Tropic of Death

by Robert Sims

  Freddy knew him well enough to spot that Billy was spinning a line. It was there in the tone of voice and the slight sardonic twist to his lip. It meant that a private joke was being played on Freddy, something he was unaware of, something to do with Rachel’s death.

  If it hadn’t been for the elevating effect of the drug, Freddy might have lost his temper, surrendering to the urge to do something stupid - like taking a swing at Billy - before being beaten to a pulp. Instead, with heightened clarity of perception, he could see that the reason for Rachel’s fate was no mystery to Billy. That’s why his reference to a serial killer was almost tongue in cheek.

  He must have been involved or informed or even instrumental in her death. Why? The question hammered at Freddy’s thoughts but he left it unspoken. Better to bide his time.

  So he just said, ‘You wanted my services?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Billy, straightening up. ‘And by coincidence it’s partly to do with your dead girlfriend. Something she had access to.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A disk.’

  ‘Any particular disk?’

  ‘A computer disk, smart-arse. One smuggled out of Whitley Sands by some whistleblower. She must have told you.’

  ‘I didn’t listen much to her campaign stuff,’ said Freddy. ‘She mentioned some technical printout she was getting.’

  ‘That’s it, you dork. It was downloaded from a disk by Stonefish, and he’s even harder to find than you.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him myself.’

  ‘Well that’s why you’re here!’ snapped Billy. ‘I want you to find him, get me that disk and I’ll cut you in on the deal.

  Twenty thousand bucks. You can split it with Stonefish if you feel obliged.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘Some customers have come to me. They’ll pay handsomely

  - but just for the disk. No hard copy, no extract. They want the original disk.’ Billy leant forward, dropping his big meaty hands onto the arms of the chair, his chin out, his face in Freddy’s.

  ‘Get it, and we’ll all do business. Fail to deliver, and you and Stonefish will be taken for a dip on the far side of the reef - and left there.’

  23

  After dropping Eve off at the campaign office, Rita bought a takeaway lunch - a smoked chicken salad - and drove back to the police station. She went in through the watch-house entrance and climbed the creaking stairs to the exhibit room, where she sat at her desk, ate her lunch and thought. What she was thinking about was a timeline. She was constructing it in her head because, if her suspicions were right, placing it anywhere that could be scrutinised was too dangerous. She couldn’t risk putting it on the whiteboard, her laptop, her mini disc recorder or even on paper. The timeline began with Dr Steinberg completing his report and burning a disk containing technical data from inside Whitley Sands. Next came its delivery to the go-between known as Stonefish.

  If Rita’s reasoning was right, Stonefish printed off more than one hard-copy extract. Her guess was that the first went to the anonymous man in the mud, while the second was given to Rachel Macarthur. Both were subsequently killed because of it. There were plenty of gaps and inexplicable links in the timeline, but currently it ended with the sanctioned murder of Steinberg himself.

  Her confidential talk with Eve had convinced Rita that the police were wrong to assume that a random serial offender was on the loose. Worse, it might even be an assumption they were supposed to make. The unofficial testimony was compelling - Eve’s words, Steinberg’s comments and Rita’s own direct experience. If a psychotic killer was stalking the streets of Whitley, his crimes were inextricably linked to the interests of the research base. Of course, how to pursue this line of inquiry without ensuring her own downfall was a dilemma. Until she came up with a plan she’d continue to go through the motions. Tomorrow morning she would visit the crime scene down by the docks and try to track down Freddy Hopper. Perhaps then she’d find out more about his friend Stonefish.

  Her concentration was broken by Detective Sergeant Steve Jarrett.

  ‘It’s bloody nippy in here!’ he said as he came through the door.

  ‘You must’ve brought the weather up from the frigid city.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s how we think of Melbourne.’ He chuckled. ‘That frigid wind blowing up Collins Street. Nearly cuts you in half.’

  ‘Careful, Jarrett, or I’ll book you for slander. Blaming me and Melbourne for a cold front off the Tasman.’

