by Jon Cleary
“I might be,” said Seville, smiling. “But call me Michel. I told you, I’m Swiss.”
“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Pinjarri was a good-looking man in his late twenties with black curly hair and a complexion only slightly darker than an Arab’s: a white man had stayed some time, maybe only for a night, in the family bed. He had a broken nose, a relic of a year as a professional boxer, and the sad dark eyes of a born loser. Yet he could still smile and it was a pleasant one. “Sometimes I wish I could be something else. I’m a half-caste, half-educated, half fucking everything.”
Pinjarri hadn’t been self-pitying when Seville had last been here; things must be going badly for the black militant movement. “You wouldn’t feel at home with the Swiss. No one ever does. Perhaps that’s a better defence than an army.” Then he said, “I need a gun.”
Pinjarri made a clucking noise. “I always thought you’d have everything on hand. You said we were the fucking amateurs when you were here last time—” So he hadn’t forgotten. “You told us what a lot of shits we were—”
Seville was fluent in six languages and foul-mouthed in none of them; the obscenities grated on his ear. He was unconvinced that violent language achieved anything, except perhaps to help the speaker’s own macho image. In the mouths of women it struck him as just ugly comedy. He was a prude in many ways, except in the matter of killing.
“I need a gun,” he repeated quietly. “As soon as possible.”
Pinjarri stopped his abuse, looked at him curiously. “You gunna kill someone? Or ain’t I supposed to ask? Okay, forget I asked. What sorta gun? A Schmeisser, something like that? They’re not easy to get—”
Seville doubted if Pinjarri had ever seen a Schmeisser: he was just airing his knowledge of the catalogues. “I want a high-powered rifle, one with a telescopic sight. A Springfield or a Winchester or a Garand. What do your kangaroo-shooters use? I’ve seen them on television in those animal welfare propaganda films.” He could never understand why people should be so concerned with the slaughter of animals. “I need something reliable and I need it at once.”
“I been „roo-shooting meself. I used a Sako .270, it’s a Finnish job—”
“I know it.”
“How soon do you want it?”
“Tomorrow at noon?”
“Shit, I dunno . . . It’ll cost you.”
“How much?” He knew the price of a Sako: he had seen one in the window of one of the gun shops he had inspected: $800.
Pinjarri hesitated, then said almost pugnaciously, “Five thousand bucks.”
“That’s a lot for a gun. I don’t want to buy a battery of them.”
“Look, Mick, you know it ain’t just for the gun. Our movement’s in a fucking bad way—we need money any way we can make it . . .”
Seville smiled to himself. He thought of the money that was available to the PLO and the IRA. He had been in Beirut in 1982 when the Israelis had moved up into Lebanon; Rah Zaid, who knew of such things, had told him the PLO in four days had moved $400 million out of Lebanese banks into Switzerland. He felt tempted to bargain with Pinjarri, but the joke was too sour.
“Five thousand,” he agreed. “But only if you deliver it by tomorrow noon and not a word to anyone whom it’s intended for. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise what?” Pinjarri grinned. “You wouldn’t kill me, mate. I’m not worth anything.”
“So you wouldn’t be missed.”
The grin faded. “Okay, how will I get in touch with you?”
“I’ll phone you at eleven. Dismantle the gun, bring it in some sort of bag. And a box of ammunition.”
“I’m not a fucking nong,” said Pinjarri, trying to sound like a professional. But what had he ever done? Seville asked himself the question and imagined Pinjarri asking it, too. A few demonstrations, the blowing up of a power-line pylon erected on an Aboriginal sacred site . . . It was difficult to be militant in a country that ignored you. “You’ll have it, no worries, mate.”
“I trust you, Dallas.” He had never trusted anyone, but it was always easy to say it.
“Sure, sure.” Then: “You’re not here to have a crack at Timori, are you? That wasn’t you bumped off his sidekick last night, was it?”
Seville looked at him. “You know better than to ask that.”
