by Jon Cleary
“Ah,” said Vanderberg, “that’ll be Washington’s worry, won’t it?”
The ambassador gave him a cold smile, said his good nights and left. He was replaced immediately by General Paturi, who had sped back from his Consulate. His face was as shiny as his medals; it was difficult to tell whether he was afraid or angry. “Let him die!”
“Eh?” said those in the room.
“Let him die! It will solve all our problems, yours as well as ours. Order your doctors to let him die. The woman, too!”
“He’s drunk,” said Vanderberg in a hoarse whisper to Ladbroke.
“He’s a Muslim. He doesn’t drink.”
“You can’t be serious, General?” said Norval.
All the fire seemed suddenly to run out of Paturi. He would not have been a general for a protracted war: a quick victory, surrender from one side or the other, everything over. “No, I suppose not. But it would solve everything, wouldn’t it? What happens now? I heard the report from the hospital. They will be putting him on some sort of life support system.”
“Not yet,” said Ladbroke. “He’s still on the operating table. He may yet die.”
“Our doctors are as good as any in the world,” said Godbold, who knew how many doctors contributed to the Party’s funds. “They may yet save him.”
“Why?” said Paturi.
“I’m going back to the ball,” said Vanderberg, rising; the voters had been left alone long enough. “There’s nothing we can do tonight.”
“I think I’ll go home,” said Norval. “Would you go and collect my wife, Roger?”
Godbold left the room and Vanderberg nodded for Ladbroke to escort General Paturi outside. That left the two politicians alone.
Vanderberg said, “You’ve got to keep up the pressure, Phil. If he doesn’t die and we’re stuck with him, I’m not going to have him here in New South Wales. I’m telling you, so believe me. Get the Yanks to take him, just put him on a plane and tell the pilot to fly across the Pacific until he hits America. Then when he’s run out of fuel, he can ask permission to land. The hijackets do it all the time.”
Hijackets? “I can’t tell an RAAF pilot to do that! I can’t tell Qantas, either—” Then Norval turned plaintive: “Maybe we can move the Timoris somewhere else. Tasmania?”
“Good idea,” said the Premier of New South Wales. Tasmania, the island State, was always complaining about being left off the national map; this would put it back on the map. “You can put him down there in one of those bloody wildernesses they’re always trying to save. Anywhere but here in NSW. I’ve got enough bloody trouble with my police trying to find out if the Mafia has moved in here.”
“Has it?”
The Dutchman grinned. “I wouldn’t cut you in on the graft, even if they had. Get rid of the Timoris, Phil. That’s all you’ve got to do. Get rid of them, any bloody way you can.”
Five minutes later Norval and Anita were riding home to Kirribilli House in their government Rolls-Royce. Norval’s predecessor had been content with a white Ford LTD, often riding in the front with the driver; the natives always rode in the front seat of taxis, so why should the PM be any more undemocratic? It was Anita who had insisted on the Rolls-Royce and Norval, who had had one of his own for ten years, had made no argument. There had been snide comments in the press, especially Lefty rags, as Anita called them, like the National Times and The Age, but the general public, surprisingly, had tolerated the extravagance. Usually they preferred their political masters to travel in donkey-carts, but, as one voter said, that was too obvious in Norval’s case.
Anita pressed a button and the glass partition between them and the chauffeur slid up. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“You never want to think about anything. If you don’t have your teleprompter, you shut your mind.”
“I mean I don’t want to think about it tonight. Lay off, Anita!”
She looked at him sympathetically, a sediment of love stirring. “Phil, I’m on your side—I always have been. But you’ve got to make up your mind. You’ve got to start acting like a bastard—like old Hans Vanderberg. Kick out the Timoris.”
“I can’t—not now. That would be callous.”
“Not now—when he’s well enough to be moved. Stand up to Washington—tell them they’ve got to take him. They’ve had Marcos and those other ones in the past, Batista and Somoza—another one won’t make any difference—” She knew more about world politics than he did; she had more time to read the newspapers. She felt for his hand, pressed it. “It’ll win you votes, I promise.”
