for his job? That wasn’t what Brett’s gut was telling him. It was telling him to bail – now, while he still could. Bloody Hebden. Brett was not going to be his fall guy. If Hebden was preparing the ground to have him removed from his post, he needed to fight back.
‘Do me a favor, Tony. I’m going to email a booking to our favourite restaurant for when I get back. Let me know if the date suits, all right?’
Silence. Brett prayed Tony would be alert to the change in conversation. Tony’s girlfriend, Sharon, was a maître d’ at a smart restaurant in Melbourne. He couldn’t risk sending anything directly to Tony, but he doubted that Hebden would be monitoring wider than Brett’s immediate circle of friends.
‘Looking forward to it,’ Tony said in a voice that suggested otherwise, and he hung up.
Tony would be pissed about Brett dragging his girlfriend into the shit; but Brett didn’t have much choice with Sauers breathing down his neck. After the call Brett had photographed each of the key communications with Hebden on his phone and uploaded them to his own encrypted drive in the cloud. Copying anything from the private server the ADF used was impossible but it didn’t stop people taking photos of the screen. A career-limiting move if Brett was caught. He hoped he wouldn’t need the backup as he emailed the links to the restaurant, attention: Sharon. If it all turned to shit then he’d send the passwords to Tony.
The Te Whatu woman had arrived at the airport fifteen minutes ago in her beat-up truck. The GPS tracker on the bottom of the chassis and the bug in the side door were working perfectly. Brett regretted that now, with Sauers sitting beside him, watching the entrance with the avid attention people usually gave to their own babies, or to car crashes. Brett knew which of those two scenarios their current situation resembled.
Hebden had become even more demanding for reports about Mishra’s movements now that Philip was in the picture. Brett’s choice about deploying the bees was gone. The best he could hope for was that Philip would be a no-show. And if he wasn’t … Brett below out a breath.
‘What?’ Sauers asked.
‘Nothing.’ A few solutions had occurred to him: fudge the identity scan so the briefcase wouldn’t open, damage the smartphone linked to the bees or – he glanced sideways at Sauers – convince Sauers that it was a bad idea to deploy them. Preferably with logic, and if that failed, force. Sauers wouldn’t take kindly to a beating – if Brett did manage to gain the upper hand – and it was unlikely he’d give up the mission. He’d probably rat him out to Hebden first chance he got. Brett had considered scarpering with the briefcase this morning before they flew to Kerikeri. But he didn’t know what Sauers would do if the bees were out of play – find some other way to take out Philip and Mishra? He needed to stick around.
People were beginning to trickle out of the airport.
‘There she is.’ Sauers straightened up in his seat, his attention ramped up to hyper alert.
Rawinia had an arm slung around Mishra’s shoulders and Mishra was laughing at something she said. The sound of the truck doors slamming was loud over the receiver.
‘I only got it today,’ Mishra said. ‘Imagine if it hadn’t arrived in time?’
‘Chillax, Mish. You did get it. And anyway–’
‘Anyway what?’
The truck started. Sauers turned on their car.
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll fill you in later. Where are you meeting him?’ Rawinia asked.
‘I’ve looked it up on my phone. It looks like the middle of an orchard – no houses, no sheds, just trees,’ Mishra said.
‘Address?’
Brett held his breath as they exited the carpark and pulled into the stream of traffic leaving the airport.
‘Kapiro Road.’
Sauers glanced his way, the corner of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. It could have been a sneer.
‘I can drive you,’ Rawinia said.
A pause. ‘I think I need to do this on my own. I don’t want to give him any reason to –’
The end of Mishra’s sentence disappeared. What was that? Interference with the signal? Around them the countryside was sliding by, spotlit by car beams in the declining light.
‘– lunch in town,’ said Rawinia. ‘You can drive the truck out from there. I could catch a movie. Been ages. Have a look at what’s on, will ya?’
Silence, then Mishra’s voice. ‘Murder on the Orient Express.’
‘Nah. Can’t stand that blond fella – what’s his name? Hey, how about a drive-by? I could show you Kapiro Road.’
‘Hang on, let me find the number.’ A pause. ‘1543. Opposite the Boatshed. Mean anything to you?’
‘Nah. All sorts of businesses out that way, not just orchards.’
More silence.
‘What about Thor Ragnorak?’ Mishra asked.
‘Supposed to be funny. Directed by a New Zealander this time. What time is it on?’
‘Two pm.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Yes, perfect.’ Sauers said, slowing as they entered the village of Waipapa. A smattering of shops, a gas station and a takeaway later they were out the other side. ‘Lunch in town. All over by dinnertime.’
Kapiro Road was a few more swoops along the highway beyond Waipapa. Sauers followed Rawinia’s truck, overtaking them as they slowed down and pulled over onto the grass verge by a driveway that was tucked into a shelterbelt of bamboo, three stories high.
‘I think we’ve learned enough,’ Sauers said.
