Dragons at the Party

by Jon Cleary

  Mrs. Brigham did that, but the car up ahead of her, an old model purple Holden, did not move over. A bare tattooed arm came out of the driver’s side and the white Ford got a two-fingered salute. Despite their predicament Malone had to grin.

  “You’d better be patient, Seville. I’ve been driving for twenty-five years and no Aussie driver has ever pulled over for me yet.”

  Seville had sat forward as if he intended to fire a shot at the car ahead. He looked at Malone, then he nodded and sat back. He looked slightly less cool than he had back in the hotel hallway. He was wearing grey slacks, a navy-blue blazer and a plain blue shirt; the front of the shirt suddenly showed sweat stains, but he made no effort to loosen the tie he wore. But he did say, “Turn on the air-conditioning, Mrs. Brigham.”

  She did so, her nervous fingers switching it on full blast. She fiddled with it again, conscious of Seville watching her suspiciously, then the unit settled down. She went back to steering, keeping close on the tail of the Holden in front.

  “You’re a nation of fools, Inspector,” said Seville.

  “Because we’re road-hogs? Or because we took in the Timoris?”

  “Keep your eye on the road, Mrs. Brigham!” The landlady had looked at them in the driving-mirror. “No, Inspector, you’re just fools in general. I’ll be glad to leave here.”

  “You think you’ll get away?”

  “I think so. I have before—not from you but from much better police forces.” Then he snapped at Mrs. Brigham: “Why are you slowing down?”

  She had taken her foot off the accelerator. “There’s a red light up ahead.”

  “Swing over the dividing strip. Go on—swing over! Go through the light!”

  Mrs. Brigham hesitated, glanced at Malone in the driving-mirror. He nodded, braced himself for the bump as she swung the car up over the concrete dividing strip on to the wrong side of the road. There was no sign of any oncoming traffic; the cars coming the other way were halted at the traffic lights. Then a car came round the corner on the green light. Malone flinched, leaning in against his seat-belt as the two cars somehow managed to avoid crashing head-on; they scraped against each other, but Mrs. Brigham kept the Ford going straight ahead. They went across the intersection right under the nose of a tourist coach and then swung back on to the correct side of the road with a clear path ahead of them.

  Malone felt the sweat break on him and he let out a loud gasp. If there was a TV news helicopter following them and Maureen saw this tonight, he could already hear her cry: “Great! Just like Miami Vice!” Except that he might not be there to hear her say it.

  “I can’t go on!” Mrs. Brigham was trembling and the car was starting to slow.

  “You had better keep going, Mrs. Brigham.” Seville put the gun against Malone’s neck; the latter noticed he had been smart enough not to put it against the landlady’s. He had also noticed it was a short-barrel Smith and Wesson and he guessed it was the one that had been missing last night from the holster of the murdered policeman. “If you don’t, I’ll kill Inspector Malone. Just steady yourself and keep going.”

  Somehow Mrs. Brigham regained control of herself. Malone could only catch glimpses of her in the driving-mirror; she seemed to be all terrified eyes. The sides and back of her grey head were dark with sweat and he could see her skin shining with it above the low-backed sun-dress she wore. He knew he was helpless to overcome Seville, but he determined he would do his best to see that nothing happened to the woman.

  He wanted to lean back and look up through the rear window to see if any police helicopter was following them; he knew that Russ Clements would have called for aerial surveillance as soon as the big Ford had swung out of the side street into the main road. But if he tried to catch sight of the helicopter, if it was there above them, it would only alert Seville to their being followed. Malone knew, and Seville probably did too, that they were being followed; somewhere back in the traffic the police cars would have taken up the chase. But to protect Malone and the landlady they would be keeping well back out of sight, guided only by the helicopter.

  They went through two more red lights, horn blasting, missing one car only by inches. Then they were on the Western Distributor, speeding along the expressway above the Darling Harbour complex; below them Malone could see the beginning of the holiday crowd amongst the markets and diversions down there. The business district of the city loomed up ahead of them.

  “Which way?” Mrs. Brigham said. She seemed a little calmer now, as if, having got this far safely, she felt she would survive.

