Defender: Intrepid 1

by Chris Allen

  Cornell looked at his watch. God, it had only been six hours since they’d departed Heathrow on the 10,000 mile flight to Sydney. There were many hours to go, and a layover at Singapore. He became restless at the prospect of trying to kill time with so much on his mind. He considered watching another movie, and was shuffling in his seat to get comfortable when he accidentally bumped the elbow of the man sitting next to him.

  “I’m t-terribly sorry,” he stammered.

  “Don’t mention it,” came the deep, level reply. American. Texan.

  Despite the space available between their business class seats, it was hard not to bump the man. Cornell had already noticed that he was fit. A tanned, muscular arm sat like an oak log across the plush armrest, and the fabric of his beige chinos pulled across well-muscled thighs, although the left leg seemed to be sitting awkwardly out into the aisle. He wore a navy blue polo shirt, and an expensive-looking watch with a silver bracelet strap was fastened on his thick left wrist. His head was shaved to the scalp.

  “Gregory Cornell,” he offered, not knowing why.

  The American’s piercing gray-blue eyes leveled at him.

  “Dave Sutherland,” he replied. “I know who you are, Mr. Cornell. I suggest we order a drink. You and I are about to have a long chat.”

  CHAPTER 48

  PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

  The arrivals hall at Perth International Airport was awash with people herded cattle-like into the narrow corrals of the awaiting customs frontier. South African Airlines Flight SA 280 from Johannesburg and QANTAS Flight QF 072 from Singapore had arrived.

  From the endless shuffling queues, each jetlagged face looked resignedly at the blue-uniformed Australian Customs Service officers. A standard laconic greeting was offered as weary travelers presented for examination. Passports and declaration cards were reviewed, and, following the usual questions, passports scanned, stamped and entry granted. Those already cleared by the PASSalert system moved along to baggage collection.

  “Next,” a customs officer called, staring vacantly at the computer screen.

  A bandaged hand presented a passport, accompanied by a gentle voice saying, “Good evening.”

  The officer turned from the flickering images on the monitor and looked directly at the man. The entire left side of his face was dreadfully scarred. From forehead to neck, spilling over to his chin, an appalling burn masked him in a cowl of blistered disfigurement. Behind the heavy tortoiseshell glasses, his left eyelid looked like it had borne the brunt of the damage, barely covering a dark, lifeless eye. His brown hair on the left side was patchy, and he had grown it to shield the full frightening impact of the injury. The nose and left ear were angrily deformed, and a latticework of discolored scar tissue sat tight and raw across his face and neck. The whole hideous mess retreated into the collar of a beautiful camel cashmere rollneck sweater and, she presumed, because of the gauze visible on his hand, probably continued all the way down the left arm.

  “I’m sure you’ll find that that’s me on the passport,” he said to her quietly. “Not likely to be two of us in the airport, is there?”

  Her face flushed scarlet.

  “I am so very sorry, Mr. Bogle,” she said, reading from his passport. “I’ve had a really long day and I’m due for a break—”

  He cut her off with a politely raised hand, reassuring that there was no need to apologize. She smiled nervously and stamped his passport without a second glance.

  *

  An hour later, having left the airport and paid the taxi driver, the man locked himself in a small townhouse in Victoria Park on the edge of the city. In his usual fastidious manner, he minutely inspected the townhouse, unoccupied for months. He checked all the windows and the back door, then headed straight for the bathroom, closing the door.

  For five minutes he stood in front of the mirror. He studied every inch of his hideous face, touching and prodding, making a thorough examination. Satisfied, he opened the cabinet. Relieved to find everything was there, he retrieved a large bottle of alcohol, some brushes and an assortment of cotton swabs and cloth. He stripped.

  He cautiously recovered dark brown contact lenses from each eye and flushed his red eyes with drops to ease the irritation. Then, reaching for an ugly red fold of skin on his hairline and rubbing with force, the first layer lifted, easing back a small rubbery flap. Next, he picked up a brush that he’d laid out beside the basin. Dipping it into alcohol, he focused his attention on the flap of skin, painting the solution on behind it. The alcohol slowly dissolved the spirit gum, allowing the latex integument to peel away, revealing his own skin beneath. It took an hour to remove the entire grotesque disguise.