In his pocket, Brett’s phone vibrated. The message was from Garth: Extreme caution on all fronts. Don’t contact me again.
Brett swallowed as adrenalin prickled out to his fingertips. On all fronts? He glanced at Sauers.
‘What?’ asked Sauers.
‘Hebden again.’ Something was wrong. So wrong. He’d text the passwords to Tony as soon as he was alone.
Sauers focused on the road ahead, saying nothing. At the intersection across the bridge that led to Kerikeri he turned left, taking the route away from town, down toward the Stone Store. Their Air b’n’b was a cottage nestled by a lake surrounded by rich tropical gardens.
‘Perfect for a romantic getaway,’ Sauers had quipped earlier that afternoon when they’d arrived and dumped their luggage.
If only.
THIRTY-FIVE
By one pm on Saturday Philip had pushed away all lingering doubts about meeting Mishra – the potential to be discovered, the danger he might be putting her in – and was focused on creating the most perfect picnic afternoon tea he could muster. Afra had watched his preparations to begin with, then disappeared into the garden.
‘H
ere.’ She held out a bunch of stems with blue, star-shaped flowers raining like fireworks from their bulky heads. ‘They’re edible. A few in the containers will make them pretty.’
She and Wil hadn’t pressed him about who he was meeting, but their amused grins – and now the flowers – told him that they guessed it was a date. Afra had tried to persuade him to take her picnic basket, however that just wasn’t practical with the walk ahead. It was twenty to thirty minutes to the block they were caretaking and he wanted to arrive in enough time to decide where best to station himself.
Afra waved at him from the front door as he set off through the orchard. Would Mishra come? He was cursing his decision to cut email contact. Instead he’d been living in a frisson of doubt and hope. Sun dappled the rows between the trees, and orange blossoms scented the air. Meeting in this orchard would have been more romantic. The block Wil was caretaking had a different variety of orange – no blossoms, just a few green buds.
He shifted the backpack to stop a wine bottle sticking into his back as he turned onto the unsealed private road. The events of the past few months had become clearer with each day. The only thing that remained a puzzle to him was how he could let his mother know that he was still alive. Philip Templeton had died. There was no going back. But how long should he keep a low profile? Had the authorities moved his status from probably dead to – what would they call it? A smile ghosted his lips. Definitely dead? Completely dead? Deadest?
Damon Hunter was most definitely alive. He’d jog if he could, but he didn’t want to upset the food in his backpack – salmon and rocket wraps, chocolate truffles, two miniature bottles of pinot gris. Mishra had loved her food, loved his cooking.
He stopped at the corner of the highway, waiting for a chance to cross. Would she still want him?
Hope had been the subject line of her first email to him. Perhaps she did.
Kapiro Road seemed busier this afternoon than it had during the week. It was tempting to peer into each car that passed to search for clues of Mishra. But he was already highly visible. And he’d need more than a face peering back at him through the window to recognise her. Her height, her shape, the ebony hair, her scent, the sound of her voice, her walk, the inappropriately high-heeled shoes – that’s what would make her real for him. He grinned. Surely she wouldn’t wear heels to an orchard?
Three blocks to go and he’d be at their rendezvous. The blocks all looked the same as you whizzed by in the car, but he’d noticed when turning in each morning that opposite the driveway of the block they were caretaking a climber had woven through the trees of the shelter belt, making a bright splash of vermillion against the spring growth. The colour drew the eye like a magnet and he’d included this small detail in the map he’d sent. That and the boat builder’s sign which was almost obscured in the shelterbelt.
Nearly there. The sun and exercise had done their work. Flushed and hot, he let the backpack hang off one shoulder and unzipped his canvas jacket.
Inside the driveway to the orchard he checked his phone. Ten minutes to go.
* * *
Sauers swung into the driver’s seat of the hire car and handed Brett a cup of coffee. Mishra and Rawinia were chatting in the café attached to the movie theatre across the road. The carpark, sandwiched between two banks of stores, had been almost full when they arrived at lunchtime. As it turned out, Kerikeri was a real country town – most of the stores had closed at midday and the town center, including their carpark, had emptied out around them. It made discreet surveillance difficult. Though strictly speaking they didn’t need to be this close; their destination was confirmed.
They sipped their coffees and watched in silence.
This morning Sauers had gone out to a bakery before Brett had even woken and brought back pastries and coffee. That was weird. Not much but meat and vegetables passed Sauers’ lips. It was one of the things they had in common.
‘A ritual,’ Sauers said when he offered Brett a ham and cheese croissant, still warm. And then Sauers sat on the covered veranda of the cottage, looking out over the gardens to the miniature lake beyond, his feet up on a chair, and sipped his coffee, as if he had no cares in the world.
Brett couldn’t fake that kind of nonchalance. From the kitchen window he’d glared at the back of Sauers’ head while rubbing his burned-out eyes and rehearsing the plan that had come to him in the small hours of the morning: if the bees looked like they were targeting Mishra he’d abort the mission. Simple. Sauers couldn’t argue with that when Philip was the target.