“What about Russell? He’s in this with them.”
“Stuff Russell. Send him with them.”
V
When Malone got back from the hospital Zanuch had been waiting for him in the Hickbed house. “Where have you been? You got here five minutes ago.”
“I’ve been checking with Sergeants Nagler and Kenthurst, sir. They’ve been giving me a run-down on what’s been happening here.”
“Didn’t they tell you I was here?”
Say no and that would put Nagler in the muck; say yes and he would be in it himself. “I think we’re all concerned, sir, that Seville got away from us again. He was in that house across the street. I gather the old people who live there are pretty upset.”
“I know that!” Zanuch was in a bad mood; his evening had been ruined. “You should have had that house staked out. It was an obvious place for him.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Goodyear refused us permission to have anyone inside the house. They don’t like either Mr. Hickbed or the Timoris—they’re pretty snobby. They’ve changed their minds now—after the event.”
Zanuch changed tack: “How’s President Timori?”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Madame Timori? I saw her come in and go straight upstairs.” He was miffed that he hadn’t met her. He was always interested in any good-looking woman, but Delvina Timori was much more than that. He had never met her in her days with the dance company. He had not been Commissioner material then, so had had no social aspirations and had not gone to the ballet or the opera. He was also miffed that Malone, a mere inspector, had come back in the Rolls-Royce with the woman. “How’s she taking it?”
“Calmly.”
Zanuch gave him a sharp look. “That’s close to libel, Inspector.”
“Only if it gets in the papers, sir. But that’s what I’m going to write in my report.”
They were interrupted as Hickbed and Sun Lee came into the kitchen where they stood. Malone had come in the back door from the garden and Zanuch had been waiting for him, sipping a cup of tea that the maid had made for him. The maid, who had been in a dressing-gown, had now disappeared, presumably to get dressed.
Hickbed pulled up short and Sun bumped into him. “Oh! Superintendent—Zanuch, isn’t it? We met a couple of years ago.”
“Assistant Commissioner.” And he’d been a Chief Superintendent two years ago; civilians never seemed to appreciate police rank. He refrained from reminding Hickbed that their meeting had been during enquiries into fraud in a Hickbed company, enquiries that had come to nothing.
“Of course.” But Hickbed made no apology. Rank had never meant anything to him; what you had and what you’d made were what counted. “This is Sun Lee, President Timori’s secretary.”
Zanuch and Sun acknowledged each other, then Zanuch said, “Do the other Paluccans know what has happened to their President?”
“I have just telephoned them at their hostel,” said Sun. “Some of them are going to the hospital to wait. A vigil, I think you call it.”
Hickbed was making a pot of tea for himself and Sun. He looked at Malone and the latter nodded; Hickbed added another spoonful of tea. Malone was looking around the big gleaming kitchen: Lisa would be sure to ask him about it, too. It seemed to have every device and gimmick that opened and shut; to him it looked more like a laboratory for the start of S
tar Wars. But when the tea was made it tasted like the good old-fashioned brew his mother used to make.
“The best from China,” said Hickbed. “It was ordered specially. President Timori drinks nothing else.”
“Better than Bushells?” said Malone. But Hickbed didn’t smile; he never looked at television commercials. Serves me right, thought Malone: I’m starting to sound like Maureen.
Zanuch was talking to Sun: “. . . You must be finding our way of life so different.”
Oh Christ, thought Malone. A cup of tea and a little chat: what the hell does he think has been happening tonight? “Excuse me, Mr. Zanuch,” he said, putting down his cup, “I’d like a word with Mr. Sun. I have to get my report finished—”
“Sure, sure.” Zanuch turned his attention to Hickbed, the richest silvertail he’d ever met. “I’ll double the number of men here, Mr. Hickbed. We don’t want you endangered . . .”