It was a threat more than a statement and Pinjarri recognized it. “Sure, sure, forget it, forget I said it. But why didn’t they ask us to do it, it’s our territory? Okay, eleven o’clock tomorrow morning I’ll hear from you. Hooroo.”
And he was gone: Seville wondered if hooroo was an Aboriginal farewell. Australians at times spoke a language all their own. Once more he longed to be back home, speaking Spanish, being himself. Whoever that had been: he had forgotten.
He went back to the hotel in Rozelle, pushed through the drinkers standing on the pavement outside, went up the back stairs on the storm of rock music being blasted out of the main bar. The building seemed to shake with it: the world was being white-anted by decibels. He closed and locked the door of his bedroom and the noise came up at him through the floor.
He turned on the small television set that the pub-owner, being obliging, had lent him and watched a movie about some Australian soldiers in the Boer War in South Africa. History was repeating itself there, except that blacks were being killed instead of whites, and he wondered why the movie’s producers should have considered the subject worth while.
Then the movie was interrupted by a newsbreak: “Premier Vanderberg has just announced that the prime suspect in the killing of President Timori’s aide last night is Miguel Seville, international terrorist . . .”
He sat and stared at the small screen. The rock music came up through the floorboards and the tatty carpet like a rapid-fire barrage. He began to wonder how many people he would have to kill before the job was done and he could go home.
4
I
THE BICENTENNIAL celebrations were in full swing, building up to the climax of Australia Day only two days away. Flags flew everywhere; the city threatened to be airborne under the pull of fluttering bunting. Citizens walked around with bemused smiles, as if wondering how they had arrived at this anniversary: history is not comfortable if one has to wear it personally. The Lucky Country over the past year had begun to question its luck.
“Phil Norval must be questioning his luck,” said Malone. “Being landed with Timori just as he’s about to have his biggest shindig.”
“What about our luck?” said Kenthurst. “We’ve got to move him out of here by tonight. The PM wants Kirribilli House back for the big day on Tuesday,”
“Where are you taking him?” said Joe Nagler.
“We haven’t been told yet. We suggested we take him back up to Richmond, to the RAAF base—security would be much tighter there. But Madame vetoed that. I gather she wants to be somewhere around the harbour, so they can see all the celebrations.”
“What’s she got to celebrate?”
“Twenty-two million bucks, for one thing,” said Malone. “What are Customs doing about all that loot?”
“What can they do?” said Kenthurst. The Timoris didn’t declare it, sure. But none of it’s a prohibited import—they’ll have to pay sales tax on the gold and gems, but the currency’s okay. The rumour is that Customs want to grab the lot, but Canberra, or anyway Phil Norval, won’t be too happy about that.”
“He should pick his friends more carefully,” said Malone.
He and Russ Clements had come across to Kirribilli again this morning and were going over the murdered Miss Kiddle’s flat, hoping they might find something that had been missed on the night of the murder. The Forensic men had been here all day yesterday, searching every square foot of the building, and had come up with nothing. Malone, however, had decided to have a last look for himself. He and Clements had been in the flat only five minutes when they had been joined by Kenthurst and Nagler.
Russ Clements came through from the main bedroom. “Noth
ing, Scobie. He was a real pro, except for that print on the dunny button.”
“And leaving his gun behind,” said Malone. “That means if he wants another crack at our friends across the road he’s got to get another gun.”
“I checked all the gun shops yesterday morning—I’ve got a list of everyone who bought a rifle or a hand-piece.” Clements might look like an amiable, slow-thinking slob, but he was usually one or two steps ahead of those who under-estimated him. Malone glanced at Kenthurst, but the latter’s face showed no expression. “His best bet would be to buy one from some crim. But how would he know any?”
“I don’t think he’d try them,” said Malone. “Terrorists like him don’t have much time for the ordinary crim—every game has its snobs. No, I think he’d go looking for some mob of militants.”
When Lisa had been kidnapped in New York several years ago, Malone had had plenty of opportunity to study the terrorist mind. Since then he had kept up the study, certain that one day there would be terrorism in Australia just as there was in other countries. He knew that Joe Nagler agreed with him.