And if he did argue?
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. There would be no time to fight once the bees were released.
‘Good coffee,’ Sauers murmured, his gaze resting on the double doors fronting the café.
Brett grunted his agreement. Sauers was being too solicitous by half.
Bloody Hebden. If computers could froth at the mouth his laptop would have been saturated with spit this morning after Hebden’s latest post. Brett had the strong impression that Hebden would like to be here himself to finish off the mission. The guy was seriously unbalanced.
Mishra emerged from the café alone. Gorgeous. She was wearing a deep blue tunic over a silk blouse and floaty trousers. One of her favourite outfits.
Brett’s stomach cramped and he wriggled in his seat.
What the hell?
The second cramp doubled him into his seatbelt. When he opened his eyes, his vision was dim around the edges. ‘Sauers,’ he said. The light retracted to a pinprick. Then was gone.
* * *
Driving wasn’t Mishra’s favourite activity at the best of times. Driving to meet her disappeared, then deceased, then resurrected boyfriend was so far from the best of times she almost sobbed. The shelter belts appeared identical to her; the numbers tacked to the fences and the letterboxes were mostly obscured by plants, and Ra’s truck was such a pig to maneuver. Why was the speed limit 80 kilometers per hour? It wasn’t giving her enough time to –
There it is. A slash of crimson in the shelterbelt with a driveway opposite. And there, Boat Builders, painted on a billboard with a phone number underneath. She stood on the brakes and heaved the wheel round. The tires screeched in protest and slipped on the gravel. She threw the wheel the other way and skidded to a stop on the verge. Nobody could have missed that entrance. Heart racing, she edged the truck down the driveway, far enough in so that it wouldn’t be noticed by a casual passer-by – though it wasn’t that type of person who concerned her.
She angled the rearview mirror to check her reflection. Flushed cheeks, hair slipping from her casual updo. Using her pinky finger, she swiped beneath her eyes to remove her smudged eyeliner. Then she righted the mirror. No sign of movement behind her.
Anticipation ramped up her pulse rate as she removed the keys, leaned onto the door, then jumped down onto the grass. Soon – any second now – she’d see Philip.
The driveway into the orchard ended at a shelterbelt a couple of hundred meters down. Should she walk that way, or – she swiveled back to face the gate – that way? Fingering the pendant Philip had gifted her, she decided for the shelterbelt that screened off the road. The grass was soft beneath her feet and the sun heated her back, soaking through her tunic, making her silk blouse stick to her where she’d started to perspire. Where was he?
At the corner of the block she paused, and peered along the head row. Should she call out? Damon or Philip? Folding her arms around her ribs and her hammering heart, she snuck along the track, glancing down each row. The trees were taller than her, but clear underneath. At the fourth row she ducked to scan beneath the canopy for legs.
‘Mishra?’
She startled again to standing, blood rushing to her face. He wore the same canvas coat, the same checked shirt, the same cap. But the ginger-blond beard was new and the curls massing over his ears. Philip was holding out his hand to her.
‘Philip!’ She skipped the last few steps toward him.
Wh
y wasn’t he smiling?
An arm’s length from him, she stopped, consumed with uncertainty.
He studied her pendant, her shoes, her hair.
‘Philip?’ One step closer – so close she could feel the heat rinsing off him.
His gaze skittered over her face and then he closed his eyes and inhaled. ‘Mishra.’ A whisper and he crushed her to him. ‘You came.’
The months, the weeks, the hours of uncertainty flooded her eyes. ‘Of course I came.’
His lips were on her brows, her eyelids, her temple, and finally her mouth. Heat exploded from her chest into her groin as he lifted her off the ground and buried his face in curve of her neck. Her sobs morphed to desire. If he hadn’t been holding up her she would have slipped to the ground in her molten state.
A car horn broke their urgency. She looked toward the shelterbelt hiding the road – but saw nothing through the tightly packed bamboo.
‘This way.’ Philip caught her hand and pulled her down the closest row, throwing glances over his shoulder.
As he towed her along, a minefield of questions filled her head. ‘Philip, why did you run away?’
‘You can’t call me that now.’
‘Philip.’ Desire and relief were sloughing away; she needed answers. ‘You left me.’
His pace quickened. ‘Are you angry?’
Was this the old socially unconfident Philip, or had he retained the sensitivity he’d won from the autism treatment? The old Philip would be using every skerrick of his logic to decode this situation. And it was crazy; there was no guide for reunions like this one.
She stopped and pulled him to her side so she could see his face. ‘I was hurt that you left, yes. I thought you could have told me about your plans. You could have asked me to come with you.’
Philip squeezed her hand. ‘I wanted to. But I was worried you’d …’
She waited for him to continue.
‘I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way. And …’
He gazed down at her – one second, two seconds – before he broke eye contact. ‘I thought you’d say no.’