No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  They’re wasting their time, she thought, sweeping a low-hanging branch away with her hand. They couldn’t see what was right in front of them, why Sorokin had been in that pub.

  Natalie Robinson.

  Two schoolgirls skipped past her, singing a song. One of them held a painting she’d done in class, the paper pincered between her fingers.

  The agency believed that Robinson was just another bystander, but if they looked into her background, really looked, they would see that she was the girl with all the answers. A Russian girl, a prostitute, a stripper, a slave of the Organizatsiya, a survivor, she was the best kind of information source. Unnoticed and unthreatening, her head would be full of secrets, perhaps including the whereabouts of Stepan Volkov himself.

  Natalie Robinson: the girl with that bloody pencil in her hair.

  Elliot stopped at the traffic light and stabbed the button. A small group of people gathered around her, waiting for the little red man to turn green while cars raced through the intersection.

  Elliot needed to talk to Robinson, needed to hear what she knew, but she couldn’t contact the girl without arousing suspicion. She had to wait until the agents figured out that Robinson was worth interviewing. The waiting was the hardest part. It dulled her mind and made it hard to focus.

  Pencil?

  The traffic lights changed, the cars stopping. She wrinkled her forehead.

  Behind his ear? A golf pencil?

  A car stopped in front of her, inching deeper into the intersection, determined to jump the light. The car had tinted windows and Elliot could see the pedestrians reflected in the glass.

  Uh-oh.

  Behind her was a man wearing a salmon-pink polo shirt and leather jacket.

  Shit! Idiot! Fuck!

  It wasn’t a golf pencil: it was a Sobranie cigarette, black with a gold filter, just like Sorokin had carried.

  The Russians are here.

  Elliot’s heart thudded in her chest.

  The light turned green and Elliot led the pedestrians across the intersection, noticing a red mailbox on the pavement ahead. A van was parked against the kerb, hazard lights flashing, and a man was emptying the mailbox into a sack. His task complete, he locked the mailbox. Elliot watched him open the rear door of the van, staring intently at the window in the door. She saw the street as it streaked across the glass.

  A shimmering reflection: her tail was ten metres behind her and puffed on a cigarette. The wind whipped past and Elliot turned her head to flick the hair out of her eyes. The man in the green polo shirt was across the street and keeping pace. His blazer blew open and she saw a pistol holstered against his ribs. She patted her coat and remembered that her weapon was in an envelope in the custody of the concierge.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Cover was limited. There were buildings, some trees, parked cars, and so many people. She couldn’t fight in public. And the agency would be tailing her too, which meant running was out. She couldn’t turn back either.

  There was only one option left.

  She neared the Thai restaurant and stepped through a sliding door, a doorbell chiming to announce her entrance. She ducked under creeping vines and dodged a trickling fountain, frowning at the ornamental cat beckoning her to order.

  “Yes, what would you like?” a young girl asked.

  Elliot squinted at the laminated menu taped to the counter. “Uh, I guess I’ll have a number seventeen. And maybe a number eighty-nine.” She popped her tongue against the roof of her mouth and the doorbell chimed. The floor creaked and she could hear her tail breathing behind her, the air whistling through his nose. “And I’ll get a side of number six.”

  The girl tapped the keys on an old cash register.

  Elliot handed the girl two small bills. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?” she asked.

  “Down the hall on your left,” she said, returning her change.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your order will be ready in ten minutes,” she said.

  Elliot turned and walked along a narrow corridor. She opened the bathroom door and stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room. There were two cubicles, one sink, a cloudy mirror, a row of cracked tiles, and a frosted-glass window that was open, the security screen coated in dust. Two spare fluorescent light bulbs sat in cartons on the windowsill.

  Elliot reached into her coat and found a coin. She shut a cubicle door and used the coin to lock it from the outside before kicking at a cracked tile. The ceramic pieces clattered to the floor and she picked up a long shard shaped like a hockey stick. Then, she reached up to the windowsill and retrieved a light bulb. She returned the empty box and slid the light bulb into her pocket.

