Tropic of Death

by Robert Sims

  ‘He’s responsible for national security,’ she retorted.

  ‘Only as a civilian observer!’ Maddox thumped the desk as his temper got the better of him, the scar tissue on the side of his face reddening. ‘The security of this nation doesn’t rest in his hands, or your hands, or those of your police colleagues. The defence of this country is, and always will be, in the safekeeping of the military forces, conventional and covert, disciplined and committed. It does not, thankfully, lie within the province of spineless functionaries.’

  All in the room knew he’d gone too far.

  Molloy laid a hand on Maddox’s forearm. ‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he told him quietly. ‘We mustn’t allow external issues to muddy the water for us. Our duty’s clear, not just to the nations we serve, but to the preservation of their core values; to the future.

  If we remain resolute, we’ll prevail.’

  His words had a placating effect on Maddox, who unclenched his fist and massaged his knuckles, his scar tissue fading from an inflamed red to white.

  The third man in the room, Demchak, maintained his silence, watching dispassionately. Rita knew of his cruelty from Freddy and, as she observed him, she realised Freddy was right. This man was more dangerous than Bowers. His physical strength, reined in behind a surface calm and immobile face, was indicative of the self-control needed to channel his innate violence.

  Molloy fixed Rita with a look of rebuke. ‘In my considered opinion,’ he told her, ‘you’ve not only betrayed the trust of your government and mine, you’ve unwittingly aided and abetted the enemy in the war on terror.’

  ‘What enemy?’ she asked, crossing her legs. ‘I’m told your alleged terrorists are victims themselves - of a security bungle.’

  ‘Let me say, first of all, I don’t like your impertinence,’ he responded coolly. ‘But since you ask, the suspects were identified to us as a local cell being deployed to carry out an attack. The man setting it up, the terrorist fixer, is in all probability still here.

  I hope you appreciate the gravity of that.’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Because you’re not an intelligence officer. You’re given access only to the information deemed necessary, though you’ve taken it upon yourself to meddle beyond clear boundaries. I’m not overstating it when I say the result could be catastrophic.’

  Rita had a sinking feeling. This was looking and sounding like an inquisition.

  Molloy continued, his expression stern. ‘What we’re doing here today is deciding whether to have you detained or whether you can be of some value out in the field. We still face a grave threat.

  That won’t end until we retrieve the disk and nullify its potential effect. It’s absolutely essential that it never surfaces.’

  Rita folded her hands and placed them in her lap. For the moment she had no choice but to go along with her accusers.

  ‘If I’ve caused problems, it was unintentional and I apologise. My profiling role is over, so I don’t understand what’s expected of me.’

  ‘You’ve got closer to finding the disk than anyone else,’ answered Molloy. ‘You’ve identified leads that we haven’t. We know this from surveillance footage. Also, thanks partly to you, our trail is cold.’

  ‘A trail of dead bodies,’ she said.

  ‘Quite. And the advantage you have is that you’ve spoken to the key people involved, now dead.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think I’m the only one.’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘I know Captain Maddox met secretly with Bowers.’

  ‘We opened negotiations with Bowers through both Captain Maddox and Kurt,’ said Molloy, ‘as an alternative means of retrieval.

  It was worth offering cash to exploit his underworld connections.

  Now that option is gone. You, however, are still with us.’ He paused as if to emphasise how temporary that could be. ‘Where is the disk, Van Hassel?’

  Rita sighed. ‘I know where it went - to a drop-box at a cyber cafe in Rockhampton.’

  ‘That’s been searched. It’s empty. So who collected it?’

  A shiver ran down Rita’s spine as she realised what that implied.

  If their knowledge of the drop-box came from Ice there was only one way they could have got it.

  ‘Come on,’ insisted Molloy. ‘You must have some idea.’

  ‘I need time to think,’ she said. ‘Stonefish had what he called his own secret courier service. I’ve no idea who or what that is.

  But his instructions were in place before Bowers killed him. So the courier service has either completed the delivery or is in the process of doing so. All I know is he wanted the disk delivered to someone who could make use of it.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t you use Panopticon to find out? Search the memory. Home in on the usual suspects.’

  The three of them exchanged a look that seemed to acknowledge she knew more about it than she should.

  ‘Panopticon is a machine, not a mind-reader,’ said Molloy.

  For the first time, Rita eased back in her chair. A new possibility had just occurred to her. It must have shown in her expression.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Molloy. ‘Do you know the identity of the recipient?’

  ‘No,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘But I might be able to narrow the field.’ She was being deliberately vague. It was her way of encouraging them to let her go. ‘I need to check my notes and talk to a few people again, starting with Freddy Hopper.’

  Molloy sat back, deferring to Maddox. ‘Is it possible she could lead us to the disk? Your call.’

  Maddox propped his elbows on the desk and laid a look of pure animosity on Rita.

  ‘Consider this your final warning,’ he said. ‘My personal choice would be to end your career and your liberty here and now.

  However, far greater issues are at stake. In effect, I’m returning you to the field.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she forced herself to say.

  ‘But this time you’re reporting directly to me. Not to the police. Not to Luker.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I hope so, for your sake.’ Maddox gritted his teeth. ‘Now there’s something I’m going to tell you on a need-to-know basis.