  ‘Well, it’s the same general direction - the south - and this sort of weather doesn’t come from around here. The temperature’s supposed to be dropping to eight degrees tonight.’ He emphasised it with a shiver. ‘This is the tropics. We don’t have winters.’

  ‘Sounds like you believe your own tourist propaganda.’

  ‘Don’t you feel the cold?’

  ‘If I could find any heating,’ she said, ‘I’d switch it on.’

  ‘You’ve got the fireplace - that’s it. I’ll sort it out.’

  He went out again.

  Jarrett was right about the chill in the room. Maybe it was the ghost, she thought, as she rubbed her temples. Concentrating too hard had left her with a headache. She needed to relax and clear her mind, forget the investigation for a while. Thinking about the ghost reminded her of the room’s history, arousing her curiosity about the man who’d occupied it more than a century before her, Sergeant Kenneth Logan.

  She walked over to the antique bookcase and was browsing through the morocco-bound volumes when Jarrett returned with an armful of broken palings.

  ‘We’re having the back fence replaced,’ he explained. ‘It’ll make good firewood.’ He dumped it on the hearth. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Sergeant Logan’s journal.’

  ‘Ah, the diary of a ghost,’ said Jarrett. ‘I thought that’d interest you.’ He came over and stretched to reach a slim ledger on the top shelf. ‘Gotcha.’ He blew off some dust and handed it to her.

  ‘Here - see what you make of him. Lawman or psycho.’

  Rita opened the old book and moved beside the window, leafing through the ink-scrawled pages while Jarrett knelt down by the hearth, splitting the wood into kindling and stacking the grate. The writing was in an untidy and elaborate Victorian script, but she could read it without much difficulty as she scanned the pages. The paper was dog-eared and stained with age. A mid-June entry caught her eye: The unseasonably cold weather has persisted through yet another night and day of storms blowing in off the ocean. A wind from the south continues to batter the coast, bringing gusts laden with stinging sand and horizontal rain. Squatter Brodie decreed there would be no hunt again today. Therefore, with no other pressing duties, I stoked the fire and opened the volume of Livy which was presented to me by Squatter Brodie.

  Rita looked over at Jarrett, who’d got a flame going and was encouraging it with a poker. She imagined Sergeant Logan in exactly the same place and exactly the same pose a hundred and forty years ago and a tingle ran down her spine. Some things don’t change.

  As flames took hold and the wood began to crackle Jarrett stood up and adjusted the fire guard.

  ‘That’ll warm the room once it gets going.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rita, coming over to admire his effort. ‘Makes me feel at home.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I want you to know you’re welcome here.

  Seriously.’

  ‘Bryce still on the warpath?’

  ‘No. He’s more sound than fury. Sees himself as head prefect around here. Likes to catch you out and recite the rules. You can expect a ticking off, that’s all. I haven’t known him to bear grudges.’ Jarrett folded his arms, his expression stern. ‘I’ve been mulling over what you suggested this morning at the cafe - the possibility of professional hits.’

  ‘Forget it. I was being hypothetical.’

  ‘Yeah, and hypothetically it scares the shit out of me. The idea the base is mixed
up in murder has a certain logic to it, especially given some of the heavy-duty head-kickers available.’

  ‘Maddox?’

  ‘Not just him. There’s a national security adviser out of Canberra called Luker. He briefed us when the anti-war protesters pulled their first stunt with bolt-cutters. Friendly enough, but the sort of guy who knows how to kill you with a clipboard.’

  ‘Any other charmers?’

  ‘A couple of Yanks. They’re supposed to be Pentagon observers but they’ve got military intelligence written all over them. Rhett Molloy’s the head honcho and scary enough. But his buddy’s the one you’d hate to bump into on a dark night - Kurt Demchak.

  Special Forces background, I reckon. He’s got eyes that freeze your blood.’

  ‘Where’d you meet them?’

  ‘A town hall reception thrown by the mayor to welcome our American friends and allies. Makes sense. GIs contribute enough to the local economy. And there’s a team of bean counters from Washington. I’ve been wondering how far they’d go to protect their investment.’

