The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  ‘Don’t waste your breath.’

  ‘Watch your tone, Major, I’m not one of your boys.’

  ‘Then don’t stand in my office peddling the same bullshit as Wednesday.’

  ‘You were given a directive. You ignored the brief and took matters into your own hands—’

  ‘And you failed to notify me of real and present dangers in that building. You can drive out here as often as you like but until you give me something closer to the truth, I’m not interested in anything that comes out of your mouth.’

  The Major stares down at Peta Paxton. Why is this woman in his face again? Or more precisely, in his chest. She barely reaches his collarbone even with the blood-red stilettos. It doesn’t stop her eyeballing him through thick mascara, all perfumed fury and too-tight jacket.

  ‘I’m paying your wages, Major, I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

  He lifts one eyebrow, anger stirring for real this time. ‘You might want to re-read the fine print. Your contract is only valid on the basis of full disclosure.’

  She falters and he sees something shift in her eyes. Good. Remember who you’re talking to.

  ‘Do you still require our services?’ His voice has sharper edges now, less emphasis on ‘contractor’ and more on ‘military’.

  Peta Paxton’s nostrils flare and her eyes drop to his left calf. He catches her gaze, dares her to bring that into the discussion.

  ‘No?’ he says. ‘Your two minutes are up.’ The Major goes to his desk, opens the sit rep folder.

  She stays put, arms folded and jacket bunching. It’s ridiculous to have a woman like her in the same room as a man like him. What the hell is the army thinking? But he knows the answer all too well.

  She takes a deliberate breath, stretches her neck to the right. Exhales and lets her arms drop to her sides.

  ‘Bloody Bradford,’ she mutters. ‘I don’t know what was going through his head. None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t let Julianne De Marchi into the building.’

  The Major barks a short laugh. ‘Eighteen, and she pulls off a coordinated assault like that? Impressive kid.’

  ‘Oh come on, Major, you think it was dumb luck she was there? She and her mother are involved. They have to be. Why else would the girl apply for a job with us of all people?’

  ‘Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to give her an interview.’

  ‘I told Bradford not to play games but he can’t help himself. He hasn’t moved beyond the fact Julianne got off on a suspended sentence for the school attack or that there wasn’t enough evidence to charge her mother. I thought stymieing Angela’s career was enough. It’s certainly kept her quiet for the last couple of years. But no, Bradford wanted to be in the same room as the kid and watch her squirm.’

  ‘Big man, your brother.’

  ‘Bradford’s compass is set differently to yours, that’s all. He’s always had a disconnect between his actions and how they’re perceived.’ It comes out smooth and practised, as if she’s spent a lifetime explaining her brother to others. The Major makes a small noise in the back of his throat and Paxton mistakes it for an invitation to continue. ‘Bradford was the kid in school biology whose frog wasn’t quite dead but he dissected it anyway because that was the task. He did what had to be done. Didn’t think about the frog—or how anyone would take it. Then he sat down and ate his lunch while half the class threw up. He wasn’t cruel, Major, he was being pragmatic.’

  The Major doesn’t give a fuck about Bradford’s pragmatism or his frog. ‘Tell me about the special ops team.’

  She blinks. ‘The what?’

  ‘The team that swept your building on Wednesday. They were military.’ It’s not a question. He’s studied the rooftop footage and watched their retreat. It was a tactical operation.

  ‘I didn’t hire them,’ she says.

  ‘Someone sent them in. And someone gave them enough intel to plan an assault on two fronts. The power went off before the first explosion.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I hired someone to blow up my father’s building and terrorise our staff? Kill innocent bystanders on the street? Why did I need your team, then?’

  The Major gives a pointed look, meaning to provoke her. ‘They went after your servers,’ he says. ‘What did you lose?’

  ‘Nothing relevant to your contract.’ She looks around his office, at the maps and satellite photos pinned to his corkboard. ‘It has to be Agitators. The federal police should’ve known this was coming. They’re getting more funding than anyone else under the Civil Order Act, and they can’t stop a delivery truck ramming the tower in broad daylight.’