  Our dealings with Bowers were not straightforward. There was another buyer in the market. That’s according to what he told Kurt and me - and I believed him. To encourage a bidding war, and keep the bidders apart, Bowers set up a little online auction site, to which only those in the know had the password.’

  ‘What was the site called?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Rheingold’s Auction House - that was Bowers’ misplaced sense of humour,’ answered Molloy. ‘The rival bidder was offering a million dollars. That rules out the protesters and the media.

  Because various aspects of our research have been plastered over the net, there are other potential candidates - hostile governments, for a start. Or it could be an arms dealer, a middle man or, worst-case scenario, the Fixer, operating undercover on our own doorstep.’

  ‘Who is this Fixer?’

  ‘It’s thought he’s Iranian. Kurt will fill you in.’ Maddox turned to Demchak. ‘Will you take her down to the compound?’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Demchak, without showing a trace of it.

  Rita tensed at the mention of the compound.

  ‘Relax, Van Hassel, you’ll be allowed to leave,’ said Maddox.

  Then he added ominously, ‘This time.’

  As Demchak escorted her along the internal gallery to the rear lifts, Rita noticed how silently he moved, remarkable in such a big man. He seemed to walk instinctively on the balls of his feet, almost animal-like. She’d read about serial killers who moved in just the same way.

  The lift doors opened and he followed her in. The doors closed and they were alone. She felt nervous in such close proximity to him. He towered over her, his face still impassive as he pressed a butto
n.

  ‘You have a lot to say for yourself,’ she said.

  ‘Molloy spouts enough horseshit for both of us,’ he replied without looking at her.

  The doors opened when they reached the basement level, and he led her through a concrete tunnel linking the main block to the security compound. The sterile smell of the place came back to her from the night of her interrogation. He swiped a security pad that opened a door into a room with a central nest of computer desks surrounded by filing cabinets and metal shelves filled with folders. He selected one and tossed it onto a desk.

  ‘The Fixer file,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’

  Rita pulled up a chair, opened the folder marked Classified, and read through the details that had been put together on the history and aliases of a man named Omar Amini. It was heavy stuff, and uncomfortable to go through with Demchak hovering behind her. There were only a couple of things she noted of possible relevance. One was the reference to Amini’s studies at the Sorbonne, the other was the blow-up of the student ID image.

  She didn’t recognise the face, but there was something about the eyes that seemed distinctive, if not familiar.

  ‘Seen enough?’ asked Demchak.

  She closed the folder. ‘Yes. If he’s hanging around Whitley, I haven’t spotted him.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ he said, slotting the folder back on a shelf. ‘There’s a file here on you too. I’ve read it.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘For a female cop you’ve notched up a few kills recently.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re impressed?’

  ‘It means I’d handle you differently from Molloy.’ Demchak was standing over the back of her chair. ‘Find out for sure who else you’ve been talking to on the base.’

  ‘What makes you think I have?’

  ‘Your inside knowledge of Panopticon. It goes beyond what’s in the Steinberg report. Steinberg only provided technical specifications. He didn’t reveal how it can pinpoint a memory within the sector.’ He bent down to her ear. ‘Yet you knew that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I’ve uncovered.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me.’ Like spinning a toy, he swivelled her around in the chair and pushed his face close to hers. ‘I figure you’ve seen Panopticon in action, thanks to the slimy limey.’

  ‘I don’t have to answer to you,’ she said, straining back in the chair.

  ‘Take my advice: don’t swallow what he told you. He’s full of shit, with all that Roman Empire baloney. And he’s a wacko. I’m talking la-la-land.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Giles has finally flipped. Off sick, off his head, drooling over the dead hooker,’ Demchak hissed through his teeth. ‘He’s someone else they should’ve let me deal with.’

  ‘Like me,’ said Rita. ‘And just how differently would you handle me?’

  ‘Less conversation,’ he answered, his voice low and menacing.

  ‘More hands-on persuasion.’

  He cracked his knuckles loudly, the sudden noise making her bound out of the chair and back away.

  His eyes were unemotional, not a trace of humour.

  ‘I’ve heard you get your kicks like that,’ she said.

  ‘What else have you heard about me?’

  ‘That victimising people comes naturally to you.’

  Demchak nodded. ‘Worth you remembering that.’

  ‘And there’s something you should keep in mind,’ she said, moving to the door.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’ve seen it in my file,’ she replied. ‘I shoot bullies.’

  52

  The leaden weight of institutional pressure seemed to lift from her shoulders as Rita drove out of the gates at Whitley Sands. With an involuntary shudder she swung the Falcon onto the road into town and drove to the hospital where Freddy was recuperating from surgery and other effects of Billy’s battering. He was out of intensive care in a small ward he had to himself.

  His body was propped on a slight angle, his jaw wired, his torso strapped and bandaged, with various tubes and drips attached.

  Talking was an effort, and while he could move his lips and tongue, his words came out with a raw glottal sound.

  Freddy watched as Rita pulled up a chair and sat beside his bed.

  ‘Need my drugs,’ he croaked.