  ‘You really have been thinking about what I said,’ smiled Rita.

  ‘But your own advice was right. We have to shelve it. From an official policing point of view, it’s a dead end.’

  ‘In more ways than one, perhaps.’ Jarrett nodded. ‘How’d you go with the lovely Eve?’

  ‘She cooperated up to a point, but she’s understandably wary.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘I’ll visit the crime scene and the club tomorrow. For now I’m giving my brain a rest.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Jarrett, opening the door. ‘So you can cosy up with the late notorious Sergeant Logan.’

  ‘Just what I had in mind.’

  24

  Stonefish wasn’t in the Bierkeller, the Steamboat, Liberty Belle or Rafferty’s. Nor was he at any of the dives lining the harbour. He couldn’t be found at the net cafes or the bowling alley or the back rooms at the amusement park. In fact, none of his fellow dealers had seen him in more than a week. As much as Freddy was reluctant to disappoint Billy Bowers, he couldn’t track down Stonefish. It appeared the most recent contact, and that was only by phone, was with Freddy himself. No doubt Stonefish had since ditched that mobile for another.

  With the sun setting behind the ranges and the temperature dropping, Freddy drove his van back up into the hills to the rented split-level house he’d shared with Rachel. The place was cheap but comfortable. It had a gravel driveway, a garden plot out front with an unruly rhododendron, a backyard of dirt and weeds, termites in the woodwork and a spectacular view over the islands in the passage. As he pulled into the driveway, he paid little attention to the big black limousine with tinted windows parked two houses up along the crescent. He got out, strolled to his front door and unlocked it. As he opened it, he was grabbed by both arms. Two men in dark suits escorted him through the door and rode him down the hallway to his lounge room, where they tossed him onto a sofa.

  ‘Where’s Stonefish?’ one of the men demanded.

  He looked up at them.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  One of them punched him in the face. Freddy spun off the sofa onto the floorboards, his cheekbone aching.

  ‘We ask the questions. Where’s Stonefish?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know!’ Freddy shouted. ‘Did that bitch Audrey put you up to this?’

  He was punched again. Blood was gushing from his nose.

  ‘Get up!’

  Shakily, he got to his feet, holding his nose.

  ‘Where’s Stonefish?’

  ‘I told you -‘ he began.

  This time he took a punch in the stomach that put him back on the floor with a thud. As he sat there, winded, a third man emerged from the hallway. He was tall and solid, with an expressionless face, cold eyes and a receding hairline. When he spoke, it was with an American accent.

  ‘Let me deal with him.’

  The other two backed off.

  ‘Sit on the sofa, Freddy.’

  Freddy sat.

  The American sat down next to him and put a slab of a hand around the back of Freddy’s skull, forcing Freddy’s face close to his own. The other huge hand clamped Freddy between the legs, crushing his testicles in an agonising groin hold.

  ‘I’m going to ask a series of questions,’ said the American quietly. ‘And you’re going to answer truthfully. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ squeaked Freddy, eyes watering.

  ‘Do you know where Stonefish is?’

  ‘No. Been looking all day. Can’t find him.’

  ‘Do you have his phone number?’

  ‘No. Keeps ditching his SIM cards.’

  ‘That’s a damn shame. We want to talk to him. When did you last see him?’

  ‘More than a week,’ answered Freddy, his voice a constricted whisper now. ‘No one’s seen him.’

  ‘One more question,’ said the American, his knuckles cracking as he increased the pressure. ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘He won’t tell,’ groaned Freddy. ‘Won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘And just one more. Where’s he from?’

  ‘New Zealand.’

  ‘He’s a Kiwi?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all I know. I swear.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  The American released his grip. Freddy doubled up and dropped off the sofa, slumping sideways into a foetal position on the floor.

  His torturer towered over him, Freddy’s mobile phone in his hand.

  ‘I’m adding my number to your contacts,’ he told him. ‘My name’s Kurt. Do you think you’ll remember that?’