  The Major sits impassive, watching her. She tries to outstare him but can’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. The arms go back across her chest.

  ‘You don’t agree? What’s your theory, Major?’

  He lets the seconds stretch out before he answers. She needs to learn to wait.

  ‘It was a coordinated attack,’ he says finally, speaking slowly like he’s talking to a child. ‘And that involves planning and collusion. There are two clear suspect groups: the Agitators and your company.’

  She starts to react, stops herself.

  ‘My unit is in a position to infiltrate the Agitators, see where that leads. You need to sort your own house.’

  ‘We’re still in business then?’

  The Major doesn’t miss the inflection in her voice. Peta Paxton needs him. There’s more going on at Pax Fed than she’s telling and he needs to determine if she’s lying or being lied to. His team went in blind on Wednesday and he’s not letting that slide.

  ‘Only if you guarantee to give me any and all intel I ask for, and you leave me to run things at an operational level.’

  ‘Of course.’ There’s no consideration to her response. She’s telling him what he wants to hear; whatever it will take to keep him on board. This is what his career has come to: negotiating with rabbits who think they’re wolves.

  ‘You don’t come back out here until this is done—unless I ask to see you—and you don’t question my tactics or who I choose to use to infiltrate the Agitators. Agreed?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘Are we in agreement?’

  Peta Paxton’s lips tighten. She wants to argue, but they both know she’s already lost the advantage.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  14

  Jules feels the charge stir as soon as she steps out the front gate. She shakes out her arms and takes a deep breath, walks faster.

  ‘I told you,’ Angie says, catching up.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Jules—’

  ‘I’ll settle down once I’m there.’

  Jules has spent the past fifteen minutes arguing with Angie about accepting a shift at the Souk. Jules won. Or, more accurately, her mother backed down on the proviso Jules stays in the kitchen all day and Angie walks her to and from work.

  At least there are no camera crews in the streets. Accusations about the Agitators are all over the news but the media’s lost interest in Jules and Angie for the moment. Ruby—she of the ginger hair and jangly hoops—confirmed that Jules had a legitimate reason for being in the tower. The bigger news, though, was Peta Paxton breaking her silence yesterday to criticise the federal police for the lack of arrests despite questioning more than twenty protesters. None of it solves the issue of whether or not Jules was a target on Wednesday. If she still is.

  Jules tries not to think about it as she heads up the street.

  Ironically, the federal police surveillance Angie’s always complaining about is a reassurance today. For a start there’s no attempt to hide it, so either Nadira Khan is trying to rattle Angie or she wants it widely known the De Marchi house has eyes on it.

  This morning it’s the Kia people mover with the mismatched grey drivers panel parked opposite the Tamatoa house. The driver has the daily paper spread over the steering wheel, disposable cof
fee cup on the dash. He gives them a nod as Jules and Angie pass by. Angie gives him the finger.

  They continue up the street under the pale morning sky. There’s no sign of the storm promised for later in the afternoon. Jules and Angie turn the corner as a train flashes by, slowing for the station. They pass a group of Sudanese guys squatting and smoking under a gum tree outside the community health centre. Angie greets one of them by name and he gives her a toothy smile.

  Croydon Road is blocked off for the mid-week street market. The air is already sweet with barbecuing pork, grilled corn and fish balls. The Congolese guy who sells newspapers from his pushbike at the station sometimes talks about a time, a decade or so ago, when there were jobs and opportunities, even for people like him who had broken English. But then the shit really hit the fan in the Middle East, and the war that spilled in every direction sent everyone to the wall. After that, the government pulled back on spending and the corporates stepped in. Even the CCTV cameras on every corner of the market are privately funded now.

  Jules keeps her head down as they pass the top of the precinct, her fingertips itching. Too many unfamiliar faces on market day. Too many people more interested in her than they need to be. On the days she’s here before the crowds, she’ll walk the length of the produce stalls, asking about food she doesn’t recognise: giant spiky fruits, beans as long as her arm and weird root vegetables. All from market gardens and neighbourhood backyards. None of it touched by Paxton Federation.

