by Graham Potts
Robinson laughed but her grin faded when she caught Hartigan’s gaze. She shrugged off the agent’s grasp and tugged at her sleeve, glancing up at the statue of Themis.
Hartigan stepped back.
“Don’t you find it curious, Agent Hartigan?” Robinson asked. “You have so many gods in your history, tangled up in old poems and novels.” She swept her arm across the park. “But you left them behind and now they’re all crumbling to dust.” She dipped her head towards Themis. “Except for this one.”
Hartigan peered at the blindfolded statue.
“The god of war was dethroned by video games, and Demeter sold her land to a fracking company. There’s an app for wisdom, and beauty and love are available over the internet.” She ran her fingers along the statue’s arm. “But you need this one. You need to see her, to touch her. You put her in your courthouses and your town halls while all the others are left to die. Why her above all the others? Why are you afraid of losing her?”
Hartigan reached out her hand. “I don’t know.” The stone was cold to touch.
“You’re not like Agent Singh,” Robinson noted, shoving her hands into her pockets again. “He has animal instincts, like the rest of them. Even the name ‘Singh’ comes from the Sanskrit word for Lion. They’re symbols of courage in India.”
“He’s not courageous,” Hartigan said, letting her hand fall. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“At least it’s easy to tell where he stands.” Robinson raised a finger. “You, however, are much harder to figure out. What are you hoping to get out of this?”
Hartigan looked down at her shoes. “I don’t know anymore,” she mumbled. “It’s all lies, all of it.” She shook her head. “Everyone.”
“So you search for truth,” Robinson said. “You believe you will find answers at the end of this winding path and everything will be better.” She pushed the hair away from her face. “You must be a fan of fairy tales, Agent Hartigan.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Okay: once upon a time,” Robinson began, “there was a young woman with golden hair who spent her time in an ivory tower, looking down upon the woods.”
Hartigan bit her tongue.
“She wrote pages and pages about what it must be like for the animals in the woods but she never dared go in. Yet she believed that she could survive those woods and wanted to prove it badly.”
“You’ve made your point,” Hartigan said firmly.
“But the woman didn’t know how bad it was in there,” Robinson said, circling Hartigan. “You see, while the empire was ruled by Queen Nevzorova, the forest was ruled by the king of the animals, an ogre called Nikolay.”
Hartigan’s head snapped around and she stared at Robinson. “Go on.”
“Nikolay used the beasts of the forest to fight a war against the queen.” Robinson leaned against the statue and folded her arms across her chest. “One such animal is a fire-breathing dragon called Maxim.”
Hartigan’s heart was pounding.
“But his best and most feared warrior was the Wolf,” Robinson said. “Even Nikolay was afraid of him.”
“Were there other animals?” Hartigan asked.
“There is one other that you should know about.” Robinson paused. “The Bear. The Bear from Chechnya.”
“The Bear,” Hartigan repeated.
“He makes bombs, a craft that cost him some fingers when he was an apprentice, but he became very good at what he does. The ogre needs him. You might even say the Bear was chosen.” Robinson tilted her head. “The Wolf was chosen, too.”
“Why?”
Robinson shrugged. “The ogre has plans.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to wear the crown,” she said. “He wants the kingdom.”
Hartigan’s mind started racing.
“But the ogre can’t control all of the animals,” Robinson said.
“One such animal is the Serpent, a thief.”
“Elliot?”
“The Serpent is an intruder,” Robinson continued. “The ogre wants her dead and the Wolf wants her to live.” Her face fell. “The Wolf loves her.” She paused and then she shook her head. “Last night was an attempt on the Serpent’s life.”
“Korolev tried to kill her?”
“The Wolf will be angry, Agent Hartigan. People will die.” She gestured towards the city. “Meanwhile, the lion believes he can save the kingdom, but he’s in chains and can’t stray from the path. He stalks the edges of the forest and believes he has control over the animals, but he’s wrong. Only vermin like Andrei Sorokin hang around the paths.”
“Not wolves or serpents.”
“Or bears, Agent Hartigan,” Robinson said. “Especially bears.” She frowned. “It’s much, much darker than you know, deep in those woods.”
“Then we have to go in.”
Robinson’s eyes softened. “Take my advice. Go back to the ivory tower where it’s safe.” “I can’t do that.”
Robinson sighed wearily. “I hope you can, Agent Hartigan.” She removed the pencil from her hair and pulled her hood over her strawcoloured locks. “Or else you’re going to die in those woods.”
Robinson dipped her head, ducking into the wind and walking towards the park’s exit. Hartigan watched after her, clenching a fist in her pocket. She felt something crumble in her grasp and pulled out her hand, unrolling her fingers. It was a paper poppy.
This isn’t just about oil.
She tilted her head and stared at the wilting paper petals. “Maybe this was never just about oil,” she murmured.
She peered up at Themis one last time before turning her back on the statue and leaving the path.
Less than two hours to go.
