The Secret Agenda

by Jacquelyn Webb

  “What do you actually do for a living?” she asked bluntly, as Lang pulled out a chair for her at the table.

  “You want to know my prospects?” Lang asked. His eyes danced. “Has our relationship really advanced that far?”

  “Just making conversation,” Donna murmured.

  She changed the subject to scuba diving, photography, and then Chinese cooking. These harmless topics kept them talking comfortably through stir-fried chicken, beef in black bean sauce, and the apricots and ice cream. They had scuba diving in common, and Donna was always interested in what could be done with a camera. She decided, as she smiled at him, that she would check the mysterious Lang out through some of her contacts.

  He rose to make the coffee. Donna scraped and rinsed the dishes, stacked them into the dishwasher, and moved over to the comfortable couch. Lang returned with the coffee, put on a Strauss CD, and they listened to it as they drank the coffee.

  “Both the meal and the coffee were wonderful,” Donna praised as she put down her empty cup.

  Her odd tension had somehow evaporated with the coffee and the dreamy strains of the waltz. She was relaxed and comfortable, which was why the next totally obvious move of Lang’s caught her by surprise. He put his cup down and effortlessly reached across to scoop her on to his lap. She blinked owlishly. It was such a very satisfactory feeling to be cuddled against him so closely. She slid an arm around his neck.

  “Now about this proposition you have for me?” he murmured.

  Donna suddenly remembered. She was on a deadline! There were priorities, and Lang wasn’t one of them. It was all this dreadful Darwin heat. It had somehow eroded her sense of urgency and commonsense. Then she dimpled. She relaxed against Lang and murmured in her sexiest voice. “About this proposition…”

  The phone rang. It rang twice more. The answering machine cut in with Lang’s voice.

  “If this is a social call, I’ll get back to you when I’m free. If it’s business, leave your message on my work phone.”

  “The drop-off date has been put forward twenty-four hours,” a curt voice said. “Adjust the timetable.”

  Lang tensed. Donna edged out of his lap and stood up. How extremely fortunate that phone call arrived when it did, she thought to herself with relief. It would have been great fun to lead him on, but it was a mistake to have had that third glass of wine, even if it was during their meal.

  “Does that mean our evening is over?” Donna asked. “That call sounds slightly urgent.”

  Lang just stared at her. There was the slightest of frowns wrinkling his forehead. Suddenly he shrugged. “Not important,” he dismissed. “Now where were we?”

  “Sounded important,” Donna said.

  “Not important,” Lang repeated.

  “My proposition was a purely business one,” Donna explained. “My editor has given permission for me to hunt up a story on pearl diving while I’m up here. Would you be prepared to work as my photographer? You will be paid for the hours you put in, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I wanted to check out an address tonight and talk to a diver.”

  “Tonight?” Lang looked startled.

  “The night’s still young.” Donna looked at her watch. With a shock, she noticed it was only nine o’clock. It felt as if an eon had passed since she had left the hotel. “Very young, in fact.”

  “You’re the boss,” Lang said with a shrug. He opened a door that led down a passage. “The bathroom is through here if you want to tidy up.”

  It had a spa, a shower recess, toilet, and hand basin and was spotlessly clean with blue and white tiles. By the time she returned to the living room, she felt better. She had renewed her makeup and pulled her hair back into a secure chignon with not a hair out of place. Lang waited with his camera over his shoulder. He now wore a long-sleeved dark shirt. She took the address out of her bag. Lang looked thoughtful when she read it.

  “That area is a bit rough.”

  “So I am pleased to have your escort,” Donna returned sweetly.

  Lang gestured at the door. He reprogrammed his keypad on both the living room door and the front door as he left. Donna’s journalistic instincts were aroused again. Why the high security?

  “What did you say you do for a living?” she asked.

  “At the moment, it looks like photography, Boss,” he returned, stressing the word boss a bit.

  Donna gave him a suspicious glance as she limped down the steps towards the car. They got into the BMW, and the garage door under the house lifted silently. A light went on. Lang drove the BMW through the opening. There was a big sedan and a small four-wheel drive parked in the garage and a lot more empty space. The garage seemed to take up all the area under the house.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  “The uncouth types in the area we are visiting might not treat my BMW with proper respect,” Lang explained as he helped her out and into the small four-wheeled drive.

  “You have areas that rough up here?” Donna asked. What was her brother Matt doing slumming in a rough area? It couldn’t be because of any money shortage. Could he really be destitute? Why was he dodging her?

  “Not very civilized,” Lang agreed. “I hope you know what you are up to?”

  So do I, Donna thought, but she kept the thought to herself.

  Chapter Ten

  The four-wheel drive bounced out of the garage. The garage door came down smoothly behind it. The front gates opened, and they turned into the street; then the gates closed smoothly behind them. They drove for a short distance before turning away from the bay and heading inland.

  “Was there someone in particular you wanted to interview?” Lang asked. “Most of the pearl divers stay on the other side of the bay.”

  “This diver should be at the address we’re going to.”

  Donna noticed from the streetlights that the gardens of the houses were mostly overgrown and shabby looking. There were areas of bush or vacant land around. A few streets further on the four-wheel drive stopped.