  The Souk is on the next block. It’s not an actual souk, it’s a Middle Eastern supermarket/deli/kebab/pizza joint sandwiched between a Pacific Island grocery store and a second-hand bookstore. Azar, the Lebanese woman who owns the place, has an inexplicable soft spot for ‘troubled’ teens. The other kid who works at the Souk during the week did a stint in juvenile detention for a string of break and enters last year.

  Jules pushes through the heavy plastic strips and gives the store a quick scan. Two women pick through a mound of flatbread on the trestle in front of the yogurt fridge, their husbands sipping coffee. Another regular, a thin-lipped blonde with four nose rings and tattoo of a cat under her ear, is tapping the glass of the cabinet, pointing to the honey-soaked pastries she wants. Azar looks up from behind the counter, paper bag in one hand, tongs in the other.

  ‘You want coffee?’ she asks Angie, and nods for Jules to go straight to work. Jules tries to catch Angie’s attention to say goodbye but her mother’s busy asking Azar if she’s seen any reporters this morning.

  Jules ducks behind the counter and into the kitchen. Washes her hands, ties on an apron and gets busy chopping onions.

  Ten minutes later Angie’s gone, hands full with a bag of yesterday’s baklava. The urgency of the current eases almost as soon as the plastic strips slap back together. Jules lowers her guard a little and lets the steadier energy of the store slip around her, undemanding.

  There’s a constant stream of customers all morning. The Souk fills with aromas of chargrilled lamb and garlic; slow-roasted tomatoes and melted cheese. The air hums with chatter, most of it in English, occasional snatches of Arabic. Jules settles into a quiet rhythm, comfortable in the familiarity.

  It’s around midday when it changes.

  Jules is slicing tomatoes when she feels it: a stab of agitation. She glances up, sees a guy in a black T-shirt and jeans at the counter, cap pulled down low over unruly blondish hair. Three-day growth. He doesn’t look out of place, but his energy’s all wrong for the Souk. He picks up a menu and studies it, his face half-turned from her. She reaches for another tomato, absently positions it on the chopping board. There’s something familiar about him—

  He shifts his weight and looks right at her.

  Ryan.

  The current surges. Jules catches it a heartbeat before it leaves her, crushing the tomato with the effort it takes to reel it in. Ryan holds her gaze for a long second before his eyes drop back to the menu.

  He wasn’t surprised to see her here: he came looking.

  She picks at the pulpy mess on the chopping board. Has she made somebody else nervous? What about the other bloke—the driver who knows Angie—is he here?

  Jules wipes juice and tomato seeds from her fingers, tries to remember what she’s supposed to be doing. A quick glance—Ryan’s gone from the counter. She steps sideways so she can see around the chewing gum stand. He’s sitting at a table near the window, his back to the spice display. He cracks a bottle of water and takes a long drink. It’s only when he’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand that his eyes slide in her direction again—and away almost immediately.

  Azar brings over the docket for his order, pegs it to the twine strung across the bench and heads out to clear tables. Lamb, no onion. Jules has made hundreds of kebabs in the five months she’s worked here but right now her mind has gone blank. Focus. She slaps down the flatbread. Hummus, lamb, tomato, lettuce—no onion (who doesn’t have onion?)—tabouli, tzatziki. She puts the kebab under the press to warm it, takes a minute to steady her pulse. Alfoil. Plate. Serviettes. She stares down at the finished kebab for a second, heart racing.

  Why is he here?

  There’s only one way to find out. Jules picks up the plate as Azar comes around the counter.

  ‘I’ll take this one,’ Jules says.

  Azar frowns. ‘Your mother says you should stay in the kitchen today.’

  ‘I didn’t know Mum was in charge here.’

  Azar gives her a flat look. ‘Do you know that young man?’