  “Up into the city.”

  Mrs. Brigham curved the car right off the expressway and up into Market Street. At the first traffic lights Seville suddenly said, “Left!” and she swung the car abruptly into Kent Street.

  Malone was watching the terrorist. There was tension now in the olive-skinned face under the blond hair. He had taken off his steel-rimmed spectacles; he looked younger and a little vulnerable without them. But Malone knew the vulnerability was an illusion. This man had not survived so long on luck. He was formidable and dangerous and, though he might be worried now, he was not going to crack.

  Malone glanced at the combination-lock brief-case on the seat between them, wondering if he could snatch it and throw it at Seville before the latter could shoot either him or Mrs. Brigham; then he decided against such an action: he was not going to risk the landlady’s life. He wondered what was in the brief-case. Another gun? Explosives?

  “Did you get a gun from Dallas Pinjarri?” he said.

  “Has he said he gave me one?” That was a slip and Malone saw that Seville knew it was; there was a momentary twitch of the full-lipped mouth. “Who is Mr.—Pinjarri, did you say?”

  “You know him, Seville. He’ll tell us eventually if he gave you a gun.”

  “You torture prisoners? Just like they used to do in Argentina?” He was too loose in his talk; he was nervous and angry because of it. He glanced up ahead, then sat up straight. “In there—follow that car into the parking station!”

  Mrs. Brigham slowed the car, swung into the Kent Street parking station. A blue Honda Accord was going in ahead of them. It pulled up at the barrier, the driver leaned out and took a ticket and then the car climbed the ramp to the upper floors. Mrs. Brigham took a ticket and followed the Honda. She was driving steadily now, but Malone could see that she could not last much longer. After this the drunks and hooligans in her pub would be no threat at all.

  The Honda swung into a vacant space on the second floor. “Pull up!” said Seville.

  Mrs. Brigham jerked the Ford to a halt. Seville sat a moment till a man and a woman got out of the Honda, then he picked up his brief-case, opened the door and slid out, the gun still on Malone. He spoke to Mrs. Brigham without looking at her.

  “Drive on up to the top floor—don’t stop! If you do, I’ll shoot those people over there by that car. Goodbye, Inspector.”

  Malone made his own slip; he could not resist it: “We’ll get you, Seville!”

  The gun came up, was pointed straight at his face. He shut his eyes, knowing he was going to get the bullet right between them; he was suddenly sick and deathly afraid. There was a loud bang and he flinched, almost fainting. But nothing hit him; it was the car door being slammed. He opened his eyes and saw Seville, smiling, backing off.

  Mrs. Brigham sent the Ford up the ramp ahead of them, tyres squealing as she drove too fast. Malone looked back through the rear window and saw Seville walk across to the two people standing transfixed by the blue Honda and raise his gun. Then the Ford had gone round a curve in the ramp and Mrs. Brigham suddenly fell forward on to the steering-wheel. Fortunately her foot had slipped off the accelerator. The car lurched to one side, hit a row of parked cars, bounced back to the other side and hit the cars there, then slewed round and crashed into a pillar.

  Malone, bruised and chafed, dazed and sick in the pit of his stomach, undid his seat-belt. He reached over and gently lifted Mrs. Brigham’s head f
rom the steering-wheel. There was blood on her face, but she was breathing. Then he felt a terrible rage building up inside him and he knew that, sooner or later, unless he was stopped, he was going to kill Miguel Seville.

  II

  “So you lost him again,” said Commissioner Leeds.

  “We never had him, sir. He had us, me and Mrs. Brigham.” But Malone knew that the Commissioner was right.

  “Scobie, let’s face it, he’s made a laughing-stock of us. What do you think, Harry?”

  Chief Superintendent Danforth was a member of the old school, a Thumper Murphy in plainclothes. He had risen on seniority, not merit, and he was constantly afraid of being made to look foolish by the younger, better educated men under him. He did not like Malone, whom he thought of as a smart-arse, though a quiet one; but he knew that the Commissioner had the highest regard for Malone, so he was not going to make waves. He shifted his bulk in his chair, ran a beefy hand over his short-back-and-sides and lifted his face to the ceiling as if thinking. He had never been a thoughtful man, but since his position now called for little action he had had to find a substitute for it. So he was always running his hand over his head and looking at the ceiling.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said at last.