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Elliot stood beside the door and pressed up against the wall, gripping the shard of tile. The door creaked open and a pistol hovered into the room followed by an arm clothed in leather, the weapon aimed at the locked cubicle.

  She seized his wrist and slashed the back of his hand with the splinter of ceramic. The pistol fell to the floor and she stabbed him in the ribcage before yanking him into the room. The man stumbled, throwing his hands out. Elliot kicked the back of his leg and he fell to his knees. She reached over his head and shoved two fingers into his nostrils.

  He cried out.

  Elliot rammed the light bulb into his mouth and grabbed the back of his head before smashing his face into the sink. The man collapsed, spitting blood and glass on to the floor. He curled up into a ball, his fingers over his mouth.

  Elliot rolled him away with her foot and squirted some soap into her hands. She washed up before towelling off and leaving the room. “Your order is ready,” the young girl called out to her, holding up a plastic bag.

  “Thank you.” Elliot claimed her order and walked outside, reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. She spotted the man in the green polo shirt leaning against a streetlight.

  “Zazhigalka?” Elliot asked. “I need a light.”

  The man turned, his mouth falling open, but he reached into his blazer and retrieved a lighter.

  “Tell Nikolay Korolev to send the Wolf.” Elliot lit her cigarette, dragging deeply. “Anything less is a fucking insult.” She tossed the lighter on to the roof of the restaurant and walked away.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 10:14 AM AEST

  Hartigan clicked the mouse, maximising the window, and scrolled through the article, her eyes skimming the text. She twirled her pen around her thumb.

  “Valentina Nevzorova,” she mumbled.

  Hartigan frowned and rummaged around her desk for a notebook, eventually finding a blank piece of lined paper. She scrawled a note on the page.

  “You’d better not be reading the gossip column,” Singh said from behind her.

  Hartigan covered her note with her hand and swivelled on her chair. “It’s research,” she said. “I’ve been wondering about this trade deal. I was trying to see it from the Kremlin’s perspective.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the manila folder in his hand.

  “Nevzorova.” She turned back to the screen. “The conservatives in Moscow are criticising her handling of the trade negotiations. They believe the trade deal will collapse because a woman doesn’t have the strength to dictate terms to the Chinese.”

  “Are they right?”

  “No, they’re pigs,” Hartigan said. “But they have a point. She could do a lot more to secure the deal.”

  “Maybe she’s incompetent.”

  Hartigan glared at Singh. “You don’t become the first female president of a country like Russia by being incompetent.”

  “Do you have a theory?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s talk about something else.”

  “I have a thought, though.”

  “Let’s move on, anyway.” He shifted on his feet. “Tell me about the latest bombings.”

  Hartigan rolled her eyes. “Two more in Russia.�
� She folded her note and tucked it under her keyboard. “The first one went off in a Moscow department store. Eighty people are dead.”

  “How many bombings is that now?”

  “Four in a fortnight. The Russian people are starting to panic. It was enough to get Nevzorova out of the Kremlin to tour a hospital ward and deliver a speech.” She pushed away from her desk.

  “Let me guess: resolute, firm, strong.”

  “The second bomb was strange, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “The militants blew up a chunk of the Eastern Siberia–Pacific Ocean oil pipeline.” Hartigan twirled her pen around her thumb again. “They’ve never struck a target that far from Moscow before.”

  “Many dead?”

  “None, which was lucky. Can we talk about something relevant to the investigation now?” she asked. “Did you know that Andrei Sorokin was still getting paid by Titan Energy?”

  Singh furrowed his brow and shoved his hand into his pocket.

  “Didn’t know that one, huh?” Hartigan wheeled her chair closer to her desk and rifled through a pile of documents. She found what she was looking for and passed the papers to Singh. “Computer Forensics finally reviewed Sorokin’s financials. He was paid twenty grand by Titan Energy the day before he was murdered.”