  Jules shakes her head and moves past Azar before she loses her nerve, willing her hands to steady.

  Ryan watches her approach. He looks relaxed, arm resting on the back of the next chair, but Jules can feel from here how wired he is. She slides the plate across the table to him without breaking eye contact.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, like it’s no big deal he’s turned up at her work. Like he didn’t throw her in the back of a van six days ago. He sits forward and drags the kebab closer. ‘Thanks.’

  Jules presses her nails into her palms, grapples with the charge. ‘Everyone in here knows me.’ She keeps her voice low. ‘And there’s a CCTV camera right outside.’

  He blinks and then his eyes widen. ‘Bloody hell, I’m not here to hurt you.’ He looks around to see if anyone overheard. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because you said the Pax Attack was about you.’

  She keeps staring, her brain attempting to change gears. ‘That’s why you were there, wasn’t it—because of me?’

  ‘I had no idea that other stuff was going down.’ His energy pushes at her but it’s less agitated now. He picks up the kebab. ‘You make this?’

  Words desert her. What is he doing here?

  Ryan waits a beat and then peels back the foil and takes a huge bite. Hummus runs down his chin and he wipes it away with his thumb. Jules should get back to the kitchen, back behind the safety of the counter. There’s every chance Ryan is lying about not being here to hurt her. What would Angie do in this situation?

  It’s a no-brainer.

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  Ryan points at his full mouth. Shrugs.

  ‘Not Pax Fed and not Agitators,’ she prompts.

  He shakes his head, keeps chewing.

  ‘Cops? Feds?’

  Another headshake, but he’s watching her from under his cap like he’s trying to figure something out. His eyes are a darkish shade of amber. Unusual.

  ‘Why do I make people “nervous”?’

  He swallows his mouthful. ‘Ah…’cause you blow shit up?’

  ‘Ryan’—he seems startled when she says his name—‘why are you here?’

  He puts down the kebab, runs his tongue across his teeth, checking for food. ‘I told you.’

  ‘You weren’t concerned about me in that laneway.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  Jules thinks about how he acted in the back of that va
n, how he admitted he didn’t know where they were going.

  ‘The guy who was driving, he’s your boss?’

  Ryan considers the question. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you know that he and my mum go way back?’

  ‘Is that right?’ He grabs the kebab and takes another bite but can’t hide his surprise. Jules waits. He must want to know.

  ‘Good feed,’ he says, his mouth half-full. He uses the serviette to wipe his chin again as he chews. ‘What happened to the taser?’

  She looks out the window. There’s a marked cop car slowly passing by.

  ‘Did you toss it?’

  Jules catches Azar watching them as she rings up another order and doesn’t miss the look she gets. Jules moves to the next table and scoops up scraps of alfoil and paper left behind from the last customer. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened in the laneway. She’s a terrible liar.

  ‘De Marchi—’

  ‘We found the bug.’

  Ryan falters. ‘The what?’

  ‘That thing in the bag with my shoes. The bug, tracking device…whatever you call it.’

  He’s looking at her but his mind’s elsewhere. Did he not know about that either?

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘The feds have it.’

  Something vibrates under the table. Ryan pulls out a flexi-phone—the latest model, which surprises her. He snaps it flat to answer it. ‘What’s up?’

  Jules picks at scraps of lettuce next to his plate so she has an excuse to linger and listen.

  ‘The guy in the Kia?’ Ryan’s eyes flick to her. ‘Where?…Shit. Did he see you?…Okay. Be out in five.’

  ‘The feds are watching our place,’ Jules says as he disconnects. She’s trying to rattle him but he’s not fazed by the news.

  ‘It’s not only the cops. My mate saw the guy from—’

  He stops as the plastic strips smack in the doorway and two local beat cops walk in, vests on, handguns at their hips and radios strapped to their chests. The woman’s only been stationed locally for a month or so, but the younger one is Kyle, her date for that ill-fated formal.

  ‘Hey Julianne.’ He takes off his cap and roughs up short dark hair.