by Berry, Tony
Delia kicked back her chair and stood up, hands pressing hard into her hips. She narrowed the gap between them with two quick steps. Steve slid off the desk to stand and face her, leaning back from her tirade.
‘You are fast getting out of line, agent Maloney!’ she barked.
Her rebuke rocked him. He took the formal mode of address as a reprimand, one step away from an official warning. Team harmony was normally so good that such stiff language was rarely used. Delia gestured towards the computer.
‘If you’d studied the reports in there you would’ve seen his two assailants have been persons of interest to us for some time. They were already under surveillance when we got the call that Mr Perkins was going to his apartment, despite being told not to.’
She paused and gathered breath.
‘All this would be quite clear if you had your mind on the job instead of on Anya Britt.’
Steve felt the barb hit home. He realised immediately it had been a mistake to be swayed by office gossip; to let it fester into a malignant belief that his superior would allow her decisions to be influenced by a liaison with someone outside their own close-knit community. They all had their dalliances and peccadilloes and they were well aware they were being observed and checked from the moment they joined this elite undercover offshoot of the main game. There was no more telling proof of this than Delia’s comment about lusting after Anya. It was time to feast on humble pie. His body slumped. He shrugged, arms spread wide, contrite and in retreat.
‘Sorry boss; guess I was out of order.’
‘And then some!’ snapped Delia, her anger still close to the surface. ‘If you can get your mind back above your belt you’d better have a look at this.’
She pointed to the computer screen and signalled him to come closer as she scrolled down through the images and text.
‘Thanks to Bromo Perkins’ involvement and the information he has provided, we can now roll two investigations into one,’ she said. ‘These two thugs are apparently involved in much more than we realised. Their attacks are far from random and they are working to orders.’
Steve bent forward and concentrated on the screen, twice using the mouse to click through to a link and back again. After a while he stood upright. He flexed his shoulders and massaged the back of his neck.
‘And Perkins gave you all this?’ he said.
‘Much of it.’
‘Hmm, he seems to know what he’s doing.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
Steve noted it was said with a half-smile. The storm seemed to have abated. Perhaps there was more business than pleasure involved in her relationship with Perkins; more arms’ length than arms entwined. So much for water-cooler chatter. He took another look at the computer screen and voiced his thoughts out loud.
‘So Perkins has done more than confirm our belief these thugs are linked to Global.’
Delia nodded.
‘He tells me he has someone prepared to give a sworn statement that will also link them to the murder of one of their Global co-workers, a certain Fazal Ibrahim Bundy. Seems he was knocked off on the orders of their boss.’
Steve leaned forward towards the computer and scrolled up and down through the pages of the report. What he wanted wasn’t there. His earlier suspicions returned to nag at him and he fought to stifle another outburst about her collusion with Bromo. He worked at keeping calm.
‘It’s not mentioned,’ he said. ‘No record of it.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Record of arrests. Charge sheets. Witness statements. Details of this supposed murder of this mysterious Fazal Bundy. Anything.’
He could hear the growing exasperation in his voice as he tapped away at the computer, filling in keywords, expanding his search patterns. The lack of information was alarming. Always he had trusted her judgment, never doubted her commitment to their activities or her support for every member of the team. Now, he couldn’t stop the alarm bells ringing in his head. The seeds of suspicion sown by office gossip about her close ties to Bromo Perkins were swelling like a fast-growing weed that had to be pulled and eradicated.
He rolled the chair rapidly away from the desk and stood to confront her, his long lean frame extending a full head-height above her. He clenched his hands in front of him as he fought to control the vexation within. He looked for all the world as if he was about to lash out.
‘Stop right there.’
Delia’s command came through tightly gritted teeth, her mouth set in a thin, firm line of determination.
‘I thought we’d settled all this five minutes ago,’ she said.
She took two paces forward, invading his space. She stabbed two fingers at his chest, stopping just short of contact. Workplace rules prevailed even here and he stood his ground. Her eyes blazed fury as she punctuated her words with further finger jabs.
‘This is your last warning, Steve. We exist and work here on total trust. If you can’t give me that, you can go and join the plods if they can find a uniform to fit you. If you have questions or concerns, come and ask. Don’t go rampaging through the files making false accusations and snide remarks.’
She paused, fired a final glare at him and turned away. He took deep breaths in and out, forcing his entire system to relax. He unclenched his fists and rubbed his knuckles. Maybe she had a point; she was certainly making it with all the searing force of one of Melbourne’s fierce summer northerlies. He had never seen her so cranked up in all the time they had worked together. She was noted for her cool determination and icy control of any situation; she weighed the consequences and assessed the risks. Gradually reason overcame his suspicion; there had to be valid reasons for the omissions he had noted. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and rested his backside on the edge of the desk, legs stuck out in front of him.
‘Would a “sorry” help?’
‘It would do no harm.’
‘And if I asked nicely for an explanation, would I get my head bitten off?’
Delia squeezed out a brief encouraging smile.
‘Not entirely … but you might get a few nasty bites if you keep doubting my word.’
She spun her office chair a quarter circle away from the desk and sat facing him.