  Singh ran his finger along each line on the page, his lips moving as he read. “This says that the payment originated from Lime.”

  “Right,” Hartigan said. “Lime is a charity that raises money for cancer research. It’s administered by the wife of Titan’s CEO.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t severance?”

  “I’m sure,” Hartigan said. “And Sorokin didn’t have cancer, either.” She shrugged. “It’s worth looking into.”

  “Leave it with me and I’ll take care of it,” Singh said, rolling up the documents and tucking them into his pocket. “I need you to arrange for another witness to be brought in, someone who was in the bar on Monday night.”

  “Who?”

  Singh opened the folder and cleared his throat. “Natalie Robinson: inherited a substantial amount of money when her parents died in a car accident. She only tapped the money to buy a house. She works casual hours at a technical college teaching mathematics but dedicates most of her time to completing a physics degree. Her accounts are good, no criminal record, no affiliations with any clubs or societies, no churches, not even a fucking book club. Her internet traffic is straightforward. She buys shoes and clothes online but doesn’t indulge in porn or online poker.”

  “Sounds like a solid citizen,” Hartigan said, shifting in her seat.

  “She is also Russian and conducting research into nuclear fusion.” Singh closed the folder and tossed it on top of Hartigan’s keyboard. “That makes three Russians in that bar. One is dead, one is Volkov, and one is this girl. I want to talk to her.”

  “Is this a sad attempt at profiling? I mean, being Russian doesn’t make her guilty.”

  “Volkov carried out a hit in Jakarta after he killed Sorokin,” Singh explained. “I think he had someone trailing Sorokin and Robinson fits the bill.”

  Hartigan stared at him blankly. “What are you talking about? What hit?”

  Singh clicked his fingers. “That’s right. I was meant to tell you.”

  “Jakarta?” Hartigan tilted her head. “He flew from here to Jakarta and killed someone? That means he was working two jobs simultaneously.”

  Singh tapped his finger against his nose and pointed at Hartigan.

  Hartigan scowled. “Same amount of planning?” She reached for her mug. “I mean, was either job short notice?”

  “Get the girl in,” Singh said impatiently. “Put her in the same hotel as…” He raised his head and turned on the spot. “Where’s Waters?”

  “I don’t care.” Hartigan realised her coffee had gone cold. She sipped from her mug anyway.

  “You were supposed to keep an eye on her,” Singh scolded.

  “She won’t get far. I told security to make sure she didn’t leave the building. I do care about protecting witnesses, Lee.”

  “I should’ve put her in the childcare centre.”

  “I’d just eat the children, sweetie-pie,” Elliot said, wheeling her chair out of a neighbouring cubicle.

  Singh narrowed his eyes. “You’re going back to the hotel,” he said. “Go down to the lobby and ask for Alan. He’ll escort you back to your accommodation.”

  “You want me to twiddle my thumbs in my room?” Elliot asked.

  “Get a massage,” he said. “Order room service. Watch some movies. Read a book. There’s nothing for you here.”

  “Still don’t want my help, huh?” Elliot blew a bubble with her gum and it burst. “The clock is ticking and you’re wasting time.”

  Singh gestured towards the exit. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “Have it your way, sweetie-pie,” Elliot said with a sigh. “But I’m guessing your philosophy on orgasms hasn’t worked out too well for you, so maybe you should reassess your regard for others’ opinions.” She took the gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the cubicle’s partition before rising from her chair.

  Hartigan watched Elliot walk towards the elevator. “You have a philosophy on orgasms?” she whispered.

  “Do you have a plastic baggie?” Singh asked, examining the gum clinging to the partition.

  Hartigan rummaged through her drawers and found a small bag. “Didn’t you just say we should be watching her?”

  “Yes, and you couldn’t handle that.” Singh snatched the bag and picked up Elliot’s gum, sealing it inside. “The surveillance team will watch her closely while she’s in the hotel. They’ll be there when the fish takes the bait.”