  As a wall clock in the lounge chimed midnight, Victor Lundt looked at himself in the mirror. His skin was reddened and sensitive to the touch, and the basin was full of discarded latex and hair.

  A smile of triumph animated his aching face. He’d done it.

  Disguise was nothing new for Lundt, but this time he’d been forced to take a significantly greater risk, flying fifteen hours non-stop with all that plastic shit stuck to his face. He was lucky that Cheng was able to meet him in Joburg to apply it. The movie special effects expert had been worried that the glue wouldn’t last the entire flight, exposed to air-conditioning, sweat and movement. It was nothing like the movies, where actors pulled fake faces on and off as if they were changing hats.

  It was a risk Lundt had had to take, with Interpol and the rest of the world’s law enforcement agencies looking for him, expecting him to head for Europe. He’d rightly figured no one was going to bother a guy in Bogle’s condition.

  On the rare occasions that he’d resorted to disguise, Lundt used masks based on lifelike disfigurement. They induced sympathy and disinclination toward protracted scrutiny when viewed alongside the accompanying image within one of a number of false passports. Of course, having access to a movie effects specialist like Cheng and a selection of corresponding face and passport choices was invaluable.

  Long ago, Lundt had sat for plaster casts that Cheng used to make molds of his face. They had spent days viewing photographs of real facial injuries and disfigurements before settling upon two options. Cheng made up the masks, and by way of rehearsal, Lundt had walked to a number of different places in full makeup to have the passport photos taken. Then it was just a simple matter of giving the photos and two alternative identities to Phil, his long-standing contact at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and the passports were done. At times like this, he was able to resort to the pre-prepared masks at short notice.

  Lundt walked into the bedroom, turned his phone back on, and stretched out naked on the bare mattress. Now safely in Australia, his priority was to get back in the game. It had been a day since he last spoke to Cornell. A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.

  As if on cue, his phone buzzed, heralding a stream of messages. The first was from Johnson. He read it and let out a deep groan; Johnson had arranged for the girl to shadow Cornell. She’d be in Sydney, too, and now he wanted her sorted out. As if Lundt didn’t have enough to deal with already, having agreed to take care of Cornell. It was getting far too complicated and Johnson was treating him like nothing more than hired muscle.

  He read the message again.

  As lights from passing cars danced through the blinds and across the walls of the bedroom, a scowl of menace fell upon Lundt’s face.

  Well, if it meant clearing up loose ends, then so be it. But if Johnson was setting him up … well, it was time the gloves came off.

  He’d rest tomorrow, make some calls and, importantly, make sure his Sydney crew was ready when he arrived. He’d fly to Sydney tomorrow night.

  CHAPTER 49

  SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  Alex Morgan entered the four-digit PIN provided by Sutherland into the security keypad, easing his hire car off Castlereagh Street and through the roller door into the car park.

  Morgan was tired from the flight but exhilarated at the pr
omise of a return to the chase. He could feel Lundt under his skin. At least now, he mused, they were both in the same hemisphere. Or were they? Simultaneously, his thoughts turned to Ari. She was, he knew for certain, closer still. But his exhilaration left him. What sort of reception could he expect from her? He’d received nothing until the distress flare email a couple of days ago, which he’d opened back in Davenport’s office. Morgan felt the familiar hand of melancholy reaching up for him and batted it away. He’d remain professional, just as he told himself he would during the flight, when his thoughts and dreams were consumed by her. A few minutes later he entered the Hyde Park Regency reception area. Dave Sutherland was waiting for him.

  “Where is she?” Morgan asked, setting down his bag and attaché case.

  “Don’t I even get a hug?”

  “Piss off, Dave. We said hello on the phone,” Morgan replied warmly. They shook hands. “So, where is she?”