  Leeds hid his irritation, looked at Assistant Commissioner Zanuch. “Bill?”

  Zanuch was a tall handsome man, always as well dressed as Leeds, a self-nominated ladies’ man whose chosen duty was to make up for the male chauvinism of most policemen. He was vain, ambitious and everyone tipped him as Leeds’ successor. He had also been a brilliant investigator in the field that had been his speciality, fraud. He knew nothing about homicide or terrorism, but ignorance of a subject had never deterred him. He had supreme confidence in his ability to be knowledgeable about any subject in the minimum of time. He was known in the Department as the Speed Reader.

  “I think I should take charge, John. This case is too big now for the usual set-up. Harry can work under me.”

  Malone sat quiet, feeling himself being shoved out of the room and off the case. He could feel the resentment growing in him, but now was no time to be blunt. Leeds sensed his mood and glanced at him.

  “Do you want to be taken off it?”

  “No, sir.” Malone had to stop himself from snapping the answer.

  “Your record’s not good on this one up till now,” said Zanuch, and Danforth nodded almost too emphatically. “You’ve let Seville get away twice.”

  We’ve already made that point. “Yes, sir. But I don’t think any of us have come up against a feller like this one. He’s the coolest I’ve ever come across.”

  “He’s certainly that,” said Leeds; and Malone was relieved to see that the Commissioner was still on his side. “When he took that Honda from those two people, he took not only the car keys but the parking ticket. Then he drove down to the exit barrier, paid the attendant and just out and away. You’d have expected him to tear down the ramp and crash his way through the barrier.”

  “I still don’t understand why the chopper didn’t pick him up when he came out of the parking station,” said Danforth, feeling he had to contribute something.

  “I’ve seen the preliminary report,” said Zanuch, who would have read it in five seconds flat. “The chopper was looking for a white Ford. The blue Honda came out on the heels of another car, a fawn one that they didn’t identify in the report. They watched the fawn car go up King Street, but the Honda just kept going right along Kent Street towards the Bridge. They lost it because they were still waiting for the Ford to come out of the parking station. Or for Seville to come out on foot.”

  “How’s the woman, Mrs. Brigham?” Leeds said.

  “She’s okay,” said Malone. “She fainted when Seville left us, but she came round pretty quickly. She may not sleep for a night or two.”

  “Her husband all right?”

  “Concussed, but that’s all.”

  “Have you talked to your wife?”

  “Yes, sir. She heard about it on the radio—they were on the air as soon as Seville put me and Mrs. Brigham in the car. They didn’t mention my name, but my wife knew who was in the car.”

  He had spoken to Lisa as soon as he had been brought here to Administration Headquarters. Clements and the other police, guided by the police helicopter, had arrived at the parking station less than two minutes after the white Ford had disappeared into it; the police convoy had come into Kent Street as Seville in the blue Honda had driven out of the far end of it. The SWOS men had been the first up the ramp, but by then Malone was out of the Ford and helping the recovered Mrs. Brigham out of the car. Clements had appeared immediately behind the SWOS men, out of breath, all anger and worry.

  “Jesus! Scobie—are you all right? Where is the bastard?”

  He had looked on the point of having a stroke and Malone had put a hand on his arm to quieten him. “I’m okay, Russ. Get someone to look after Mrs. Brigham—she’s still pretty shaky. Get an ambulance up here.”

  “I don’t want an ambulance! Just get me home, so’s I can see how my husband is!” She was ready for the drunks and louts again; but Malone could see that, behind the determination to be herself again, there was still fear and shock. “Just get me home, please!”

  Andy Graham had come up and taken her away. Then Clements had looked at Malone. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “No, I’m not—but keep it to yourself. I was scared. He’d have killed us, Russ, if you’d got too close.”