  Freddy nodded several times, unable to speak.

  ‘And you’ll call me as soon as you know anything about the whereabouts of Stonefish. Right? Because if you don’t, you know what you’ll lose.’

  Freddy nodded again vigorously.

  ‘Good,’ Kurt said, and led the others from the house.

  After the front door banged shut behind them, Freddy lay still until he could gather enough strength to limp gingerly, still bent double, to the stockpile of medications stashed at the back of his fridge. He needed another hit and he needed it fast.

  25

  Long after the International Risk Assessment Committee had adjourned for the night, its clandestine business concluded, another sequence of covert activity began within the confines of the base. Data was being accessed, scanned, evaluated and concealed within the system, thanks to a randomised neuronetic pathway that was effectively a ghost login.

  The identity of the ghost remained a secret, known only to the user. No official presence on the base could be allowed to find out, including the committee, senior management, or staff deployed on levels six and seven. Of necessity, there could be no witnesses.

  The activity of the ghost circumvented all obvious protocols.

  Outside the subterranean labyrinth, the grounds were silent and secure. The gates were locked, bolted and chained. An elite force of military police manned security points around the concrete superstructure and armed personnel patrolled the perimeter fence.

  Razor wire, concrete barriers and pillars dripping with CCTV

  cameras added to the fortress-like effect, designed to avert any frontal attack. Inside the complex, toiling through night shifts, a few dozen staff worked at their tasks under the watchful eyes of the guards. The base’s military authorities were convinced that all the appropriate measures were in place to guarantee that no breach of security would go undetected.

  The ghost continued scanning, focusing now on a single event contained within the immense digital archive of the system. The relevant data displayed surveillance images from an incident that had occurred some two weeks ago in an alleyway by the docks. The footage showed Rachel Macarthur walking down the cobbled slope.

  Then a dark figure emerged from a doorway, approached from behind and put a hand over her mouth. The ghost observed, in slow-mo now, the raised arm of the atta
cker, the nail gun clenched in the hand, the mechanism being fired, the projectile piercing the skull and Rachel slumping to the ground. With the image frozen, and tracking around one hundred and eighty degrees, the ghost zoomed in on the killer, enhancing the light. The image became clear, the face unmistakable.

  The record of homicidal violence could be viewed dispassionately.

  It changed nothing. Even though it preserved the actuality of murder it was beyond the reach of police, courts and the entire criminal justice system. As evidence it wasn’t simply inadmissible, it was nonexistent. Surveillance data processed by the Tracker technology didn’t exist because, officially, the system didn’t exist. Its secrecy was guaranteed by national security directives of governments committed to fighting the war on terror. That meant the data identifying the nail-gunner was protected from any exposure whatsoever - judicial, media, political, or even military. The ghost knew it existed, but the ghost wasn’t telling anyone.

  The ghost was Audrey Zillman.

  As system controller, with a complete overview of the project, Audrey had identified a problem. It wasn’t scientific, it wasn’t even technical. It was human. So far, Audrey couldn’t decide what to do with the information, never mind formulate some sort of response. In effect, it was outside her province.

  The problem was behavioural. A very limited number of people could access the Tracker. Restricted use of the technology was ensured by a mandatory level-seven security clearance. The protocol was dictated by the sensitivity of the project and the need to protect it from disclosure, even to high-ranking staff at the base. But what it couldn’t safeguard against was abuse of the privilege. It was immediately clear to Audrey that some high-echelon officials were accessing or tampering with surveillance data in private, personal or unauthorised ways. Although she had no obligation to issue an alert over such breaches, she was logging and secretly filing them. Part of her dilemma was procedural. The administrators and managers who would need to be alerted were the same individuals who were bending the rules.

  The problem intensified after the first murder.

  Audrey worked on the principles of scientific method. Her approach to everything was logical and analytical. Morality was not her strong point. Objectivity was. The killing itself could be viewed as excessive, and yet it was based on rational assumptions.