  “Upstairs pining for you.” The former US Navy SEAL winked. “No. She’s locked herself inside pretty much the entire time since she arrived yesterday. Just reading, going online, listening to music. Occasionally uses the gym and gets some air out on the sundeck. We’ve had a couple of brief chats, to give her a heads-up on the latest. She’s avoiding the phone, but seemed fine when I dropped in to check on her. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, you lucky bastard!”

  “I know. Jesus, it’s bloody hot!”

  “You said it. Thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Been like this for days, but they say a storm’s coming.”

  “That’ll help with the bushfires,” Morgan said. He released his tie and stretched, gazing around the immediate surrounds. For a moment, he was thrown back in time as he saw the ANZAC War Memorial across Elizabeth Street in Hyde Park. The Art Deco memorial housed arguably the most moving tribute to fallen soldiers Morgan had ever seen, Hoff’s incredibly confronting bronze sculpture of a dead young soldier, held aloft upon a shield by three women: mother, sister and wife. “Anyway, I’m not sure about the lucky bit, mate. That remains to be seen. I better check in. How’s your knee, by the way? Boss mentioned you’d had surgery.”

  “It’s pissing me off, but getting better slowly. I’ve taken care of everything, bud. We’re booked in under the names we traveled here on. Get straight on up and see her if you want. I can get your bags sorted out. She’s in room 109.”

  “Cheers, Dave,” said Morgan. “But I think I’ll get a shower and straighten up first.”

  “Alex, I know you like this girl. I gather she messed you around some and you’re still pretty pissed about it. You think you can manage this? You know, stay on task?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Morgan responded cheerlessly. “I’m sure her intention is to keep it professional, too. I can handle that.”

  “OK. So, you want the word on Cornell and Lundt?” Dave asked, tactfully changing topic. Morgan nodded. “Cornell’s in Sydney. He’s staying at the Novotel, Darling Harbour. Know it? The New South Wales cops have got their eyes on him and they’ll keep me posted if he so much as gets up to go to the bathroom.”

  “Boss says you kept Cornell company on the flight out here,” said Morgan.

  “Oh yeah. You should have seen the look on the poor bastard’s face, man. He turned gray when I told him who I was. I think he was planning to hit on me.” Sutherland smiled. “Can’t blame him.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.” Morgan laughed. “So what’s the score now?”

  “Well, bud, during the last sixteen hours of our flight, I took our friend Cornell through the surveillance reports and photos we have, documenting his movements in London over the past couple of weeks, including his call for help to Johnson.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Not well.” Sutherland smiled. “He had no idea Johnson had been pulling his strings all this time, said he’d been dealing with someone totally anonymous to him via some email procedure. Using star signs to identify themselves. Needless to say, Mr. Cornell is now more than willing to contribute if it means keeping his ass out of the electric chair.”

  “They don’t use the chair in England, Dave.”

  “Maybe they should,” Sutherland countered, meaning it.

  “Everything set for this to play out as per the plan?”

  “Sure is,” Sutherland replied. “According to Cornell, Johnson sent him out here to facilitate a meeting between Lundt and some guy who’s representing the alternative president.”

  “Sending Cornell all the way out here to set up a meeting sounds a bit unnecessary, don’t you think? Seems like something Lundt could have arranged himself.”

  “I agree. Sounds more like an excuse for Johnson to get Cornell out of England for a while.”

  “Never to return,” said Morgan.

  “Makes sense,” agreed Sutherland. “The key thing is to be sure we can cover wherever this meeting’s going to happen. Cornell doesn’t know the location yet.”

  “What about local cops?” Morgan queried. “Any support?”

  “Oh yeah. We’re partnering with the New South Wales Police Counter Terrorism and Special Tactics Command. Our contact is a guy named John Stojakovic. Police inspector. Good man. Steady. He’s already got surveillance teams organized and stationed down at the Novotel. Cornell told me his instructions were to stay put at the hotel and wait to be contacted from there. The cops will shadow Cornell, monitor his phone and internet, and report developments to me. I’ll then feed the info to your girl; she’ll feed it straight to Johnson – as per his instructions to her – and he’ll be none the wiser.”