‘The reason there is nothing on the files about Fazal Bundy is because I am still awaiting confirmation. He has not been reported missing. No one has found a body. The only suggestion that he has been killed and disposed of has come from Bromo Perkins. And he’s being his usual bloody-minded self.’
Steve put the brakes on a resurfacing exasperation. Gentle probing seemed the way to go.
‘So maybe we should pull him in and …’
He let the sentence hang. Delia could add her own ending.
‘It’s not quite like that,’ she said.
‘I assumed as much. Could it be that he’s one of us?’
Delia shrugged.
‘Sort of. He is, in a way. And he isn’t.’
‘Well if you don’t know, who does? You seem to be the closest to him.’
He saw her tense as he uttered his snipe at her relationship and wished he could cancel his words. Delia flashed a dark look at him and there was an anxious pause. She let the comment pass.
‘Only his Pommy masters know his status and they’re telling us nothing. It seems there was a big falling out over an incident in Bulgaria some years back and he ended up here.’
‘Dismissed? Put out to grass? A mole? A sleeper? What?’
Delia showed her open palms in a gesture of hopelessness.
‘Sorry, Steve, I really have told you all I know. The one sure thing is that they’ll never let him fully off the leash and no doubt someone’s keeping tabs on where he is and what he’s doing. He was certainly shadowed during his recent jaunt back to England.’
Steve let his annoyance show.
‘And that allows him to withhold vital information and hold our operations to ransom.’
Delia
stood up and made pretence of tidying papers on her desk. The criticism implied in Steve’s words rankled. He was right to question her actions – and her motives.
‘It does … for now,’ she said. She lowered her voice. It took on a confessional tone. She needed the trust and support of her right-hand man. It was one thing to make decisions as the unit chief when all the options were out in the open but quite another to base them on guesswork and the word of a maverick operator whose body she had rather enjoyed. She smiled at the memory and raised her head from the desk to face Steve.
‘Bromo wants to make a deal,’ she said softly. ‘He is demanding guarantees and assurances. In return, he’ll give us what we want. He’ll confirm Bundy’s killers and give us the links we need to eradicate this end of this bloody awful diamond trade.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Maybe later tonight. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘And you’re happy with that?
‘Not entirely, but I don’t think we have any alternative if we are going to wrap this whole thing up. And he did make the point that he has closer ties with the Sri Lankans and better knowledge of what they’re up to than anything you and Anya have been able to give us.’
Steve accepted the subtle reprimand. Just as reluctantly, he recognised there could well be much to be gained if Delia met Bromo’s demands and the awkward bastard kept his word. He levered himself off the desk and stepped towards the door.
‘So that’s it then; we sit and wait?’
‘And get a good night’s sleep,’ said Delia. ‘I need everyone fit and ready to move.’
Steve detected the relief in her voice; their rift seemed to have been healed, all tension evaporated. He pushed down on the handle and opened the door, more relaxed than he had felt for an hour. It was good to be back on side with the boss. She called him back as he stepped out into the main office. There was a wicked smile on her face.
‘By the way, Steve, the rumours are true: I did fuck him … and it was bloody fantastic.’
FORTY
THE great dimmer switch in the sky was slowly being turned as Bromo walked warily through the quiet early morning streets. A soft pink blush had started to lighten the blue-black sky over towards the Dandenong Ranges. It became red tinged with yellow and streaked with wisps of thin cloud as he took a winding route through Richmond’s narrow back ways. The transformation from night to day continued with every step he took; a relentless transition from the dark that shielded him to the light that set his nerves on high alert.
He spun round and stepped rapidly sideways as he heard a whoosh and a dull thump behind him. A weasely thin youth with long strands of hair rag-tailing out from beneath a baseball cap pedalled past on a rickety old bike. The wire mesh basket on his handlebars was crammed with rolled-up newspapers.
‘Sorry mate, didn’t mean to scare you,’ smirked the youth, betraying the sincerity of his words. He cycled on, nonchalantly throwing newspapers over hedges and walls. A woman clutching a fluffy white dressing gown around her stood in a gateway, waiting. She brushed a mass of silver and white hair back off her pale early morning face and snatched one of the rolls from the newsboy’s basket.
‘I’ll take that before you do any more damage,’ she said. ‘You’re a lousy bloody shot.’
The lad cycled on, hurling a couple of swearwords back over his shoulder at the disgruntled woman. Bromo walked past and gave her a nod.
‘He knocked all my pot plants off the veranda yesterday,’ the woman grumbled.
‘What you’d call taking a pot shot,’ smiled Bromo and ambled on.
As he reached Liz Shapcott’s walled-in house he realised he had left without taking a key. He looked at his watch and at the brightening sky and decided it was not too early for her to be up and about. Hell, she was always prattling on about being an early morning person and carping at his own slow and curmudgeonly approach to the day. He pressed the entry buzzer and hoped. Her voice came through the intercom, loud and clear.
‘If that’s who I think it is, you’ll have to wait until I get dressed.’
‘If this is who you think it is, there’s no need to bother,’ Bromo replied. He smiled to himself and pushed his luck. ‘Come as you are.’