“We never had anything definite on him, but there was a rumour Seville was out here a couple of years ago.” Nagler looked diffident, an expression that didn’t sit well on him; Special Branch were not supposed to deal in rumours. They might inspect them, but never spread them. “That crowd who call themselves January Twenty-Six were supposed to have invited him. We talked to them, that guy Dallas Pinjarri and a couple of others, but we got nothing out of them. You know what a darky’s like when he doesn’t want to tell you anything.”
Nagler had his colour prejudice; Malone knew some whites who could be just as inscrutable as any darky. “Is Pinjarri still in town? He comes and goes. The last time I heard of him he was up in the bush, Moree or somewhere, doing a bit of stirring.”
“I could find out—”
“No, leave it.” Malone didn’t want Homicide pushed aside; this was still their case, two murder jobs. “Russ, how’d you go on the hotel check?”
“A blank so far. I’ve had the boys go through the guest list of every hotel and motel in the city and up as far as Chatswood. The trouble is, I can’t draw on the local stations. Every cop in Sydney seems to be on special duty for the bloody celebrations.” He had his own sense of priority, he would rather solve a murder than salute a flag. “Every hotel and motel is full, been booked out for months. He’d have had trouble getting in anywhere.”
“Unless he’s staying with some friends,” said Nagler. “Pinjarri or someone like that.”
“Maybe,” said Malone. “But we’ll keep checking the pubs. Try the ones that still keep two or three rooms open—they’ve got to do that under the licensing laws.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t suggest that,” said Clements. “That means every bloody pub within a radius of fifty miles.”
Malone looked at Nagler. “Do you have trouble with the bludgers in Special Branch, sergeants who never want to work?”
“I’m a sergeant,” said Nagler. “I bludge all the time.”
They all grinned, feeding on their sense of humour to keep them going. Malone led them down out of the building and across the road to Kirribilli House. The demonstrators were still behind the barriers further up the street, but they were quiet this morning; perhaps, thought Malone cynically, some of them had just come from church where they’d been praying for a better shot next time from the assassin. Police cars were parked on both sides of the street, but there were no Commonwealth cars. That meant Canberra had decided to take Sunday morning off, to leave the Timoris to their own devices. Of which, he thought, there would be many.
He stopped to be interviewed by two TV newsreel reporters and half a dozen radio and press reporters. He had nothing to report, he said, except that progress was being made.
“You’ve got a lead on the terrorist Seville?” said one of the TV reporters, a pretty girl who was dressed as if she had stopped by on her way to a barbecue or a yachting picnic. “Are you hoping for an early arrest?”
“Oh, we’re always hoping for an early arrest,” said Malone and grinned at one of the older press men standing in the background. That man knew the score and, an honest reporter, never expected too much of the police. “We’ll let you know when anything further turns up.”
“Are you getting any co-operation from the Timoris?” said the old reporter.
“Couldn’t ask for more, Greg,” said Malone and knew the reporter didn’t believe him. “I’m going in now to talk to them. A charming couple.”
Madame Timori, with all the charm of a Paluccan cobra, attacked him at once. “Back again, Inspector? We were told the case was to be closed. Poor Mr. Masutir—he would have hated all this fuss over him.”
She wiped a dry eye with her handkerchief. She was imperial, or liked to think of herself as such; exile had gone to her head, which had been newly set and blow-dried. She was still not beautiful, her eyes were too small and cold, even on this hot morning, but there are some men who rarely look above a woman’s shoulders. Malone was not one of them.
“How is the President this morning?”
“Still alive,” said Timori, coming into the drawing-room where they sat; or rather, where his wife sat and Malone stood. He was dressed all in white this morning and looked a little healthier, as if he might have slept well last night. “Have they buried Mr. Masutir yet?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.” Burials were not his province. They obviously were not Timori’s province, either, otherwise he would have known more about the disposal of his aide’s remains. He had brought thirty or forty here with him to Sydney, so maybe one wouldn’t be missed. It was hard to imagine that a man could be so callous, but then Malone had had no previous experience of dictators. “Mr. President, we’re still trying to find this man Seville. Do you think the generals back in Palucca would have employed him?”