  “We’re here,” Lang said.

  Donna looked doubtfully at the small shabby bungalow. It was in darkness. Was Rabbit here? Had she wasted her time in rushing down here? Would he know where Matt was?

  “Looks as if there’s no one home,” Lang said.

  Donna didn’t answer. She opened the car door and grabbed her walking stick. Lang sighed and came around to hold her arm firmly as she limped up the overgrown path towards the front door.

  She knocked. It was very quiet. She knocked again.

  “No one home,” Lang said unhelpfully.

  “No one home,” a hoarse voice echoed.

  The voice had come from the front yard. Donna spun around. Lang produced a torch. Its beam lit up a dark shape crouched under a tree. It also lit the length of rifle barrel pointing at them. Donna froze. Why would anyone be aiming a gun at them? She squinted along the torch beam. Was it Rabbit? She could barely see the dark, crouching shadow. The extremely capable way the rifle was aimed at them was more noticeable.

  “The gentleman has said there’s no one home,” Lang said smoothly. He switched off the torch.

  “Where is Mal McMahon?” Donna asked, recovering from her shock.

  “If you’re a friend, you would know where he is,” the voice jeered. “If you’re not a friend, it’s none of your business.”

  “He can’t say I am not a friend,” she said evenly. “He used to prefer diving to washing dishes.”

  “So you should know where he is,” the voice said. “On your way.”

  Did this mean that Matt had already left? Donna tried to think of another question, but Lang was tugging her back down the path. He helped her into the high seat of the four-wheel drive and got in and drove off.

  “Anywhere else you need to go?” he asked politely.

  “Back to the hotel,” Donna said glumly. “Why was he sitting in darkness with that rifle?”

  “Maybe expecting
unwanted guests,” Lang suggested.

  “Hum,” Donna said. “Odd ideas of hospitality you people have up here.”

  “Where did you get the idea that Rabbit was into deep-sea diving?” Lang asked.

  “His friend is the deep-sea diver,” Donna replied.

  “Your friend as well?” Lang queried.

  “I have met him,” Donna acknowledged.

  “And you’ve been up here for barely one day, and you have already found that he has a job as a diver as well,” Lang marveled.

  “I’m a journo,” Donna snapped.

  Lang drove her back to the hotel in silence. He helped her out of the car and escorted her up the lift to her room. “Nick should be around to collect you for the conference tomorrow,” he said. He waited until she unlocked her door, and he left.

  She locked the door behind her and turned on the light. She looked at her watch in astonishment. It was barely ten o’clock. Then she remembered how early she had set off from Melbourne in the morning and realized she had put in a very long day.

  Donna yawned. It was only then that she noticed that her laptop was in a different position on the small desk. She was suddenly wide awake. Had someone been in her room while she was out? She opened it and turned it on, her heart in her mouth. She always backed up her stuff, but what if someone had introduced a virus to her machine? Over the years there had been threats, which were natural enough considering the sort of people she sometimes upset with her articles, but this was sleepy Darwin!

  Her article had been deleted, but she had backed it up, she remembered with relief. The photographs were still on her machine. She checked through them again. Where were the ones of the greenie snubbing the mayor, and the mayor talking to the politician? She went through them more carefully. They were gone!

  Why had they been deleted? Not that it was a problem. Both Melbourne and Lang would have copies of the photographs. She checked the machine and sighed as she realized it was still clear of viruses. Whoever had been at her machine had just been snooping. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. She sent Lang an email asking for another copy of the two missing photographs.

  She looked around the room. Nothing else appeared to have been moved or touched. Why had those particular photographs been deleted?

  It was very odd, but not really important. She went to bed and then remembered the odd message on Lang’s phone. What drop-off date? What timetable? Was there something fishy about Lang and his too-guarded background? His photography was obviously a hobby, so what did he do for a living? Why did his place have such sophisticated locks on it? Why did the shadowy figure need a rifle to discourage visitors?

  She made a decision and rang her Melbourne number again. “Can you find out the financial status of Lang Torrens and what he does for a living?” She thought about the people she had met. “Also, who has how much money in Darwin? How wealthy are Alex Vallison and Sapphire Green?”

  “Do you realize that place is an hour and ten years behind Melbourne,” the young voice grumbled. “Get back to you tomorrow.”

  “It’s my journalistic instincts,” she apologized. “Something smells.”

  “Doesn’t it always with your nose,” the voice said with a sigh as he hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Nick knocked on her door promptly at nine, fresh-shaven and immaculate in white shirt and well-cut slacks. He inspected Donna’s smart silk suit doubtfully.

  “You’ll expire,” he had advised. “Try for something cooler.”

  Donna changed into a green, flowered, Sea Island cotton dress with a halter neck. Nick was right. Cotton was more sensible for the heat, and her full skirt was more practical to cope with a limp and a walking stick.

  She was even more thankful as the day wore on. First there were the speeches, morning tea, and the films. Then there was lunch, more speeches, and the trip to the fancy reception rooms, and then the cocktail party.