She laughed.
‘Fat chance. Serves you right for not telling me where you were going and not taking a key.’
Bromo heard the click of her hanging up. He took a cautious look up and down the small street. It was now almost fully daylight. Some remote mechanism had switched off the street lights. He could hear the steady thrum of traffic on nearby main roads as the commuter crawl began. There would soon be people passing by and he felt exposed and uneasy. He needed to be inside, out of sight. His ear began throbbing and he put a hand up to scratch it as he heard a noise on the other side of the gate and the sliding of the bolt. Liz poked her head out.
‘Getting anxious are we?’
He let his hand drop from his ear and stepped through the narrow gap. She tilted her head to let him kiss her lightly on the cheek.
‘Don’t want Neighbourhood Watch to start raising alarms,’ he said. ‘I’ve got enough people checking me out without their interference.’
‘They mean well.’
‘That was Osama Bin Laden’s excuse too.’
They walked through into the big utility room, Liz keeping her arms crossed low in front of her over a gown of dark red silk that gaped open wide and low at the neck. Bromo stole an appraising look as she stepped across to the workbench.
‘You call that getting dressed?’
She turned her head and gave him a half smile.
‘I didn’t want to keep you waiting.’
‘But you do.’
He had no idea of her reaction; she had her back to him and was busying herself with crockery and utensils.
‘Coffee?’
‘Of course. What else?’
‘How about an explanation of where you’ve been most of the night.’
Bromo stretched out on the settee, hands clasped behind his head, legs extended. He felt the tension ebbing; Liz tended to have that effect. Here he felt as comfortable as he ever could outside of his own lair. He waited for the noise of the espresso machine to stop.
‘Things are happening,’ he said.
Liz walked over and placed a glass of coffee, deep black with thick crema, on the low table beside him. Her gown gaped open and the glimpses it allowed told him she was wearing little beneath it. Less than an arm’s length away. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Such a tease, such a temptation; when would they stop playing these games he wondered. She stood up and gave him that winsome smile. She tucked in the folds of the gown; the peep show was over. Her look turned serious.
‘Is that all you can say?’
Bromo sipped his coffee and marshalled his thoughts. The old need-to-know dilemma had risen again. He wanted her support and input but not to involve her in anything that would put her in physical danger or harm her professionally. He played for time.
‘There’s still a few things to slot into place.’
‘And then?’
He lifted his glass and took a sip, playing for time, running through his inner debate.
‘And then all hell breaks loose.’
She slumped down on the settee alongside him and folded her arms tight beneath her breasts, shoulders bent forward. He gauged her mood as somewhere between despair and annoyance. She looked at the floor as she spoke.
‘I suppose that’s your way of telling me I’ll have to get the first-aid kit out or get ready to call the ambos. Why can’t you just walk away and let the others sort themselves out? You’ve been out of the business too long to keep turning your body into a punching bag like this.’
He managed a rueful grin.
‘Sorry Liz. I didn’t know you cared.’
Her response startled him. She thumped her hands, fingers spread wide, hard down on either side of her. She did it again – and again. Then suddenly stood up as
if propelled by the force of her movements and stormed off in the direction of the staircase.
‘Bloody men!’ she yelled. ‘Bloody, bloody men! When will you ever understand?’
The next moment she was gone. Bromo could hear her stomping around in the bedroom above and decided the best reaction would be to do nothing; say nothing. He sat hunched forward for a few moments before patting his pockets to find his mobile phone. He pulled it out along with a scrap of paper that he unfolded to read off a number that he tapped into his phone.
The long wait for a response was worrying. When it came, he understood the delay. Fokisi’s voice was sleep-laden and gruff; mornings were hell for night-workers.
‘Sorry,’ said Bromo. ‘Didn’t realise the time.’
Fokisi grunted.
‘Neither did I. Gotta get up.’
‘Any news?’
‘Give us a break. I told you I’d call.’
Bromo was in no mood for leniency. He could keep Delia dangling for only so long. And Dayani, too. He felt hemmed in by jittery, impatient women. And Liz was still banging around overhead. Fokisi had to be kept under pressure.
‘We’re running out of time,’ he warned the Tongan. ‘And so are you. Don’t forget, I’ve got the immigration department on speed dial.’
He cut the call and stretched out full length on the settee. He looked up at the ceiling; the banging had stopped and the only sounds seemed peacefully normal. He needed sleep and let his eyelids droop. He focused inward and thought of Liz and her dark red gown.
FORTY-ONE
NATALIE Cordoza flung open the staff entrance door and stormed down the corridor towards her glass-panelled office. Her voice bounced off the walls.
‘Where’s that bloody useless Tongan? Tell him I want him in my office. Now.’
Startled heads were raised among the half dozen people sitting at desks and staring almost trance-like at the computers in front of them. Briefly they looked up, stretching for a glimpse of Natalie stomping past. They were like meerkats in the dunes – alert and anxious and prepared for flight. But there was nowhere to run. Natalie had them all in her sight and they all knew one wrong move would see a fresh load of invective fired in their direction.