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 11:04 AM AEST
Simone Elliot shifted on a park bench and lowered her magazine, her eyes scanning the front of the restaurant across the street. The building was two storeys high and three of its walls were rendered brick. The fourth wall, the façade, consisted of over 200 glass panels fused together in a steel lattice that climbed dizzily to the roof. The diners wore buttoned shirts and summer dresses and sat on the ground floor in booths or at long tables, flanked by artificial foliage. In the bar, young men with popped collars sprawled out on sofas or perched on stools, and girls in short denim skirts sat sipping sweetened coffee.
The restaurant’s neighbour was an art gallery, its roof held aloft by ornate columns. Flags jutted out of the sandstone walls, snapping in the breeze above the visitors lining up to see a new exhibition. The queue spilled out on to the pavement, stretching past the restaurant’s entrance.
Both buildings fronted the road but were otherwise bound by a cobblestone one-way street that was flooded with people, forcing cars to navigate cautiously through the crowd. The sky was blue, the sun bright, and dazed parents led giggling children past convenience stores, cafés, takeaway chains, and independent bookshops. There were people everywhere.
Elliot glanced to her right, frowning at the twelve-year-old boy beside her. He was pale with freckles, and an inferno of orange hair was squashed flat on his head under an oversized baseball cap. His small hands were swimming in the sleeves of his jacket, barely able to hold the ice-cream that he licked hungrily.
“You’re not going to see it from here,” the boy said, barely looking up from his ice-cream.
She raised her magazine again. “Then tell me.”
“The place is crawling with Russians, Simone,” he said. “They’re pale with lots of tattoos and they speak funny. You can’t miss it.”
“And you’re sure the guy I’m looking for is here?”
“You bet,” Rusty said, nodding vigorously. “He’s a big guy and some of his fingers are gone, just like you said.”
“I think you’re telling me what I want to hear,” Elliot said, turning the page of her magazine.
The boy glared at her. “Hey, you put the call out. I wouldn’t waste your time, you know tha
t.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look,” Rusty said. “The guy works out of a room behind the nightclub under the restaurant. The stairs inside are roped off but there’s a door they prop open with a brick so they can sneak out for a smoke.”
“A door?”
“Yeah, an emergency exit. You’ve got to climb down some steps to get to it, but it’s there.”
“How do you know that?”
He hesitated. “I snuck in once to steal some booze.”
“Rusty!” Elliot smacked the peak of his cap with her magazine. “Jesus Christ! Do you want to end up like your dad?”
Rusty looked away. “It was a dare, that’s all.”
Elliot shook her head and sighed. “Okay, what’s the layout?”
He described the nightclub to her. “I’ve never heard my sister talk about the club, so I think it’s just ‘invitation only’, you know? A stranger would stand out.”
“And you got in through the emergency exit, huh?” She popped her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “These guys are sloppy.”
“Maybe, but the workshop your guy hides in is a little trickier.” He gobbled up the last of his ice-cream cone and studied his sticky fingers.
“Where is it?” Elliot handed him a napkin.
“Behind the stage,” he said, clumsily wiping his hands. “There’s a bench with lots of yellow plasticine bricks on it and some cable and stuff. There’s even a box full of mobile phones.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you fu—?” She cleared her throat. “For real?”
Rusty rolled his eyes. “You can say fuck around me.”
Elliot smacked the peak of his cap with her magazine again. “Another dare, Rusty?”
He shrugged. “I heard people talking while I was in there. I had to check it out. The door had a keypad lock on it with numbers and stuff but a guy was standing in the doorway. He was talking to someone inside and I could see past him.” He stuffed the napkin into his pocket. “I got my bottle of booze and left before they came out.”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough.” She showed Rusty two hundreddollar bills.
Rusty’s hand darted out to take the money but Elliot snatched it away, so his small fist grabbed only air.
“This is for your mum,” Elliot said. “Not for you. Now, what are you going to do?”
He peered up at her from under his cap. “I’m going to stay in school and get a job.”
“Good.”
“And I’m going to read lots and learn about art, too.”
“I never said that.”
Rusty pointed to the art gallery with a sticky finger. “Dad told me that has some good stuff in it.”
Elliot rubbed her nose.
“That’s why you robbed it, right?” Rusty asked.
“Your dad talks too much.”
“That’s what my mum says.”
“How is your dad, anyway?”
“He got a new lawyer,” Rusty said excitedly. “He’s going to appeal.”
“Right, well, give him my best.” Elliot handed him the cash. “Go straight home, Rusty. And stay out of trouble.”
“I will, Simone.” He banked the cash under his cap and pushed himself off the park bench. He picked up his BMX bike and hopped on, hesitating briefly.
“Is there something else?” Elliot asked.
“Are you really going to go in there?”
“Of course not. I was just curious.”
Rusty nodded slowly. “Be careful, Simone. Everyone on the street knows to stay away, open doors or not.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“The man with the mangled hands might be too much to handle, even for you.” He pulled his cap down tight and pedalled away.
CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 11:23 AM AEST
Emily Hartigan pinched her mobile phone between her ear and her shoulder. She scooped up an armful of files and held them to her chest.
“The Russians provided the passport details,” Hartigan said into her phone. “They’re legitimate imprints.”