Malone led Sun out of the kitchen and on to the back terrace. The lights in the garden had all been turned off. The harbour immediately below was a mill-pond of tiny lights, like phosphorescent water-lilies: hundreds of small craft had gathered for tomorrow’s celebration. The night was still warm and the smell of the flowers and shrubs was heavy on the air. Malone put his hand on the balustrade of the terrace, but the stone had lost the heat of the day and was cold to the touch. Sun Lee was equally cold.
“What do you want with me, Inspector?”
Malone was too tired to be anything but blunt: “When you were at Kirribilli House you made two phone calls to Beirut. You spoke to a Mr. Zaid.”
“I don’t recall making any phone calls to Beirut. I know no one there.” The light from the kitchen window illuminated only one side of Sun’s face: it was half a mask.
“I’ll jog your memory, Mr. Sun. The number was 232-3344. You told Mr. Zaid, who is an agent of some sort, that his client had killed the wrong man.”
“Have you spoken to this Mr.—Zaid?”
“Yes.” Malone hoped his own face was a mask; he had moved a little to his left so that the kitchen light was behind him.
“I don’t believe you, Inspector.” Sun was cool.
“Please yourself. But you’ll believe the tapes we have when I run them for you.” He knew he would have to back down if Sun insisted on hearing the tapes, would in the end have to deny they existed. “You told Mr. Zaid that we had identified his client, though you didn’t name him. You were trying to get in touch with Seville, for some reason, but Zaid didn’t know where he was. Why were you trying to contact Seville? Were you trying to call off the assassination?”
Sun was silent, Orientally impassive. Malone waited with Australian patience, which usually isn’t durable. Then Sun said, “I didn’t organize this. I have only been the go-between.”
“Who is paying Seville?” All at once he was no longer tired; he was fired by excitement.
But Sun shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“I suppose that is what I mean.” It was Sun who now sounded tired; or fatalistic. Malone had questioned suspects in Chinatown and they had always baffled him, even the ones born in Australia.
“Then you’re the one I’m going to have to arrest.”
“So be it. Isn’t that what you say?”
“Not me,” said Malone. “I’m a bugger for never accepting anything. You sure you want to take the blame for this?”
“You’ll have to prove it, Inspector. I have great respect for British justice.”
“This is Australia. You have no idea the tricks we can get up to here.” He was tired again, all the excitement had gone out like a fire of tissue-paper. “Who are you protecting, Sun? Madame Timori?”
Sun Lee had turned away from the light; but there was a slight hunching of the shoulders. “No.”
Yes! thought Malone; and felt the excitement stir again. “Righto, let’s go. We’ll tell Mr. Hickbed and the Assistant Commissioner.”
“No handcuffs?”
“I’m in evening dress. They’re not the proper accessories.”
Sun smiled, the first time he had shown any emotion. He seemed relaxed, confident everything would turn out all right. “You have a Chinese sense of humour, Inspector.”
“Don’t bank on it, Mr. Sun.”
They went back into the kitchen, but Hickbed and Zanuch were no longer there. Malone pushed Sun ahead of him and they went further into the house and found the other two in the big living-room. They were sitting in the silk-covered chairs, Zanuch lolling back as if this were his natural habitat. Which was what he aspired to, but would never achieve, not since honesty had become one of the police force’s better policies.
“I’m arresting Mr. Sun,” said Malone, “for conspiracy to murder.”
“Jesus!” said Zanuch and “Christ Almighty!” said Hickbed, like a team of profane comics.
Hickbed was first to recover. “On what grounds?”
“You’ll know that when the prosecutor puts the evidence.”
Hickbed looked ready to erupt. “We’ll see about that! You can do something about this, Mr. Zanuch—”
Zanuch had stood up. “You’re sure of everything, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir.” Malone returned the Assistant Commissioner’s hard stare. He knew Zanuch would back him, at least for the moment. For all his ambitions, professional and social, Zanuch had the reputation of never putting his men down in front of the public. In that he was a true policeman.
Zanuch nodded, then said, “Are you in this alone, Mr. Sun?”
“I am not admitting that I am in it at all,” said Sun. He’s the coolest bugger in this room, thought Malone. “May I tell Madame Timori you are arresting me?”