  “Bait?” Hartigan shook her head. “She’s a witness, not bait.” She pointed to the plastic bag. “She’s definitely not a criminal.”

  Singh tapped his finger against his nose and pointed at Hartigan. He turned and left her cubicle.

  “I really want you to stop doing that,” she said.

  “Bring me Natalie Robinson, Emily,” he called out over his shoulder.

  Hartigan muttered a curse, rubbing her eyes before turning to her computer screen. She reset the page, highlighted the search bar, and typed “Volkov murder Jakarta”. News videos appeared and she clicked on the first one.

  “Dr Marco Belo was murdered in his Jakarta hotel room by notorious contract killer Stepan Volkov, who escaped Indonesia undetected.”

  Hartigan tapped her pen on the edge of her desk.

  “Born in East Timor, Dr Belo spent his life advocating for human rights and independence. Most recently, he was a tireless advocate for the redrawing of the maritime border between East Timor and Australia. A redrawing of the border would prevent Australian energy companies from taking the natural gas on the sea shelf.”

  The image on the video cut to file footage and Hartigan maximised the picture.

  “One Australian energy company, Titan Energy, has spent millions stonewalling Belo’s attempts at lobbying for UN involvement. CEO Geoffrey Geldenhuys—”

  Hartigan paused the video and Geoffrey Geldenhuys froze on the screen. He was standing at a press conference, a cluster of microphones in front of him and his company’s logo behind him. He was casually grasping the edge of the lectern, beaming an easy smile and winking at someone off-screen.

  I don’t think Lee is telling me everything.

  She slouched in her chair. “Nobody is,” she mumbled. She picked up her phone and dialled the extension for records. “This is Hartigan. I need a cross-reference. Do you have access to the foster care system database?”

  A few hours later, Hartigan found Singh standing at a paper shredder, feeding documents into the chugging machine. “Lee?” she asked, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. “What are you doing?”

  “Clearing my desk,” Singh replied. “What do you want?”

  “Robinson is on her way to Canberra,” Hartigan reported. “Uniformed poli
ce are escorting her.”

  “Who?”

  “Natalie Robinson. The girl who was in the pub when Sorokin was killed,” Hartigan said. “You told me to bring her in.”

  “Oh, right.” Singh dusted his hands. “Is that all?”

  “Actually, I think I’ve got something.”

  “Make it quick. I haven’t had lunch yet.” He switched off the paper shredder and turned away.

  Hartigan followed him, quickening her pace to catch up. “Volkov didn’t have an accent,” she said, walking hurriedly beside him.

  “There’s nothing in the witness statements about—”

  “People don’t report what they don’t hear,” Hartigan interrupted. “The investigating detective mentioned it when I met Waters.”

  “Okay, so one guy says—”

  “Wait, I’m not finished. We know Volkov probably has military training of some kind, and we assumed that meant a foreign army, but he could be a former Australian soldier.” She started rolling her hands. “I had the tech guys do a facial search on the military database using that image from the mobile phone but they got no hits, although they said the image was pretty poor quality and that Special Forces guys won’t show up because their identities are classified for—”

  “Jesus, Emily,” Singh cried out, walking into the break room. “Will you make some kind of point?”

  Hartigan ignored the interruption. “—national security reasons, right? Anyway, I started to think about Waters. Did you know she has a working knowledge of the military? Not to mention the Organizatsiya. I mean, while we were in Military Headquarters, she identified our escort’s regiment by the colour of his beret.”

  Singh opened a cupboard and popped his lips. “When did we run out of bread?” He closed the door and opened another.

  Hartigan started pacing behind him. “And the barman said that he thought Waters and Volkov spoke, almost like she knew him.” She raised a finger. “We assumed that she just identified him and was challenging him, but then she didn’t call out for help when he cuffed her to the bar, so I—”

  “That’s enough, Emily,” Singh growled, walking up to the vending machine. “I’m bored, frustrated, and hungry. Go talk to somebody else.”