She listened intently, careening between the cubicles and past the wall of televisions, walking hurriedly towards the door.
“No, don’t give me that shit!” she seethed. “I don’t need to make a formal request for this.”
Hartigan stopped at the door. She turned around and grunted as she pushed the door open with her back.
“No, stop, shut up,” she said impatiently. “Add them and interrogate the database. Do it!”
She rolled away from the closing door and plunged into the hallway. She stepped sideways to dodge other agents that marched past.
“No, I don’t need to talk to your supervisor,” she said. A passing agent bumped into her and she stumbled. He mumbled an apology over his shoulder. “Don’t you dare put me on hold.” She groaned, rounding the corner. The elevator doors were open and people were filing out. She trotted towards them but a jogging agent bumped into her, sending her files spilling across the floor.
Hartigan ground her teeth and fell to her knees. She held her phone to her ear with one hand while using the other to gather the pages that covered the floor.
The elevator doors closed.
“Yes, I’m here,” Hartigan said into her phone. The agents walked around her, treading on the paper spread across the floor and leaving footprints on the typed pages. She reached out, placing her hand on a stack of photographs and a passing agent stood on her hand. She yelped, yanking her hand away, and received another mumbled apology. “What did you say?” she asked her phone, holding it between her ear and shoulder again.
The elevator doors opened and she quickly crammed the wrinkled and torn pages into a pile.
“You got a hit?” Hartigan asked.
An agent stepped over her and into the elevator. He turned around and watched the doors close.
“Hold that elevator or I’ll rip your fucking arms off!” Hartigan roared.
The people in the hallway froze and the agent reacted immediately, reaching out and sheepishly holding the elevator doors open.
Hartigan stood up, holding her files against her stomach. “You’re sure?” she said into her phone. “No, I’m not questioning your—”
She glanced up at the clock on the elevator’s display.
11:25 AM.
“Did you just say the Bear is in Melbourne?”
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 11:33 AM AEST
The Bear sauntered down the stairs into the private nightclub, his thick arms reaching into the air as he stretched and yawned. He sniffed and surveyed the room. The nightclub had been carved out of rock, the solid stone now adorned with oil paintings and photographs. It was furnished with red velvet armchairs and Persian rugs that were scattered around a large pool table. The armchairs were grouped together in semicircles around low coffee tables and lit with floor-lamps, the chairs facing the stage. A long bar ran the length of the room.
A woman stood behind the counter slicing limes. She used the knife with skill, her hands steady and her shoulders relaxed. The Bear stared, his eyebrows knitting together. She finished slicing and picked up the cutting board, using the knife to scrape the limes into a steel bowl. Satisfied, she turned on the tap and rinsed the cutting board then towelled her hands dry.
“Have you been following the news?” She gestured to the large flat-screen fixed to the wall opposite the bar. The Bear glanced at the television and saw that a news program was on, the sound down.
The woman picked up a remote control and turned up the volume.
“…Kremlin is holding its breath, waiting for China’s official announcement regarding Russia’s oil trade proposal,” a journalist reported. “Some experts believe Beijing is sure to reject the deal due to the Kremlin’s high prices. Others believe that China has no choice but to accept Russia’s offer. While Australia could be in a position to supply oil soon, their operations are still immature and analysts aren’t certain if China can afford to wait. Beijing’s announ
cement is due in less than thirty minutes and—”
“Interesting times,” the woman behind the bar said, muting the television again and tossing the remote control away.
The Bear turned to face the bar, smiling broadly. “Is this why you’re here, Miss Elliot?” he asked. “You wish to talk about current affairs?”
“I see we’ve heard of each other,” she noted, pouring a glass of vodka and sweeping her hair out of her eyes. “I guess you’re the one they call the Bear.” She stood the bottle of vodka on the bar. “Tell me, did you get your name because you’re a good hugger?”
“I’ve been hoping to meet you,” he smirked, taking off his jacket. “How did you find me?”
Elliot dropped a slice of lime into the glass. “I made a name for myself in this town when I was young. I also made some friends and they help out when they can.” She swirled the drink. “I heard about the oil deadline so, on a hunch, I asked around to find out if there were any fresh faces in town. Your name came up.”
“So you thought you’d pay a visit.” The Bear tossed his jacket on to an armchair and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing long pink scars lining his forearms. “How did you get in?”
“I walked straight through the door,” she said, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder towards the emergency exit.
“There were two men—”
“They’re dead. Your security is sloppy.” She clicked her tongue. “Nikolay Korolev will be very disappointed.”
The Bear straightened his back and squared his shoulders, his barrel chest heaving. “You’re a stupid girl and you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I don’t see it that way,” she said. “The guys upstairs seem to give you a lot of privacy. I’ve been here for a while.”
The Bear’s cheek twitched. “How long?”
“Long enough to see the blueprints, the plans, the disguises, and all the stuff in the workshop you’ve got behind the stage.” She raised a finger. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to store fuses with explosives? It’s pretty dangerous.”
“What have you done?” he growled, stepping towards her.