“You don’t need to disturb her,” said Hickbed, looking very disturbed. “She’s had enough to upset her for one night—”
“You can tell her,” Malone said to Sun, ignoring Hickbed. “She’d want to know, I think.”
Zanuch went to say something, then thought better of it and nodded to Malone. “A good idea, Inspector. It’s the courteous thing to do.”
“That’s what I thought, sir,” said Malone, who hadn’t thought any such thing.
He let Sun lead the way upstairs. The stairs were marble, matching the floor in the entrance hall. On the landing a large portrait of Hickbed glowered at them; the artist, for a large fee, had been sycophantic but had still not managed to disguise his sitter’s natural aggression. Sun led the way towards a door at the far end of the landing.
When Delvina sat up in bed and Sun told her he was being arrested, Malone noticed at once that she showed little surprise; there was just a slight tightening of her neck muscles. Then when she saw him standing in the doorway she turned up, like a gas flame, some sudden exasperated shock: “But you know it’s that man Seville!”
“He’s the one pulling the trigger. But I’m charging Sun Lee with conspiracy, with being the one who’s paying Seville.”
Delvina looked at Sun and shook her head. “I don’t believe it, Sun. You love the President as much as I do. Don’t worry. I’ll get you the best lawyers—”
“I’m not worried, Madame,” said Sun, and didn’t look to be so. “I’m sure you’ll do everything you can for me. The President would want you to.”
9
I
DELVINA SAT in bed for a few minutes after Sun and Malone had left her bedroom. Back in the palace in Bunda neither man would have been allowed within a stone’s throw of her bedroom door; Abdul had had an old-fashioned Muslim attitude towards his wife’s privacy. She had not been disturbed that Sun had knocked on her door and then asked if he might come in. The night’s events had been such that she knew he would not have suggested such an intrusion unless something urgent had happened. At first, coming awake, she had expected it to be the news that Abdul was dead. She had lain a moment, more relieved than sad; after all, she had told herself, with that reasoning that the guiltless often need to make themselves
feel better, Abdul would only have been an invalid for the rest of his life. And then Sun had given her the really bad news.
She got up, pulling her robe about her, and went downstairs. Her slippers’ heels clacked hollowly on the marble; there was no dancer’s glide to her walk now. She went into the living-room and saw Hickbed with a tall handsome man in a dinner suit, evidently one of his business friends.
“I’d like to see you, Russell.”
“Are you all right?” said Hickbed. “Madame Timori, this is Assistant Police Commissioner Zanuch.”
Delvina gave him only a curt nod. “Will you excuse us? In your study, Russell.”
She turned and walked out of the room. Zanuch felt he had been snubbed like a trainee constable. “Excuse me, Madame Timori, I’d like a word with you—”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder. “Not now. Russell?”
She walked across the entrance hall, her heels rapping as if she were calling Hickbed to attention. He looked at Zanuch, shrugged, then followed her across the hall and into the study, closing the door behind them. Zanuch looked around for someone to vent his spleen on, but there was no one. He went out into the garden looking for a target.
In the study Delvina said, “What happened with Sun? How did he get himself arrested?”
“I don’t know. He and that guy Malone were outside for a few minutes. Then they came in and Malone just announced he was arresting him. Christ knows what was said out there on the terrace. I thought you might have guessed.”
“Why me?”
“Because I think you know more than you’ve told me.”
“You don’t need to know everything,” she said and told him nothing. “We have to get in touch with Philip Norval.”
Hickbed shook his head. “He won’t want to know.”
“He’s got to know! He’s got to have Sun released . . . God, don’t you realize . . .” She was angry at his stupidity. “If Sun talks, he’ll tell everything! About our investments, about you and what you were going to pay Philip—”
“Keep your voice down!” His own sank to a hoarse whisper; he looked around as if he expected microphones to be hidden behind the unread books. “You don’t know Phil as well as I do . . . He can be as stubborn as hell about doing nothing. He hates to interfere—”