  Despite the fans and the air-conditioning, the reception rooms got hotter as more and more people crowded in. Nick, camera at the ready, introduced her as she limped around doing interviews. She was fast revising her original impression of her photographer. He knew everyone, who they represented and who they were involved with. He also had a wicked and cynical sense of humor.

  “You’re too good to waste your talents on a small town newspaper.”

  “I like small town papers,” Nick replied with his twisted grin. “Besides, sweet, the people here are much more entertaining and uncomplicated than Mexicans.”

  “Mexicans?”

  “Anyone south of the border.”

  She caught up with the mayor, Alex Vallison. He fielded her questions with good humor. He liked Darwin. He agreed with the greenies that there should be more areas of conservation. He was on good terms with everyone, and she could quote him on that.

  “I’ve even donated money towards Billican Island, Sapphire’s favorite project, to preserve the breeding area of some rare bird.”

  Donna reluctantly decided that she was wasting her time even talking to him. If there was any conflict of interest, she wasn’t going to hear it from him.

  Sapphire Green was equally as friendly when approached. This evening she wore a beautifully matched pearl necklace with matching earrings. Donna complimented her on them.

  “Only fresh water pearls,” Sapphire said with a smile. “Real pearls matched up like this would cost a fortune.”

  Sapphire agreed that it was unfortunate that Alex was a developer, but of course they had no differences of opinion. Alex agreed with her about conservation all the way.

  “He spoke of donating money to Billican Island,” Donna probed. “He said it was your favorite project.”

  Sapphire gave her a shrewd glance. “One of many,” she dismissed and turned to speak to someone else.

  The afternoon dragged on. After the conference, they moved on to the cocktail party. By then she was bored and tired. Her editor had been right. The conference was a non-event provided solely for the purpose of letting factions talk themselves out. It would end up with no action being taken except for polite acknowledgements that the matters raised had been aired properly.

  “A pretty boring mob, my sweet,” Nick remarked, somehow picking up on her thoughts. “Do you need any more shots?”

  “We’ll hang around a bit longer just in case, but I think that should do it.”

  Nick glanced towards the door and visibly brightened. He waved and the two newcomers headed towards them.

  “It’s the countess and Lang.”

  “So who’s the countess?” Donna asked.

  “Our local exotic migratory bird, the Countess Maria. She went overseas and married a title, who left her for his boyfriend. She divorced him, and hung on to her loot and the title. She’s been back for the dry season.”

  The countess had flaming red hair, reddish brown eyes, and was as tall as Donna. She wore emeralds in her ears and a lavish rope of pearls around her neck, and clung possessively to Lang’s arm.

  “Running late, old son,” Nick greeted Lang. He then bowed ornately. “Back slumming are we, countess?”

  “What else?” the countess said.

  “Donna Madison, meet the Countess Maria Montildi,” Lang said. “Donna is a Melbourne journalist up here to cover the conference.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” the countess said. “Very delighted,” she stressed.

  “Are you here in an official capacity?” Donna asked Lang.

  “Just escorting the countess. She has an interest in one of the pearling companies.”

  “How interesting,” Donna said. “The entire pearl industry sounds fascinating.” And most especially their latest employed divers, Donna thought.

  “All organized around the humble oyster Pinctata Maxima, large shell pearl, Indo Pacific region, farmed by licensed companies, quota system 25,000 shells per year,” Lang recited.

  “I’m still fascinated,” Donna persevered.

&n
bsp; “The pearl industry is as fascinating as working a poultry farm,” Lang continued. “The oysters get seeded with a nucleus, and they take two years to grow their pearl. Then they get reseeded again to grow another pearl for two more years. Their life span when farmed is eleven to twelve years. All very predicable and not at all fascinating.”

  “Nothing wrong with predictability,” Nick remarked. “Seeding and farming the oysters take the guesswork out of pearling. Not like the old days! What was it, old son? One shell in 750,000 would contain a pearl of decent value.”

  “I’m still fascinated,” Donna said. “The underwater corals and fishes are so colorful in this part of the world.”

  “Jelly fish and stone fish and all sorts of nasties,” Nick remarked. “You want to get Lang to show you some of his underwater photographs. Been telling him he should have an exhibition.”

  Lang suddenly grinned. “Wanna come up and see my etchings?”

  ”No she doesn’t,” Maria said firmly. “Bore the poor girl some other time. You promised to take me to a night club.”

  “The night’s young. We’ll all go,” Nick suggested.

  “Count me out,” Donna said firmly. “I need my rest. Also I want those photographs, correctly labeled, first thing in the morning. And,” she said remembering, “can I have more copies of the greenie and the mayor and the politician, Lang? Mine appear to have gone missing.”

  “Email them for you tomorrow,” Lang promised.

  “So we can drop into the Trailer Boat Club and have a quiet drink,” Nick suggested.

  “We’ll follow you down,” Lang agreed.

  “I would really rather go straight back to the hotel,” Donna protested as Nick settled her into his battered late model car. “I’ve got my notes to sort out.”

  “You’ll have the morning to sort out your stuff. Nothing organized for tomorrow morning. Besides, the place is on your way back. Trust me.”

  “I heard you didn’t have a particularly trustworthy track record,” Donna returned.