“Why would they have done that? They have already got rid of me.”
“No, darling,” said Madame Timori. “I think Inspector Malone has a point. There is more to this than a simple coup d’état.”
“I never thought coups d’état were simple,” said Malone, making a good imitation of her pronunciation; foreign phrases usually clung to his tongue.
“Neither they are,” said Timori, who seemed amused that his wife and Malone did not get on well together. “I have more enemies than I thought. Inspector. Not all of them back in Palucca.”
Malone took a risk: “What do you mean by that, sir?”
Timori smiled at him. “You’d never be a diplomat, would you, Inspector?”
“I’ve been told that several times. But as far as I know, diplomacy never solved a murder case.”
There was a flash of anger in the dark eyes, but it was gone in a moment. It suddenly struck Malone that Timori was too defeated to worry about insolence, even if unintended, from some minor policeman. The man had been accustomed to power for so long that he was naked and afraid without it. Power corrupts . . . Malone had heard it somewhere (Hackton? Acton? Someone had said it once): but it also sustained. He had seen it amongst politicians and amongst criminals. Timori was both and now he had lost what had been his strength.
Then his other strength spoke up; she said, “We can do without your insolence, Inspector. That will be all.”
Malone looked at her, then back at Timori. “All I’m doing, Mr. President, is trying to catch Seville before he makes another attempt on your life.”
“I think I have enough protection,” said Timori. “Your Federal police, your Special Branch . . . Let Mr. Masutir rest in peace.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, sir. It’s his murderer I’m after.”
He nodded to both of them, turned sharply and went out of the room and the house. As he came out the front door he almost bumped into Sun Lee.
“Mr. Sun,” he said without any lead-up, “who, back in Palucca, would profit by having the President killed?”
Sun gasped softly, as if the
question had been a punch. “I don’t know, Inspector. Perhaps a hundred people-some might do it for—” he hesitated, as if to say the word was traitorous “—for revenge.”
“If they’d do it for revenge, why employ an international terrorist? There must be plenty of professional killers in Palucca.”
“Paluccans are gentle people, Inspector,” said Sun. “Or how else would I, a Chinese, have survived amongst them? You don’t know much about Asians, do you?”
Malone realized he had blundered: this was not a good morning. “It could be someone who is not a Paluccan who hired Seville.”
There was just the faintest flicker of Sun’s eyes. “You mean a Chinese, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. Or Americans or Englishmen or Dutch or even Indonesians.”
“Or Australians?” said Sun, smiling. “There were Australians in business in Palucca. Many of them.”
“Really?” Malone had thought there was only one. “How’s your memory? I’d like a list of them.”
“My memory is very bad, Inspector.”
“Give it a try, Mr. Sun. Maybe another shot from Mr. Seville will give it a jolt.”
Oh mate, you’re really giving it to them this morning. In a bad mood at his own heavy manner, he jerked his head at Russ Clements, who stood in the shade of a tree over by the wall, his jacket off, a button on his shirt undone over his bulging stomach, his tie loosened.
“You look like a slob,” said Malone as he led the way towards the gates.
“This was supposed to be my day off,” said Clements, not yet attuned to Malone’s mood. “I was gunna spend it out at Bondi, floating around down at the southern end and admiring all the bare boobs. Instead . . .”
“Instead,” said Malone, “we’re going into Redfern.”
“Redfern? Oh Jesus. Why can’t the Abos live beside the sea?”
“They used to, until fellers like you and all the bare-boobed sheilas came along and took it away from them.”
Clements looked at him. “Sorry. I’d forgotten you used to be on their side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” said Malone wearily. Except perhaps that of law and order, but it would sound priggish to say it. He had the Australian fear of being explicit about the verities. One could be demonstrative about a sporting win, could shed tears at winning an Olympic gold medal but never about principles. You were certainly never expected to shed any tears over the Abos, not in the Police Department. Russ Clements was not a racist, just coloured in his views. “Let’s go and find Dallas Pinjarri.”