  She smiled. ‘The nurse has got plenty of painkillers.’

  ‘Fuck the nurse.’

  Rita glanced around but the nurse was out of earshot.

  ‘I’ve read the witness statement you signed,’ she went on.

  ‘About what happened out at the monastery. That’ll be hard to cope with.’

  ‘Dope would help,’ he burbled. ‘Got any on you?’

  ‘No,’ she said tartly, though she was pleased his sense of humour was intact. ‘There’s something I need to ask you. When Stonefish arranged for the delivery of the disk did he tell you who he was sending it to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he mention anything that might be relevant?’

  ‘He told me,’ rasped Freddy, swallowing, ‘it would go to someone who’d know how to use it - an idealist with balls.’

  ‘Sounds like he wanted it to go public,’ said Rita. ‘That’ll blow the lid off everything. Did he say anything more about his instructions to Ice?’

  Freddy sighed heavily. ‘No. Just that he was worried about her.’

  ‘Because of the disk?’

  ‘Because of some stalker. Some guy obsessed with her.’

  Rita frowned. ‘I think I know who that is.’

  As she thought about it, there was a growing question mark over the role of Paul Giles and the version of events he’d given her. If he’d been lying it could change everything.

  The nurse arrived with a trolley of metal basins, sponges and flannels.

  ‘Time to clean you up, Freddy,’ she announced.

  ‘Fuck that,’ he mumbled.

  As Rita stood up to go he tugged at her skirt.

  ‘Thanks, Van Hassel,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For whacking Billy.’

  Paul Giles wasn’t answering his phone so Rita drove out of town and up to the rainforest. Doubts about his motives were beginning to nag at her and she had questions for him. The hunt for the disk could wait. She wanted answers.

  The drive along The Ridgeway took her past the resort construction site - deserted now, the gates chained shut, the cranes motionless - and on towards the former botanist’s home of Eden. She parked beside the front gate, got out, pressed the buzzer and waited. No response. She pressed it again, for longer this time. Still no response. She glanced up at the sharp coils of wire on top of the wall and decided not to try scaling it.

  Rita was pressing the buzzer for a third time when the gate glided open. As she walked briskly down the path, through the overgrown tangle of the garden, the porch door opened ahead of her. With it came a loud blast of choir music. Bizarrely, it was a church hymn, ringing out at an almost deafening volume. Unlike her last arrival, Paul wasn’t waiting to greet her. Instead she caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure retreating inside the house.

  Closing the door behind her, she walked cautiously down the hall, knowing something was extremely wrong and wishing she still carried a gun. There was a trail of bloodied footprints on the floor, broken china, empty bottles of gin and, saturating the rooms, the sound of the choir shrieking from the multiple speakers of the music system. The track, ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, possessed an unholy ferocity when pumped out at such a hysterical level.

  And when the track stopped, it resumed again immediately from the beginning. It was being played over and over again, another sign of madness in the house.

  Things in the central living space - the showpiece - were even worse. Instead of the chic interior, what confronted Rita resembled a slum. Everything was broken or overturned, the curtains ripped from the windows, shards of glass littering surfaces, and more bl
oodstains. The air was pungent with the odours of urine and vomit, the cream rugs soaked in human discharge. As Rita tried not to breathe it in, her gaze fell on what was left of the holographic picture. A broken gin bottle, lying below it, must have been hurled at the 3-D image. The fragments of a Pre-Raphaelite landscape flickered from the damaged lasers but a gaping hole filled the rest of the frame above a spray of crystalline splinters littering the floor. Persephone was gone.

  Rita walked over to the sound system and switched off the music.

  The sudden silence was a relief but her nerves were on edge. She noticed the framed photo of Paul and Audrey at her feet, its glass cracked. Picking it up, she took a closer look - a strong woman with a controlling arm around a younger man - then put it back above the white marble hearth where it had stood. In the mess on the mantelpiece were two empty pill bottles with prescription labels. She read them and swore under her breath. Now she knew why Demchak had used the word wacko. The drug prescribed for Paul was high-dosage lithium. It meant he had a serious bipolar condition, kept in check by the medication, which he’d probably stopped taking. The house certainly bore the signs of a manic-depressive breakdown.

  At the sound of his voice, she spun around.

  ‘Have you come to arrest me, officer?’ he asked.

  She was shocked at his appearance.

  He was wearing nothing but soiled underpants, his face gaunt, hair matted, skin sickly pale. His thighs were slicked with stains and his bare feet were caked in dried blood from where he’d walked over glass. There was partial recognition in his eyes as he hobbled towards her, hands outstretched, ready to be cuffed. In his addled state he remembered only that she was a police officer.

  The smell of his breath and the stench of his incontinence was overwhelming as he approached. She quickly turned a chair upright and sat him down on it, a hand over her nose and mouth.

  It was debatable whether she could get any sense out of him, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Where’s your lithium?’ she asked, squatting in front of him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘All the jars are empty and I can’t remember what I did with the pills. Maybe I flushed them down the bog. But what’s happened to the music? How would you like to hear “Onward, Christian Soldiers”? I fancy listening to that again. King’s College Choir, you know.’