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No Free Man

Page 15

by Graham Potts


  “Agent Singh, I’m on this investigation because I—”

  “—read a few books and wrote a paper,” Singh interrupted, counting change in his palm. “You’re here because the deputy director seems to believe in your potential, but it’s not a belief I share.” He looked up and groaned. “Fuck. When did the vending machines stop taking change?”

  “So you’re going to disregard everything I say?” Hartigan said, her voice trembling.

  He gave up on the vending machine and opened the refrigerator. “That’s likely, yes.” He ducked his head into the refrigerator and shuffled the plastic containers on the shelves.

  “Then why should I bother?”

  “Give up and go home, if you want.” Singh emerged from the refrigerator clutching a plastic container. A sticky note was glued to the lid bearing a name scrawled in ink.

  “That’s not yours,” Hartigan pointed out.

  “It is now.” Singh peeled off the note and scrunched it up before tossing it in the bin. “Why are you still here, anyway?”

  “Because you need to know that Leanne Waters was not at the same orphanage as Angela James,” Hartigan said. “But Simone Elliot was.”

  “The Serpent?” Singh opened the microwave and cracked the lid on the plastic container. “You think Waters is the Serpent?”

  “Simone Elliot disappeared the same year Leanne Waters joined the police force. It’s a fake identity, a really good fake too.”

  “I thought so.” He shut the door and set the timer.

  Hartigan took a step back. “What?”

  “We lifted fingerprints out of her room,” Singh said, starting the microwave. “But so many people go through hotel rooms. That’s why I picked up the gum. DNA evidence is much more believable.”

  “You know?”

  “I suspected,” Singh said. “At first, anyway. My suspicions were confirmed last night when she killed a Russian guy in a Thai restaurant’s bathroom.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Wait until you hear how she did it.”

  “No! Lee.” Hartigan groaned and paced the break room. “Our investigation has been compromised. A known felon has infiltrated our headquarters. We need to arrest her.”

  “Arrest her?” He snorted. “The Russian was from the Organizatsiya, which means Korolev has her under surveillance. And, if the stories about her stealing his art are even remotely true, there’s a good chance Korolev will send Volkov to kill her.”

  “Which you’re going to stop, right?”

  “I haven’t planned that far ahead,” he said. “The mission is Volkov, Emily. We need to know what he knows. That’s my priority.”

  “What he knows about what?”

  “You know, you’re not nearly as clever as everyone thinks you are.”

  “Oil?” she sputtered. “This is all about oil?”

  “Bingo.” The microwave beeped and Singh opened the door. “Elliot is perfect bait and she seems eager to wait this out to see what happens. I’m not going to do anything to spook her and make her run, not when we’re this close.” Singh retrieved a fork from a drawer and stirred the contents of the container.

  “What if Volkov doesn’t come for her?” Hartigan asked.

  Singh shook his head and walked towards the door. “You know, I’m still not seeing what the deputy director sees.” He left the room.

  Hartigan took a deep breath and plunged into the hallway. “I ran a comparative search,” she said to Singh’s back, “cross-referencing military personnel with the foster care system.”

  Singh stopped walking and turned around. “Why?”

  “Like I said, I wanted to see if I could tie Volkov to our military.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I narrowed the search to include only Elliot’s orphanage,” Hartigan continued. “Elliot had a twin brother in the army. They were separated at birth but the cops didn’t know about him until he was killed in the war. Simone Elliot’s name was one of two on the guy’s emergency contact list.”

  Singh dropped his fork into the container. “What was the other name?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Hartigan said. “What matters is the relationship. I think Elliot met Volkov through her brother while he was serving. I think Elliot and Volkov were lovers.”

  Singh shook his head. “Now you’re just guessing.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “—grasping at straws?”

  “Look, Lee,” Hartigan said impatiently. “Darren Harper is the key—”

  “Whoa, wait a second,” Singh said. “Say that name again.”

  “Elliot’s brother’s name was Darren Harper.”

  Singh suddenly seized her forearm, holding it tight. “Harper?” he asked desperately.

  “Yes, Harper.”

  “The other guy’s name, the emergency contact.” He squeezed. “The one you found.”

  It felt like he was going to crush her arm. “Lee, let go.”

  “Think, Emily.” He tossed the container into a nearby rubbish bin.

  She closed her eyes and wrinkled her face. “Um, Murphy. It was some guy called—”

  “Murphy.” He let go of her arm and took a step back, his mouth falling open.

  “Lee?”

  “Come with me, Emily,” Singh said quietly. “Right now.”

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 4:17 PM AEST

  Emily Hartigan chewed a lock of her hair while Lee Singh paced furiously back and forth across the communications centre. The communications supervisor wrapped his hand around the mouthpiece of the telephone and looked up at Singh. “Sir, the governor says there might be some technical difficulties.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” Singh snapped. “Murphy’s still supposed to be in that cell. I want to see it for myself.”

  “She’s just having trouble working the video teleconferencing facilities.”

  “Use a fucking laptop with a webcam,” Singh growled. “Just make it happen.”