  “As long as she can keep her wits. If Johnson smells a rat, there’s every possibility we’ll lose him and Lundt.”

  “So far, Cornell hasn’t met anyone, and hasn’t used the phone or the net. We have to hope he sticks to the plan. This is his only chance to walk away without a life sentence, and I’ve made that crystal clear. No word on Lundt yet, but the Australian Federal Police are watching the airports for us.”

  “How’s Ari dealing with the revelations about Johnson?” Morgan asked.

  “OK, considering. But I guess she’ll talk through that with you. Meanwhile, I’m about to meet Stojakovic for an update.”

  “Sounds good,” said Morgan. “You need me to come along?”

  “I got it covered, bud. You’d better get on,” replied Sutherland. “Chow later? Oh, and Alex …”

  Morgan picked up his attaché case and turned back to Sutherland as a porter came and collected his luggage.

  “I told her you were due in this afternoon,” Sutherland said. “So she’s expecting you, and even seemed keen to see you. Must be something wrong with her after all. Anyway, she’s pretty shook up about being sent out here by Johnson like a sitting duck. So go easy.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Morgan tapped lightly on the door of room 109. “Anybody home?”

  Inside, there was a shuffle of sounds. A teacup being placed back on a saucer, a remote being grappled with, music turned down. A muffled cough, a few seconds of silence. Then, the door opened and, instantly, it was as if everything stopped. Morgan stood transfixed, as the same dazzling smile and ocean-blue eyes he had farewelled weeks ago looked up and held him.

  “Hello, you,” Ari said eventually, her voice soft and gentle. She, in turn, was studying his eyes; the familiar deep pools of green and brown with dark specks that were the chapter references to his life.

  She opened the door fully, and hugged him. He immersed himself in the physical sensation of her body pushed up hard against his. She stood on her toes and nestled herself into his neck. Morgan smelled her hair and tightened his hold. Her thighs inched forward until she was completely pressed against him for a few seconds, but it was enough. Their bodies were meshed, neither wanting to let go.

  “So good to see you,” she whispered.

  “You too,” Morgan replied, wondering what the hell her story was. No word for weeks and then this. Jesus.

  Slowly, Ari peeled herself away, but
remained close, looking up at him. Her arms were still clasped about his neck. She straightened his collar. Morgan kept his hands around her waist and held her gaze, smiling. She took him by the hand, closing the hotel door behind them.

  The room was furnished in standard four-star style, Morgan noted, as they settled on a comfortable sofa, Ari curling her legs up under her at one end. Morgan noticed a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on the side table. He’d once told her it was his favorite.

  She was wearing lightweight gray track shorts and a fitted pale pink T-shirt with what looked like a 1950s image stretched tightly across her breasts. Her feet were clad in anklet sports socks and she wore no jewelry or makeup.

  “Don’t they let you wear anything else?” she chided, gesturing at his suit. “It must get pretty uncomfortable, especially for someone who prefers jeans.”

  “Ah, nice of you to remember. I am working, you know.” Morgan saw her expression change and he wondered if he’d intended the comment as a barb.

  “Alex …” She shifted on the sofa, gathering her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “There’ve been things happening in my life. Not just work things. Personal things.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I get it. Wrong time, wrong place. Happens to lots of people.” Part of him wanted to know, but Morgan had worked hard to shut his feelings for her down, or so he thought. He really didn’t need all this stuff to come up now.

  “It’s not like that, Alex. There are things you should know, but not now. With everything else that’s been going on – Malfajiri, Johnson, Cornell, gun-runners, all the death and destruction …” Tears formed rivulets upon the soft down of her cheeks and she clutched her knees even more tightly to her body. “It’s all too much. In the middle of it all, you came into my life. And even that’s complicated. You’re a bloody Intrepid agent, for God’s sake! I need time to make sense of it all, but time isn’t something I have right now. I have to be here, stuck in the middle of all this. Can you try to understand?”