  Clements nodded. “I guessed that. I had a bit of trouble holding some of our guys back, especially that SWOS sergeant. I called for the chopper and they were on the job before you’d reached Pyrmont. They were already in the air, watching traffic out on the harbour . . . Where did the bastard go?”

  Five minutes later Andy Graham came up the ramp again. “You’re wanted at the Commissioner’s office, Inspector.”

  “Oh shit,” said Clements.

  “I think I’m going to be in it,” said Malone.

  But when he reached Admin Headquarters in College Street he did not immediately go up to the Commissioner’s office. A sympathetic sergeant took him into an office, gestured at the phone on a desk, went out and closed the door behind him.

  Lisa must have been standing by the phone waiting for him to call. “Oh God, you’re all right? Truly?” She sounded on the point of breaking down, but he knew that wouldn’t happen, not if the children were with her. They were: “Okay, kids, outside! Out in the pool. It’s Daddy.”

  “Is he going to be on TV again tonight?” That was Maureen, faint in the background but with her priorities right.

  “Oh, I’ll be there all right, if in name only.”

  “What?” Lisa had turned away to shout again at the children. Then she came back on the line, her voice soft, the edges of it fretted with the fear she had felt over the last hour. “I tried not to listen—they were broadcasting it as if it were some sort of road race—they didn’t say your name, but I knew it was you—a senior police officer—”

  “Easy, darling. I’m okay—really. It was worse for the woman I was with—she didn’t know whether her husband was dead or alive—”

  “I know how she felt.” Then she laughed; but he felt it was an effort, not any mirth she felt. “You have a knack of saying the right thing—you can really put a girl at ease—”

  “Sorry.” But he laughed, though it was an effort for him, too. He could imagine her anguish of the past hour and he felt a tremendous guilt that he had brought it on her. They never mentioned guilt at the police academy; that was something for the crims to feel. They taught you duty, responsibility to the community, even self-preservation; how you felt about your family in relation to these priorities was, well, a family problem. If something happened to you, certainly they did something for the family: sympathy, the official funeral with all the trappings, the support afterwards. But it was all too late then . . . “I can’t promise, but if I can get home by seven, I’ll take you
all out to dinner tonight. Book a table for seven-thirty at Eliza’s.” He’d show her that her father wasn’t the only one with money to splash around.

  “Eliza’s?” She laughed again; this time it sounded more like the old Lisa. “He did whack you, didn’t he? You’re light-headed—”

  “I’ll call you at six-thirty, let you know how I’m going.”

  “Come home now, tell them to shove their murders and Mr. Seville, too.”

  “I wish I could. The Commissioner is waiting for me upstairs. I love you.”

  He hung up and stood staring at the wall in front of him. When his eyes focused he saw he was gazing at an old traffic safety campaign poster: Take It Easy. He would try, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Now he was in the Commissioner’s office listening to Bill Zanuch tell it how it was going to be: “Situation-wise, we have to establish the impression that we are still in command. We have a crime situation that is unprecedented in this country . . .”

  Christ, thought Malone, why don’t I just retire here and now? Then in his mind’s eye he saw Seville sitting next to him on the rear seat of the big Ford, saw the arrogant challenge in the cool stare of the man and he knew he could not retire, or even retreat, till he saw that face again, either dead or cowed by capture. He would have to put up with Assistant Commissioner Zanuch and Chief Superintendent Danforth. He glanced covertly at Commissioner Leeds and the latter caught his eye, seemed to read what was in his mind.

  “Inspector Malone,” Leeds said, interrupting Zanuch’s flow, “will still be in charge of the legwork.”

  “I think he should be relieved,” said Danforth, shifting his bulk again; he was one of those big, overweight men whose bones somehow seem to discomfort them even through all the flesh. “He’s had enough. I’ll put someone fresh on it—”

  “No.” Leeds’ voice had a clipped rasp to it. “Inspector Malone stays on it. He has a score to settle, I think.”

  Danforth looked at Malone as if he had a score to settle, then back at the Commissioner. “Of course. A good incentive—I’d feel the same way myself . . .” If he did, it would soon evaporate: his laziness was legendary.