  Hartigan had already skimmed Stephen Murphy’s army file. It was written by bureaucrats, not an analyst examining whether Murphy was a national security threat, forcing her to mentally take the file to pieces and reassemble it. The signs were there and they started at birth.

  Murphy had been born into a loveless marriage and was the catalyst that kept his parents together. His father had been in the army, and the family frequently uprooted and moved from post to post at the whim of army headquarters. Murphy was twelve when his father was killed, and the untimely death was documented as a “training accident”. His mother had remarried but died four years later from breast cancer.

  Murphy had not been close to his father but reserved a special distaste for his stepfather. The man was a drunk and eventually turned on Murphy, assaulting him with a metal rod. Murphy retaliated, beating his stepfather ruthlessly and putting the man in a coma. The police had been forced to intervene and Murphy was sent to juvenile detention for three months before being turned over to the custody of his aunt. He stayed with her until he was old enough to join the army.

  He had been an infantryman, a member of the elite Special Forces, and he had served in a fistful of wars, all of them before the age of twenty-four. Most of the battles he’d fought were still unofficial, and some would never be publicly acknowledged as ever occurring. However, Murphy’s honourable service did not save him when Darren Harper and a family of three were killed due to his negligence. He’d been sentenced to serve twenty-five years in a federal jail.

  Hartigan studied Murphy’s photograph. The soldier’s eyes were bright, his chin high, his face shaved and smooth. His very existence seemed so clear, so sharp, but the image of Stepan Volkov was murky, the edges blurred. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny the similarities: Murphy was Volkov.

  “What makes you think he’s not in his cell?” the communications supervisor asked.

  Singh glared at him and continued pacing. “He escaped two federal jails before they tossed him into this one,” he
said. “I told them they should’ve thrown him into a bottomless pit.”

  “You knew him?” Hartigan asked, tossing Murphy’s photograph onto the desk.

  Singh didn’t reply.

  “Why didn’t you recognise him from the phone photograph?” “He’s supposed to be in jail,” Singh mumbled. “He’s not supposed to exist anymore.” He stopped pacing and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t even think that—”

  “We’ve got something,” the supervisor said. He turned his monitor around.

  Hartigan stood next to Singh and studied the screen. A thin woman with short grey hair and dark eyes peered at them through her webcam. “Agent Singh,” her voice crackled, “I’m the—”

  “I don’t care,” Singh said. “Show me Murphy.”

  “Agent Singh,” the woman said patiently. “Everything is as it should be, I can assure you. Our paperwork all lines up. Stephen Murphy is definitely here. He’s in the interview room with me now.”

  Singh leaned over the desk, his face nearly pressed up to the monitor. “Show me.”

  She shook her head in exasperation and turned her laptop around on the table. The camera focused on a man manacled to his chair, and his cratered face broke into a broad grin, showing his browned teeth. He chuckled and strained against his chains.

  “Menya zovut Stiven Merfi.” The man laughed. His body convulsed and he rocked excitedly against his restraints. “Menya zovut Stiven Merfi!” he shouted joyously.

  “What’s he saying?” the supervisor asked.

  Singh picked up the computer monitor and heaved it to the floor. It crashed to pieces, spitting blue sparks and pouring glass across the carpet. He crouched on the ground, his head between his legs, and held his hands to his ears.

  “Lee?” Hartigan laid her hand on his shoulder.

  Singh swatted her hand away. He straightened up and stormed out, his shoulders hunched, his face fallen.

  “What did that guy say?” the supervisor asked again, pointing to the remains of his computer. “What was that, Swedish?”

  “He said ‘I am Stephen Murphy’.” Hartigan pawed through her pocket and retrieved her car keys. “He was speaking Russian.”

  Singh dropped a gold coin in the bucket. The man’s eyes blinked slowly under his bushy eyebrows and he held out a paper poppy.

  “God bless,” the man said.

  Singh grunted and took the poppy. He pushed silently through the bustling tourists and avoided the small groups of giggling schoolchildren, pausing at the edge of the courtyard. A dark pool stretched out before him, a torch mounted at its head. The flame flickered, tormented by the ghostly breeze that swept down from the sky. Singh smoothed out his tie and stared up at the green dome soaring above the memorial. Over 102,000 names were etched on the walls but he only needed to see one.

  There were no tourists or family here, he noticed, pausing at the end of the roll. The war was too young for remembrance. It needed to be forgotten first. It would begin with the soldiers retiring and hanging up their uniforms in closets in spare rooms. Medals would be sealed in cases and stuffed in drawers, and photographs would be placed in frames and hidden on high shelves. Then the soldiers would grow old. A question might be asked by a son or daughter. The medals might be found by a spouse or friend. Stories would be told at funerals during eulogies for those claimed by car accidents and cancer instead of IEDs and small-arms fire. In the end, those that remained would each lose their final battle and the truth would be buried under heaped earth. That’s when people would start to care, but not now, not yet. Soldiers only showed scars, never wounds. It’s all people cared to see.

  Darren Harper.

  Singh ran his finger along the letters and placed the poppy in the wall next to Harper’s name. His hand fell to his side and he closed his eyes. The war squalled through his mind, forgotten faces and stolen friends swirling on a gasp of red dust that choked his parched throat. He absently reached for his head, touching a Kevlar helmet that wasn’t there. His hands trembled and he thrust them into his pockets.

  A shoe scuffed on the pavement beside him. Singh turned abruptly. “Not now, Emily,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you did. You followed me.”

  Hartigan sighed and leaned against a stone pillar. “My dad brought me here once,” she said, pretending to ignore him. “He told me some stories about his own time in the service. He always said that they never fought for a cause. None of that was important. The only thing that mattered was looking after the man next to you.”

  Singh jingled the keys in his pocket.

  “Trust,” she continued. “If you don’t have that, what do you have?”

  “Emily.”

  “Do you understand who these people are?” Hartigan asked. “I’m scared, okay.”

  “There’s no—”

  “Threat?” Hartigan shook her head. “I honestly thought this was about protecting a witness. And then there was that briefing, and then you said it’s about oil.”

  “This is about noon Friday, Emily,” Singh said. “The whole country is counting down because they’re worried about what will happen if the Sino-Russian trade deal fails.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Hartigan ran both hands through her hair. “You don’t…” She groaned and folded her arms.

  Singh studied her thoughtfully, jingling the keys in his pocket. “I didn’t know your dad served. What was he? Army? Navy?”

  She bit her lip and stared at the flickering torch. “He was infantry in the war before yours.”

  “Yours?”

  “The war you served in.”

  “Not ours?”

  Hartigan opened her mouth but didn’t speak. Her gaze fell to the poppy in her hand and she twirled it between her fingers.

  “All wars are ours, Emily,” Singh said. “You can pretend to be an outsider, a spectator, but everyone has a stake.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  Singh rubbed his eyes. The breeze tugged at his jacket and whistled in his ears. “Darren Harper and I were friends,” he said. “We trained together before he joined the Special Forces.”

  “You knew him too?”

  “The army can be a small world,” he said. “Harper had friends at every base in the country. Everyone liked him.” He glanced around warily. “I was working in intelligence during the war, and I came by some information that implicated Harper’s squad. Murphy’s name was mentioned. I set a trap.”

  “What happened?”

  “Everything went wrong,” he said. “People died. Harper died.” He cleared his throat. “I thought it was my fault.”

  “Was it?”

  He shook his head. “Murphy got him killed.”

  She nodded slowly and twirled her poppy, watching the red petals trace a blurry circle.

  “The case was buried with Harper, and Murphy went to prison,” Singh said.

  “He has some surviving relatives,” Hartigan said. “I was thinking we could call his aunt and uncle.” She swept her hair from her eyes. “And his cousin is the same age, so they might have been close.”

  “No!” Singh cried, turning to face her.

  “But Lee.”

  “They don’t know where he is.” He grabbed her arm. “Leave them alone, Emily,” he whispered. “Promise me.”

  “You have to tell the deputy director about Murphy,” Hartigan said, wriggling from his grip.

  “Let me handle that,” Singh said.

  “You are going to tell him, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter who Volkov is,” he said. “We still need to catch him. We still need to find out if Korolev has anything planned for us. The mission is still the same.”

  “Is it still the same to you?”

  He glared at her and turned to leave.

  “We have nineteen hours to go, Lee,” she called after him. “It might not matter to you, but I need to know that I can trust you.”

  He pause
d and looked over his shoulder, tapping the face of his wristwatch. “You should stick around for The Last Post.”

  Hartigan watched him weave around the tired tourists and plunge through the exit. She lifted her poppy and stared at the roll, unsure where to place her tribute.

  A breeze whistled past her but it died suddenly, and she felt the cold creep across her skin. The trumpet called out and seemed to burst through her chest, the notes trembling past the etched names and swirling through the courtyard, the poppies quivering. Each blast battled the wind and clawed along the stone walls, searching for a place to sleep. The fight was short and the last note was snatched away.

  Emily Hartigan realised she was holding her breath. She exhaled, shivering, her eyes settling on Darren Harper’s name on the wall.

  “This isn’t just about oil anymore,” she whispered.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 4:58 PM AEST

  Simone Elliot stared at the silver medallion on the tabletop. She ran her finger along the chain, poking it in and out, making curvy shapes and zigzags.

  “Here you are, Miss,” the waiter said. He put a napkin on the table and gently placed the glass on top of it. He handed her a long spoon and a straw before turning on his heels and returning to the bar.

  It was a towering glass of green soda with a scoop of vanilla icecream floating on the surface like an iceberg.

  Angela’s favourite.

  Elliot picked up the spoon and sighed.

  “The caduceus is the staff of Hermes,” Natalie Robinson said. She sat down across from Elliot and placed her slender arms on the table. “God of merchants, travellers, gamblers.” She clasped her hands. “And thieves.”

  Elliot crammed the medallion into her pocket and cast her eyes around the hotel’s empty bar. The waiter and the barman were the only other people in the room and they weren’t paying attention. “I didn’t invite you to sit down,” she said, pointing her spoon at Robinson.

  “You should hurry up and drink that.” She plucked a pencil from her straw-coloured hair. “The ice-cream is melting.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail, tugging it tight and using the pencil to twist her hair into a knot.

 

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